A Western Romance: Cole Yancey: Taking the High Road (Taking The High Road Series Book 9)

by Morris Fenris

  “Just another drink, honey, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Of course not.” Rising, she fetched a tin dipperful of water from the pail and helped him sit up enough to swallow. “Take this for now, and I’ll go get some cool from the cistern in just a minute.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Startled, she whirled to confront whoever had sneaked up behind her, too silently, too close. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “My apologies, ma’am.” A tall man, with longish hair the color of straw, he removed his hat even as he took a step back, away from her alarm. “Didn’t mean t’ cause you any upset. I’m Jordan Butler, takin’ leadership of this train, and I just stopped by t’ have a little chat.”

  The rate of Janetta’s heartbeat was beginning to slow a bit, and her breath beginning to resume normal rhythm, as she realized that, thankfully, no danger lay in wait for her, not from this individual, not in this public place. She was perfectly safe. “Good afternoon, Mr. Butler. This is my father, Oliver McCain, and I’m his daughter, Janetta.”

  “How do, ma’am. Sir. You doin’ okay down there?”

  Reluctantly, Oliver pulled himself to a sitting, then a standing position, although with a cough before and after. Reaching out, he offered a handshake. “Just got me a little cold, Mr. Butler. Nothin’ t’ be concerned about. Lungs are a mite creaky, that’s all.”

  “Ahuh.” A sharp, penetrating look, befitting this captain of the trail. “Gonna be strong enough t’ keep up on our trip, Mr. McCain?”

  “Doncha doubt it for a minute. Lookin’ forward t’ seein’ California.”

  Butler’s silvery eyes lighted up. He was a handsome man, loaded down with charm and an easy-going attitude. But Janetta wasn’t interested in any man, handsome or plain. Not now. Not ever. “Lookin’ forward t’ seein’ it myself, sir. Was hustled through most of the Eastern states, durin’ the War, so some landscape of the West oughta be a nice change.”

  “Ah. The War. Hearin’ your accent, I’d reckon you t’ have been wearin’ the gray and the gold.”

  “That I did. T’ more battles’n I could count.”

  Oliver sighed. “Terrible times, Mr. Butler. I wore the blue, myself; spent the worst part of my life in one of your Southern prisons.”

  “Them prisons were bad on both sides, sir, but that’s all b’hind us, now. Best t’ move on t’ better things. D’you have any questions, Mr. McCain? Or you, ma’am? Be happy t’ do my best t’ answer.”

  By then Barney, forced to move with his master’s movement, had come forward to take a few friendly sniffs of the visitor’s wool pants and cowhide boots. Tail wagging, he circled, then nosed into the man’s empty hand in hope of a pat.

  “Well, looka here,” said Butler, pleased. Bending down, he obliged with a good brisk rub from the canine’s ears to tail. By the time he had finished, both were wearing broad grins. “So you’re makin’ this trip, too, hey, feller?”

  “We couldn’t leave Barney behind,” Janetta interceded into what had been male conversation. “He goes where we go.”

  “Well, glad t’ hear that, ma’am. Ain’t nothin’ better in life than a good dog.”

  At that she had to smile, which brightened her somewhat dour expression into something so winsome, so utterly sweet and beautiful, that Jordan’s wayward heart skittered to a stop, bounced a few times, then demanded attention. “You speak from experience, do you, Mr. Butler?”

  “I surely do. Had a passel of dogs roundabout, while I was growin’ up, and enjoyed every minute of ’em. Even though my poor mama did complain about all the mud they tracked in.” He chuckled. “And it’s Jordy, ma’am. Just common ol’ Jordy.”

  She peered up at him. Not flirtatious at all, but in a simple, straightforward way. “Well, just common ol’ Jordy, we’re happy to make your acquaintance.”

  “We followed your recommended list of supplies pretty close, Jordy,” put in Oliver at this point, wanting to make sure all details were covered. “Got a few more things t’ pick up yet, b’fore we leave. And we got our team of four oxen loose over there in the field. Easy enough t’ catch up when needs be.”

  “That’s fine, sir. How’s about we take a walk around your wagon, Ma’am, and I’ll check things over?”

  “Certainly.” Skirts swished aside, Janetta proceeded him past the schooner’s tail gate. “As you can see, we have the water barrels lashed in place, ready to fill again, and our extra equipment stored underneath, so that—”

  “Caught it durin’ the War, didn’t he?”

  Unseen by her father, who had gratefully resumed the length of his pallet on the other side, she screeched to a halt. “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s no cold your father’s dealin’ with,” Butler told her quietly. “It’s somethin’ he picked up in that prison camp, stuck in close proximity t’ other sick people. He’s got TB.”

  If it were possible, her skin paled even more. There, in the welcome shade of the giant oak, the color of her eyes deepened from moss to emerald, and the flush on her cheekbones swept up like a hollyhock opening to the sun.

  “So I’m right. Don’t worry.” Her reaction had him speaking with quick reassurance. “It won’t change anything, as far as the two of you goin’ along, and I’ll keep mum about Mr. McCain’s health. Ain’t nobody else’s business at the moment, anyway, unless—well, unless circumstances take a turn for the worse. But I thought patients with tuberculosis were s’posed t’ be kept isolated.”

  Through stiffened lips she barely managed to answer. “He had—he had no symptoms at all, for years, when he first came home. And then…and then…we’ve been so careful, I assure you…and will continue to be. All his eating utensils are kept separate, everything he uses is washed in boiling water. There should be no fear of contagion.”

  It was the flash of her upward look with brimming eyes that got to him. Uncomfortable, he shifted from one foot to the other. “We do have us a doctor on board,” Jordan finally said. “And I’ll do my level best t’ watch out for you. Let me know if your paw gets sicker, or too weak t’ handle things, and I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thank you,” Janetta whispered over the lump in her throat. “There are reasons—we just need to get away and reach my mother’s people, in California, and to be prevented from doing so—now…I can’t imagine how we’d deal with that.”

  A look of warm sympathy crossed his open, friendly face. “Most everybody on this train has got reasons t’ get away, leave troubles b’hind, head someplace new. You ain’t alone in that. All of us are carryin’ around some kinda burden, Miss McCain.”

  Miss McCain. She had forgotten. Did she dare make the correction now, or let it go as a mere overlook on her part? And why, with all the weeks they had had to plan, why hadn’t she and her father worked out and collaborated on important details it would be necessary to repeat?

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized then. “I don’t normally make such a fuss. It’s just that—with Pa, with everything…well, I think I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. I appreciate your—”

  “Well, there you are, Jordy, you scrofulous ol’ sidewinder, you. Got a few things I need t’—whoa.”

  The newcomer had rounded the front corner of the wagon, hell-bent for leather, until he realized this was a private conversation and skidded to a stop. “My pardon, ma’am,” he reared back, immediately yanking off his hat to reveal a clutch of curly black hair dappled slick with sun. “Didn’t realize Mr. Butler might actually be conductin’ business.”

  Amusement crinkled the wagon master’s gray eyes. “Miss McCain, I’d like t’ say I take pleasure in introducin’ you t’ my friend, Cole Yancey, but I ain’t so very sure of the pleasure part. Howsomever, Mr. Yancey has also been hired on to serve as scout for the train, so you’ll be seein’ him around occasionally.”

  “Or maybe more’n that,” Cole cut in sweetly. From his rangy height he stretched out an impressive hand to take hers and clasp it fast. “For suc
h a purty little thing as you, I could maybe spend some of my time hangin’ round here, helpin’ out.”

  Janetta froze. Slowly, deliberately, she extracted herself and took a step away. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mr. Yancey, though I thank you kindly for the offer. Mr. Butler, you said we’re leaving the day after tomorrow? And you’ve found everything with our wagon in order? Then I mustn’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you have other matters to attend to.”

  Dismissed. Like schoolboys released from class. Both of them heard it, both of them felt it.

  A tip of the hat from each, and the tall sunburned southerners were on their way. As they shambled on down the line, to the next group of travelers, Cole could be heard asking, in a puzzled tone, just what he’d done wrong; and Jordan could be heard amusedly suggesting that possibly his friend should have tried pulling out that white lace hankie from his inside pocket.

  For a few tense minutes she stood watching them, her brows pulled together in a frown, her body in its flower-sprigged cotton gown held rigid and unmoving. If one keeps very still, if one shows no reaction, the hurt might be less intense, less penetrating.

  “Everything okay, honey?” Oliver asked, when she finally returned to join him.

  “Yes, Pa.” With her insides still in a state of turmoil, she bent to pat the dog’s head. One sure thing in an unsure world. “Mr. Butler—Jordy—has approved our preparations. I’ll go pick up those last-minute things you wanted, and then we should be ready to go.”

  “Janie, girl.” His uplifted hand—thinner now, and lacking strength and vigor—halted her short.

  “We never did figure out…”

  “I know. I was just thinking of that.” For a moment, seeking to give comfort as well as receive it, she settled herself beside him, snug against his chest, wrapped under his arm. A carryover from childhood, after her mother died and she was left lost and lonely. “We need—a history. A name. Background I can use. What do you think of…”

  III

  They were prepared.

  During the next day, while waiting for a final round-up of every covered farm wagon, Conestoga, and prairie schooner into the train that would depart on the morrow, they put together a credible story. The facts they would depend upon. Occasional testing proved that their account rang true.

  All for naught.

  Morning dawned sweet and clear, fresh with nighttime dew and a few faint fading stars: a good omen, perhaps, or so some claimed. One hundred twenty-seven souls, weighed down by a welter of emotions—excitement, anxiety, sorrow, hope—gathered in the center of camp, at the wagon master’s request, for last-minute instructions.

  Finished with his brief reassuring and encouraging address to those for whom he had assumed responsibility, Jordan Butler then turned to the man at his elbow with the request for a prayer to get everyone started off on the right foot.

  “Certainly,” acceded the minister, already prepared for this moment. “Ladies, gentlemen, would you all please bow your heads while we ask for God’s blessing on this journey.”

  Catching a breath in shock as benevolent words flowed out and over the crowd, Janetta hooked five fingers over her father’s forearm with brutal force.

  He winced. Planting his free hand firmly over hers, he silently urged: Not now. Don’t make a fuss. Don’t draw attention. Wait.

  Janetta could barely contain herself. She wanted to stomp forward and back, kicking her skirts free for every step; she wanted to scream out imprecations to heaven above, loud and long. God forgive her, she wanted to grab hold of a pickax and smash its pointed end on top of something. Preferably the sanctimonious bald head of Rev. Ephraim Ross.

  Before the last hearty “Amen!” had rolled crosswise and back, she had slipped away, her father right behind her. Their wagon, with the patient oxen already hitched and waiting, provided temporary refuge from any prying eyes or curious questions.

  “He’s here!” hissed Janetta, fighting against tears as much as she fought to get herself up and onto the high spring seat.

  Once upon a time she had felt lithe and supple. Now, weighed down by worry, she felt hopelessly clumsy and inept. The bonnet she yanked down over her neat chignon would shield her face not only from the glare of the rising sun but also from the gaze of onlookers.

  “This ruins everything. Everything! How were we not aware he would be coming along on this trip? How did we miss knowing that fact?”

  Sick at heart that now all their carefully laid plans must be tossed aside, like so much chaff in the wind, Oliver settled beside her, exhaled a sigh to mask a cough, and picked up the bullwhip. “I dunno, honey. Beats me why he’d be here, headin’ west, anyway.”

  “The church probably threw him out,” she said bitterly. “And now—and now—”

  With some effort he laid one arm across her trembling shoulders. “We can take this first day and think on it, Janie, girl, even travelin’ however far we go. It ain’t too late t’ change our minds; we can always turn around and settle somewhere else. Or sell what we got and ride that train, after all.”

  Anger and despair roiled together to agitate her insides like a butter churn. Grabbing hold of the front wagon bow, she bowed her head, swallowed hard against rising bile, and concentrated on the design of her dress fabric. Blue-gray paisley, used all over for puffed long sleeves, collared buttoned bodice, and full skirt.

  “It isn’t even as if we were such a mainstay of his congregation,” she finally managed. “We didn’t attend his services all that often.”

  “No, we didn’t. And that’s maybe what’s got his temper all riz agin us, honey.”

  “He’s a horrible, horrible man, Pa, and you know it. There isn’t one ounce of Christian charity or forgiveness in his whole body. How he could even pretend to be a minister of his faith is beyond me.”

  Oliver nodded. “The Reverend did seem t’ have an awful lot of run-ins with his flock. Not well-liked, for sure. Nor well-respected, neither.”

  “Oh, Pa. What are we going to do? How can we deal with this?” Discouragement shriveled the edge of her voice and dulled the green of her eyes. “I thought we had this all worked out. I thought there might finally be better days ahead. But, now, all because of one pin-headed, sniveling hypocrite—”

  “Shush, Janie, don’t take on so.” Joggling her arm just a little, to tease her flagging spirits back into a good mood, he bent forward to peer under her hat brim. “C’mon, honey. You’re only feelin’ down right now b’cause we got caught off guard. Let it settle. We’ll figure somethin’ out, Janie, girl. We’ll make do. Always have. Always will.”

  He wheedled her into a tiny smile, the one that emphasized every appealing curve of her lips and the slight dimple indenting her chin. “Mama used to say you were an off-the-wall optimist,” the girl, beginning to regain her equilibrium, told him indulgently.

  “Still a stubborn ole Mick, huh?”

  “Yes, Pa.” Pushing her bonnet back out of the way, she rested her cheek against his shoulder, feeling warmth and love emanate forth like a benediction. “But you’re my stubborn ole Mick.”

  “Good mornin’.”

  The voice sounded familiar. Curious, Janetta moved to peer around her father’s less-than-substantial frame. And stiffened. “Mr. Yancey,” she acknowledged coolly.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sitting easily in the saddle of a big dappled gray, he doffed his hat and offered her his sweetest, most charming, most disarming smile. “You’re lookin’ mighty pretty t’day.”

  “Thank you.” Inflexible. Unbending.

  “Mr. Yancey, is it?” Oliver intervened at this point. “Don’t b’lieve we’ve met, sir.” Introducing himself, he reached over to shake hands; and, with one nudge of his knee, Cole shifted his horse closer, leaning forward to oblige. “Think I know one of your brothers, though.”

  “Do you, now?” The man’s roughhewn face brightened. “Got me a passel of ’em, sir. Which would you be referrin’ to?”

  “Benton. Dr. Be
n, it was. Passed through our area, down by Carbondale, a few years ago, and we got t’ meet. Headin’ west, his ownself.”

  Cole rested one forearm on the saddle horn, prepared to stay and socialize for a few minutes.

  “Sure did. He was leavin’ southern Indiana b’hind, joined up with a train, and got settled out in California. Doin’ just fine there, Mr. McCain; I attended his weddin’ a while back.”

  “Married, is he? Well, good t’ know. He’s a fine young man. Happened t’ run int’ him in town, as he and his manservant, Adam, was buyin’ supplies. We talked some, and they come on out t’ the house for a tasty home-cooked meal. Remember, honey?” he appealed to his daughter. “Nice t’ have some company around, wasn’t it?”

  “It was.” She had closed down like the door of a cabin, slammed shut.

  “Yes, sir,” Oliver went on, reminiscing as easily as if the prevailing atmosphere hadn’t suddenly turned chill. “Had us a right pleasant chat, and they even spent the night with us. Consulted some with me about a—uh—a private matter. Glad t’ hear he’s doin’ so well. Too bad he’s hitched, though. I could see he’da made a strappin’ partner for my Janie, here.”

  “Pa!” she hissed, coloring.

  He gave her a sideways look of pretended surprise. “Well, shoot, honey. A man can always have plans for his little gal. Ain’t no secret in the fact that he was single at the time, and so was you.”

  “And are you still?” came Cole’s casual interjection, before he could stop himself.

  There it was: the Rubicon over which they must now cross. Once begun, there could be no turning back. The carefully crafted story they had planned to use as background was moot, now, thanks to the startling appearance of Rev. Ephraim Ross. Father and daughter exchanged a swift, unreadable glance.

  “Yes,” Janetta said finally, in a small voice. “I am still single. A spinster.”

  That last word came out with a twist of tone not lost upon the tall adventurer sitting his saddle. Nor was her posture: slumped suddenly, like a deflated balloon.

  Gently Oliver patted her free hand, the one not wrapped tightly and whitely around the iron armrest. “There, now, honey. Plentya likely young men in this world; maybe even some on this train that we ain’t been introduced to.” Coughing a little, he looked up to elaborate. “You see, son, I’d like t’ have this girl of mine settled soon. I ain’t been so well lately, and—”