Callie was unaware that sparks flew from her eyes. She was also unaware that the sunlight had settled on her hair giving an ethereal glow to the silver curls. Seth realized he was staring at her hair, searching for words to describe it. Released from a bonnet, it begged to be touched, crushed in his hand. Anger at his reaction spilled out into his words and voice.
“I see you didn’t take my advice and stay in your kitchen,” he said.
“I beg your pardon. I rarely take the advice of rude, unmannered strangers.” Callie heard Mrs. Monroe’s intake of breath and a slight muttering among the men. She could swear she saw a flicker of amusement in the man’s eyes. A flicker, then it was gone.
“We’re, uh, we’re looking for the wagon master or captain,” Mr. Monroe interrupted. “We’ve come to join the train.”
“I’m the Captain. Seth McCallister.” Seth stepped forward, his hand extended to Mr. Monroe. “Henry told me he’d sold two contracts yesterday. Guess they’d be yours.”
“One of them,” Mr. Monroe answered, shaking Seth’s hand. “The other one belongs to this, uh, to Miss Collins.” He stepped to the side leaving Callie to stand alone under Seth McCallister’s cold glare.
“Yours? Did I hear correctly? The other contract belongs to you? But, of course, that means your husband.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. McCallister.” She shoved the contract at him. “You’ll see it’s made out to C. Collins. That’s me. I’m meeting my fiancé in Oregon City. Due to unforeseen circumstances, he is unable to accompany me. Mr. Monroe”—she gestured to the silent man beside her—“has agreed to assist me as necessary. I have hired his son, Caleb, to drive my oxen and also be of help.”
“Well you best unhire him because you aren’t joining this train.” Seth scowled at the paper in his hand.
“And why not? That is your contract, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“And the fee of one hundred dollars was paid and received. Is that not true?”
“It is,” Seth said reluctantly.
“Then what possible reason could you have for refusing me passage on this train?”
“Well, ma’am,” he said in a complacent tone, “I don’t have to have a reason. I’m the captain of the train and what I say goes. I’m guessing you read the contract rules?”
“I did, and I agree with them.” Callie’s chin was up, her back straight.
“You do?” he asked, surprised.
“Of course I do. It would be foolhardy to not abide by the person in charge. Foolhardy and even deadly. Every ship must have a captain, and that person must be firm, sensible, willing to compromise, and possess an ability to listen to others, then make a decision.”
A few snickers could be heard from the men who eagerly listened and watched the byplay.
“And I suppose that to be a captain with the ability to listen to others, that would include listening to you, Miss Collins?”
“It would.” She tapped her foot impatiently. She faced him with dauntless determination.
Seth took off his hat and ran his fingers through his thick, curly hair. Hat back in place, he nodded. “Okay, I’m listening. Convince me why I should allow a lone woman to join my train on a journey most men are afraid to take. Tell me why I wouldn’t be committing murder by making just such a decision. I need to listen as to why you think you could withstand such an arduous and dangerous trip as this and why you wouldn’t be a menace to the safety of everyone else on the train. Well. I’m listening.”
Callie took a deep breath. “Because, Mr. McCallister, I know what I’m capable of. I know I won’t slow down this train nor will I put any man, woman, or child at risk because I am strong. I can ride and shoot as well as most men present. My wagon is properly equipped with necessary supplies and”—she emphasized the next words—“with no frivolous, unnecessary items. You are welcome to inspect it yourself. My wagon is sound and my oxen are strong and healthy. I will not require assistance from anyone here on the train, you included. I have already made provisions for whatever assistance I might require. Made and paid for, Mr. McCallister, just as my contract has been paid for. And”—she took a breath winding down—“there is one other thing.”
“Just one?” he asked with a mocking smile.
“If you don’t take me on this train, I’ll do two things. I’ll alert the sheriff that you took my money under false pretences and, two, I’ll go anyway. I’ll follow your wagon train and eat your dust, all the way to Oregon. And if perchance I do die because I lack the protection of the train, the same protection given to everyone else who purchased a contract, you will have indeed committed murder and my unnecessary death will be on your hands.”
“Good lord, woman, you are not only a menace, but you’re crazy. Stubborn crazy.”
He studied her for several long moments. Not a sound was heard. Callie dared not breathe and hoped no one could hear her pounding heart.
Finally, he spoke. “Miss Collins, I’ll honor your contract. Not”—and he held up his hand to still her—“because of your threat to talk to the sheriff. I feel he’d agree with me. But because of your determination. You would follow behind, wouldn’t you?”
“I would.”
“One mishap. One time of not following my rules or abiding by my decisions. One time you put others in jeopardy. One time of falling behind, and I’ll leave you at the next fort, no matter where it is along the trail. Understood?”
“I understand. But, Mr. McCallister, I’ll expect to be treated with the same forbearance and assistance you will be giving anyone else. Is that understood?”
Seth shook his head. “Lady, don’t push. I’m already regretting this.” He turned to each man, his eyes meeting theirs. “We leave at first light tomorrow morning.” He paused, letting the words sink in. Then he turned back to Callie. “First light. For those of you who don’t know, first light usually comes at four o’clock in the morning. Mr. Monroe, you and Miss Collins will have positions four and five in the train. I want you close to the front. Miss Collins, you have until then to think this foolhardy notion over.” His eyes never left her face as he delivered the last scathing remark. Then, as if she were of no significance, he turned on his heel and walked away.
“Mr. McCallister,” Callie called to his back, “I’ll be up at three having my coffee, ready to pull out at four.”
Chapter 10
Callie’s bed was soft and cozy, the wagon secure and welcoming. Why couldn’t she sleep? Why did she keep replaying the confrontation with Mr. McCallister? Why couldn’t she get his strong face, his blue, heavily lashed, eyes out of her mind, and his emphatic voice out of her ears? And why did he bring out the worst in her? With every word he uttered, she wanted to go toe-to-toe with him.
This wouldn’t do. He was the captain of the train. And she had agreed to accept and abide by his each and every decision. He was in charge, his position demanded her respect, and it would be foolish to defy him either by action or words. She had given herself this good talking throughout the night.
Stiffly, Callie stepped out the back of her wagon. The stars were barely making their ascent back into the heavens when she stirred the banked coals of last night’s fire. She’d put water into her coffee pot and had buried it deep within the dying embers and rocks circling and guarding the fire. There would be heat enough to warm the water and give her a head start to producing a boiling pot of coffee.
Callie blew on the embers and fed some sticks to their glow. Then she arranged several sticks under the pot. She didn’t need a large fire. Mrs. Monroe would do breakfast, but coffee was not only her responsibility, but her delight.
Gently, she lifted the lid. Small bubbles sizzled and danced around the inside of the pot. As soon as it boiled, she would add the ground coffee, removing the coffee pot from the heat where it would simme
r and brew.
The warmth of the fire was welcome. The early morning still had night’s chill. Callie wrapped her skirt around her legs noticing the hem was already dusty. It would be a challenge to keep clothes clean on the trail. A long skirt might be welcome in the morning or evening cool, but it would be hot and cumbersome during the long trek beside the wagon, in the heat of the day.
There. The first gurgle of boiling water. Smiling, Callie lifted the lid and carefully added the coffee. Then she laid a round stick she’d found and kept just for this occasion across the open pot. She’d heard that laying a stick across a boiling pot of coffee would keep it from boiling over into the coals. It was one of the pieces of information she’d heard and decided to keep. And so far, it was working.
Callie tilted her head, closed her eyes, and inhaled. Absolute nectar. Sweet ambrosia. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could equal the smell and taste of coffee brewed over a campfire. When younger, she’d had several camp outs in the field behind her aunt’s house. Callie had been schooled by her aunt on how to build a campfire, how to tend it, and how to assure it didn’t get away and become a raging menace. Callie was careful with her fires and always saw that every ember was dead when finished.
Of course, Callie was under the watchful eye of Aunt Bertha, but to the young girl, the campouts had represented freedom and independence. She lay out under the stars as often as possible, and would shut her eyes to block out the outline of her aunt’s house, pretending she was grown and on her own. Even then, she’d knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it.
The coffee bubbled merrily and Callie inched it to the edge of the fire, out of the coals. Then she poured a cup of cold water into the pot to settle the grounds. Almost ready. She was just bending over, cup in one hand, pot in the other, when a low voice spoke behind her, startling her.
“Smells good.”
Before she turned, she knew who it was. “Mr. McCallister. Checking on me?” Darn, why’d she say that? Two seconds into the conversation and she was being defiant.
He chuckled. “Didn’t know you needed checking on, Miss Collins.”
“I don’t.” He was mocking her. His next words took her by surprise.
“Don’t suppose you have an extra cup?”
“Why, yes I do.” Stunned, she made no move, her hand resting on the pot.
“But not for me?”
Callie jumped back. “Of course for you. What I mean is, I’ll get the cup. Here, you can have mine. I’ll just get me another.” The words trailed behind her as she climbed into the back of the wagon and opened the trunk containing dishes.
Cup in hand, Callie held it out to the man, who promptly filled it. She shifted the cup to her face and took a deep breath.
“Nothing like the first cup.” Seth took a sip of the hot brew. He squatted down by the fire and, using her coffee stick, stirred the dying embers.
“You’ve made a few campfires.” A statement, not a question.
“Some.”
“Being able to make a campfire doesn’t qualify you for the journey you’re about to undertake, Miss Collins.”
Callie bristled. Of course. He wasn’t stopping by to be neighborly. He was here to change her mind. “I’m not so naïve I don’t realize that, Mr. McCallister.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“Then what are you saying?”
He stood up, coffee cup cradled in his large hand. He was close enough Callie could smell the pleasant aroma of soap and witch hazel. Seth McCallister obviously wasn’t a man who let the confines of the trail stop him from shaving and being clean.
“I’m saying, or trying to tell you, just what you’re in for. You may be able to shoot and ride, but have you ever shot a man while riding hell bent for leather in front of an angry band of Indians, aiming to take your head of hair for trophy on a war lance? Your hair, Ma’am, is like waving a red shirt in front of a bull.”
Involuntarily, Callie’s hand went to her head. “And why would my hair be any different from anyone else’s, Mr. McCallister?”
“You’ve seen the head of a dandelion after it’s gone to seed?” He went on not waiting for an answer. “When the sun hits your hair, that’s the color it becomes. I’ve never seen hair that color,” he said almost reverently, “and it’s darn sure the Indians haven’t either. Your scalp would be a trophy worth dying for. You’ll attract them like lightning to a tree.”
“You’re exaggerating.” Her voice went cold with a slight waver of fear.
“Nope.” He tipped his cup and drank the last drop. He tossed a few remaining dregs into the ashes of the fire, sat the cup on a nearby rock, and turned to leave.
“We’ll pull out shortly. Thank you for the coffee, Miss Collins. You make a fine cup.”
“Thank you,” Callie said quietly. “Mr. McCallister?” she called.
“Yes?” He stopped and turned.
“It didn’t work. I’m still going.”
“Didn’t think it would.” He continued into the receding night.
Callie slowly sipped her coffee, but some of the joy had been lost. Seth McCallister hadn’t frightened her away, but he had made her think. She’d keep her bonnet on during the day. She knew her hair would only turn lighter under the rays of the sun. Dandelion top, indeed. Still, the comparison to the snowy, nebulous seeds hadn’t been too far off.
Callie kicked dirt over the fire until every ember was dead. Dust settled over her new boots. They weren’t much to look at, but were sturdy enough to get her the miles she needed to go. She’d bought extra leather for any repairs, but, she stomped her snugly encased feet, how it would be possible to wear a hole in leather this tough was beyond her.
She carried the partially full coffee pot back to the wagon and wedged it carefully between barrels. A cup of coffee, warm or cold, during the day would go far in keeping her alert.
The train didn’t make it out at the crack of dawn. It was a good hour past before some semblance of order was formed. Seth McCallister rode at the front of the train, his hand raised to the sky and his voice loud and strong.
“Wagon’s Ho.”
Chapter 11
Through all the mishaps of that day, Seth kept the train steadily moving. Though unseasoned and untried, this group would prove to be one of the better band of folks he’d lead West. There were early signs of unity and a spirit of cooperation and kindheartedness that permeated as the wagons circled for the night.
Folks called to each other from campfire to campfire and several families put their meals together to enjoy a variety of cooking and some much needed conversation. They would draw strength from one another and, from this, have the fortitude to go on each day. He knew that it wouldn’t take long for them to realize they were only as good as the whole.
He’d joined one such dinner. He was usually glad to accept these frequent invitations knowing that what they had to offer would beat eating his own cooking. Left on his own, his meals consisted of warmed-up beans and maybe some fried potatoes or bacon, if he had it. Game was often plentiful and he and Henry tried to keep the camp in fresh meat. He knew he contributed more to the train’s larder than he took away.
But tonight, he wished he hadn’t felt obligated to accept the invitation. Not that he wasn’t hungry. He was. But he was tired, not the physical tiredness that a good night’s sleep would cure, but mentally exhausted. The strain of the day pulled at him and he wanted nothing more than to throw his bedroll into a secluded area, and enjoy the solitude of his own campfire. He was worn out with talking, explaining, riding from one calamity to another, trying to be everywhere at once. This was typical for the first few days of any wagon train, where twenty wagons and even more people seemed to be pulling in opposite directions. Still, they’d made more miles than he’d expected. Tomorrow would be better, and each d
ay after that, too. If the weather held out and no obstacles came in their path for the next week or so, they’d season quickly and be better able to meet the dangers that were sure to come.
Seth neared the group. Some of the men were eating, while several of the women dished up plates from blackened pots hanging over the fire. Everywhere, he was greeted by smiles and friendly hellos. He had quickly earned the respect of the wagon train. He’d had an answer for every problem, a willing back, and extra pair of hands for the hardest tasks.
He took a seat and a plate of food. He figured he’d take bites of the savory stew and be on his way.
“I seem to be offering you a cup of coffee starting and finishing the day, Mr. McCallister.”
He looked up into the smiling face of Callie Collins. Her emerald green eyes sparkled even though lines of fatigue etched her lovely face. Her dress bore the trail’s dirt and her boots were scuffed. Yet she had been one of the few wagons able to follow his directions without accident or delay. Callie had not only kept up, but several times he saw her carrying a young child or coaxing one of the women to take a rest on the seat on her wagon.
“I wouldn’t refuse one, that’s for sure.” He took the cup from her hand, and started to rise, offering her the rock where he’d been sitting.
“Have you ate?” he asked.
“No, and please sit down. To tell the truth, I’m wanting my bed more than I’m wanting food. I’m sure I’ll toughen as the days go on, but tonight your order to circle the wagons almost brought tears of joy to my eyes.”
A grin brightened his face. “That bad, huh?”
She nodded. “Can I get you something else? More stew?”
“Well, there is something. I’d like another biscuit if there’s plenty. The one I had was so light it floated from my plate to my stomach. I don’t know when I’ve tasted any that good.”
Unconquerable Callie Page 6