The Fortune

by Beth Williamson

  “No. I do not want Mr. Malloy to be in trouble.” Frankie shook her head. “He did pull me out of the path of a wagon.”

  “Is that why were you so short with everyone?” Isabelle’s mouth moved into a wispy smile. “A brush with death? It is rather romantic that he saved you.”

  Frankie could always count on her sisters to show her every possible viewpoint. All four of them were as different as they could be, but there was abundant love to make up for the inevitable conflicts.

  She owed it to them to be honest, although it was a painful confession. “He reminded me of what it meant to be a female.”

  Josephine pulled Frankie’s hands from the water and held them tightly. “You should not need to be reminded you are female. You have changed, Frankie, and not in a good way. When will you tell me what really happened in New York?”

  Frankie’s stomach dropped to her feet. She promised herself she would never tell her sisters what she’d done. Not even Jo who knew something of what happened, but she didn’t know all of it. “Nothing I want to discuss. You know what happened to our family and that is what is important. I miss what we had, that’s all.”

  Josephine twisted her lips into a frown. “You do not miss our brocade settee or house in Brooklyn. I do not believe that.”

  “What happened in New York? What did I miss?” Charlotte sat up with a scowl.

  “Yes, what happened?” Isabelle, who could be counted on to see the bright side of the darkest night, frowned.

  Frankie stared at her sisters, concern on their faces. Her throat tightened and it took great effort to swallow the lump that had formed. “New York does not exist for us anymore.” Frankie squeezed each of her sisters’ hands. “Let us look ahead to Oregon and not behind.”

  “For you, I will look ahead, but I cannot forget the past.” Josephine got to her feet. There were secrets she knew, that she would never tell, but there were others Jo didn’t know about. It would only hurt her and cause her distress, so Frankie would keep those to herself like rotten apples in the barrel in the corner of a cellar.

  “What have you not told us? Is this about when you were gone for several days?” Isabelle was too smart to fool, but Frankie couldn’t lie to her.

  “It does, but it is of no consequence. Today we are here together and soon we will be in Oregon together.” She pushed a smile to her face, although it wasn’t easy. “Now will you two bring the dishes back for me?” As expected, Isabelle and Charlie did as they were asked, but not without doubtful looks. Frankie kept smiling until they disappeared from view.

  Josephine, however, had not left. “You need to talk to me about Oliver Peck.”

  The sound of that name scraped across her skin like ragged, dirty fingernails. Frankie closed her eyes and pulled in a breath slowly. “Do not mention that man again. Ever.”

  Jo squeezed Frankie’s shoulder. “We would not be who we are unless we know who we were.”

  With that philosophical statement, Josephine left Frankie by the creek. Her hands shook from the dark memories washing over her. She shoved them back into a corner and slammed the door, but it took every ounce of strength to do so. Her eyes burned with unshed tears but she refused to let even a drop fall.

  She had to focus on here and now, not on the nightmare of her past mistakes. After a deep breath, she got to her feet and left the creek. As she walked the distance to her family’s wagon, darkness crept in around her. The breeze swept up the mist from the water and it swirled around her legs.

  The light from the campfires and lanterns, and from Independence, shone into the gathering twilight. Mr. Avery had warned them that within a few days, the nights would be pitch black—darker than anything she’d ever experienced. Frankie shivered as though fingers were walking up her spine. The world ahead was unknown, full of promise, but fraught with danger and hardship.

  Four months until life could truly begin. It wasn’t going to return to normal since there was nothing to return to. The Chastains would discover their new lives and Frankie only hoped it was better than what they left behind.

  Chapter Three

  The day of departure dawned with a crystal-clear blue sky and bright sunshine. The air was pregnant with anticipation as the pioneers began to emerge and check their wagons for readiness. Oxen snorted, their breath clouds of white in the cold morning air. Although he’d made the trip three times already, John’s gut was tight with expectation.

  He watched the settlers chatter and smile as they made ready. The mood was jubilant, at least for today. Once folks started walking and driving their wagons across land, their attitudes wouldn’t be as happy. Within two weeks, there would be fewer smiles and more focus on the tasks at hand. For today, he would do what he could to help them make ready.

  John walked to the livery to retrieve his horse, eager to get started. After paying for the boarding for the past week, he saddled his roan, Blue, and led him out into the street. Fortunately for the wagon train, it hadn’t rained recently in this area, leaving the soil hard-packed and dry, perfect for weighty wagons.

  “We’re about ready to hit the trail one last time, boy.” He petted the horse’s neck, glad to have the same companion by his side for five years. Blue was a rare wild blue roan mustang who he swore was smarter than him some days.

  “Malloy!” Tom Avery, the younger brother of the wagon master, hailed him from behind.

  Although John wanted to pretend he hadn’t heard the younger man, he knew he’d already twitched at the sound of Tom’s voice. Truthfully, how Buck had a sibling like Tom was a mystery. Buck was smart, solid and a good man. Tom was an eighteen-year-old fool who tripped over his own feet on a regular basis. He also had a tendency to blame anyone within shouting distance for the debacles that happened daily.

  “What is it, Tom?” John hoped he didn’t sound as impatient as he felt. The boy didn’t try to be a walking disaster.

  Tom rode up, his blond hair poking out from beneath his crooked brown hat. He bounced awkwardly in the saddle, but with a huge grin on his face. “Buck wanted me to ride with you, get to know what to do when the wagon train first heads out.” He glanced around at the wagons and the people preparing them. “Folks sure are busy.”

  John resisted, but just barely, to slap his forehead. “Yep, they surely are. If you’re gonna ride along, don’t get in my way and don’t ask stupid questions.”

  “What’s a stupid question?” Tom sounded genuinely confused.

  This time John had to stop himself from slapping Tom. Jesus, how was he going to last four months listening to the boy? His patience wasn’t that strong and neither was his self-control.

  “Never mind. Just shut up and do what I tell you, got it?” John’s good mood had been soured by the appearance of Tom.

  As he wound his way around the wagons, he greeted each family by name. Experience taught him people would remember him if he put their name to memory. Tom didn’t do much but stare and nod when someone said howdy to him.

  When John stopped to help put the yoke on oxen, Tom watched with wide eyes. The boy really did have a lot to learn. John made sure the younger man could see what he was doing, hopefully learning and not just getting a free show.

  There was a lost dog, a child who scraped her knee, a fire someone had forgotten to extinguish, another six pairs of oxen that required John’s assistance and an old woman who refused to leave. John knew as well as she did that she would never survive the journey. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to start her death march, but he owed it to her family to try to mend the spat.

  He squatted down next to her rickety chair, tipping his hat back so she could see his face. Her poke bonnet was paper thin, the yellow material faded with age. Her wrinkly gaze was steady and set in stone.

  “I ain’t changing my mind. No matter they sent a pretty man to convince me.” She folded her arms. “I want to go back to Pennsylvania.”

  John had never been called pretty, but if that would work, then he was prepared
to use his manly wiles. “Ma’am, my name’s John Malloy and I’m responsible for helping folks along the trail. We can’t be on our way unless you’re safe inside your family’s wagon. I would be remiss in my duties if we left you here alone.” He smiled, noting the twitch in her lips when he did. “I’d be happy to help you in and out of the wagon every day if you need me to. I’m sure Mr. Avery would approve.”

  She snorted. “I ain’t been flirted with in fifty years, John Malloy.”

  “I’m trying to make sure you’re safe, ma’am.” He held out his hand, palm up. “Will you let me?”

  “My name’s Enid and if you tote me in and out of that wagon every day, it might be worth it to die in the middle of nowhere.” She smiled, her wrinkles transforming the dour expression into an amused one. Her hand rested in his, frail and shaking like a trapped bird. She was frightened.

  “You aren’t going to die, Miss Enid. Now let’s get you settled.” John took both of her hands and helped her to her feet. “Now do you need me to carry you or do you reckon you’ll walk hanging onto my arm?”

  She hooted. “Well if’n I have the choice, I prefer to be carried.”

  John scooped up the tiny old woman with as much gentleness as he could. Enid weighed less than the sack of flour he’d loaded into the last wagon, delicate and nothing but skin and bones. She had life in her, though, as she hooted again and planted a kiss on his cheek.

  “Are you married, John? ’Cause I’m single.” She cackled at her own humor and a few folks behind him joined in.

  Her son-in-law, a harried-looking farmer with a flushed face hoisted her chair in the spot he’d cleared in the wagon. Enid would ride in style.

  “No, ma’am. This job keeps me right busy.” John placed her in the chair and she grabbed his hand before he could move away.

  “Life ain’t never too busy for love, John Malloy.” Her blue eyes shone with wisdom and a touch of sadness. “When you find her, whoever she is, grab on and don’t let go. Life doesn’t give you second chances.”

  John heard the ancient pain in her voice and understood Enid had let someone slip through her fingers once. She was trying to warn him, but her words fell on deaf ears. John had a goal, and nothing and no one was going to deter him from reaching it.

  “Thank you for the advice.” He squeezed her hand and stepped back. “I’ll be back to help you down when we stop.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” Her expression was a warning that she wasn’t about to let her advice be ignored. John would have to hear it at least four times a day for the next four months. Ah, well, he’d survived matchmakers, grumpy old men, screaming children and obnoxious jackasses—he would endure Miss Enid’s life lessons.

  When he turned to get back on his horse, a flutter of blue caught his eye. Frankie Chastain disappeared between two wagons, her movements hurried, as though she’d been watching the entire exchange with Enid.

  Interesting.

  John told himself he wouldn’t seek out the Chastains or the stubbornly enticing Frankie, but if she watched him, well, then he couldn’t be responsible for that, could he? He started after her when Tom’s voice stopped him cold.

  “Malloy, are we gettin’ going?”

  “Yep, we’re going.” John remembered he was working, not chasing Frankie Chastain. The fact he’d stopped using his brain entirely bothered the hell out of him. That woman was trouble, he knew this from knowing her only one day. Damn good thing Tom had opened his mouth or John might have done something stupid. Like chase after a female as though he were a rutting buck.

  They continued on, helping when they could, until they had checked nearly all of the forty-four wagons. Not a small group, but not the largest he’d worked either. He took note of all those wagons with elderly folks, babies and rickety rigs that would cause problems heading over the Rockies.

  The last wagon to check, and the first in line, was the Harveys. John had already met Reginald Harvey—a more obnoxious ass would be difficult to find. He was nattily dressed in a suit, tie, shiny shoes and a goddamn bowler hat. For a wagon train to Oregon. John thought perhaps his daughter Veronica kept the man shiny and clean. She was a beauty, but the eighteen-year-old was worse trouble than Frankie by far.

  The willowy blonde stood beside her father, a smile on her lovely face. She had her father’s coloring, but while her father was sporting a paunch, likely from too much rich food, Veronica was the most exquisitely beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She was perfect in form and face, with red, luscious lips, blue eyes and tits to tempt any man. Too bad she was also not particularly nice.

  “Mr. Malloy, I expected you here at least thirty minutes ago.” Mr. Harvey snapped closed his watch and tucked it into his vest pocket. “We paid good money to be the first wagon. You seem to have forgotten that fact.”

  “And you are first in line.” John gestured to the winding line of wagons at the ready in the field behind them. “Everyone else will eat your dust.”

  “I realize I am physically first, but that also means we are first in all things, including your services.” Mr. Harvey pointed a pudgy finger at him. “I shall have to speak to Mr. Avery about this.”

  “I’m checking each wagon. The order I look at ’em don’t make a bit of difference as long as everyone gets a turn.” John knew he needed to dismount, but he rather enjoyed looking down at the pompous windbag.

  “Of course the order is important. The world cannot exist without order. There are people who have and those who have not. I have and therefore I will get what I want.” Mr. Harvey’s blue eyes glittered like ice chips in the early morning sun. “Don’t forget that, Malloy.”

  Harvey was cleaner than a man ought to be on the outside, but inside he was dark as night. John didn’t want much to do with him, but he was paid to take care of the folks in the wagon train, and that included the rich man. He dismounted and watched Tom nearly fall on his head when he tried to do the same. The fresh-faced pup was busy staring at Veronica. She laughed at the clumsy young man.

  “I think your assistant needs some riding lessons.” Veronica’s smile dazzled Tom.

  John ignored her barb. She had tried to needle him over the last few days already. He discovered the best way to get under her skin was to pretend she wasn’t there. Nothing annoyed the woman more than not being acknowledged, considering she was so full of her own self-worth.

  “Tom, you go ahead and inspect the axles while I check the oxen.” John made a wide berth around Mr. Harvey and his daughter. He ensured the yokes on the animals were secure, correcting a loose cinch around the traces.

  “You cannot avoid me for the entire trip, you know.”

  John didn’t hear Veronica’s approach, and her voice startled him, which in turn startled the oxen he had his hands on. The oxen snorted loudly and began to shift nervously.

  “Whoa, boy, whoa, boy,” said John soothingly as he patted the beast. “Slow down there.” The oxen relaxed under John’s gentle touch.

  “Well, you have quite a way with savage animals,” said Veronica. “What else is lurking beneath that rugged exterior?”

  She reached for his hands and caught one in her own, pulling it toward her chest. He snatched it back before it came near her breasts. Ain’t no way he wanted that kind of trouble. Veronica pooched out her lower lip. “My heart was beating wildly for fear that oxen would start a stampede or something,”

  “You have a lot to learn about stampedes, Miss Harvey,” he said as he turned his attention back to the oxen. “They usually don’t start that easily and oxen aren’t known for being party to them, particularly when they’re yoked.”

  “Well, of course you can teach me all about it on the way to Oregon. After all, four months is quite a long time to get to know somebody.” She grinned. “I find you very handsome, Mr. Malloy. Why aren’t you married?”

  John almost swallowed his tongue. He kept his face impassive while his gut churned. “Miss Harvey, I really have a lot of work to do, so if you don’t mind, I’
d best get to it.”

  Veronica’s smile widened, her teeth shining in the bright sunshine. Before he could stop her, she leaned over and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

  “I’ll see you later, John,” said Veronica as she turned to walk toward the back of the wagon. “Quite a long time indeed.”

  John rubbed at his mouth, trying to rid himself of that kiss. Damn, he hadn’t expected her to be that forward. He glanced around, hoping like hell no one had seen that. Veronica’s younger brother, Arthur, stood at the back of the wagon, watching him. The eleven-year-old was quiet and not at all like his father and sister. He must have his mother’s coloring, with the dark brown hair and dark eyes.

  Mrs. Harvey was in the back of the wagon, no doubt trying to stay out of the sun. The woman barely left it, and today was no exception. He heard her murmuring to someone behind the canvas and he was pretty sure it wasn’t the lonely young boy watching John.

  “Hey, Arthur, come here.”

  The boy obeyed, albeit slowly. He wore high-quality clothes—store-bought, of course—but they had tatters on the cuffs and a few smudge marks. John was glad to see at least one Harvey acted his age.

  “I have a job for you. I’m thinking you’re old enough to have a job.” John folded his arms and watched the boy’s reaction.

  Arthur puffed up his chest and nodded sagely. “I’m old enough for a job. I fetch all the water, build the fire and clean up around the camp already.”

  “Good to know you’re a hard-working man.” John gestured to the oxen. “I need you to keep an eye on these animals for me.”

  “Their names are Magellan, Hudson, Lewis, Clark, Davy and Crockett.”

  John smothered a smile. “If that’s what you call them. The yokes can hurt them if they aren’t situated just right.”

  “If you show me what to do, I can do it, Mr. Malloy.” Arthur looked so serious John almost reconsidered. If the boy failed at the task, he’d take it twice as hard. However, considering his family, it might be the first time anyone had given the boy a true responsibility. He seemed like the only good apple in the Harvey barrel.