Come Home to Me (Second Chances Time Travel Romance Book 1)

by Peggy L Henderson

  “Goddamn fools,” Mr. Owens cursed under his breath.

  Slowly, the first wagon moved onto the scow, which swayed back and forth with the uneven weight. The two mules pulling the wagon pranced nervously. The second wagon loaded onto the flat-bottomed boat, and the ferryman untied the line securing the vessel to the dock.

  Rachel shot a fleeting look at Mr. Owens. His odd hairstyle made the dark brown strands on top of his head stand out in all directions. She was accustomed to seeing men’s hair slicked down onto their heads, parted in the middle, or worn rather long. This man’s hair stood up almost like a bristle brush. A day old stubble had grown on his chin and cheeks, making his face appear darker than it was. His firm mouth was set in a tight line, and his brown eyes flickered with anger. Even so, he was sinfully handsome.

  Her arm began to tingle, reminding Rachel that he still hadn’t released his hold on her. When had he stepped close to her again? A sudden lump formed in her throat. The heady scent of leather and buckskin, horse, and clean male sweat penetrated her senses. She inhaled a deep breath, and her limbs began to weaken.

  As if he sensed her distress, Mr. Owens met her gaze. His features softened, and a hint of a smile formed in the corners of his mouth, producing dimples in his cheeks. The sudden urge to run far away for fear she might do something she would regret later had never been as strong as it was now. Rachel yanked her arm from his grasp.

  “I need to see to the children,” she said, hoping her voice sounded steady.

  “Remember what I told you,” Mr. Owens warned, his jaw clenched.

  Rachel nodded. A loud commotion came from the river. The ferry had reached the midway point in the river. The ferryman and a few men from the wagons used long poles to guide the scow through the murky water. It looked like backbreaking work, trying to keep the ferry from getting caught in the current. The ropes that acted as pulleys from either shore of the river didn’t seem strong enough to support the craft should the water become too swift.

  Two of the mules pranced nervously, and moved further to one side of the craft. The flatboat swayed precariously in the waves, one side dipping dangerously low into the water. One of the men rushed to the skittish animals, and tried to pull the team toward the center of the flatboat. The mule he held to sidestepped suddenly, knocking the man into the river. Rachel couldn’t suppress a gasp.

  “Shit! That’s exactly what I was afraid of. I tried to warn those idiots.” Jake Owens reached for the lariat hanging from his saddle and dropped his horse’s reins, then ran for the river. He yanked his belt from around his waist, and pulled his shirt off over his head, and dove into the turbid waters of the Missouri without a second’s hesitation. Rachel stood rooted to the spot, her mouth wide open. People shouted along the riverbank, and the man in the water flailed his arms wildly. It was Mary’s husband, Ben Holland. Another man had succeeded in calming the nervous mules on the scow, preventing an even worse accident. The ferry had almost reached the opposite shore.

  Rachel reached for the reins of Jake’s horse, and dragged the mare toward the river. Men and women from the group lined the bank. In the water, Jake had thrown his lasso to the man, who luckily grabbed on. Without getting near the frantic victim, Jake pulled Mr. Holland through the current. He reached the opposite shore of the Missouri at the same time as the scow. He pulled and tugged on the rope, reeling the victim to shore.

  Fascinated, Rachel cheered alongside the people next to her. Several men murmured that they would be unhitching their teams once they got on the ferry. Mr. Wilson stood off to the side, a dark scowl on his face. Rachel’s lips widened in a slow smile. It had taken a near tragedy, but she was sure that the rest of the members of this wagon train wouldn’t dismiss Jake Owens’ suggestions so easily from here on. Clearly, he was a man with much more experience than Mr. Wilson. Regardless of the rumors about him, this journey might just be a lot safer with a man like him leading their group through the unknown wilderness. Her head turned toward her wagon. Thomas didn’t look impressed. In fact, he appeared as uninterested in what had happened here as he was in everything else these days.

  Rachel’s smile faded. With a slight shake of her head, her gaze returned to the man on the opposite shore of the Missouri. He’d been called a skirt chaser, a man who moved from one place to the next, and left broken hearts in his wake. She could easily see why. She inhaled a deep breath, and her face grew hot. Get those silly notions out of your head, Rachel. You shouldn’t even be entertaining such thoughts.

  She glanced again to where Thomas sat on their wagon. Billy and Tommy had climbed on the seat next to him, and stared in awed fascination at what had transpired in the river. As usual, Thomas ignored his sons. Rachel frowned. Her heart went out to the boys. They needed their father. Why couldn’t he see that?

  On the opposite shore of the Missouri, the two wagons disembarked without further incident. Mr. Owens stepped onto the ferry, and helped propel the craft through the water, using a long rod to push against the current. Rachel’s eyes fell to the shirt and belt on the ground several yards from her. Hesitating only a moment, she stepped forward and scooped up the items. Holding the cotton shirt in her hands, Mr. Owens’ male scent penetrated her senses. When the ferry reached shore, the scout jumped lightly onto dry land. With a dark scowl on his face, he marched toward Mr. Wilson.

  “Y’all gonna listen to me now?” he nearly shouted. His anger-filled eyes darted from Mr. Wilson to several of the other men who had gathered at the shoreline. No one said a word. “Get your wagons on the ferry, two at a time, and unhitch your mules and oxen. I need a few men to stay with the livestock until everyone’s across. If anyone’s brave enough to get on a horse and help me herd the stock through the water, I’d appreciate it. Everyone needs to pitch in to get the ferry across the river. Any questions?”

  No one spoke up. There were plenty of murmurs and mumblings, and Rachel caught the dark look on the wagon master’s face. Jake Owens may have made a few friends here today, but he wouldn’t be counting Mr. Wilson among them. Harriet Edwards held one fist to her hip, the other hooked through her daughter’s arm. She spoke to another woman walking beside her as they marched back toward their wagons. Mrs. Edwards’ wide hips swayed wildly from side to side, making her skirt dance around her legs. Rachel was glad she didn’t have to listen to the woman’s rant. Reverend Johnson stood at the far edge of the wagon train. He looked to have a satisfied smile on his face.

  Mr. Owens reached his hand out to Mr. Wilson. Rachel held her breath. The wagon master hesitated, then clasped the scout’s hand. He had no choice if he wanted to save face among the group. Mr. Owens was smart to show in front of everyone that he held no ill feelings. It was up to the wagon master to reciprocate.

  “Can we invite Mr. Owens to supper again?” a voice yelled from behind her.

  Rachel turned to see Tommy running toward her. Billy nodded eagerly from atop the wagon a short distance away.

  “What are you doing out of the wagon? I told you to stay put,” Rachel scolded, one hand on her hip.

  “We want to hear him tell how he rescued Mr. Holland,” Tommy said excitedly. “Maybe he won’t fall asleep this time and will eat with us.”

  “Yeah. Maybe I won’t fall asleep this time,” a deep male voice drawled.

  Rachel’s heart leapt to her throat. She wheeled around. Jake Owens stood directly behind her. He wore a wide grin on his face. It was the first genuine smile she’d seen from him today. Water dripped from his hair to his face. His bare skin glistened in the sunlight. Rachel’s eyes fixated on his shoulders, where water ran in thin rivulets down his arms and chest.

  “Please say he can eat with us,” Tommy pleaded, pulling her out of her trance. She swallowed back the lump in her throat.

  “Yes, of course,” she stammered, and Tommy cheered gleefully. She thrust the shirt and belt at the scout, suddenly remembering she still held his articles in her arms. To her mortification, her face grew warm again. She fumbled with his
horse’s reins.

  “Can I trouble you to keep these in your wagon?” Mr. Owens asked, gesturing at his clothes without taking them from her. He didn’t wait for an answer, and moved to the side of his horse. With practiced speed and efficiency, he loosened the cinch from around his mare’s belly, unlooping the leather strap until it dangled to the ground. He reached up and lifted the saddle from the horse’s back. “And this.”

  Rachel’s eyebrows drew together.

  “Something I learned about herding steers through water,” he explained, as if reading the unspoken question in her mind. “It’s safer to ride bareback. Less chance to get hooked on a horn or something.” He strode to the back of her wagon and tossed the saddle over the tailgate, then returned and took his horse’s reins from her. Leaning forward, he whispered, “I’d strip down completely if it was just me and a bunch of other wranglers, but I don’t think the fine ladies and the kids here would appreciate that.” His eyes twinkled mischievously, and his grin was pure evil. Rachel forced her mouth to remain closed. Was he joking with her? If so, it wasn’t funny. She darted a nervous glance around her. Luckily, everyone else, including Mrs. Edwards, was busy tending to their teams and wagons.

  “Breathe, Rachel. You look like you’re about to pass out. I know I can’t be the only guy you’ve seen without his shirt on. I’m sure you’ve seen your husband in far less.” He winked at her.

  “How dare you,” she hissed, trying to cover her embarrassment with anger. “I’ve never met a man as brazen as you, Mr. Owens.” She picked up her skirts.

  His hand reached up and encircled her arm, preventing her from walking away. “I asked you to call me Jake, remember?”

  Rachel yanked her arm free, and rushed past him. “I will do no such thing,” she said heatedly. A soft chuckle followed her as she stormed to her wagon. Thomas snapped the reins against the mules’ backs, and the wagon lurched forward to take up a place in line to the ferry. If he had noticed the exchange between Mr. Owens and her, he hadn’t given any indication. Thomas didn’t take notice of much at all these days.

  Rachel followed behind the wagon, Tommy close on her heels. The boy had to run to keep up with her.

  “Didn’t I tell you boys to stay in the wagon?” she snapped in a high-pitched tone, glaring down at Tommy. His blue eyes stared up at her, wide-eyed. He was obviously as surprised as she was at her sudden angry outburst.

  “Yes’m. I’m sorry,” he said demurely, and cast his gaze at the ground. Rachel stopped and kneeled down. She held out her arms, and Tommy fell against her, wrapping his arms around her neck.

  “No, Tommy. I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me,” she whispered. A pair of twinkling brown eyes, and a devilish grin flashed before her eyes.

  Chapter Six

  Jake reined in his mare, and patted her on the neck. The stout little mustang had to be the best trained horse he’d ever sat on. A subtle shift of his seat backwards, and she stopped. If he leaned forward, she stepped out. A slight turn of his shoulders in either direction, and her body followed. At least the reverend had supplied him with a good mount, if nothing else. He’d almost forgotten the exhilarating feeling of sitting astride a horse, galloping across open country.

  His eyes scanned far off into the distance. Open country was right. After leaving the Missouri River a few hours ago, the wagon train made its way west, first through sandy marshlands as they moved away from the river and onto the uneven, rolling hills they entered now. In the distance, the hills blended into steeply ridged sandy bluffs. Tall grasses swayed in tune with the wind as far as the eye could see. At least there was food here for the livestock. That might not be the case the further west they traveled.

  Details about the wagon trains along the Oregon Trail, information he’d thought long forgotten from many history classes, seemed to come back to him now as if someone had implanted a computer chip in his brain. This land was foreign to him, but he hoped to get a better feel for it once they entered more familiar territory further west in Wyoming, or what would someday be Wyoming.

  Judging by the map the reverend had given him, Jake guessed they were within an hour from a water source called Papillion Creek. Hopefully, the wagon master would agree to stop there for the night. They hadn’t covered much ground today, and after what happened earlier, Frank Wilson was not going to be his buddy on this trip. Jake wanted to get to Oregon as fast as possible, too, probably faster than the wagon master, but he couldn’t afford to be careless. The reverend had made it pretty clear that the safety of these people rested on Jake’s shoulders. He ran his hand through his hair. Dried grit and sand scraped against his scalp from the muddy Missouri.

  Getting all the wagons across the wide river had been an exhausting undertaking. Jake absently rotated his shoulders, the muscles in his arms sore and tight. They hadn’t lost any cattle as near as he could tell during the crossing. Three men had volunteered to help him get the cattle and mules through the river. Two of the men were bachelors, without families to worry about.

  Elijah Edwards heartily shook his hand once the entire train was safely across the river and the mules and oxen were hitched to their wagons. Beaming brightly, he had slapped Jake on the back, congratulating him on a job well done, and that he had great confidence that this trek to Oregon would go off without any trouble. He had invited Jake to eat supper at his wagon that night. His wife, Harriet Edwards, had shot her husband a look of outrage. Just to irritate the woman further, Jake wanted to accept the invitation, but he wasn’t going to stand up Rachel a second time.

  “I can’t, Edwards. I’m eating with the Parkers,” Jake told the farmer. “But thanks for the invite. Maybe another time.”

  Mr. Edwards had nodded in understanding. Harriet Edwards’ ears had visibly perked when Jake mentioned the Parkers. The old bat was probably concocting wild ideas in her mind about him and Rachel, judging by her reaction the day before when she saw him at the Parkers’ wagon. He shrugged it off. What other people thought of him didn’t matter. He wasn’t here to make friends.

  Jake’s little buckskin mare shook her head and snorted, her long black mane whipping in the wind. He reached forward and scratched her between the ears.

  “Easy, Princess. We’re just letting the wagons catch up.” He turned his head. The train was still a good fifteen minutes behind him. Once satisfied that the train was underway, he’d given his mare her head, and she raced over the uneven soil, apparently as eager as he was to get away and be alone for a while.

  He’d seen Rachel walk next to her wagon while her good-for-nothing husband sat in the driver’s seat. At least they had a solid–looking team of four mules. Her two older boys bounced happily along beside her. Where the toddler was, Jake hadn’t seen. He hadn’t bothered to stop and collect his saddle and shirt, something he wished now that he had done. Would there be any Indians out here, this close to the Missouri? And would they be friendly? Jake felt naked, exposed all of a sudden. He needed to remember to keep his weapons with him from now on.

  He swung his leg over the mare’s neck and landed lightly on his moccasin-clad feet. Kneeling to the ground, he weaved strands of the long grasses in between his fingers. He stuck a blade in his mouth, and stared into the distance. His horse lowered her head and began cropping at the grass. The gentle afternoon breeze cooled his face and bare back. There wasn’t a cloud in the deep blue sky. Blue, like the color of Rachel’s eyes.

  Jake clenched his jaw. What the hell was he thinking? Since his arrest he’d sworn off women. Just the thought of Sandra left a bitter taste in his mouth. She’d flirted with him openly at the family ranch, shown him a good time, and had him all wrapped around her little conniving finger. Since laying eyes on Rachel Parker, his plan of staying away from women had taken flight quicker than a fly sucked out of a moving car window. He cursed under his breath.

  When are you going to start thinking with the brain in your head rather than the one between your legs? His brother’s words echoed in his min
d. Dammit all! Just one look into Rachel Parker’s eyes, and he was lost. Something had twisted his gut and wrenched in his chest the first time he saw her, when she stood by that wagon facing into the wind. The sensation had been different from any of his previous infatuations. Every encounter with her in the last day and a half had only intensified those odd feelings.

  She’s married. He’d never chased after a married woman before, either. Not even one with a steady boyfriend. There were plenty of willing girls out there. He’d never had to resort to invading another man’s turf. Of course, in his time, most girls weren’t married and had three kids at her age, either.

  Jake laughed. This was absurd. Even if she wasn’t married, the thought of getting cozy with Rachel Parker was crazy. Rachel was the exact opposite of Sandra and every other girl he’d dated. She was definitely not the type to usually draw his attention, which only made his reaction to her more puzzling. She was a sweet girl. Wholesome. Just like he’d told Reverend Johnson. And she was an assignment. Nothing else. He’d make sure she stayed out of trouble, and in five months or so, after he delivered her safely to Oregon and was back in the twenty-first century, he’d look up one of his old flames in Montana.

  Thinking hard, he couldn’t remember a single face of any of his former girlfriends. Each time he came close to recollecting one, a dark haired, blue-eyed beauty invaded his thoughts.

  Approaching hoof beats overrode the distant jingling of harness and the soft bellowing of cattle. The mustang raised her head, her ears pricked tightly forward. Jake stood, and turned to wait for the approaching rider. He recognized one of the men who had helped him herd the livestock across the river. Annoyed that his brief moment of solitude was disturbed, Jake picked up his horse’s reins, and turned to meet the man. Marcus Powell, if he remembered right.