“Yep, sure is some interesting country you have come to Miss… Hey, I haven’t introduced myself. I am Percival Hunter.” He bowed from the waist, as good a bow as one can give from a sitting position, removing his bowler hat. “And you are?”
Brooke smiled; she was beginning to like this talkative man before her. “Brooke Baker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She extended a hand, which he took and raised to his lips.
“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”
Brooke pulled her hand away and focused on her lap, not wanting to give him the wrong impression. She was, after all, on the way to her wedding.
Percival cleared his throat. “Well, as I was sayin’, this sure is interesting country you’ve chosen to come visit, Miss Baker.” He continued without pause, or Brooke would have informed him that she was not here by her own choice. “Take the ferry we’ll use to cross the Clearwater. Did you know that the Greer Ferry, as it is called, was constructed in 1861 by two enterprisin’ souls who saw a sure-fire way to make some money off of the gold strike up in Pierce?”
Brooke shook her head, resigned to listening to his prattle for the rest of the trip.
“They built the ferry to aid the miners in crossin’ the river on their way to Pierce City, where gold had been found. As I see it, their venture was a lot more profitable than goin’ on up the mountain to dig for gold. There are even sleepin’ quarters where we’ll stay tonight.”
The minister, resting his forearms on his knees, added, “The first ferry and sleeping quarters were burnt to the ground a few years ago in the Indian War of 1877 when the Nez Perce used it to cross the river and get away from the army chasing them. They crossed the river on the ferry, then torched it and the cabin so the army would have a harder time following them.”
Percival nodded. “That’s right. After the war, though, a new ferry and cabin were built. Those are the ones we’ll see this evenin’.”
“I’m amazed at how much you know about this country, Mr. Hunter,” Brooke said.
He grinned and shrugged, indicating it was no big deal. Then, after only a short silence, he went on to tell how the Nez Perce Indians made their camp on the Camas Prairie each fall in order to collect the Camas bulbs that grew there in wild abandon. “All the bands of the Nez Perce come together and place their teepees in six camps over a two-mile radius. It’s quite a sight.”
He told of many men who, in the winter of 1861, while making their way to the gold camps, were blinded by the brilliant, glistening snow and were never found until the spring thaw. Brooke shivered, but if Percival noticed, it only inspired him.
On and on the stories went, and when suddenly the stage came to a jerking halt, Brooke was amazed to find that the day had ebbed away. They had come to the place where they would cross the river. But as she looked out the window, she was surprised to see that the river still lay below them a good 1500 feet.
“Now comes the fun part,” Percival said.
Brooke felt dizzy as she stared down the precipitous pitch to the water. “What are we doing now?”
Her answer came in the form of the stage driver, who poked his head in the door. “Ya’ll can get out and stretch a mite if ya want to. We’ll be here a few minutes while we hitch up the tree drag.”
Brooke wondered at the term tree drag, but as she stepped down from the stage, she saw it was just what it sounded like. The stage driver and the man who had been riding shotgun were hitching a large tree trunk to the back of the stage. Her gaze returned to the river, and her stomach pitched. “We are going to drive down that?”
“Yep,” Percival answered. A little too gleefully, if she were the judge.
“Well, if I die, at least I won’t have to get married,” she mumbled under her breath as she gazed at the steep track before her.
Soon they all climbed back into the stage except for the mountain man, who had never gotten off. He was awake now, though, and took the opportunity to stuff another wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek. He considered Brooke wolfishly. “Best hold on tight,” he told her, winking boldly.
With a shouted “Gidd’up!” the driver cracked his whip in the air, and the horses lurched into the descent. Brooke gripped the edge of her seat and wondered whether she wanted to look out the window or close her eyes as tight as she could. Deciding that if she was going to die, she wanted to see it coming, she peered out and watched the scenery fly by.
Even Percival held his silence. Thank goodness!
It was soon apparent that the log hooked to the back of the stage was what saved them at each corner from launching over the edge of the trail into open space. The horses dug their heels in until they almost sat. Still, the stage careened down the steep incline.
Dust boiled up, whirling into the coach in a suffocating cloud. Choking and coughing, Brooke closed her eyes against the grit. Waving a hand in front of her face did nothing but stir the thick, roiling cloud. Feeling something pressed against her face, she realized that the minister was offering her his handkerchief. Gratefully, she grasped it, tears streaming from her eyes as she tried to see what was happening outside.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the death-defying ride was over. She slumped back in relief. The river meandered placidly beyond the coach’s window. They had made it down, and she was still alive.
It couldn’t have taken more than a handful of minutes to plunge down the side of the mountain, but to Brooke it had seemed like an eternity. The coachman pulled the snorting horses to a stop and stepped down to unhitch the tree drag.
Brooke glanced down. Her dark blue dress was literally brown with dust. She touched a hand to her face and patted her hair. I must look a mess!
The ferry waited for them on the near side of the blue-green river, a smiling, kind-looking man standing on the landing. Brooke eyed the little raft tied to the bank dubiously. Ferry was really too grand a term for the wooden contraption floating on the water. Will that even float with the stage on it?
The horses walked onto the wooden platform with the loud clatter of hooves, and they pushed off into the river. She glanced out the window, looking back at the path of their descent in utter disbelief. Well, the descent from that ridge didn’t kill me; maybe I’ll drown crossing the river.
Her stomach felt like it was tied in knots. The man she was to marry would be waiting for her across the river at the landing. My dress! I can’t get married looking like I’ve been wallowing in a mound of dirt! Oh, what will the man think when he first lays eyes on me? So much for first impressions.
She did her best to beat some of the dust from her skirt but saw that it was no use. He would have to take her the way she was. It was his own fault, after all, for not wanting to come to Lewiston to meet her. She’d learned he had paid the minister an extra five dollars to escort her to Greer’s Ferry and perform the ceremony there.
The swaying of the ferry stopped. Her hands, fisted in her lap, were white-knuckled, but she lifted her chin. You can deal with this! Hadn’t she survived Uncle Jackson all these years? If she could survive his beatings, then she could survive the abuses of any man. Hadn’t she proved that with Hank? Moving out of Uncle Jackson’s house to move in with Hank had been like jumping from the frying pan into the fire. She still had nightmares about Hank, but she was alive. She would be fine. But she must be strong.
Yet she could taste fear at the back of her mouth.
These past months, traveling west, she had not been beaten or abused once. Could she truly put herself back into such an environment? There was no doubt that life here would be the same as back in St. Louis. All men were the same : Father, Uncle Jackson, Hank. She shut her mind off from that line of thinking. She would not dwell on the past; she needed all of her strength to face the future.
She took the hand that the minister offered and stepped out into the bright sunlight, raising one hand to shade her eyes from the glare.
Sky watched the ferry cross the river, wishing he wasn’t here, yet knowing he couldn’t
be anywhere else. Holding a single, yellow, dark-centered daisy in one hand, he reached with the other to flick an invisible speck of dust from the sleeve of his black suit coat. Black, perfectly creased pants encased his legs, tapering down to his highly polished black boots. His black Stetson protected his eyes from the glaring sun as he looked out over the river considering his present situation.
Would there really be a woman on board who had come this far to marry Jason? Of course, she doesn’t know what Jason is like, or she’d never have agreed to marry him. Then again, maybe she would have. What did he know of the woman coming across the river? Perhaps she would be a bawdy, boisterous madam, just Jason’s type. But then he remembered Jason’s description of her. “Young and pretty” had been his words. No, he didn’t think the woman would be risqué, but he found himself wondering what she would be like. It doesn’t matter—no woman deserves to be left to Jason.
She won’t be beautiful, though. She wouldn’t be coming west to find a husband if she had any hope of finding one back home. With this thought in mind, he cleared his vision of the beautiful Victoria Snyder, his childhood sweetheart who lived back home in Shilo, and prepared himself for the task at hand. Reaching up, he straightened the string tie at his throat and banished all concern about Jason. The Lord knew about his future, and this gave Sky the peace he needed to face the decision he had made.
The stage pulled off the ferry with squeaking wheels and the minister descended. “It’s now or never, old boy,” Sky mumbled to himself as he sauntered toward the coach, twirling the daisy between his fingers.
He stopped several yards off as a small, dusty hand grasped the minister’s, and a woman stepped down to the ground. She reached one hand up to shade her eyes from the glare of the sun and Sky saw her apprehensive fear. He knew at that moment he’d done the right thing in coming. All his doubts fled. Jason would have thoroughly ravished the enchanting creature before him, destroying her serene spirit.
She was beautiful. Very beautiful. Her hair, though covered in dust, was a curly reddish-blond. Large blue eyes peered out from a tanned face accentuated by high cheekbones and a full, soft mouth. A vulnerable expression tightened her features, and his heart constricted in his chest. Her uncertainty gave her magnetic charm. He took a step closer. She bit her lower lip, drawing his attention to her mouth momentarily before it snapped back to her eyes. Blinking in the sunlight, she slowly focused on his face, her lips pinched together. She’s scared to death!
Sky saw the surprise in her eyes as they adjusted to the glare of the sun and came to rest on him. He stepped forward, smiled lightly, and lifting his hat, nodded in her direction. “Ma’am, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He held out the daisy like a peace offering, watching her carefully, his eyes never leaving her face.
She looked down at the flower but did not move for several seconds. Then she took it with one slender hand and glanced back up into his face.
Lifting the daisy slightly, her generous mouth serious, she said, “Thank you.” The words held the note of a question, and her voice was moderated so low that he almost couldn’t hear what she said.
Sky felt his heart go out to her as he again realized how apprehensive she must be. He wanted to smooth the fearful frown off her brow, but he simply nodded, and they stood looking at one another. He wondered what she was thinking.
She was the first to avert her gaze, bringing her hands together in front of her. Her next words captivated Sky: “If you don’t mind...” All color in her face disappeared and something flashed in her eyes. Was it fear? She quickly schooled her features and brought her eyes back to his.
When she spoke again, her words sounded strained. “I would like to clean up before the ceremony.” A slight lift of her chin and a glint of determination in her eyes dared him to tell her no, yet her chin trembled slightly.
He carefully kept his curiosity from showing on his face and attempted to put her at ease. “It’s a dusty ride down the grade.” He gestured across the river to the trail she and her fellow passengers had descended and smiled. “I’ve made that trip on several occasions myself.” Holding his hand out toward the log cabin that functioned as the sleeping quarters at Greer’s Ferry, he added, “I don’t mind waiting.” It was the truth. He was still having a hard time believing that he was here, considering marriage. And to a woman I’ve only just met. He wanted a few more minutes to think things through.
A look of gratitude crossed her face. Nodding serenely, she turned, picked up her small carpet bag, and headed toward the building.
Brooke sighed in relief, clutching the handle on her bag with both hands as she entered the little log cabin. It had two rooms. The front room contained several bunks, a wood stove, and a long table constructed out of logs sawn in half and laid side by side with the flat sides up. Various utensils hung from pegs above the black stove where a pot of coffee perked cheerfully. The smell of venison stew wafted through the cabin.
The heels of her boots echoed on the rough plank floor as Jack Greer led her to the second room in the cabin.
“You can clean up in here,” he informed her kindly. He glanced down at her hands and his face softened.
She realized her double-fisted, white-knuckled grip revealed more than she wanted others to know.
“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
She nodded mutely, wishing she could think of something to say. As he left, closing the door, she collapsed onto the edge of the bed, her quaking legs unable to hold her upright any longer. She stared at the wall for several minutes before her thoughts began to register coherently.
She glanced around. This room held a double bed and a chest of drawers.
A small wash basin sat next to the door, fresh water filling the blue pitcher on the table near it. Light flooded the room from the window in the back wall, illuminating a table and two chairs that sat against the wall across from her.
Her thoughts wandered to the man who’d met her when she stepped off the stage. He was very attractive. But that didn’t stop the shaking of her limbs as she pulled her dress off over her head. She was thankful that...what was his name? Jordan...? Jason...? She bit her lip. That’s just great. I can’t even remember his name. Well, at least he doesn’t look anything like those dour old men did yesterday. Still, she had found Hank attractive too. A man’s looks had nothing to do with the way he acted.
Thoughts of the evening ahead assailed her and she glanced at the room’s one window. What would her chances of survival be if she made a run for it? She walked over to it, but the window had no latch and couldn’t be opened. Sighing, she returned to her bag. Your only option is to go through with this. You have nowhere else to go.
Pulling her hand mirror out of her bag, she examined her reflection, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the dirt she saw on her face. Pouring some water into the basin, she washed her face and arms as best she could and then, seeing no towel, dried them on her petticoat, which mercifully had missed most of the dust. Pulling the pins from her hair she brushed it out, plaited a braid, and coiled it at the back of her neck. Wispy curls fell out and framed her ashen face, but she did not take time to tuck them back in.
Removing her only other dress from her bag, a dark green full-skirted frock that had once belonged to her mother, she gave it a brisk snap to dispel any dust that might be on it and settled it over her head. It was her nicest dress and she felt thankful that she had decided against wearing it on the trip. The fitted bodice had a V of cream lace that came down to just above the nipped-in waist. The full skirt and puffed sleeves of the dress accentuated her slender curves, and the dark green material made her eyes look like emeralds instead of sapphires.
After shaking out her dark blue dress, she folded it up and placed it neatly into her bag with the brush on top. She smoothed the front of her skirt with nervous hands. I’ve already taken far longer than necessary. I can do this!
She opened the door and peeked into the outer room. None o
f the men were inside. As she started to cross the room, she remembered the daisy. No man had ever given her flowers before. It had been a touching gesture. A spark of hope had sprung to life in her heart when he handed her the daisy, but she had quickly smothered it lest the pain of the inevitable abuse be too much to bear.
Turning back, she retrieved the flower and then made her way outside into the golden sunshine.
Conversation ceased as she stepped out and all eyes turned toward her. The admiration on their faces only added to the turmoil in her soul. She had seen firsthand what admiration could do. It was Hank’s admiration of her beauty that had first drawn him to her.
But this was her wedding day, and she determined to ignore the looks. A gust of wind blew a strand of hair into her eyes. Reaching up with one hand, she tucked the curl behind her ear, her eyes coming to rest on the face of the man she was to marry. Somehow his look was different from all the rest. He was not smiling, but she saw something in his face. What? Concern? Was he worried about her, or was he having second thoughts about marrying her? She fleetingly hoped he might reject her. She would be fine with that. But it wasn’t rejection she glimpsed. What then? It wasn’t an expression she’d seen on any man’s face before.
The minister was the first to break the silence. Gesturing to the hard-packed dirt in front of the cabin, he asked quietly, “Shall we commence?”
Her soon-to-be husband stepped forward and offered her his arm. She stepped up beside him, facing the minister, the yellow daisy clutched in her hand like a lifeline.
Skipping the “dearly beloved” speech she’d heard at so many weddings back home, the black-coated minister launched immediately into the vows. “Do you, Brooke Baker, take this man to be your husband? Do you promise to love him, honor him, and obey him until death do you part?”
Brooke hesitated only a moment before she said quietly, “I do.”
“And do you, Jason Jordan—” The minister’s words were cut off as the man beside her raised a finger.
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