Mary and Glory set off for the café, and the others started toward the mercantile.
“We tried to bathe her,” Lily whispered when she passed Jackson on the way into the store.
He frowned. “No luck?”
“Said she had her bath the day she buried Poppy and one last spring.”
A laugh started in Jackson’s throat and bubbled up into an amused rumble in his chest. The girls paused on the mercantile porch and turned to determine the source of his amusement.
“Ain’t funny,” Lily whispered, struggling to keep up with the wagon master’s long strides. “She just plain stinks.” She pinched her nose daintily.
“The dousing she took last night didn’t help?”
Lily made another face. “Made it worse—she smells like an old dog when he’s been out in the rain too long.”
“Well, we can’t hurt her feelings. If she doesn’t want to take a bath, we can’t make her. If she won’t join up with us, guess it won’t be a problem come morning.”
“Yes, sir, suppose it won’t. She’s right sweet—a shame she won’t agree to come with us. I’ll bet that nice Mr. Wyatt could find a husband for her, too. Can you talk to her, Jackson? She hasn’t got anywhere to go, and I think she’s afraid but too stubborn to admit it.”
“She’s a grown woman, Lily. She’s welcome to come with us, but I can’t force her.”
“Yes, sir. I suppose you’re right.”
Jackson opened the door to the mercantile and gave the young woman a lopsided grin. “But on the off chance that she changes her mind and decides to come with us, keep after her about that bath. Okay, Lily?”
Lily shuddered. “Intended to do that anyway, Jackson.”
Chapter Four
“Shove that barrel to this end!”
“There’s room for another pound of bacon over here!”
The Lincoln party worked until the sun hung like a red-hot globe over the town. Sweat poured off temples, and tempers cooled as quickly as they flared. At the end of the day, Lily collapsed on the general store’s porch step and declared that her back was near broke. Worn to the nubbin, the others agreed. Every last one of them.
Perched on the stoop, the travelers shared dippers of tepid water from the rain barrel and looked back on their long day. Bacon had been stored in boxes surrounded by bran to prevent fat from melting away. They’d packed fat slabs of pork in the bottom of the wagon to keep them cool. Flour had been stitched inside stout, well-sewn, double-canvas sacks, twenty pounds in each bundle.
Ruth had stood over an iron pot behind the store, preserving butter by boiling it thoroughly and skimming off the scum as it rose to the top until it was clear like oil. She’d placed it in tin canisters, and Jackson had soldered them shut. Mary had sacked sugar and put it in a dry place.
Dried and canned vegetables were stored in tins for travel. Lily said she would make pemmican later: buffalo meat cut into thin strips and hung up to dry under the sun or over a slow fire.
It had taken the better part of the day to prepare for their long trek from Westport, Missouri, to Denver City and eventually to the foothills of Pike’s Peak, where Tom Wyatt lived.
As far as Glory was concerned, it had been the most exciting day of her life. Helping out made her feel like she was part of a family. At times during the day she found herself daydreaming. She longed to go with her new family, to witness sights she hadn’t known existed until today. The women chattered as they worked, excited about the prospect of new lives, exhilarated at the thought of sturdy young men awaiting each of them at the end of the long, hard journey. Glory was tempted to forget about independence—especially when Mary and Lily kept after her all day to join them. She hadn’t mentioned a word about Amos, and she didn’t intend to. Wasn’t any use to upset anyone, and besides, Jackson Lincoln and the girls would be gone in the morning, and they wouldn’t have to know that she’d struck Amos, taken the gold, and run away. That was stealing to some folks, but the way she figured it, she hadn’t had much choice. It was Poppy’s money, and though she wasn’t his blood kin, Poppy had meant for her to have it if anything ever happened to him. Of course, Amos thought the gold belonged to him because he was blood kin—guess that’s where they had a fuss. She didn’t care a whit about the gold, but right now she was in no position to be giving anything away to Amos or anybody else. She was on her own, and she had to take care of herself first.
“There’s nothing keeping you here,” Mary had argued when they’d stored the sugar.
“Nothing but pride,” Harper had said.
Glory hadn’t let the remark rile her; pride had nothing to do with her feelings. If she left, she’d never see Poppy again—leastways, his grave. He might be gone, but right now she knew where she could talk to him if she needed to. She might buy a horse and ride the distance back to the cabin occasionally. Likely she wouldn’t do that for a good long spell because of Amos, but she’d go back sometime. If she traipsed off to Colorado, she’d never see the likes of these parts again, and it didn’t seem right to leave Poppy lying there, day after day, without her visiting. Especially considering the way he’d looked after her all these years.
“Pride don’t have a thing to do with it,” she’d argued. “I got to start my new life. If I went with you, before long I’d be depending on you, and Poppy raised me to fend for myself.”
“It’s going to get real lonely around here,” Ruth had murmured. She carried a pan of bacon to the back of the wagon. “Once we’re gone, you’ll have no one to help you—no one who cares deeply about you.”
Glory had already considered that; there wouldn’t be a soul she could call on if she were to get sick, so sick she couldn’t look after herself. Wasn’t likely that she would; she’d always been healthy as that old mule.
When she’d caught a chill, Poppy had rubbed bear grease on her chest and put a steaming cloth hot from the fire over her heart. Phew! The medicine had stunk like all get-out, but it had done the job. By morning, she’d usually felt fit as a fiddle. But the old mule had given out, and she supposed she’d go the same way someday.
She’d thought plenty about all the advice the girls had given throughout the packing: why she should go with them, and how she shouldn’t be alone. But she had to give independence a try. Wouldn’t seem right otherwise.
Glory did concede to have supper with the traveling party that night. Jackson shot and dressed some squirrels by the stream just before dark. Glory perched on a nearby rock, watching him work.
Jackson Lincoln was a mighty handsome man—not that she’d seen that many men in her life. She’d spied a couple when they hunted near the shanty during the winter. One had been older than Poppy, and the other one had passed by so quickly she’d hardly gotten a glimpse of him. Poppy had told her not to be thinking about men, and she hadn’t because she didn’t know what she was supposed to think.
But Jackson Lincoln was different from those other men—handsome, strong, real gentle-spirited, it seemed. She had the feeling she was coming down with something every time she was around him—something feverish and bad. Like right now, her mouth was dry as day-old bread, and her stomach felt like she’d eaten something sour though she’d barely eaten at all.
Glory studied his large hands gutting and cleaning out the squirrels’ entrails, pitching them aside for a wild animal to find later. Her mind worked furiously to think of something interesting to say—she wasn’t much on conversation and didn’t know a lot about many a thing. Sometimes she and Poppy sat for days on end and never said a word; reckon they’d about said everything there was to say before he’d died. But there were a lot of things she didn’t know about Jackson Lincoln. A lot of things she’d like to know.
“Did you know that Lily wanted me to take a bath today?” She eyed Jackson at a slant to see if he thought the idea was as outrageous as she did.
“That right?” He pitched a skin onto the bank.
“Told her I’d had my bath—bathed twice this sprin
g already. Once at the usual time and once the day I buried Poppy.” She’d thought that was proper in view of the sadness of the circumstance.
Jackson smiled and kept working. “The girls take a bath once a week and take a sponge bath nightly. They even wash their clothes twice a week in that big tub hanging on the side of the wagon, if the weather cooperates.”
Glory turned to look at the object. “Once a week?”
“Once a week.”
“Don’t that plumb wear their hide clean off?”
“Nope.” Jackson rinsed the blade of the knife and then washed his hands in the stream. “Their skins are pretty as a picture. The young ladies like to keep themselves smelling good.”
Glory stared at the gurgling water. Did she smell good? She’d had those two baths—surely she did. “If I was to change my mind about coming with you, would I have to wash once a week?”
Jackson grinned and handed her a pan of fresh squirrel. “Yes, you would.”
Well, then, that was one more reason for her to stay put.
She trailed him up the steep bank, and an hour later the party was sitting around the fire, lazy and replete from fried squirrel and gravy that Ruth had prepared. Lily picked up a guitar and strummed it, joining with the chorus of night creatures enfolding the camp in peaceful solitude.
Glory saw Ruth open the Bible and read to herself for a few minutes. That Ruth was real regular with her reading. She was smart, book smart. Glory admired that, though she didn’t have any book learning herself.
Glory nodded in Ruth’s direction. “Why does she do that every night?”
Mary stirred, her cough more pronounced tonight. “Ruth loves the Lord; she wouldn’t miss reading his Word.” Getting more comfortable, Mary laid her head on her forearm and stared at Glory across the fire. “You don’t know much about the Lord, do you?”
Glory shook her head. She’d heard Poppy mention the name when he talked about that town called Heaven.
“He’s our heavenly Father,” Mary murmured. She closed her eyes, and Glory watched the fire pop. Everyone seemed to know about that town except her. Her eyes roamed the sleepy group. Tonight was a far cry from the terror she’d felt last night; she wondered about each of her friends, where they’d come from, what they hoped to find once they reached Colorado.
“Mary? Tell me about the others.”
“Ummm,” Mary said softly. “Well, Ruth came to the orphanage about a year after me. We’ll be sixteen on our birthday. Ruth’s folks and two brothers died during an outbreak of cholera. She was the only one left. A Sioux warrior brought her to the orphanage and left her on the doorstep.
“Lily came when she was five. Her ma couldn’t keep her after her pa was killed in an accident.” The girl’s eyes shifted to Harper, sitting away from the others, huddled in a blanket.
“Why is she so cross?”
“Just her way. She really isn’t so bad once you get to know her. She keeps her distance—scared, I suspect. Her ma didn’t know who her pa was.”
“What happened to Harper’s mother?”
“Potter, the man who tended garden at the orphanage, didn’t want Harper’s ma coming around much. Seems she took men home with her—men she didn’t marry. After a while she stopped trying to see Harper. Don’t anyone know what happened to her. She left one day, and nobody’s seen her since.”
Turning, Glory smiled at Mary. “And you? What happened to your folks?”
Mary sighed. “The cough. My folks were on their way to California, and I was so sick they couldn’t take care of me. Ma was afraid I’d die, so she wrote me a note and told me how much she loved me, but that she loved me enough to want me to live. They went on, and I stayed behind.” Glory thought she saw moisture in Mary’s eyes now. “Don’t blame them—I cough all night and keep everyone awake.”
“Must have been a real hard decision for your ma and pa.”
Nodding, Mary huddled deeper into her blanket. “Patience’s folks were killed by a band of renegade Indians when their farm was raided. A young squaw brought her to the orphanage one day. She knew she was in danger of being killed herself, but she brought the baby anyway. Patience was scared and had dirtied her britches. Took a long time for her to warm to folks. She likes to talk to birds—you noticed that?”
Glory nodded. She’d seen Patience talking to a sparrow behind the mercantile earlier that day. Her eyes moved to the one in the group who interested her most. “What about Mr. Lincoln?”
Mary smiled, opening her eyes. “Nice-looking man, isn’t he?”
Glory shrugged. “Guess so.”
“Nice-looking and kind. The kind of man a papa would want for a daughter.”
“Is he married?”
“No, he’s soured on women. We consider ourselves lucky to have him leading us. Supposed to be the best wagon master around. Don’t think he would have taken the job at all if he hadn’t been a close friend with Mr. Potter. Jackson leads large trains—hundreds of people—to California and Oregon, but Mr. Potter wrote and told him about our situation and how he needed to get us to Colorado safely because Mr. Wyatt had good husbands waiting for us. The orphanage is too crowded for us older ones. I suspect Jackson didn’t want the job or the responsibility of five young women, but Mr. Potter had done him a favor once, and Jackson nearly had to agree. Think he’s afraid that we’ve gotten off to a late start, and he’s worried about early fall snows.”
Glory frowned. “Is it time for the snows to come?” It seemed so hot; it was hard to think about cold weather.
“No, they’re months away, but Colorado is a long way off, and it snows early in the Rockies.”
Jackson got up and turned down the lantern. Glory knew it was time for her to leave. Getting to her feet, she said good-bye for the last time, knowing she would never see the group again. The thought hurt almost as bad as losing Poppy.
Jackson saddled his horse and took her the short distance to town. Concern filled his eyes when she slid from the animal to the ground, clutching her pack. Gazing up at him, she wished with all of her might that she didn’t need her freedom so bad. His eyes fixed on hers and caused that funny feeling to erupt in her stomach.
His features sobered. “I respect your decision, but I think you should come with us, Glory. Squatter’s Bend is no place for a young woman alone.”
“I’m much obliged, Mr. Lincoln—”
“Jackson. Remember?”
“I remember. Jackson.” She took a deep breath, liking the sound of his name on her lips. “I need to do this on my own.”
Nodding, he tipped his hat. “You’re a mighty brave young lady.” Flanking his horse, he gave a friendly wave and rode off.
Not brave at all, she corrected, turning around to view the town of Squatter’s Bend. It looked as scary as it had the night before, only scarier now, since she knew that not a mile down the road were a warm campfire, new friends, and Jackson Lincoln. The building that had been filled with warm light last night was now dark and quiet. Loud music spilled from the brightly lit building, where men and women were laughing and dancing. She drew another long, fortifying breath and trudged toward the music.
Glory took a few halting steps down the uneven plank sidewalk. The rising moon shed a narrow strip of light beneath the building eaves. Careful to remain in the shadows, she slid her right hand along the rough walls, while keeping the Hawkins tucked firmly under her left arm.
If she were to begin her new life in this town, she might as well learn her way around. She wondered if she could make friends here—friends like Ruth, Patience, Mary, and Lily. Even Harper’s companionship, despite her sharp tongue, would be welcome now. Glory thought of Jackson, his strength and calmness. A lump crowded her throat. She’d spent her life trying to be self-sufficient, but at this moment, the quiet protectiveness of Jackson and the warm consideration of the girls would be a comforting haven.
Unaccustomed to the kindness of strangers, Glory wondered if the people in this town would be as generou
s and caring as Jackson and the girls had been. If that were the case, she might be able to start her new life here.
A short distance ahead, a couple emerged from a shop. The handsome boy and girl appeared to be no more than a few years older than Glory. Shyness swept over Glory, making her drop her gaze.
Seconds later, a thread of hope caused her to glance up. Maybe these two well-dressed folks would introduce themselves and offer her kindness like the girls and Jackson had done. The couple strolled casually toward her, eyeing her curiously and whispering to each other as they drew closer.
Perhaps six feet away, the girl suddenly pressed a lace handkerchief to her nose and turned away. The boy cast Glory a disapproving frown. Grasping the girl’s elbow, he steered her sharply around Glory, then quickened their pace.
“Whew,” he muttered, “you’d think a girl would take more pride before mingling with decent folks!”
Glory dropped her chin and rushed to the first alley she saw; she scampered around the corner, craving solitude. She kept moving until she found a dark corner. Wedging herself between two abandoned crates, she slid down the wall and folded her arms around her knees.
What did that boy mean by “take more pride”? Glory couldn’t count the number of times Poppy had accused her of having too much pride for her own good—“stubborn pride,” he’d called it.
Glory wasn’t sure what the boy had meant, but she was certain of one thing: rejection. The young couple had forsaken her at first sight. She didn’t have to understand the meaning of his words to interpret the looks of disgust and revulsion on their faces. Why, the girl had acted like she was too superior to breathe the same air as Glory.
Stung and humiliated, Glory buried her forehead against her knees. Pain pricked the backs of her eyes like needles, and an unfamiliar wetness slipped down her cheeks.
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