Oregon Trail Boxed Set

by Hutton, Callie

  Put it up? Where?

  He was happy to know she adored children, and could help the little ones with homework. The last statement was the only truth in the entire exchange. She’d excelled in school.

  How Sylvia could deceive this man was indefensible. Mr. Hale would get a wife whose only knowledge of the kitchen consisted of meeting with Cook to plan the menus. The woman would then turn these ideas into meals prepared by a kitchen staff, ruled by her iron hand. Angel’s idea of a garden was the lovely flowers the gardener took care of for the family’s pleasure that she cut and arranged in vases throughout the house.

  My loving stepmother led Nathan Hale to believe I’d be a competent wife.

  She shivered.

  This man expected a real wife, and instead, he was getting her. He sounded like a good person, very fond of his children. She had no idea what he looked like because he hadn’t sent a picture, but described himself as ‘not hard to look at.’ Whatever that meant. She sighed, then leaned against the seat, and looked out the window. Watching the scenery pass by, she wished, as in the fairy tale, she could sleep forever until Prince Charming—with no children—found her.

  * * *

  The train trip had been tedious enough, but at least the woman with the child got off after only a few stops. But now, traveling for the seventh day on the stage coach, Angel was sure she had perished in a train crash and had ended up in hell.

  Never in her life had she suffered such heat and blinding sun. Sweat poured off her in rivulets. She waved her lemon-scented handkerchief under her nose to avoid the nasty smell emanating from the man next to her. The odorous man—she refused to call him a gentleman—had joined the stagecoach at the last stop.

  Besides smelling bad, he took up a lot of room, and kept a large cigar clamped between his yellowed teeth, moving the offensive stump back and forth as he spoke. Even though unlit, the constant shifting of the thing caused dribble to run down his massive chin.

  “So, missy, where are you headed?” He turned in her direction, his foul cigar breath wafting over her.

  “Oregon City.”

  “You don’t say? Got a sweetheart there?” He stared at her breasts and leered. Her stomach churned.

  “No.” The last thing she wanted to do was encourage this man. And she truly wasn’t lying. Nathan Hale might be her future husband, but he was not her sweetheart.

  He then turned to the older woman on his other side who sat knitting. “What about you? Where you headed?”

  Luckily, the woman was more than happy to regale him with tales of her daughter who just produced her third baby that she was going to visit.

  Across from the three of them were a traveling salesman, a man who claimed to be a doctor, who kept taking sips from a bottle he kept tucked into his jacket pocket, and a young, very pregnant woman. Angel’s heart sped up every time the stagecoach hit a rut and the woman winced.

  The stench was bad enough, but the added heat and red dirt that blew in through the window when she attempted to clear her head made for a miserable ride. She fought off nausea, and wished for the relief of a fainting spell to escape her misery for a while.

  Angel leaned her head in the corner of the coach and closed her eyes. Not being at all familiar with stagecoach travel, she had no idea there wouldn’t be any overnight stops. The stage stopped at various stations along the way for about twenty or thirty minutes so passengers could get a meal, and stretch their legs.

  They were expected to sleep in the coach as best they could. Too nervous to actually sleep with strangers surrounding her, she’d only managed to doze on and off. Her eyes burned with grit, and she could have done with a cloth and water basin.

  Never in her life had she worn the same underwear for more than one day. Her dress was soiled, with stains under her arms. She shifted on the seat.

  The heavy man gave her a dirty look. “You’re taking up a lot of room for a little slip of a thing.”

  “Less room than you’re taking up,” the knitter on the other side commented, never looking up from her work.

  Before he could respond, the driver bellowed. “Crooked Bend Station comin’ up, folks.”

  The passengers gathered belongings in preparation for a short break.

  I hope this is where he gets off.

  She peered out the window. The tiny station sat in the middle of nowhere. Weather and time had reduced the pitiful building to not much more than a shanty. Cracks between the boards that formed the structure were large enough for little animals to crawl through. A lean-to rested behind the building where several horses stood, lazily swishing their tails at flies.

  Empty prairie stretched for miles in all directions, dry sagebrush dotting the area. The sun beat down mercilessly, and sweat dampened her face.

  After the bright sunlight, she was momentarily blinded when she entered the building. It was thankfully cooler by several degrees. The scent of food drifted in the air. Instead of enticing her, the smell made her gag.

  Her vision cleared enough to notice a worn counter at the end of the narrow building. A large man, with a stained apron tied around his even larger middle, wiped the counter with a filthy rag.

  Her heart thumped as she approached the counter. His immense frame and scowling features rattled her. “May I please have a drink of water?”

  “Sure ‘nuf, little lady, and we got a fine rabbit stew.”

  Her stomach pitched. “Nothing to eat, thank you. Just the water, if you please.”

  The counterman scowled, turned and dipped a dirty cup into a barrel of water and slapped the glass in front of her. Although afraid to drink in the dimness, lest there be unwanted items in the water, thirst won out. Any insects in the barrel would have sunk to the bottom.

  She too, had sunk to the bottom. She released a burst of high-pitched laughter. No one paid attention.

  A rickety wooden table in the corner drew her. She placed the glass on the table and eased her sore and tired body onto the chair. One leg shorter than the other three, the chair rocked as she settled.

  A woman the size of the counterman came through a curtain separating the area from whatever was in the back. With a brisk nod in Angel’s direction, she headed her way.

  “Y’all one of them new whores Dolly’s expectin’? She asked me to look out for ya.” She jerked her thumb in the counterman’s direction. “Jedediah’ll git you out there as soon as the stage pulls out. Dolly’s sure needin’ the help. She can’t never take a break herself.”

  Angel sat in silence, her eyes wide and mouth slack as the woman continued. “Ya’ll gonna have to git rid of them black clothes, though. Dolly’ll fix ya up nice and fancy.”

  Tears sprang to Angel’s eyes and she gasped, vigorously shaking her head. “No, ma’am, I am not one of the new wh-whores.” She stumbled on the word, and backed the rickety chair against the wall.

  “Well, gosh darn. Thatta be a pity.” The woman shifted a wad of tobacco from one cheek to the other, expelling a stream of juice right next to Angel’s shoe. Her gaze roamed over her. “A looker like you’d make a lot of money for yerself. Men around here are dying for new faces.” Then she thought for a minute and grinned. “And new bodies, too.” She threw her head back in laughter, spaces from missing teeth exposed.

  “Jedediah, git yoreself back to work.” The woman shouted in the counterman’s direction as she returned to the back area.

  Angel rose from the table and quickly headed for the door.

  I’d rather sit in the blazing sun. What have I gotten myself into?

  She leaned against the building, hoping it would take her weight, and removed the black straw hat. She waved it in front of her face, creating a slight breeze. As bad as this trip was, she certainly didn’t look forward to facing Mr. Hale with her total lack of ability to fulfill the promises Sylvia had made on her behalf.

  What a muddle she created for me!

  * * *

  “Matt, run over to Mrs. Darby’s house and find out where t
he heck she is.” Nate jiggled the crying baby on his hip while he worked a comb through Luke’s tangled hair. “Boy, you need a haircut,” he grumbled as Luke yelped again. “Or better yet, a bath to wash some of this mess out of your hair.”

  “Mark says he ain’t goin’ to school today.” John hopped into the room on one foot, and reached for a piece of bread from the center of the table.

  “Mark!” Nate bellowed from where he stood. “Get up and get ready for school.”

  “No!” came the muffled defiant voice. “I’m sick. My head hurts.”

  “Here, walk her around a bit.” Nate shoved Julia-Rose at Luke. He took the stairs two at a time, and pushed open the door to the boys’ bedroom.

  “What’s the matter? Are you really sick?”

  “I’m sick of school.” His son glowered. “I told you before. I’m the dumbest one in the room. Everyone else can read, but every time I look at the page, nothing makes sense. I hate it.”

  Nate sat at the edge of the boy’s bed. “I know you have a hard time, and I promise I’ll speak to your teacher. But you’ll never be a better reader if you don’t go.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Now come on, it’s almost time to leave.”

  “You’re always saying you’ll talk to my teacher, but you never do.” Mark shot him a disgusted look, tossed the covers off and mumbled to himself.

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I will definitely make time next week to do that.” His stomach clenched as the guilt engulfed him. Sighing, Nate returned to the chaos in the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Darby said she can’t come ‘til this afternoon on account of her breathing ain’t good, and she needs time for her medicine to work.” Matt greeted him.

  “Great, the start of another perfect day in the Hale household.” Nate took the still-crying baby from Luke.

  “Matt, go upstairs and hurry your brother along and then get going. I’m gonna have to bring these three with me to the shop. I have a lot of work today.”

  * * *

  Nate unlocked the door of the shop with Nathan Hale, Gunsmith, painted in scripted gold letters on the door. Its location, between the barber shop and mercantile on the main street of town, drew a lot of business.

  Racks of guns lined the area. Pieces of a rifle were strewn over a work table shoved against the back wall. Boxes of various sizes of ammunition were stacked neatly on shelves next to the cash register.

  Nate spread a blanket on the floor and set Julia-Rose there. Then he tied her to a table leg with a strap to keep her from wandering around. “I’m sorry, sweetie, seems I’m always tying you to something.”

  Luke and John settled near the baby on another blanket, already busy with their wooden soldiers.

  He settled down to work, cleaning and re-assembling the Winchester. He glanced at his three children on the floor and shook his head. The last six months had been hell. Kids, shuffled from place to place. Burnt meals, missing laundry. Most nights he collapsed into bed, convinced he was the worst father on earth. It was during one of these tirades with himself that he’d decided to send for a bride.

  With no time or desire for courting, using an agency to find a suitable wife seemed to be the best solution. Then there would be no expectations. He needed a helpmate, someone to take over the household chores so he could get to work every day. On the application, he was adamant about what he wanted. Not interested in how she looked, he didn’t even request a picture. He hoped for a nice, sturdy partner. No fuss, no nothing.

  The bell over the front door rang. Mrs. Watson, one of his steady customers, entered the shop. A tall, thin woman, she wore a permanent frown that belied her sweet disposition and generous heart.

  “Mornin’ Mrs. Watson.” He wiped his hands on a nearby cloth and walked to the counter.

  “Mornin’ Nate. I came to pick up Grandpa’s rifle. Is it ready yet?”

  “Just finished it up yesterday.” He turned and reached to the top shelf for a flintlock musket the old gentleman’s father had used in the Revolutionary War. “Here ya go.”

  “Oh, my.” Mrs. Watson glanced down and gasped. “Do you have that baby tied to the table?”

  Julia-Rose reached both hands up, her little face smeared with dust from the floor. “Mama.”

  Heat rose in his face as he looked at the baby. “Yes, I’m afraid I had no choice. Mrs. Darby couldn’t come in this morning—breathing problems again—and I had to bring them with me. The last thing I need is for Julia-Rose to be crawling around guns.”

  “Well, you just untie that precious little one, and I’ll take her and your boys home with me for the morning. This is no place for children.”

  “I really appreciate that.” Nate hurriedly untied the baby. “Come on, boys, pick up your things. Mrs. Watson is taking you to her house.”

  “Do you have cookies, Mrs. Watson?” Luke’s round saucer eyes looked at her with longing.

  “I certainly do. And I have some nice chicken for your lunch.” She smiled at the boys as she gathered them up.

  “I like chicken, Mrs. Watson.” John said, hopping up and down on one foot. “Is it all black like when Papa makes it?”

  The woman glanced at Nate and winked. “No, my chicken is not all black.”

  “Good. I like chicken that’s not all black.”

  “I’ll stop and tell Mrs. Darby she can pick them up when she’s feeling better.” The woman took the baby from Nate’s arms. “I think it’s best if I leave the rifle for now. I’ll get it later. I can’t manage that and the children, too.”

  “Thank you so much. This is very nice of you.” Nate breathed a sigh of relief as he watched them all head for the door.

  “By the way, Mr. Hale.” Mrs. Watson turned slightly as she opened the door for the boys to go through. “You need a wife.”

  “I agree.” He returned to his work and grinned. “I have one in the mail.”

  * * *

  Angel had loosened the top buttons of her dress, then patted her throat with the handkerchief already soaked with sweat. She’d long ago shoved her sleeves to her elbows and removed her hat. If she could just get this darn corset off. It chafed her skin, adding to her misery. She rocked back and forth on the uncomfortable bench, trying her best to ease her aches and pains. Would this trip ever end?

  Her gaze shot to the coach window when the air reverberated with the sound of rapid hoof beats and gunshots.

  “Stop.” A loud voice shouted. Two more gunshots.

  “Oh my God,” the older woman with the knitting screeched, “we’re being held up!”

  The fat man turned around and looked out the back window. He squealed like a pig, then attempted to slide to the floor by squeezing his large body between the seats. His movements knocked Angel into the side of the coach, and since he had been sitting on her dress, when he went down, the dress tore from the waist.

  The inebriated doctor had passed out a while ago, and with the pregnant woman and traveling salesman departing at the last station, that left Angel and the knitter to stare wide-eyed at each other.

  The stagecoach swayed violently as the driver shouted, “Whoa,” and pulled on the horses’ reins. At least he didn’t try to outrun the horsemen closing in on them. Visions of the coach careening wildly, until it overturned, flashed through her mind.

  Angel’s mouth dried up and her heart pounded. Everyone in New York had heard horror stories of bandit hold-ups out West. Her group would be robbed and possibly killed, left as food for wild animals. She shuddered and offered a silent prayer.

  The coach came to a stop, the passengers sat perfectly still. “Everybody out.” A blast of heat hit her in the face as one of the outlaws opened the door. Tall, with long, stringy dark hair, he had a filthy red bandana pulled over his mouth. The man’s coal black eyes studied them. He waved a gun, which encouraged the fat man, Angel, and the knitter to hurry out.

  The driver lay on the ground, blood seeping from a head wound.

  “What’s wrong with him?” The outlaw gestured with hi
s chin in the direction of the doctor.

  “I think he’s asleep,” the knitter whispered.

  “No.” Angel stared the outlaw in the eyes and lifted her chin. “He’s drunk.” She’d pushed the fear into anger. If she was going to deal with this new life, in the wilds of the West, she’d have to rely on the inner strength she’d always had. The inner strength Sylvia spoke of when she’d left her in New York City with a ticket to the ends of the earth and promises made to a stranger she could never fulfill.

  The outlaw chuckled. “All right, sweetheart, you and your friends take out your money and jewelry, and we’ll be on our way, without anyone getting hurt.”

  She jerked open her reticule and took out what little money remained from the small allowance Mr. Hale had sent with the tickets. Steeling herself against the terror, she snorted as she slapped the few bills on the outlaw’s palm. The other two men climbed to the top of the stagecoach and tossed down the trunks strapped there.

  “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” The outlaw with the stringy hair pinched Angel’s cheek. He fingered her earrings. “Take ‘em off.”

  Angel removed the pearl bobs, a gift from her father, tears filling her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t show weakness in front of these savages. With a shrug, and a heavy heart, she dropped them into his hand, and swallowed the tears at the loss of another memory of her father.

  “Be careful, or we just might decide to take you with us. I like ‘em feisty, and we could use a beauty like you to keep us warm at night.”

  Angel turned away, her body stiff.

  The outlaw poked the fat man in his stomach. “Come on, tubby, hand over your money. And I’ll take that pocket watch, too.”

  One of his cohorts entered the coach and relieved the sleeping doctor of his belongings. Angel jerked and squeezed her eyes shut when the tall stringy-haired one shot off the locks on two trunks. Dirty hands pawed through her belongings.