A Pioneer Christmas Collection

by Kathleen Fuller

  “Is there anyone at the Chimney Rock station?” she asked.

  Wender and his wife exchanged a glance. “That I can’t say.”

  Mrs. Wender jumped to her feet. “I hope you all saved room for berry pie.”

  Just as abruptly, her husband began a lively discourse on the raging war. Puzzled by the sudden change of topic, she glanced at Corbett, busy slathering butter on the last biscuit. He didn’t seem to notice anything odd, so perhaps she’d only imagined it.

  Chapter 5

  Left my infant on the trale, along with a peace of my hart.

  —Carved into Chimney Rock in 1859 by Mrs. Hannah Snow

  Early the following morning, Corbett fed and watered the mules and hitched them to the wagon.

  He hadn’t expected to spend the night at the Wender ranch, but by the time they finished supper, it had been too dark to travel. Miss Newman slept in the house, and he had bedded down in the hayloft.

  The breakfast alone had been worth the stay—that and the bucket-and-rope shower behind the barn. The water had been icy cold, but no more so than prison showers. Mrs. Wender insisted he help himself to clothing left by former express riders.

  The trousers were too short but fit okay around the waist. The fringed tops fit better and were a whole lot warmer than the thin shirt allotted by the prison upon his release. He wiped his clean-shaven chin. The Wenders told him to help himself to a razor, toothbrush, and comb in the general store, and he felt human again. Almost.

  He headed for the little shed next to the stables and barn where Wender was repairing Miss Newman’s wagon wheel.

  The gray sky reminded him of dingy prison walls and looked almost as ominous. Last night’s rain left puddles on the muddied ground. The damp air chilled him to the bone, and he put his hands beneath his armpits to keep warm. Snow couldn’t be that far away.

  He stepped into the shed, and Mr. Wender greeted him with a nod of his grizzled head. The shed was furnished with blacksmith tools ranging from a sharp-pointed anvil to a redbrick forge.

  “That should do it,” Mr. Wender said. He checked the steel rim before handing the wheel to Corbett.

  “Much obliged.” He hesitated. He hated letting a woman pay his way, but right now it was the only choice he had. He’d spent the last of his prison allotment on that flea-ridden horse stolen from him. “How much do we owe you?”

  Wender shook his head. “It’s on the house.”

  “You’ve done enough already. Letting us stay overnight, feeding us. I’m much obliged.” He had every intention of repaying Wender after finding employment. He wasn’t completely without manners, no matter what Miss Newman might think.

  “No need to thank me. It’s our Christian duty to help one another.” He gave Corbett a sly look. “I reckon you got your hands full helping Miss Newman.”

  Corbett cracked a smile, his first in he didn’t know how long. It was amazing what some fresh-cooked cackleberries and ham in the morning will do to a man’s disposition. The tough, leathery fare that passed as prison meat had never oinked or mooed, that’s for sure.

  “I reckon so.”

  Wender wiped his hands on a rag. “You take care of your lady friend, and I’ll consider us even.”

  “She’s not my…lady friend. I’m just her trail guide.”

  “Right. Trail guide.” Wender walked out of the blacksmith shed, grabbed a bucket of slop, and headed for the pigpen.

  Corbett hung the newly repaired wheel on the outside of the wagon before joining him. Josie protested his walking away with a show of her teeth and a loud bray that practically scared the feathers off a nearby hen.

  “I’ll be back,” Corbett called over his shoulder.

  Upon reaching the pigpen, Corbett hung his folded hands over the top rail of the fence. “When Miss Newman asked about Chimney Rock, I got the feeling you were holding something back.”

  Wender dumped the contents of the bucket into a trough, and a hefty sow rolled out of a mud hole, sauntered over, and poked her snout into the slop.

  “I didn’t want to worry her needlessly.”

  Corbett grimaced. That’s what he was afraid of. “Feel free to worry me.”

  Wender set the empty pail down and turned to face him. “There was some Indian trouble out that way just before the express went bankrupt. Couple of people killed.”

  Corbett’s breath came out in a white misty plume. “Miss Newman’s brother?”

  “Don’t know. Could be.”

  The news was as welcome as a rattler in a bedroll. If something happened to her twin, Miss Newman would be heartbroken. A surge of protectiveness rushed through him, catching him off guard. He couldn’t imagine where it came from. Certainly not from his overworked mother. Not from his preacher father either, who used the pulpit like a judge’s bench and the Bible like a mallet.

  He wasn’t even sure Miss Newman needed his protection. He could still picture her pointing her shotgun at his two would-be hangmen. Her serious demeanor didn’t seem to belong to those ridiculous bloomers she favored.

  Sucking in his breath, he touched a finger to his hat. “Thank you again for your hospitality.”

  Mr. Wender picked up his pail. “My pleasure.” He frowned. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you couldn’t have picked a worse time of year to travel.”

  “Believe me, it wasn’t my choice.” Corbett headed for the wagon, and Josie lifted up a thick lip in greeting. If he didn’t know better, he would swear the mule smiled at him.

  Miss Newman emerged from the house looking mighty pretty. After hugging Mrs. Wender, she hurried toward him, a basket slung over her arm.

  Today she wore a blue plaid skirt over white pantaloons and stockings. A short white cape was wrapped around her shoulders and tied in front with a blue ribbon. As always, she wore her floppy straw hat.

  He felt an unexpected jolt, not unlike the earlier surge of protectiveness, and quickly looked away.

  She placed the basket in the wagon and took her place on the seat next to him. “Mrs. Wender insisted upon packing us a picnic basket.”

  Nodding approval, he tipped his hat to the rancher’s wife, and she waved back. He snapped the reins, and the wagon rolled forward.

  Miss Newman was in a chatty mood, but his mind kept wandering back to the conversation with Mr. Wender. He didn’t know what worried him more: the Indian attack at Chimney Rock or the ominous dark skies ahead.

  With each passing hour, it got colder. The wind flattened the prairie grass and threatened to blow the canvas cover clear off the wagon. Nothing but a stone foundation was left of the next Pony Express station, and it was a good twenty miles to another.

  Finally, he’d had enough. The trail widened, allowing him free rein to turn the wagon around and head in the direction they’d come.

  Miss Newman’s entire body stiffened, and she sat forward. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” The wind forced him to yell. “I’m going back to the Wender farm. With luck we’ll get there before dark.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Stop at once,” she shouted. “You hear? I said stop!”

  He kept turning the wagon. “There’s a storm coming.”

  “I don’t care.” She reached for the shotgun and pointed it straight at him. “I said stop.”

  No doubt she was all bluster. But after seeing her shoot a hat clear off a man’s head, he wasn’t about to take chances. He tugged on the reins, and the wagon rolled to a standstill.

  “Now turn the wagon back the other way.”

  “Turn it around yourself.” He jumped to the ground. Soon as she realized she was on her own, she’d give up her foolhardy plan.

  To his surprise, she moved to the driver’s seat, grabbed the reins, and circled the wagon around till it faced west again.

  He crossed his arms and watched. She was bluffing. Had to be.

  Only she wasn’t. The wagon took off like the first rattler out of a box, slinging mud eve
rywhere. Josie gave a loud harsh bray, but for once Miss Newman’s fierce determination prevailed over mule-headed stubbornness.

  When the wagon was but a mere dot on the horizon, he pulled off his hat and tossed it to the ground. The wind picked it up and carried it away, forcing him to give chase.

  In the wrong direction.

  Chapter 6

  Oregon or bust.

  —Carved into Chimney Rock in 1861 by the James family

  Come on, Josie. Pull!”

  Ellie-May dropped the mule’s harness and brushed her forehead with the back of her hand. It was no good. Ever since she’d left Corbett behind, Josie had kept trying to turn back. It was exhausting to keep the mules heading west while one stubborn mule kept trying to turn in the opposite direction.

  To top it off, the wagon was now hopelessly stuck in mud. Slipping and sliding in the tarlike slush, she gave the harness one more yank and glared at Josie. “We’re in a fine mess, thanks to you!”

  Molly strained forward but without success. Josie stood like a statue and wouldn’t budge. Doleful brown eyes gazed straight ahead from beneath a heavy brow.

  At wit’s end, Ellie-May blinked back tears. What am I supposed to do now, God? Will You tell me that?

  She’d been so certain God had wanted her to make this trip. At first, everything seemed to fall into place, including the quick sale of the farm. It was as if God had smiled on her decision to find her brother. Then everything went wrong, postponing her journey for nearly three months. That’s how long it took her to straighten out the mess at the bank before they would release her funds. Now this…

  She gave herself a good shake. “Ellie-May Newman, it’s no time to feel sorry for yourself.” At least the wind had died down, and that was a blessing.

  Who needed Corbett anyway? She didn’t miss him one iota. How could she? He had the manners of a hog and the disposition to match. He also had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Come to think of it, the rest of him wasn’t that bad to look at either. Though she’d only known him a short while, his face seemed to have filled out, or at least look less gaunt. A little more meat on his bones and he would be mighty pleasing to the eye.

  With an irritated shrug, she clamped down on her wayward thoughts and scanned the landscape, hoping to see a structure, wagon—anything other than the stark prairie land and mucky river stretching ahead as far as the eye could see.

  The Platte was at least a mile wide but appeared to be only a few inches deep. A hand-written sign warned against drinking the water. The word cholera was etched onto wooden gravestones dotting both sides of the muddied trail.

  Fortunately, the mules had gotten their fill from a freshwater spring earlier, and now Molly contently nibbled at the tall grass while Josie continued to pout.

  Ellie-May slapped Josie on the rump. Blasted mule! She was worse than a spoiled child. Josie switched her tail, lifted a back leg, and stomped it down onto the ground, splashing mud all over Ellie-May’s skirt.

  Hearty male laughter rang out, and Ellie-May spun around. Mr. Corbett stood a short distance away, and Ellie-May’s pulse quickened.

  Not wanting to admit how glad she was to see him—or how good it was to hear him laugh—she scowled. “What’s so funny?”

  “You.” He looked at the sunken wheel, glanced at her mud-splattered skirt, and burst out laughing again.

  She folded her arms. “If you came to gloat, you can leave now,” she said, though secretly she hoped he’d stay. The thought of spending the night alone in the wilderness filled her with dread.

  He arched a dark eyebrow. “If I had the brains God gave a grasshopper, I would. And wouldn’t you be in a fine mess?”

  She was already in a fine mess, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. She was also having a hard time staying annoyed.

  His clean-shaven chin and amused expression did wonders for his appearance. So did the way the fringed shirt molded his form. Still it was no reason for her heart to do flip-flops at the mere sight of him.

  He ran his hand along Josie’s rough neck. The mule twitched her ears and lifted her tail. “Hee-haaaw.”

  The short, thick head rested on Corbett’s shoulder, and Ellie-May rolled her eyes.

  It was disgusting the way Josie fawned over Corbett.

  “You two deserve each other.”

  Corbett held her gaze. “It’s nice to know someone appreciates me.”

  Her cheeks flared beneath his studied gaze, but fortunately a few large drops of rain drew his attention away.

  Freeing himself from Josie’s affections, he rushed to the back of the wagon. “Give me a hand,” he called, hauling out a wooden chest.

  It took only a few minutes to lighten the load. Following his instructions, she climbed into the driver’s seat while Corbett planted his shoulder next to the stuck wheel.

  “Go!” he yelled.

  She grabbed hold of the reins and snapped the whip through the air. “Git up!”

  The mules strained forward. With a loud sucking sound, the wheel pulled out of the mud, and the wagon sprang free with a jolt.

  She steered to solid ground and climbed down. “We did it!”

  Corbett stood in the middle of the trail, covered from head to toe in mud, his arms straight out like a scarecrow.

  Both hands on her mouth, she stared at him over her fingertips and laughed.

  Corbett had barely finished putting the trunks back into the wagon when it began to pour. Miss Newman scrambled inside, but he waited until the rain had washed away the mud from his clothes before joining her.

  “You’re soaking wet,” she said, as if he couldn’t figure that out for himself.

  He was also cold and hungry. The canvas provided protection from the downpour, but not from the chilled air.

  She knelt by the trunks, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. While he was cleaning off outside, she’d changed into fresh clothes but missed an intriguing speck of dirt on the tip of her upturned nose.

  She tossed him a black woolen shawl. “It’s not much, but at least it’s dry.”

  After unbuckling his holster, he pulled off his fringed shirt. Miss Newman quickly turned her back and busied herself with Mrs. Wender’s picnic basket.

  He couldn’t help but smile. Two drunken thugs hadn’t fazed her, but a man pulling off his shirt definitely did.

  He quickly changed into dry clothes, and a pleasant whiff of lavender greeted him as he wrapped the wool shawl around his shoulders.

  “You can look now.”

  She shyly met his gaze before turning her attention back to the basket. “Supper’s ready.”

  Cheese, dry meat, and bread were spread on a wooden trunk, alongside a lit lantern. He didn’t have to guess which trunk it was, as a tiny piece of lace hung out over the side. He swallowed hard and looked away.

  She handed him a tin plate, and he helped himself to a wedge of cheese.

  “Mrs. Wender saved the day,” she said. “At least we don’t have to worry about dying of starvation.”

  “No,” he grumbled. “We just have to worry about pneumonia.”

  “Your optimism never fails to amaze me, Mr. Corbett.”

  “I deal with facts, Miss Newman, and right now, you and I are in danger of being washed away.”

  “Then I suggest we pray,” she said.

  He studied her, surprised to find himself wishing he had her kind of faith. “You think God answers prayers?”

  “He already did. When my wagon got stuck, I prayed for help, and there you were.”

  He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “Never thought I’d be the answer to anyone’s prayer.”

  “Why did you come back, Mr. Corbett?”

  Biting off a piece of dry meat, he tried to think of an answer. He worried about her safety, of course, a woman alone in the wilderness. And Chimney Rock. That worried him, too. But he was at a loss to explain his utter dismay when she’d driven away.

  “I figured Josie need
ed me.”

  Her face darkened with disappointment—or was that just wishful thinking on his part? Had she hoped for another answer? A more personal one? Or was his mind playing tricks on him?

  “What if you don’t find what you’re looking for?” he asked.

  “Then I’ll find what God wants me to find,” she said.

  He reached over and rubbed the speck of mud away from her nose. She stared at him for a moment before lowering dark lashes.

  After hotfooting after her most of the day, he should be madder than blazes. If only she didn’t look so appealing. Unable to make up his mind whether to wring her pretty neck or kiss her, he drew his hand away.

  “I’ll go outside soon as it stops raining,” he said.

  Her lashes flew upward. “Y–you can stay here tonight, Mr. Corbett. In the wagon.”

  “I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure God is against an unmarried man and woman”—he cleared his throat—“spending the night together.”

  Her cheeks turned pink, but her gaze never left his face. “God will understand. He makes exceptions for such occasions,” she said.

  He frowned. The God Miss Newman worshipped bore little resemblance to the angry, punishing one his father preached about. “You sure about that?”

  “Quite sure, Mr. Corbett.”

  He was equally certain she was wrong, but he was too cold to argue.

  “I…” She cleared her voice. “I don’t have anything to worry about, do I, Mr. Corbett? From you, I mean.”

  He hesitated. “Nope, nothing to worry about.” If only her dewy lips didn’t look so downright…kissable.

  Avoiding her eyes, he arranged the bedroll the best he could before sliding into the cotton flannel depths. “You keep watch while I get some shut-eye,” he said in a gruff voice. Earlier he had heard tom-toms and didn’t want to take chances. “I’ll take the midnight shift.”

  “Do you think anyone will bother us in the rain?” she asked. “Bandits or…or Indians?”

  “You just never know, Miss Newman.” Now that kissing was on his mind, he couldn’t trust himself with the lady. “If I were you, I’d keep that shotgun handy.”