One morning a couple of weeks later Jackson chose to walk a few miles beside the wagon, carrying his rifle and scanning the hills. For days they’d been crossing flat spaces where he could see for miles. Now they were moving along the river road that ran up to the old pueblo at the mouth of the Fontaine qui Bouille Creek.
They marched through lush, rolling hills where a man could be ambushed. Jackson doubted the law was tracking them, but he was concerned about Amos. Greed could make a man do strange things.
After noon break, he climbed onto the wagon seat and took the reins. Amos or not, he couldn’t walk another step. His feet were killing him; it felt like he’d been walking on rocks all day.
After a few miles, he handed the reins to Ruth and tugged off a boot. “No wonder,” he muttered, running his hand across the bottom of his foot. “Been walking on knots the size of Texas.” He glanced at Ruth. “Who did this to my socks?”
Ruth continued to stare straight ahead. “Don’t ask,” she murmured.
He groaned, staring at the rumps of his oxen. “Whose idea was it to have her learn all these domestic skills?”
Ruth chuckled. “Yours.”
That evening they made camp early beside a narrow stream and a stand of trees. They needed fresh meat for their meal. While the women gathered firewood from the ample supply surrounding the campsite, Jackson set off on foot with his rifle. Glory followed not far behind, carrying his shotgun.
An hour later, they returned with six pheasants—two of them shot by Jackson, four by Glory.
“Might as well clean those while I clean mine.” She reached for his two birds.
Awkwardly he handed them over, unaccustomed to having someone do his work. “You need some help with them?”
“No, sir.” She headed toward the water.
Steamed, he watched her trotting off, happy as a lark.
“I’ll be down after I feed the stock,” he hollered. “The mare has a sore tendon that needs rubbing down.”
“Already did it,” she called over her shoulder.
He caught up with her in a few steps, spinning her around to face him. “You’ve fed the stock?”
“Of course not, Jackson. They’re too hot to feed when we first break for camp.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I rubbed down your mare’s left foreleg with liniment on the noon break. She’s still limping, so I think you’re wrong about her problem being in her tendon.”
He looked up and then away. “Then why don’t you tell me what you think it is,” he said tightly. “And don’t feel like you have to break it to me gently.”
She grinned. “Oh, I get it. You’re kidding, right? Of course I’ll tell you what I think directly, man to man, so to speak.”
“Yeah, I’m kidding.” He didn’t like her taking over his chores, and he sure didn’t like a woman telling him how to run his business.
“Good, then I can tell you straight-out I think your mare is limping because she has a stone bruise.”
“A stone bruise,” he repeated. His eyes met hers. “I knew that.”
“I know you did. Not much we can do for that but rest her for a while.”
She was right. The mare would only get worse if they didn’t rest her. Now she was sore. If he rode her, she would become lame. Just one more delay he couldn’t afford.
“It’s not my fault,” Glory reminded him as she scanned his grim expression.
“Yeah, well, I’ll feed the stock now.”
“All right.” She headed to the stream.
“And from now on I shoot the game,” he called.
She turned to look back at him. “But I was only—”
“From now on I shoot the game! Understood?”
“From now on you shoot the game. I’m not deaf.”
He watched her slide down the embankment, the birds bundled in her hands, his shotgun under her arm.
Women.
He was in charge, deciding what to do, when to do it. He was the wagon master, and he didn’t want a woman dogging his steps, cleaning his birds, diagnosing his mare, and doing his chores.
He shook his head. It was the first time he’d thought of Glory as a woman. A girl, yes. A waif, yes. A kid, yes. A woman, no. Why, he didn’t think of the other females as any more than girls, either. He trudged up the hill. He didn’t need anything to upset the balance. Best to distance himself from Glory before … He refused to consider what he was about to think. He was feeling uncomfortable enough as it was.
Lily cooked the pheasants, and the weary travelers ate the first fresh meat of the week. Afterward, the girls started on the dishes. Glory washed slowly, knowing it would not be long before Ruth would expect her to settle down by the fire for her lessons.
She wasn’t eager to begin her studies tonight. She glanced around and saw Jackson disappear around the wagon, carrying his toolbox. Bet he’s going to repair that squeaky wagon wheel, she thought. Bet he’d appreciate some help. It wasn’t like she was going to shoot any of his old birds.
Jackson was running a hand over the edge of a broken spoke when Glory squatted beside him. For a moment, neither of them said a word. She stared at his hands as he worked, admiring his strength. Funny, seemed to her that he was getting more handsome every day. His robin’s egg blue eyes sparkled when he smiled, and the reddish gold lights in his hair when the sun shined on it nearly snatched her breath. And it was pure pleasure to talk to him about things they both understood. She enjoyed being with the girls, but she didn’t have as much in common with them as she did with Jackson.
He was trying to hold both ends of the spoke while he slathered tar between them. She could see what needed to be done. Without waiting to be asked, she quickly reached out to support one end of the operation. The backs of their hands brushed and their shoulders bumped. Jackson scooted away like he’d been scalded.
“Shouldn’t you be studying or something?”
Grunting, she held the spoke in place. “Not till the dishes are done.”
“Wouldn’t they be done sooner if you helped?”
“Might be.” She let go of the spoke and straightened. “Thought you could use my help more.” She stood there for an instant, expecting he’d realize how much he needed her and insist that she stay. Clearly, he could use another set of hands.
He kept his eyes on the spoke. “I think you’d better join the others.”
Her chin dropped. He had no cause to be so unfriendly. She’d never heard him talk to Ruth or the others like that. Sure, he gave orders, but when he talked to Ruth, it was always in gentle tones, like she was his equal. Now that she thought about it, he’d been acting strange all evening. From the time they’d gone hunting to now, he’d acted like she was bothering him, like she was stepping on his nerves.
“Go on, Glory. Those dishes won’t wash themselves.”
Spinning on her heel, she marched back around the wagon. She had no idea where she was headed, but she felt a powerful urge to be alone. When she strode past the campfire, she felt a tug on her elbow. She looked back to see Ruth.
“It’s time you practiced your writing,” she said, gesturing to the Bible, paper, pen, and ink she’d laid out by the fire.
“Don’t feel like it,” Glory announced, trying to hide the quaver in her voice.
Harper frowned across the fire as she looked from Glory’s face to the other side of the wagon, where Jackson could be heard working. “You’re bound for a heap of trouble if you don’t do your studies,” Harper murmured. “A whole heap, girl.”
“Oh, all right!” Glory spun around and tramped back to drop onto the blanket. It was better to cooperate than to let Harper announce to the others that she’d been annoying Jackson. “Where were we?”
Ruth took a seat beside her. “You were practicing your handwriting by writing the Ten Commandments. I believe you left off with the last one: coveting.”
“Figures,” Glory muttered. Ruth had briefly explained the implications. They fit Glory to a tee. Jealousy. It was a fe
eling she experienced all too frequently these days. It wasn’t good. She thought about the other nine commandments. The one about not killing ate away at her. “You killed Charlie! You killed Charlie Gulch! You’ll hang.” She’d already broken two; how many others was she wallowing in or capable of committing? If the other sins left a body feeling as miserable as killing did, and this awful thing called envy—which she couldn’t for the life of her seem to shake—she wasn’t sure she could endure the pressure. More and more she was feeling like a sinner, but she didn’t know the remedy or even if there was one.
Guilt assailed her. She never meant to kill Charlie Gulch, but she was a living example of someone who constantly broke the tenth commandment. Every time she saw Ruth and Jackson smiling at one another, laughing together, talking like old friends—it was as if a spike were being driven into her heart. These were two people who had been kinder to her than anyone else; she should be happy for them, want them to find happiness with each other. But she didn’t, and she despised the hateful feeling inside her.
“Let me see,” Ruth said, leaning over to examine Glory’s efforts. “Very good, your best handwriting so far.”
Glory sat back and sketched whatever came into her mind. She had no idea how to rid herself of ugly feelings like jealousy, but she knew that if she let her mind wander and let herself draw beautiful images, it would help.
“What are you drawing?” Ruth leaned over for a second look.
Glory handed her the paper reluctantly.
“Angels?” she asked. “You like to draw angels?”
“Makes me feel peaceful to draw them.”
Harper glanced up. “I like pictures of things that are real, like trees and mountains. Don’t see why you’d waste your time on something that isn’t even real.”
“Angels are real.”
The young woman eyed her skeptically. “Now how do you know that? Have you seen one?”
Glory shook her head. “Poppy saw them. Saw them hovering over the bed of a dying child. Next day, the child got better. Kept getting better until she was well. Poppy gave credit to the angels.”
“Do tell. And you believe in them because that old hermit believed in them?”
Glory shrugged as she reached for her drawing. “What he believed is good enough for me.”
Believing in angels was a sight better than feeling envy; even Harper couldn’t argue that.
“I believe in angels,” Ruth said quietly. She handed Glory a clean sheet of paper. “Let’s try writing the ABCs once more, beginning with the letter A.” She smiled. “For angels, for surely they are watching over us this very night.”
Ruth continued. “The Bible is full of stories of angels. The birth of Jesus had lots of angels involved: telling Mary and Joseph what was to happen, singing before the shepherds. Why, even Jesus was helped twice by angels—once after he was tempted by Satan, and also in the garden of Gethsemane.”
“Jesus?” Glory asked. “Even he was tempted? You read to me about his birth and some of the stories he told. But I don’t understand why, if he was God, he had to die the way he did.” Ruth had read the story of Jesus’ death before, and Glory had a hard time grasping the concept that if Jesus was God, he could die.
Ruth replied after a small pause, “It was because of our sins. God had to punish someone for sins. Jesus willingly took on the punishment for our sins, so we wouldn’t have to face God’s punishment.”
Glory thought about breaking the tenth commandment and how guilty she felt. “So how does a person know if Jesus died for his sins?”
“You believe in faith that he died for you and ask him to come into your heart.”
There it was again, that word: faith.
Glory lay in her bedroll later and stared at the stars. If angels were up there, why hadn’t she seen one? She supposed it had something to do with faith. The Bible said that taking things on faith meant believing that just because a body couldn’t see something didn’t mean it wasn’t there. She couldn’t see the wind, but she felt the whisper of it on her face.
Rolling to her side, she closed her eyes, thinking about all the things she couldn’t see but knew existed. Like love. She had seen the evidence of love, but she’d never touched it. Peace. That had come into her life the day she’d joined up with Jackson and the girls; but she couldn’t touch it. Security. Joy. She felt those every time she looked at Jackson and his handsome features and his gentle ways, but she couldn’t physically touch security or joy. Some folks might say the bag of gold she kept hidden under the floorboards of the wagon represented security and could buy a whole lot of joy. But it was only a bag of nuggets, and once they were gone, there’d be no security or joy. Look at Poppy. When he’d died, he’d taken the only thing that counted in the Lord’s eyes: his soul. The gold had remained hidden beneath the floor of his cabin.
She lay there counting the things she’d have to accept on faith, until she finally drifted off. There were enough to keep her awake long after the others were sound asleep.
Chapter Ten
Blistering late-summer heat plagued the travelers as the prairie schooner slowly wound along the creek of Fontaine qui Bouille. The calendar that Mary kept with her personal belongings said that it was September, but the relentless sun beating down on their heads refused to give way to cooler temperatures.
They had been on the trail nearly two months, and the extra roominess in Glory’s shirt and pants, and the growing holes in the soles of her boots testified to her long hours spent walking.
This morning the only conscious thought in her mind was that the walk would be shorter today. Over breakfast Jackson said that over the next ten miles the trail was rough and uneven, but that there would be an abundance of wood, water, and grass where they would make camp early tonight. The tight lines around his eyes reminded Glory that he was worried about breakdowns and additional delays.
First, crossing the river had held them up. Then, Poppy’s Blazing Fire stew had kept them abed and not far from the bushes for one whole day. Last week they were detained a day and a half when an axle broke and they had to hunt up a blacksmith to fix it.
With each new setback, the lines around Jackson’s eyes tightened even more. It seemed powerful important to him that they reach Denver City before late fall, so it became Glory’s primary goal, too. She did everything possible to be helpful and not be underfoot.
Wildlife was sparser now. She’d seen an armadillo yesterday, a strange-looking creature with a hard shell covering its shoulders and backside. The funny-looking animal with short legs moved quickly, its strong feet and thick claws burrowing with surprising speed.
Jackrabbits were plentiful, but the meat was tough. Glory longed for the tender flesh of the small rabbits found in the woods surrounding the shanty.
At times, she even found herself missing the old cow and the mule, Molasses. Poppy had brought the little mule home before it had been weaned. Glory had had to get up twice every night to feed the animal, but because of her mothering, a strong bond had formed between the animal and herself.
She looked forward to the new life awaiting her in Colorado, but she missed her old life something fierce, with its lazy days hunting and fishing with Poppy and its cool nights lying on her small cot, the sounds of cicadas and pond frogs drifting through the open window.
If it weren’t for being with Jackson, seeing his smile, listening to the stories he told around the campfire at night, she might be tempted to turn back. Because the shanty, in spite of her new friends and Jackson, was all she’d ever had to call home.
Shortly after noon a harness broke. Glory paused in back of the wagon, listening to Jackson mutter under his breath, wincing at his sharp expletives.
My, he surely isn’t listening when Ruth reads the part about not cursing. Seemed to her there was something in those worn pages about not taking the Lord’s name in vain, and the words that were coming out of Jackson’s mouth this morning most assuredly weren’t holy. The only time she�
��d heard words like that was when Molasses had stepped on Poppy’s infected toe. He’d whacked the old mule upside the head and talked to him something awful.
Besides, just last night Ruth had read about being angry and not sinning. Glory would be the first to admit she didn’t know much of anything about what was or wasn’t a sin, aside from the Ten Commandments. But to her blistering ears, Jackson sure sounded like he was mad as a wet hen and doing some powerful sinning while he was at it.
Shoving her hat to the back of her head, she joined the other girls as they walked toward the wagon master cautiously. Glory knew full well that when Jackson’s face was red and bad words were as plentiful as weeds, he wasn’t in any mood for socializing.
The travelers stood in the middle of the trail, staring at the torn strip of leather as if staring would miraculously repair it. The sun seared through their bonnets as the women shifted stances, eyes switching periodically to Jackson.
Lily finally broke the strained silence. “What do we do now?”
“Fix it.”
“But that will take all afternoon!” Glory exclaimed.
Jackson took off his hat and wiped a stream of sweat dripping off his forehead. “Do you have a better idea?”
“We could switch teams. Use the mule team today and repair the oxen’s harness tonight.”
He nodded, but his grim expression didn’t soften. “We could do that, if the mule team’s harness hadn’t broken when I went to hitch them this morning.” His tone was louder and harsher than usual. “All our leather has taken a beating in this heat. I wipe it down with conditioning oil at night, but the salty sweat and the wear and tear have taken their toll.”
Glory didn’t have another idea, good or bad. She stared at the thick leather, then at Jackson. “So we stop and fix it now?”
“I guess we don’t have a choice.”
Jackson disappeared into the back of the wagon for the repair kit. Glory stayed put, knowing he didn’t want her help. For the next few hours, he sat under a shade tree and patched the broken harness.
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