Wagon Train Wedding

by Rhonda Gibson

  * * *

  Flynn Adams pulled his prairie schooner up behind Harold Clarkson’s wagon. A young woman with a baby in a sling turned to watch him. Her deep brown eyes expressed weariness and a sadness he couldn’t quite identify. Turning his gaze from her, he looked about at the other wagons getting into formation. Each family had a story of sorrow or adventure to explain their place on this journey. Flynn looked back at the young woman and knew instinctively that hers was a story of sorrow.

  He watched as her clear, observant eyes swept over him and past him to the area behind him. Her arms tightened around the baby. Flynn turned to see what had caught her attention. Seeing nothing or no one, he turned again. A frown marred her pretty forehead. Then she turned away.

  What had she been looking at—or maybe looking for? Flynn shook his head. What difference did it make? He assumed she was Mrs. Clarkson, although she seemed a lot younger than her husband. He sighed. It was none of his business, and right now he was late for the meeting the wagon master had demanded each lead male wagon driver attend.

  “What do you think the wagon master wants to talk to us about, Mr. Adams?”

  Flynn grinned at the young man who had fallen into step beside him. “I imagine, Joe, that he wants to remind us of the rules and tell us what time to be ready to leave in the mornings.”

  Joe nodded. The oversize cowboy hat that sat on top of his head wiggled a little too much and the boy reached up and steadied it. “Yeah, probably.” He fell silent for a moment, then spoke again. “Pa says you wish to hire a young man to help you drive. Is that so?”

  Ah, the true reason why young Joe Philmore had approached him had come to light. Flynn nodded. “Yes, it is, but I require my helper to address me as Flynn. ‘Mr. Adams’ just sounds too formal.” He turned his head to hide his grin from Joe.

  “Uh, Flynn. Would you consider letting me work for ya?”

  They were almost to the hedge of trees where they were supposed to meet with the other men. Flynn wiped the grin from his face and looked at Joe. “You don’t even know what I’m paying.”

  Joe nodded. “True, but I’m sure it’s better than what Pa is paying me.”

  “And what’s that?”

  A smile touched the young man’s mouth. “Nothing.”

  Flynn slapped him on the back. “You’re hired. We’ll talk wages after the meeting.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Joe ran back to his pa before Flynn could tell him he did not much care for the title “sir,” either.

  He had already planned on hiring Joe to help him drive the covered wagon to Oregon. Flynn and Joe’s pa, James, had discussed it the night before over a cup of coffee. Flynn liked the Philmore family. James and Sarah were God-fearing people and were raising their children in the same manner.

  Flynn had been reared in a loving home, too, but growing up had been a painful time for him. Thankfully, time had eased the memory of a lot of the sorrow he had encountered in his young life. Time had a way of doing that. He’d almost had a family, though that chance had been taken away from him once his selfish needs had interfered. As Flynn had done many times in the past, he pushed the thoughts away and focused on the scene in front of him.

  “What do you mean I can’t leave without a male driver to help me?” Harold Clarkson spit on the ground.

  The wagon master, Samuel Tucker, shook his head. “Clarkson, I told you when you signed up to get another man to join you. We need each wagon to have two male drivers.” Firm decisiveness filled the wagon master’s voice.

  “Well, I’m bringing my wife and that Edwards woman. They can both drive.”

  Even as Harold spoke, the wagon master was shaking his head. “Nope, has to be a man. We’ll be crossing some rivers that only a man can get a team of oxen across.” He held up his hand to stop any other protest forming on Harold Clarkson’s lips. “I’ll have no arguments. Find another man to help you drive in the next half hour or I’m leaving you here.”

  Harold Clarkson looked to each man, waiting to see if anyone else would protest. Seeing no support from them, he stomped off in a huff.

  Flynn wondered where Harold would find a willing man to go all the way to Oregon in the next half hour. He shook his head. They had been told early on to get a second man as a driver, and Flynn himself had waited until the last moment. Only because it hadn’t initially been his intention to join the wagon train at all.

  He’d come to Independence on the same hunt that had driven him for the past two years—the search for the man who had murdered his fiancée. It was only the news that that man might have joined the wagon train himself that had led Flynn to sign up. He didn’t know the killer’s name or face—just his horrendous deeds and the trail of destruction he’d left behind him—but for all that, Flynn was determined to find him. Even if he had to chase him all the way to Oregon Territory. Thankfully, young Joe had been of age and willing to take the job or he would have been in Harold’s position also.

  He turned his attention back to the wagon master. As he expected, Samuel Tucker went over the rules, the terms used during travel, such as “form up” when it was time to leave. He told the men to remind their children and womenfolk to stay on the left side of their wagons while traveling and to keep their children away from the wheels. Flynn thought some of the suggestions and rules should not have to be spoken aloud, but he knew not everyone had common sense.

  The wagon master turned to a young man who stood beside him. “This is Levi. He is our scout. Levi has been on this trip more times than I have fingers on one hand. He knows the land that we will cross and the people it belongs to. If he tells you to move, you move. Don’t ask questions. It could save your life or the lives of your family.”

  Flynn’s gaze moved over the faces of the men who stood around, all nodding their agreement. Was his man in their midst? Flynn wished he knew what the man he pursued looked like. All he had to go on was that the man was short and probably in his late fifties. It was strange that no one could give a more detailed description or even knew his real name. The last name he had used was Smith. Flynn shook his head at the unimaginative name. With so little to go on, he might not have even been sure they were dealing with one killer rather than a handful of separate men...but the method of death had become the killer’s calling card. Every woman had been knifed in a very specific way. And Flynn was going to make sure the man responsible was caught before any other woman fell victim to his blade.

  “We leave in thirty minutes. Make sure your wagons, livestock and families are ready to form up.” Mr. Tucker dismissed them by walking off and swinging into the saddle of his horse that stood several feet away. Levi did the same.

  Flynn walked slowly back toward his wagon. Unlike the other wagons, his held no personal items to build a new life in Oregon. All he’d brought were the things he would need to get to Oregon—food, clothes, bedding, tools for keeping the wagon moving and his Bible. All practical, essential things—no heirlooms or cherished items to remind him of home. He’d left all of those behind when he’d started his manhunt two years earlier.

  His gaze moved to the men and women of Independence, Missouri, who were waiting for the train to begin its long journey to Oregon. The local sheriff stood in the center of the crowd and nodded. Flynn made his way to the lawman—the man who had convinced him that Mr. Smith was on this train.

  He motioned for the sheriff to join him, away from the crowd. “Have you seen anyone who might be him?” Flynn asked.

  The lawman shook his head. “No, but I’m sure he’s here somewhere. I would help you search every wagon, but I still believe if he sees me searching, he will give us both the slip again. You will have a better chance of capturing him when you get out on the trail.”

  “Tell me again—how can you be sure our killer is on this wagon train?”

  The sheriff sighed. “I can’t claim I’m completely certain, but like I tol
d you, one of the local gals said a man who fit Smith’s description bragged that the easiest way for him to get out of this town was to take the Oregon train, today. Then two days later I found that gal in an alley behind the saloon with the same knife wounds you described from the other victims.” The sheriff shook his head, looking regretful. “I blame myself for not taking her report more seriously. I thought the man was just doing some empty boasting. I should have paid more attention to how scared she was. He threatened her before they completed their business transaction. Told her he had killed women before, starting with a gal down in Texas for not giving him the goods, and he would do the same to her. Shortly after she talked to me, she was dead.”

  He fiddled with the gun on his waist. “If I could have caught him, I would have done so. He is slippery, Flynn. Now I understand why you’ve been after him for two years.”

  “Would you mind telling me again what the woman said he looked like?” Flynn hated having to ask the sheriff to repeat himself, but since she had been murdered, they only had the sheriff’s memory of their conversation to rely on.

  The sheriff sighed again. “He’s short, gray-headed, and has light-colored eyes. She said he wasn’t some saddle bum, more of a business-type man. It’s not a lot to go on.”

  Flynn nodded. That description could be any number of men. “Well, it’s more than I had a few days ago. No one has ever mentioned the color of his eyes. As far as I know, no woman has ever gotten that close to him and had him admit that he’s killed before.” But even with that added information, Flynn wondered how he would know the man if he did see him on the trip to Oregon. What would give him away—or would he manage to stay hidden? Would he kill again on the Oregon Trail? With the number of people on this train and the lack of privacy, Flynn didn’t think the killer would attempt another murder. He seemed to kill his victims when they were alone. Flynn’s thoughts turned to Miriam, his fiancée. She had been alone the night she was murdered, and it was all his fault.

  His memories floated swiftly to that night. Them taking an evening ride in her father’s carriage. His deputy riding out and telling him that they had cornered a set of cattle rustlers who had avoided the law for several months. Flynn had left with his deputy after Miriam assured him that she would be fine driving the carriage back to town. Only she had never made it home. They found her body the next morning, battered, bruised and with a knife wound that had taken her life. Dr. Shipman had said that her defensive wounds indicated that the man who had attacked her was not very tall. Flynn didn’t understand how the doctor figured out such things, but he believed him.

  Later, the man had struck again. The sole witness, a young boy about twelve years old, said he had only seen a short, older man running away from a woman who had been killed in exactly the same way as Miriam. Flynn had started following the bodies. So far, the man had killed a woman about every six months. Each time, Flynn had missed him. No one ever saw more than an older man, running from the scene.

  The sheriff slapped him on the back, much like Flynn had done to young Joe less than an hour earlier. “Don’t worry. You will catch him. I’m sure he is hiding in one of those wagons.”

  Flynn nodded. He shook the other man’s hand and then headed back to his wagon. As he rounded the corner, he heard raised voices.

  “Look, girl, I can’t take you with us. Now that I’ve got a second driver, I don’t have room for another person. So you need to go.” Harold Clarkson set a box out onto the ground at the blond-headed woman’s feet.

  Her eyes moved to the box. “You promised if I paid my way, you’d take me and the baby.” Panic filled her voice and pretty brown eyes.

  “Things change. Tucker says I have to have another male driver, and that means no room for you and the kid.” He took the box that his wife handed down to him and placed it with the others.

  “But I have nowhere else to go.”

  Flynn expected tears—maybe of frustration or from anger—but all he saw was panic. He recognized it and cataloged it in his mind. What was she afraid of? Had someone hurt her? Was she running from something? One thing he’d always been good at was reading people, and this woman had his eyes narrowing speculatively.

  The baby laid his head on her shoulder and sucked two fingers. His big brown eyes jerked from one adult to the other.

  It was none of his business, but Flynn stepped in anyway. “Clarkson, you cannot kick her out of your wagon if she has already paid you to take her.”

  Harold stood to his full height of five foot seven. “She didn’t pay me anything.”

  The young woman reared back as if she had been slapped. “What about the food, blankets and...well, everything else?”

  “I’m giving you back the food and your personal belongings. I owe you nothing.” Harold pointed to the boxes about her feet. He sighed. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do, but I have to get to Oregon, and if that means leaving you behind, so be it.” He turned to get another box from his wife.

  “Who is going to help your wife?” she asked, as if she hoped it would remind them that they needed her.

  “She will have to fend for herself.”

  Flynn watched as the two women’s eyes met. Both looked miserable. Once more, he stepped forward. “Ma’am? Do you have anyone else you can ride with?” He knew the answer even before he asked the question.

  “No.” It came out as a humiliated whisper.

  “You can ride with us,” Joe said.

  Flynn looked to the young man. When had he arrived on the scene? And did his parents know he was offering their wagon to another person?

  Her gaze moved to Joe. “That’s very kind of you, but...”

  “Joe, you should probably ask your folks first,” Flynn reminded him.

  Joe shook his head. “Not with my folks, Flynn. With us.”

  Chapter Two

  Cora realized that they had the attention of several of the closest wagon families. She watched as the man—Flynn, he’d been called—shook his head at the boy beside him. Mortification swept over her; she felt heat enter her cheeks and travel into her neck. The boy was old enough to know that his suggestion would be wholly improper.

  “Yeah, Flynn, you take her.” Mr. Clarkson snickered as he put another box down in front of Cora.

  She kept her face averted from everyone, using Noah as an excuse to look down. This was getting so out of hand. What was she going to do?

  “Now, see here. A lady cannot move into a wagon with a pair of single men.” The protest came from one of the many women who now stood watching them. They’re just like a bunch of buzzards at the Last Supper, Cora concluded, and then she mentally chastised herself for the mean thought.

  “And I most certainly agree.” The low voice came from behind the women.

  Everyone turned to see who had joined in on the conversation. Spotting the white collar around the latest speaker’s throat, Cora sighed. A man of the cloth. Great. Just what she didn’t need or want at a time like this. She looked about. A mixture of fear and shame consumed her at the amount of attention they had drawn. What if Gracie’s husband, Hank, showed up—drawn by the crowd—while they were deciding her fate? Would he pretend she was Gracie and force her to go back with him? Would anyone stop him? Or would he just be grateful to get rid of her and Noah?

  “Now, if you two were married, it would be a totally different story,” the minister continued.

  Cora jerked and said the first thing that popped into her head. “But I’m not Catholic.”

  The minister smiled. “Nor am I. I wear the collar so that others will recognize that I’m a follower of Christ.” He touched the cloth at his throat as if that explained everything.

  On the brink of hysterical laughter at this non-funny conversation, Cora realized it didn’t matter what church he represented. She was not getting married. The very idea was ridiculous. She had enough pro
blems without adding a man to the mix. Besides, she had Noah to think about. Even his own father couldn’t be trusted to care for him; how could she expect a total stranger to do so? She had sworn to keep her sister’s baby safe, and that meant not putting him under the power of anyone who might hurt him.

  Not only that, but the man named Flynn hadn’t spoken a word since the preacher’s arrival. He probably felt the same displeasure at the idea of a hasty marriage that she was experiencing herself. She looked in his direction only to find his expression still and serious, as if he actually were contemplating asking her to marry him.

  Deep blue eyes studied her face, searching for the correct answer. What that answer might be was beyond her. She could not leave, and she could not stay. She didn’t know anyone on the wagon train and no one else had offered to help her. They were due to leave at any moment—there wasn’t time to run from wagon to wagon in the hopes of finding someone else to take her in. What was she going to do? She became increasingly uneasy under his scrutiny. Noah began to squirm in her arms, forcing her to look away from Flynn’s captivating gaze.

  “Mr. Adams, is there a problem here?”

  Cora felt like groaning out her frustrations. Another man stepping in to take over. She pressed Noah’s head back into the crook of her neck and rocked her body back and forth, praying for a solution to her problem.

  Flynn answered, “Depends. Mr. Clarkson just put this young woman out of his wagon and intends to leave her behind.”

  Cora looked up at the man on the horse. No doubt, he was the wagon master. She had seen him riding between the wagons checking on the men and visiting with the drivers. If that had not been enough to make his position clear, the way he held himself in the saddle screamed “I am the boss of this outfit.”