“What about you? Want me to spell ya later?” Zeb asked.
“No; I appreciate the offer, Zeb.” Johannes looked up at the sky to the east. “I will enjoy the night out there. Would you tell Reuben where I am and about the guard rotation for the night?”
“Sure thing,” Zeb answered.
Johannes’ eyes drifted down to Sarah. “I went through Inga’s things,” he said to her, pausing to take a deep breath. She noted a tremor in his voice as he spoke again. “Rebecca helped but it was mostly me.” He took another deep breath. “She doesn’t think any of her clothes will fit either of you. Inga was too tall.”
She could tell this was difficult for Johannes. He dropped his head, a catch in his breath. “But I know you and she were particularly close. There is one thing I found that I am sure she would like you to have.” He raised his eyes to her, turned, walked around the horse and fumbled with the saddlebag. He reached in and pulled out something. Leaning on his horse, she heard him clear his throat. A few moments passed before Johannes walked back to them.
Inga’s silver brush shone and reflected in the firelight in his outstretched hand. Sarah took it slowly, reaching out and resting her fingers on his arm. “Johannes…I…” He didn’t let her finish. “That was the only thing she had from the old country. She treasured it, as you know. She said it reminded her of her parents before their death when she was young and the fjord where she grew up. I’m sure she’d want those happy memories to flow through to you.”
Before Sarah could say anything, Johannes nodded to Zeb. “Tell Reuben, would you?” Then he abruptly turned, leading Bente away from the wagons and toward the east. Zeb and Sarah watched them both disappear from the firelight.
Sarah looked down at the brush and turned it in her hands, remembering. The fire sheen on the silver metal blurred. “Oh…” she said softly.
Zeb put his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said quietly, leading her away. They stepped outside the curved line of rigs, the frontiersman’s right hand holding the .52 caliber Sharps, his left arm hanging loosely in the darkness next to her. In a few paces, he stopped and turned. “We can walk around the wagons or we can walk out to that little rise yonder,” he pointed south to a raised portion of the shelf slightly more than one hundred yards from where they camped. “Your drathers, Sarah.”
“Let’s go up there, Zeb. I just have to make sure I don’t trip and fall in the dark with this dress.”
To her surprise, he took her hand. “I won’t let you fall, Sarah,” he said, shortening his steps. Her hand seemed lost in his warm, protective grip. She liked the rough and gentle feel of his touch. They reached the elevated area and stood silently, a vast blanket of stars over their heads twinkling with hope and promise. The mountain man did not take his hand from hers and she realized she was glad, feeling perhaps more found than lost.
“Always was partial to the sky,” said Zeb quietly, looking up. “Tells you there’s more.”
She squeezed his hand, her fingers barely wrapping around the edges of his palm. “Me too, Zeb. On both those thoughts.”
Far in the distance, she heard a long, lonely howl, shortly afterward answered by another from a different position but close to the first.
She squeezed his hand again and looked up at the dark, rugged form outlined by stars. He turned toward her slowly, then seemed to hesitate. She took her hand from his, turned into him and wrapped her fingers into the folds of soft leather below the rawhide ties at his throat. “Thank you, Zebarriah Taylor. You have been so very kind, looking out for me and trying to protect me from Jacob.…” She could feel his eyes on her face even through the darkness. He wrapped his arm around her back, below her shoulders and bent down slowly, his kiss tentative as he drew her to him, his embrace firm yet not insistent.
Her surprise at the kiss quickly evolved from questioning to responsive, as she felt the pressure of his lips on hers. She tightened her grip on his leather shirt. The tickle of his mustache was pleasant and his lips were warm, respectful and gentle—particularly gentle.
He lifted his face from hers slowly and straightened up. Sarah dropped her arms, wrapped them around his waist and hugged him. She felt him wince and realized his ribs, broken in hand-to-hand combat at Two Otters Creek, were still sore. “Sorry,” she whispered, the side of her face pressed against the bottom of his chest. Neither said a word. In the distance, the wolves again sang their calls to one another under the faint glow of a silver moon. Sarah trembled slightly. “They won’t bother us, Sarah.
It’s just the male and the female talking to one another.” He paused, looked up at the sky and then down to her, clearing his throat. “They mate for life, ya know.”
With her head still pressed to his shirt, Sarah could feel the rumble in his chest. “I’d never let you fall, Sarah, in the darkness or otherwise. The kid neither.” Her eyes fluttered open; she jerked and began to pull away but he held her to him, his grip tender but strong.
“Yep, I know. You bein’ sick and all. Knew for sure that day in the wagon, back there on Two Otters Creek when…when I helped you with your clothes.”
Sarah relaxed into him and quietly began to cry. My first real kiss and he knows, but can I ever trust a man again?
CHAPTER 4
May 27, 1855
PULL BACK
Rebecca turned away from the fire, climbed the ladder swiftly, lit the second oil lamp and found a comfortable perch on her bedroll. One envelope had the return address of their solicitor in London. It was addressed to her in formal, stilted letters:
“To: Lady Rebecca Marx
Care of General Delivery, Cherry Creek Post Office Kansas Territory
United States of America”
Below that, “Hold For Recipient.”
Her eyes lingered for a moment on the words, “United States of America.”
She put that letter in her lap and picked up the second, her hands trembling slightly. It was addressed in her mother’s ornate scroll—formal but warm—each letter with its own delicate curve. The address was the same as the solicitor’s correspondence, except after the words, “Hold For Recipient,” were the words, “My Daughter.”
She held the envelope up to the light, turning it to try to see the postmark date, well-worn after months en route. February 27, 1855. Her hand fell to her lap. I was on the Edinburgh, just before New York. Then Reuben’s green eyes floated through her mind and she corrected herself. We were on the Edinburgh.…
She held up the other letter. Its postmark was two weeks after her mother’s. She held one in each hand, balancing them. “Which of you should I open first?” she asked them, and this time it was a vision of her mother’s stooped diminutive figure, grey hair, face and kind smile that floated through her mind. Her fingers shook as she carefully peeled back the envelope flap, which had been secured with three small pressed wax seals embossed with the family coat of arms. She could picture her mother’s frail hand as she pressed down on the wax with the stamp months ago, five thousand miles away. She pulled the two-page letter from the envelope. It was on the heavy, scalloped stationery her mother preferred, scribed with her Mum’s favorite feather fountain pen.
“My Dearest Daughter,
You’ve been gone only weeks but I miss you as much as I miss your father, my dear Henry. I’ve always been proud of you. You have great courage and your father’s quick wit and strength. While I wish you were here, home with me, Adam, Sally and Eve—who miss you too—I realize our unfortunate predicament has left you no choice but to make this dangerous and difficult journey. It is, perhaps, the most brave I have ever seen you. Wherever this letter may find you, far from these shores, I hope that you are well.
Adam has tried to tell me, very gently, that you will not return. I pretend to ignore him but in my heart, I know he may be right. Henry always said Adam saw the future clearly. I am old. Perhaps I should have departed this earth with or shortly after my dear husband but God has seen fit to keep me breathing.
I feel, Rebecca, I may not last through the year. Adam feels it too. I can tell by how he looks at me and the gentleness with which he and his family treat and care for me. I write you this letter not to worry you, nor to beseech you to return quickly. Quite the contrary, I may not be here when you get back, if you come back. As my life draws to a close, yours spreads out before you. Do what you must. Follow your heart…”
The words blurred as tears came to her eyes. She folded the letter, saving the rest for later. Her elbows resting on her knees, her hands over her eyes, she hunched over and sobbed softly. Time passed. She got up and refilled one of the oil lamps that was flickering, wiped the tears from below her eyes and took a deep, shaking breath.
She picked up the letter from the solicitor. It was written on plain, white paper. Smooth linen without personality. Just like him, she thought, as she began to read.
DearMiilady Marx,
I write to advise you of the passing of your mother, Elizabeth Marx on March 18, 1855.
The letter slipped from Rebecca’s hand, her breath wrenched from her and she groaned, her anguish melting into the coarse canvas of the wagon cover. The very day the wagon train headed west from the Mississippi. She swallowed hard, rubbed her eyes and bent over to pick up the letter again.
We shall handle your affairs as you instructed. You have been bequeathed the estate in substantial entirety, some small items being left to your servants, Adam, Sally and Eve, no known last names.
There are questions on the disposition or maintenance of your home and, regrettably, on the significant remaining outstanding debts of Sir Henry Marx’s trading business.
We write further to inform you of an Offer to Purchase this office has received on your behalf for all lands to which you now travel, located in the southwestern part of the Kansas Territory, United States of America, consisting, more or less, of twenty-five hundred deeded acres pursuant to Land Grant by King Ferdinand of Spain, 1847, location 107° 41’ East and South of the Uncompahgre River, Kansas Territory, United States. The offer is for two hundred and forty seven pounds per acre or one hundred thousand pounds to be paid in cash upon the transfer of a deed. We understand this offer to be generous. We urge you to return to England with all due haste to handle these important affairs as soon as possible. This letter will…
The letter went on for several paragraphs but her vision blurred. Suddenly exhausted, too tired to read another word, too overwhelmed, she put the solicitor’s letter back in the envelope and folded both letters in the blankets she used as a pillow. She untied her high leather riding boots, pushed them off with her feet and lay down, drawing the other blanket over her head. “Mother,” she whispered, “Reuben.”
Reuben rode into the dusk in search of solitude. He needed time to think about the push over the mountains and who might accompany him. The questions appeared more formidable than he had imagined. He grimaced to himself. The palomino moved surefooted in the moonlight, which cast a silver net across the land. Three large fires marked the wagon train, a half a mile out.
Reuben reviewed his mental list aloud while he rode. “Have to talk to Johannes, Zeb and Rebecca.” He sighed. “And many goodbyes left to be said—the Johnsons are headed south toward an area they call Pikes Peak, the Kentuckians are headed due west of Cherry Creek and others in many directions.”
He leaned forward and patted the palomino’s neck. “You don’t have much to say Lahn, and damn few answers but I appreciate you listening.” The big horse’s muzzle seemed to nod up and down and he blew softly through his nose.
Reuben shook his head. “The longest most difficult journey lies ahead of us, Lahn. Do you think we can find several hundred good head of cattle within a weeks’ ride of camp?” He clicked off the tasks that would be required. “Cattle. Hire three good men. Get supplies. Purchase additional wagon to haul building supplies. Perhaps a third wagon for provisions. Teams for the wagons.” The list seemed endless and Lahn still seemed to have no answers.
Reuben fell silent. The scout hired by his father and uncle indicated on the map he drew that it would be a two or three-week journey to the Red Mountains and the valley of the Uncompahgre River, where he recommended the ranch be established. The scout had written the same words repeatedly in different areas on the map. Rugged. Steep. Uninhabited. Ute Indians. Some Navajo. According to the scout’s letters, the first snows could blanket the Uncompahgre by early September in some years. Would there be enough time to put up a decent shelter? If not, then what? The scout had written about winter temperatures well below zero and snows over ten feet. Will I need to acquire title or legal claim to the land before building?
He patted his coat pocket and ran his fingers down the lower seam, pressing against the heavy wool fold until he could feel the six small stones. Ludwig’s diamonds, the family trust. The image of his father’s wise face, pinched with pain, intense green eyes staring into his own across the dining room table of the family farmhouse in Prussia was etched in his mind. He and his brothers, Isaac, Helmon and Erik, completely silent and still, had waited for the patriarch to speak to them over the unrolled parchment map he had just shared and his father’s words, “Reuben, pack light—just one duffel, the map case and one small trunk. I have sent money in advance to Uncle Hermann in New York. In addition, your work coat is back from our friend Marvin, the tailor. There are six diamonds sewn into the hem. The monies you may use as you see fit to buy equipment and supplies and to hire the men that you may need.… The diamonds, however, are to be used for one thing only— to buy our land. They are to be used for nothing else.” Reuben sighed. Almost there, father. Almost there.
Completely distracted, Reuben rode back into the firelight of the wagons and without realizing it, up to their prairie schooner—and Rebecca. “Like a magnet,” he chuckled to himself.
He tied Lahn onto the rear wheel with two quick loops. The oil lamps glowed inside the canvas. He knocked on the tailgate. “Rebecca? Sarah?” There was no answer. The flap was carelessly tied as if someone had been in a rush. He opened the tailgate, slid down the ladder and climbed in, intent on getting out his maps, studying them and then going over to where others were still gathered by the fires. As the elected wagon master after Mac’s death, he needed to ask which wagons would be departing, when and where they were bound.
The blankets on Rebecca’s bedroll stirred. So intent had he been in his plans, he had not noticed her slight figure, sunk in layers of bedroll laid out over the flour sacks, almost empty from the journey. He sat beside her and peeled the blanket from over her head. Her appearance startled him, even in the dim light. She had been crying and she was awake.
“What’s wrong? Is everybody okay?” A single tear slowly rolled from the corner of her eye, down the side of her nose.
He reached out, wiped her face gently with his thumb and then leaned down and lightly kissed the partially healed scar above her lip. “Would you like to take a walk? Or head over to the fires? We were going to talk anyway and I’m not a bad listener.” Again, she shook her head slightly. “You are feeling okay, right?” She nodded.
He stood up. “Reuben,” she said, “wait. There was mail for you in Cherry Creek at the mercantile. Zeb brought it up.” She stuck one hand out from under the blanket and pointed, “The envelope is on top of your map case in the forward corner of the wagon.”
Reuben took an eager step forward, then stopped and turned to her. “Did you get mail?”
“Reuben, if you don’t mind, I really don’t feel like talking, but, there’s a problem in England.”
That hollow, uncertain feeling gnawed at him again. He looked at her, swallowed, turned and made a long reach for the letter on the map case. He paused at the tailgate. “Rebecca, I’m here if you want to talk. Do you want me to stay?”
“No, Reuben. Thank you.”
He stood for a moment longer, jumped to the ground, closed the tailgate and tied the bottom of the canvas. He desperately wanted to read his letter. A quick glance told h
im Erik, his younger brother, had written it. The first word from Prussia in five months deserved attention, which would be difficult to give if he headed over to the fires.
A voice called out, “Reuben!”
Zeb and Sarah approached, one of Sarah’s arms wound around his, her opposite hand fixed on his arm above the elbow and her head leaning into his upper arm. Reuben grinned. About damn time. Sarah smiled up at him as they grew near, her face more relaxed than he had seen it since their first meeting on the Edinburgh. Zeb’s expression was, as always, inscrutable but Reuben thought there was a slightly different look in his deep-set eyes.
“Johannes wanted me to tell ya he’s out on the ridge east of here for the night. The night guards are getting switched out twice tonight, so the menfolk will have more time with their families.”
“Thanks, Zeb.”
“Sarah, there is something not right with Rebecca— I think it was the mail that came in for her today.”
“You received a letter too, Reuben.”
“I know—I am looking for some light to read by. But I think Rebecca received some bad news from England. She wouldn’t talk to me about it.”
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