It hurt to see him like this—so vulnerable and weak. That was how the world usually saw him, but not Caitlan. To her, Brenton was a pillar of strength. Perhaps he tended to fight his own conscience too much, but he only did so because his heart was so full of caring for those he loved. Of course, there was the issue of God and the faith that Brenton held dear. Caitlan smiled. He seemed to know her heart better on the matter than she did herself. He had told her on more than one occasion that he didn’t believe she’d given up on God, but rather had given up on herself and her people.
Perhaps he was right. At least, at the moment she truly wished it were so. She reached down and smoothed back a strand of his light brown hair. His chin and jaw bore signs of stubble, and Caitlan smiled as she ran her fingers along the lines of his face. She thought him very nearly perfect.
“I know ya can’t hear me, but ya just better get well,” she leaned down to whisper. “I’ve lost me heart to ya, Brenton Baldwin, and I won’t have ya dying on me now.” Mindless of his illness, she leaned closer and, without thought to being seen by Jordana, kissed Brenton lightly on the lips. “Ya have to get well, me love.”
Brenton stirred in the night and, with a rush of fear, opened his eyes and tried to take in his surroundings. His head still ached, but he didn’t feel quite so chilled. He wondered how long he had been ill. Glancing to his right he could see the outside of the wagon. In the shadowy light he made out a form underneath it and wondered if it was Jordana or Caitlan.
Struggling to raise his head, Brenton looked to his left and found their only source of light, a small campfire. He saw just beyond this another form that he could now definitely identify as Caitlan sleeping peacefully on the ground. He smiled and fell back against the ground. What pleasant dreams he’d had of her. Dreams of sweet words and kisses as soft as summer rains. He closed his eyes, hoping the dreams would return. She was quite a woman, he decided. Sleep began to overtake him once again, even as he heard Caitlan stir and throw more wood on the fire. She was all that a man could want in a wife.
The next morning found Brenton’s fever gone and his appetite returning. His companions told him he’d been two full days in the delirium of fever. The day after that he was much improved, but because he was still in a rather weakened state, the girls decided it would be best to remain where they were for another day.
“Ya’ll soon be on yar feet,” Caitlan told him, “then we can press on to St. Joseph.”
“I don’t think we should even bother,” Jordana surprised them by saying. “I mean, Billy Vanderbilt is out of the country for who knows how long. You have no way of knowing what the investors will want from you or how well they will keep to Mr. Vanderbilt’s agreement. I say we head back to Kansas City and see about hooking up with a wagon train. I heard tell they leave out of there, or nearby, all the time. We could still get your pictures taken along the way, Brenton, and we’d get Caitlan to California in shorter order.”
“Don’t be changin’ yar plans on my account,” Caitlan protested. “Ya said yarself ya have no idea where to take me once we get to California. Better we wait until we hear from yar folks or that lawyer of yars.”
“The last we heard, Mr. Marcum was ill. Who knows when we’ll hear from him again?” Jordana protested.
“I don’t like running out on Vanderbilt,” Brenton said matter-of-factly.
“He’s run out on you,” Jordana countered.
“For a very good reason,” Brenton replied.
“Well, this would be just as good a reason. Caitlan deserves our help. I think it’s time we concentrated on getting to California.”
Caitlan smiled. “Ya’ve helped me more than I had a right to. We’ve had a good time together, and I’ll not be havin’ ya change yar plans on account of me and that’s final.”
“To tell the truth,” Jordana said more solemnly than usual, “I think we’re in more danger here than we’ve ever been before. I mean, you know what the papers said.”
Brenton nodded. This was perhaps the first thing she’d said that made a reasonable argument for leaving off with Vanderbilt’s project and picking up with their own. “It is dangerous. I’d feel much better if we were farther north.”
“Or in Kansas City,” Jordana countered.
“I suppose she’s right,” Brenton said, looking at Caitlan. Something stirred inside him as he met her gaze. He remembered his feverish dreams of her, and it caused an involuntary grin to bend his lips. Covering this as best he could, he added, “Even Jordana deserves to be right some of the time. But I think we should push on for St. Joseph. It would get us farther north, and also it’s where Vanderbilt will expect us in case he has any communication for me.”
So it was decided that they would at least consider the possibility of ending their employment with Billy Vanderbilt. But they would wait until they reached St. Joseph before making the final decision. There would also be wagon trains departing from there should they opt for continuing immediately on to California.
“Are ya sure yar feelin’ well enough to travel?” Caitlan asked Brenton as they ambled along toward the wagon.
“I’m much better,” he said, pausing to look at her. “Thanks to you.”
Caitlan blushed. “I cannot be takin’ the credit. Jordana says that God of yars was the one to be doin’ the healin’.”
“Yes, I believe that’s so,” Brenton said, surprising her by reaching out to take hold of her hand. “I think you had something to do with it too. He used you to be His hands.” He squeezed her fingers, then climbed up into the back of the wagon, trying hard to ignore the way she’d trembled at his touch. “I’m going to take a picture of that area over by the river before we leave. I think it will make a nice addition to my own collection.”
“Ah . . . aye,” Caitlan murmured.
Brenton smiled to himself as he went into the wagon and gathered his supplies together. She had feelings for him, of this he was certain. Now if only he could help her to see that God really loved her—then Brenton would feel free to prove that he loved her as well.
As Brenton packed his equipment, he noted with pleasure that everything was holding up nicely. Even with the rain a few days ago, all the contents of the specially designed wagon with its wood canopy had remained dry. Brenton had customized the wagon to suit his needs. At the back was the tiniest of dark rooms where he could develop his photographs. All along one side were cabinets, built especially to house the precious chemicals for processing. On the other side a drop-down counter could be put in place for spreading out his work and allowing it to dry. When the counter was up and out of the way, there was a long boxlike structure that Brenton had deemed could be used for sleeping or sitting for those times when they were traveling in rain. He’d even managed to secure a goose-down tick for cushioning the top. Beneath this was storage for their clothing and personal goods, and overhead were hooks and nails for hanging a variety of goods. All in all, Brenton thought they’d made a marvelous use of the space.
He drew out his camera equipment, then went to work preparing the collodion glass plate. With meticulous care he arranged everything so that the moment the picture was taken, he could quickly return to the task of processing. He thought about how he wanted to set the scene as he prepared the glass negative. He could see it even now in his mind’s eye—a steep embankment that overlooked the river. Framed by trees and distant meadowlands, Brenton believed it would make a most captivating photograph.
Caitlan stood ready to assist him, taking on the job of toting whatever needed toting, and running back to the wagon for any forgotten article. When they reached the specified spot, they were some distance from the wagon, and the real trick would be to make sure no dust particles or bits of dirt could work their way into the camera to attach themselves to the wet glass plate. Brenton didn’t fret about such things, however. He was becoming quite competent at his work, and it pleased him immensely to have Caitlan take such an active interest.
No sooner had he
finished taking the picture and begun to gather the equipment together than the unmistakable sound of horses could be heard. Exchanging a worried look with Caitlan, he hurried back to the wagon and put the equipment on the tailgate.
“Jordana!” he called, glancing around them for any sign of the riders.
Jordana appeared from out of the wooded brush. “I just staked the horses at the stream. What’s the matter?”
“Riders,” Brenton said, still trying to figure out from which direction the sound was coming.
He didn’t have long to wait because, without warning, a group of seven or eight men crashed upon the camp from the trail to the south.
“Whoa!” one of the men yelled and slid his horse to a stop in the muddy path. He pulled a gun at the same time and pointed it directly at Brenton. “Well, well . . . what have we here?” he asked with a menacing scowl.
Brenton pulled Caitlan protectively behind him. “We’re making our way to St. Joseph.”
“Well, ain’t that nice,” the rough-looking man declared. His companions laughed heartily at this as he pushed back a filthy brown felt hat. “I do hate to be interruptin’ your little trip, but I’d like to relieve you of your money.”
“We don’t have any money!” declared Jordana, stomping across the camp to join her brother. “Do you think we’d be sleeping out under a wagon and camping in the woods if we had money?”
“You just might. . . .” The fellow threw his leg over the horse and jumped to the ground.
Brenton took a step forward as the man approached Jordana. Not for the first time in his life, he wished his sister had been more a cowering wallflower. Silently he prayed she’d keep her mouth shut. This man hardly looked much older than she was, but it was apparent he was years beyond her in experience, and, Brenton guessed, the fellow certainly didn’t hold the same values.
“She’s right.” Brenton thought of the rifle tucked snugly, and uselessly, in the back of the wagon. “We don’t have anything of value,” Brenton added rather lamely.
The other men were dismounting and handing their reins over to a boy who appeared to be the youngest in their group. Brenton guessed him to be no more than twelve or thirteen. In fact, none of the group looked old enough to be making war on passing strangers. Brenton figured the ring leader to be the oldest with the others looking more like fifteen or sixteen years of age.
“You got these purdy women,” one of the ruffians called out as he approached. “I’d say they would be mighty valuable to some of us.”
The leader reached out to take hold of Jordana, while Brenton, torn between protecting Caitlan and his sister, knew he was doubtless at a loss to help either. All of the men, if they could be called that, had guns, and none seemed adverse to using them.
“Where are your horses, little lady?” the leader asked Jordana, grabbing her arm and yanking her around to face him. She fought against his hold, which only irritated the ruffian.
“They’re down that way,” Brenton answered, pointing in the proper direction. “There’s a stream that leads down the ravine to the river.”
“We know this territory like the back of our hands,” one boy said, sidling up to Brenton with his gun drawn. “Don’t rightly think we need someone givin’ us directions. Do we need a direction giver, Newt?” he asked their leader.
The gang laughed at this and Brenton knew he was rapidly losing ground. Caitlan let out a scream as one of the bushwhackers took hold of her. Brenton whirled around, but the kid who’d been taunting him quickly stuck his gun in Brenton’s face.
“I wouldn’t be interferin’, mister. Jake don’t hardly cotton to anyone comin’ between him and his good times.”
“Say, what’s this stuff?” another of the boys asked.
He indicated the photographic equipment and Brenton grasped at this opportunity, hoping it would take their attention off the girls. “I’m a photographer—that’s my camera.”
“A photographer! Hey, Newt, wouldn’t it be just the funniest thing to have this here pho-tog-rapher take our picture?”
The boys all laughed and offered their own comments on this. “We’ve outrun them blue-bellies. I say we let this city dude take our picture before he dies.”
“You can’t kill him!” Jordana screamed, biting and kicking at her captor with renewed venom. “He’s done you no harm.”
The man called Newt tightened his hold on Jordana and jerked her head back by pulling on her hair. “Shut up, woman. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“Come on, Newt. Let’s have us a picture. Your ma would be right proud to see us all a-workin’ for the cause.”
Newt laughed. “Guess a picture would be nice.” He tossed Jordana to the ground, causing Brenton to once again start forward. “Stay where ya are, picture-man. She ain’t goin’ nowhere and she ain’t hurt—not yet.”
Brenton was seething inside. Behind him Caitlan was fighting and protesting her treatment. He could see Jordana sizing up Newt as if she were about to take him on. Somehow, he had to put an end to this without getting them all killed.
“All right. I’ll take your picture.” Brenton glanced upward, then looked across camp. “The lighting would be better over there,” he said and pointed.
“Sam, you tie off those horses to this here wagon and come stand by me,” Newt directed. “Jake, let the girl go—you can have her later.” The bushwhackers moved into position, all the while keeping their weapons trained on their captives.
Brenton took his time in getting his “subjects” arranged just so, stalling for time, hoping some way of escape would materialize. If he ever did get the photograph taken, it would make for an interesting story, especially explaining the fact that the guns pointed toward the camera were all cocked and aimed at his head as well as Jordana’s and Caitlan’s.
“I’ll have to get my supplies from inside,” Brenton said when Newt began complaining about how much time he was taking. “I’ll only be a minute.”
Newt eyed him suspiciously. “Bear, you go with him,” he instructed a burly young man—the meanest looking of the bunch.
Brenton tried not to appear disturbed by this. “I have some special paper I have to use for the photograph and a different camera. Why don’t I hand these things down to you?” Bear just looked at him with a fierce expression that suggested the time for talking had passed.
Brenton felt the sweat trickle down his back. The weak, spongy feeling in his legs left him to wonder if he’d recovered from his sickness enough to do whatever battle was necessary to protect Jordana and Caitlan. He knew getting to the rifle would be impossible, and his fleeting notion of using his chemicals to create an explosion was also out of the question because the girls were too near the wagon.
“Hurry up, picture-man,” Newt called. “And don’t even think of doing something to irritate me. I’ll kill this little gal as sure as I’ll kill you. Won’t much matter what order we go in.”
Brenton froze in place. The feeling of helplessness washed over him. Please, God, he prayed, deliver us from this nightmare. Save us, Lord.
He found what he needed for the photograph and handed it down to Bear. Not wishing to waste expensive glass negatives on these criminals, he planned to use the calotype process. Taking the photograph would take longer, but it might buy them some precious time. He would also be careful not to mention that developing the photograph would take hours, not minutes. He didn’t want to discourage them or—heaven forbid!—anger them. Without giving any more thought to what he would do, he walked across the clearing.
“You girls get over here at the end of the wagon so I can see you real clear-like,” Newt ordered. “And if I so much as see you move, I’ll kill him where he stands.”
Caitlan hurried to where Jordana was just now getting to her feet. She brushed off her dress and opened her mouth as if to retort, but Brenton shook his head.
“Do what he says, Jordana.”
“Jordana?” Newt repeated the name. “Now, that’s a right
unusual name for a girl. I kinda like the sound of it.”
Jordana gave him a fierce look before crossing her arms defiantly. Brenton had seen that look before, and he feared that Jordana would try something stupid in order to save the day.
“All right,” he said, forcing his voice to sound calm. “I’ll need all of you to stand in close.” He positioned the camera and motioned them to squeeze together.
The men moved together as instructed. Besides the three guns aimed at their victims, all the other men also held up their weapons to make sure they were captured in the photograph. They all arranged their faces in their most stern expressions.
“You’ll have to hold very still. This type of photography requires that you remain absolutely still for several minutes or the picture will blur.”
“We’ll do our part,” Newt called back. “You just remember what I said. One of you moves more than to scratch an itch and I’ll shoot him—or her.”
“They’ll stay put,” Brenton replied. “You hear me, girls? Do what he says.”
Jordana wasn’t about to stand by and let these smelly, mean-tempered ruffians have their way. The leader, for all his youth, looked as if he’d kill them all just as sure as look at them, and Brenton was ten kinds of fool to think otherwise. Spying a rifle strapped to the side of one horse, Jordana gently nudged Caitlan, getting her to carefully shift her gaze in the direction of the horse.
“Gun,” she muttered under her breath only loud enough for Caitlan to hear.
“No” came the clench-jawed reply of her conspirator.
Jordana didn’t have time to argue with Caitlan. Without a weapon it was hopeless to think they would get out of this alive. She moved the slightest bit toward the horse. If Caitlan didn’t follow, it would soon be evident that she was moving from her original position.
“Please,” Jordana mouthed silently, praying that Caitlan would finally realize the sense in her plan.
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