Brides of Prairie Gold

by Maggie Osborne

  "I swan, Augusta. You could shoot the tip off a knitting needle!" Bootie straggled to raise her heavy carbine to her shoulder. She closed one eye and squinted down the barrel. Slowly, it sank toward the ground in front of her.

  "Sarah is the best shot," Augusta remarked. It was her goal to shoot as well as Sarah Jennings. "Mem isn't bad either. Course, no one's as skilled at wielding a pot as you are."

  Everyone on the firing line turned to stare at her. Perrin was the first to burst into laughter, then they all did.

  "I've never heard you jest before," Bootie said, smiling and blushing with pleasure.

  Augusta blinked in surprise. Good heavens. She had indeed made a humorous remark. Everyone was smiling at her and Bootie. Flustered, she spun toward the target and squeezed off a shot.

  Only a slight hesitation saved her from shooting Cody Snow, who dashed in front of her, running toward Ona Norris. Heart slamming in her chest, she fanned her face rapidly and tried to catch her breath. She had been an idiot to fire impulsively.

  Cody glared a warning at her, then turned his attention to Ona. He snatched the barrel of Ona's carbine and jerked it toward the sky. Now Augusta noticed that Ona's gun had sagged, had pointed directly at Perrin's stomach before Cody ran forward.

  "How many times must I tell all of you! Sky, ground, or target. Damn it, you don't point a gun at another person unless you are prepared to kill that person." He scowled at Ona. "A careless accident could cost one of you a husband. I've told you from the beginning. The Oregon men won't accept a crippled wife. They insist on brides who are healthy and whole."

  Ona glared up at him, white-faced. "I'm tired of these secrets and games!"

  "This isn't a game. And there are no secrets here. Quinton will be back, count on it!"

  Augusta was surprised that prim, quiet Ona stood up to the anger glittering in Snow's eyes. Ona's chin jutted, her cheeks flashed from white to red. She looked furious and her posture seemed oddly aggressive. Frowning, Augusta suddenly recalled Ona throwing down the teacup that belonged to Augusta's mother then deliberately crushing it in a fit of temper.

  "I don't want to shoot a gun. I expect you to protect me!"

  Cody examined her angry eyes and trembling mouth. "Fine," he said shortly. He took the carbine out of her hands, then walked to the front of the silently watching women. "When Quinton attacks again, and he will, ladies, here's what I want you to do. Sarah Jennings, Augusta Boyd, Mem Grant, and Perrin Waverly are our best shots. I want one of them on each side of the square, under a wagon. Hilda Clum, Bootie Glover, Cora Thorp, and Thea Reeves will run ammunition. Ona Norris will minister to any wounded. Are there any objections?" he demanded, staring at Ona.

  No one spoke.

  "Excellent." He ran an eye down the line of women, studying how they held their weapons. "That's enough for today. You're dismissed."

  Ona whirled and ran past Augusta, heading toward her wagon. Augusta watched her go, thinking that not long ago she too had feared firearms, and she too had expected men to assume the responsibility for her protection. Perhaps she should speak to Ona and explain how it felt to contribute to her own defense.

  She considered the idea while she cleaned her carbine, then dismissed it from her mind. Ona was a sullen little snip.

  Before she returned to the wagon to prepare her evening meal, she scanned the faces of her shooting group, wondering if one of them was the person who had spied on her and Webb. Actually the incident had occurred so long ago that she believed Webb had been correct in assuming the snoop had not seen Augusta's face. If the spy had seen her, the story would have surfaced long before now.

  She had begun to feel safe enough that occasionally her guard slipped. Twice now, she'd almost been caught gazing at Webb with longing in her eyes, first by Mem and then by that thorn in her side, Cora.

  After coaxing her fire into a better showing, she hung a pot of soup over the flames, then poured a basin of water and washed her hands and face. She liked to delay lowering the tailgate as long as she could, liked to try to guess what Webb might have left her tonight. Sometimes he left food, a rabbit or a piece of venison, both of which she had learned to cook. Occasionally he left wood for her fire, a real treat. Twice, he had given her small wooden animals carved from the trunks of scrub oak. She treasured the carved deer and bear even though she suspected they were Indian things, and carried them in her pocket so she could touch them and think of him throughout the long lonely day.

  Tonight, she found a bouquet of wild lupine. Gifts that made her life a little easier were better, but the bouquet was nice too, she decided, wondering what to do with it.

  "Augusta?" Bootie's voice called from the deepening darkness. "Will you come with us to Smokey Joe's Friday Night?"

  Every Friday, Smokey Joe offered his fire as a gathering place. Someone told stories or read aloud by the light of the flames. Sometimes the group sang the popular songs of the day. Sometimes they merely gossiped or exchanged personal histories.

  "Perrin will be there," Mem casually announced, stepping up beside Bootie.

  Learning that Perrin would be present made up her mind. "Thank you, but I believe I'll stay here and turn in early."

  Undeniably, she owed Perrin a debt of gratitude. But Perrin Waverly was still the harlot who had seduced Augusta's father, and Augusta could not forgive that transgression. Hence, gratitude and hatred warred in constant conflict The easiest course was to avoid those places where Perrin might be.

  After scouring the soup pot and her bowl, she mended a torn hem beside her fire, then set out the breakfast utensils before she wrestled her tent out of the wagon and draped it over the poles she had set earlier. After laying out her bedroll, she returned to sit beside the low flames in her fire pit, listening to the sound of singing drifting from Smokey Joe's fire.

  Sighing, she tilted her head back and gazed at a moon that reminded her of the moon that had hung in the sky like a lemon crescent the night Webb kissed her. Her eyes closed and her mouth softened. Every detail of that long-ago night was as fresh as the air she breathed. It might have happened yesterday.

  A low sound of despair issued from her lips and she dropped her head. What was she going to do? Her nights were tormented by wanting a man she refused to speak to during the day. Their situation had not been clear-cut prior to Cody's ultimatum that she master camping skills in a week. Now she and Webb were caught in a set of complications that made her mind reel whenever she attempted to sort things out.

  During the day, Webb appeared utterly indifferent to her. When he absolutely had to speak to her, his voice was cold, his eyes went flat and expressionless. But he left her a little gift almost every night. He hadn't spoken again since the first two nights when he'd taught her how to make a fire and set up her tent. But she sensed his presence, and there were the gifts.

  She knew he ignored her during the day because he was respecting her wishes. But the more Augusta thought about him, the more she yearned to see him alone. Perhaps he would steal another kiss. Perhaps, she thought, indulging her newest fantasy, they could have a small clandestine romance during the remainder of the journey. Kissing only, nothing more, and they would be utterly and absolutely discreet, with no possibility whatsoever of discovery.

  A harmless dalliancewhich no one knew aboutwould add a little spice to the journey and break the monotony of her days. A few kisses would give Webb a memory to cherish all of his life, and a few kisses would satisfy her curiosity and get him out of her system. Allowing him to kiss her occasionally would be a way to thank him for helping her remain with the train.

  She should thank him, she thought, she really should. Looking into the flames in her fire pit, she listened to the songs from Smokey Joe's fire. Webb seldom joined the group. Most likely he was with the men guarding the arms wagon.

  She could stroll in that direction. She could inquire about the stream crossing scheduled for tomorrow and draw him away from the other men. They would walk into the dark hot ni
ght together. Perhaps their hands would brush. Perhaps he would take her into his arms and crush her to his magnificent body.

  Oh, God, she was on fire for him. She burned for him.

  He refused to be drawn from the men guarding the arms wagon. Twice, Augusta murmured a question and turned into the darkness, twitching the fringe of her shawl, enticing him to follow the moonlight gleaming in her hair. But Webb remained leaning against the wagon wheel, asking her to repeat her question.

  Face flaming, furious that he was embarrassing her, Augusta fumed in the shadows where firelight faded into blackness, tempted to embarrass him in return. She would expose his little game and pay him back for making her feel foolish.

  "I came to thank you for your assistance, Mr. Coate," she said crisply. "And for your gifts." Heck Kelsey and one of the new teamsters heard every word she said. They would tell everyone mat the half-breed was leaving secret gifts for a white woman.

  Leaving gifts truly was an outrageous presumption on his part, now that she thought about it She stared at his strong cheekbones and powerful shoulders and felt her mouth tremble, felt a jolt of heat travel along her thighs. Suddenly she hated him for the way he made her feel, for what the sight of him did to her body. She hated it that he made her feel hot inside and restless with wanting. She utterly detested it that she felt dizzy with lust for an Indian savage.

  "You don't need to hide behind my wagon like a sneak and a coward. You can offer assistance directly." A sick need to punish him for awakening her desire framed the sarcasm on her tongue. "Everyone knows I would never lower myself to become overly familiar with a half-breed. And I doubt you would assault me when a scream would bring half a dozen men running to kill you for daring to put your dirty hands on a white woman!"

  Firelight honed his features as he stiffened against the wagon wheel. His black eyes raked her with such contempt that Augusta sucked in a hard breath and stepped backward.

  Nausea clenched her stomach. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She hadn't sought him out to make him hate her; she had come hoping to walk with him beneath the moon, longing to sigh in his arms. Instead, fear boiled up inside her and she lashed out at him. But fear of what? Fear of the very rejection that she read in his stare? But that was ridiculous.

  His lip curled and his voice sliced the night like a blade. "You're mistaken, Miss Boyd," he said coldly. "I have not assisted you in any way. I have not given you gifts. I have not hidden in the shadows of your wagon."

  Heck Kelsey and the new teamster slowly stood beside the fire, looking back and forth from Augusta to Webb. Heck became more agitated by the minute as he listened to the exchange between Augusta and Webb.

  "You're lying," she accused flatly, enraged that he would try to make her look foolish by denying helping her and giving her presents. Suddenly she was glad events were unfolding as they were. She had needed this reminder that Indians were liars, and so stupid they would lie about something pleasant like gifts. "Do you think I didn't recognize your accent that first night?"

  Webb's dark hair lifted from his shoulders as he whirled to face Heck Kelsey. "There's only one person who could mimic my voice," he said, accusation heavy in his tone. "What the hell have you been doing, Kelsey?"

  Heck cleared his throat and sent a weak smile toward Augusta. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I knew you needed help, and I just figured you'd listen to Mr. Coate where you might not listen to me. So I just It was only those first two days that I pretended to be him. The gifts, well, those are from me."

  "You?" Augusta's mouth dropped, and she stared at Heck in dawning horror. It was Heck Kelsey who had walked her through the survival tasks. Heck Kelsey who was leaving her the small gifts. Her mind raced, trying to recall if she had made any reference to that long-ago night in the cottonwoods and the kisses she had shared with Webb. She was too stunned and upset to remember.

  Webb's deep exotic voice cut across Heck's mumblings. "You may rest assured that I'd never approach you or your wagon, Miss Boyd. I wouldn't risk spending one minute alone in your company."

  He stared at her and his mouth twisted, then he turned on the heel of his moccasins. The darkness swallowed him.

  Wringing her hands, Augusta tried not to look at Heck and the teamster who studied her with avid curiosity. She peered in the direction Webb had gone and willed him to return so they could begin again. Something had gone dreadfully wrong. How had her lovely fantasy taken such a terrible turn? Tears of frustration and confusion brimmed over her lashes.

  "Miss Boyd?" Heck Kelsey swept off his hat and smiled like a moonsick adolescent. "Can I escort you back to your wagon?"

  She stumbled backward. "Leave me alone, you you deceiver! You blacksmith! Don't ever speak to me again!"

  Gathering her skirts, she bolted toward her tent and dived inside, her heart pounding so hard she thought it would burst from her chest. Placing both hands over her breast, and blinking at hot tears, she stared at the roof of her tent.

  It had been Heck Kelsey, a smithy with a talent for accents, who had assisted her, who had left her tokens of affection. Not Webb, not the man she thought of day and night, not the man she longed for, dreamed of, desired with every breath she breathed.

  Weeping, it occurred to her that she had captivated a blacksmith and been rejected by a half-breed. Tears of hysteria nearly strangled her. Generations of Boyds whispered scorn in her ears.

  They camped at a rocky, cedar-shaded area surrounding the hot springs. Everyone trooped to observe a small geyser puffing away on the riverbank, and marveled at the novelties of nature.

  "Such a luxury," Bootie sighed happily. "I didn't have to heat our tea water, I just scooped a pan of boiling water out of the pool over there." She toasted Mem with her cup.

  Mem laughed and unpinned her hair, clean and shining from an earlier bath, and began to plait it in a loose braid for sleeping. "I'd be happy to stop right here," she said. "Think of it. Hot water all year around, a little geyser for a front-yard fountain, and the fragrance of cedars. Lovely."

  After finishing her tea, Bootie rinsed her cup, then stretched and smothered a yawn. "There's something I've been meaning to say. You remember the day Jane ran off?"

  Mem rolled her eyes, then bent to bank the embers in their fire pit. After laying out provisions for tomorrow's breakfast, she closed the wagon's tailgate. "How could I forget?"

  "We talked about Mr. Coate that day, remember?"

  Mem straightened warily. "I recall."

  Bootie studied her expression. "Do you still meet Mr. Coate by Smokey Joe's fire every night?"

  "Most nights," Mem replied defensively.

  "Well, I've been thinking," Bootie said. After looking around to make sure no one could overhear, she stepped close to Mem and said in a low voice, "I know you came on this trip seeking adventure. Well, maybe Mr. Coate is your grand adventure. I just want to say that if" Crimson burned on her cheeks. "Well, there are things you can do so Mr. Sails will never know there was someone else. If you ever need to know those things, as a woman who was married once, I can advise you."

  "Bootie Grant Glover! You do amaze me!" Mem stared at her sister. "Do I understand this? You're giving me permission to engage in a romantic tryst?"

  "Certainly not!" Bootie pulled to her full diminished height. "I'm merely saying if disaster strikes, I won't abandon you." Flouncing her head, she dropped to her knees and crawled into their tent. The flap came down with an irritated snap.

  Mem grinned. Then she sensed his presence and her smile altered to anticipation. Turning from the embers, she let her eyes grow accustomed to the darkness, then discovered him standing beside a cedar. She wondered how long he had been there, watching her with those black eyes that knew her so well. Sometimes she wondered how she had come to confide all her small secrets in this man, all but the secret she held close to her heart. But perhaps he knew that secret too, that she loved him. Perhaps he chose to pretend ignorance of the truth in her eyes.

  Mem had not seen much o
f him in the last week. There had been several difficult stream crossings between Fort Bridger and the springs. Plus, he usually rode far in advance of the train, seeking comfortable campsites and searching for any trace of Quintan's gang. The one time they had met at Smokey's fire in the last week, she had known at once that something had changed.

  For the first time their conversation had been strained. When he looked at her, she had not been able to guess his thoughts. And when she stood to leave, he stood also, staring at her as if she puzzled him. And then he had said the words she had never expected to hear from any man. "You are so beautiful." When she realized he was not jesting, she became so flustered that she hurried away.

  But she had thought of nothing else since that night.

  Drawing a breath, wondering what they would say to each other, she raised her skirt and walked away from the glow of the embers and into the darkness. The scent of cedar reached her before she saw him. She felt his hands on her shoulders before she heard him whisper her name. Her heart opened wide.

  She didn't hesitate. It was the most natural thing in the world to finally step forward into his arms. Nothing had ever felt as right as when he drew her against his body and buried his face in her shining auburn hair. She closed her eyes and listened to his heart pounding against her own, inhaled the fresh clean scent of his hair and skin. She had imagined this moment for so long that she wondered if she were dreaming. Except no dream had ever made her knees go weak and her breath quicken.

  "Mem," he said against her hair. "My beautiful Mem."

  Her spinster's heart soared. And she trembled in his arms. For reasons she did not understand, tonight suddenly resonated with magic. But she did understand that for a while at least, the starlight and the cedars and this magnificent man were hers. Tomorrow she would wake to her ordinary plain self and perhaps discover that she had dreamed this moment. But right now, the night was enchanted, a dream that belonged to her.