Brides of Prairie Gold

by Maggie Osborne

  There was no response he could make.

  A rush of color flooded upward from her throat, and sudden tears gathered in her large dark eyes. "But speaking on my behalf was generous of Mem and Hilda. I'm grateful." She bowed her head for a moment, then she surprised him yet again. "I hope someone also spoke for Augusta."

  Cody decided he was never going to understand women.

  He stared at her, then slowly nodded. "Ona Norris and Bootie Glover."

  "Good." She turned into the darkness. "If that's all, then good night." She stumbled over an exposed rock, paused, and stared back at him. "Do you have secrets, Cody Snow? Or are you the only person on this train who doesn't?"

  As it didn't seem that she expected a reply, and he wouldn't have answered anyway, he remained silent. He heard her gather her skirts, then stumble through the dark night toward her tent.

  Swearing softly, he returned to the log in front of the fire. The flames had died to a bed of glowing orange and black. Patting his pockets, he searched for a smoke, discovering a small bulge in his vest that hadn't been there earlier. Frowning, he fished in the pocket with two fingers and withdrew a yellowish chunk about the size of his belt buckle.

  Bending forward, he stirred the coals into a burst of flame, then held the chunk to the light and turned it between his fingers. He couldn't decide what the hell it was. It might have been a piece of hardened sponge, but that seemed so unlikely that he discarded the possibility. It didn't smell like soap. Crumbs rubbed off on his fingertips as he handled the peculiar object, and he touched one to the tip of his tongue.

  Cake. It was a hardened piece of bread or cake. And he knew it had not been in his pocket this morning.

  "I'll be damned." He couldn't have been more amazed if he'd discovered a gold nugget.

  Standing, he peered through the blackness at Perrin's retreating figure, able to discern only a swaying silhouette. Why in the name of reason had she placed a chunk of ancient cake in his pocket? And when had she done it?

  Shaking his head, puzzled, he remembered to bank the coals in Smokey Joe's pit before he strode toward the arms and molasses wagons and the sane company of men. A few steps before he reached Heck and John, he tossed the piece of hardened cake in the direction of the prairie wolf still baying at the moon.

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My Journal, May, 1852. Rain, all day yesterday and last night. Our camp flooded, so we went to bed hungry and had to sleep sitting up in the wagons. We've been seeing tornadoes on tile plains for the last three days and everyone worries that one will devastate our camp, but so far it hasn't happened.

  One of our oxen drank some alkali water, sickened and died. Lost a day of travel so Mr. Kelsey could repair the cracked axle under Sarah and Lucy's wagon. Only made five miles yesterday because the men's cook wagon and one of the heavy molasses wagons got stuck in the mud in one of the gullies we had to cross.

  He hasn't said anything about the cake or the ribbon. I thought surely he would say something.

  I started thinking that maybe he isn't sure if I remember. If that were true, it would explain why he hasn't spoken openly to me even though he can't hide the love in his eyes. I started wondering if perhaps we are in the midst of a terrible misunderstanding. That maybe he believes I've forgotten everything and truly intend to marry the Oregon man whose letter I picked. So I put the piece of cake in his vest and pinned the yellow ribbon to his saddle blanket to tell him that I've forgotten nothing. But he didn't acknowledge my messages. I thought he would be touched that I've kept these items for so many years, that he would see them as proof of my love and devotion.

  I know his duties keep him occupied, and that harlot, Perrin Waverly, won't allow him to speak to us. Everything must go through her. I know he didn't mean that I have to send messages through Perrin, but I don't know how to tell her that the rule does not apply to me without revealing everything. She becomes more puffed up with herself every day.

  Augusta says that she throws herself at every man in her path. This is true.

  My love and Cody's is like a secret current, strong and pure. I know he is immune to the harlot's charms. But still, it worries me on occasion. If she continues to flaunt herself at him, well Cody is my man.

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINE

  "You have the saddest eyes I've ever seen."

  Perrin blinked at Winnie in surprise. To the best of her knowledge, this was the first time Winnie had uttered a personal comment to anyone.

  "Your eyes are sad too," she said gently, pressing Winnie's hand. "And tired." But now, finally, Winnie's gaze was clear and lucid. The blank, unfocused look had been replaced by quiet sorrow as memory adjusted to returning reality.

  "Feeling better?" Perrin inquired, smoothing a drift of dust-dark hair back from Winnie's pale forehead. A year ago Perrin had passed Winnie on the streets of Chastity and she recalled admiring Winnie Larson's tiny waist and delicate features, remembered how pretty Winnie had been. Even then the young woman had been floating inside a laudanum cloud.

  "The cramps aren't as bad. Every day is a little easier." Pushing up on an elbow, Winnie peered through the gap between the wagon board and the canvas top. The effort to rise exhausted her and she let her head drop back to the pillow and closed her eyes. "It's blowing too hard to see any trees."

  "The emigrants who came before us chopped down most of the trees for firewood. It's hard to find wood for cooking."

  The wagon swerved like a boat sliding down a swell and they both braced as iron wheels lurched out of the deep trail ruts and rolled toward a patch of rank grass that would feed the oxen and cattle during the midday rest period.

  Winnie gazed up at the canvas, watching it flutter beneath the force of the wind. Dust and sand found the gaps and cracks and settled on her blanket and pillow. Her lips were outlined by a faint muddy tracing. "I know we're going to Oregon. Hilda told me." A moist shine glistened in her eyes. "Billy Morris isn't waiting for me there."

  Lowering her head, Perrin stroked the veins evident on the back of the slender hand she cradled in hers. Winnie's wrist was so small, still so dangerously thin. "I'm sorry."

  "It's strange" Winnie continued to gaze at the canvas flapping over their heads. A solitary tear hung on her lashes then spilled down her cheek. "I can't remember Billy's face anymore. Or the sound of his voice. I thought I'd never forget the way he held his cigar." Now she lowered her gaze to Perrin. "I've lost three years of my life grieving for a man who wronged me and whose face I can't remember." Her weak laugh was harsh and ended in a fit of coughing. "Can you guess what I do remember?"

  In a flash of understanding, Perrin abruptly realized that Winnie's tears were not tears of grief, but tears of anger. Slowly she felt her anxiety subside, and a weight lifted off her shoulders. Winnie was going to make it.

  "I remember that he made disgusting noises when he ate. And sometimes flecks of spit bubbled at the corners of his lips while he talked. Once he told me that wives were like children, meant to be seen but not heard. That's what I keep thinking about." She clenched her teeth and her eyes narrowed. "I should have rejoiced when he eloped with Emmy Greene. I should have danced in the streets and celebrated my escape. Instead I turned to opiates How could I have been so stupid?"

  "Oh, Winnie," Perrin said softly. She pressed a handkerchief into Winnie's hand and waited while she blew her nose. "The important thing is that you're seeing clearly now."

  "I know Lucy will be here soon. But before you go, there's something I want to say." Her fingers tightened around Perrin's hand and her eyes darkened earnestly. "Mem and Hilda told me it was you who saved me from being sent back to Chastity. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for saving my life. I would die if I returned to Chastity, where everything reminds me of Billy. If ever I can do anything to repay you, you have only to ask."

  "Winnie do you know that I" Perrin began in a low voice. "I mean, there's gossip that" she couldn't make herself say the words.


  A flush of pink stained Winnie's pale throat and cheeks. "I know you're kind. I know you fought to give me a second chance when the others would have washed their hands of me." Her fingers tightened around Perrin's hand and her eyes steadied. "Billy and I we" Her whisper broke on a note of shame. "You and I are not so different."

  "Dear Winnie," Perrin whispered, angry tears sparkling in her own eyes. Billy Morris was another man who had taken and used, damn him. She had yet to meet one who didn't. "Billy is behind you and best forgotten. You have a wonderful future waiting in Oregon."

  Was that true? Instead of Billy Morris, Winnie would spend the rest of her life with a man whom she hadn't yet met. Maybe he wouldn't make disgusting sounds when he ate, but maybe he'd be quick with his fists. Maybe his tongue would be as sharp as a blade, wielded to carve little pieces out of Winnie's life.

  Perrin sighed and struggled to think optimistically. Perhaps Winnie would be lucky enough to marry the one good man in the Oregon Territory. She looked into the girl's tired face and hoped so. For herself well, her expectations were low.

  "How can I repay you for all you've done?"

  Perrin patted her hand. "The best way to repay all of us is to recover your strength and get well."

  "I will," Winnie stated fervently. Her damp bright eyes underscored the promise. "There's a new life waiting for me in Oregon. I don't ever want to return to Chastity."

  Lucy Hastings arrived then, bringing fresh bread and a large tin cup of Sarah's nourishing soup. After giving herself the satisfaction of watching Winnie eagerly accept the soup, Perrin climbed down from the wagon. Her boots sank in loose sand and she turned her face out of the scouring wind.

  What she wanted most was to bask in the knowledge of Winnie's gradual recovery, and she wanted to walk the stiffness out of her legs and lower back. But a hard wind and blowing sand argued against a stroll.

  Perhaps now was as good a time as any to confront Augusta and get it over with. For two days Perrin had waited for Augusta to come forth with an apology. She should have known it wouldn't happen. Augusta Boyd never apologized.

  If they were to reach an accommodation, Perrin would have to be the person who made the approach, and if concessions were to be made, she would have to make them. With great reluctance, she had decided she would do whatever was necessary for one reason: so Cody Snow would not evict her from his train.

  Grim-faced and dragging her feet, she turned her steps into the blowing sand and trudged forward in search of Augusta's wagon. With each step, her resentment mounted.

  Sand blew into the bacon grease, mixed into the biscuits. It reddened eyes, invaded layers of clothing. There was sand in Augusta's hair, beneath her fingernails, in her tea, and in her blankets. The wretched sand rubbed raw spots on her skin and made her itch all over.

  She had believed she could hate nothing more than she hated asking the other women to hold out their skirts and form a shield around her while she answered a call of nature. But she hated the ubiquitous blowing sand even more. And when she spotted Perrin coming toward her with head bowed against the wind, she remembered that she detested Perrin Waverly more than she could possibly hate sand or discomfort or any other thing.

  Spinning in furious realization, she yanked down the scarf that protected her nose and mouth from the swirling sand and hissed at Cora. "You talked to her again, didn't you!"

  Cora glanced up from the frying pan and the flames that darted and danced in the wind. Defiance hardened her eyes. "You still owe me four dollars! It ain't been paid yet."

  Panic gripped Augusta's chest. At once she understood that if she did not pay Cora immediately, Perrin might deduce that Augusta lacked the funds. The horror of being exposed as a pauper glazed her eyes. Perrin would feel superior to her; Perrin would laugh and tell the others how far the mighty had fallen, Augusta Boyd was no better than anyone else.

  She could not bear the scene her imagination sketched. A thousand times no. Never would she ever allow a base creature like Perrin Waverly to feel superior to a Boyd. It was unthinkable, unendurable.

  The only way to hold her pride intact was to pay Cora the four dollars. But how could she do it? Then she would have only thirty dollars to see her through the next three-quarters of the journey. What if another ox died? Or her cow? And she would want fresh eggs or vegetables along the way. There was a rip in the tent that could eventually worsen to the extent that she would have to purchase another.

  "Oh, God. Oh, God." She couldn't catch her breath.

  Wringing her hands, fighting to suppress the hysteria that clogged her throat, Augusta paced against the maddening wind, chewing her lips and trying not to inhale flying sand. What to do? Pay Cora or invent an excuse that no one would believe? Which evil to choose, which? She had to decide right now.

  In the end, the decision was instinctive. She watched Perrin walking toward her, then pride reared and vanquished prudence.

  Whirling into the blowing sand, she ran to the back of the wagon. In less than two minutes she had climbed inside and opened her beaded purse with shaking hands. "Oh, dear God." Panting with fear and dizzying bitterness, she withdrew four precious dollars. Wrapping her fist around the coins, she clutched them to her breast for a moment and desperately told herself she would not cry. She would not .

  "Don't think about it," she whispered, blinking rapidly. "Somehow everything will work out. You are a Boyd."

  She would snag her hem and rip it as she dropped out of the wagon. And the sandy wind blasted her full in the eyes. Despair bled the color from her lips. But at least the harlot would see with her own eyes that Cora had received her blood money. And it was indeed blood money. Parting with each coin was like tearing off one of her limbs.

  "Cora? Here! Take these and get out of my sight!" She flung the gold pieces into the wind as Perrin approached the fire pit. "Don't come back until it's time to get under way!" Right now she didn't trust herself to remain in Cora's presence.

  Sputtering with anger, Cora glared, then she crawled around the fire pit, digging the coins out of the sand with her fingers. When she had found them all, she twisted the gold pieces in her handkerchief, then pushed to her feet and stormed away, heading into the wind toward Sarah's and Lucy's wagon. Augusta threw up her hands when she noticed that Cora had abandoned the bacon to burn in the skillet. Rage pounded the base of her skull.

  "We need to talk," Perrin said, raising her voice against the blowing sand. Her skirt whipped around her body and she snatched at her shawl before it skittered away.

  "You have nothing to say that I want to hear," Augusta said coldly. The stripes healing on Perrin's cheek provided a surge of pleasure. She hoped the scratches stung as painfully as the crack in her lower lip. "Cora received her money," she snapped, starting to turn her back to the creature. "You're dismissed."

  "I didn't come about Cora. I came to tell you that what happened between us three days ago cannot, must not happen again!"

  God in heaven. Augusta sagged against the back wheel, fighting a scald of vomit that surged in her throat. The money wasn't why the harlot had come.

  She stared unseeing at the sandy air. She needn't have paid Cora. She could have kept her four precious dollars.

  "I don't know why you decided to travel to Oregon and marry a stranger, but I know why I did," Perrin stated in a level tone. "I have no choice. Therefore, I can't afford to be evicted from this train. You and I will have to tolerate each other, Augusta. We'll have to find a way to coexist for another four months."

  A bitter taste flooded Augusta's mouth and coated her tongue. She might have convinced Cora to wait for payment until they reached Oregon. Dear God.

  "I'll stay out of your way, and you stay out of mine. When we must converse, surely we can do so in a civilized manner without resorting to physical violence." Perrin stared through the flying grit. "We'll behave like ladies." Her voice sharpened with suppressed anger. "If you think you can do that."

  "You insufferable piece of
baggage!" Crimson heated her cheeks. It mortified her that a low remark questioning her breeding was even possible. "You provoked what happened. It was your fault! Moreover, you are not a lady and you never will be!"

  "Perhaps not. But I can behave like one. I don't slap people or throw chairs at them!" The words were accompanied by a shudder of revulsion.

  Oh, how she burned to fly at the creature and claw that contemptuous expression off of her face. The ferocity of her emotions shocked Augusta to the tips of her stockings.

  Where in the name of heaven did these sick yearnings for violence spring from, and when had they begun? She stared at the scratches on Perrin's cheek and found they did not satisfy her. She longed to leap forward and draw fresh blood.

  Shaking, Augusta willed herself to step backward, opening a space between herself and a nearly overwhelming temptation to attack. She pressed her fingertips to her temples. When had her weapons altered from icy disdain and her own innate superiority to fingernails and teeth? How had such deterioration occurred?

  She must be losing her mind. That was the only reasonable explanation. Fear and constant anxiety were destroying her.

  "Are we agreed, then?" Perrin demanded, her tone as sharp as a blade. "We will not embarrass ourselves or the others again? We will set aside our dislike for the remainder of the journey and conduct ourselves in a civilized manner?"

  "I detest you!"

  They glared at each other across the flames leaping in the fire pit. Dark smoke curled from the skillet Cora had abandoned, and the smell of burning bacon invaded their nostrils.

  "As you pointed out," Perrin said angrily, "I was not your father's confidante. And I didn't drive him to ruin. He also paid for the mansion you lived in and the servants who staffed it. He paid for gowns ordered from Paris and baubles designed in Brussels. He paid for your carriage and the set of matched bays to draw it. He paid for soirees and entertainments. Joseph could have provided for four mistresses for the same money as it cost to maintain one daughter. So if he hanged himself because he faced financial disaster, his difficulties cannot be laid entirely at my door!"