by Vivi Holt
She knew, if she dared think about it, that Quincey would come after her. As soon as he saw she’d left her place outside Tandy’s, he’d come looking and he wouldn’t stop until he found where she was. Then she’d pay. She’d seen the way he’d collected a toll from his workers, the animals on his farm and the sporting women who crept from his bed in the early hours of the morning. She’d seen it all from her home on the opposite side of the lane from his shanty. She knew how he treated anyone who had the misfortune to be included in his life, and she knew what she’d have to bear when he caught up with her.
The knowledge made her insides quake with fear, but it didn’t cause her to stop. She kept going, creeping along behind the cowboy, shivering inside, and all the while the thought flew around and around in her head. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.
They soon passed by the dusty, little church where Genevieve had recently become Mrs. Ewing. She saw Quincey’s wagon parked out front where they’d left it earlier, and peered over the lip of the wagon bed. A dingy carpet bag sat in the back of the wagon. She reached inside and deftly pulled it from the wagon. It fell in the dirt at her feet with a thump, raising a cloud of dust to swirl about her skirts. With a frown, she bent and opened the latch, lifting the lid gingerly to look inside.
She gasped. It was full of her clothes and personal items!
Fred must have packed it when she wasn’t looking earlier that morning. He’d asked her to feed the shoats after breakfast, and when she’d carried their food scraps out to the yard he must have packed her things and slipped them into Quincey’s wagon. She snapped the carpet bag closed again, and hefted it over her shoulder. The cowboy had almost disappeared from view, she’d have to hurry. She picked up her skirts and scampered down the street after him, the bag clenched firmly under her arm.
They came to the Fort Worth Stockyards. A large sign to announce that fact hung directly above her head with big block letters all in red. Behind the sign, paling fences marked off small squares of dirt and enclosed hundreds of cattle. They bawled and clashed their long horns against the railings, jousting with each other in the small enclosures. Browns, whites, tans and creams – their coats were dull with dust, and they shivered against the onslaught of flies that hovered thick above them, darting in to land on a hide before being swatted away by a heavy tail or chased off by a moist nose.
The cowboy paused by the stockyards, raising one foot to rest on a low railing as he surveyed the cattle. He pulled a toothpick from his mouth and flicked a piece of food into the grass. Genevieve stood in silence, waiting. She didn’t have a plan; she was just following the man with kind eyes.
He set off again, past the yards, the rowels of his spurs spinning and tinging with each step he took. Beyond the yards he came to a clearing. Past the clearing Genevieve could see the dry plains spread as far as the eye could see to the distant horizon under the enormous Texan sky that pulled itself taut and hazy above the dusty landscape.
On the edge of those plains, in the clearing, an enormous herd of longhorns milled around. Around them on horseback sat a few covered wagons and a group of cowboys watching the cattle closely. The cowboy climbed onto the back of a bay horse that stood saddled and tied to the back of one of the wagons. He tipped his hat at another man who walked between the wagons toward Genevieve, then drew the reins and trotted off.
Genevieve squinted as the dust borne on a warm wind came in gusts off the plain and hit her full in the face. What should she do now? The cowboy had disappeared around the outside of the herd and she could follow no further. The man walking toward her was closer now and she could see his brow furrowed in concentration. He had a handsome, darkly tanned face with chiseled features. Several chestnut curls escaped the tight fit of his black Stetson, and when he glanced her way she caught her breath. His eyes were pale blue and sparkled under the brim of his low-drawn hat.
Without thinking, Genevieve ducked behind the closest covered wagon. Her heart raced and she held her breath. The canvas that covered the wagon was joined to the timber frame directly in front of her eyes, and she noticed as she hid there that it had popped open on one side. She pulled it away from the wagon frame and poked her head up through the gap. The schooner was chock-full of food stuffs and kitchenware: cured meats, wheels of cheese, flour, eggs, pickled and canned fruits and vegetables, as well as containers of things she couldn’t make out. All were stacked up in the midst of frying pans, pots, utensils and spices.
Her eyes widened in surprise and delight. She had never in her life seen so many good things to eat, and in fact it had been a number of years since she’d had a hearty meal. Since Ma died, Fred had always insisted she cook for him, never leaving her enough to eat herself. She felt her mouth moisten at the sight of all that delectable food and her stomach growled, twisting tightly as she considered how it might taste. She climbed up on a step that jutted out at the base of the wagon bed, then pushed herself over the edge and inside, pulling the carpet bag behind her.
She landed with a grunt on a wheel of cheese. She’d never seen so much cheese! If only she had a knife. There must be one around here somewhere. No, what was she thinking? That would be stealing, and there was no way she could get away with slicing into a full wheel of cheese without anyone finding out about it.
If she was going to steal – which she wasn’t – it would make a lot more sense to take one of those delicious-looking red apples in the barrel beside the cheese. No one would ever notice that an apple was missing from a barrel that size. But of course that was still stealing, and hungry as she was, she knew Ma would never approve of such behavior, God rest her soul.
Her stomach growled again and she licked her lips. It was just a tiny little apple. Surely there wasn’t a person on this Earth who would object to her taking one teeny apple.
She reached out and plucked one from the top of the barrel. It felt cool to the touch, and as she pushed it into her mouth and bit down hard into its crisp flesh, the juice ran down her chin and dripped onto her skirts. She leaned back against the hard, rounded side of the barrel and put her feet up on top of the cheese as she munched.
Just then, the wagon jolted and moved forward. She stopped chewing and sat upright, listening intently. She could hear the bellowing of the cattle and the whistles and calls of the cowboys – they were moving out. She wondered where they were headed. Never mind – wherever it was she hoped it was as far from Fort Worth and Quincey Ewing as she could get. She lay back down and took another bite.
Keep reading…
Also by Vivi Holt
Orphan Brides Go West
Mail Order Bride: Christy
Mail Order Bride: Ramona
Mail Order Bride: Katie
Mail Order Bride: Holly (coming soon!)
Cutter’s Creek
The Strong One
The Betrothed
Cherished
Paradise Valley
Of Peaks and Prairies
For an updated list of my books, please visit:
www.viviholt.com
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About the Author
Vivi Holt was born in Australia. She grew up in the country, where she spent her youth riding horses at Pony Club, and adventuring through the fields and rivers around the farm. Her father was a builder, turned saddler, and her mother a nurse, who stayed home to raise their four children.
After graduating from a degree in International Relations, Vivi moved to Atlanta, Georgia to work for a year. It was there that she met her husband, and they were married three years later. Vivi also studied for a Bachelor of Information Technology, and has worked in the field ever since. She spent seven years living in Atlanta and travelled to various parts of the United States during that time, falling in love with the beauty of that immense country and the American people.
She now lives in Brisbane, Australia with her husb
and and three small children. Married to a Baptist pastor, she is very active in her local church, and continues to work part-time as a Knowledge and Information Manager. Whatever spare time she has left after all of that goes into writing – something she has only recently discovered, but now loves to do.
Historical Note
And Author’s Remarks
This story was inspired by the true story of the Sager family. They set out together on the Oregon trail in 1844 after Mr Sager decided he was no longer content with the life of tranquil domesticity they had. On their way west, both parents died - one after the other — just as the Singers did. They left seven children alone in the world, with only the kindness of strangers also undertaking the journey to help them. A caring doctor accompanied them as far as a Protestant Mission where the Whitmans cared for them until their own death at the hand of the local Indians in a massacre.
The history of the Sager family, and in particular Catherine Sager who lived to tell the tale in her moving account, Across The Plains, is a very touching one. It’s hard for us in this modern age to even imagine the hardship and trauma that people of that time encountered.
I wanted to tell a story of a group of children orphaned on the Oregon Trail, as the Sagers were, and what might have happened to them if they’d found their way to the warm and loving township of Cutter’s Creek. I imagined that if they could only struggle along until they stumbled upon that town, the wonderful townsfolk there would take them in and care for them. This story is the result of those imaginings. Even though this book is ultimately a happy one, I strove also to depict something of the hardship and tragedy of the time period.
We first met Heath Moore in The Betrothed, when he was an unsuccessful suitor for Charlotte Beaufort. At the time, we knew he was a manly man who struggled a little with intimacy and expressing himself. Yet, in this book he finds someone he’s comfortable enough around to really show his true colors. Margaret appears at the end of Cherished, but we don’t find out much about her. I wanted her to have an internal motivation for stepping forward and offering to take in the children — and losing her own parents at a young age seemed as satisfactory a reason as any.
Charolais were a French breed of cattle that were quite popular at one point in the history of the area, as they were large and hearty beef cattle. So, I decided to make Heath a Charolais rancher. I wanted to show him as a man who was willing to take risks, but I also wanted to make him successful, to give the reader a glimpse of the wonderful life ahead for the Singer children as they finally discovered warm and loving guardians, and a home with plenty of every good thing they could need in life.
Christmas is a time of hope, and the Singer children, after having experienced the worst kind of tragedy, find hope — we leave them just as we glimpse this hope-filled future as they are enjoying their first white Christmas in Cutter’s Creek before a warm fire and surrounded by loved ones.
May you find hope this Christmas too, remembering the birth of our wonderful savior, Jesus.
My love, Vivi xo