Well, she didn't care. She straightened on the hard wagon seat and glared at the falling snow. Cody Snow and his blue, blue eyes meant nothing to her. She and Cody Snow would begin and end this miserable journey as strangers. That's how it had to be. And that's exactly what Perrin wanted. Obviously, it was what Cody wanted too.
She had no idea why she suddenly felt sad.
Bootie Glover leaned to the fire and extended her gloves over the flames that Mem had finally managed to coax into life.
"My head is still reeling, my bottom hurts, and I'm freezing! I swan, Mem, I've never been so miserable in my life!"
Mem paused to watch snowflakes tumbling into the biscuit dough she stirred on the wagon sideboard. Wearing gloves made her actions clumsy, but she'd pulled the gloves back on after her fingers started to tingle and turn blue with cold. A sudden smile curved her lips. The unusually cold weather and cooking with her gloves on would make an entertaining story for her trip journal.
"Don't stand too close to the flames," she called absently, glancing at Bootie. "Mind your hem."
"Can't we have a larger fire? Some of the others have bigger fires than ours."
Mem pressed her lips together and strove for patience. "If you want to go search for more wood, we can have a larger fire," she said finally.
Bootie peered uncertainly into the snowy darkness. "It's black out there, and everything's covered by drifts. There might be wild animals roaming around."
"Then stop complaining."
"Well, you don't need to snap." Bootie turned toward Mem with a liquid-eyed look of injury. "And I wasn't complaining. I was just stating facts. It is freezing. And there probably are wild animals out there." After a minute she sighed and added, "And our fire is smaller than everyone else's."
Mem pulled off balls of dough and arranged them in the skillet. At least Bootie had found something to complain about besides coach fever, her favorite topic along the trail. The only relief from an ongoing monologue of symptoms had come when they rolled past the graves.
Seeing the graves had prompted Bootie to recite a tearful remembrance of their mother's death, then recount her two miscarriages and agonize over the infant who had died in childbirth. The next set of snowy graves had brought on sobs mourning the deaths of their father and Bootie's husband, Robert.
Mem wrapped a scarf more securely around her throat, shoved a lock of auburn hair into her bonnet, then cut slices of ham into a second skillet and continued the dialogue going on inside her head. She supposed all spinsters talked to themselves.
She told herself that she didn't feel any less deeply about their shared losses, but she thought it depressing to dwell on painful subjects. She didn't refuse to discuss the death of their loved ones because she was cold inside, as Bootie so wrongly hinted, but because the pain was too great, and she preferred to look forward rather than back. When she did look backward, she chose to remember happy, pleasant moments, rather than drown herself in sadness and loss. She was not a cold woman, far from it. Glancing up from the skillet, she watched Bootie leaning over the flames and thought how shocked her sister would be to know just how brightly burned Mem's inner fires.
Bootie moved one of the camp chairs that Mem had dragged from the back of the wagon, and sat as close as she dared to the small fire. She pressed a hand to her stomach and groaned.
"I still feel like I'm rocking. And I'm so cold. We haven't had a decent meal and so far this whole journey has been so purely awful that I'm wondering why we agreed to go west."
Mem placed the skillets on the fire, then studied her sister's face in the light leaping from the flames. Bootie had always been the pretty sister, the amiable sister, the sister with the beaus and later a husband. Robert Glover had been charmed by Bootie's fluttery helplessness and by her reliance on his judgment and guidance. To Mem's knowledge, Robert had never noticed that Bootie depended not only on him, but on whoever happened to be nearby. And, of course, there was always someone nearby to smooth over Bootie's mistakes or her tactless remarks, to step in when responsibilities became overwhelming, or to flatten the bumps that appeared on Bootie's road.
"Why did you decide to come?" Mem asked.
"Why, to be with you, of course." Bootie's eyebrows lifted and she looked puzzled that Mem had posed the question.
The answer bowed Mem's head with guilt. She ground her teeth together.
Bootie and Robert had given her a home. They had genuinely welcomed her and had treated her as a valued sister and not as a servant, as happened to so many spinsters dependent upon a relative's largesse. She had no right to wish that Bootie had not accompanied her on this adventure. Her resentment was a shameful example of gross ingratitude.
To make amends, she offered Bootie the best, uncharred biscuits and the pinkest slices of ham. As further penance, she listened with as much patience as she could muster to a comparison of Augusta Boyd's mourning garb to their own plainer attire. And she assured Bootie that the lack of a few ribbons and furbelows did not mean they mourned the loss of their father less than Augusta mourned the loss of hers.
"And Robert," Bootie added with a catch in her throat. "I begged him not to accompany Father downriver. I pleaded."
"I know you did," Mem said soothingly. She felt trapped and wild inside. There was so much life out there, teeming all around them, but all they could talk about was death or illness.
Later, when they lay in their frigid tent, bundled in thick quilts, Mem silently chastised herself for wishing Bootie had remained in Chastity, and she waged a battle against the resentment she couldn't seem to vanquish.
But this trip should have been hers and hers alone. When she first spotted the advertisement for Oregon wives that Cody Snow had placed in the Chastity Gazetteer , every dream she had ever wistfully dismissed again sprang to vibrant life.
At once she envisioned herself traveling to Oregon, and she eavesdropped on future generations as they related her story in tones of awe and admiration. Her descendants would marvel at the courage required to cross half a continent, to conquer dangers only hinted at in Mem's journal. They would shake their heads and exchange wide-eyed glances when they read about fording wild rivers or preparing a meal while wearing gloves. In her lovely fantasy, her descendants would memorialize her as a brave pioneer spirit. Instead of being an invisible branch on the family tree, Mem would blossom forth as an inspiration to future generations.
But Bootie had spoiled the dream. Now Mem had to share her story. And if a fluttery little thing like Bootie Grant Glover could cross half a continent, then doing so could only be a tame adventure. The tale became ordinary.
Mem sighed and gazed at the roof of the tent.
She should have been born a man. If she had been a man she would have traveled the seven seas, founded a nation, invented an object to change the world. She would have opened continents, forged constitutions, battled unknown dangers. Oh, she would have had such experiences, such grand escapades.
But destiny had decreed otherwise. Fate had made her a woman, a spinster with a life as dull as a weed. This journey to Oregon was her one and only opportunity for a taste of adventure and a sense of true accomplishment.
She thought it unfortunate that her grand adventure came at the cost of taking a husband, but the price was one she was willing to pay. Even if Peter Sails, the man whose letter she had chosen, turned out to be a bore or a brute, she would always have this journey to remember. And she would have a home of her own and eventually perhaps she would have children. All in all, she couldn't regret her decision to journey to Oregon.
Except Bootie had insisted on tagging along. Her sister would rather accept a new husband than be left behind. And now, instead of missing Bootie as Mem had expected, she was getting one of her headaches from listening to Bootie's soft snores. She had to resist an urge to dig an elbow into her sister's side.
A whooshing noise sounded overhead and the tent roof collapsed on top of them. Bootie thrashed awake with a scream as Mem
struggled to sit up and shove the heavy, snow-laden canvas away from her face.
"Stop screaming, we aren't being attacked. We didn't set the poles well enough, that's all. The roof has come down." Laboring to kick off the quilts, she punched the canvas to knock off the snow, then fought to hold it up so Bootie could crawl outside.
When Mem followed on her hands and knees, a brown hand appeared and she clasped it gratefully, pulling up to her feet.
"Thank you," she said to Webb Coate, pushing back her hair and peering at him through the snowy darkness. Mem was tall enough that there weren't many men she had to look up to see. Tilting her head back, she unexpectedly experienced a delicious sense of what it might feel like to be small and feminine. The strange sensation made her feel positively giddy.
"I heard a scream," Webb said. "Are you all right?" He spoke with a slight but intriguing accent that Mem couldn't place.
"Is anyone injured?" Cody Snow demanded, striding forward with a torch. When he approached near enough to spot the collapsed tent, he nodded with relief that the problem wasn't worse.
"I swan," Bootie gasped, patting her hair, her bosom, her cheeks. "I was sound asleep then something heavy fell on me and I thought sure I was smothering and" She looked as if she might swoon. Had they been sleeping in nightgowns instead of their day clothes, Mem suspected Bootie would indeed have fainted, considering it the proper thing to do.
Also, she noticed that Bootie's remarks were addressed solely to Cody Snow. Bootie ignored Webb Coate. Mem tossed back the thick braid that fell over her shoulder and smoothed down her skirts. Sometimes she wondered how she and Bootie could possibly share the same blood.
"Thank you for arriving so swiftly," she said to Mr. Coate. Aside from being an extraordinarily handsome man, which Mem didn't care about, Webb Coate's history intrigued her. Had his parents been married? How had they met? Which parent had raised him, Indian or white? The answers were none of her affair, of course. But curiosity had always been her most troublesome trait.
"We'll have your tent restored in a few minutes," Coate said, smiling at the long rope of auburn hair that swung over her breast.
"Will you hold this?" Cody Snow gave Mem his torch, then the two men fixed the tent in less time than it had taken Mem to merely unfold it. After Bootie crawled back inside, diving into her quilts, Mem thanked them again and watched as they walked away, moving toward the fire that burned beside the cook wagon.
She heard Cody murmur something that made Webb laugh and she decided the collapsed tent was one incident that she would not record in her journal. Mem Grant, founder of nations, the great adventuress, could not erect a tent sturdily enough to withstand a few inches of snow.
Disgusted and sighing at her foolishness, she crawled inside the tent and rolled into her blankets.
"It was nice of Mr. Snow to arrive so quickly to help us," Bootie murmured drowsily.
"It was Mr. Coate who dragged you outside," Mem said tartly. The little smacking sounds that Bootie made immediately prior to falling asleep irritated her no end.
"Him! He's just an Indian. A half-breed."
"He's a man like any other."
Not quite like any other. Most men weren't as tall as Webb Coate, and didn't have a thick mane of black hair, or teeth as white as eggshell. Not many men had piqued Mem's interest as did Mr. Coate. There were a thousand questions she wished to ask him about the legacy of two cultures.
But she didn't fall asleep thinking about Webb Coate. She drifted away borne on plans of how best to plant her tent poles.
"At least it's warmer today," Augusta commented. Leaning to one side, she peered past the wagons ahead of them, watching the teamsters ride back and forth across a small flat stream, shouting the cattle and oxen forward through the water.
They'd been on the trail only five days and already Augusta had learned to hate creeks. Yesterday, one of the heavy molasses wagons had become mired in the mud of a streambed and the men had spent three hours getting it unstuck while everyone else waited.
So far Augusta had not discovered a single pleasantry to relieve the inconvenience and tedium of the journey. The next few months promised little more than a continuing series of discomforts and indignities.
Now that she didn't suffer coach fever as badly, she noticed the chill more. Especially at night, when she and Cora had to sleep on the ground in a tent. And with her appetite returning, it had become abundantly apparent that Cora Thorp was no cook.
Last night Augusta had stared down at a gray congealing bowl of gravy and had actually considered finagling an invitation to Sarah Jennings's fire. Because of Sarah's connection to her Jennings in-laws, Sarah was the most socially acceptable of the brides. Unfortunately, Sarah's years as an army wife had exerted a coarsening effect. She was far too frank and plainspoken for true gentility. Still, Sarah Jennings was the only bride who could produce a decent meal over an open fire.
But the worst part of the journey, Augusta had discovered, was the utter lack of privacy. When one felt compelled to answer a call of nature, one had to hop down from the wagon, dash for a bush or gully, relieve oneself in the open air, then run to catch up to one's wagon while those in the following wagons watched. It was embarrassing and degrading.
Equally as dismaying was the growing problem of cleanliness, something Augusta had not anticipated at all. She hadn't yet figured out how to manage her weekly bath. First, Cody Snow had forced her to leave her tub behind. Second, she had no pot large enough to heat enough water for a full bath. And finally, the Indian didn't always select a campsite within easy walking distance of a stream.
Frowning, she tried to see what was happening ahead.
"Jane Munger's and Winnie Larson's wagon is hung up in the middle of the stream," she said to Cora, sighing deeply. Those lucky enough to have already crossed had climbed out of their wagons and congregated in small groups. Lucy Hastings had wandered off to inspect a prairie dog village, Thea Reeves was sketching the wagon stuck in the middle of the stream. Mem Grant was down beside the stream bank, getting her hems wet and shouting like a hoyden at Jane's and Winnie's oxen.
Augusta released another sigh. There wasn't a single woman on the train whom Augusta recognized as her equal, none with whom she could socialize. She was accustomed to this state of affairstook pride in it, actuallybut occasionally when she observed women chatting and laughing together her chest tightened wistfully and she wished for someone of parallel stature with whom she might develop a friendship. It occurred to her suddenly that she had never really had a close friend.
Cora Thorp leveled a frown on the broad backs of the oxen. "I think you could help out a little." She glared at the reins. "There. I've said it and I'm glad."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'm doing all the work for both of us. That ain't fair."
Augusta's brows rose and she shifted on the wagon seat, careful to hold her hem away from Cora's muddy boots.
"You're paying for your trip to Oregon through your labors." They had settled this point before departure. If Cora had not agreed to do the work involved, Augusta would never have saddled herself with such sullen and disagreeable company. "I believe you understood the nature of your duties from the outset."
"I didn't know how much work there would be, or that you wouldn't do your share."
"I beg your pardon! My share?"
"Mr. Snow said we each had to pull our own weight." Cora's sharp dark features pinched together. "The others take turns driving or walking. I never get a chance to walk and stretch my legs, I'm always at the reins. Just look at these calluses! And there's no time to visit with anyone at night, not with the cooking and cleaning, then setting up the tent and all."
Augusta closed her eyes against one more slap from destiny's hand. She didn't need a show of rebellion from Cora Thorp; she just didn't need it. Already she was dealing with more than a body should have to bear.
"It isn't too late for you to change your mind about going," she snapped, stari
ng at Cora. "There's a farmhouse up ahead. You could wait there for someone to carry you back to Chastity. I thought you wanted to go to Oregon. I thought you wanted a chance to better yourself."
Cora bit down on her back teeth. "I ain't a slave," she said stubbornly. "Least you could do is say thank you once in a while."
"Oh, for heaven's sakes. Say thank you to a maid?" The suggestion was so ridiculous that Augusta laughed.
"There's another thing," Cora continued, her little dark eyes disappearing into a squint. "I ain't been paid in five weeks!"
Instantly Augusta's amusement died and she went cold inside. "I told you," she said when she was certain her voice would emerge without a quiver. "Mr. Clampet, my intended bridegroom, will pay you when we reach Clampet Falls."
"Well, what if he don't? You haven't met him; you don't know him or what he's willing to pay for. What if this Mr. Clampet says he didn't order no maid?"
"The town was named after Mr. Clampet's family. He's a wealthy man." She hoped and prayed that this was true.
"No, sir, I ain't going to wait. I want what's owed me. I want my back wages now."
"I'll think about it," Augusta said sharply.
The congestion ahead cleared as Jane Munger's and Winnie Larson's wagon lurched out of the mud and splashed onto the opposite low bank. The women atop the rise cheered.
Cora flicked the reins and their wagon moved forward a space as Webb Coate rode toward them. His black eyes skimmed Cora and settled on Augusta.
"When it's your turn to cross, don't hesitate. Keep the animals moving at a steady pace." The darkness of his intense gaze released a cloud of butterflies in Augusta's stomach, and she swallowed a sudden dryness in her mouth. "If you'll water your oxen now, out of a bucket, they'll be less inclined to stop midstream." He studied Augusta a minute, then tipped his hat and rode toward the wagon behind them to repeat the message.
Brides of Prairie Gold Page 4