“Are you sure, then?” he pressed. “If you’re needin’ any help, you should speak up. There’s plenty would be willin’.”
Where had he been nine months ago when she’d brought in the last sorry bales of hay by herself, or six months past when she’d strung a rope to the barn so she could feed the stock with reddened hands, or when she’d accepted a price for her wheat crop that didn’t pay the note on the machinery? Where had he been when she’d buried that stillborn calf? But staying when things got rough wasn’t Michael’s stock in trade. “I ran the farm by myself after Daniel died,” she said. “I guess there isn’t much I can’t do.”
“You’re as stubborn as ever, woman. Farm life isn’t trail life.” He reached out and tugged at the doubletree connecting Patches and Fred. The cylindrical rod came loose in his hands, and he pushed it down through the hole until it was firmly settled. “Take more care with your yoking, Mrs. O’Leary. If one of these beasts gets loose, or spooked, it could mean trouble.”
She had yoked that pair. Ben Harkness had done the other. The good one. She felt the hot blush steal over her cheeks and was glad for her sunbonnet. “I’ll take that into account. Good day, Mr. Moriarty.”
Six months of Michael. For better or worse. And she couldn’t imagine a “better.”
~*~
Caroline walked beside her oxen, goading them whenever they started to stray. So different from driving horses or mules, and she was always amazed when the mammoth beasts obeyed her.
Martha knitted on the trail, her needles flashing in the sharp prairie sunlight, an occasional mild comment all her oxen needed.
Caroline wasn’t as confident; and anyway, who did she have to knit for? She prayed instead, sending her supplications out over a landscape that had thinned and flattened out. Gone were the little hills and hollows, gone the woodlands of Missouri. Now long grass rippled in the breeze. The stands of trees were few and small, a huddle of cottonwoods when they came to a stream or river. But otherwise all was grass—grass and a blinding blue sky that made her feel as though she were inside Mama’s old blue mixing bowl.
“Mornin’, Miz. O’Leary.”
The deep voice came from Lyman Smith, a fellow traveler.
Caroline forced a smile. “Good morning.”
He doffed his worn felt hat. “If you ain’t busy, me and the young’uns would be pleased to have you join us for dinner. Moriarty says we stop soon’s the sun’s directly overhead.”
She wondered if he’d heard a word anyone had said to him in the past two weeks, when he’d joined their train at the last minute, eschewed the services of any professional, and cobbled together a wagon on his own.
Caroline wanted no misunderstandings with this one. “I have to prepare dinner for Mr. Williams and Mr. Moriarty. That’s what I was hired for. Then there’s the cleaning up. I’m sorry.” She tried to sound as though that were true.
“Pa! Pa!” One of his daughters ran to catch up with Smith. Lydia, the second daughter, nine or ten. Her youngest brother, Lyman Jr., rode on her back and whimpered, clutching a fistful of her threadbare dress.
“What?”
“Lyman Jr. gots a bellyache. He et too fast.”
“Where’s Loretta?”
“She’s cleanin’ up breakfast and bandagin’ Lewis. He cut his foot on a rock.”
“Well, tell her to put Little Lyman to bed. Give him some soda crackers or somethin’. It’s her job to take care of him. Git, now, or you’ll feel my belt.”
Lydia went, halfheartedly soothing her brother, her uncombed hair hanging down her back, her bare feet sure on the rough ground.
Caroline’s heart went out to her. “You have a fine family. Maybe I could give them some lessons. I’m a schoolteacher by trade, and I’ll be working with Ben and Martha’s children.”
Smith shook his head. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. They need to work. Book learning didn’t do them no good in Wisconsin, and it won’t help ‘em none on the farm in Oregon. They’ll learn aplenty on the trail.”
Smith was attractive in a rough-hewn way, stocky but not fat, with a full, blond beard. But no man who abused his children would suit her, nor one who scoffed at education. Daniel had only finished high school. But she remembered how he’d loved Irish poetry and Shakespeare’s comedies, how he’d read aloud before their fire on snowy evenings, his faint brogue making the rich words even richer.
Without the basics, these children couldn’t read the directions on a new piece of equipment, order seed, or figure out how much money they’d made, if any. Farmers needed education too.
She’d learned from her early training in Salem, Massachusetts society how to discourage a suitor. She gave him a well-chilled smile. “You’ll need to get back to your own wagon. Good day, Mr. Smith.”
Smith left.
The oxen plodded at her side. Oh, and didn’t the heavens proclaim the glory of God today? If only Dan could see these plains, could exchange glances of appreciation with her.
“Ma’am?”
Samuel Harkness walked beside her wagon. She smiled at the sober child, who had already proven he could do a man’s work. “Yes, Sam. What can I do for you?”
“Ma wanted me to drive for you for a while, so’s you can rest a bit. She says it’s good for you.”
Dear Martha. She’d mother a clothes peg if nothing else were around.
Did Caroline want to ride? Even walking was better than that springless wagon. Caroline stretched a little. “Maybe this afternoon. I’m not tired yet. But thank you for asking.”
Sam ducked his head. He was a beautiful child, his long-lashed, dark blue eyes startling in a male face. His father’s firm jaw spoke of the man he’d become. He was the kind of boy she’d have wanted for a nephew, a brother. A son?
Caroline made her voice more brusque than it needed to be. “You could walk with me, and we could go over your Latin.”
Sam’s head shot up and color suffused his pale, Harkness skin.
Caroline laughed in spite of herself. “You didn’t do it, did you?”
“I been busy.” His fingers plucked at his worn felt hat, the same style as his father’s. “One of the milkers got loose. I had to help with that—“
“Sam.”
Sam bowed his head, but looked up at her through those long lashes. “Sorry, Missus O’Leary. I’ll do it tonight, I promise. I—look at that.” He made a gesture that took in the prairie, stretching green and gold, and everything beyond. “I been looking forward to this so long, you know? I want to see that elephant.”
Grown men wanted to “see the elephant,” a catch-all phrase for the wonders of the West. From the bit of geography she’d learned at school, she’d deduced that they wouldn’t find elephants in the Western territories. She remembered the turbaned man she’d glimpsed in St. Joe. Maybe Samuel would at least meet a person who’d seen elephants. “It’s all right, Sam,” she said with an inward sigh. “Why don’t you work on your mathematics? You’ll need that if you run a farm, or go into business.” Caroline’s smile held all the forgiveness she could offer.
It wasn’t either of their faults. The Harkness scion wasn’t a scholar. He’d made it clear in his polite way that he’d rather be mending something, tending an animal, or tearing over the prairie in this brave new world. But Sam was good at the trail itself.
“Do you have any idea where we are?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Williams said we’re comin’ up on a place called Alcove Springs. The water’s supposed to be the best in the area, and there’s a farm where you can buy eggs. Ma will like that.” He touched two fingers to the brim of his hat and turned to go. The boy stopped and stared off into the distance.
Caroline muttered “whoa” to her plodding oxen. “Samuel, what is it?”
“Look.” The single word encapsulated all the wonder of the Western trip for a boy.
She looked.
On a ridge parallel to the trail, three horsemen gazed down at the wagon train. Their sle
ek little ponies had no saddles. The men riding them were bare-chested, with coarse black hair hanging in braids down their backs. Their legs, encased in some kind of hide, gripped the animals’ sides as if they’d been born there.
“Injuns,” Sam breathed.
“Indians,” Caroline corrected with a good deal less wonder.
“Ever seen an Injun—ah, Indian?” Sam asked, his gaze still on the ridge.
“Once or twice. They came to the farm, I gave them food, and sent them on their way.” Back when there had been food to give.
“I gotta tell Ma.” Sam was off, loping across the prairie like a kid released from school.
Indians. She’d known there would be some. But seeing them out here was different from seeing the beaten, bedraggled ones back in Ohio, the ones trying to make it in a white man’s world. These men looked so at home, with their straight backs, and little ponies, watching impassively from the ridge. This was their world.
Caroline shivered, and reached for her shawl. Lord, you wanted me to go on this trip. You heard my excuses—all of them—and you struck down every one of them. Lord, I have no choice but to believe. Please protect us from these Indians, an–and from the things we don’t know about yet. She lifted her head.
The day was still brilliant, the sky a fierce summer blue, “as blue as a pair of Dutchmen’s breeches,” as her mother used to say. Wildflowers poked up from the long grass, and somewhere a bird trilled. A meadowlark, one of the Harkness girls had informed her yesterday. In the ways of the natural world, her pupils were her teachers.
Samuel drove an hour for her in the afternoon, then went back to help his father.
When the sun began to slant low, Michael reined up beside her. Despite the broad-brimmed hat, he was already sunburned. His white teeth flashed in his habitual grin, but today it seemed more forced than usual. “We’ll be stopping early today, Mrs. O’Leary. Just thought you’d like to know.”
It was a Saturday, and they always stopped early anyway. Sunday was the day for washing clothes in a creek, for mending, for taking stock of the food supplies. Sunday on the trail was anything but a day of rest. “Is anything wrong?”
“Not yet. Those Indians we saw—they’re not local. Pace thinks they might be Sioux. They’re a ways from home, anyway, so we’re not taking any chances. We’ll put in early, it’s Saturday, and we’ll schedule the men on a watch. And we don’t want anyone alone. Do you have someone you’d like to stay with you?”
Caroline’s mind had already jumped ahead, planning its way through the crisis. The way she’d had to think this past year without Daniel. “There aren’t any other single women, at least not without some kind of family.” She passed over Miss Jenkins, the pinched-faced woman who was going to the West to be a missionary with her brother. She’d rather face the Indians alone. “Maybe Rose Harkness?”
“That’s a good idea. Both those older Harkness kids know how to handle guns.”
Caroline swallowed. “Guns?”
He hadn’t seen her fear, or didn’t want to acknowledge it. “We have an extra shotgun in Pace’s wagon. I’ll drop it by tonight, if you’ll see to getting Rose.” He hesitated, looking down at her. “Caroline—Mrs. O’Leary—”
“Yes?”
“Never mind. ‘Twasn’t important.” He wheeled about and cantered back to the wagon behind hers.
Guns.
She knew how to handle one. Every farm wife did. She’d even improved her skills in the post-Daniel year, when a coyote in the henhouse meant disaster. But she’d never had to defend herself against another human being.
Sioux? She’d heard the stories about what an angry Indian could do to a white man—and a white woman. Heard, and been smugly glad she hadn’t put herself in that position. Or any position, besides a helpmeet to Daniel.
What awaited her at the end of this trail? She wouldn’t think about it. The trail itself was enough for now. Under her broad bonnet, she bowed her head. But the only words that came out were, “Lord.”
Though the trees had thinned since they’d left Missouri, there was still enough scrap wood for a fire. She gathered hers quickly, threw together a stew of dried meats and potatoes, and put it on to simmer. With the early stopping time, it would be done in time for Pace’s and Michael’s dinner. She could bake biscuits at the last minute. And she’d bake a dried apple pie in the embers, and surprise them for Sunday lunch.
Caroline lifted her chin. It was good to have people to cook for, good to have things to cook with. They would get their money’s worth from her, and then some.
If they all lived.
She found Mrs. Harkness peeling potatoes at her own campsite. “I’ll fry ‘em in the spider with lard and onions,” the older woman said, her red cheeks even rosier from the heat of the campfire. “Taste just as good as it did back home, maybe better.”
“May I borrow Rose tonight?” Quietly, Caroline explained the situation.
“‘Course you can. Ben’s prob’ly already farmed Samuel out to someone. They’re smart kids,” Martha said, pushing back a lock of dark brown hair. “Rose’ll be thrilled, she really likes you, and you can drill her on her lessons. I mean to get them into a real school as soon as we get there.”
“There” meaning Oregon. The only “there” that existed for these pilgrims.
She’d seen the set of Martha’s jaw. For Oregon’s sake, Caroline hoped a school was set up somewhere.
“Are you afraid of the Indians?” she asked.
Martha straightened, made a face and rubbed her back. Campfire cooking, after driving oxen all day.
Caroline instinctively rubbed her own back.
“I’m afraid of what fear does to people,” Martha said slowly. “I’m afraid—” She looked around, making sure none of her offspring were listening. “I’m afraid for Sarah. If anything happened, the shock would put her right into labor. And the poor girl is going to deliver too early, as it is, or she slipped up on her calc’lating. She’s too big to go on much longer. Unless it’s twins,” she added.
Caroline gladly deferred to Martha’s expertise in these matters. “Have you known many women who’ve had twins?”
“Only babies I ever lost was a set of twins.” Something flitted across the farm woman’s face like a shadow. “Anyhow, we’ll put in early. Won’t hurt us any.” Martha put the last of the potatoes in the spider and clamped the lid on tightly. “That will be fine for a few minutes. We’re walking down to the spring. Why don’t you run back to your wagon, fetch a pail and come with us?”
Another woman wanted to spend time with her. If Martha only knew—no. It wouldn’t make any difference, not to this woman.
Caroline drew a deep breath. “I’d love to.”
5
“Oh, show me that one! Please!”
Rose, in her crisp white nightgown, her hair re-braided for the night, sat with her back propped against a wooden crate. She had seen a flash of color when Caroline pulled out her own nightgown, and nothing would do but that Caroline show Rose her clothes, not the everyday shirtwaists and skirts or calico housedresses, but the ones she’d carefully packed away for her new life when she’d left the East to teach. The ones she’d barely worn in that new life, either as schoolteacher, or farm wife.
“You have some lovely frocks, Mrs. O’Leary.”
“Thank you.” Caroline fingered the soft wool of her traveling suit. “When I knew I was going West to teach, I had my mother’s dressmaker make me a wardrobe. I didn’t know when I’d see ‘civilization’ again.” She laughed shortly. Summer Pasture, Ohio now seemed like a bastion of culture and charm.
Rose touched a pink-sprigged cotton spilling from Caroline’s trunk. “That’s real pretty fabric. Saw something like it in the mercantile back home.”
Caroline eyed the girl, measuring her size and calculating the dark hair, pale skin and blue eyes. Rose would have a woman’s body by the time they reached Oregon. She pushed the dress into the girl’s arms. “Here, you take it.
It will look wonderful with your coloring.”
Martha had brought her children up well. “Oh, no, Mrs. O’Leary. I can’t—” But the hunger in her eyes belied her words.
“You can,” Caroline said firmly. “It doesn’t fit me that well any more. Women’s bodies change when they marry. Please, Rose.”
Rose hugged the yards of material to her. “It’s the prettiest dress ever. I promise I’ll take good care of it.” But pulling out the sprigged cotton had dislodged another gown, and Rose’s eyes widened in the light from a small oil lamp. “What’s that?”
“It’s my blue delaine.” Half proudly, half reluctantly, Caroline dragged her best gown from its tissue paper nest. The yards of silky, shiny fabric spilled over her lap, gleamed in the soft glow of the lamp.
Rose’s eyes were enormous, her mouth a pretty “O.” “That’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. Was it your wedding dress?”
“No.” Caroline fought back the memory, but it came anyway. She’d worn a plain white shirtwaist and navy skirt, her teaching clothes, for that brief ceremony in the pastor’s study. “No, this is what I wore for dances back East.”
She’d worn it to her very first dance in Ohio, the schoolhouse social held to welcome the new teacher. She’d worn her hair swept up and her mother’s sapphire earrings. And known from the start it was a mistake, with the other women in cottons and ginghams. But she’d held her head high in spite of the others’ raised eyebrows.
Until Dan and Michael walked in.
She couldn’t remember her first impression of Daniel, because she hadn’t been looking at him.
Michael had been clad like every other man in the room, in clean denims and a clean flannel shirt, his hair slicked back with water. But he was the only man who’d had to duck his head when he came through the door.
Westward Hope Page 3
