by Ana Leigh
As lowdown as it was, she’d taken a big chance in marrying a stranger. Another man might have beaten her—or even killed her—for pulling the trick she had on him. She had no idea how easily her scheme might have backfired on her. The West was too wild and uncertain for a woman on her own.
For that matter, it was no place for him, either. After four years he was finally able to go home—only to have to leave again to chase after Lissy. Unlike most of these people, he wasn’t looking for a new beginning; he wanted to go back to the life he’d known before. Was it too late to recapture that, or could it be the same again? One thing was certain: Once they caught up with Lissy and were satisfied she was happy and that the Yankee had made an honest woman of her, he was making a beeline back to Virginia.
Clay yawned and closed his eyes. After his marriage was annulled, of course. If he took that delectable little termagant back to Virginia, she’d probably succeed in restarting the war.
But for now, it looked as if he was stuck with her.
6
Too excited to sleep a moment longer, Rebecca rose at four o’clock and peeked out the hotel window. Fires from a dozen blacksmiths’ forges blazed brightly, and the clanging of their hammers had sounded day and night from the time she’d arrived in Independence. Due to the wagon train’s departure, the hotel and general stores had remained open throughout the night for any necessary last-minute sales. She packed up her belongings and went down to the dining room.
She had just finished eating when Clay and Garth came in. “Good morning,” she said pleasantly.
“Good morning, Becky,” Garth replied, but Clay ignored her greeting. “All ready for the big day?”
She smiled excitedly. “I’m about ready to burst at the seams.”
“I think we all are,” he said. “Well, I promised to meet Scotty at the corral. I’ll see you later.”
“Why didn’t you wake us when you got up?” Clay asked, as he sat down.
“I wasn’t aware waking you was my responsibility. I’m quite willing to cook your and Garth’s meals, but that’s where it begins and ends.”
“Your generosity is overwhelming, madam.”
She also needed to lay down one very important ground rule before the journey began.
“Although it’s necessary to keep up an appearance of being newlyweds, that does not extend to sharing a bed together.”
Clay simply looked amused.
Oh, the man was exasperating, but she had looked forward to this day too long to let him ruin it for her. She smiled sweetly at him. “Just so you understand, Clayton.”
He returned her false smile. “I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand, Rebecca. There are several obligations that go along with that marriage license you were so eager to… procure, one of which is conjugal rights. I intend to honor that obligation as well as my pledge to protect you.”
She stiffened. “I don’t require your protection any more than I need you in my bed.”
“You should have considered that before you took an oath to become my lawful wife.”
“Are you going back on your word, Clayton? We agreed to an annulment. If we become intimate that would be an impossibility, and you know it.”
“The annulment was all your idea, Rebecca. I never agreed to any such arrangement. Through no desire on my part, we are lawfully husband and wife, and I honor any vow I make. So I intend to try and become a good husband to you, Rebecca, and I expect you to take your vow just as seriously. If you see that as a problem, I’d advise you to think twice before we start this journey— because you will have to honor all a wife’s obligations.”
He stood up to leave. “I thought about this for a long time last night, Rebecca. I was damn angry over this trick you pulled, but after further thought, I came to the conclusion that this marriage might not be such a bad idea after all. A good-looking woman to cook my meals, wash my clothes, and warm my bed at night. Yep, it could make a long journey considerably more comfortable than I’d anticipated.”
“You southerners just can’t envision your lives without a slave, can you?” Rebecca was seething with anger, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his words disturbed her.
“You have about an hour to make up your mind, Mrs. Fraser.”
Oh, what a blackguard! How could Garth claim his brother was a fair and compassionate man? Clayton Fraser was a smug, arrogant despot!
Well, he didn’t intimidate her. His honor. His oaths. His obligations! The man’s inflated opinion of himself was enough to turn her stomach. Well, he may have struck the first blow in this war between them, but the day hadn’t dawned when any Rebel secessionist could outmaneuver a born-and-bred Yankee like her!
Rebecca had the team hitched to the wagon by the time Clay and Garth rode up.
“Drive carefully, Becky,” Garth called out. He waved and rode by.
Clay dismounted and tied his horse to the rear, then climbed up on the wagon box and took the reins. “You have any problem with the mules?”
“Are you referring to the four-legged ones, or you and your brother?”
He cast an exasperated look at her. “Lady, you are such a shrew.”
“You’re right. My apologies to Garth; he doesn’t deserve it.”
Clay flicked the reins and began to move cautiously through the area, crowded with wagons piled high with supplies and people who were as eager as she to start the journey. Many had a horse or cow tethered to the rear of the wagon, and huge, lumbering oxen hitched to the front.
A white square painted with the number designating their position in line was pinned to the canvas side of each wagon. They were number fifteen.
The crowd stood hushed as the Reverend Kirkland called upon the Lord’s blessing and guidance through the journey ahead, to guide them to a new land of hope and beginning, as He had Moses lead the Israelites to their Promised Land.
Then Hawk hopped into the saddle on a black gelding. “Stay safe, folks!” he shouted, and with a wave of his hat the scout galloped ahead.
A loud cheer rose from the throng as the first two wagons pulled out, carrying the supplies for the crew.
Many of the other drivers were inexperienced city dwellers who had never handled yoked oxen or a mule team, so there was a great deal of confusion and chaos when a team would balk or a wagon would bump into a tree or some other obstacle.
Clay sat shaking his head as he watched the confusion. “Are you sure you’ll be able to handle this team?”
“Of course.”
“Have you ever driven a mule team before?”
She’d be darned if she’d let him intimidate her into lying. “No, but I’ve driven a horse team enough times in my day.”
“They’re nothing alike.”
“I”ve always had a way with animals,” Rebecca said airily.
She trembled with excitement as Number Fourteen was finally called. It actually had a horse-drawn carriage attached to the rear. Two women and a young girl and boy waved from it as they joined the line.
Rebecca waved back, and then Jim Peterson called out Number Fifteen. Her heart seemed to jump to her throat.
Clay leaned over to her. “This is it, Rebecca.” To her shock, he placed a light kiss on her lips, then he smoothly maneuvered the wagon into the moving queue.
Her lips tingling, she turned her head and looked back for a final look. Behind lay the only kind of life she’d ever known. She turned ground and looked ahead. Ahead lay the future.
Rebecca stole a glance at the stranger sitting beside her. His light kiss had caught her by surprise. But in a way, it was kind of sweet. What part would he play in this future she looked toward?
By the time the ninety-eighth and final wagon had joined the line, the front of the train was over a mile ahead.
Garth rode up to them. “Clay, Scotty wants you to ride about a quarter of a mile off the right flank. See you later,” he called as he rode away.
“It’s all yours
now,” Clay said, handing the reins over to her. “Don’t keep too loose a rein on them, or they might tend to stop on you. Same’s true if you pull them tight.” He jumped down from the slow-moving wagon, unhitched his horse, and rode off toward the north.
Rebecca had to admit that handling six mules was considerably different from driving a two-horse team. Even though the pace was much slower, there were more reins to hold and control. And Clay’s gift of the gloves were a godsend; otherwise her hands would have been bruised and blistered from the reins. By the time they halted at noon for lunch, Rebecca was confident she had the situation well in hand.
There was no sign of Clay or Garth, so when Rebecca finished eating a sandwich and orange for lunch, she walked over and introduced herself to the family in the wagon ahead of her.
Howard and Helena Garson were a middle-aged couple from a small community in Ohio, heading to California to try their luck out West. Howard had served in the Union army during the war. A shy and soft-spoken man, he appeared to be carrying the weight of the world on his stooped shoulders, curved from long hours of planting and harvesting crops.
His wife was just the opposite. Stocky in stature, Helena was cheerfully outgoing, with a booming voice and laugh that seemed to resonate from the depth of her ample bosom.
The Garsons had three children: a sixteen-year-old daughter, Henrietta, fourteen-year-old Alden, and nine-year-old George. Howard’s mother, Eleanor, was also accompanying them.
A much older couple, Otto and Blanche VonDieman, occupied the wagon behind Rebecca’s. They had a cow attached to the rear of their wagon and some chickens in a coop. They were Dutch and, despite speaking halting English, were very friendly. They offered her milk and eggs whenever she needed them.
Blanche VonDieman suffered with a rasping cough, and they had sold their Pennsylvania farm to move to a drier, warmer climate in Southern California.
Thank goodness she wasn’t surrounded by Rebels, Rebecca thought with satisfaction when the wagon train moved on after lunch.
By late afternoon she had begun to feel the effects from the pull of the reins in her arms and shoulders. She was glad when the wagon master called a halt at six o’clock. Since there was no threat of hostile Indians in the area, the train remained stretched out. The livestock was put out to graze and names were drawn to guard the herd. On the whole, though, the animals appeared as tired as the travelers and content to just graze and sleep.
Following the example of the others, Rebecca let her mules loose and gave them explicit instructions not to wander away from the rest of the herd. They looked at her calmly and then began to chew on the grass. She couldn’t understand why mules had such a bad reputation. The darlings hadn’t given her one bit of trouble all day.
Shortly after halting, the outriders rode in, and Clay and Garth joined her. Rebecca was glad when Clay took the hatchet and went out to get her some firewood.
Wood was already short in the area. Wagon trains had been passing through on their way West for over forty years, and the steady traffic following the Gold Rush in ’49 had increased drastically in the closing days of the war. Now the wagon trains leaving Independence waited only long enough between departures to allow the grass to grow enough for the oxen and mules to graze on.
Since she was new to outdoor living, Rebecca didn’t prepare anything difficult for the evening meal. Once Garth had the fire built, she made a pot of coffee, baked biscuits, and then fried bacon. When the bacon was done, she fried sliced potatoes with chopped onions in the bacon grease, and offered a fresh apple for dessert.
Pleased with herself, Rebecca thought the meal was very tasty. Clay must have thought so, too, since he didn’t make any derogatory remarks. She was almost hoping he would, so that she could tell him to go eat with the rest of the crew.
After the meal was over, she set some dough to rise overnight so she could attempt to bake bread in the morning.
By eight o’clock the camp had settled in for the evening, and some had even started to prepare for bed. Garth had joined some folks down the line who were listening to a banjo player, fiddler, and several men with mouth organs play some familiar tunes. Clay had stretched out near the campfire with his eyes closed.
Rebecca lit a lantern and sat down in the rocking chair inside the wagon to read a cookbook that offered easy recipes for campfire cooking. If the bread turned out successfully tomorrow, she’d try a peach cobbler the day after. Having worked in a bakery, she looked forward to the challenge of baking in the small, threesided reflector oven.
Unfortunately, the other challenge she had undertaken was not as satisfying. Her shoulders and arms were aching painfully, so she put the book aside and rubbed some unguent on her arms. Then she leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. Oh, how she wished she could massage her shoulders! She was tempted to take the liniment over to the Garsons and ask one of the women to rub some across her back and shoulders, but they were sure to wonder why she didn’t ask her husband to do it.
Rebecca opened her eyes and discovered Clay was standing at the rear of the wagon, his probing gaze on her. “Looks like you’re favoring your shoulders. Are they sore?”
What did he think? He knew she’d never driven a mule team before. And she doubted he really cared how much they ached, anyway. This was just another way of goading her.
“Just tired,” she said. “I’m going to bed.” She stood up and blew out the lantern. As he stepped away, she closed the flaps and stripped down to her petticoat and drawers. Unfortunately, the fur pelt did little to make the wooden box any softer or the pain in her shoulders any less.
In a short time she heard Garth return. For a while, the two men talked together in low tones, then they got their sleeping rolls out of the storage box and settled down by the fire. She sighed in relief that Clay didn’t go through with his threat to sleep with her. Of course, this was just the first night, and there were many more ahead of them.
The wagon was stuffy and smelled of the fruit and vegetables stored there. She got up and raised the front and rear flaps of the wagon, in the hope of catching a breeze. She envied the men sleeping outside. The ground would be softer than the box she was on, and it would be so pleasant to count the twinkling stars overhead, instead of imaginary sheep to try to get to sleep.
But other than her aches and pains, the day had gone well. Maybe the trip wouldn’t be as hard as she’d been led to believe. And maybe—just maybe—Clay wasn’t as much of an ogre she believed him to be.
Clay folded his hands under his head and thought about the woman in the wagon. He was responsible for her protection and welfare, which meant he now had two women to worry about. If they were lucky, maybe they’d overtake the wagon train Melissa was on. He should have anticipated that she’d take off with this Berg fellow after she told him about her condition. Sure, his mind had been cluttered with Ellie’s perfidy, and he hadn’t been thinking straight—but a little common sense then would have prevented this trip.
He also blamed himself for taking that first drink from the Yankee conniver in the wagon. She really was some thing else. He’d probably applaud her resourcefulness— if only she hadn’t made him her target.
Women! They were nothing but trouble. Why couldn’t they be honest and straightforward, like men? Ellie’s betrayal of him, Lissy running off with a Yankee, Rebecca Elliott manipulating him into marriage… a sisterhood of Jezebels that had begun with that damn apple in Eden. That should have been a warning to all men. Instead, we keep reaching out for the fruit.
Well, not anymore. He had learned his lesson the hard way. And, like it or not, he was stuck with the Jezebel in the wagon.
“But I’m sure as hell not going to make the mistake of trusting her,” he said, with a punch to his pillow.
“You still got Ellie on your mind?” Garth asked drowsily.
“No. Go to sleep.” Clay rolled over and closed his eyes.
Much of the camp was still asleep as Rebecca struggled to get the fi
re started the next morning. The wood just wouldn’t take to the match. The small loaf she had prepared had risen beautifully during the night, and she was determined to bake it this morning, but she couldn’t spend the next hour just getting the darn fire going. After wasting two more matches in the effort, she was on the verge of giving up.
“What are you doing?” Clay asked groggily.
“What does it look like?” she said, exasperated by her failed effort. She turned and looked at him. He was sitting up in his bedroll, scratching at his head. “I’m building a fire.”
“Trying to build a fire,” he corrected. He pulled on his boots, then stood up and tucked his shirt into his trousers, and came over and knelt beside her. “Give me those matches before you use them all up. What time is it, anyway?”
“Four o’clock.”
“Four o’clock! What in hell are you doing up this early? We’re not pulling out until seven.”
“I’m going to bake bread.”
He shook his head. “Rebecca, what are you doing on a wagon train? You’ve never handled a mule team, you don’t know how to use a rifle, you can’t even build a campfire. You should have baked the bread last night when you had a fire, instead of trying to do it at four o’clock the next morning. A few more hours wouldn’t turn the bread stale, you know.”
Drat, he was right! She could have set the dough yesterday morning and baked the bread last night. But he was the last one she’d ever admit that to.
Within minutes he had a fire going and had lain down again. Rebecca got her bread baking, and then put a pot of coffee on to brew. She still had plenty of time to cook breakfast.
When she saw the VonDiemans were up and about, she went over to their wagon and got a small pitcher of milk from them, then returned to cook oatmeal and fry bacon.