Brides of Prairie Gold

by Maggie Osborne

  When they'd gone, Cody lit a cigar and stood in the deeper shadows alongside the arms wagon. She'd managed to get a half-assed fire going, but it wasn't large enough or hot enough to boil a cup of water. Unless she'd found some dried fruit among her provisions, he guessed she would go to bed hungry tonight.

  He waited to see what she would do with the tent. She'd pulled the poles and canvas to the tailgate of her wagon, and there it sat in a jumbled pile.

  Dragging on his cigar and frowning, he watched her approach the scant light given off by burning twigs and buffalo chips. She extended shaking hands to the flames and stared down at them, then she covered her face and slowly sank to her knees, shoulders heaving.

  "Damn it." His frown deepened. Those were not tears designed to manipulate, wound, or impress.

  It crossed his mind that one person could never truly know another. He hadn't supposed Augusta Boyd possessed genuine tears. Nor had he anticipated that she would try to continue on her own.

  This pampered, spoiled woman had never done a lick of real work in her entire life. He couldn't imagine that she would be successful driving a team of caring for herself. If he allowed her to try, she would slow his train and he'd lose time he could not afford to lose. Her health would suffer from inevitable exhaustion and malnutrition. He didn't intend to lose another passenger either.

  He straightened, flicked his cigar toward a clump of sage, and started forward, but something stopped him.

  She had jerked her head up and turned toward the tailgate. Wiping her eyes, she started to rise, then stopped. Pressing her hands to her cheeks, she closed her eyelids and whispered something, then tilted her head as if listening to a reply.

  Curiosity piqued, Cody hesitated, then watched her push to her feet and stumble toward the tailgate. She spoke again, then placed her hands on the tent poles and waited. Looking at the poles as if she'd never seen them before, she finally lowered them to the ground, her expression helpless. She waited.

  Straining to see and hear, Cody scanned the shadows moving in darkness behind her wagon. Her cow was there. He spotted the gray bulk of grazing oxen. That he saw no hint of another person first puzzled him, then suggested who stood on the far side of the wagon. Confirmation arrived in the next minutes.

  Augusta dragged the tent poles to a spot not far from her puny fire. She waited, then glanced toward the tailgate. After sighing and swaying on her feet, she returned to the wagon and fumbled inside until she located a hammer. Weeping with frustration and self-pity, she went back to the tent poles and tried to hammer one into the baked earth. She missed the pole altogether, struck her thumb with a yelp, and dropped both the pole and the hammer.

  A patient whisper encouraged her to try again. Shoulders sagging, she bent toward the tongue of the wagon. Cody clearly heard her reply. "I can't! You do it!"

  He didn't hear Webb's answer, but it wasn't hard to guess. Webb would instruct her, but he wouldn't perform the work for her. If she was to remain with the train, she had to become self-sufficient. She stamped her feet, pounded her fists against her thighs. A choking sound emerged from her throat, then she wiped tears from her eyes and bent to retrieve the fallen hammer.

  Cody watched until she managed to drive the first pole into the ground far enough that it remained upright.

  Considering, he contemplated the patch of darkness where Webb must be standing. There was something wrong here. If Webb wanted to help her, why didn't he step forward and show her how to set the tent instead of hiding in the shadows, half-whispering instructions that she was having a hell of a time following?

  After reflecting, he decided Webb must have a reason for not wanting anyone to know he was helping Augusta remain with the train. Reluctantly, Cody decided to give her a week. He would do that for his friend's sake.

  If Augusta wasn't holding her own by the time they reached Emigrant's Gap, Cody would send her back. Someone at the gap would be headed east. He wouldn't have a choice. His train was too far behind schedule already. He couldn't risk further delay while she learned what she should have learned two months ago.

  He watched another minute, then moved away in the darkness. He didn't notice Mem Grant until he crashed into her and almost knocked her to the ground.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't see you."

  "I couldn't sleep," she said in a low agitated voice. She looked past him, watching Augusta's dimly lit form.

  Both of them clearly heard Webb's voice. "Position the second pole on a direct line four feet behind the first."

  Mem spun so abruptly that her skirts whipped around Cody's legs. She walked rapidly, staying in front of him until they reached the corner of the square, then she turned.

  "None of us will help her!" When Cody didn't say anything, she spoke again, her voice strained. "There isn't a person on this train whom Augusta hasn't offended!"

  Her vehemence surprised him. "Miss Boyd was wrong to suggest your sister is responsible for Jake Quintan's attack." Perrin had related Augusta's painful remark. "I'll speak to Mrs. Glover if you think it would help." He was shooting in the dark, trying to guess why the usually levelheaded Miss Grant sounded so bitter.

  "Augusta is she's so Oh, never mind!"

  A long coil of auburn gleamed in the starlight, spinning out from her shoulder, then she was gone, swallowed by the deep shadows along the back side of the square. Cody could have sworn she was crying, but tears were so foreign to his impression of Mem Grant that he decided he must be mistaken.

  He glanced back toward the sound of pounding. From what he could glimpse and guess, he doubted Augusta Boyd would have much of the night left by the time she assembled her tent. She wasn't going to be at her best tomorrow morning when she learned how to drive two yokes of stubborn oxen.

  There was one bright glimmer lining this particular dark cloud. At least this time, Perrin Waverly wouldn't pace after him pleading the case of a bride about to be returned home.

  He was almost disappointed. Their meetings had been brief and terse since the incident he privately thought of as the Great Whiskey Debacle. To his utter surprise and immense irritation, he missed the few minutes they spent together after finishing the business of the day.

  Moving in the darkness, he strode toward his bedroll. This had been one hell of a day. First, he'd learned at the fort that Jake Quinton had sold a wagonload of whiskey two days previously. Second, he'd had to sell the remaining whiskey against his better judgment. Third, since Quinton had gotten there first, Cody's profits were soberingly lower than what he had expected, only a fraction of the gain he would have realized in Oregon. Fourth, there was the problem with Augusta Boyd. And finally, he couldn't stop thinking about Perrin Waverly's cinnamon eyes and strawberry mouth.

  And now, what was this? Frowning, he knelt beside his bedroll and peered through the darkness.

  Someone had used his knife to pin a handful of dried twigs to his blankets.

  He couldn't really accept that someone had driven a knife through his blankets until he carried the bedroll to Smokey Joe's fire and examined it in the light.

  Son of a bitch. Lifting his head, he listened to the silent camp. Who in the hell had done this? And why?

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  My Journal, June, 1852, Augusta is suffering as she deserves to. Every night her wagon comes into camp an hour after the rest of us have finished supper. Her face is beet red from the sun and peeling like a lizard. Jane said her hands bleed from driving all day without anyone to relieve her at the reins. I'm glad.

  I'm still furious that Cody didn't tell me about the molasses being whiskey. He can keep secrets from the others, but he should not keep secrets from me! I defended him in front of the others! He made a fool of me!

  I was so angry that I used his own knife to pin the dried flowers where he couldn't fail to find them. A week has passed and still he hasn't apologized.

  I get so furious that I shake all over. He looks at the whore the way I want him to look at me. I
can't bear to see them together. It makes my stomach heave. Last night I vomited behind the wagon.

  What does he want from me? Why is he waiting and tormenting me?

  I've done everything I had to do to open the way for our love, and it was not easy for me. I loved Ellen, he should know that. I turned down two offers of marriage while I waited for him. I traveled after him when he didn't come for me. I joined this train. I have endured great hardships for his sake. Since this terrible trip began, I have been hungry, thirsty, exhausted, and frightened. I've done all this for him. I've forgiven him again and again and again.

  When will it end? When will he stop testing me and speak? What does he expect me to do?

  I wanted to punish him so badly that I had to slash my arm below the elbow. For a minute I hated him for making me do this. But I hate the whore more.

  Does he want me to punish her? Is that the final test so he will know how much I love him ?

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  My Journal, July 1, 1852. When I review my sketches, I see that our features are thinner, our hands callused. Our sun-damaged faces and calicos are filthy, our hair flies untended from careless buns. Our losses and hardships reflect in weary eyes that also display growing confidence and a knowledge of new abilities. Oddly, many of us look stronger.

  Thea Reeves

  North out of Fort Laramie, Perrin eyed the mountain ranges flanking the trail. As the altitude climbed, afternoon sun burned through thinner air and broiled exposed flesh. Skin dried and lips blistered. Cracked hooves crippled limping oxen; subsequently, several were shot and abandoned beside the treeless trail. Gnats and mosquitoes swarmed thick during daylight hours; at dusk the insects became a torment.

  Perrin sat coughing in a stream of smoke blowing off the buffalo chips smoldering in the fire pit. Smokey Joe insisted mosquitoes hated smoke and avoided it. Slapping at her neck and sighing, she decided that Smokey Joe was wrong.

  After scratching the bumps and bites on the backs of her hands, she pulled apart a biscuit and inspected it with dismay. Enough mosquitoes had mixed into the dough that the biscuits were speckled inside. Mosquitoes floated in the gravy over her rice.

  Hilda covered the bugs in her biscuit with the last of the plum jam, then waved furiously at a cloud of insects swarming around her hair. Her face was sunburned and swollen. "Smokey Joe claims if you rub spit on the bites they won't itch as much."

  "Spit helps," Perrin agreed. She looked at Hilda and they burst out laughing. Three months ago neither could have foreseen a time when they would eat insect-infested food or rub spit on their skin. "How is Cora progressing with her lessons?" Perrin inquired, standing to change seats with Hilda.

  Hilda took her turn in the smoke, coughed and rubbed her eyes, smearing soot across one cheek. "It's been less than two weeks, but Cora is an eager pupil. Did you ask the others to correct her speech when they hear her commit an error?"

  "I did." Glancing up, Perrin watched Cody walking toward their fire, and set aside her supper plate. By some enigmatic process, she often sensed his presence before she saw him.

  Purple shadows lengthened across a sky flashing with heat lightning; it was dark enough that she couldn't see Cody's face clearly, but she would have recognized the spread of his shoulders anywhere, knew the slight swagger in his walk and the sound of his footsteps. She would have known it was Cody merely by listening to her own accelerated heartbeat.

  "I'm sorry I wasn't able to meet earlier," he apologized, stepping into the light of their fire. His eyes were tired and his voice irritable tonight. "An altercation erupted at the gap. One of the trains tried to go through out of turn."

  "Was anyone hurt?" Hilda inquired anxiously.

  The trains had bottlenecked at Emigrant's Gap. At this point wagons from both directions converged on the narrow passageway. Four trains camped on the west side, waiting for the eastbound traffic to come through before being allowed to proceed.

  "A couple of hotheads from Murchason's train are nursing broken knuckles and jaws, but no one got shot." Cody pushed his fingers through the dark hair tumbling across his forehead. He looked at Perrin. "I'm in no mood to sit. Would you object to a stroll while we catch up on the day's business?"

  Perrin's feet ached from walking behind Sarah's wagon most of the afternoon. The barren rocky soil absorbed the sun's heat, had burned through thin shoes and scorched her soles. She had been looking forward to soaking her feet in a bucket of water from the muddy creek not far from their campsite.

  But a glance at Cody's tight jaw signaled his frustration. He'd pushed them hard this week, hoping to make up a few days, only to encounter this delay at the gap. Hiding a wince, Perrin stood on sore feet and fetched her shawl.

  Maintaining a careful space between them, they followed the creek for several yards, then climbed a stony ridge that offered a view of the campsites chosen by the waiting trains. Perrin gazed over the plain at dozens of cook fires, small brave beacons that represented someone's dreams for a new and better life. The small points of hope twisted her heart.

  Gathering her skirts, she sat on a granite rock, watching a cloud of fireflies dancing to the crickets' nightly serenade. She would have smiled but for the tension drawing Cody's body.

  "I'm going to send Augusta back on the next eastbound train through the gap," he announced abruptly. "She can't keep up."

  Perrin caught a sharp breath as a battle erupted in her mind. Personal grievance, armed and warlike, stood arrayed against a lone figure of justice.

  "She's improving every day," she said finally, the words emerging with great reluctance. "When we made camp yesterday, Augusta was only thirty minutes behind us."

  "She can't continue like this. Have you seen her?"

  Of course she had, and he knew it. All the brides had gloated over Augusta's greatly altered appearance. Gone were the fancy blond curls Augusta had fussed over while Cora made breakfast, then cleaned up. Now her hair was matted and dulled by dust, skinned into a careless knot on her neck. Sun had scorched her pale skin, peeled away, then burned again. As no one had told her that spit eased the pain of insect bites, she had scratched her face and arms until they bled. Her clothing was torn and dirty, and she didn't look as if she had eaten or slept in days.

  If she had been anyone other than Augusta, the women would have hastened to her aid, appalled by what was happening.

  "I've seen her," Perrin murmured, rubbing her temples.

  "Every day I expect her to ask to be sent back." Cody turned, standing on the ridge with the starlight and the campfires glowing behind him. Perrin gazed at his wide-legged stance, and her chest tightened painfully.

  "She hasn't said anything to me about returning."

  She stared at Cody another minute, disturbed by deep inner stirrings that she had believed long conquered. Desperately, she tried to thrust his powerful presence out of her mind, tried to ignore the provocative way he stood, the way his strong, capable hands rested on his hips, the way his voice curled under her skin and whispered to her body.

  Think about Augusta, she commanded herself despairingly, not this man whom she longed for.

  She too had expected Augusta to give up and ask to go home. Augusta's hands were so blistered and swollen she could hardly grip the reins. Some nights she didn't attempt to kindle a fire, but crawled directly into her unstable tent. If she slept there or wept, no one knew. Perrin suspected a little of both.

  "Damn," she swore softly, striking her thigh with a fist. Why was it so painful to observe what was happening to Augusta?

  "Why would a woman like Augusta Boyd want to travel to Oregon and marry a stranger? It doesn't make sense."

  Perrin battled to concentrate on the question instead of the man who posed it. "Initially I thought she was doing it because she was upset and confused by Joseph's death, making a mistake she would regret." Lifting her head, she found Cody in the darkness, startled to discover him staring at her with burning eyes. She wet her lips. "
I thought the first time Augusta missed her regular bath, she'd demand to turn back."

  "It doesn't matter," Cody said in a strained voice. "What matters is she can't keep up."

  Perrin nodded. Tilting her head, she slapped at a swarm of mosquitoes and mopped her throat with the edge of her shawl. It was hot tonight, and the rocks retained the day's heat. When she lowered her head, she suddenly became aware that she sat at eye level with Cody's belt buckle. Her gaze dipped slightly, then she abruptly jumped to her feet, feeling wild inside.

  "I know you're frustrated by the delay," she said, speaking the first words that fought through the shameful thoughts that made her breath quicken. "But we need a rest period. The recent pace has been very hard."

  The words died when he stepped close enough that her skirt brushed his trousers. He stared intently at her mouth, hunger flickering deep in his eyes. Weakness sapped her resolve as Perrin realized this was the first time in weeks that they had been alone together beyond the sight of the others.

  "I've missed you," he said in a low thick voice as if he too realized they had left the camp far behind them.

  Perrin's throat dried; she wet her lips. She ordered herself to step away from him. But she couldn't. Oh, God, she could not move, could hardly breathe. A hot tingle of anticipation shot through her body as electric as the stars flashing in the steamy night. "I see you every morning and every evening," she whispered in a husky voice. Even her voice trembled.

  "You don't speak a word that isn't necessary, then you run away." His eyes plundered her face, ravished her lips.

  The night closed in to suffocate her, hot, humid, filled with the love songs of mating insects. Years of wanting something tightened her chest and vibrated through her limbs. Weeks of wanting him thinned her voice. A haze of yearning narrowed her vision on his strong face. His face, as tense with desire as her own, his face, which she dreamed of, waking and sleeping. A groan closed her throat. "Cody, please. No___"