“The extra weight is wear and tear on the wagons and the horses,” gritted Reuben, thrusting his face forward, and clenching his hands at his side.
Turning toward him from halfway across the room, her nose elevated, she snapped, “I am quite sure there is some type of society out there, and I will require decent attire. I don’t take orders from you, Mister Frank.”
Reuben felt the veins in his neck pop and a hot flare in his cheeks. He slapped the door so hard the doorframe quivered. “This topic is not open to discussion. Go down there and choose what you need that will fit in two trunks or by God, I will unload all six of them on the street!”
Walking briskly back to him, Rebecca thrust her face just a foot from his, her hands on her hips.
“No one talks to me that way! You will do no such thing.”
Reuben edged closer, pointing at her.
“You have thirty minutes to shift those trunks. I want to get the wagon loaded in daylight. Get some porters and Inga to help you. The hotel will store the other four until you return. This trip is not some countryside picnic in the rolling hills of Devonshire. I will not let your selfish lack of common sense jeopardize us or others on the wagon train.”
Her arms rigid and her breasts heaving, Rebecca stomped her foot. “Who put you in charge?” she stuttered through clenched teeth.
“I did.” said Reuben simply. “Thirty minutes.” Wheeling from her, he opened the door, slamming it behind him, and walked down the hall.
Wrenching the still vibrating door open, Rebecca jumped into the corridor. “How dare you!” she shouted. Guests in the hallway turned, surprised and curious at the commotion. Reuben gave them a cold glance. He heard her door again slam behind him.
Returning to the growing mounds of supplies and bags on the curb, he found Johannes shouting orders in his Scandinavian tongue and gesturing wildly, surrounded by the coolies who were equally animated and jabbering in some oriental dialect. Rebecca’s voice floated down from several floors above his head, “Reuben Frank, you are a rude, impossible man.”
Reuben looked up. Rebecca was leaning out her window. As soon as she knew she had caught his attention, she quickly withdrew from the window, shutting it with a crack that could be clearly heard on the street.
“You better find Inga and get those trunks arranged or I will throw them in the street!” Reuben yelled up at the empty glass.
*****
March 18, 1855
Dawn on the day of departure was a brilliant palette of indigo in retreat to the west and blossoming fire orange to the east. The Mississippi had a slight chop from the morning wind, the surface ripples reflecting the burgeoning day in a shimmer of color. The east side of the river was a scene of frenetic activity. The forty-one wagons in the train contained several childless couples and a number of families. There were two steam tugs, each dragging its own barge across the river. The barges were just big enough to accommodate several wagons and teams. On the west side, the wagons that had already been transported were grouping in single file, pointed west toward the Rockies a thousand miles distant. Mac’s shouted directions boomed over the murmur of the river and the chatter of the pioneers. The whinny of horses, bleat of oxen and bray of mules echoed across the water.
By later morning, all the wagons were across the river and the wagon master had the train fully organized. He put Inga and Rebecca’s wagon third in line, where there was less dust. Johannes was driving the wagon to teach the women how to use the lines and brake. His horses and the two extra mounts Reuben had purchased were tied to the back.
Twisting in his saddle Reuben searched for Zeb. Far behind the last wagon and a quarter mile to the south, he picked out a figure on a painted horse leading three mules. As I would have expected, he mused. He turned his attention back to the front of the train.
Mac was up toward the first wagon astride a stocky, red sorrel that matched him well, cursing as the excited horse shook its head and pranced sideways.
“Reuben, check those last wagons and make sure they’re ready. Let’s get this damned show moving. We’re already late!” Mac bellowed.
Reuben’s horse was agitated, too. “Easy, Lahn.” Reaching down, he patted the blond neck of the big Palomino. The gelding snorted, shaking his head, and stomped a dance in a quarter circle. Wheeling the muscular horse, he cantered toward the rear of the line of wagons. He was not yet used to the deep trough of the western saddle, a far cry from the European tack he was familiar with but he liked the feel of the heavy leather footing underneath his hips. As he passed the rigs at the center of the train, he was shocked to see the attractive redheaded girl from the Edinburgh sitting on the driver’s bench of one of the wagons. And that bully from the ship, Jacob, is with her.
Sarah had a heavy shawl over her shoulders, appearing cold and unhappy in the cool of the spring morning. Jacob seemed to be busy with the brake. Reuben caught Sarah’s eye. She seemed as startled as he but there was something other than simple surprise in her look. Smiling widely, she waved. Reuben pulled down on the brim of his hat in return.
The coincidence of Jacob and Sarah on the same wagon train, and the apparent fact that they were a couple, was troubling. Not her type at all. Very off. Reining up in a swirl of dust at the last wagon, a Conestoga, he shouted, “Ready?”
The thickset man with a ruddy face who drove grinned widely. “Let’s go!” He had just unfurled a several-foot-wide American flag from a pole he had lashed to the side of the wagon at the front rim of the curved canvas top. The colors looked old to Reuben. They snapped in the wind, and he felt his eyes widen. “That is a version of the United States flag I have never seen. Thirteen stars in a circle on the blue? What does that mean?”
The driver beamed proudly. “This here…,” he gestured, “was the flag my great-grandpappy carried in the revolution. That’s just eighty-odd years ago, ya know. Family has been in Virginny since the sixteen hundreds. It was the first flag of this country—called the Betsy Ross circular. There ain’t many of ‘em around anymore. We usually just fly her on July Fourth but we figgered what we’re doin’ is about as big as then, so—‘cept for bad weather—this cloth is goin’ to be full-view to God and country all the way to the Rockies. I aim to fly it on a big tall post before I set the first foundation stone for our homestead.”
Next to him, his buxom wife smiled and nodded. Two round-faced little girls peeked from between their mother and father.
Reuben was not fully sure of the man’s meaning but decided he could find out more later. Easing Lahn alongside the wagon, he fumbled in his shirt pocket. “Do you like jerky?” he asked, leaning from the horse, and holding out the treat to the children. They hid their faces, giggling. “Come on, take it,” Reuben coaxed. Taking a bite himself, he smacked his lips. “Umm, good.” Laughing shyly the older girl extended a pudgy hand and took the dried meat. “Fine children,” Reuben said.
Their mother smiled. “That’s Becky and Eleanor. I am Margaret and this is my husband, Harris.” Becky and Eleanor were chewing contentedly on the jerky. “Perhaps you would join us for dinner one night, Mister…?”
“Frank. Reuben Frank. And yes, that would be my pleasure. You can tell me more of the flag story.”
Turning in his saddle, Reuben raised himself high in the stirrups, waving his hat in the air. Far to the front of the line of wagons, he heard Mac roar, “Move ‘em out!”
To be continued…
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THE SAGA CONTINUES…
BOOK Two of the Threads West, An American Saga Series
PREVIEW
Maps of Fate—Book Two
The Threads West, An American Saga series continues with the second novel, Maps of Fate.
Maps of Fate builds the suspense of this epic series as the dark history and elusive promise of the Threads West parchment maps play out through the personal filter of each of the characters you have come to know and care for in Book One. They are propelled from one adventure, dan
ger, romantic twist and encounter to the next, each challenging experience hurtling them toward their destinies. Lethal surprises overtake some of the Threads West personalities when they are forced to defend their lives, their loved ones and their honor. New characters color the tapestry of the tale with their dark hearts, lost souls, cruelty and hopeful innocence. Others, newly free and in search of family, a sense of place and their slice of America, catapult into the story.
They begin to build a nation whose essence is in transition, their lives shaken by events and convergences with other souls they could not foresee. An elderly black couple sets their life sails for winds of freedom. An Oglala Sioux family struggles to cope with the foreshadow of lands and culture forever changed. Mormons stream west in the Great Exodus escaping persecution, and searching for Zion. A black-hearted renegade is unknowingly catapulted by his tortured past into possible redemption. Torrid passions and bittersweet ironies unfold in harrowing trials and joyous triumphs that give rise to the next generation of compelling characters in the series.
You will recognize the characters that live in these pages. They are your neighbors, your family, your co-workers. They are you and they are us; the threads of many lives—both men and women—from different locations, ancestry, social and financial backgrounds, faiths and beliefs. They are personalities forged on the anvil of the land, woven together by fate and history, and bound by the commonality of the American spirit into the tapestry that is our nation.
A surprising convergence of events in Maps of Fate sets in motion the thrilling, yet heartrending conclusion of Book Two, setting the stage for the continuation of the saga in Book Three, Uncompahgre—where water turns rock red. As the tale continues, readers will grow ever more spellbound by the passionate meld of the American spirit with the souls of the generations, the building of the heart of the nation, and the powerful energy and beauty of the western landscape.
To be continued…
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Excerpt from Book Two, Maps of Fate
SURPRISED
There were more and more Indians now inside their circle, splitting the pioneer firepower from the outside of their shield of wagons. The two wagons in the river were burning. Johannes and another man were dragging Thelma and the doctor through the creek. The corpses of two pioneers and two warriors drifted downstream bobbing in the current like lifeless logs. Sarah stood stupefied; her knees trembled. The sweat of heat and fear ran down her temples in grimy streaks. Smoke from the burning canvases, dust, and gray puffs of gunpowder rendered everything surreal, softening the apparitional shapes of the wounded and bodies strewn in grotesque positions. The guttural whoops of the attackers, screams of petrified and dying animals, and moans of pain echoed among the wagons and the sharp sounds of gunshots.
Sarah held the Sharps in one hand, breech open, ready for loading, frozen in shocked disbelief. The scene was incomprehensible. Through the haze of the battle raging around the wagons, she saw the shadowy figures of Mac, Reuben and Johannes sprinting to a breach where the Indians had pulled over one of the smaller rigs. In that gap, Zeb, a knife in each hand, and two other men from the train, struggled in mortal combat with an increasing number of lance and tomahawk wielding invaders. Reuben and Mac each carried two rifles. Johannes had his carbine in one grip, pistol in the other. His saber scabbard slapped against his leg as he ran.
Sarah saw him look over his shoulder and could barely make out his shout. “Behind us!”
Johannes wheeled, ghostlike in the brownish gray cloud that enveloped the conflict, and stood calmly erect, his pistol extended.
He fired once from the Colt. The rider of the horse bearing down on the three jerked violently from the impact of the .44 caliber slug, then somersaulted backward over the rear of his steed. He lay unmoving, barely discernible in the groundswell of dust.
Sarah’s eyes quickly searched the nearby wagons. Jacob had disappeared. Her mouth fell open when she saw Harris wrestling with a much smaller Indian who was obviously after that heirloom American flag, hanging ripped, tattered and limp in the semi-opaque heat. Disbelief knifed through her numb detachment. What type of people are these who risk their life for a piece of old cloth? Below Harris, Margaret wielded her musket like a club, keeping another attacker at bay. Two men ran through the din to assist her.
“Sarah, load the damn rifle!” came Rebecca’s frantic shout. Sarah jolted back to reality. Trying to control the trembling that had overtaken her body, she jammed the cartridge into the Sharps with shaking fingers, then handed the long gun to Rebecca who, in turn, gave her the Enfield she had just discharged. Rebecca turned, rested the receiver and forestock over the lip of the wagon and swung the muzzle as she found another target.
Without looking back, Rebecca commanded in a loud voice, “Inga, reload that Enfield. Quickly!”
Pressed against the side of the wagon box, Sarah fumbled in the saddlebag Rebecca had draped over the wagon wheel for the next round. She heard a whisper in the air, like the sound a small bird makes on a calm, peaceful evening in the stillness just before dark. Then a sudden, hollow, resounding thud. A woman’s voice cried out in pain.
To be continued…
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Excerpt from Book Two, Maps of Fate
REVELATION
Rebecca smiled to herself as she walked away from the wagon and entered the scattered trees that separated the circular encampment from the river. She reached the edge of the river, drew up the hem of her skirt and shook her head at the tiny explosion of trail dust from the fabric. Leaning her Sharps against a cluster of boulders, she checked carefully for nettles before easing herself down in a small grassy nook between the rocks. The circle of wagons was not more than two hundred feet away but she felt almost as if they did not exist. She was alone in a vast empty space on the edges of the Big Nemahaw, five thousand miles from the expansive city she called home, or had called home. She furrowed her brow at the thought.
Above the gentle murmur of the river current where it caressed the shore, she heard the faint crackle of the campfires, occasional laughter, and the clang of stirring ladles chiming dully against interiors of the great iron pots suspended from tripods as supper was prepared.
Every so often, muted male voices cursed softly in unison with snorts of horses and the low brays of oxen as men carried water buckets to the stock. Downriver, the diffused steel-gray curtain of dusk stole toward her like a phantom from the east, gradually swallowing the golden waves of the prairie grasses visible in breaks in the mixed deciduous cover. To the west, the last rim of retreating sun blazed in an orange glory, its rings of shallow red, then fading pink and pale yellow, bidding farewell to the day in concentric arcs of flaming color.
The vastness, the emptiness, the sheer space enveloped her. The promise of tomorrow, etched in the direction of the dying sun, stirred a feeling of excitement. She sighed almost reluctantly at the remnants of disappearing blue as the evening sky darkened. She tried to remember home—her bedroom, and the cobblestone street lined by similar stately row houses outside the great front door of their elegant London abode. I wonder how you are, Mother? She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the cooling breeze to focus on the memory of crowds, city noise and fine linens but the images remained distant, as if from a long ago dream.
To be continued…
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Excerpt from Book Two, Maps of Fate
PROPHECY
SHE FELT THE FIRE IN the smooth caress of his fingertips as they traced across her breast, lingered on her erect and pulsing nipple, then continued down her hips and came to rest lightly, longingly, on the concave valley of smooth belly between her hips. The smell of him, and of them, mingled with the fragrance of sunbaked sage.
Her heart pounded, a strange tingling heat permeated her loins and she could feel the blush in her face. This was a feeling she’d never known, could never imagine, could barely absorb on so many levels. She swept
a soft palm over the cords of muscle in his arm. She was consumed by a desperate wanting, a deep primal need that overrode her butterfly fear of the unknown. She gasped, her hips writhing involuntarily as he lowered himself gently onto her. A momentary stab of pain was followed by an overwhelming wash of pleasure, which enveloped her being as he slowly, carefully, began to sink into her.
She groaned, a muffled cry equally grounded in passion, trepidation and longing. He stopped, tenderly brushed a calloused thumb slowly across her forehead and down her cheek and looked deep into her eyes, “Am I hurting you?”
She felt the tears welling in the corners of her eyes. She bit her lip and shook her head, her full answer to the question an ever-tightening wrap of her arms around his shoulders, the increasing instinctive bend of her knees, and the firm plant of her heels against the muscular flesh of his buttocks, drawing him in. “Please… please,” she moaned.
To be continued…
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Excerpt from Book Two, Maps of Fate
RENEGADE
Black Feather waited until Crow and the girl were one hundred yards away on the other side of the wagon. He climbed on the wagon seat, reached into the bed and dragged the front half of the mother’s body from behind the canvas. He checked quickly to make sure the canvas top blocked the girl’s view. His blade flashed in the sunlight and moved several times in a saw-like motion, its sharp edge making a swishing sound like a rough finger drawn back and forth across wet parchment. Black Feather rose, scalp in one bloody hand and the silver-red knife dripping in the other.
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