The Frasers Clay

by Ana Leigh

And he grudgingly had to admit that it was no longer reasonable to put Rebecca in the same category as Ellie. They were complete opposites in every way: One had hair the color of sunshine, the other the darkness of night. Rebecca worked that trim little butt of hers off from sunrise to sunset. He’d never seen Ellie do a whit of work, and she’d go thirsty waiting for someone to bring her a drink before she’d get up and get it herself. Expecting someone to wait on her would never enter Becky’s mind.

  In retrospect he was damn lucky. He had thought the sky had fallen when Will told him Ellie had married another man. Now he’d come to realize Ellie’s vanity. She was very aware of her physical beauty and used it on men to serve her interests. He doubted Becky was even aware of her beauty, and it puzzled him why some man had not convinced her into remarrying in the past four years. It must be that she didn’t want to remarry.

  His gaze rested again on Rebecca’s sleeping figure. Lately, his thoughts dwelled more and more on the mysteries behind this woman—and that scared the hell out of him.

  He closed his eyes and felt the welcoming lethargy of drowsiness. All things considered, he could put up with the arrangement between them, if they’d only share a bed. It was too bad she disliked him so much, because the truth of it was, he was beginning to enjoy having her around. He was ready to forgive and forget—but she wanted to hold on to that independence of hers. And she still wore Charley Elliott’s wedding ring.

  Well, before they reached California, that would change.

  That and her idea of an annulment.

  After a warning from the wagon master to make certain their water barrels were filled to capacity, the train pulled out promptly at seven the following morning. The landscape was gradually rising, with only an occasional buffalo in view.

  Late in the day they reached a steep hill, and after cresting it, the terrain stretched out in a high, flat tableland. Even though there was no river or water hole, Scott called a halt for the night to rest the stock, with an added warning to go sparingly on their water since they would not encounter any the next day, either.

  The following day the wagon train made the best progress thus far. After covering over twenty miles, they halted at a steep declivity where the tableland dropped suddenly into the North Platte Valley below. In the distance they glimpsed the leafy boughs of trees, something they hadn’t seen in the weeks they’d crossed the plains. Everyone’s spirits were renewed.

  That evening, while the men were at a meeting organizing the following day’s activity, Rebecca and Henrietta strolled over to the trail and gazed down the sharp slope into the valley.

  “I can’t see how it’s possible to drive a wagon down that hill,” Rebecca said.

  Etta nodded in agreement. “Daddy said he figures they’ll have to lower them some way.”

  “You got it all figured out, ladies?” Clay asked, joining them. Tom Davis was with him.

  The young couple exchanged meaningful glances, then Etta said, “I’ll see you later.” The two departed.

  Clay looked perplexed. “What got into her?”

  Men were so dense when it came to matters of the heart. “I have no idea. So what was decided at the meeting?”

  “We’re going to skid the wagons down the hill.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “By locking the wagon wheels to the box, and harnessing them to mule teams instead of oxen. The oxen are too slow and the wagons would probably overrun them.”

  “But wouldn’t the wagons overrun mules, too? I can’t believe the brakes will do any good at that sharp angle.”

  “We’re using human brakes.”

  At her confused look, Clay grinned and said, “Men and ropes. Scotty said he’d probably need eight or ten men to a wagon to skid them down. The women, children, and rest of the livestock go down by foot. Unless you want to ride the wagon down, Becky.” He grinned.

  “I bet you’d like to see me try.”

  “I wouldn’t let you try.”

  “Oh, I see. You’re playing husband again.”

  “I’m not playing, Becky. You’re the one who’s tried to turn marriage into a game.”

  Even though there was no anger in his tone, there was no denying he was dead serious.

  Her stomach suddenly felt tied in a knot and she forced a smile. “Well, at least you can look forward to the game coming to an end when we reach California. That should make you very happy. I never intended to be a problem for you.”

  “And what if Garth and I catch up with our sister before we reach California? We’d have no reason for continuing on with this wagon train.”

  “You have my word, Clay, that I would file for the annulment as soon as I reach California.”

  “Did it occur to you, Becky, that you wouldn’t get to California if Scotty made you leave with us?” He walked away.

  It certainly hadn’t occurred to her! It was devastating to think that after coming so far, she might very well have to turn around and go back if Clay left the wagon train. She could only hope that Melissa stayed far ahead of them.

  At dawn they prepared to lower one of Scott’s wagons. The wheels were chained to the box to keep them from turning, and then, with a driver handling the reins, four men on each side, and two more at the rear manning ropes tied to the wagon, they began the descent. The mules struggled to keep their footing, and the men strained at the ropes to keep them taut and the wagon from sliding forward too rapidly. By the time they were halfway down, the dust cloud formed by their heels dug into the earth obliterated them from the anxious eyes of those watching from above.

  The descent was as slow as the river crossings. There were five teams of men, and once a team got a wagon down, they had to climb back up the hill, passing a team on their way down with another wagon.

  Thus far all the wagons had made it down without a mishap. The Garson wagon was being lowered, and they were preparing Rebecca’s wagon for the descent. She felt a pang in her chest when all was ready and Clay climbed up on the box and took the reins. After assuring her beloved mules that they could do it, she stepped away.

  “Be careful, Clay,” she called out.

  “You, too. Take it easy going down that hill, and if that cow loses its footing, don’t try to hold on to it. Do you hear me?”

  “I’ll take care of Clementine; you make sure you get my mules down there safely. And be careful with Katharina and Lady MacBeth. You know if Kate gets jarred around too much, she can’t lay eggs.”

  “If those chickens weren’t so dumb, they’d have figured out their wings are for flying down.”

  “Just be careful with them. See you below.”

  As soon as they started to lower the wagon, Rebecca tugged on Clementine’s rope and began her own descent. The grade was steep, and she moved cautiously. Suddenly her foot slipped out from under her and she fell forward on her stomach, losing her grip on the cow’s rope.

  “Show off,” she grumbled when, undisturbed, Clementine continued down the hillside.

  Rebecca crawled to her knees and managed to sit up. Laughing gaily, several children passed her, skimming down on their butts. They appeared to be treating it all as a game, so why shouldn’t she? She finished the descent on her rear end.

  Clay was at the foot of the hill when she finally reached it. To her surprise, he looked concerned.

  “What’s wrong, did you hurt an ankle?”

  Rebecca stood up and brushed off her skirt. “No, I’m fine. It was me or my dignity, so I let my dignity take the fall. Did the wagon and mules make it down okay?”

  “No problem. I have to head back up. I parked the wagon over in that copse of trees. I saw Clementine and tied her to the rear. Drive about a mile down the trail, and you’ll come to Ash Hollow. Becky, you’re not going to believe the place. There are fresh pools of water everywhere! It’ll take two or three more hours to get all the wagons and oxen down, so Scotty said we’ll be laying over there for the night.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “By the w
ay, there’s some Indians in camp, but don’t be alarmed: They’re Sioux, not Shawnee. They rode in with Hawk and Garth. Hawk said the Indian scare is behind us. We’re in Sioux territory now, and they aren’t hostile at this time.” He grinned. “Of course, Hawk didn’t warn them you were coming.”

  “That’s very funny, Clay.” Darn him, he always managed to have the last word.

  For a long moment she watched him as he started up the hillside. He moved with a smooth stride and made climbing the steep hill look easy. She’d observed that he seemed to take everything in the same easy manner as that smooth, even stride of his. Well, maybe everything except getting tricked into marriage.

  After complimenting the mules for the fine job they did, Rebecca apologized to Katharina and Lady MacBeth for the jolting ride they’d just had. Then she climbed into the box and headed down the trail. Occasionally she’d come upon one or two people walking. She offered a ride to any who were interested, but they just waved and shook their heads.

  When Rebecca reached Ash Hollow, she couldn’t believe her eyes. Surely she must have died and gone to Heaven. The mammoth meadow was abundant with tall ash trees, and leafy bushes ripe with grapevines, gooseberries, and currants. Trickling streams merged into translucent pools throughout the meadow. Countless wildflowers carpeted the ground in colorful splendor, and the sweet fragrance of wild roses and jasmine permeated the air.

  She located the Garson wagon and parked nearby. There’d be no cramped circle of wagons that night; Scott had given the word they could spread out and enjoy the surroundings. Rebecca took the team to the distant grazing area that had been roped off for the livestock to eat and drink without dirtying the clear water in the pools.

  Returning to her wagon, Rebecca saw that Helena and Eleanor Garson were already in the process of making currant jelly. She grabbed a pan to gather some fruit, and joined several other women who had the same idea. As soon as she finished, she hurried back to her wagon.

  As she was rolling out a piecrust, five mounted Indians rode by on their way out of camp. This was her first glimpse of a mighty Sioux. Mr. Scott had praised the Sioux Nation at great length; he considered them the noblest warriors they’d encounter—and the deadliest, if they were on the warpath.

  One in particular held her attention. He looked magnificent astride a black stallion, and held his head with the bearing of a crowned sovereign. Wearing only a flapped breechcloth over his loins and fringed moccasins on his feet, the Indian’s muscled, bronzed chest and legs were free of body hair. A white feather dangled from the end of his coal black hair, which was woven into a single braid. But even more compelling were his black piercing eyes when he glanced at her as he rode past. His expression never altered as he continued on his way.

  Somewhat awed, Rebecca returned to the task at hand. She had two gooseberry pies baked by the time Clay and Garth showed up, and a kettle of currants bubbling on the fire.

  Later, needing a cup of milk, Rebecca glanced over to the wagon. Both men had dozed off, and she didn’t want to disturb them. Going up and down that hillside all day must have been exhausting.

  What the heck! She had seen a cow milked before; surely she could figure out how to do it herself. Grabbing the camp stool and milk bucket, she walked over to the cow, who was chewing on grass near the wagon.

  “Clementine, I need a favor from you. I want to make a cream sauce and I need a cup of milk. I’d appreciate, my dear, if you’d let me have one. I’ll tell you, now, I’ve never milked a cow before, so you’ll have to be patient with me.”

  The cow raised her head, looked at Rebecca with its big round eyes, and then went back to chewing grass.

  Rebecca sat down on the stool, put the bucket in place, and reached for the cow’s teats. They felt like skin—hard skin. Clementine turned her head, a quizzical look in her eyes. Rebecca squeezed, but nothing happened. She tried again with the same result.

  “You aren’t cooperating, dear,” Rebecca said. “Shall we try again?”

  This time Rebecca squeezed a little harder. The cow switched its tail. Rebecca tried to dodge it but the tail caught her on the cheek, and she fell backward off the stool.

  For a long moment she lay there, glaring at the animal. “That was not nice, Clementine. Not nice at all. I just want one little cup of milk.” Rubbing her stinging cheek, she sat back down on the stool. “I’m not leaving without it.”

  Once again she reached for the teats and squeezed. No milk, but she succeeded in dodging the tail this time when it swung in her direction.

  “Look, dear,” Rebecca said, through gritted teeth.

  “I’m trying to be very patient about this.”

  “You probably aren’t squeezing hard enough.”

  She jerked her head around. Clay was standing behind her. He knelt in back of her and enclosed her in the circle of his arms, cupping his hands over hers.

  She was enveloped by the heat of his body, the power in the arms embracing her, the sensual huskiness of his voice at her ear. It made concentrating on a cow’s udder most difficult.

  “Now squeeze,” he said, applying pressure to her hands.

  She ducked the tail, and Clay caught the blow in the face.

  “This is a mean cow,” he pointed out.

  He resumed his position. “The trick is to do it with rhythm. Squeeze, yank, squeeze, yank. Let’s hear you say it.”

  “Squeeze, yank. Squeeze, yank,” she muttered. She was sorry she had decided to cook the potatoes in cream sauce; beans would have been just as satisfactory. He never appeared to care one way or another what she cooked.

  “Now try milking rhythmically,” he said.

  His closeness made it so hard for her to concentrate, she just wanted to get the whole thing over with. She shot to her feet. “Show me.”

  “Sure.” Clay sat down on the stool. Matching the words of the song to his motions, he began to sing, “For I—wish I—was in—Dix-ie—Squeeze-yank—Squeezeyank—In Dixie—land I‘ll—take my—stand to—live or—die in—Dix-ie—A-way,—a-way—”

  He stopped singing and stared, dumbfounded, into the empty milk bucket. “That’s sure odd.”

  “Maybe you yanked when you should have squeezed,” she said. “But I think I understand. If you’ll move aside, Maestro.”

  Rebecca sat down on the stool. She took a firm hold and began to sing, “The U-nion—for—ever—Hurrah boys—hur-rah—Down with—the traitor—and up— with the star—We will—ral-ly—round the—flag, boys—ral-ly—round the flag.—Shout—ing—the battle—cry of—free—dom.” Every squeeze-yank produced a solid squirt of milk.

  Clay shoved his hat to the top of his forehead and stared at the quarter-filled bucket. “I’ll be damned! I don’t understand that.”

  Pleased as punch, Rebecca picked up the bucket and camp stool. “I do. Admit you were an udder failure.” She broke into giggles.

  Grinning, he said, “That is udderly the worst joke I’ve ever heard.”

  “It’s obvious to me, Captain Cavalry, what the real problem is. The VonDiemans were from Pennsylvania. Clementine’s a Yankee.” Rebecca walked away, swinging the bucket.

  Chuckling in amusement, Clay followed behind.

  13

  “Becky, this pie is delicious,” Clay said.

  Rebecca giggled. “Then I’d be udderly devastated if you didn’t eat this last piece.” She scooped the last slice of the berry pie onto his plate.

  Garth looked from one to the other. “ ‘Udderly devastated?’ Okay, what’s the joke?”

  “Just a private thing between me and my wife, Little Brother.”

  Clay went back to where he’d been sitting with his back against a tree. As he ate, he listened to Garth and Becky’s good-humored bantering. Garth seemed to get a lot of pleasure out of teasing her, and Becky’s spirits always perked up when he was around. This time his brother was accusing her of substituting flour for face powder. Clay, too, had noticed the flour smear on her nose; and he’d been tempted t
o wipe it off when he saw it. But it looked kind of cute, so he hadn’t said anything. Leave it to Garth, though; he loved flirting with women.

  Their conversation shifted to the dinner she had cooked, which once again had been exceptional. Give her a jar of tomatoes, an onion, and then a rabbit, a hunk of antelope, or a buffalo steak, and she could perform miracles. She also made the best cup of coffee he’d ever tasted. If the woman had any vanity, it was over her cooking. Clearly she embraced the task with passion—and she must have read the letters off the pages of that cookbook of hers, by now.

  Her cooking ability was an unanticipated bonus on the trip. It was clear Garth held the same opinion, because he complimented her plenty on it.

  Clay popped the last bite of pie into his mouth. He figured they had to be the best-fed men on the wagon train.

  Etta came running over, her bright eyes glowing with excitement. Grabbing Becky by the hand, she cried, “Come on, you people, we’re going to have a hoedown.”

  She didn’t have to ask Garth twice. When Clay hesitated, Etta cajoled, “Come on, Mr. Fraser. Don’t be a spoilsport.”

  Clay had been considering going to bed because he had guard duty later that night. But a spoilsport he wasn’t, so he followed reluctantly.

  The camp was in a jovial mood, the tragedies and hardships of the past six weeks put behind them. The makeshift band had already been formed by the time they joined the group. Clay was pleased to see there was no sign of Jake Fallon among the crowd. Since their confrontation, the shifty-eyed little weasel had avoided him, which was fine with Clay. He was glad the bastard wasn’t there to spoil everybody’s pleasure.

  Fiddles sawed, banjos strummed, feet stomped, and hands clapped as the dancers do-si-doed and swung their partners to the lively music. Becky’s smile was contagious as she weaved from partner to partner during the dance. Clay found himself partnered with her as the fiddler finished the call with “Now the dance is over and I insist, you fellas give them little gals a thank you kiss.”

  For the briefest moment Clay hesitated, then he dipped his head and pressed a light kiss on her lips. They felt soft and tasted like sweet wine, and he would have liked a much longer drink from them.