“Come along, Mr. Owens, before the wagon master tans both our hides for being late to the meeting.”
With a final glance at Rachel Parker, Jake turned and, against his better judgment, followed the garden gnome back toward town.
Chapter Three
Rachel Parker scooped up little David, and balanced him on her hip. The boy sniffed, and wrapped his pudgy arms around her neck. She ventured a quick glance over her shoulder. Short Mr. Sanders was walking away with the broad-shouldered man she’d caught looking at her. From a distance, except for his short dark hair, he looked like one of them savage Indians she’d heard and read about.
He wore fringed buckskin pants, and a homespun cotton shirt that was gathered together at the waist by a wide leather belt, and below his neck by simple tie strings. Weapons hung from all sides off his belt. Instead of leather boots, he wore Indian-style moccasins. He didn’t look all that friendly, and that dark stare of his seemed to weigh right on her shoulder as if he’d reached out and touched her. Was he the scout everyone had been talking about? She had felt his intense eyes on her after David started crying, and despite the impropriety, she’d been compelled to look in his direction.
“Ma – ma,” David cooed against her neck, and Rachel smiled. She hugged the little boy close, then set him down on the ground.
“Tommy. Billy,” she said, and waited for the two boys playing with marbles in the dirt to look up at her. “Could you take David over to Mrs. Edwards’ wagon, and ask if he can play with their puppies? I really need to get some of these things loaded into the wagon, and with the three of you under foot, I won’t be able to get anything done.”
“Where’s Papa?” Billy, the oldest at five years asked, and looked around.
“I don’t know.” Rachel sighed. “Most likely he’s with the other men, waiting for the meeting to get started.” She tried to sound cheerful for the boys’ sake. She hoped Thomas was with the other men, although she doubted it. He was more than likely over at the saloon. His drinking had gotten worse over the months, instead of better, ever since . . . Rachel had hoped that the idea of going west, starting a new life, would cheer him up, but it hadn’t helped. His loss was still too fresh in his mind. Time would have to heal his wounds and help him forget.
The boys scurried off, David toddling after them. Hopefully the puppies would entertain them all long enough for her to get some of their belongings and provisions packed. She couldn’t count on Thomas to show up and lend a hand, and everything had to be ready come morning when they headed out. Whatever wasn’t packed in the wagon by nightfall would be left behind.
After the boys disappeared between two other wagons, Rachel inhaled a deep breath, and climbed up into the bed of her rig. If she got lucky, she might have an hour to herself to pack without the children underfoot. She began by rearranging the bedding and the children’s clothing, condensing as much as she could into one wooden trunk. After making room for the heavier supply boxes and sacks stacked outside, she lowered the wagon’s tailgate, and climbed down. Her hand slipped and caught on the metal hinge. Rachel hissed and pulled her hand away. Blood dripped freely from her palm. She grabbed for the rag she’d used to wipe David’s face earlier, and wrapped it around the wound. Her pulse throbbed strong in her hand, and the burn increased with every minute.
There was no sense worrying about it. She had to get her wagon packed. The bleeding would stop, but the throbbing only increased. Rachel eyed the heavy sacks of flour on the ground. Waiting for the pain to subside, she glanced around the clearing. She noticed some of the men return from the white tent that the wagon master, Mr. Wilson, had erected as headquarters for himself. With some regret, she wished now that she had attended that meeting. She was reasonably sure Thomas hadn’t been there, and wished fervently that he would be here now to help her load their supplies.
Rachel stared again at the pile of their belongings and provisions in front of her. The pain in her hand had not let up. Taking a deep breath, she bent over and wrapped her arms around the first flour sack. With a groan, she tried to straighten her back with the heavy sack in her arms, and fought to raise it to waist level. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t be such a problem, but she didn’t have full use of her hand. If she could lift the sack to the tailgate’s height, she could push it onto the wagon. She gritted her teeth, and squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. This was only the first of eight of these fifty-pound sacks she had to lift, and she was already struggling.
Rachel’s arms trembled, and she was sure she was about to drop the sack now that it was inches from the wagon, when her load suddenly became light as a feather. A pair of strong arms lifted the sack away from her, and easily swung in onto the tailgate. The wagon creaked and swayed slightly from the added weight. Startled by the unexpected help, she glanced to her side, just as her hips and thighs bumped against the solid form of a man. A pair of deep brown eyes met her stare. She inhaled the clean scent of leather along with something spicy she had never smelled before. It was not at all unpleasant.
“Looks like you needed a hand, ma’am,” the man said, and the corners of his lips rose in a grin that looked much too wicked.
Rachel took an involuntary step back, the air suddenly leaving her lungs. Her heart began to beat faster, and she swallowed the unexpected lump in her throat. The man she’d seen earlier from a distance, the one she assumed was the wagon train’s scout, now stood mere inches from her. He was the most handsome man she had ever gazed upon.
“Th . . . thank you,” she stammered, feeling foolish at her silly reaction.
“No problem,” he drawled casually, and tipped his index and middle finger against his temple. Rachel wondered at the odd gesture, while mesmerized by his deep and sensuous voice. He jutted his chin at the stacks of flour sacks and boxes on the ground a few feet away.
“Need help loading this stuff?” he asked as if in passing.
His words, the way he spoke, sounded odd, and Rachel wondered if that was how men conversed out west. She hesitated, unsure of whether to accept his help. She flexed her fingers, and her palm throbbed. If she declined his offer, she would have to try again to load everything herself. She certainly couldn’t wait for Thomas to return, and even when he did, he would most likely be too drunk to be of much help.
“Better put something on that cut, or it might get infected.” He pointed at her wrapped hand. “In any case, it don’t look like you’ll be doing much lifting for the next day or so.”
The man’s eyes locked on hers. Rachel had to look away. His unwavering stare was too unsettling. She blinked, and lowered her gaze to the ground. She’d heard the talk about this man’s reputation of carousing with women. If she accepted his help without Thomas’ presence, would her own reputation be sullied? Gossip abounded in the wagon train camps, and no doubt word would spread fast that she had been alone in the company of the scout.
Rachel lifted her chin, and smiled at the man. She couldn’t worry about the busy bodies in camp. They certainly weren’t going to help her load her wagon.
“I would be much obliged for your help, Mr. . . .”
“Jake Owens.” He held out his hand to her.
“Thank you, Mr. Owens,” she said, and slipped her hand into his for a quick shake. His fingers closed around hers, and her entire arm began to tingle from his touch.
“Call me Jake,” he said. His eyes were still on her. Rachel pulled her hand from his grip, her heart hammering in her chest and up into her throat. Goodness! Those eyes and that smile took her breath away. She could understand how he was able to charm the ladies. She wouldn’t dare do as he suggested. Calling him by his given name would be much too forward.
“I’m Rachel Parker,” she offered, to be polite.
“I know who you are,” he said as if he was merely commenting on the weather, and the smile on his face widened. Rachel stared at the dimples in his cheeks, momentarily shocked at his words.
“That squat little man, Mr. Sanders,
gave me your name,” he said before she had a chance to respond.
“Oh,” she stammered, taken aback. Her pulse rate increased again. Rachel suddenly regretted accepting his offer of assistance. Why would Mr. Sanders give this man her name without a proper introduction? She twisted her hands in a knot in front of her. She usually didn’t get this tongue-tied or nervous in front of another person.
“He also told me you were married, and warned me to stay away,” Jake . . . Mr. Owens said slowly. He took a step toward her, closing the distance between them that she’d created moments before when she backed away from him. Rachel was compelled to look up into his eyes. Her breath caught in her throat.
“I know what folks here say about me,” he continued, his dark eyes staring straight into her. “Some of it might be true, most of it probably isn’t, but I can’t tell people what to think.”
Rachel sensed a sudden bitterness in his voice. She swallowed back the lump in her throat. She herself was guilty of making assumptions about him based on talk she’d heard.
“So I’m wondering,” he added in his slow drawl, and leaned toward her, “where’s your husband? Why isn’t he here helping you?”
“Thomas?” she managed to produce, but her voice sounded more like a squeaky barn mouse. She glanced around nervously, hoping no one saw her, while at the same time wishing another person would interrupt them. Jake Owens was the most forward and intimidating man she’d ever met.
“Your husband’s name is Tom?” His eyes turned hard, and the muscles along his jaw tightened.
“Thomas,” she corrected on impulse.
“My brother’s name is Tom,” Mr. Owens said, almost to himself. He raked his fingers through his short hair, then flashed her another smile that looked forced. His eyes fell on the items that needed loading into the wagon.
“What would you like loaded first?” he asked. His voice had gone as cold as his facial features.
He hadn’t waited for a response to his first question, Rachel realized with some relief. How would she have answered? That Thomas was more than likely at the saloon, drowning his sorrows in a bottle? Many people from their group already knew about Thomas’ drinking habits. It would be only a matter of time before everyone found out. Rachel desperately hoped that once they were on their way, he would forget about the liquor, and take an interest in his family again.
“Rach . . . Mrs. Parker?” Mr. Owens’ brows rose, waiting for her reply to his earlier question.
“Please . . . the flour first.” Rachel stammered. She shook her head slightly. She was making a complete fool of herself. The way her mind turned to churned butter in Mr. Owens’ presence was downright embarrassing. He’d almost called her by her first name.
He lifted one flour sack after another into the wagon without any effort at all. It took him no more than five minutes. She would certainly be struggling with the first or second sack at this point.
“What now?” he asked, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead.
“If it’s not too much trouble, I need to store the sacks under the top floor of the wagon, and then these boxes on top.” Rachel pointed to the boxes filled with sacks of salt, dried beans, salted pork, bacon, a few dozen precious eggs she’d packed in cornmeal, dried fruit, and the rest of the food supplies she’d purchased. The proprietor of the mercantile had delivered the supplies, but he had refused to stack them in the wagon. Ideally, all these items should have been purchased back in Springfield, but Thomas had been a poor planner for this trip, and Rachel had only found out after their arrival here in Kannesville that they were severely short on most supplies other than those she had stored away over the winter.
In less than an hour, Mr. Owens had her wagon packed. No sooner had he finished, when Mrs. Edwards sauntered toward her, Billy, Tommy, and David in tow. Her skirts swished in the breeze while her hips wiggled from side to side. The buxom woman’s eyes widened when Mr. Owens hopped from the tailgate of the wagon, landing a few inches from Rachel’s side.
“Ma - ma – ma - ma,” David gurgled loudly, and toddled toward her. Rachel knelt down. The little boy fell into her outstretched arms, and she hugged him close.
“Were you a good boy for Mrs. Edwards, my angel?”
“Puppy,” David said against her ear.
Rachel stood to her feet, and David wrapped his legs around her waist like a monkey she’d seen at the circus a few years ago. She balanced him on her hip, and smiled at Mrs. Edwards. The woman’s hands were fisted at her own hips, and she wore a disapproving scowl on her face. Her eyes darted from Rachel to Mr. Owens.
“Your boys are complaining that they are hungry, Mrs. Parker,” Mrs. Edwards said in an accusatory voice. “I’ve got too much to do to feed them right now.”
“I was just about to start fixing supper,” Rachel said, meeting the woman’s judgmental stare. “No need to worry. I don’t allow the boys to starve.”
Mrs. Edwards puffed up her cheeks. “I was not insinuating that you starved your children, Mrs. Parker. Would you like Mr. Edwards to fetch your husband from the saloon? He ought to be here loading your wagon.” The woman’s eyes blazed triumphantly, and she raised her chin in a haughty gesture. Rachel groaned silently.
“As you can see, Mrs. Edwards,” Rachel pointed at the empty space beside her wagon where an hour ago her supplies were stacked, “my supplies are packed, thanks to Mr. Owens. No need to trouble your husband.” She smiled sweetly at the irritating woman. “Thank you for allowing the boys to play with your puppies. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got supper to prepare.”
Rachel turned, and set David on the ground. Anger flooded her, and heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks. She wanted to give the old ninny a piece of her mind, and at the same time hide under the covers in the wagon from embarrassment. Thomas’ whereabouts were obviously common knowledge, and the old bat had said it right in front of the scout. Why this mattered, Rachel couldn’t say. Worse, however, was that the woman had to say it in the presence of Billy and Tommy. The boys were old enough to understand what a saloon was.
“I think I saw your husband talking to Reverend Johnson a little while ago, before the meeting started, Mrs. Parker.”
Hearing the familiar deep drawl behind her, Rachel turned so fast she almost lost her balance. Stunned, she gaped at Jake Owens. Why would he lie for her?
“I’ll go see if he’s still at the church. I need to have a word with the reverend myself.” He flashed her a brilliant smile again, and Rachel could have sworn he winked at her.
“Ma’am,” he said, nodding at Mrs. Edwards as he walked off. Rachel stared after him.
“Mr. Owens,” she called, and took an impulsive step forward. He turned, and their eyes met. “Supper will be ready in about an hour. Please . . . we would be honored to have you join us.”
Rachel held her breath. He looked at her for what seemed like an eternity. Then he nodded, and turned toward town. She watched him walk away, ignoring Mrs. Edwards telling her to have a good day.
Chapter Four
“Reverend,” Jake called loudly before he even pulled open the door to the church. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim room. The white-collared man was stacking a pile of Bibles on the front pew. He looked up, and a wide smile spread across his face.
“I didn’t expect you back quite so soon, Jake,” he said cheerfully. “How did the meeting go?”
Jake hurried up the aisle to stand before the reverend. He ignored the man’s question. “Okay, you got my attention. I’m ready to listen. But first; who are you?” He stared down into the shorter man’s steely-blue eyes. A shiver ran down his spine. Did he really want to know? The man smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth.
“I’m your friend.” Reverend Johnson placed his hand on Jake’s upper arm.
“My friends don’t drug me and tell me I’ve been transported back in time by more than 150 years,” Jake sneered.
“No,” the reverend said in his annoyingl
y calm manner. “Your friends drug you and then frame you for murder.”
Jake cursed under his breath. He looked into the man’s eyes. “How do you know I was framed? I didn’t kill that store clerk, did I?”
The reverend shook his head. “And I’ll clear your name. After you guide these good people to their destination.”
Jake raked his fingers through his hair. He didn’t know what to think. At once, relief flooded his mind. He hadn’t killed anyone. But who was this man standing in front of him? He didn’t want to explore the possibilities that floated through his mind.
“Why me?” he asked.
The reverend kept smiling. He applied pressure with his hand on Jake’s arm, and Jake sat on the bench next to the stack of Bibles, eyeing them warily. “I offer second chances to a select few who struggle with finding their way. That’s all you need to know about me. This is your opportunity to turn your life around.”
“How is . . . time traveling to the past” – Jake laughed, not believing he even said those words – “going to turn my life around? I’ve been trying to get away from living the old west lifestyle.”
“Oh, I think you’re mistaken.” The reverend waved his hand dismissively in front of him.
Jake tensed. Why the non-answers? Blue eyes like the summer sky suddenly flashed in his mind. “Who is Rachel Parker?”
“You’ve met her, have you?” Johnson’s perpetual smile widened. Jake wished he could wipe the smugness off the man’s face.
“Why even ask since you obviously already know the answer,” Jake scoffed.
“What did you think of her?” The reverend sat down next to Jake, his forehead wrinkled expectantly. Jake envisioned the man wiggling his eyebrows at him in a suggestive manner. How the hell was he supposed to answer that?
“Suppose I believe you . . . that this is 1848,” Jake said slowly, “and Rachel Parker isn’t part of some re-enactment group. Why does she need looking after? She’s got a husband.” Jake lifted his eyes to meet the old man’s icy blue ones.
Come Home to Me (Second Chances Time Travel Romance Book 1) Page 3