Jeb had picked one of the traditional fording places. The grass on each side was completely worn away from the mulling about of caravan after caravan of wagons. If the spring rains had been normal, the banks would have been treacherously slippery with mud and Jeb might have considered continuing on to find a less popular crossing farther upriver. But the dry spell was still holding, and the train had made excellent time up to this point. So he’d decided that they might as well get the crossing out of the way.
It always took a full day out of their trip. He never let more than two wagons cross at the same time, since he wanted to keep watch and be able to come to their aid at the first sign of any trouble. To get fifty across would take hours.
He was up before dawn, eating a breakfast of biscuits and a cold cup of last night’s coffee. There was no time to waste on a fire today. He’d already warned Frank Todd that he’d like to have him cross over first, test the route. Jeb would ride alongside, feeling his way. He’d crossed here before, but the river was constantly changing.
He mounted Storm and made his way back, checking to see that the owners of the first few wagons were awake and preparing for the crossing. He had told the ones farther back that they could sleep longer today. Their turn wouldn’t come for hours. The Gallivan wagon and Scott Haskell’s were far back in the line, having each taken their turn at the front only a few days before. But in spite of the early hour, Jeb could see Patrick fetching water for his oxen. He couldn’t resist the impulse to ride back and say goodmorning to the boy.
“I’ll miss you up here behind me, son,” he called as he approached.
Patrick grinned up at him and gave a slap to the side of one of the hulking black beasts. “I wish we could trade these in for a horse. Then I could ride with you all the time.” “And let your brother do all the work driving the wagon?” Jeb chided gently.
The boy’s smile dimmed. “Well, no. I guess not.”
“You can ride with me again tomorrow, after the crossing.”
“Are they ready to start?” Now his handsome little face took on an eager expression. “Can I just ride down to the riverbank with you, Captain? I want to watch them go into the water.”
Jeb smiled. He remembered the first time he’d seen a river crossing. He’d felt much the same excitement he was seeing on Patrick’s face. Melly had been petrified, he remembered. She’d clenched his hand so tightly that her nails had dug into his skin, leaving a scar that had lasted for months. He’d looked for that scar recently, but couldn’t find it anymore. It didn’t matter. The scars he carried inside would never fade. The sudden memory put an effective end to his upbeat mood. He shifted in the saddle. “Is your brother awake?”
“No.” The eager light in Patrick’s eyes faded as he became aware of the dimming of Jeb’s expression.
“You’d best stay here, then, until he does. The Todds will be starting across in a few minutes, but there’ll be plenty of time for you to see wagons crossing. It’s going to go on all day.”
“So I can come down as soon as my brother is awake?”
Jeb tried to resurrect his smile. “Yes. Just be sure that you stay out of the way of the wagons when they start rolling down the bank. It’s steep, and this will be the first good test of the brakes on some of these rigs.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Good boy,” Jeb said with a nod. Then he rode back toward the front of the train, his face once again solemn.
As it turned out, most of the members of the train were almost as interested as Patrick in their first river crossing. By the time Jeb had crossed back and forth himself several times and was satisfied with the route, the banks had filled with spectators to witness the Todds’ big wagon taking the first plunge.
Kerry and Patrick had walked down with Scott and the Burnetts. There was a festive mood to the day. A change from what had already become the numbing sameness of plodding along mile after mile of dusty prairie.
“For lunch we could bring a picnic here to the bank,” Kerry suggested gaily, causing Scott to laugh.
“Isn’t this trip a sort of five-month long picnic?” he asked. “We’ve been eating outdoors for every meal.”
Kerry refused to be discouraged. “Yes, but today’s different. We could have a little party. I’ll make some lemonade.”
Most wagons had started out with plenty of sugar, but the precious supply of lemons would only last a few more days. Then, except for the wealthier parties who had purchased some of the expensive flavoring extracts, they would have to be content with the flavor of whatever water they encountered along the way, however brackish.
“And we could open a package of sugar biscuits and the tin of licorice drops,” Patrick added with enthusiasm.
“Yea, a picnic!” Polly shouted, jumping to her feet, followed inevitably by her sister. The two had been sitting still for long enough.
“Picnic!” Molly echoed.”
Dorothy Burnett smiled indulgently. “It looks as if we’re going to have a picnic today, my friends.” She stood, more decorously than her daughters, and shook out her skirts. “I’ll mosey back to the wagon and see what goodies I can come up with.”
Kerry also pushed herself up from the ground. “I’ll go, too.”
When Scott and John Burnett began to stand as well, Dorothy waved a hand at them. “You other men stay here and mind the children on the bank. Then you can all come along back to the wagons in about half an hour to carry our picnic.”
Dorothy always made Kerry feel comfortable. It hadn’t seemed to matter that the friendly woman thought that she was a man. She chatted with Kerry as naturally as if they’d been lifelong friends.
The two made their way up the bank and toward the row of waiting wagons, but a shout made Kerry look back over her shoulder. A wagon had come to a halt just a few feet into the river and Jeb Hunter was riding around it, trying to determine what had caused it to get stuck. He swung off one side of his saddle, hanging practically upside down toward the water. The movement strained the fabric of his clothes tight across his broad back and, Kerry noticed with a guilty flush, across his muscular buttocks. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Dorothy Burnett’s eyes were also trained on their wagon captain. And Dorothy was a married woman! Kerry thought with surprise.
“We’re lucky to have Captain Hunter,” Dorothy said casually, making no mention of the gleam of feminine interest that Kerry had seen in her eyes.
“I suppose,” Kerry answered uncertainly.
Dorothy halted and turned to look at her. “No supposing about it. He’s one of the best, you know. They say he’s never lost a wagon and never lost a life in all his crossings.”
“Well, he does seem to be conscientious about his task.”
“More than conscientious. At Boone’s store I heard them say that Jeb Hunter would kill himself before he let something go wrong on one of his trains.”
“Sometimes he could do it a little more graciously,” Kerry said, thinking of the way he’d ordered Scott around more than once in her presence.
They’d reached the Gallivan wagon where Dorothy branched off to continue back to her own. She gave a little snort as she ended the conversation by saying over her shoulder, “I don’t care if he’s gracious as long as he gets my family safely across the country.”
By late afternoon, most of the wagons had struggled across the broad expanse of water. On the other side, the usually organized camp was in disarray as wagons were parked every which way. Many had supplies lying on the ground around them, drying out from the soaking they’d received.
Patrick and the Burnett twins had been hopping around for the past hour awaiting their respective turns to cross. Kerry was less eager. The closer the wagon edged to the water, the heavier it felt to her. She knew that there had been minor problems throughout the day with wagons getting stuck in the silt of the river bottom, and she hoped the extra weight of theirs wouldn’t cause that problem. She had a feeling Jeb Hunter would be furious if he
found out that she had not obeyed his orders about the size of their load.
As if her thoughts had conjured him up, he suddenly appeared next to their wagon. His clothes were totally soaked, but he didn’t appear the least bit tired after an entire day of hard labor. “Have you had anything to eat all day, Captain?” The words were out of her mouth before she even thought about them. It was probably not a very masculine question for her to ask.
But Jeb seemed not to notice the lapse. “I’ll eat tonight,” he said with a dismissive wave. He appeared to be totally focused on his task. “Are you boys ready to cross? You’ve tied everything down?”
Patrick answered, his voice shrill with anticipation. “We’ve done everything you said, Captain. Don’t worry about us—we’re packed up tight as a boat.”
Jeb nodded his approval. “Good. Now just don’t get too fancy on those reins. Let the animals feel their way. Hold it steady.” He looked from Patrick to Kerry, hesitated a minute, then asked, “You’re sure you don’t want one of the bigger men to ride up there with you?”
“We can hold them, Captain,” Kerry said stiffly.
“All right.” Jeb wheeled his horse around. “You and Haskell are next.”
Kerry’s hands were white where they wrapped tightly around the reins. Please, don’t get stuck, she prayed silently to the four mute beasts in front of her. She and Patrick watched as Scott’s wagon reached the edge of the bank, then gave a lurch from side to side as it started over the lip. They could see the wooden brakes hitting the back wheel rims as the rig slid down the small hill and entered the water. Kerry let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding as their neighbor’s wagon slowly righted itself on the more gentle slope of the river floor and continued deeper into the water.
Scott leaned around the edge of his canvas and grinned back at them. “Nothing to it!” he shouted.
“Nothing to it with a half-full wagon like yours,” Kerry said under her breath.
Jeb was in the middle of the river. The water there reached to Storm’s flanks, but the big animal stood stock-still against the current. “All right, Gallivans!” Jeb yelled, motioning them to start.
“Get your hand ready on the brake,” Kerry told Patrick tersely.
“It is.”
Frank Todd and some of the other men were serving as guides to urge any reluctant animals to make that first step over the bank. As Kerry signaled with the reins, Frank stepped up to their lead ox and gave it a hard slap on the rump. Clumsily the four animals struggled down the slope with the heavy wagon swaying behind them. Kerry gritted her teeth and held on.
“You’re doing fine!” Jeb hollered his encouragement.
Scott’s wagon had reached the deep, middle part of the river and appeared to be moving smoothly.
Kerry and Patrick bounced wildly as first the front wheels, then the rear, jolted over the edge of the hill. “Brakes, Patrick!” Kerry shouted, then felt a surge of relief as the wheels held and the entire rig slid into the water. Patrick released the brake. The wagon straightened out and continued slowly across the shallow, gravelly edge of the river.
Kerry sank back in the seat, suddenly weak from the release of tension. The bank on the other side was not as steep, and pulling up was not as tricky as sliding down. If the wagon had held up for the descent, they ought to make it all right.
The oxen plodded along passively in front of them, oblivious to the river swirling up around them, now covering their sturdy legs. They’d almost reached the middle, and the wagon slowed as the wheels bogged down in the silt of the river bottom. Finally, one of the lead animals refused to move altogether and the wagon stopped.
“Use your whip,” Jeb shouted, turning his horse to ride their way.
Kerry sat up straight again and flapped the reins. Patrick grabbed the small bullwhip from its hook alongside the seat and snapped it over the animals without touching them. The cracks were startling, but none of the animals moved. “Just flick it on their backs,” Kerry suggested. “I don’t think it’ll hurt them,” she added at Patrick’s doubtful expression.
Holding his slender arm up high, he cracked the whip toward the back of the nearest ox. Instantly the animal lurched to one side, pulling the others off balance in their harness. The overloaded wagon shifted right, then tipped precariously to the left. Kerry heard a sickening crack as the left front wheel broke underneath them, then watched in horror as Patrick slid off the side of the seat and into the river.
Chapter Five
Jeb could tell even from a distance that the Gallivans’ wagon was heavier than many that had crossed that day. Too heavy for a four-oxen team. And his worst fears were confirmed as he saw their animals balk once the load sank deep enough into the river mud. The veteran trail men who worked with Boone’s outfitters knew exactly what four-, six- and eight-oxen wagons could handle. They certainly hadn’t been the ones to overload the boys’ wagon. Which must mean that the Gallivans themselves had not sent back the extra equipment as they had told him.
He’d already started his horse toward them, furious and worried at the same time, when their team suddenly spooked, sending the wagon pitching to one side and the younger Gallivan tumbling into the river.
Typically, the immediate panic at the threat to one of his charges clawed at his throat. And just as typically, he fought it back and steeled himself to act coolly. Storm was thoroughly used to the water after their long day, and the blessed animal did not appear to be at all fatigued. He surged forward in response to Jeb’s urging, bringing them up to the Gallivan wagon in mere seconds. But by then the swift current had already carried Patrick’s light body several yards downstream.
Jeb looked up at the wagon where Kiernan was standing in the listing wagon, his blue eyes wide with alarm. “He can’t swim!” he screamed. Then, before Jeb could caution him to stay where he was, he put his foot up on the edge of the seat and jumped into the water toward his brother.
For a moment, Jeb was paralyzed by the boy’s stupidity. Now instead of one boy to drag from the water, he’d have two. At least Kiernan knew enough to use the current rather than fight it, Jeb saw immediately, noting that the older boy was rapidly catching up to his brother. With a shake of his head and still fighting down that sick feeling of dread, Jeb pointed Storm downstream. Over on the bank he could see Frank Todd and the others running in the same direction. “What shall we do?” Frank yelled to him.
Jeb shook his head. The river was broad here without obstacles. If left unchecked the two boys could continue floating all the way back down to the Missouri. But the advantage was that there was nothing in the way to injure them. If they kept their heads, they should make it all right until he could get to them. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d fetched a sopping passenger out of the river on a crossing. The tricky thing would be to fetch two of them at once. It was lucky the Gallivan boys were slight.
Thanking the Lord for his steady horse, Jeb moved over to the shallow gravel and spurred Storm into a gallop that took him past the floating boys. Then he pointed his mount once again into the middle, calculating the angle so that he would cut off their downriver progress. Kiernan had caught up to Patrick and the two boys were clinging to each other. He steered Storm directly toward them, then stopped. “Steady, boy,” he told the animal. “Get ready for a jolt.”
Hanging off the saddle from one leg, he leaned over the water and waited for the two boys to crash into them. There was a danger that the collision would knock both Storm and Jeb himself into the water as well, but there had not been time to formulate a better plan. The two bodies seemed to be rocketing toward them, faster than he had expected. He braced himself, then grabbed and lifted with all his strength just as they were about to hit. His actions diverted some of the force of the impact. Storm stumbled a little, but stayed on his feet. Jeb pulled himself upright in the saddle with the boys’ weight pulling him in the opposite direction like weights on a balance scale.
Patrick was sputtering and panicky
, pawing at Jeb to get a firm hold. Kiernan seemed more in control and grasped the horn of Storm’s saddle to take some of the weight off Jeb. After a few seconds of struggle, Jeb was able to hoist the still choking Patrick around behind him to his accustomed seat. Then he turned his attention to Kiernan, who was draped stomach down across the front of the saddle, one hand still clutching the horn and the other on Jeb’s left arm.
“Is he all right?” Kiernan gasped in a high-pitched voice. Then the Irish boy made a quarter turn bringing his now clean features not more than a foot from Jeb’s face. And as he looked down at the body in his arms, Jeb’s eyes opened in amazement to see the cloth of the boy’s shirt clinging unmistakably to two most decidedly feminine breasts.
Kerry saw the astonishment in his face at once. She flopped back over on her stomach, hoping that she’d been wrong about the sudden revelation she’d seen in Jeb Hunter’s eyes. But she knew that it was hopeless. Her soft, female body was sprawled most indelicately over one of Jeb’s hard legs. Her slender hand still grasped the fabric of his jacket. Her own oversize jacket had been ripped off her and carried away by the river. She might as well be naked.
She waited for an explosion, but Jeb merely pulled her more squarely across the saddle and started toward the far bank. Her brother was still coughing, and after a moment, Jeb asked, “Are you all right, Patrick?” His voice was tight with anger.
“Yes.” The coughs became muffled as Patrick struggled to control them.
Kerry wriggled around, trying to boost herself up from her uncomfortable position across the saddle horn. “Don’t move!” Jeb barked at her.
“Our wagon…” Patrick began with a groan.
“Your wagon’s got a broken wheel,” Jeb snapped. “It was too damned heavy.”
Both Patrick and Kerry remained silent the rest of the short trip across the river. When they reached the opposite bank, Jeb yanked Kerry’s arm up and deposited her unceremoniously on the ground. Then he reached behind him and, a little more gently, swung Patrick down. Finally, he dismounted himself, his eyes never leaving Kerry, who stood shivering, her wet clothes clinging to every curve. She looked wistfully out at the river as if hoping that her jacket would come floating up to the bank so she could cover herself from Jeb Hunter’s withering glare.
Ana Seymour Page 7