“Are we at risk for flash flooding?” she asked, eyeing the mud and the channels that still contained standing water.
“That’s always a possibility.” He looked skyward. “The sky is clear, but we’ll set a fast pace to get through quickly just in case a storm blows up. Another reason I’m drover today.” He then stood, removed his hat and waved it while calling ‘whoa’ to the team. As his was the lead wagon, all slowed to a stop behind him in turn.
“Gather up, drovers,” he hollered before setting the brake and stepping down. “Get a bucket, darlin’, and water the team while I talk to the men about what lies ahead.” He held up his hands and swung her down to the ground. Then, before going to speak with the gathering men nearby, he leaned in and said, “It’s a good time to stretch your legs and take care of necessities. And, grab a pillow or cushion from the back. I can tell by your squirming you’re uncomfortable. You can walk if you’d rather, once we get through the pass.”
Fire blazed in her face, licking up her neck to her ears as his comment about the pillow sank in. She had shifted her weight subtly or so she thought.
“Those blushes of yours could spark a wildfire.” His thumbs brushed across her heated skin as he grinned down at her. “Your cheeks burn like crimson fire every time I mention last night. It’s charming and makes my mind turn to the evening ahead.” He then dipped his head and caught her lips in a hard, fierce, tongue-searing kiss before heading off to meet with the men and Bessie.
“Water.” The one word an auditory reminder to her befuddled self that she had a task she had best see to. Warmed by his kisses on an already hot day, she fanned her face with her hand while she teetered to the back of the wagon. As she filled the bucket with the dipper, she splashed some on her face. “Maybe I should pour a full bucket over my head, instead.”
She didn’t, however, offering the oxen the water as he bade. Once they were done, she stowed the bucket and decided to walk a few wagons back to speak to one of the women who had an ailing child and see how they fared. Before she moved out of the shadow of their wagon, Avery Hill stepped into her path.
“Harlot,” he hissed at her out of the blue.
Shocked, she fell back several steps. “I beg your pardon!”
“I don’t give you pardon. Elliott was a good man. He’s barely cold in the ground and you’re cavorting with another man, spreading your legs like a filthy whore.”
Taken aback, she still managed to defend herself. “I wasn’t given much choice in the matter. Not that it’s any of your concern who and when I marry.”
“Elliott was a dear friend of mine, which makes it my concern when his widow is dishonoring his name and memory.”
“Mina.”
Weston’s deep voice calling her was a welcome intrusion. Filled with relief, she whirled, seeking him out. In a moment, she saw him round the end of the wagon behind them. Her breath came out in a whoosh, grateful she wouldn’t have to put up with another minute of Mr. Hill’s foul mouth and accusations. She spun to tell the vile man exactly that, but he was gone. Frowning, she stared down the long line of wagons. He’d virtually vanished.
“It’s time to head out. Where were you heading off to?”
“I thought to check with Mrs. Bishop and see how little Jonathan is faring.”
“He was running about with his brother while we were meeting, so I suspect he’s on the mend.”
“That’s good news.” She nodded as she issued that vague response, distracted by Avery Hill’s odd and very rude behavior. She considered whether it was worth mentioning it to Weston or not. The others had been upset with her as well and soon enough it had passed. She decided her husband had enough to worry about without her adding to the list and resolved to avoid the man instead.
“Is something wrong?”
Waving him off, she denied it. “No. I’ll check with Mrs. Bishop this evening, if that’s the case.”
Weston took Mina’s hand and led her up front to the high bench seat. He lifted her easily and settled in by her side. “Get up,” was his cry to the team.
Mina scowled as they obediently started off. “They’re a fickle lot! Why won’t they do that for me?”
“I put my team in front. Had ‘em for years so they recognize and respond to my voice. Furthermore, unlike you, I know what I’m doing. The team knows that as well. Your cattle clued in right fast that they had a greenhorn at the reins and saw fit to show you who was the boss.”
She harrumphed. “If I had a big, booming, brain-rattling bass voice like yours, they’d know who was boss.”
“If you had a booming bass voice like mine, darlin’, you wouldn’t be sitting up on this wagon married to me.” He chuckled as she snorted. “I’m rather partial to your sweet feminine tones. The cattle will get used to it and like it too. Trust me.”
After that they rode along in silence, the rutted road making conversation difficult; when they hit a rare smooth patch a few miles up ahead, she asked the question that was burning inside her.
“What do you think of Mr. Hill?”
“He’s an odd stick.”
She could have put it better with a few colorful and very unladylike adjectives, but she refrained. Weston was right in that he was odd. When she’d first met him, she too had thought his manner peculiar, as well as cool and standoffish, but there was something else that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Turning to Wes, she asked for clarification. “What do you mean by that?”
“Never had a single man make the trip by wagon before. Usually it’s reserved for families looking for a new start. Men alone travel light and on horseback because they can make the trip in less than half the time. They buy what they need at the posts along the way and when they settle in at their destination.” He glanced her way, his brows drawn in. “Why are you interested in Hill, all of a sudden?”
“It’s not sudden. He says he was a friend of Elliott’s and seems to be taking his death very hard. I didn’t realize they were that close. Elliott never mentioned him.”
“That might explain his outburst after the burial. If I were the magnanimous sort, I’d forgive his disrespectful jawin’, but I’m not, so I won’t. What he said to you was inexcusable.”
“If he was a close friend, it could have been his grief talking. Do you know where he’s from?”
“No. Back east is my guess by his speech and manner of dress. He joined the train late in Independence, the last one in fact. Is he bothering you? Do I need to have another talk with him?”
Mina reflected on that at length; his words were ugly, but he hadn’t actually threatened her. She wasn’t sure what he had hoped to accomplish by speaking to her in such a way. Maybe since he’d vented his spleen, he’d feel better and move on.
“He’s harmless, I suppose,” she told him.
“I’ll keep my eye on him. If he bothers you, I want to know it, Mina.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Don’t placate me, wife. I’m serious.”
Her hand slid across to his knee and she squeezed. “You’ll be the first to know if he doesn’t let it go, husband. I promise.”
Chapter Nine
The trip through Mitchell’s Pass was uneventful; beyond that were more weeks of endless prairie. As they followed the river some three hundred miles toward Fort Laramie, the low grasslands gave way to high plains and in the distance, they could see mountains. They spent three days camped at the fort, restocking at the trading post and resting the cattle. While there, Mina posted a letter to Ruth with Weston’s help. She could only imagine her sister’s reaction as she read the details of her journey thus far. Most likely she’d think it was pure fiction. Mina was hard pressed to believe it and had lived it.
After leaving the fort, they began skirting around the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. The land here was beautiful with hot days, but much cooler nights, a relief after the unremitting heat of the prairie. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t last, becoming more treacherous as they climbed in elevatio
n. They had a ways to go before those headaches set in.
The first day of July was marked by a break in the heat. At midday, an odd land mass became visible in the distance. As they drew closer, it took shape, rising out of the earth and seeming to cast a shadow over a mile long. To Mina, it looked like a huge gray whale, like the ones she’d seen traveling northward in the summer along the ocean’s shore back home.
“What in heaven’s name?” Mina breathed in awe.
“Independence Rock,” Weston announced. “We’ll stop here for a while and have a look.”
“At what?”
He just grinned as he signaled the train to a stop, then helped her down. After watering the cattle, they approached the rock formation, the other folks falling in behind them out of curiosity.
“Look closely at the engravings,” he urged.
Mina stepped close, reaching her hand out to trace over the first name. “Hannah Snow, 1844,” she read, shifting to another. “George Harlow, 1848.” She twisted back to Weston, her fingers still resting on an etched name. “There must be thousands of them!”
“Millions even,” little Jonathan Bishop effused excitedly. He’d come up by her side and was running his fingers over every name he could reach, as if he would touch them all.
“Probably not that many,” Weston chuckled. “Tens of thousands, more like it.”
“Can we write our names too, Mr. Carr?”
“Yep. That’s why we stopped. It’s a rite of passage, so to speak.”
“Huh?” the ten-year-old asked, not getting his pun. Then he shrugged, going back to scanning the rock. “Look,” he pointed excitedly over his head, “that one is written in ink.”
“No, that’s tar. I don’t recommend that if you want your name to last any length of time. It’s best to etch it in with something sharp.”
“Boy howdy,” the boy shouted, such was his enthusiasm. “I’ll go get my hunting knife.”
Weston handed his pocket knife to Mina. “Would you like the honors? My name is already carved somewhere up top.”
“You climbed it?” she questioned, her head tipping back as she gazed up at the summit over one hundred feet overhead.
“Back in ‘46, on my second time through.”
“How many trips have you made?”
“This is the eighth.”
“Zounds,” she exclaimed, already searching for an empty spot for her name. “If you ask me, one time is too many. I can’t fathom eight.”
The travelers lingered long enough for each of them to scratch their name into history. Those that had lost loved ones also etched their names on the rock under the label RIP or in loving memory. It was an emotional group that made their way back to the wagons.
“Why is it called Independence Rock?” Mina asked when they were rolling again.
“Trail lore says that if you make it to this spot by Independence Day, you’re on schedule to beat the snows of early fall and will be to Oregon by mid-September.”
“So we’re halfway there?”
“Nearly, somewhere along the South Pass coming up is the halfway point. You’ll see the marker. After that is when the trip really gets challenging.”
Her head swung around and she gaped at him, eyes unbelievably wide. “You mean this was the easy part?” She dropped her forehead with a thump on his shoulder. “Great merciful day.”
“It’ll be fine, Mina. You’ve got me to get you through, don’t forget.”
She nodded. “Despite all the delays, we had you, our fearless leader and trail guide extraordinaire, to thank for keeping us on pace and managing to get us here three days ahead of schedule.”
“It wasn’t easy. Not with a pretty little spitfire redhead throwing stumbling blocks in my way.”
Her head all but flew off his chest. “I did not,” she said in a huff. “Stop exaggerating.”
“Mina, do I need to remind you of how you ran off at the drop of the hat, or the number of times I had to rescue you along the way, and ultimately marry you to save your adorable but troublesome behind from being thrown from the train, not the least of it, I had to spank you—”
The last words were muffled as she covered his mouth. “All right. There is no need to relive the last few months chapter and verse.”
He laughed beneath her palm, which tickled, so she pulled away.
“—several times, needless to say.” He finished as if she hadn’t interrupted. His grin was infectious, although she fought hers tooth and nail. It didn’t break free until he wrapped his big arm around her and gave her a hearty one-armed squeeze.
“I’m teasing, darlin’. I think our arrival at the rock is a sign that our luck has changed.”
* * *
Over the next few days, Mina began to think his prediction was right. Since their bad luck and tragedy had struck at the onset, they were enjoying a patch of good fortune now. The weather was cooperating. The days were dry, yet they received regular rainfall at night, and luckily it was in manageable amounts, not the torrential rains that were common for the region. This kept the train moving forward and the pioneers in good spirits.
Then they came to the Sweetwater River. At first, compared to the frequently muddy and silt-filled Platte, its cool, clear, gently flowing water was refreshing. There was a small problem, however. The river wound back and forth across the high plains and along the foothills. Following each bend by driving alongside it could take a full day or more, Weston warned. His plan, instead, was to drive through it. They forded it the first time at midday, then again and again as it meandered back and forth directly in their path. They camped beside it that night and the next morning were back at it. By Mina’s count they crossed the Sweetwater nine times before they were through. The other travelers were grumbling after the second or third time, but she wouldn’t trade those two damp days for all the tea in China and another month by the dry, dusty Platte.
Mina was different in that she didn’t really mind. The crossings weren’t all that difficult in the fairly shallow river and the water wasn’t swift. Weston’s wagon was well equipped for the task as well; he had sealed the underside with tar many times in the past, which prevented water seeping through the boards and soaking the contents of the wagon. Not to mention, the terrain was less rocky, which made for an easier ride and less walking, which was a blessing as she was down to her last pair of shoes. This also gave her much more time with her husband, who more often now drove the wagon and let Jeremy lead. He was training him to take over his guide service anyway, and Weston admitted to Mina, he’d much rather spend the day looking at the ugly backsides of eight oxen if he got to do it with her at his side.
Once again, he could be surprisingly sweet.
Mina and Wes were coming to know each other better each day. Even more so at night when they crawled under their wagon together and spent hours in each other’s arms. Often, they fell dead tired onto their blankets with a brief kiss and cuddle. More frequently, their passions would flare and they’d spend the first hour or more partaking of prolonged kisses, intimate touches, and finding pleasure in the other the likes of which neither had ever experienced before.
They were entering the South Pass, a fork in the trail so to speak, where travelers either went south to California, or northwest, beginning the gradual winding trail that would take them deeper into the Oregon Territory. It wasn’t a narrow, perilous gap between the mountains with steep rocky walls on either side as she’d pictured. It was actually a wide valley and travelled so frequently by other pioneers heading west that the constant traffic had beaten down the grasses and compacted the dirt to form a crude, but clear road.
They passed the marker indicating the unofficial halfway point Weston had mentioned. After three long months, it was hard to imagine they hadn’t come farther and still had one thousand miles left to go. Although a milestone for the members of the wagon train, there wasn’t much celebration, not with another daunting ten weeks to go.
It wasn’t long afte
r that when disaster struck. At least for Mina, that is.
One little mishap occurred, which was followed by another, and another. By the end of the week, after passing by the majestic Oregon Buttes and crossing the continental divide, a series of calamities had occurred and folks were looking at her as the root cause.
It was Sunday evening and they had just made camp. Weston had pushed them to ride all day bypassing campsites of brown grass and sagebrush, in favor of a campsite alongside a tributary of the Green River on the other side of the pass. The creek he led them to had clear, cool water fed by Rocky Mountain streams and sufficient wood and tinder could be found along the banks to build a real fire.
No more buffalo dung for this gal, Mina thought cheerfully, truly amazed at what she saw as blessings now. With a lighthearted smile, she retrieved the safety matches from the metal dry box in the wagon and returned to where she had laid out the wood for her fire. Before she struck the first match, she heard Weston’s boots pounding the dirt and looked up. She sat back on her heels, concerned by the tension in his face as he moved toward her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Leave supper,” he ordered, but didn’t wait to see if she obeyed. Instead, he gathered her hand in his and tugged her along behind him toward the creek bank. Mina noticed it was abandoned, as all the other travelers had headed back to camp to relax over a hearty meal at the end of a long trying week. Which is what she and Weston would have ordinarily been doing. This evening, he led her to an outcropping of rocks, surrounded by tall summer grass and weeds so high they reached his shoulders. He took a seat on a low lying rock and pulled her between his spread thighs. His eyes were serious and his expression stern as he settled his hands on her hips for a talk.
She swallowed; having been in a similar situation before, it didn’t bode well for her or her behind.
He started right in.
“Let’s recap what has happened this past week. You forgot to leave the lid off the rain barrel early in the week, as I’d asked, which means we’re low on fresh water. The pass has none, so if I hadn’t come back at midnight and noticed it was on, we’d be plumb dry by now. Thankfully, it continued to rain straight through ‘til morning or we’d have been in dire straits and begging from our neighbors two days past. Then, there was the incident with the oxen. Not tying them properly allowed them to wander off, right into Mrs. Gillespie’s clothesline, dragging her entire wash through the dirt, which had her madder than a wet hen. She was ready to take a stick to your bottom for that mishap, but I talked her out of it. Further, they knocked over Mrs. Bishop’s Dutch oven where she’d had bread set out to rise, and it was dumped out and trampled beneath their hooves, ruining it, needless to say. Her butter churn didn’t fare much better. She was none too happy with you either. On top of that, there was two nights ago. Leaving the coffeepot and skillet behind was careless. If one of the other ladies hadn’t picked it up for us, we’d be cooking everything, including our morning coffee, in the Dutch oven until we could pick up another at Fort Hall, which is days from now. Finally, not setting the wagon brake at our last stop.” He shook his head. “What has you so scatterbrained, Mina?”
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