Once on the porch, she glanced around, hoping against hope to see Zachary and his peculiar gait come to her. She didn’t give up until she and Joanna were seated in their buggy and Union officers had checked their papers.
“I’m sorry you have to make such a trip,” the sergeant said, touching a finger to his hat. Not until he left did Louisa dare to relax. As the buggy started, her air released, and she leaned against the buggy window.
Within minutes, they both had their knitting in hand and, be tween watching the scenery and sharing memories of happier days, the miles sped by.
Once they had crossed the river, a Southern officer gave Mrs. Hinklen stern looks until he read her pass and then saluted. “I’m right sorry, ma’am. You’ll find the officers’ bodies, those we have any way, in a warehouse in Fredricksburg. He might already have been buried.”
“I sent a telegram.”
“I understand, but . . .”
“Whom do I need to see?”
“Captain Jefferson, ma’am.” The look he sent Louisa made her increase her prayers. Surely this poor woman would be allowed to take her husband’s body home for a decent burial. The wagon ride to Fredericksburg showed a land ravaged by war.
They said their good-byes at the warehouse as dusk rolled in. While Mrs. Hinklen still wore traces of the peculiar shade of green she’d turned when identifying the bloated body of her dead husband, she gave Louisa a hug and promised to write.
“One day, my dear, when this war is over, as it eventually must be, please know that there is a place for you in a lovely little town in the Adirondacks. People come from all over the world for the waters, and I will be greeting them on the steps of our small resort.”
“Thank you. I know Aunt Sylvania will be sad you couldn’t come farther. As I am.”
“We helped each other, and that is the way life is to be lived, war or no war.”
Louisa waved good-bye as a buggy carried her to the southbound train. Had she and Gilbert had a chance to marry, would she be a widow now too?
The closer to home she got, the more she wondered if there had been a message from him.
What am I going to tell Aunt Sylvania about Zachary?
INDEPENDENCE, MISSOURI
APRIL 1863
“You lookin’ for me?”
Jesselynn got to her feet. “If you’re wagon master Gray Wolf Torstead, I am.” Finding his eyes took some looking up. Straight gaze, straight mouth, straight dark hair caught back in a thong, cheekbones carved of mahogany, rich like the sideboard at Twin Oaks. His buckskin shirt, fringe missing in places but soft and fitting like glove leather, made broad shoulders look more so.
“I am.”
Jesselynn swallowed. “My name is Jesse Highwood and my—“ She caught herself. If she lied about her father now, she’d be found out much too soon and branded a liar. This man deserved a straight answer. But what if he says no if I tell him the truth? If? She caught herself again. When? Perhaps telling as much truth as she dared would be sufficient. “My family is lookin’ to join a wagon train to Oregon. I heard you were still takin’ on wagons.”
“How many?”
“Many?” Wagons or people?
“Wagons, and do you have all your supplies yet?”
“I’ve ordered two wagons. They should be ready any day.”
“Who from?”
“Jenkins Wagons. Folks said they were built to last.”
A slight tip of the head may have meant he agreed, maybe not. “Where’s your folks?”
The gold bullion question. “My aunt is back at our camp, along with our freedmen and women. We all want to start new in Oregon.” His eyes, they looked right through her.
“You’re from the South.” Not a question.
She nodded. “Kentucky.”
“Confederate?”
She shrugged. Her political leanings were none of his business.
“How old are you, young Jesse?”
“What difference does it make? I can do the work of any man.”
His gaze locked with hers. He waited.
She kept from scuffing her boot in the dust only with a supreme effort. Chess nudged her in the back. “Nineteen, no twenty.” She caught herself. Tomorrow was her birthday.
His eyebrows joined. “Which?”
“Does it matter?” Why not just tell him? Cat-and-mouse games had never been her forte.
“No. Either way, you’re too young. We need men, strong men.”
“I have three black men with me. Meshach is bigger’n you and stronger than two men. Benjamin is an expert horse wrangler, as am I, and Daniel can find fish and rabbits where none exist. We can all shoot straight and keep our mouths shut.”
“But can you all follow orders?” His question came soft and pointed.
“When need be.” She held his gaze only with an effort, finally blinking and looking to his chest. Her heart fluttered like a bird trapped by a window and throwing itself against the pane, seeing freedom on the other side and not understanding the glass between.
“What are you runnin’ from?”
She caught her breath. Raising her chin, she stared back at his obsidian eyes. “The war. What are you runnin’ from?”
A tiny flare flickered in the depths of black, then it was doused. He too had secrets to hide.
A long pause before he shook his head again.
“I have the money.” She broke in before he could utter the final word. At least she spoke only half a lie. She would have the money as soon as she sold Chess and located a race or two.
“Come back to me when you have your wagons, and we’ll see.” While he still shook his head as he spoke, he hadn’t said no.
Her heart settled back to a steady beat. “I will, but what guarantee do I have that there will be a place remainin’ for us?”
“None.”
She clamped her teeth on the words that threatened to spill out. Sucking in a deep breath, she spoke through gritted teeth. “I may not be a man full grown, but gentlemen do not do business this way. When I meet all your requirements, I expect to be allowed to join your train, sir.”
“I am no gentleman.”
“I can tell that, but Mr. Robinson at the store said you are a man of honor, that we could trust you, and you would be fair.” She took a step closer.
Wolf kept from stepping back before the onslaught of this young rooster. Schooling his face took little effort, in spite of the grin that tickled his cheeks. And his insides. Grown men took his no for an answer. Why not this Jesse Highwood of Kentucky? He said he had freed black men, meaning he’d had slaves. Why was getting to Oregon so important to him? He looked far too young, hadn’t even shaved yet, besides not having filled out. If Jesse Highwood was twenty, he, Wolf, was the south portion of a mule goin’ north.
“Come to me when you have your wagons.”
I’ll see you run over by my wagons! Jesselynn flung herself on Chess’s back and glared down at the mountain that refused to move. “I will be back.”
Wolf dipped his chin in the briefest of nods and turned to answer a man who’d come up beside him.
Pure rage felt hot, but this time Jesselynn felt determination cold as a three-foot icicle on a January morning. Showing up Mr. Gray Wolf Torstead would be the utmost pleasure. Those wagons would be the toughest and tightest ever built. No way was that insufferably stubborn man going to keep them from going to Oregon.
He’d thrown down the gauntlet. She had picked it up.
“Three days? But you said they would be ready today.” Jesselynn glared at Jenkins, who seemed oblivious to living up to his word.
“One of my men took off wi’ dat last train. Can’t build wagons widout good men.”
“I will bring you a good man tomorrow.” Mounting Chess without using the stirrups was becoming a habit. Anger gave strength to her legs. “In fact, I’ll bring you two. You can deduct their wages from the cost of my wagons.” If he thinks he can pull the wool over my eyes just because I�
�m young, he has another think coming. The ride to the ironmongers took less time than usual.
“What do you mean no horseshoes? You promised me six boxes, for both horse and oxen.”
“Sorry. The barge ain’t showed up. Spring slows down the river traffic. Maybe t’morrow.”
“What about yokes for the oxen?” If they had any sense, she told herself, Meshach could have carved those back in the oak woods too. So many things they hadn’t thought of. She shook her head and, turning, strode out the door, her bootheels clacking on the floorboards in a satisfying enough manner. Stomping would have felt better, along with door slamming. But both would have said what she’d been accused of far too often lately—being young. If they figured out she was female . . . It was bad enough being a young man, or boy, as she was so often called. No wonder Meshach wanted to go to Oregon. He was far beyond boy status, yet so many referred to him that way, all because of his dark skin. On the way back to where she’d tied Chess, she added to her litany of frustrations. Their money would not stretch near far enough, she had yet to find a race for Ahab, and her curse was upon her.
She’d awakened that morning dreaming of Twin Oaks and her mother cosseting her during that time. Today she had no time for cramps or hot bricks. She had to get her people on the way to Oregon.
The first wagon train left the next morning.
On the way back from checking with Jenkins Wagons again, she saw a crowd gathered to the east of town. When a mass shout went up, she angled her horse in that direction and watched the action from his back.
Two horses, one black and one bay, drove across a makeshift finish line, the black a winner by a head. Easing Chess forward, she made her way through the crowd of shouting men until they stopped just short of two men, one with a slate and chalk, the other handing out money.
The money man stepped up to the rider on the black horse and handed him a leather pouch that clanked when changing hands. The purse, and it had to contain gold.
Jesselynn dismounted and, with her reins looped over her arm, waited until the betters collected their winnings before approaching the man who seemed to be in charge.
“Pardon me, sir, but could I ask you a question?”
Porkpie hat tipped up, he turned. With a quick glance at her, he shifted the cigar in his mouth from one side to the other before speaking. “Yeah, boy, what do you want?”
“I want to know how this racin’ is set up.”
“Just the way you sees it. Two riders, two horses. One wins, one loses.”
“And the others?”
“Others?” The cigar shifted again. This time he removed it between two fingers, spat a quid off to the side, and put the cigar back. He seemed to chew it more than smoke it.
Jesselynn stood her ground. “Those who placed the bets. The odds?”
“No odds. Just divvy up the take.” He hawked and spat. “What’s it to you? That horse don’t look to have no speed.”
Five days had not been enough to get Ahab in shape, but if the contenders ran no faster than the ones she’d seen, Ahab didn’t need to be in condition. The trick would be getting him to run more slowly. So the bets would be more the second time.
Jesselynn headed for home without badgering the ironmonger again.
“He ain’t ready.” Benjamin shook his head.
“I know, not ready for a real race, but the horses I saw were just fast, not Thoroughbreds.”
“What if someone steal him?”
“We won’t let them. You and Meshach go with me. Daniel can stay here to guard the others.”
Meshach sighed, shoulders slumping after a full day at Jenkins Wagons. “I don’t like the bettin’. The purse be enough.”
Jesselynn knew she’d made a mistake in mentioning that she planned to bet—on herself. She refused to entertain the thought that if she lost the sixty dollars, she lost a wagon. But Ahab wouldn’t lose. She was sure of that.
“Betting makes perfect sense. We can only race one day, then Ahab has to disappear again. With each day, the danger increases, and we can’t take that chance. He runs once, barely wins. . . .” She paused. Shook her head ever so gently, a smile, slight, barely moving her lips. Her head nodding only a bit, thinking, planning.
“I don’t like dat look.” Meshach studied her through narrowed eyes.
“I lose the first race.” She held up a hand to stop their sputtering. “By only a nose.”
Benjamin snorted. “You think you can hold him back?”
She nodded. “But then I demand a rematch. Give him an hour, and we run again. This time we bet. We win, and we buy the rest of our supplies.”
“And pray de army don’t get wind of de fast horse down in Independence.”
“Who goin’ lay de bets?” Meshach looked up from studying his clasped hands resting on his knees. He hadn’t left off sitting on his chunk of wood since the discussion began.
Jesselynn froze. Meshach was right. She couldn’t ask him or Benjamin. A black with sixty dollars in gold would be suspect immediately. And she couldn’t bet herself.
“I will. Won’t be the first time, and most likely not the last.” Agatha set Thaddeus off her lap and stood. “Only thing, we’ll have to take the wagon, then.”
Why can’t anything ever be simple? I was just going to go race the horse and get out of there again. But what else can we do?
That left Ophelia and Daniel alone with the horses and the camp and the young’uns, though Jane Ellen considered herself as grown as Daniel, at least. And she could shoot too.
Jesselynn looked to Meshach, who refused to look up at her. But she read disapproval in every line of his weary body.
“When will our wagons be ready?”
“Tomorrow or de next day.”
“I heard another train is pullin’ out in the mornin’.”
“Yes, suh. Where you get de oxen?”
“I talked with a man today. He has nine, but not all are trained yet.”
“Buyin’ all nine?”
“Depends on the purse.”
Before she fell asleep that night, Jesselynn wandered out to where Daniel had put Ahab to grazing on a long line. She leaned against the stallion’s shoulder and stroked his neck on up to rub his ears. Ahab lowered his head and sighed, leaning into the ministering fingers.
“You want to run tomorrow, old son?” She ran her fingers through his mane, snagging on a burr. “Daddy would die again if he saw how bad you look.” The mane and tail hadn’t been combed since they left Twin Oaks, and a brush was used only on the places the harness or saddle might rub. She thought of the racing saddle tucked away in the trunk, underneath the two dresses she had brought along. She almost hadn’t put it in.
She rubbed the stallion’s nose and wandered back to camp. The men had insisted she not take a turn at watch tonight so she would be fresh for the race. Daniel and Benjamin both wore grins that clearly showed their excitement. Even Thaddeus caught the feeling, though no one told him they would be racing Ahab.
“You go to sleep now like a good boy.” Jane Ellen’s voice wore that patient tone that said she was repeating herself.
Jesselynn reached in the wagon for her bedroll and gave her little brother a poke. Giggles erupted, and Thaddeus rolled over to grab her hand.
“Kiss, Jesse.”
Jesselynn kissed his cheek and stroked back his curly hair. If only his father could see him now. He would be so proud. She laid out her bedroll and glanced heavenward. “Daddy, if’n you’re watchin’, please do all you can to make sure we win that race tomorrow. Might be the most important race Ahab ever ran.”
While she kept her voice to a whisper, she lay back on her bedroll and studied the stars, stars they’d be following west. Good thing the Lord said He’d guide their steps. She hoped and prayed that included both racing and westering the miles.
“Now, you understand the rules?”
Jesselynn nodded. While she wore her stirrups shorter than usual, she tried to look like any normal
rider, not a jockey.
“He’s mighty light compared to Erskin there.” One of the spectators hawked and spit, then squinted up at Jesselynn. “Might make a big difference.”
“Erskin been at this long enough. He knows what that black can do.”
Jesselynn fought to keep her concentration on the race, not on the gaping group of humanity that looked like bathing might be against their religion. At the Keeneland Track, where her father raced his Thoroughbreds, the crowd dressed for the day as a social event. Hats were de rigueur, and the loveliest of gowns the custom. Not the morass of pressing, stinking men who crowded Ahab, making him lay his ears back. He looked ready to bite the next man who came near.
“Hey, boy, you ready?” The owner and rider of the black spat off to the side of his horse. Did everyone chew tobacco here?
“Anytime, sir.” She touched a finger to the brim of her slouch hat. The porkpie had a habit of blowing off in a stiff wind, and she planned on a stiff wind from release to the finish line.
The man in charge pointed to a man waving a red flag and waiting better than a quarter mile away. “You start there when he says, and the first one across this line is the winner. There’ll be no striking a horse but your own, no jostling, bumping, or cutting off the other horse. I want a clean race. You hear?”
Jesselynn nodded, having a feeling that experience had necessitated the rules. She glanced at Erskin, who wore a smirk fit to rile the staunchest peacemaker. Wishing she had watched more races to see what kind of shenanigans he pulled, she glanced around the crowd to see Aunt Agatha sitting up in her rocking chair in the wagon bed, knitting away just as if she were back in camp. She caught Jesselynn’s eye and winked.
Jesselynn acted as if she didn’t know her, but the wink warmed her insides. She wished the race were longer. Lots of horses could go the short distance, but it was in the longer races where the Thoroughbreds excelled.
“Hey, Erskin, you not gonna let a young pup like that beat ya, are you?”
“Just put your money down, and let’s get on with this. I got work to do.”
A Secret Refuge [02] Sisters of the Confederacy Page 20