Heartbreak Trail

by Shirley Kennedy

  “That’s good news.” Clint strolled over to chat. “Mrs. Benton has some funny ideas, but she’s got a lot of grit. I suspect once she gets the hang of it, she’ll be fine.”

  “I think so, too.” Remembering the events of the morning, Lucy tried to stifle her curiosity but couldn’t. She tipped her head to one side. “By the way, wherever did you come up with that quote from the Bible? Was it just luck or do you know the scriptures as well as Abner and my husband?”

  “You heard?” The lines around Clint’s eyes wrinkled in amusement. “Were the Captain and his brother properly impressed?”

  “Oh, yes.” She let loose a bubbling peal of laughter. “Properly impressed, indeed.”

  Clint nodded with satisfaction. “My father taught me the Bible. Yes, I could match your husband scripture for scripture if I had to.” There was a pause in which he seemed to debate whether to say more. “Back home in Kentucky, my father was a preacher.”

  “How nice.”

  “Not really. He raised me with a Bible in one hand and a birch whip in the other. I got tired of being beat. Left home when I was twelve.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She sensed he’d just revealed a confidence not often shared.

  “Don’t be sorry. It was the best thing I ever did. I never looked back. Since then, I’ve led the life I wanted to lead.” He folded his arms and regarded her with curious eyes. “What of you? Are you leading the life you want to lead?”

  She responded with a cynical laugh. “Now what do you think?”

  “What do I think?” He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. “You view this journey as the worst thing ever happened to you. I predict that some day you’ll think otherwise. That’s because I see depths in you that you don’t even know you have.”

  “Really?” She was astounded.

  “Yes, really. I see strength, determination, a will to survive. I see a woman who was meant for something more than sitting in a fancy Boston parlor serving tea, much as you might believe otherwise.”

  “So far I’m hating it. So far I’m scared to death of all the things Augustus Turner talked about. Accidents, drownings, Indians—”

  “You’re a survivor. If ever I saw a woman meant to pull through, no matter what, it’s you.”

  Struck speechless, she wondered if he was only trying to flatter her. She searched his sun- and wind-burned face, marked forever by the jagged scar from the grizzly, and saw only honesty in his eyes. She should have known. Clint Palance was a man who didn’t tell lies, not even little white ones. She found herself immensely flattered. Aside from her father, none of the men she’d known had gone beyond mouthing meaningless blandishments about her pretty eyes, pert little nose, soft, silky hair. Come to think of it, Jacob hadn’t even said that much. Since they’d left Massachusetts, she’d spent endless hours cooking, scrubbing, and taking care of his child, yet he hadn’t expressed one word of thanks or appreciation. She doubted he ever would. “Thank you. That was kind of you to say.”

  “Truly meant.”

  She wanted to stay and talk, but standing in the middle of the campground, she could almost feel the sharp eyes of Agnes Applegate drilling into her back. “I’d best be off.”

  He touched his hat. “Good day.”

  “Good day.” Her spirits high, she wiggled her fingers at him in a bubbly little wave. When she turned, sure enough, there was Agnes staring directly at her with a wise little smirk on her face. You old gossip. She gave a gay wave to Agnes, too. Clint’s flattering words still in her head, she walked toward her campsite with buoyant steps.

  She was almost there when she saw Jacob standing beside the wagon awaiting her return, fists clenched, face livid. Dear Lord! Had he seen her laughing conversation with Clint? The gay wave? The happy spring in her step?

  “What were you doing talking to Palance?” Jacob demanded when she drew close, the volume of his voice lowered only by his awareness of the sharp ears of close neighbors.

  “I—”

  “I won’t have you talking to that man, do you understand?” His chest heaved. His breath came in short, angry pants.

  “Jacob, I—”

  “Do ... you ... understand?” His quiet words came hissing through barred teeth, reminding her of a wild-eyed, salivating wolf about to spring on its prey. The effect frightened her more than if he were shouting. She fought her impulse to bolt and run—mustn’t make a scene—and forced herself to stand and listen. “For the good of the company, I must tolerate that blasphemer, but that doesn’t mean my wife is to speak to him, ever! Do I make myself clear?”

  She tried to answer but found herself unable to speak over the lump of panic in her throat. Thank God for the neighbors. She had the feeling that if Jacob were not aware of their curious ears and eyes, those clenched fists he held tight to his sides would surely have struck her by now. “Jacob, why are you so angry? I was only telling Mister Palance about Cordelia. She’s agreed to cook.”

  She waited, desperately hoping she’d dispelled her husband’s fury.

  Jacob remained silent, glaring at her until, gradually, his heaving chest and anger-contorted face returned to normal. “You mind what I said. Clint Palance is a wicked, worldly man. You stay away from him. Now get back to work.” He spun around and left.

  Deeply shaken, she noticed little Noah peering at her through the canvas with round, frightened eyes. He must’ve heard every word. She wanted to climb inside the wagon and hide from the world, but for her stepson’s sake, she forced herself to be calm, act normal.

  “It’s time for me to wash the dishes, sweetheart. Be a love and help me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Noah hopped nimbly from the wagon to the tongue, then to the ground, eager to do her bidding. Once again, this sweet little boy, so kind and loving, so eager to please, touched her heart. He was smart, too, and immensely curious about everything, sometimes spouting questions a mile a minute until the adults tired of answering. “Is Father mad?”

  Lucy tousled Noah’s blond curls. “He was mad, but just a little bit. Everything’s fine now.”

  She busied herself with cleaning up after the noontime meal, thinking everything was not so fine. She’d already discovered there was no such thing as privacy in a wagon train. Gossip spread fast as lightning. Everyone would pretend otherwise, but Jacob’s tirade, muted though it was, had been seen, heard, and carefully noted. Surely tongues would wag. She’d wager that by sunset the whole world would be aware Jacob Schneider had roundly upbraided his wife over her behavior with Clint Palance.

  Just what had she done? So unfair! Why couldn’t she have a conversation with a man without tongues wagging, without her husband raging at her? After grimly mulling for a while, she forced herself to face the truth. Clint Palance wasn’t just any man. He was a man she was drawn to, could not stop thinking about, no matter how hard she tried. Strange, how her unimaginative husband sensed the truth. It was almost as if he could read her mind.

  Well, regardless of how harmless this foolishness was, it had to stop. Absolutely, she’d mend her ways. Even though Jacob couldn’t read her mind, from now on she wouldn’t care if he did. She was a good Christian woman who loved her husband. From this day forward, she wouldn’t waste one more thought on Clint Palance.

  In the late afternoon, they came to a river so wide and fast-flowing that Clint and Charlie called for all to gather so they could discuss how they were going to get across.

  Lucy, standing on the bank with a small knot of women, heard a lot of gloom and doom.

  “My stars, how will we ever cross this one?” Bessie watched the water’s swift flow with dismay. “It looks so deep.”

  “We shall all be drowned,” said Agnes.

  “Do you think so?” Martha’s voice sounded small, scared. Lately she’d come out of her shell a bit, Lucy had noted with satisfaction, and now occasionally spoke her mind. Perhaps her pregnancy had given her more confidence.

  Only ever-positive Hannah offered hope. “Fiddlesticks!
Let’s just listen to what Mister Palance and Mister Dawes have to say. I trust they’ll get us across.”

  Lucy agreed with Hannah. She gazed at the two experienced guides sitting casually atop their mounts: clean-shaven Clint lightly holding the reins with strong, practiced hands; grizzly-bearded Charlie regarding the crowd with his old, snappy eyes. Between them, they must have tackled dozens of rivers. They knew what to do. She was not afraid.

  After gathering them all together, Clint said, “Folks, so far, the rivers we’ve crossed so far have been shallow. We waded across, both us and the cattle, and drove the wagons through without getting stuck or losing one wagon or animal.”

  “This here one’s a mite different.” Charlie nodded toward the dark, swiftly flowing water. “You got a river what’s deep, running fast, and dangerous.”

  “Can we get across?” someone yelled.

  “Of course we’ll get across,” said Clint, “but you must listen carefully and do what we say. First, you’ve got to unload the wagons.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything,” Clint answered over groans from the crowd. “Then you’ve got to take the wagons apart, piece by piece, and that means wheels, canvas, tongues, all of it. Then we water-proof the wagons with wax.”

  Another groan.

  “Then we stretch a strong rope across the river with a tight wagon-bed attached to the middle of it. We’ll have men standing on either side to keep the rope tight and pull each wagon across, one by one. When we get all the wagons to the other side, we build rafts to haul the goods from the wagons, same way, attached to ropes. Everything a little at a time. When that’s done, we bring the women and children, then we’ll swim the cattle and horses.”

  Shaking his head in disapproval, Jacob stepped forward. “Sounds like a lot of work to me. Surely there must be an easier way. Perhaps we could find a spot where the river isn’t that deep and we could simply drive the wagons across.”

  “Not possible,” Clint answered firmly. “Every part of that river is treacherous. Do it the way we said or you’ll have drownings on your hands, and I mean people as well as animals.”

  “I see.”

  Lucy knew from the cold exactness in Jacob’s voice he wasn’t happy with Clint’s answer. He argued no further, though, aware that he had no choice but to bow to Clint and Charlie’s judgment. He called to everyone, “Very well, let’s get to work.”

  The crossing took two days, during which every man, woman, and child over the age of five pitched in to help, all focused on the momentous task of crossing the river. Lucy toiled along with the rest, helping to unpack the wagons and take them apart. She also caught up on other chores. After baking a supply of biscuits, she heated water in a large kettle and poured it into a big wooden wash tub, set up by the river. In a line of other women, all busy with their laundry, she scrubbed a sizeable batch of wash, spreading clothes and linens to dry on bushes that lined the banks. She was doing Martha’s wash as well. The poor woman was suffering greatly from early pregnancy nausea, so Lucy constantly tried to lighten her load.

  “Ain’t it a pleasure to have hot water to wash in?” Bessie was doing her wash beside her. Up to now, they’d had little time for heating water. Mostly they’d done their wash in cold water.

  Lucy agreed what a pleasure it was, then found herself remembering another time, another place that now seemed so remote. Had there ever been a Miss Lucy Parker who lived on Beacon Street in Boston? Whose servants did her wash while she, spoiled creature that she was, never gave it a thought? Lucy looked about her, at the raging river crashing over rocks and huge boulders, at the surrounding forest thick with pine trees. Was there really a Boston? Her former life seemed a million miles away. She extended her hands— red and swollen from backbreaking scrubbing, hard soap, as well as the endless days of sun and wind. “They’ll never be the same,” she whispered, sadly shaking her head.

  Bessie held out her own hands, equally red and roughened. “We’ll be out in the weather for months to come. There ain’t no way to prevent it, far as I can see. At least you’ve got your face covered.”

  Lucy reached up to touch the blue cotton sunbonnet Bessie had made for her. At first she’d resisted wearing one, even though all the other women did. They were so unattractive. The brim poked out over her face in such a ridiculous fashion! What would her stylish friends in Boston think? After a few days in the outdoors, she gave in, forced to admit the ugly sunbonnets were the best protection against the hot rays of the sun.

  Bessie looked to a spot along the bank where a woman, separated from the rest, struggled to wash her clothes alone. “Poor Mrs. Benton doesn’t want to associate with the likes of us. I’ve helped her some with the cooking, but she mostly turns up her nose and wants to be left alone.”

  “I feel sorry for her.” Lucy wondered how she could carry on without the friendship and camaraderie of the other women. Even now, in the midst of washing clothes, her companions’ jokes and chatter made the backbreaking task infinitely more bearable. Everyone helped one another. Even Agnes, ill-natured though she was, had just helped her spread a bulky wet blanket over some bushes without being asked, not expecting any thanks.

  The journey had only just begun, but already Lucy felt a strong bond with these women, even more than she ever felt with her dear Boston friends. Her present companions came from all different backgrounds—some rich, some poor, some educated, some illiterate. Wherever they came from, however imperfect their English, each woman had two things in common: each shared the same heartbreak at leaving her home and family behind. Each worried over the dangers that lay ahead, not so much for herself, but for her husband and children. What a shame Cordelia had chosen to isolate herself. She had no idea how funny Agnes could be with her vinegary outlook on life. Nor would she learn from Inez Helmick, the midwife, who was sharing her vast knowledge of the uses of herbs and other medicines.

  Poor Cordelia. Lucy decided she’d try again, just one more time.

  When all her wash was done, she made her way up the riverbank to where Cordelia scrubbed her clothes. She had even put Chadwick to work. Face clouded with twelve-year-old resentment, the chubby little boy was busy spreading Cordelia’s wash on the bushes to dry. With silent amusement, Lucy noted he wasn’t quite as chubby as when she first saw him. No doubt he wasn’t eating as much, what with Cordelia’s lack of cooking skills. Not only that, Clint had taken the boy under his wing and taught him to ride. Chad, mounted on one of his father’s horses, followed Clint around whenever possible.

  “Cordelia?” Lucy pressed the back of her hand into the small of her back. It ached after hours of bending over the wash tub. “I just came by to see how you’re doing.”

  Visibly annoyed, Cordelia looked up from her wash. Her expression softened when she saw who it was. “How’m I doing? How does it look like I’m doing?” With a wet, soapy forearm, she shoved a bedraggled curl back off her forehead. With disgust, she looked down at her soiled, wet skirt. “I cannot believe this is happening. Back in Georgia, I wouldn’t have allowed my scullery maids to look like this.”

  “Well, we’re not in Georgia now.” With an unladylike grunt, Lucy sank wearily to a log and stretched her boots in front of her. “You should join us. There’s no sense isolating yourself.”

  Cordelia’s mouth pulled into a bleak, tight-lipped smile. “Thank you, but I have nothing in common with those women.”

  “You can’t ignore them the whole trip.”

  Cordelia crossed her arms. “Yes, I can, and I will.”

  “They’re lovely women. Granted, some don’t have a good education, and some are not, as you say, refined, but never will you find women more generous, more kind and thoughtful, more—”

  “I have my standards.” Cordelia’s voice rang with finality.

  Hopeless. Lucy knew when she was defeated. “Well, I hope your standards get you through the next fifteen hundred miles.” With another unladylike grunt, she pushed herself off the log. “Meantim
e, if you need any help, let me know.”

  “Oh, I will. You know I want you for a friend.”

  Lucy found herself too tired to argue the foolishness of Cordelia’s last remark. Instead, she nodded a quick goodbye and started walking through a heavy growth of trees to the wagon. Not walking ... limping would be more accurate. Her back hurt. Her feet hurt. Her whole body ached, and all she wanted was to get back to her wagon and lie down, if only for a little while. Ahead she heard the clop of a horse’s hooves. Clint Palance rounded a grove of pine trees. Dear Lord, what if Jacob saw them together? Not only that, her appearance! Never had she looked and felt so bedraggled. Of all the people she did not want to see, it was him.

  Clint rode close and reined in his horse. “Good afternoon.”

  In a panic, she threw a glance over her shoulder. “Uh, good afternoon.”

  He looked down at her, apparently amused. “You’re safe. He’s across the river.”

  “So you know.”

  With one swift, graceful move, he swung off his horse and faced her. “Haven’t you found out yet, there are no secrets in a wagon train?”

  “Then I guess you know my husband said I shouldn’t speak to you.”

  “Your husband is no fool.”

  It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in. When they did, she felt her face go crimson. How could he be so blatantly honest about what to her was her deepest, darkest, most shameful secret? In the world she came from, certain subjects were never to be discussed. “Mister Palance—”

  “Don’t worry.” An easy smile played at the corners of his mouth. “If your husband doesn’t want us to speak, then we won’t speak. You should know, though, I find you ...” His smile disappeared. His gaze traveled over her face and searched her eyes, just like the day he helped with the firewood. Her heart jolted as the same intense message flashed from him to her and back again. She had to fight a near-overwhelming urge to lean into his arms and close the space between them.