“My Luigi, he had so many dreams,” Sofia whispered.
“They all do,” Eirica responded sadly, thinking about the vast number of men who’d forced their women and children to make this horrendous journey. Like so many others, Eirica hadn’t wanted to leave all she’d known to journey across this wild, untamed land—but she’d had no choice. When she’d refused to go to Oregon, Birk had threatened to take their children and leave without her. Eirica pressed her lips together. Becoming a widow was the only good thing to come from this perilous trip.
Her lips twisted with bitterness. Her husband had known full well she’d never allow him to take her babies from her. Now she held their lives in her hands; she was pitted against an unpredictable land that both fascinated her with wondrous sights and frightened her with the sheer magnitude of what lay ahead. Her palms grew damp. She wiped them on her apron, her eyes filling with tears of frustration.
How she wished her mother were still alive. But Mary Newell had died two years ago, helped into her grave by a cold, indifferent husband who wouldn’t even allow an old sick woman to spend the day abed, gathering her strength after falling ill during the harsh winter. Memories of the woman who’d spent her life waiting hand and foot on her husband and eight sons brought tears to Eirica’s eyes.
Old resentments welled up inside Eirica. Birk had refused to allow her to go care for her mother during the day, even though they were neighbors. She’d defied him once, sneaked out to take her ma some fresh bread and honey. He’d found out, though, and that act of disobedience had earned her a broken arm and bruised ribs. It was the last day she’d seen her mother alive. A month later, Mary had just given up, laid down and died, a broken woman.
Eirica fought back tears of regret. If only she’d stood up to Birk, done something to help her mother, maybe her ma would be alive today.
The need to talk to someone who understood what she was going through overwhelmed Eirica. She glanced at Sofia. Though the woman was more than twice her age, Eirica felt a closeness to her that was missing from the other women traveling with her. Jessie and Coralie were younger, childless and newlyweds. Anne was older, but she was happily married.
“What are you going to do, Mrs. De Santis? Are you going to continue or head back? Barnaby Thurston and his sons are turning back. Can’t bear to go on after losing his wife. Heard several other families are considering joining them.”
Sofia straightened and met Eirica’s worried gaze, her own fraught with determination. “I shall go to Oregon. It’s what Luigi wanted. I’ll claim the land he dreamed of and make a new life for my grandchildren.” She considered Eirica through narrowed eyes. “You aren’t thinking of turning back?”
“I wish I could.” Though Eirica spoke the words aloud for the first time, she knew it was fruitless. Thanks to Birk’s laziness and drinking, she had no home to return to. He’d lost their farm and their small, crude cabin, leaving them no choice but to move into her father’s home before they’d taken to the trail.
“You have no other family? No madre or padre?”
Eirica brushed her tears away, furious with herself for wishing for things that could never be again. “No one who cares,” she said, leaving it at that. She’d spent her whole life trying to please her father and brothers, but it was never enough, never appreciated. All her long hours of work and devotion to ensure their comfort had been met with more demands, contempt and indifference toward her own wants and desires.
As she’d quickly discovered after she and Birk had been forced to move in with her family, nothing had changed in the five years she’d been gone. Though her three older brothers had married and lived in homes a short distance away, five of her younger brothers still shared space in the cramped three-room farmhouse along with her pa. And with her ma gone, they and her pa had expected her to step in and wait on them. She wasn’t a daughter or sister to them. She was a slave, someone they ordered around. They’d even started making demands of Alison who’d only been four, having her fetch and carry for them as they were too lazy to get up and do it themselves.
Sofia nodded as if she understood what Eirica left unsaid. “Then you and I must be strong and help each other.” A shout from one of her grandsons made Sofia smile. “I have much to live for.” With that, she excused herself to go finish her supper preparations.
Eirica did likewise. Moving to the back of her wagon, she pulled off the tailgate and struggled to move her wooden box of cooking utensils.
“’Ere, lass, let me lift that down for ya.”
Eirica turned to Rook, the cook for the men hired to drive west the wagon master’s cattle. “Thanks, Rook,” she said, stepping back, hiding her smile when he continued to frown at Sofia’s retreating back. Why those two didn’t get along puzzled her. They both seemed so friendly and at ease with everyone else.
Rook muttered something beneath his breath then lifted her box down. “Point out what else ya needs.”
She pointed to a large sack and another box. He lifted those from the back of the wagon as well. Wiping his hands down the front of his buckskin breeches, he studied her, his bright blue eyes intent as he pulled at his bushy white beard. “You’s frettin’ again, lass. Ain’t good for you or that babe you’s carryin’.”
Rook’s fatherly concern touched her. As with Sofia, she felt as though she could talk to Rook and he’d understand. With sudden insight, she realized these two special people had taken the place of her parents. Rook was much more a father than her own had ever been. The feeling warmed her, allowed her to open up to him.
“I try not to think of tomorrow or of what it will bring, but I just can’t help it.” Despite the heat of the afternoon, she shivered.
Rook pulled her into his burly arms and hugged her awkwardly. His deep rumbling voice drifted over the top of her head. “Now, lass, ya has ta trust yerself. Ya come from good, hearty Scottish stock, like me, and we Scots is survivors.” He put her from him and gave her a stern look. “’Sides, we’s yer family now and not a one of us is gonna allow anythin’ to happen to ya or them young’uns of yers. So no more frettin’.”
Touched by his concern and the emotion he tried to hide beneath a gruff exterior, Eirica hugged him back. “You’re a wonderful man, Rook. I wish you’d been my father,” she said impulsively.
Rook turned beet-red. With shaking hands, he pulled three small wooden objects from his shirt pocket and awkwardly handed them to Eirica. “’Ere. For them young’uns.”
In her palm lay three carved puppies, each in a different position. Sleeping, sitting and standing, all had incredibly realistic features. She would add these to the other wooden carvings he’d made for the children. “Rook, these are lovely. The children will love them.” Her second hug embarrassed him even more. “You’re spoiling them, you know.”
Rook stepped back, blinking rapidly. He stuck his pipe between his lips, then shoved it back into his shirt pocket, his movements jerky. Finally, he stilled and met her teary gaze with determination and love. “Hell, lass. The lot of ya deserves ta be spoilt and I might as well be the one ta do it.”
Without another word, Rook walked away, his short, stocky legs carrying him to his wagons and the long trench fires that sent waves of heat rolling along the ground. A moment later, his loud voice boomed over the area when he shouted for two of the hired hands to “git out of the stores.”
Amused to see grown men scurrying away rather than face Rook’s displeasure, Eirica shook her head. No one dared to argue with or disobey Rook. The crusty old trapper ruled all within his domain with an iron fist. Yet beneath his rough demeanor lay a heart of gold and a sharp mind filled with the wisdom of his years. And as he’d so gently reminded her, she truly wasn’t alone. A second good had come of this trip. For the first time since marrying at the age of sixteen, she had friends—lots of them—something Birk had never allowed.
But then, Birk Macauley had never loved her. She’d been nothing more than a slave to see to his every whim and a conv
enient vessel to slake his needs. For six long years, she’d worked his farm, borne him children he neither loved nor wanted, and endured his jealous nature, childish tantrums and violent rages.
She shuddered, fighting nightmarish memories of protecting her young children by drawing her husband’s fury from them to herself. Placing one hand on her chest, in the hollow between her full breasts, she spread her fingers upward, feeling smooth, raised scars hidden from sight beneath her bodice.
Her other hand absently rubbed her healing ribs, some of which had been broken, others badly bruised during Birk’s last beating. She’d shielded her son’s small body from her husband’s rage with her own body. That had been a month ago—the day before Birk died.
She dropped her hands to her side. Scars. Pain. She wanted to shout with the joy of knowing he’d never take his fists to any of them again. If starting over was the price she had to pay for that freedom, she’d gladly do it. A gentle roll from within her womb brought a sigh to her lips. Her baby was safe, as were her other children. “No one will raise a hand to you in anger,” she vowed, easing the tight flesh with her fingers.
She thought again of Mr. Thurston and the others who were turning back, disheartened by the loss of loved ones, lame oxen or dangerously low supplies. If she joined them, she could just as easily start over back east, maybe find a job as a seamstress or schoolmarm. Eirica paced, walking in a tight circle, careful to keep her skirts out of the fire. Three young boys ran past, shouting with youthful abandon, but she paid them little heed.
Closing her eyes, she searched her soul for the right answer, feeling the pressure of knowing that only she could make this decision. It occurred to Eirica that most who turned back had one thing in common: they’d lost hope, lost their dreams. She straightened her spine. A few short months ago, there had been no hope for her. Now she had a future. There were choices, maybe even dreams.
For the first time in her life, she was in control of her destiny. She’d be a fool not to grasp her chance for a better life with both hands. With nothing waiting for them behind her, somehow, she must find the courage and strength to make it to Oregon. Nothing mattered now except giving her babies a brighter future.
As if sensing her mother’s troubled thoughts, three-year-old Lara crawled out from beneath the wagon and ran to her on matchstick legs, wearing only a simple, worn chemise and no shoes. Eirica picked her up and spun in a slow circle, hugging her daughter tightly. She smoothed the child’s wispy strawberry-blond curls from her face. “Mama loves you, Lara girl.”
With solemn eyes the same shade of blue as her mother’s, Lara wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck and whispered, “I wuv you, too, Mama.”
From the corner of her eye, Eirica noted the coals in the fire glowed white-hot. She lowered Lara to the ground, picked up a Dutch oven containing the bread dough she’d mixed that morning, and set it among the burning embers glowing in the fire pit. With two forks, she covered the lid with coals—for even baking—then stood back, pleased her “light” bread, made with saleratus instead of yeast, had risen nicely during the warm day. It would be wonderfully tasty served with warm milk from the milch cow they’d purchased in Westport, the place they’d spent the winter preparing for this trip.
Lara followed her mother to the back of the wagon, her hand fisted tightly around Eirica’s skirts, her blanket held in the other. “Where’s Ali?” She stuck her thumb into her mouth and stared at her mother, worry clouding her baby-blue eyes.
Eirica pointed toward Independence Rock. “Your sister went to see the names on the rock with Mr. Jones and his sister, sweetheart. She’ll be back soon. Now go watch over your brother while Mama finishes supper.” For the moment, Ian seemed content to dig in the sandy soil with a spoon, but his attention never stayed on any task long.
Lara walked back slowly, sat on the ground beside Ian and stared at the rock where her sister had gone. Eirica’s heart twisted. This child was a worrier by nature and Eirica couldn’t blame her for fretting whenever her big sister was out of sight. Alison’s harrowing experience of being kidnapped three weeks earlier wasn’t something Eirica would soon forget.
Eirica still had nightmares borne of those long days and even longer nights when she hadn’t known if she would ever see or hug her firstborn again. She closed her eyes, grateful for the happy ending to that episode. With a sigh, she tossed a slab of bacon into a frying pan and set it over the coals. With any luck, the second half of the trail would be downright dull. Between the kidnapping, Birk’s drowning, storms, difficult crossings and stampedes, she’d had enough excitement to last a lifetime.
A tug to her skirts drew her gaze downward. Ian yawned and lifted his little arms up to her. “Is my boy ready for bed?” She smiled and picked him up, loving the feel of his soft, cuddly body next to hers. With a sleepy sigh, he slumped against her. Eirica ran her hand up and down his back. Contentment washed over her as Ian imitated his sister and stuck his thumb in his mouth. With a heart measurably lighter, Eirica hummed softly and swayed side to side in front of the fire.
Lifting her gaze to a sapphire-blue sky marbled with wisps of white clouds just turning gold and pink from the sun’s descent, Eirica forced herself to relax and put the past behind her, to enjoy the beauty of the approaching sunset and the feel of her son snuggled close. For the first time in her life, she had a future of her own making. She’d been given a second chance for a better life and she planned to reach out and take it.
“All I want is to reach Oregon, find a piece of land to call my own and settle down to raise my children in peace.” Over and over, she repeated those words, trying to draw courage from them.
Chapter Two
High atop Independence Rock, James Jones surveyed the land spread out before him with his sister, Jessie, on one side of him and four-year-old Alison Macauley on the other, her small hand tucked securely into his own. From the crowd around them, whispered words of awe mingled with shouts of jubilation.
James sucked in a deep breath and whistled, unable to contain himself in the face of the incredible view and the history surrounding him. “Whoo-ee, great sand and sagebrush! Look at all the wagons down there, Ali girl.” He pointed at the white-topped wagons dotting the area as far as the eye could see. Oxen, mules and horses foraged for food while men, women and children moved with purpose, reminding him of ants scurrying back to their ant hills.
Alison stepped forward, closer to the edge and leaned over. “Where’s Ma’s wagon, James?”
James tightened his hold and pulled the little girl back to his side. As an extra precaution, he rested his free hand on her shoulder. “Not so close to the edge, Ali. It’s a long way down and if anything happens to you, your ma will skin me alive.”
Giggling, Alison glanced up at him, adoration shining in her eyes. “I won’t fall, James. You’re holding my hand tight.”
Still nervous, James backed up a step for good measure and squatted, encircling her with his arms as he pointed. “Your ma’s wagon is way out there.”
“Everything looks so tiny.” Alison leaned into him, her wide eyes taking in the expansive scene. James savored the bond between him and this child. If he had his way, he’d soon be a part of her life—he just had to convince the girl’s mother to give him a chance. After several silent minutes, the youngster pulled away from him and dropped to her knees. She crawled over the rock behind him, using her fingers to trace the names etched into the rock upon which they stood. Relieved that Alison was safely away from the edge, James turned sideways so he could divide his attention between the child and the view.
Jessie’s exclamations echoed his own awe. “Look how the Sweetwater River twists and turns before tumbling through Devil’s Gate.”
From his lofty perch, James studied the Oregon Trail as it followed the winding river. The trail detoured around the deep chasm because wagons wouldn’t fit between the two high ridges. To the west rocks and boulders, some of incredible size, littered the land as far as t
he eye could see. The prospect of negotiating those zigs and zags and rocks left him breathless with anticipation. No sooner did they meet one challenge the land threw at them, than there was another. And if the terrain snaking westward was any indication of things to come, he had the feeling the trip was about to get rougher.
Some said Ash Hollow, that hidden paradise of green grass, pink roses and abundant water that they’d passed through a month ago, was the entrance to hell, and Devil’s Gate the exit, but staring at the rough trail ahead, it looked as though they were about to enter something far worse.
“How can there be so many different and wonderful sights?” Jessie breathed. “I never imagined a world so different from our home. Look at those towering rocks. I didn’t think anything could beat Chimney Rock for being spectacular, but I was wrong.”
James stared down into eyes that not only mirrored his own sense of wonderment, but were also the same deep shade of green as his. Right now, they sparkled with enthusiasm, echoed the underlying excitement running through his own blood. He rolled his eyes. Trust Jessie not to have the good sense to fear what lay ahead.
Never mind that he, too, felt his blood race in anticipation. He loved the constant change, the need to be on his toes. After living a quiet life on a small farm, he knew he’d never forget this trip. Just thinking about the swollen river crossings, steep hills requiring them to lower wagons by rope, and all manner of weather made his blood pump. He ruffled his sister’s medium-length black hair.
“You scamp. You’ve said the same thing of all the landmarks we’ve seen since leaving Westport.”
Jessie giggled and spun around, her face animated, her arms outstretched as if embracing all she saw. “Oh, James, this has been so exciting, such an adventure. I’ll never forget it.”
He pulled her to him for a quick hug. Dressed in a blue flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up past her elbow, woolen trousers that concealed her womanly curves and scuffed boots, she seemed the same old Jess. “Neither will I. And you, my lucky sister, get to travel all this once more when you and Wolf return to his home in the Nebraska Territory come spring.” He sobered. “Life won’t be the same without you, Jess.”
White Nights Page 2