Undeniable

by Laura Stapleton

  “It doesn’t matter, Granville. I just know these things from people probably smarter than you.” Daggart stood. “Damn! What does it take t’ get some sleep around here?”

  Nick let the man toddle off, knowing this was an argument he couldn’t win. He wanted to convince Bartlett not all Indians wanted him dead. Maybe if Beth understood, Bartlett would fall in line too. He went to the front of the Bartlett’s wagon for her. “Mrs. Bartlett, may I have a word with you?”

  She kneeled on the ground, milking Erleen. “Yes, if you don’t mind doing so while I finish here.”

  “I’ll be glad to wait.” Nick sat on his heels, happy to have the excuse to look at her. He hated her brown dress; the color muddied her eyes instead of showing off their deep green.

  Beth looked up at him while continuing her work. “Good, I need to get this done. Daggart likes milk with his meals.”

  Nick caught her expression of dislike. “You don’t care for fresh milk?”

  She chuckled, “Not so much. I enjoy butter softening the bread and that’s all.” Beth stopped milking and tucked wisps of her hair escaping the braid behind her ear.

  He grinned, noting she had new freckles across her nose and a bit of pink to her cheeks. Beth must not have worn her sunbonnet this afternoon when she rested beside the creek. “I enjoyed you cooking fish for Sam and me the other evening.”

  Laughing, she said, “I’m sure you did. We did, too. As long as you share the food, I’ll be glad to cook for you.”

  “Sam will be pleased to hear it.” He stood as she did, bucket in her hand. “I need to offer you something else.”

  She shifted the milk bucket from one hand to the other. “Oh?”

  “The Indian you met today, Jack, found something he wanted other than your shoes.”

  Concern creased her face. “He’s not angry? Daggart said he might be back to knife us all in our sleep.”

  He smiled in reassurance. “Not at all. He’s very happy with the outcome. In fact, he’s going through camp, seeing if anyone else wants to barter for his goods.”

  She fidgeted a little. “Do you trust him? I’m not sure we should.”

  Nick shrugged. “As much as I can trust anyone. He’s not given me a reason to distrust just yet.” He smiled at her still nibbling her lip, not reassured by his words. Leaning in a little closer, he quietly said, “Beth, nothing will happen to you on my watch.”

  She didn’t look convinced. “Daggart said I was lucky he didn’t slit my throat right there, or worse.”

  Worse? He knew what the man had meant, but nothing was worse than her death. She still seemed worried. Nick didn’t blame her. Seeing her fight with the Indian had been scary for even him and he was armed. He suspected there was more to her fear than a native with bad judgement and believed he knew why. “That isn’t all he said, is it?”

  Beth pursed her lips at first as if she didn’t want to say but then admitted, “He said if you, Mr. Granville, and your men had been doing your jobs properly, our lives wouldn’t have been in danger.”

  Damn him. Nick didn’t want to admit Bartlett was right but had to be fair. “Your husband raises a good point. The men and I are keeping a lookout all the time. Jack only wants to make a profit from us, but someone should have seen him before he confronted you. We need to make changes.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Step up the guard, first. The people here are all friendly and comfortable with civilization. Attacks are no more frequent from here to Fort Bridger than they are back east.”

  Beth shook her head, blushing. “I’m hoping to be done with Indian attacks, Mr. Granville. Once was quite enough.” She set down the bucket, peering into the wagon before reaching in.

  “I agree, ma’am.” The wind shifted, carrying a scent of warm cotton and her skin. He swallowed hard against the sudden interest in her spreading through him. Nick looked away from watching her rustle through her belongings. He needed to focus on Beth’s true needs and not on how pretty she was. “First, I’d rather talk with you.”

  She stopped her search. “Oh, talk with me still? Why?”

  He pulled the folded shoes from his back pocket, holding them out to her. “I traded for the moccasins because you need shoes better suited for your feet.”

  Beth examined them, tracking her finger along some of the beadwork. “Thank you for the offer. They are very lovely.”

  “They might save your life.” He saw the yearning in her eyes for the shoes. “If you could, I’d like for you to wear these after your feet heal.” Nick shifted from one foot to the other. “In fact, I have a favor to ask of you. I bought a pair of boots in town and can’t wear them. They’re too tight and I’d like it if you could break them in for me. Walk in them for a while, maybe with thick socks to help them fit better. Your skirt would make sure no one would have to see them.”

  Laughing a little, she asked, “My wearing them would loosen them for you? I can’t imagine.”

  He’d stretched the truth a little, sure, and needed to add more to convince her to take them. “You’d help me a lot, ma’am. I have these boots and they’re good but I want to switch back and forth for rainy days.” He held out the moccasins for her. “Take these for now and I’ll go get my spare boots for you.”

  Shaking her head, Beth poured milk into a jar. ”I don’t think I’ll be allowed to. Daggart prefers Lizzy’s smaller shoes to my, um, he prefers my smaller shoes.”

  Her reference to herself puzzled him. She’d said something earlier about her shoes as if they’d not belonged to her but to some other woman named Lizzy. Nick asked, “What do you mean, exactly? Aren’t they your smaller shoes and aren’t you Lizzy to him?”

  “Oh, yes, you’re right.” She glanced around. “I need to get water for dinner. Please excuse me.”

  He frowned, watching her make her way to the creek. In the back of his mind, he noticed how the sun edged closer to the horizon, bringing the day to an end. She’d run off and so far, no one seemed to take Beth’s feet seriously. He’d seen gangrene before, watched as limbs had been amputated. Nick couldn’t bear such a fate for her. Damn it, he had to do something. His only solution was a successful appeal to Bartlett. He glanced around the camp, seeing others busy with chores or enjoying the rest.

  Nick went to the back of the couple’s wagon. Bartlett lay on his bedroll, sleeping by an unlit fire. The way he treated Beth angered him, and the man’s attitude toward Indians only served to infuriate him more.

  “Mr. Bartlett?” he said, resisting the urge to nudge him with his foot. The man lay there, unresponsive. “Bartlett?” Nick repeated, a little louder.

  Startled as if jabbed with a sharp stick, Daggart yelped, “What? What the hell’s going on?”

  The guy seemed hung over despite the lack of alcohol. Suppressing a chuckle at maybe causing him pain, Nick replied, “Nothing, I just needed to talk with you and wanted to do so before dark.”

  “Didn’t we already talk?” Not bothering to open his eyes, Bartlett put his hands behind his head.

  Nick felt foolish just standing there while the other man lay there as if asleep. “We did, but this is something serious.”

  Sitting up, Bartlett gave him a smug grin. “It’s those damned Indians, isn’t it?”

  “No. It’s about your wife’s feet.”

  He squinted his eyes, shrugged, and laid back down as before. “So what about them?”

  Nick wondered if his own eyes shot glares of hate as much as Bartlett’s did. “Because her shoes are too small, she has difficulty walking.”

  Letting out a snort, Bartlett retorted, “Who doesn’t except the lucky few on horses?”

  Nick could take the jab at what the other man saw as a privileged status. He’d dealt with that all his life from a lot of people. What he didn’t accept was Bartlett’s lack of empathy for his own wife. He had half a mind to grab the man by his lapels and shake him. “Yes, most do, but hers have open sores with the potential of infection.”
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  With a groan, he said, “I don’t care as long as she can still walk to Fort Kearny. We can get some whisky to dab on there. By then she might be able to ride in the wagon, unless she wants to leave her stuff on the road before then.”

  Unacceptable, Nick thought, staring at the man. Sixteen to twenty days were a long time to walk with bad feet and he would not let Beth do such a thing. “You don’t have whisky here to help her feet heal now? Wasn’t that on the list we gave you of things to pack?”

  “I bought some the day before we left.” Bartlett sat up, still resting on his elbows behind him, not looking Nick in the eyes. “It just so happens, I got thirsty walking back from town.” Having the grace to look ashamed, he added, “Next time I’ll know to buy two bottles.”

  He had been and probably was still hung over from last night, Nick surmised, giving him a hard stare. “You do that. Until then, I think it best if she wears my boots or some moccasins until she’s healed enough for her own shoes.”

  Standing, Bartlett pointed at Beth as she walked back to the camp. “No. My wife is not wearing a man’s shoes or a dirty Indian’s.” He crossed his arms. “Lizzy will wear Lizzy’s little shoes and have Lizzy’s little feet.”

  The need to choke the life from Bartlett propelled Nick a step forward. To set aside his anger, he took a breath and instead of violence, he settled for being practical. “If she wears what I’ve suggested, we’ll make better time.” Gold seduced the man more than his wife, so Nick pushed that agenda. “I’d hate for you to be delayed on your way to California by a woman who is lame.”

  Bartlett shook his head. “We’re dillydallying around too much as it is.” He gestured in surrender. “I suppose she could wear the boots at least. We can keep Lizzy’s shoes for when her feet heal up.”

  Nick smiled when seeing her peeking from around the wagon. He struggled to keep his expression more neutral than his heart felt. Also feeling Bartlett watching him, Nick said as though he accepted Bartlett’s decision, “I’ll make sure she gets them until then.” If he had his way, Beth would never wear anything ill fitting again. He turned to her standing by the campfire. “Do you have a moment to retrieve the shoes?”

  She looked at Bartlett who nodded then answered, “Yes, I’ll go.”

  He handed her the moccasins, unable to resist flashing a triumphant grin. She made a face at him and put them in the wagon. Nick led the way and Beth followed. He slowed to let her stroll beside him. As they walked, he asked, “Do you have socks to wear with the boots?”

  She laughed. “Yes, I have plenty. They’re my favorite thing to knit.”

  “Hmm. I might have to commission a pair from you, then. I can’t keep my own from wearing thin.” At his wagon, Nick retrieved the boots, handing them to her.

  Beth hugged them to her chest. “I’d be glad to knit you up a pair. Would you want them thinner for summer?”

  He thought about what to ask for that would keep them talking longer than usual during the journey. “I’d like to pay you for a summer and a winter pair.”

  “Pay me?” She shook her head. “Oh no, you’re doing enough getting us across the country.”

  “I’ve already been paid for doing so and will be glad to buy socks from you instead of purchasing them elsewhere.” While Nick was sure he had ordinary feet, didn’t he want perfect socks? He smiled, anticipating the need for fittings and several reasons to see her beyond the necessary.

  She smiled back at him. “Very well, I’ll charge you a fair price, same as you’d pay in St. Joe.”

  “Thank you.” He saw Sam from the corner of his eyes. “Be sure to let me know how the boots fit. Even the slightest promise of a blister and we can find another solution for you.” He tipped his hat.

  “I will.” Beth turned and went back to her camp.

  Sam strolled up to their wagon with a bucket and jar of milk. “Did I hear your new friend refer to your woman while at the river?”

  “Yes.” Nick, not wanting an interrogation and the lecture sure to follow, derailed his brother’s train of thought. “We need to keep a better watch on our party.”

  Sam stopped, raising an eyebrow. “Here?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “I’ve been given the order by Mr. Bartlett in no uncertain terms.”

  Laughing, Sam set down his things. He stopped after glancing at Nick’s expression. “You’re serious? The man is more likely to die from someone in camp than a Kanzas or Delaware.”

  He held his hands up in surrender. “Preaching to the choir. The man doesn’t think much of the natives. He gave me an earful, all of it hearsay and none of it true. He also doesn’t think much of us letting Jack run loose in the camp.”

  “Jack? I thought he looked familiar. He made the rounds on my last trip west. He’d barter with a tree for the joy of doing so.”

  “I believe it. He wanted Beth’s shoes in the worst way this afternoon.” Nick said before thinking then cursed himself for using her casual name.

  Sam gave his brother a sharp glance, emphasizing her name, “Mrs. Bartlett is lucky Jack only wanted to exchange for shoes. He’s offered several ponies for a woman, I’ve heard.” Sam paused and then asked, “You didn’t happen to trade for a squaw, did you?” he asked. “Although, if bartering for one helped you leave the Bartlett woman alone, I’d applaud your choice.” He scooped salt into a cup.

  Nick glared at him. “A what?” He caught the joke after seeing Sam’s ornery expression and cooled a bit. “I don’t trade for women, you know that.”

  “There is always a first time,” Sam retorted, rummaging around in their belongings.

  “Not for me.” He knew his brother taunted him. Sam knew how Nick felt about Sally and now Beth. He wasn’t going to rise to the bait.

  “I think you have a soft spot for Mrs. Bartlett because she reminds you of how beneficial a wife can be.” Sam climbed up into the wagon, still searching. “Have you seen the lid to this jar?”

  “Do you have nothing better to do than goad me into a fight?” Nick went to the front, reached in for the lid, and handed it to Sam.

  He laughed, putting the lid on the jar and shaking the contents. “Not at the moment.”

  Nick leaned against the wheel as his brother hopped off the wagon. “No fish to clean or cook, no horses to care for, or small animals to torture like you do me?”

  “There is that. After you left, I found a fish at the end of your hook. Since then, I have been catching and cleaning.” He grinned. “I’ve also taken the liberty of asking your woman for butter and her cooking skills while we fished. She caught some of these before running off to care for Erleen.”

  He sighed, hungry, irritated, and wanting the fish to be frying already. “She’s not my woman.”

  “I know, but the Indian roaming the camp doesn’t.” Sam, still shaking the milk into butter, picked up the bucket full of fish and water. “You seem to forget who she belongs to every once in a while.”

  “I do not forget.” He kicked a dirt clod, angry at his helpless feeling. “Even if I wanted to, her bruises and constant worry over what Bartlett wants of her continually reminds me she’s married to him.”

  Sam shrugged his shoulders. “While I don’t approve of a husband using fists to discipline his wife, I also don’t approve of you being used as an accomplice to some woman’s escape. And heaven help you if she has your bastard child while Bartlett’s wife.”

  He whirled, grabbing the front of Sam’s shirt. Water sloshed from the bucket and Sam stopped churning butter. “That’s too far, Samuel. Beth isn’t seducing me and you’ll not speak of her like that.”

  Eyes narrowed to slits, Sam ground out between clenched teeth, “I’m glad you defend Mrs. Bartlett from my wit and hope you’ll extend the guard of her to yourself.”

  Nick let him go with a slight shove. “Damn. Yes, I do try to guard her. Even from myself.”

  Sam put down everything he held. “Good, because the last thing we need is a half-crazed husband hunting for you w
ith a rifle.” He straightened his shirt, tucking what pulled loose back into his pants. “Did you get a trade on those moccasins for Mrs. Bartlett?”

  “Yes.” Nick handed the butter jar to him, and then took the bucket of fish.

  He nodded. “I’m glad. She has limped for the past couple of days when no one’s watching.”

  “You saw it too?” Nick was annoyed, wondering how many people noted her walking lame.

  “Yes. I noticed when she took the cow to water and a few times since then.” Sam began shaking the butter jar. “Others are sore from the march too, but when I see her, I’m very concerned.”

  Nick tried ignoring the sudden rush of jealously. Not wanting to, but unable to stop himself, he asked, “You watch her walk a lot?”

  Sam followed his brother to the back of the wagon, watching and making butter while Nick cleaned the fish. “Not a lot, but yes, some. While, unlike you, I usually don’t stare at the wives too closely, I do ensure they’re healthy during the trip.”

  “Damn it, Sam! I don’t stare at any other wives. I just watch out for Mrs. Bartlett.” Nick raised his hat brim, scratching his forehead with the back of his hand. “I keep an eye on her since so far, she’s the only one who’s in camp with a black eye. Also, Bartlett has her in shoes too small. She has blisters bleeding and I don’t want to see Elizabeth’s feet amputated because her husband is dim or careless.”

  He whistled, saying, “Damn.”

  “Exactly.” Nick cleaned with long practiced moves. “I’ve already explained to Mrs. Bartlett she could lose her feet if they become infected.”

  Sam held up the milk to see if any butter had formed yet. He frowned and resumed his work. “The moccasins won’t keep her from limping if her soles are bruised and sore.”