by Cate Masters
“Winona?” Mrs. Wilson called from inside. “I’m starting supper. Would you like to help?”
In Philadelphia, the only time she’d set foot in the kitchen was on her way out the door. “Coming.”
For the rest of the day, she pushed all thought from her mind. Not an easy task on a normal day, but especially when faced with these obstacles.
Since disembarking the stagecoach, she’d barely thought of what awaited her. She reached for the letter in her silken pouch but left it unopened and returned it to its resting place. Father had always put great stock in the hand of fate. After his death, she refused to believe fate could treat her and her mother so cruelly. Finally falling asleep, she wondered if destiny ever intended her to land in San Francisco.
Morning dawned with streaks of red-orange sky as Winona had never seen. Like a wildfire ripped across the sky.
Five more days until the next stagecoach.
Five more days of chores.
If Winona previously entertained the notion she could be happy as someone’s wife, she rejected it now. Out here, some unfortunate wives were little better than servants, saddled with all the cooking and cleaning and mending while their men were off riding and drinking and doing whatever they pleased.
* * * *
Walking to the dry goods store alongside Mrs. Wilson, Winona felt conspicuous standing a head taller. Inside the shop, they browsed through fabric bolts, but the doctor’s wife disliked them all, so she purchased some fruit. As they stepped from the store, Julius Pickering stopped on his way by.
He touched the rim of his bowler. “Good day, ladies. I hope you’re enjoying this fine day.”
Mrs. Wilson’s smile faded. “Hello, Mr. Pickering. I’m afraid we’re in a rush.”
“We’ll have ample time as traveling companions to chat.” He tugged at his thin mustache. “I’ll be traveling on the next stage to San Francisco as well.”
Winona struggled to maintain her composure. Sharing the remainder of the trip with Mr. Pickering held no appeal. “I see.”
Mrs. Wilson took Winona’s arm. “We must be going. Good-bye, Mr. Pickering.”
“Good-bye, Miz Wilson. Miss Young, I’ll see you soon.” He nodded.
Mrs. Wilson must have read the dread in Winona’s face. “How awful to be trapped in a stagecoach with that man.”
“Thank goodness for books.” Winona would have to get several from her trunk before they departed. “Hopefully it won’t be only us two.
“I hate to think of you traveling alone with him. You are most welcome to wait for the next stage.”
The next coach could very well be full and not allow her passage—then she’d be set back three weeks. She couldn’t chance it. “He’s harmless, I’m sure.”
“No man is harmless, my dear.”
“Not even Jeb?”
“You must stay on guard with any man.”
“But you said Jeb was trustworthy.”
“Yes, dear. I’m sure he is. But…”
They rounded the bend to Doc’s house and halted, dumbstruck at the sight of Clementine hitched to the rail. Beside her a paint pony switched its tail.
Winona could hardly speak. “Jeb.”
“My goodness. He must be back.”
He strolled from behind the house with a water pail. “Miz Wilson. I hope you don’t mind. The horses were thirsty.”
“You came back to water the horses?” Winona asked, her voice rising. “Whose horse is that?”
Bending to empty the pail, his mouth twitched. “You don’t like him?”
The pony’s stout legs looked sturdy enough to climb mountains. “He’s a bit small.”
“Don’t let his size fool you. He can keep up with Clementine.”
“How lovely.” Anger sizzled as she ran her hand along the pony’s neck. “Who is your companion?”
He planted his foot on the first rail. “Why, you, Miss Young.”
Surprise flushed through her. “How? Where did you get him?”
“Friends of mine.”
Mrs. Wilson’s eyes widened. “Oh, Jeb. An Indian pony?”
Winona snapped her attention to him.
“Their ponies are used to working hard. If Miss Young is intent on riding to San Francisco on horseback, this one will get her there. Unless, of course, you changed your mind.”
Not on his life. “What do I owe you?”
“Besides your eternal gratitude?”
She fixed him with a look. “I will reimburse you. Tell me what you paid.”
He scratched his chin. “It’s not quite so simple. I made a trade, you see. And a promise. But the cost of the horse is not the only fee. As I mentioned, we have other terms to work out.”
After Mrs. Wilson’s warning, Winona glanced at the doctor’s wife to gauge her reaction. “I see. Such as?”
Mrs. Wilson smiled at Jeb. “Why don’t you come inside and talk about it over a cup of coffee?” Hitching her skirts, she climbed the steps.
Jeb swept his arm wide and ducked his head, failing to hide his grin.
“If your guide skills are as false as your manners, we’ll be lost for sure.” She mustered some dignity and followed the doctor’s wife inside, all too aware of Jeb’s presence behind her.
Chapter Four
After a week on the trail, Winona’s rump ached worse than she could describe. Each time Jeb asked how she fared, she told him fine. Never would she admit his prediction correct.
When they finally stopped to make camp, she walked as much as possible. To fill the silence, she peppered him with questions. “What do you normally do, Mr. Greene?”
“Whatever pleases me, Miss Young.”
Typical male. “But how do you make a living?”
“Sometimes I’m a scout. A tracker. A translator.”
“Not a trapper?” She loathed them.
“I would never be a trapper.”
“But you’re a hunter. What’s the difference? Either way, you kill the poor animal.”
He moved toward her. “The difference,” he said with a hiss, “is that I don’t believe in torture. Can you imagine having metal jaws clamp around your leg? Being held in such pain, you would welcome death? Or gnaw your own foot off? Would you want to be trapped in such a way?”
Oh, yes, she could imagine that all too vividly. Traps were not only crafted of metal. Edward Winfield used ink and paper to clamp his jaws around her mother’s wealth only one year after her father’s passing. He’d threatened to repossess their house if her mother didn’t agree to marry him. He’d made disgusting overtures to her, about which her mother said nothing, not even acknowledging, out of fear for her position. And then he’d suggested Winona should marry to unburden them of her expense, going so far as to line up suitors. Mr. Winfield’s legal partner, Wilbur Haines, was the first to darken her doorstep. When she refused him, Vernon Miller the minister followed. Then Ezra Clift, the dry goods store proprietor, widowed last year, and forty-seven years old. Winona would have none of them. Mr. Winfield suggested she join a nunnery, or find gainful employment—elsewhere. Clearly, he’d said, her future included spinsterhood. A shame not to be borne by her mother.
She watched the flame in the campfire flicker blue, and pop sparks into the air. “No, Mr. Greene. I would never wish to be trapped. In any way.”
San Francisco represented her best chance at a new life.
Nothing and no one would stand in her way.
* * * *
At midmorning the next day, Jeb pulled up the reins at the top of a hill and surveyed below.
Winona’s horse whinnied, and several horses returned the call. Round earthen structures dotted the valley. From each trailed a wisp of smoke. A few dogs barked and trotted toward them.
“What’s that?” Winona gripped the rein. The pony tossed its head.
“We need to stop for some provisions. I wasn’t sure you’d make the trip, so I didn’t stock up.”
“I told you I was going west.”
“In my experience, saying and doing are two different things.” He clicked to Clementine, who walked downhill.
Following, she called after him, “You should know one thing about me, Mr. Greene. When I say I intend to do a thing, I do it.”
He tipped his slouched hat. “Duly noted, Miz Young.”
“Do you know this tribe? And their language?”
“Yes and yes.”
No woman could accuse Mr. Greene of bending her ear. “I’ve never seen this type of home.” She’d only heard of tipis.
“The Osage build lodges.”
Rather than rely on him to state the obvious, she studied the encampment. Women wearing buckskin dresses worked in nearby fields. Men strode like warriors in their breechcloths, heads shaved except in the center of their scalp, hair trailing past their shoulders in one long dark tail.
As they approached, two Osage men met them. “Howa.”
Jeb nodded. “Howa.” He dismounted and spoke to them in their language.
Winona watched the exchange to decipher what they might be saying, but understood nothing until Jeb jerked his head toward her and inserted her name into a string of words. The two men stared up at her.
She forced a smile through her nervousness. “Howa.”
Jeb’s eyes twinged, whether in surprise or embarrassment, Winona couldn’t tell. Had she spoken out of turn? Said the wrong thing? Perhaps only males should use the greeting. Someone should have warned her she’d need an interpreter to know what Jeb meant. She’d never figure him out. The longer he bantered with the Osage, the more frustrated she grew. Should she dismount too? Or would Jeb get supplies and they’d ride on?
Her rear decided it. Too sore to stay in the saddle, she swung to the ground.
The Osage ogled her riding pants and muttered to Jeb, who said only, “Yep.” The warriors strode off abruptly.
Jeb patted Clementine and followed. “This way, Miz Young.”
Excitement warred with nervousness. As a girl, she’d read stories about tribes and longed to see one. To sleep in a tipi. Ride a wild mustang. Dance around a campfire. Later, newspaper accounts of females kidnapped during raids warned her off such fantasies. These people paid her no heed now, but what if events took a nasty turn?
“You coming?” Jeb asked.
“Yes.” Better to stay in camp with him than on its outskirts alone. She trailed close behind and mimicked his motions. Frustrated by not knowing the language, she watched to read their actions when anyone spoke. Jeb appeared to be on good terms with these people. If only she knew what he said. Whenever he motioned to her during conversation, the listener invariably stared at her a beat too long. What on earth was he telling them?
By afternoon’s end, she’d wearied of the stay and tugged at his sleeve when he fussed at Clementine’s saddle. “Are you able to get supplies?”
“Yes.” Back tense, he yanked something.
She moved to his side. Why unfasten the girth? “Good. Then let’s pack them and get on the trail.”
“No.” He laid the girth on the ground.
To her horror, he swung the saddle from the horse’s back, then the pad beneath. “Whyever not?”
“It’s rude.” He moved to her pony and repeated the action.
No. This meant they’d stay. But for how long? “How is a trade rude?”
“Not the trade. It’s rude to show up, make a barter, and then just leave. You wouldn’t treat others back home so curt, would you?”
He hadn’t shown her such courtesy. “How long do we need to stay?”
“We’ll be on our way in the morning.”
The morning? “Mr. Greene, I—”
“Sh. They’re about to share their meal with us. And you will eat it all.”
The warning in his tone made her stomach twist. What might they serve that she wouldn’t eat? She’d already tired of canned beans and jerky, but when a copper-skinned woman handed her a wooden bowl, Winona stared at its contents. Colorful berries mashed with corn and meat. Unusual smelling, but in a good way. Too late, she remembered her manners. “Thank you.”
Amusement shone in the woman’s crinkled eyes. Winona’s face flushed hot. Everything I do and say is wrong. Keeping her focus on the bowl, she finished eating. All of it. She wanted to wave her empty bowl at Jeb, but feared it might arouse concern among the tribe.
No manner of people, apparently, appreciated a girl of unpredictable behavior.
Now men made for a different study altogether. Jeb conversed easily with the Osage, even more than with the Wilsons.
He got along with everyone, it seemed, but her.
* * * *
Men, women, children, all sat in a tight circle, listening as Jeb recited a passage from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Since meeting Mrs. Young, colors appeared more vivid, the stars shone brighter, and time had a strange way of standing still when she looked at him. The way his heart kept an uneven beat around her, he might have been part of Shakespeare’s play, another victim of fairy enchantment. The firelight played across her face, enhancing her beauty as she stared, though less enthralled than the rest. Of course, she had no idea what he said. She’d only jeer at his less than accurate translation, embellished a bit so the Osage would better relate.
Giving a dramatic flair to the finish, Jeb bent his chin to his chest, crossed his legs and sat, satisfied with his recital and with its reception. Except his companion’s. Back stiff, tense as a rabbit surrounded by foxes, she hardly moved until the rest dispersed, their soft murmurings filling him with pleasure as they argued the follies of Lysander, Hermia, Helena, Demetrius, Oberon, and Titania. And Puck, how they loved the mischievous Puck.
One glance at Winona Young wiped it all away. Whatever spell he’d cast with his recital hadn’t affected her, apparently, and she made no attempt to disguise her glare.
Wariness sunk into his bones. “What?”
“What was that about?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Shakespeare? Or am I mistaken?” The challenge in her tone rang through the night, drowning out the lull of crickets.
“Pardon?” No one else had ever guessed right.
“I listened quite carefully. You repeatedly said the names of characters in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The work of William Shakespeare.”
Cockiness replaced wariness. “Did I?” So she knew the play.
“Come now, Mr. Greene. A few mentions of Lysander might only mean the Osage have a similar word, but Puck? Titania?”
He leaned his elbows on his knees. “Are you a fan of The Bard?”
Her rosebud lips parted. She ruined it with a sharp huff. “Are they?”
Riled, his spine snapped straight. “Why not? They appreciate the absurdity of people smitten by love.” It made them act like damn fools, something he intended never to suffer again.
He regretted his sharp tone when she blinked and eased away. What could she know of love?
Eyes glazed, she stared at the fire. “Yes. I suppose it is a kind of absurdity.”
“Yes.” At least they agreed on one thing. And perfect timing. He stood. “It’s late. I hate to break it to you, but we’re bunking together tonight.”
Oh yeah, that gave her back her gumption. She shot to her feet. “No.”
“All right. You can sleep with the horses then. Good night.” He almost felt sorry for her when he strode off and left her there, mouth agape. “Oh, if you hear any rustling in the bushes, it’s probably just wolves. But you might want to keep the rifle handy beside the bedroll.” He stifled a chuckle when she scurried behind him.
“This is outrageous,” she hissed.
He whirled to face her, and restrained himself from catching her in his arms when she stomped toward him, but she pulled up short. “No. They’re offering us their best accommodations. And I’m not going to offend our hosts. Neither should you.”
His resolve weakened when he opened the door to the hut and stepped inside, her following c
lose. Beside the fire in the center of the round room, a large blanket atop straw awaited. They stared at it a moment.
He broke the silence. “You can sleep nearest the fire.” If warmth penetrated her thick skin. He unfastened his belt and boots, but thought better of removing his trousers and shirt, though he preferred sleeping in his skivvies. He lay on his side, facing away from the fire. And her.
Timid as a deer, she followed. He didn’t grace her with a glance, but his stomach tightened at the rustling noises indicating she removed some clothing. When the straw beneath the blanket crunched under her weight, his groin pulsed with a rush of heat. Damn it to hell. How would he get any rest with her beside him?
The crackle of the fire the only sound, he willed himself to think of anything else. But when he closed his eyes, all he saw was her hair fanned behind her head on the blanket. Her soft lips moving as she whispered his name. He squeezed his eyes shut to block it then nearly jumped out of his skin when she spoke.
“Shakespeare?” she asked.
The single word acted like a match to gunpowder, igniting his anger. “Yes, Shakespeare. Do you have something against him?”
“No, I love him. I just—”
Her soft voice, too close for comfort, blackened rational thought. “Didn’t think an ignorant saddle slouch like me would have any knowledge of him.” Until he said it, he didn’t know how much it bothered him.
Her lack of a response stung worse than any spoken insult. Yet the words came back to him.
What thou seest when thou dost wake,
Do it for thy true-love take,
Love and languish for his sake:
Be it ounce, or cat, or bear,
Pard, or boar with bristled hair,
In thy eye that shall appear
When thou wakest, it is thy dear:
Wake when some vile thing is near.
Vile thing, indeed. The wolves would fear to wake her.
His dear? Never. Not if Puck himself sprinkled pixie dust on his sleeping head.
