CHAPTER FOUR: WIN
Nebraska Territory, the next morning
At daybreak, the dark-haired girl in Win’s dream lingered momentarily, smiled at him, and then scurried away with the rest of the night’s images. Win emerged from his makeshift shelter under Cookie’s wagon and slipped the whiskey bottle back into its hiding place.
The storm had passed and it looked to be a clear, cool day, the kind of day made for the unencumbered. No worries about the future, no plans to figure out yet—just a day to be savored.
Jeb appeared, combing his hair with his fingers. Cookie made extra pancakes for the men and put bacon in the beans, as there had been no dinner the night before. Dutch came by and assigned Win and Jeb the job of scouting the river for a place to cross. Toby had seen a train cross just before the storm, and Dutch wanted to know if the spot they chose was still passable. They shoveled the last forkfuls of food into their mouths, drained their coffee cups, and saddled up.
Raindrops clung to the patches of tall grass and glistened in the sun. Win watched with amusement as Jeb closed his eyes and breathed in the fresh scent of prairie sage after a storm. Jeb looked up at the blue sky, squinting. “This is a fine day, Win. I’m glad we didn’t take a stagecoach. It would’ve been a shame to miss all this.”
They rode to the crest of a hill to get a good view of the river. It had indeed flooded its banks, widening into a shallow lake. Crossing would be difficult and muddy, ruining Jeb’s fine day.
Win turned north. “Let’s go upriver a bit, see if we can find a place to cross. Otherwise, the boss will want to hold up ’til this dries out. There’s nothing worse than digging out a wagon stuck in the mud.”
Galen and Hippocrates trotted along the ridge. In the distance, Win noticed a figure. As they got closer, he saw a girl on her knees, digging. Her horse tossed its head and whinnied; the girl dropped the piece of wood that was her makeshift shovel and pulled a rifle from its sheath. The men immediately slowed down. Win raised his hand to show they meant no harm.
Soaked through and caked with mud, the girl’s clothes hung heavily on her. She swayed slightly, as though she might topple over from the weight. Her long, thick braid seemed to pull her head toward the ground. She had wild primitiveness about her.
“Do you speak English?” Win asked.
The ferocity faded, replaced by a tired, puzzled expression. “Of course.”
“We’re from a wagon train a couple of miles back . . . just checking the river. My name is Win Avery. This here is Jeb Dawson,” he said. Jeb touched the rim of his hat politely, a gesture Win found amusing given the circumstances. Win leaned forward in his saddle. “What in the world are you doing out here?”
“These folks drowned in the river last night. I couldn’t just leave them.” She nodded toward two corpses lying next to each other, positioned tenderly to look as though they were sleeping.
Win was taken aback; she was digging a grave. “Are they your kin?”
“No.” She stared at the bodies, her brow furrowed.
Jeb dismounted. “You’ve had quite a time. Let me dig for a while.” He picked up the broken piece of wood and began to scrape the ground.
The girl stared at Jeb, and then turned to the bodies. “I couldn’t get to them. The river was too fast. If they hadn’t gotten snagged in a log jam, I never would have caught up to them.” She told Win and Jeb that she’d found the couple at first light, drowned, bobbing face-down in a tangle of branches at the curve in the river. She’d met Jim and Beth the day before, just as the storm hit, but the river pulled them under when they tried to cross. She tried to pull them out of the water, she said, but they were too heavy, so she wrapped the torn canvas bonnet from the wreckage around them and had Biscuit drag them to higher ground. She said she hoped it wasn’t disrespectful. Win thought it was resourceful.
“What’s your name?” Win asked.
She stared at him for so long he wondered whether she was so traumatized she couldn’t remember, or if she was fabricating a lie. In either case, her hesitation gave him an opportunity to get a good look at her. Underneath all the mud, she was pretty. She had rather large blue eyes and freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks—or maybe it was just dirt, Win couldn’t tell. She had a black eye that he wondered about. Her cheeks were pink from digging in the chilly morning air. There was something familiar about her, too. And her horse, which bothered him nearly as much. He seldom forgot a horse that had taken his eye.
“Meg Jameson,” she said finally.
As though her name reminded her to do something, Meg stumbled over to a tangled mess of river debris and picked up another plank of wood. Without a word, she sat down hard, pulled the knife from her boot, and began carving letters into it. The girl intrigued Win, despite the grim circumstances. He glanced at Jeb with a raised eyebrow, expecting Jeb to shake his head at him, an affable warning to steer clear of guaranteed trouble. But Win caught Jeb stealing a glance at the girl, too.
“You still haven’t said what you are doing out here. Where are you from?” Win asked.
Meg sighed heavily, as though tired of his questions, and didn’t answer. Win exchanged places with Jeb. Between the two of them, they dug the grave in a fraction of the time it would have taken the girl. Once they buried the couple, Meg took the plank on which she had carved “Jim + Beth 1865” and stuck it in the ground.
“I wish I knew their family name,” she said.
“You’d just met them.” Jeb had a way of stating the obvious that never sounded ridiculous, just comforting.
Meg nodded. “All I know is they had just gotten married and her parents didn’t approve.” She shrugged, perhaps feeling absolved.
Win and Jeb removed their hats. No one said anything. Win glanced at Jeb, wondering if he was recalling standing over his parents’ graves not so long ago. He also studied the mystery girl, but she revealed nothing else about who she was or where she’d come from.
After a moment of silence, Win returned his hat to his head and cleared his throat. “Well, come on, we’ll take you back with us. Cookie’ll give you something to eat.” When the girl hesitated, Win spread his arms out, palms up—a gesture indicating she didn’t have much of a choice. “Miss Jameson, what else are you going to do? You’re a mess, and you can barely stand up.”
“You don’t have to be afraid of us,” Jeb said.
He did it again, Win thought, obvious and comforting . . . damn him.
Meg pulled herself onto her horse and followed them. If hunger and exhaustion competed against wariness of strange men, the former won.
Dutch scowled when he saw the girl. Win rode ahead to explain, but Dutch was ready with his own questions and held up his hands to stop her before she got too close.
“Hold up, there,” he called to the girl. “What train are you from? They leave you ’cause you’re sick?”
“I’m not from a train. I’m . . . traveling alone,” she called back. “I’m not sick.”
“Jeb and I found her burying a couple who drowned in the river, sir.” Win dismounted next to Dutch. “They didn’t seem to be with a train, either, from what we could tell. Her name is Meg Jameson.”
“How’s the river?” Dutch directed the question to Win, but studied Meg carefully.
“You mean the lake? Crossable upstream about two miles.”
Dutch nodded. “I figured. We’ll take the wagons upriver . . . camp today, rest and dry out.” Then he muttered, “This should be interesting.” He walked over to Meg as she dismounted. “That’s a fine bay you’re riding, miss. Is she yours?”
“Yes, sir, Biscuit’s mine.”
Despite her exhausted state, she raised her chin proudly, causing Win to smile.
The trail captain smiled slightly, too. “What are you doing out here alone? How’d you get that shiner?”
Meg’s hand flew up to her cheek. She lowered her eyes. “Does it matter?”
Dutch folded his arms across his chest. “It matters if
you’ve got trouble on your tail and it’s coming our way.”
She paled. Curious as he was to hear her answer, Win felt sympathy for Meg. Her eyes darted to the eastern horizon. Clearly, she was in some kind of trouble. The question was whether it was of her own making.
Meg had no chance to answer. Grace Moberg pushed through the group of men, practically shedding feathers as she put her arms around the startled girl. “Gracious, child! You poor thing!” she clucked. “Surely your questions can wait, Mr. Ferguson.” Apparently, news that Win and Jeb found a girl on the prairie had already spread among the settlers. She asked Meg when she last ate and offered her breakfast. She was about to whisk her away, but Dutch stopped them.
“Just answer this. Where’re you from?”
“Council Bluffs, sir.”
He squinted. “You ain’t Mormon, are you?”
“No, sir.”
Grace raised her eyebrows and gave him a look that stopped further inquiries. As they left the circle of men, Meg glanced back at Win and Jeb.
“She didn’t say what she was doing out here,” Dale said after she was gone. He seemed perturbed by her presence, but Dale seemed perturbed about everything.
“Take it easy, Dale. Let’s give her a chance to eat and get cleaned up,” Dutch said.
Dale wandered off. Before Win left, he heard Dutch mutter to Cookie, “Two young bucks and a single pretty doe; if that ain’t a smoldering cinder next to a powder keg, I don’t know what is.”
CHAPTER FIVE: JEB
Nebraska Territory, same day
Jeb scraped the mud from the hooves of Meg’s horse, killing time while he waited, along with the other men, for his turn at the river. The river’s edge was the women’s private territory for the time being. They gathered at the bank to wash clothes and bathe. The men occupied themselves by repairing torn canvas and greasing wagon axles, keeping their eyes respectfully averted.
He admired the lines of Biscuit as he checked her for injuries, the only thing he could think of to do for Miss Jameson. She was tougher than she looked—like a durable willow, seemingly delicate, but, in truth, could not be blown down. Beneath the mud and exhaustion lay power that unnerved him. He was the one who felt rescued.
Jeb grabbed a handful of oats and cupped it under Biscuit’s nose. “This would be a bribe, pretty girl, if I thought you’d tell me about your owner.”
Biscuit wolfed down the oats and then nuzzled Jeb affectionately, perhaps to thank him—or perhaps to weasel more oats from him. Either way, the mare shared no secrets about Meg Jameson.
The Mobergs’ girl, Lizzie, had taken a shine to Jeb ever since he plucked her from the river and gravitated toward him when the train made camp. Even though she chattered excessively at times, he didn’t mind her company. Win often slipped away when he saw her coming, but Jeb thought she was funny and she had an infectious smile. Now that Grace had Meg under her wing, Jeb was particularly interested in any news Lizzie had to share, and didn’t mind at all when she spotted him and ran over.
“She’s real pretty, Mr. Dawson,” Lizzie said of Meg as she climbed on the wheel of the supply wagon and balanced precariously on one of the spokes. Jeb nearly reached out to grab her, thinking she would fall, but she jumped down safely and turned to climb up the wheel again. “Her hair is red and gold and sparkles like sunlight on water,” she said in a wistful way that made Jeb smile. “Ma made sure Meg had something to eat, and then took her down to the water. Ma said she wished she could wash away her troubles along with the mud. Once we got her all cleaned up and in one of Ma’s dresses, Ma sent me away, and you know what that means . . . grown-up talk.” Lizzie jumped down from the wheel again. “Can I give Biscuit some oats?”
Jeb passed the bucket to her as he imagined Meg bathing at the river.
Lizzie cupped oats in her hand for Biscuit. “I bet she got in a fight, just like Johnny Novak and Molly Stapleton did back home. I bet that’s how she got that black eye.”
“I guess she’ll tell us if she wants to.” Jeb unsaddled Meg’s horse and laid the wet blanket in the sun.
“Molly socked Johnny right in the ol’ kisser,” Lizzie said with a dramatic flair. “At least, that’s what Betty Ann said. I didn’t see it, but the next day at school, Johnny’s lip looked like this.” She curled down her bottom lip and puffed it out to make her lips look twice their normal size.
“Elizabeth Ann Moberg.” Lizzie’s mother came up behind her, hands on her hips. “You know it’s not polite to gossip.”
“Aw, I ain’t gossiping about Meg, just Johnny and Molly.” Lizzie mirrored her mother, putting her hands on her hips.
Grace ignored the excuse. “The Spencer boys are out collecting buffalo chips. Go help and stay close to them. No wandering off.” She handed her daughter a basket.
“Yes’m.” Lizzie ran off to find the boys.
Grace turned to Jeb. “Did Miss Jameson tell you what she was doing out here?”
“Nah. Hardly said a word, but my hunch is she’s running from something.”
“I got that feeling, too, so I asked her if she had man trouble. It’s usually men who cause most of the trouble women face. No offense.”
“None taken, ma’am,” Jeb said, although inwardly he winced at the thought of a man causing Meg’s trouble. He wondered if a husband gave her that black eye. It would be a damn shame if she were married. “Does she, um . . . have man trouble?”
Before Grace could answer, Win arrived at the makeshift corral and announced that Dutch had assigned the task of providing the crew’s dinner meat to Win and Jeb. Jeb sighed heavily. The trail captain kept the two of them so busy, Jeb wondered how anything would’ve gotten done if they hadn’t joined his train.
Win turned to Grace. “How’s Miss Muddy?”
“Well, that’s what I came to tell you.” Grace addressed them both. “Meg will join our family until we get to someplace civilized. Glenn’s already told Mr. Ferguson we’ll take full responsibility for her.”
“What’s her story?” Win asked.
“She’s had quite a time, let me tell you.” Grace leaned toward them as if sharing something confidential. “Poor thing. She’s scared to death of a man called Sutter. He rides a piebald with three white legs and a black one, so be on the lookout. He works for her uncle, and, my gracious, the stories Meg told me about both of them! Her uncle threatened to kill her horse if she didn’t . . . Well, all you two need to know is she’s a good girl and needs our help. She’s done nothing wrong, and you should be proper gentlemen around her, not that I have to remind the two of you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jeb said.
Mrs. Moberg tilted her head and smiled at Jeb. “If more men were like you boys and Glenn, I wouldn’t have to say the disparaging things about them I did earlier.”
“What did she say earlier?” Win asked Jeb.
“That men cause most of the trouble women face in this world,” Jeb said.
“Is she married?” Win turned abruptly back to Grace.
“No, no husband.” Grace smiled and patted Win’s arm with motherly affection. “Now, you’d better go before the boss finds yet another job for you. I’ve seen how he relies on you two. Cookie gave Meg his tent, bless his heart, so she can have some privacy. I’d better check on her.” With a friendly wave, Grace left.
Win and Jeb took their time saddling their horses. Jeb figured Win felt the same as he did—that if they finished one chore too soon, they’d just be given another. “Lizzie saw Meg all cleaned up,” Jeb said as he checked his rifle. “Apparently, without that layer of mud, she’s kinda pretty. And her hair . . . it’s the color of that prairie sunset you talk about.”
“Yeah?” Win was cinching his saddle and jerked his head up in surprise. “No kidding? Maybe she’s the girl from my pony-riding days. She seems familiar. She said she was from Council Bluffs. That’s just across the river from where that girl raced me years ago . . .” Jeb hoped it wasn’t true. If it was, then Win would have seen he
r first, and by the unwritten rules between friends, she’d be his. “What I don’t get is her goddamn uncle,” Jeb said, hoping to hide the jealousy that crept over him unexpectedly. “What kind of man threatens to kill a girl’s horse?”
Meg appeared at the corral. She wore a dress Grace had given her and had pulled her clean hair back into a single, thick braid. Jeb glanced at Win, disappointed to see that she captured his attention, too. Win and Jeb had competed against each other all of their lives, but only in shooting or riding contests—never for the same girl. This new territory had not yet tested their friendship.
Jeb removed his hat. “I took the liberty of seeing to your horse, miss. I unsaddled her and checked her for injuries. Got most of the mud off of her.”
“Mrs. Moberg told me. Thank you, Mr. Dawson. I appreciate it.”
“It’s Jeb, miss,” he said. “My pleasure.”
“I came to collect Biscuit’s tack. I should get it oiled before it stiffens.”
Win jumped up and landed on the supply wagon like a frog to a rock. “There should be oil in here somewhere. Let me get you some.” He disappeared under the bonnet.
“I understand you gave Biscuit some oats,” Meg said to Jeb. “What do I owe you?”
Jeb slid his rifle in its sheath. “Oh, nothing . . . my treat. She’s been through a lot.”
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