Sahara swallowed so hard it hurt. Gazing at him, barely able to breathe, she felt herself nodding.
Chapter 28
Late into the night she wrote, rephrasing and scratching out until all she’d produced was a floor littered with crumpled sheets of paper and a miserable headache. Did she love Dan or didn’t she? She’d held him at gunpoint, she’d begged him to deflower her at Horatio’s wedding, she’d tried to hide evidence of his paternity, and she’d taken out on a cross-country journey half-cocked and then depended upon him to smooth over her errors in judgment.
Yet he’d married her. A lesser man would’ve washed his hands of her capricious ways early on, but Madigan was pleading with her even as she stormed out of that dining room in Denver: I love you…please listen to reason before you walk away fiom the life we can share together.
Surely by now Madigan figured she’d never learn to listen…and Andy Glascock had a right to know she’d made a clean break. A telegram would arrive faster, but every key operator between Portland and Atchison would know her business before Dan did, and he deserved better treatment even if he had committed the one unpardonable sin of selling Spade Express to her nemesis.
So, on her last piece of stationery, she wrote the final chapter of their short, tumultuous marriage: Set me straight, or set me free. I have to know which it’ll be.
Sahara sealed the envelope before she could change her mind about the letter again. On the way to the post office, it occurred to her that she’d unwittingly placed her fate in Madigan’s hands, and that she’d done it in rhyme. Maybe he’d get a chuckle out of that. And maybe he wouldn’t care.
At least she’d made the effort Andy—and her own conscience—demanded. And when she handed that sanctimonious old postal clerk her letter, it seemed fate was siding with the burly bull of the woods: besides an official-looking letter for Roxanne, from a Denver attorney, there were three letters addressed to her!
Sahara stared at her name written in a trio of feminine hands, her heart drumming a rapid staccato. Then she scurried down the street, to the privacy of her room at Mrs. Beck’s, before ripping the envelopes open. The first was from a Claire Baker, widowed by the Battle of Bull Run—not a young or comely woman, in her ambrotype, but her letter listed many wifely talents that would be a boon to any prospective husband. Prudence Hughes’s face was bound to have the loggers vying for her attentions from the moment she arrived from Tipton, Missouri, where eligible bachelors were few and far between, and where her family was laid to rest after a bout with cholera. And poor Sally Davenport’s scrawl depicted a Tennessee farm girl whose education had been forfeited so that she could raise two brothers, who then gave their young lives for the Confederate cause.
So much heartache these three had suffered. So much courage it would take for them to travel more than fifteen hundred miles, to a new life fraught with unknown perils. Sahara could hear their loneliness and yearning as she reread their pleas for consideration, could feel their trust in her tugging at her heartstrings. She penned replies quickly, and then went to the bank to have drafts written up for their overland fares, amazed at how caught up she was with three women who didn’t exist for her until an hour ago.
Claire, Prudence, and Sally were making a deeply rooted dream come true, and Sahara was so overwhelmed by the destiny of it that she had to duck into an alley to knuckle away a tear. Her heart was hammering with victory, and a wavery grin played upon her face. She was doing it! She was changing lives for the better in a grand way she’d never dreamed possible when she was a hired girl on Horatio’s ranch.
Then she shook her head at the dilemma she’d created for herself: if Dan Madigan still wanted her, he’d have to talk a mighty sweet deal to get her away from Oregon.
By God, Sahara, you damn well better appreciate what I’m going through for you!
Madigan surveyed the crowded, noisy parlor at the Twelve Mile House and shook his head in disgusted bewilderment. He’d thought himself so clever, circumventing his wife’s plans by telegraphing Andy Glascock to forward all her mail to him. For the past month he’d busted his butt, arranging stagecoaches and contacting the would-be brides, and notifying the army that he’d need special escorts across the Indian-riddled plains of Kansas.
Who would’ve dreamed more than sixty letters would arrive the first week? And who could believe the royal pain in the ass these supposedly desperate females could be while he was doing them this favor? Jennifer Spade’s ordering him off the ranch forever was a tea party compared to the frustrations he’d endured since he set out from Atchison with this convoy of women.
With all of them gathered in the parlor, waiting for the coaches to carry them beyond Denver, the din was deafening. Gloria what’s-her-name and red-haired Rosie were hissing like cats again, while a handful of tenderer souls clutched each other in the corner, bemoaning the discomfort of yet another thousand miles of gritty, gut-shuffling travel and unpalatable food. Some cast him mutinous glances, as though they blamed the hardships of the trail on him, and Dan caught himself wishing they’d either stay in Denver or go back home.
He couldn’t voice that opinion, however, because he’d collected deposits from sixty-five loggers, and already he’d lost a few girls to army swains, randy station keepers, and flirtatious, well-heeled men traveling the commercial stage run. Four others were pregnant—which they hadn’t bothered to mention in their letters—and he suspected a few were dance hall girls, disgruntled wives, and runaway daughters who’d spun tragic stories to take advantage of the free ride Sahara offered in that asinine advertisement. She must’ve been crag; to publish such a blank check without stipulating some commitments her brides would make in return!
And he was certainly insane to indulge her whim this way. The only thing that got him through these days of endless complaints and sleepless nights was his vision of Sahara’s face when the coaches pulled into the camp…the satisfaction he’d get from saying, “Here, dammit, are you satisfied now?”
The noise level rose when the coaches pulled up outside. His charges had learned that seating was first come, first served, and several of them displayed manners and language that put his drivers to shame when they were forced to ride on top of the stages. They bottlenecked in the inn’s doorway, shrieking as they struggled to claim one of the forty-five seats inside the five vehicles.
His coachmen had learned to stand aside during these loadings, and they were shaking their heads as they went to assist the bitching, sniping creatures doomed to ride on hard wooden benches in the hot sun until the next stop, where Dan would have to remind them repeatedly that everyone but the expectant mothers must take a turn on the top.
He watched the last of the ladies assume their open-air seats, all of them pouting, and recalled an adventurous girl with wind-whipped, honey-red hair who reveled in the ride atop a coach that was sailing along the dusty trail.
“Well, good luck, Madigan. I believe you’ll need it,” a voice interrupted his thoughts. It was John Melvin, proprietor of the Twelve Mile House, who’d shown remarkable patience and good humor during their stay. But then, he’d been paid well to lodge and feed these seventy people.
“Just hope I can get us through the mountains before it snows, and on up to Portland by the twenty-first,” he replied, appalled at the exhaustion in his voice. “Thanks for letting us stay an extra night. Salt Lake’s the only other place we’ll have time for such a luxury.”
Madigan gave the lead driver a go-ahead wave and then hurried past the stagecoaches full of cackling women to mount the horse his freight driver was holding for him. He’d procured this canvas-canopied celerity wagon to carry food, water, and medical supplies, never dreaming it would then be crammed with personal effects the ladies couldn’t bear to leave behind.
“Ready for this?” the leathery-faced mule skinner teased.
Letting out a snort, Dan swung into his saddle. “Makes you wonder why any man gets married, doesn’t it? Tired as they are, surely they’ll
stop kicking up so much fuss.”
Chapter 29
The steady whirring of Roxanne’s sewing machine soothed Sahara as they made cheerful curtains of gingham and calico for the two houses. Her blond friend was a wonder when it came to working fabric into the many household items they needed for the day when brides-to-be would be gossiping about these loggers, learning about life in the rugged Northwest. Or at least four women would, since Betsy Skinner’s letter arrived yesterday.
“Maybe I was a little nervous about this whole thing,” she admitted as she handed Roxanne another pinned curtain panel. “Still, if only a handful of women show up, we’ll cause more problems than we solve.”
“And who could’ve done more than you have, with any better intention?” Mrs. Pruitt challenged. “It may be better if only a few come at a time, anyway. The ladies can be choosier about who they wed.”
“If the men give them time to choose,” Sahara added. “I hear a few of them are already starting two-room cabins so they’ll be ready for a bride as soon as she steps off the stagecoach.”
She watched the dainty feet pressing the treadle, admiring the practiced quickness with which Roxanne plucked pins from the curtain’s hem just before the needle stitched it. A slow smile warmed her face. “Was that fabric you ordered at the mercantile for a wedding gown, by chance? Seems that whenever Charlie’s not bull whacking, Mitch is with him.”
Mrs. Pruitt blushed prettily. “Yes—but please don’t tell anyone!” she pleaded. “We’ve decided to wait until some other couples are ready to marry before we announce it, so the men won’t think Charlie took unfair advantage. And I’ve made him promise that we’ll stay to see the ladies arrive and that they’re properly courted before we start back to Kansas. I wouldn’t miss it for anything—and I can’t thank you enough for asking me to share this adventure!”
As Roxanne’s arms pulled her into a brief, blissful hug, Sahara prayed again that these bright, inviting rooms would soon come alive with feminine chatter…prayed that a blizzard of white envelopes would arrive before the snow clogged the mountain passes.
Madigan swore as the stinging moisture hitting his face blossomed into thick, feathery flakes. What had he done to deserve all this? Five more women had abandoned the group in Salt Lake City—and he suspected more would’ve, but they were too weak from mountain sickness to raise a fuss. The hardier girls found the scenery at these higher elevations exhilarating, but their enthusiasm waned when one passenger’s vomiting caused a chain reaction.
The only good advice he’d received was from a hoary old scout in Denver, who’d taken one look at the ladies atop his coaches and told him to procure another vehicle. “Sonny, them hothouse roses’ll be so dang scairt goin’ down them mountainsides, they’ll be wettin’ their drawers and maybe flyin’ off the roofs.”
He mentally thanked the rough-cut gentleman each time they’d raced safely to the base of another treacherous, break-neck curve, but leasing an additional coach cut deeply into his dwindling funds. Madigan had felt prepared when he left Atchison—had a strongbox of cash secreted in the celerity wagon, feeling sure he wouldn’t need more than a few nights’ lodging and the ladies’ meals.
But who could’ve predicted the broken axle outside of Brigham City, which cost them a day and a hefty fee from a leering Mormon blacksmith? And despite his warnings about the cold weather they might encounter, few ladies had brought winter wraps. How could he refuse their pleas for blankets and coats, when their pinched faces were blue with cold?
They were hours out of Boise City, where he hoped to get a much-needed night’s rest, but he wasn’t sure he could spare the time now. He’d promised Glascock he’d deliver his cargo by the twenty-first, and he didn’t relish greeting an angry mob of loggers who were counting on female companionship with the news that he was short a few ladies on top of being late. His charges were resigned to riding ten or eleven to a coach now—nine on the seats, with the extras wedged on the floor, between knees—and he could only hope they were too tired to protest if they didn’t spend another precious evening in a hotel.
A frightened squall brought him out of his musings, and when it was followed by another wail and a chorus of high-pitched cries, he urged his horse forward.
“Stop! We have to stop!” Gloria hollered. “Poor Polly’s having her baby!”
Madigan groaned and quelled his own rising panic by trying to anticipate the chaos fifty-two hysterical women and a newborn could cause out here in the middle of nowhere. “Pull over, Frank,” he called to the lead driver. “We’ll circle up in that next clearing.”
Miraculously, when word spread to the other coaches that a crisis was upon them, the ladies did themselves proud. Wood was gathered and water boiled, and two women who’d helped at birthings took charge of Polly, whose terrified screams struck fear into the stoutest of hearts—Dan’s included. The best they could do was stretch the poor girl out on the center bench of one coach, and tend her with the laudanum and meager medical supplies at hand.
One of the drivers sterilized his knife in the fire. A few girls offered blankets and linens from their luggage, while others busied themselves preparing a simple meal and making coffee. Throughout these tasks, Polly’s bloodcurdling screams echoed in the hills. Dusk fell, and the dishes got washed, and still she wailed, though she was weakening, Madigan noted fearfully.
Some of the women huddled about the fires while one read aloud from Great Expectations, of all things. A few tried to rest in the coaches or play rummy, but all thoughts were focused on a young woman’s agony—trying to block out her screams at first, and then wishing for them, praying the next one came with the gurgling cry of a baby.
Around nine-thirty, the silence became final. Numb with shock, Polly’s friends dressed her in a frock from her trunk and wrapped her stillborn son in a towel. The drivers dug a grave, and after a brief, tearful prayer, the women agreed that they might as well break camp and travel on. No one but Polly would rest tonight, they said.
Although the snow had stopped, Dan’s heart felt frozen as he signaled for Frank to lead them back onto the trail. Each one of these women was wondering if the same fate awaited her in Portland, once she became a lusty lumberjack’s wife. The availability of doctors and medicines did little to ease the natural anxiety over childbirth…
And as he slumped in his saddle, wishing for that blessed numbness of exhaustion to claim him, Dan wondered if Sahara would ever want to have his child. And for the hundredth time, he scolded himself for taking on this misadventure—it was his wife’s nature to rush unthinking into these situations, not his!
And deep, deep down, he worried that she’d found herself a brawny, good-looking logger…worried that he’d arrive a few days too late, with women enough to make Sahara’s dreams come true while he himself fell one woman short.
Chapter 30
On September seventh the cookstoves and furniture arrived in camp, so Sahara, Roxanne, and Mitchell moved into the two new houses to prepare them for their long-awaited guests. More than once during the next week she was thankful Mrs. Pruitt had come along, because she’d never set up housekeeping from scratch and the slender, humming woman’s domestic expertise, proved invaluable.
On the morning of the fifteenth, she walked slowly through the finished rooms, filled with awe and an excitement that simmered within her. The parlor stood ready with settees around the fireplace, and numerous upholstered chairs invited conversations; the dining room housed a long table with benches, and a sideboard made of walnut, which gleamed from polishing. The black cookstove was flanked by a pie safe and kitchen cupboards recently stocked with the staples they’d need, and across a small hallway her own quarters looked so neat and fresh she caught herself gazing at the simple furnishings as though they’d come from a European palace. Upstairs, the five bedrooms each contained four double beds, two highboys, a massive armoire, and a washstand. Braided rugs graced the plank floors, and their cheerful curtains rippled proudly in t
he breeze.
The air coming in the window felt damp and cool, reminding her that autumn was slipping swiftly away. The aromas of bacon and coffee drifted over from the camp’s dining hall, where the loggers were devouring a breakfast she was too nervous to eat. The men had been so cooperative—had wrestled the large furniture into the two structures for her, and then agreed to stay out of the way until the houses were completely arranged.
Such faith these men had in her! Some were so hopeful they spent their evenings fashioning headboards and cabinets and rocking chairs…the longing in their eyes belied their jesting as they built these practical pieces of furniture for themselves.
What would she do if only six women showed up? Letters from a Dorothy and a Francine had upped the number this week, yet the loggers seemed unconcerned about the sparse response to her advertisement. They often discussed the letters and photographs posted on the wall of the dining hall—and they gave Sahara a speculative once-over occasionally, too, but only when Andy wasn’t around. Their boss had apparently made it clear no one was to flirt with her, because all she got from these burly, oversized timber beasts was polite conversation and smiles. Even Bobby treated her more respectfully these days, probably because his job as flume tender kept him too tired to be ornery.
But as she stood in her new room, wanting to give her pent-up exhilaration its head, Sahara pressed her lips into a line. If only she knew more letters were on the way. If only she knew whether Madigan would respond within the next six days so that she could—
“Where’s that smile that puts the sunshine in my morning?”
She turned to see Andy filling the doorway to her room. He was smoothing his beard, studying her with expressive eyes that glowed with an affection she was afraid to return. “I—I was just wishing more women would write—”
Sahara Splendor Page 30