“A couple of riders heading this way, but nothing substantial enough for Pa’s outfit.”
“He’ll be here soon.”
James shrugged. “I hope so. But one year it was the end of May before he got through.”
“That must have been a late spring,” Beryl said. “It’s warm now. He’ll come.”
“I expect you’re right.” James led his horse toward the barn.
Sam trotted after him. “James! Can I help with the saddle?”
“Sure.” James smiled. Sam wouldn’t be big enough to saddle a horse by himself for quite some time, but with some assistance, he could feel he was doing nearly a man’s job.
He wondered if Beryl was any closer to settling her burning question—east or west? Could she make a life for herself and Sam in Oregon? Or should they join someone going back East? People headed that way would soon be coming through, James had assured her. Would she have a better chance in New York, relying on the goodwill and contacts her distant relatives could share?
James rode off again the next morning, and Beryl wished she could go with him. Perhaps tomorrow she would ask him if he could saddle one of the mules for her. Though the air was cold again this morning, that wouldn’t last long. Spring was here, and she longed for the freedom of the trail and the expanse of the prairie around her. Not that she didn’t appreciate the snug home inside the trading post. Indeed, Clara’s warm kitchen had become her favorite refuge.
Beryl hauled in a deep breath. She wished she didn’t have to make the decision that would determine her future and Sam’s. In her daydreams, a little town sprang up around the trading post at Chiswell Rock, and she was able to eke out sustenance for herself and Sam as a seamstress. Her stitching was more than adequate, and they wouldn’t need much.
She sighed and turned to fill the dishpan. That would never happen.
After the breakfast dishes were done, she sat down with Sam at the table to give him his lessons. Clara settled in her rocker to crochet an edge on a red wool blanket and listen.
Not ten minutes into their arithmetic lesson, the door on the front of the trading post opened, and heavy, booted feet clumped across the board floor. Beryl’s heart jerked, and Sam whirled around to stare at her in question.
“Hey! Lassen, you here?” called a deep voice.
Clara gasped and jumped out of her chair. “Stay here, Beryl. It’s one of those trappers, I’m sure. I’ll tell him he’ll have to wait until James can help him.”
Beryl laid a hand on Sam’s sleeve and said, “Shh.” She listened to Clara’s muffled voice as she greeted her visitor.
“We h’ain’t got time to wait,” the booming man declared.
“Yeah,” said another man, “we got to get on the trail.”
Beryl stood and tiptoed to the kitchen door.
“Well, bring in your furs,” Clara said. “James will likely be home by the time you unload your packs.”
“How about getting us a bottle first?” the deep voice said. Beryl peeked out into the trading room. The bearded man was almost as big as Wolf Lassen. His long hair and steely eyes made her shudder.
Sam had left his seat and was halfway across the room.
“What’s going on?” he whispered.
“There are two men, and we need James. I don’t suppose he’s on his way back yet.”
Sam crept toward her, but Beryl held out her arm, stiff as a broom handle. “Stay back. I don’t want them to see you.”
Sam’s mouth closed in a scowl too grim for his childish features.
“You must have a bottle or two stashed away,” one of the men declared.
“No, we don’t,” Clara said.
“Your man must like a nip now and then.”
“Don’t make us go all the way to Fort Laramie for a taste of liquor,” the second man snarled.
The voices grew louder as they moved closer. The two trappers had advanced into the storage room. The big man shoved Clara before him as she cried, “We have none, I tell you.”
“Well, you must have some foodstuffs in the house. Come on now. We’re hungry.”
“We haven’t had a woman-cooked meal in months,” the second man said. “What do you got?”
Clara stumbled toward her, and Beryl caught her in her arms. She frowned at the burly men.
“What is the meaning of this? You mustn’t treat Mrs. Lassen so.”
“Oho!” The big man looked Beryl up and down and grinned at his friend. “We got a bonus, Burke!”
“Looky there.” The second man ogled Beryl.
She wanted to flee, but she had nowhere to hide. She backed into the kitchen, pulling Clara with her. A quick glance behind her to locate Sam gave her no assurance. He was out of sight, but where? She wanted to know he was safely out of harm’s way. Probably he had scooted under the table into the shadows. She avoided looking toward the most likely hiding place.
Clara turned toward the men and pulled herself to her full height. “You rascals calm down! We have some corn bread left from breakfast and a bit of venison stew.”
“Venison?” The one called Burke curled his lip. “We been eatin’ venison all winter.”
“Ah, but did your stew have carrots and turnips and onions in it?” Clara asked in an almost cordial tone.
“Well, no,” Burke admitted.
“I’ve got canned peaches, too.” Though a bruise was forming on her cheek, Clara stayed amazingly calm.
“Bring it on!” The big man strode toward the kitchen range. He held his hands toward it.
“I’ll have to heat up the stew,” Clara said. She nodded at Beryl. “Can you get it from the cold cupboard?”
Beryl nodded and opened the door to the woodshed at the back of the kitchen. She scurried out and shut the door behind her so they wouldn’t lose heat from inside. Clara used a plain wooden cupboard in the woodshed during cool weather. It kept the vermin out, and any food she put there stayed cold.
As Beryl hurried toward the cupboard, a blast of cold air hit her. The back door, leading outside, was open a few inches. She quickly pulled it shut. Had Sam sneaked out the back way? She hoped he was hiding in the barn and would keep safe from these rowdy men. No telling what they would do. Her best hope, as well as Clara’s, was to feed them well and keep them occupied with food until James returned.
A sudden thought flitted through her mind. What if Sam got one of the mules and rode out in search of James? But no, Sam was far too small to saddle or bridle one of the animals, let alone climb onto its back. She hoped he wouldn’t try and get hurt. Maybe he had run off down the trail in hopes of meeting James. But his woolen coat was still in their sleeping quarters. She hoped he wasn’t outside in just his shirtsleeves.
A voice rose in the kitchen. She grabbed the icy kettle from the cupboard and determined not to worry about Samuel. He’s in Your hands, Lord, she prayed silently.
Clara had brought out the pan of leftover corn bread and the last jug of molasses. Beryl set the stew kettle on the stove.
“Could I pour you gentlemen some coffee?” She hated the quaver in her voice.
“That’s a good idea,” Clara said in an overbright tone. “A cup of hot coffee will do you fellers good. Warm your insides while you wait for the stew to heat.”
Burke grunted, but the big man looked toward her and nodded. “Bring it here, gal. I’m startin’ to thaw.”
Beryl poured a mug full of coffee and walked over to him warily. She stopped at arm’s length and held it out toward him.
“Come closer, sweetheart.”
“This is fine,” Beryl said.
He took it from her with one hand but grabbed her wrist with the other. As he set the coffee on the table, his grip tightened like a bulldog’s jaws.
“Let go of me,” Beryl said. Her cheeks heated, and she was sure her face had gone scarlet.
“In a bit.” The man drew her closer, and Beryl could smell his unwashed body and rancid buckskins.
“Take your hands of
f her!” Clara sprang toward them with her cast-iron skillet raised.
Chapter 7
Burke stepped between the two women, pulling out a knife. The blade gleamed as he held it close to his waist, pointed at Clara.
“I’d think twice if I were you, ma’am.” He glanced at his friend. “Joe, you’re likely to spoil our dinner.”
The big man threw back his head and laughed. “You’re right. We oughta eat first.”
He shoved Beryl away, letting loose her wrist. She collided with Clara, who dropped her skillet and pulled Beryl into her arms, backing away from the men. Beryl clung to her, staring at Burke’s knife. How long would James be gone? Shouldn’t he be back by now?
Joe picked up his coffee mug. “Get the food on the table. We’ll worry about pleasantries after.”
Clara’s eyes narrowed. “Our men will whip you.”
Burke laughed. “What men?”
“We didn’t see no men when we rode in,” Joe said. “You said your son would be back any minute, but I reckon we can handle him. Now, let’s have some of that stew and cornpone, and while we’s eatin’, you can go put some gunpowder and lead balls on the counter, and some whiskey. Don’t say you’ve got none. Everybody keeps a bottle for medicinal purposes, if nothing else.”
Beryl moved toward the stove, pulling Clara with her. She reached for a wooden spoon and began to stir the stew. It wasn’t anywhere near warm yet. How long would these men wait?
“Where’s Sam?” Clara whispered.
“Don’t know. Cut them some corn bread. Maybe that will hold them while this heats.”
Somehow they managed to set the table. The stew was still only lukewarm, but Beryl half-filled two bowls.
“Well, now, that looks right edible.”
Beryl jumped at the nearness of the man’s oily voice. She turned to find Joe only a pace behind her. She forced a smile. “Sit right down and enjoy, gentlemen.”
“Got more coffee?” Burke asked, plopping into Wolf’s usual chair at the head of the table.
“Certainly.” Beryl moved for the coffeepot, though she hated to get close enough to them to refill their cups.
When she approached Joe, hoping to quickly fill his mug and get away from him, he laid a hand on her sleeve. Beryl flinched and nearly dropped the coffeepot. She clutched the handle, knowing that if she spilled it on him, nothing could shield her from his wrath.
“You and your ma get our supplies ready. And don’t get any ideas about hiding on me. We got business to settle.”
“Mrs. Lassen will take your payment,” Beryl managed to say, though her voice was not as steady as she would have liked.
Joe laughed. “Hear that, Burke?”
“Oh, yeah.” Burke smiled around a mouthful of stew. “We’ll pay up all right. No worry about that, missy.”
Beryl shuddered, but Joe released her. The coffeepot’s weight made her arm tremble as she filled his mug.
Clara had stepped toward the storeroom door. She lifted her chin slightly. Beryl set the coffeepot down on the range top. Both men were engaged in eating, their slurps and smacks giving testimony to their pleasure. She edged toward Clara and the door. Slowly, Clara drew her through the doorway. In silence they tiptoed out to the trading area.
“Did James take his rifle?” Beryl whispered.
“He always does in case he sees some game.”
“He ought to come back soon.”
Clara shrugged. “If he meets someone on the trail, he’ll stop for the news, and if he shoots some meat, he’ll dress it out.”
“I’m worried about Sam,” Beryl said. “I think he may have gone up the trail to find James.”
“Pray he does.” Clara jerked her face upward, staring at the rafters above them. “What’s that?”
Beryl heard it too, a soft thud, thud on the roof.
“Not Indians,” Clara said.
“Listen.” Beryl’s keen ears had picked up the drumming sound of hoofbeats—a rapid, galloping gait.
Clara’s face brightened, but before she could speak, the clomp of footsteps sounded in the storeroom.
“You got our supplies ready?” Burke asked from behind the counter.
“Uh … almost,” Beryl said. “Did you say you needed bacon?”
“Yeah, gimme some of that and some hardtack, if you’ve got it.”
“I’m afraid we don’t,” Clara said. “The last of that went out of here on one of the last emigrant trains.”
As Joe loomed in the doorway behind Burke, Beryl wondered that the two of them hadn’t heard the hoofbeats, but the sounds had stopped. Had she imagined them?
“You get our lead and powder first,” Joe said. “What have you been doing, anyhow?”
“Just discussing what we had to fill your list of supplies,” Clara said, her face whitening as the huge man strode toward her.
Instead of menacing Clara, Joe grabbed Beryl’s wrist and jerked her toward him. He twisted her arm behind her and held her so tightly that Beryl gritted her teeth.
Joe glared at Clara. “You get them things together fast while I keep company with the missy.”
Beryl sucked in a breath, but before Clara could take a step toward the counter, the front door, behind Joe, flew open. James stood in the frame, his rifle raised. He quickly sized up the situation and pointed the muzzle toward Burke, who stood clear of the others and made a fine target.
“Let the girl loose,” James said tightly, his blue eyes burning, “or your friend’s a dead man.”
James kept his sights on the man near the counter, but the larger man worried him more. Would he risk disobeying?
Suddenly the big trapper laughed and let go of Beryl. She dashed to Clara and fell into her arms.
“Take your furs and get out of here,” James said.
The big man stirred, and James turned to aim the rifle at him.
“We only wanted to trade with you,” the trapper said.
“You’re not trading here. Go somewhere else.”
The second man took a step toward him. “Man, don’t make us go all the way to Fort Laramie.”
“Yeah,” said the bigger man. “At least give us some hard money for our catch. We can get our supplies down the line, but we don’t want to take our pelts any farther. We had to run off a band of Arapahoe last night.”
“They likely wanted your horses,” James said. “Now get moving. You’ve got most of the day left and a lot of miles to cover.”
The smaller man eyed his friend uneasily. “All right, if that’s the way your feel. We was told you gave a fair trade on furs.”
“Generally we do, but not to men who harass our women.”
“Aw we wasn’t—” the big man started with a smile, but he broke off and sobered when James raised the rifle a hair.
“I heard what I heard,” James said. “Now go.”
He stepped back and stood just outside while the trappers strode out, reloaded their furs, and mounted their saddle horses. They rode away, and Ma and Beryl stepped out onto the doorstep.
“Oh, James,” his mother said, shaking her head. “If you’d been much longer …”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Where’s Sam?” Beryl asked, eyeing James’s panting horse. “Did you meet him on the road?”
James grinned then and looked up at the roof. The women followed his gaze, and Beryl gasped.
“Sam!”
The boy perched on the slant roof of the trading post with a red blanket wrapped around him.
“Land sakes,” Ma said. “What are you doing up there, Samuel?”
“He signaled to me with that red flag he’s wearing,” James said. “He stood on top of the roof, flapping it. I could see it all the way from the bluff yonder.”
“That’s more’n a mile,” Ma said.
“Yup.” James walked over to stand beneath Sam. “Well, come on down, pard.”
Sam beamed at him and shoved off from the eaves, the blanket flying out behind him like a
scarlet cape. James caught him and set him on the ground.
“You did fine, boy.” He tousled Sam’s hair.
“I guess you did,” Beryl said. “How did you think of it?”
“I remembered the story James wrote about the boy who signaled the clipper ship. So I grabbed the blanket and climbed up to our crow’s nest.”
“You did just right,” James said.
They put the kitchen and the trading post to rights, and his mother once again sat down to finish edging the blanket while Beryl quizzed Sam on his numbers. James had time to think at last. He whittled away while he thought, and the piece of pine began to take the shape of a horse. Sam would like that, he thought. The boy could add it to his menagerie.
If the Jenners hadn’t stopped here for the winter, Ma would have been alone when the trappers came. He’d been foolish to leave her alone repeatedly, even for an hour.
He looked at Samuel, whose head was bent over the slate. What would he have done if he’d come home and found those ruffians had harmed little Sam? Or Beryl? Gazing at her, James realized how much she meant to him. He didn’t want her to leave. Yet he’d seen the fear in her eyes when he burst into the trading post and found the trapper menacing her.
Was there any chance he could convince her to stay? James scraped away at the wooden horse’s mane, making little ridges in it to fashion realistic strands of hair. How could he ask Beryl to live here in the wilderness? He was barely able to protect her today. Any number of things could happen to her, or to Sam, the same as they could to Ma, and he would not always be able to prevent them.
He sighed, and Ma looked over at him.
“Anything wrong?” she asked softly.
“No. Yes.” James gave her a rueful smile. “I don’t know.”
“It hits you afterward,” Ma murmured.
“Yeah.” James gazed at Beryl again. He had put the shutters down, and the sun streamed in through the window by the table, burnishing her hair. “It sure does.”
Chapter 8
James rode to the top of the bluff but didn’t go as far as he used to away from the trading post. He sat his horse for ten minutes, trying to decide if the haze beyond the hills blocking his view was dust or fog off the river.
The WESTWARD Christmas BRIDES COLLECTION: 9 Historical Romances Answer the Call of the American West Page 12