Overcome by a sudden sense of loss, of confusion, of despair, Janetta leaned forward to rest one cheek against her upraised knees, for support. Beside her, the dog, immediately alert, offered a soft sympathetic whine and a rub of his jowl along her arm.
“Miss McCain? You doin’ okay over there, all by your lonesome?”
In the pale light her hair, loosened at the end of day, shone like a beacon, and her fair complexion seemed even more wan than usual. “I am,” she lied like a trooper. “Thank you for asking.”
Finished with a second helping of everything, Cole put his plate aside to concentrate on the cup of hot coffee. “A mighty fine meal, ma’am, and I appreciate your takin’ pity on a poor feller forced t’ be on his own. I know I ate better t’night than those poor souls at Luther’s chuck wagon.”
“Welcome any time, son,” said Oliver.
And then went into a coughing spasm that had Janetta frantically helping him sit upright next to the fire to catch breath. As calmly and composedly as if he were used to dealing with such situations on an hourly basis, Cole poured a mug of cold water and handed over. Then waited.
After a few minutes of ragged wheezing that gradually tapered off to slow inhalation, Janetta dared draw breath herself. As terror released its icy grip, she sank down beside him, shaking her head. “You did too much today, Pa. Too much walking. Too much work with the oxen. Please remember that you’re—”
“Dyin’.”
She gasped. While the known fact, the reality, had lodged there, pushed to the back of her mind, neither of them had spoken that dread word aloud. Till now.
Cole had hunkered down on his heels to lightly place one open palm upon the man’s wasted shoulder. “We’re all dyin’, sir. Just each of us at a different pace, and some’ll get there faster’n others. You take it easy for a while, and I’ll lend a hand with Miss McCain t’ red up.”
She stared at him. “You? Lend a hand?”
The flash of a grin helped lighten the moment’s weight and ease her own anxiety. “Reckon I’ll have t’ tell you about my mama, and the way she brought us boys up. B’sides, I ain’t done nothin’ but sit a saddle all day. I can use some movin’ around.”
While he began gathering the used tableware and scraped scraps aside for the attentive dog, Janetta fetched the thin fold-up mattress, a small pillow, and her pretty snowflake-patterned quilt from inside the wagon. The weather being fine, her father would sleep outside, as he had every night so far. He was comfortable enough propped up against one of the wheels for right now, content to watch and offer a comment now and then, with Barney settled in alongside.
“Miss McCain?”
Janetta glanced up. Over his objections, she had been helping Oliver tug off his boots. She was fussing at him for being too tired to even properly prepare for early bedtime, and he was fussing right back at her for being too tired to even know she was too tired.
Cole, up to his elbows in dish soap and hot water, was enjoying the back-and-forth from a safe spot on the sidelines. At the same time, he was smart enough to stay out of it. Years of having been caught in the middle between various brothers had taught him that it’s a far wiser course to avoid getting involved in family squabbles.
“Miss McCain, I just wanted to come introduce myself,” said the newcomer, smiling. “Now that we’ve made our first camp on this trip, people are goin’ around, gettin’ acquainted, so I wanted to say hello. My name is Violet Kenshaw.”
Taken at a disadvantage, Janetta rose, brushed off her skirts, and offered her hand in greeting. “How do you do?”
A woman of only average appearance but of, as Janetta would discover later, surpassing great heart, their visitor wore her hair in a neatly coiled bun whose faded brown hue almost exactly matched the faded brown tone of her dress. At first glance, a personality possibly as drab as her coloring; a mud hen, with little to contribute. At second glance, there were the perceptive, far-seeing eyes, the sweet mouth tempered by age and experience, the dignity and self-assurance that would stand fellow travelers in good stead.
“I’m doin’ just fine, ma’am. A little tired, doncha know, till we get broke in a bit.” Another smile, with warmth and caring tucked into it. “My man, Jacob, he’s back at our wagon, over there, with our five young’uns.”
“Five? Oh, my. You must have your hands full.”
“Well, yes’m. But they’re mostly well-behaved, and excited as all get-out about this trip. I expect they’ll be runnin’ theirselves ragged, day after day.”
At Janetta’s involuntary chuckle, Cole almost physically turned in surprise. During their sporadic conversations, he had had yet to hear any real sound of amusement from her. As if she were afraid to actually let go and show any emotion other than exasperation.
“Here, Mrs. Kenshaw, won’t you please sit down? And, please, call me Janie.”
“Oh, I’d like to sit for a spell and chat, but I better get back and make sure one of them rambunctious kids hasn’t set the wagon cover on fire. So I’d best be goin’ for now.”
“I’m sure we can get to know each other better, from here on.”
“My thinkin’, exactly. I’d like it a lot if you’d use my first name, too.” And added shyly, “Janie.”
Violet Kenshaw was only the first of several visitors that evening. Chores were finished, children were being bedded down, night guards for stock and wagons took their places, preparations made for the morrow. Then a brief time could be allowed for socializing. Someone brought out a guitar to strum a few lively favorites; someone else a mouth organ; someone else a metal pot and wooden spoon to serve for rhythm. A few brave souls, endowed with more energy, even began dancing, to the accompaniment of the music and the glowerings of Reverend Ross.
The Whittons came by to introduce themselves, as did newlyweds Wade and Emily Burton, and a couple named Cooper with two teenaged boys. Behind them appeared Dr. Stuart Ashton, a round, rotund fellow with the personality of a bouncing rubber ball, whose diligence and enthusiasm outsized his less-than-towering height—a good man to have around on this journey, when any accident or illness might befall. Janetta felt heartened by the outpouring of warmth and good will from fellow passengers. Perhaps joining this slow, cumbersome train would have a positive effect on their future, after all.
Cole, citing the fact that duty called, thanked her once again for supper and then slipped away. Shortly after his departure, Jordan Butler, making the rounds, stopped to visit.
An offer of coffee was politely declined. “Got more of Luther’s foul stuff in my system than I care t’ admit, Miss McCain,” he admitted. “Tastes like he plunked a coupla horseshoes in boilin’ water and just let ’em soak.”
“You’re missin’ a good thing, Jordy,” Oliver assured him with a ring of pride. “Janie’s the best cook in seven counties. Her biscuits melt in the mouth, and her cherry cobbler makes you think you died and went t’ heaven.”
Janetta, bending to add more wood to the fire, sent her father a fond but slightly exasperated look. Would he ever stop trying to marry her off?
“I’m sure that’s true, sir. You’re lookin’ mighty comf’tble there, ’bout ready for bed. You doin’ okay?”
“Just a little tired at the moment. But I’ll be right as rain in the mornin’, and rarin’ t’ go.”
Her disdainful snort caught the wagon master’s sharp attention. “Ahuh. Well, Oliver, no point in overdoin’. I mean it. You fall down, it pulls down the whole train. So, if you run int’ trouble, let me know. I got enough extra men along t’ pitch in wherever.”
Oliver offered a cheerful grin and a small salute. “Much obliged, Jordy. Here, have a seat and tell us how things have been goin’ so far.”
The wagon master was perfectly willing to linger for a bit, chewing the fat with a deserving fellow vagabond; in fact, it was part of his job description to do so. In other fact, the presence of a lovely young lady with sun-gold hair and Irish green eyes went far in adding to Jordan’s pleasure o
f the moment.
And thus passed the first day.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A month on course, and the travelers were beginning to grow tired.
Some of their earlier enthusiasm had waned just a little. The elation and excitement that had started them on their way had settled into routine—neither dull nor deadly, yet; just accepted, as a matter of fact, and plodding as the patient oxen.
For the men, each day still fulfilled a quest for adventure. Long hours, from before dawn till after dusk, it was true, and most spent walking instead of riding; heavy labor, with some of it grueling or tedious. But there, at the horizon just ahead, lay the unknown, a challenge to intellect and brawn. However much or difficult the toil, each evening found a surcease and companionship. They could lounge around the campfire for a bit, smoking, fraternizing, quietly conversing.
Not so the women.
They had set out, nearly every one of them, with bleeding hearts, having cut all ties to home and hearth, having left the security of family and friends behind forever. Now, still recovering, came not only the camp chores, the cooking, the laundry and mending whenever chance allowed, but also the care of children: feeding, clothing, supervising, educating. A heavy load, indeed, and one without letup.
Already two women had collapsed, one during exertion in the heat of the day, the other due to age and infirmity. Both received immediate sympathy and support from their sisters of the trail. Probably more, in fact, than they did from less sympathetic and supportive husbands.
Nor were they an illiterate bunch. Many had brought along a slender store of books, volumes by Dickens, Bunyan, Coleridge, Dumas, Scott. Along with, of course the King James Bible. Violet took it upon herself to set up a lending library from her big prairie schooner, to which everyone contributed and from which everyone was able to withdraw.
By now both McCains had made the acquaintance of almost everyone traveling west. Callahans and Crispins, Browns and Grays, Dunhills and Underhills—farmers, merchants, traders; seekers of fortune, seekers of fame. For the most part, a convivial group, at the moment able to put aside any petty concerns for the greater good of the whole train, working together in a common purpose.
Janetta connected on several levels with Ruth Simmons, a girl not yet out of her teens. She and her husband, Neal, and three-month-old daughter, Charity, had pulled up stakes from a small Kentucky town to chase their dream to California. A better life, far from the family’s hardscrabble farm and poverty-stricken existence.
“You’re very brave, tackling such a monumental objective with a tiny child,” observed Janetta one sunny afternoon.
They were walking together, next to the Simmons wagon. Inside, the baby lay asleep, rocked back and forth by every jolt of the big wheels, and Ruth wanted to stay close to listen for any awakening cries. The mules’ harness jingled as they trod; and, farther away, toward one of the undulating hills, a flock of birds took flight with a great deal of noise into the cloud-strewn sky.
“Not so sure about bein’ brave,” the girl said after a moment’s consideration. “Things just kept on gettin’ worse at home, with crops not doin’ well and no money to pay bills. So finally, my Neal, he says, Ruthie, it’s time to move on to greener pastures.”
“Did you leave family behind?”
“Not much. Distant. My Neal, he’s an orphan, makin’ his own way; and my folks passed a while back. Got me a cousin, once removed, out there near the Sierra Nevada range, though, and he said he’d help get us set up.”
“That’s good. It’s reassuring to know there’s someone to look out for you when you need it.”
From under a plain white sunbonnet—a trifle dusty now, and worn around the edges—Ruth peered over at her companion. “And you, Janie? You got kin, where you’re goin’?”
“Yes, my mother’s people.” The eyes, gray-green as moss in the summer sun, fixed on the hazy horizon with a mixture of dreams and doubt. “Pa wants us to get established there, and put down roots, before—before…”
A sympathetic sideways glance. “Sure enough, I do see why. It can be a long travail, can’t it?”
Janetta sighed. “True. So true.”
A corresponding sigh, almost in tandem. “Yes’m. Life is just one hard thing after another.”
The words sounded so solemn, so pessimistic, coming from one so young, that Janetta involuntarily smiled. And then chuckled. And then burst into laughter, with Ruth, though surprised, joining in.
And so the bond between them was formed.
Often they walked together, when Oliver was having one of his good days and didn’t need his daughter close by. Sometimes the dog kept him company; other times he frisked off into surrounding meadowlands, or trotted happily alongside his beloved mistress. The girls were close in age, similar in experience, and Janetta occasionally helped with baby care for little Charity, who grew daily in cuteness and charm.
Every Saturday night, the caravan formed into its accustomed circle, prepared to spend the Sabbath as a day of rest.
The Reverend Ross had requested this arrangement in advance. While Jordan could not be considered a religious man, he respected the beliefs of others and readily agreed that it was important to set aside a day for worship services, relaxation, and socializing. Besides, whether or not everyone attended the minister’s outdoor chapel, everyone would definitely appreciate the break in routine. And the women, especially, would be grateful for the chance to bathe children and themselves, wash accumulated laundry, and take care of any personal pursuits.
“You got any idea what kinda preacher this guy is?” Cole asked on the first evening of their stop.
He had ridden in earlier from a scouting foray, made his report to Jordan, looked after his horse and various other details, cleaned up, and immediately presented his lanky self at the McCain wagon. Oliver showed his delight at the guide’s appearance; Janetta, tired and depressed and a little cranky, did not.
“Fire and brimstone, son. You don’t do what the Lord wants, accordin’ to the Reverend’s decree, you’ll be goin’ straight t’ hell in a handbasket.”
“Huh.” As Janetta silently offered him a cup of coffee, he looked up with his most charming smile, meant to wheedle a good mood out of bad. But she was having none of it, and Cole, his own good mood slightly dampened, sighed. “Sounds like I may have t’ head out somewheres t’morrow, just t’ stay outa the way.”
With a soft grunt of exertion, Oliver pulled himself erect on the pallet his daughter had arranged. “Not a smart idea. Don’t wanna get on Ross’ bad side, no, sir. He can make a lotta trouble.”
“Comes t’ that, he’s just another passenger. Doesn’t have any more say in any matter than Jordan allows him to.”
“Don’t be too sure. Janie and me—well, we’ve seen some examples from the man that don’t speak well for Christian charity. Ain’t we, honey?” He reached up for Janetta’s hand, during her innumerable trips back and forth from campfire to food stores to tableware, and appealed with his own smile.
Which, of course, she returned, full force. Enough that the cool light in her eyes warmed to an affectionate glow, and a dimple suddenly appeared in her chin.
Cole sucked in his breath. Just like that, the atmosphere could shift and her frame of mind change. Not by his doing, however; he hadn’t the knack. But by her father’s.
“Yes, Pa. If I recall, the Reverend was faced down and got his comeuppance.”
“Yeah? Done wrong by a parishioner, did he?” Cole wasn’t surprised. “Maybe that’s why he riz and left his church so sudden, joined up with us the last minute.”
With the table set in place and everything arranged, even to the point of a small vase of wildflowers in the middle, Janetta, wrapped in her neat white apron, served up a platter of fried prairie chicken, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and one of hot canned tomatoes with bread chunks and seasonings. Cider cake, for dessert, came last.
Cole was already salivating. “Man, oh, man, Miss McCa
in. Every time I stop by here, I think the food can’t get any better. And it always does.”
“Neal went out hunting earlier; he bagged several of these birds and kindly gave one to me,” she informed him, after putting down scraps for the equally salivating dog. “I thought you might be partial to something a little different.”
“You did, huh? Howdja know I’d come by t’night?”
Straightening, she quirked an eyebrow at him. In his book, that was almost as good as a come-hither smile. “Mr. Yancey. What night don’t you come by?”
It was a futile hope to think that her father might consume his victuals with as much hunger and enthusiasm as their guest. After a while, Oliver put aside his half-empty plate with the complaint that she’d given him too much; did she figure him to be a bear, fresh out of hibernation, that he would be able to plow through all that?
“Barney can finish it,” he offered, with a gentle rub to the dog’s pricked ears. “He never turns down leftovers.”
A significant, regretful glance went back and forth between daughter and guest, above the sick man’s unknowing head.
“All right, then, Pa. I’ll just put the rest of this aside for—”
“Oh, my, Miss McCain, have you finished your supper already?”
Not again! Couldn’t the man make a nuisance of himself at someone else’s wagon?
“Sorry, Reverend, you done missed the best supper of your lifetime,” cheerily reported Cole. “You oughta get yourself a wife, sir, t’ fill up that empty belly of yours.”
And fill in an empty bed, as well.
That wasn’t said aloud. But it might have been. Clearly the Reverend was thinking it, given the greedy yellow light in his eyes, reflected from the camp fire’s flames, as his gaze swept down over and back up the form of lovely Miss McCain. A narrow-edged, insulting gaze that had her clenching both hands into fists behind the fold of her skirt.
She shot a look at the unflappable guide that should have skewered him like a shish kebab.
“Oh, I have every intention of doing so, my dear Mr. Yancey. One of these days.” Ross, who seemed to be salivating over her much as the dog had over his meal, was rubbing the palms of both hands across his middle, as if in anticipation. “We single folks must stand together, mustn’t we?”
A Western Romance: Cole Yancey: Taking the High Road (Taking The High Road Series Book 9) Page 5
