“Oh, tell it like it is, Pa,” she cut in scathingly. “I’m sure the word has gone out by now, anyway; this whole group of travelers must know.”
The horse swished his tail at a persistent fly and stamped one hoof. His expression, as he shook his head until the harness jingled, could be read in human terms: Damned insects! Cole reached forward to rub at his stallion’s muscular neck, much as McCain had just tried to soothe his offspring.
Cole was frowning. Not in anger but in consternation; the natural reaction for a man whose honor had just been impugned. “No, ma’am. Not another soul, t’ my knowledge, and not by my doin’. Jordan Butler mentioned t’ me about your—uh—condition, Mr. McCain, only so’s I could help keep an eye on you whilst I’m gettin’ everybody ready t’ line up. But your personal business hasn’t gone any farther than that.”
“Hmmph. So you—”
“Janetta, enough.” Oliver turned attention from the girl to the man on horseback. “You’ll have t’ excuse my daughter, Mr. Yancey. She’s been feelin’ a mite poorly herself, and I dunno what this trip may be—”
“Pa!” Another hiss.
Too much drama between these two for his taste, was Cole’s fleeting thought. Time to move on, anyway, get things in order and people ready to head out. “Well, sir, I’m sorry t’ hear that. If either of you need anything, you just come t’ me or to Jordy.” A touch to the hat with his two-fingered salute, and he was clucking his tongue to turn the horse.
“Oh, Mr. Yancey.”
Pausing to glance back over his shoulder, Cole gave a nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
“When were you planning to show me that white lace hankie you carry in your pocket?”
Though his hair was too long for her to see if his ears turned red, she did notice that he flinched just a little, and his wide shoulders in their clean blue chambray straightened and stiffened.
Oliver sighed. “Now, honey, why’dja wanna gwan and be like that?” he complained, as the scout continued on his way without another word. “That ain’t how I brought you up.”
The sun, having risen farther into the morning sky, was at their backs, slanting gold through the river’s mist. Like a prod, urging the train forward, for the pioneers they were. West. Go west.
Fair brows drawn together into a frown, Janetta readjusted her bonnet, her position, and her outlook. “I don’t know. He’s just so—so full of himself. God’s gift to women. Phaw.”
Now that, reflected her father, leaning forward to ease the strain in his spine, was downright disappointing. Janetta’s inexplicably critical attitude boded ill for any hope he might have held of fostering a relationship between his prickly daughter and the stalwart Southerner.
Or was he so stalwart? Did Janetta see something in Cole Yancey that he himself, blinded by illness and worry, could not see? Time would tell. They had five months of travel to find out.
IV
That first week set the wagon train firmly into its daily routine.
Most of the settlers had already said a sorrowful farewell to family left behind, scattered in their wake. Bereaved grandparents, being deprived forever of their grandchildren in this permanent move to the west; friends offering prayers and tears, even, in some cases, wails of despair; elderly relatives, clutching frantically at those departing in a last-ditch effort to change their minds. The wounds caused by this painful exodus, over the past month or so, had barely begun to heal.
Now came the final Godspeed, almost as painful. Leaving St. Louis for the great unknown was a do-or-die moment. Final. Finished. Gone with the past, on with the future.
The Civil War had taken a horrendous toll on the flower of young manhood, with a shortage all around. Thus, several last-minute marriages between sagacious city girls and wagon-trekking bachelors had been happily performed by Rev. Ross, who clearly subscribed to St. Paul’s edict that “it is better to marry than to burn with passion.”
It was also clear that he intended to take his own advice. Because, after that, on the morning of departure, the good pastor’s lecherous eyes had soon turned to follow Janetta McCain’s slim figure as the wagon passed by. Expressing surprise at their appearance, he hallooed from his own high seat and waved a greeting. Oliver, suppressing a shudder, merely nodded and continued on. No reason to pull out of line; time enough for the required sociality later on.
The pioneers set out across the roughly 250 miles from St. Louis to Independence full of vim and vinegar, with elated hearts and expansive hopes, at the mind-numbing speed of three miles per hour. To attain twenty each day in this open territory would be excellent; fifteen would be the norm; ten to twelve would be acceptable as the terrain grew rough and the roads nonexistent.
While the wagons and livestock may have started in a single line, as dictated, for expedience, by Jordan Butler, soon they began to fan out over a wider area of grassy flatlands, wooded creek beds, and gently undulating hills.
Scenery not so dissimilar from what many of them were used to, and a kindly way to ease into what would eventually become monotonous travel through unfriendly surroundings.
True to his responsibilities, Cole ranged ahead, scouting for any unusual landscapes that must be surmounted, or any trouble spots that might waylay the unwary traveler. Meanwhile, Jordan, and occasionally a couple of his hired men, Austin Fisher and Caleb Burns, circled back amongst their followers, to ensure that all was well, that no one was falling too far behind, that herds were contained and plodding steadily along under the watchful eye of owners.
Dusk of that first day found the train making camp near a stream that provided fresh cold water for drinking and bathing. Wagons were circled, livestock unhitched and released, tents were pitched, wood gathered so that a large communal fire could be built in the center of everything and smaller individual cookfires for those who preferred.
After a week on the trail, Janetta knew what needed to be done, and she set herself efficiently to doing it. Riding for long periods of time in a springless bouncy wagon had caused aches in places a body wasn’t built to sustain, so both she and Oliver had walked most of today’s distance.
While he guided the oxen on their slow, slogging way, she had made side excursions here and there when something caught her attention: clumps of pink and yellow calico aster, or wild onion and wild garlic to be gathered for stew, or—exultantly—a patch of new wild strawberries, small and sweet.
At one point she trudged along beside him, keeping him company, watching his steps. When he began to falter, showing signs of fatigue, she insisted he ride atop the seat to rest.
Now, while he tended to the animals, she retrieved the iron skillet and coffee pot, fetched a pail of water, ground beans to start brewing. Biscuits were mixed and baked quickly; beans and rice set to cook with the onion and garlic she had collected; dried fruit heated with spices, a dollop of whiskey, and the hulled strawberries: all time-consuming tasks that demanded attention and continuous care.
“My, my, but that smells good,” said a male voice as its owner approached.
Soft sweet mist was rising from the creek beyond, and a few nightbirds had started to call. The muted sounds made by 127 travelers and their livestock, as everyone settled down for an evening meal and a time of rest, encompassed the site.
From where she knelt beside her fire, stirring the compote with a wooden spoon, Janetta glanced toward the newcomer. One bared forearm swept up to brush a loosened tendril of the sun-gold hair away from her cheek; both shoulders tightened imperceptibly, in recognition.
“Rev. Ross,” she coolly acknowledged his presence.
Without so much as a by-your-leave, he pulled forward a canvas folding stool and plunked his substantial backside down upon it. “Good evening to you, Miss McCain,” he offered, doffing his hat.
Why did bald men insist upon wearing beards? Was it to prove how virile they were, that at least they could grow hair on their faces if not on their heads? Whatever, the effect was incongruous. And hilarious.
“I was surprised to see you and your father attached to the train,” he continued, gliding right on over her lack of response. “No one in the congregation informed me that you were planning to move west.”
Another stir to the compote, which sent such an appetizing fragrance into the air, and a bang of the lid down tight. An accidental letting loose of her grip, of course. “Nor we you.”
“No, no…rather a last-minute decision, I’m afraid. The church acquired a new minister, replacing me, so I offered my pastoral services to Mr. Butler.”
“How very—kind—of you.”
“Why, thank you, Miss McCain. I simply look upon it as doing my duty for those who need it. We never saw much of you—or your father—during Sunday worship, so I don’t know you very well. However, it seems to me this journey together would give us the chance to rectify that omission.”
Over my dead body! But Janetta, forced to learn discretion, especially toward one who could cause so much harm, merely stretched a thin smile and moved to wrap the finished biscuits into a towel.
“I’m not much of a chef, myself,” volunteered the reverend then. “And I didn’t have the foresight to hire one for the trip, since my leave-taking was a trifle—uh—hurried. So I’m hoping the good people of this train will share an occasional meal with me.”
The smile tightened. “I believe Mr. Butler has come equipped with a cook, along with a very substantial chuck wagon and plenty of supplies. His crew would probably be delighted to offer you hospitality. You might even,” she added, with a wicked little twist to her tongue, “offer to provide reimbursement.”
“Reimbursement? Why, but that’s—uh—reimbursement? Surely just the honor of my sitting at their table would be—”
“It doesn’t replace money. And think how much more welcome you’d be if you showed up with cash in hand.”
The Reverend, readjusting his seat, thought that over for a minute, while Janetta, hunkered down, continued with her work. “You may be right,” he conceded eventually. “And possibly you yourself might show up with me, on my other hand.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly take such liberties when you—”
“Surely you could, Miss McCain, a fine-looking woman like you.” Just like that, he was beside her, reaching out to catch hold of her forearm while his wet husky voice laid waste to her composure. “I’ve been watching you, every chance I get. Think of your step up the social ladder, you keeping company with me. And if things work out right, maybe somewhere down the road—”
“Reverend Ross!” Disgusted, she pulled free and, flinging discretion aside, shot to her feet. “Stop pawing me! I’m not some indentured servant you can take advantage of.”
The depth of her tone, while neither loud nor carrying, nevertheless held enough intensity to attract attention from those gathered at nearby campfires. Janetta, wishing not to make an enemy of the minister, no matter his sleazy tactics, deliberately softened her stance for the benefit of onlookers.
“I am but a poor fallible human, Reverend, far beneath your notice. There are sure to be other single women on this train who would be much more worthy—and appreciative—of such—uh—well-meant regard.”
At first deeply offended, then somewhat mollified, Ross, who had bolted upright as well, clearly could not understand subtlety. Face reddening, he muttered like a fractious child, “I don’t want other single women. I want you!” and reached for her again.
“Sure hope I’m not too late,” said someone new, coming along through the twilight with spurs a-jingle.
Janetta, feeling much besieged, turned so quickly that her skirts spun out around her. “Now what?”
“Why, I’m stoppin’ by t’ claim my seat for supper. Good day, Reverend Ross.”
“Mr. Yancey,” returned the minister, stiffly.
Beaming, Cole doffed his Stetson. “Been out on the trail all day, Miss McCain, but your paw invited me t’ join you for the evenin’ meal. Told me you’re a mighty good cook and I’d oughta sample what you can turn out from a campfire.”
Overcome by the wild desire for some hysterical hootin’ and hollerin’, right there on the spot, she glared at him with eyes sharp as a bayonet. “Did he now? Well, hellfire and damnation!”
“Miss McCain!” Reverend Ross reared back in shock. “I hardly think—”
“No, you probably wouldn’t. I’ll say good night to you, sir; I’m sure you have others to visit with, and, as you can see, I’m quite busy here.”
Cole obligingly stepped out of the way as the parson, torn between affront and appetite, mumbled something and took himself off. A few moments of silence passed, with the two left behind staring at each other in the firelight while the world moved on about them.
Then he burst out into laughter. “I came by with the thought of providin’ rescue, but it seems t’ me you’re almighty capable of handlin’ things on your own.”
Stabbed suddenly by a sickening flash of memory, of what had been done and could never be undone, Janetta shook her head. “Most of the time, I can. Certainly here, with so many people around, I think I could have sent that odious little man on his way without any help. But—” For just an instant, her throat seized up, and she faltered before continuing. “—I thank you for your consideration, Mr. Yancey. I might have—perhaps I—well, I might have misjudged you.”
He was watching her, his curly head bared, firelight and moonlight limning his tall sturdy figure. It seemed this would be as much of an apology as he could expect from such a proud, defiant, fractious young woman who had become his antagonist from their first moment of meeting. So be it.
“I reckon we got off on the wrong foot, right there at the beginnin’,” he said with his usual sunny charm. “Let’s try again. My name is Cole Yancey, ma’am, and I’m workin’ as scout and hired-on guide for this train.”
Smiling, he reached out to take her hand; as his fingers wrapped around hers, and held on, it sent enough of a shock wave through his whole system that, startled, he involuntarily glanced up, expecting to see lightning flash in the sky overhead.
If she felt the same, she gave no indication. Returning his smile with a small tentative one of her own, she slipped away from his grasp and returned to her preparations. “You said—uh—my father invited you to join us for supper?”
“Actually, yes, he did.” Cole hooked one boot around a leg of the abandoned camp stool to drag it closer, then sank down onto the sagging canvas seat. “Said t’ c’mon over, any chance I got. Hope that’s all right with you?”
“I suppose it will have to be.” Deliberate or not, the comment came out as ungracious, and she did her best to walk it back. “That is—I mean—he could—”
“Yes, ma’am.” With a sigh, he realized that, much as he liked and admired the fairer sex, he would never be able to understand a woman’s thinking. Or, God forbid, her emotions. “Anything there I can help you with?”
“Help? Oh. Thank you, but—no, things are under control, and we’ll be ready to eat soon.”
“Ahuh. Then wouldja mind if I poured myself some coffee?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, where are my manners? Here, I’ll be happy to take care of that.”
Both stretched out for the coffee pot handle at the same time; fingers brushed one set against the other in another surge of current, and this time Cole nearly dropped his cup. What the hell! He almost expected to see sparks flying.
Janetta’s black-lashed eyes, glowing green as a cat’s in the firelight, widened with perplexity, and she rocked back on her haunches to press affected hand against opened mouth. As if that might halt whatever she might be feeling. Or at least prevent a response.
Cole blinked. Swallowed. Began, “Didja just—”
“Well, Cole, glad t’ see you could make it, after all,” came Oliver’s voice as he carefully skirted the wagon tongue to join the two at the fire.
He was accompanied by Barney, the farm dog, who squeezed through a path to greet his absolute most f
avorite person in the world with a happy “Whoof” and a quick snuggle under her arm.
Then a detour around his second most favorite to the visitor who was working his way up the list. Pressing his cold wet nose into Cole’s outstretched hand, he whined a little in response before plopping down with a very human sigh next to the wagon wheel.
As for the guide, he instantly rose to his feet, in deference. As he was often fond of saying, his mama had brought him up with good manners. “Yes, sir. The smell of whatever Miss McCain is cookin’ just drug me right on through camp like she’d slung a lasso round my neck. How was your first day at travelin’?”
Quickly, efficiently, Janetta had retrieved a small folding table stowed on a shelf under the wagon’s bed, for convenience, and set things in place. Plates filled, cutlery dispensed, the men happily tucked in, speaking desultorily of this and then. In the background, Janetta could observe, unobserved.
Her father, first. His strength waxed and waned, depending on the enormity of a task to be performed and what would be demanded of him from his slender reserve. Each day presented a new challenge. How would he be able to cope when there were rivers to be forded, deserts to be crossed, mountains to be scaled?
And, a trifle selfishly, she worried what would happen to her when he grew too weak to handle the team. A lone female, would she be auctioned off to the highest bidder like some prize ewe, for expedience?
As for the other, this unexpected guest at their meal, her heart was torn between racing at breakneck speed or stuttering and stopping altogether, and her insides felt twisted up like a pile of wet rope. Much as her father might long for an easy resolution to their predicament, there could be nothing between her and the sweet-tongued southerner. How could there be anything?
A Western Romance: Cole Yancey: Taking the High Road (Taking The High Road Series Book 9) Page 4
