Trail of Destiny (Hot on the Trail Book 5)

by Merry Farmer

  TRAIL OF DESTINY

  Copyright ©2015 by Merry Farmer

  Amazon Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill (the miracle-worker)

  ASIN: B00UM8MRKG

  ISBN: 9781310213779

  Paperback:

  ISBN-13: 978-1508849049

  ISBN-10: 1508849048

  Trail of Destiny

  By Merry Farmer

  For those who are learning to love again

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Wyoming Territory, 1863

  Alice Porter was weary. Exhausted to the core of her soul. Her family’s wagon rumbled on through wilderness, stuck in wheel ruts worn by decades of prairie schooners traveling the same route, as she lay with her eyes closed in the back. She considered that she might just qualify as a tragic, romantic heroine in some thrilling story of adventure after the twists and turns of her life in the last year. There was nothing adventurous about where the trail was taking her, not as she saw it. Death, loss, heartbreak. That was it. That was all she had to look forward to, and it weighed on her like a shroud.

  “Fort Bridger,” their wagon train’s trail boss, Mr. Pete Evans, called somewhere outside of the stifling canvas covering of Alice’s wagon. “Fort Bridger ahead.”

  Alice muscled herself to sit. She shouldn’t have been riding in the wagon to begin with, much less sleeping. Not that she’d been able to sleep. The weather had been so hot for the past few days that even under the shade of the wagon’s canvas, sleep had escaped her. Her father had indulged her where he shouldn’t have, but really, she couldn’t blame him. Her whole family had worried about her every sigh, her every tear, and her every listless look since Harry died.

  Harry. Alice slumped against the pile of crates that held what was left of her family’s supplies and swallowed her grief. Dear Harry. He had been so handsome, so earnest. He had been a junior clerk in her father’s trade business when she met him, hardly her equal, but Harry was smart and ambitious. He’d risen through the ranks to senior clerk, and he would have risen higher, if not for the war.

  Alice fought down her misery the only way she could, by pushing to her knees and busying herself rearranging the boxes and barrels and chests of belongings in the back of the wagon. She had to keep busy, had to keep busy the way Harry always had. She had been miles above him in social status, but war changed things. When he enlisted in the Union army, Harry had come to her and asked for her hand in marriage. She’d accepted. Her parents hadn’t. So they’d eloped.

  “Ouch,” she hissed as a crate smashed into her fingers when the wagon hit a bump.

  “Are you all right back there, my dear?” her father murmured over his shoulder from where he sat driving the oxen from the front of the wagon. He sounded as exhausted as Alice felt.

  “I’m fine, Papa,” she answered. It was the answer she gave to every question, even when it was a lie. She would never be fine again.

  Her parents had been furious when she and Harry told them and her sister, Emma that they had married. By that point, there was nothing anyone could do about it, and Harry had marched off to join his regiment shortly after. Two weeks was all they’d had together. Two glorious, magical weeks. The letter had come only four months later, regretting to inform Mrs. Alice Porter that Sergeant Henry Porter had been killed in battle at a place called Antietam.

  Alice’s life had ended that day.

  “Fort Bridger,” Mr. Evans called again from somewhere up the line of wagons. “Get yourselves ready to line up and follow orders.”

  Alice took a deep breath, then another for good measure, and crawled up to the front of the wagon. The canvas covering hung loose around the opening near the bench where her father sat. The canvas needed to be repaired and re-stretched over the tall wooden bows that gave the wagon its shape, but she wouldn’t have known where to start with those repairs. Her sister, Emma, would have quietly figured something out, but Emma and their mother had stayed behind on the Nebraska prairie after Emma’s ankle was injured in a terrible storm. It was just her and Father now.

  “Papa,” she said as she grabbed the back of his seat for support and stood as straight as she could in the cramped space. “We need to find someone to help us make repairs to our wagon at the fort.”

  “Mmm,” her father answered.

  “I should sew up a few rips in the canvas too,” she added. Her own voice was strange to her, tired and weak. What had happened to the lively, daring girl she’d been? The one that dared to run off with a man her parents disapproved of?

  She knew the answer to that question all too well.

  “At the fort, we’ll….” Her father’s attempt to speak faded into silence.

  Alice frowned, dragging her attention away from her own problems and focusing on him. She rested a hand on his stooped shoulder. He was slumped against the seat, and she could feel the heat of his body, far hotter than even the extreme summer weather warranted, through his shirt.

  “Papa?” She leaned as far forward as she could to try to get a glimpse of her father’s face. It was pale and drawn. “Oh dear, Papa, are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes, yes,” he grunted, waving her away. “I’m fine.”

  It was as big a lie as the one she told herself.

  Alice scurried to the back of the wagon as her father slowed it to a halt. She pushed aside the canvas flap strung across the back of the wagon and searched for the proper footing to help herself down. All around her, wagons were fanning out and finding spots to park around the outskirts of a modest fort. It’s small buildings were surrounded by a palisade that had seen better days. As far as Alice could tell, most of her fellow travelers were smiling with relief and excitement no matter what the fort looked like. They’d been walking constantly across the Wyoming wilderness for more than a week now, and any chance to rest at a fort was a blessing.

  Interspersed among her fellow pioneers were men in simple uniforms. A lump formed in Alice’s throat, but she forced it away. These were not soldiers, even though Fort Bridger was a military installation. Most of the soldiers had gone east to fight in the war. She’d overheard Mr. Evans telling her father and a few other men that the western outposts were manned by militia now, men from the West who were not part of the military, only filling in while the soldiers were gone. They looked like replacements with their mismatched uniforms, scruffy beards, and overgrown hair.

 
“Here, ma’am, let me help you.”

  Alice’s observations were cut short by a tall, handsome militiaman with hair as long as hers, caught in a ponytail at the back of his head.

  “I….” She hesitated, one foot balanced on the back of the wagon, the other still in the bed, gripping the last bow for balance.

  “It’s no trouble at all,” the long-haired man said. He had eyes as clear and blue as the sky and a kind smile. Before Alice could protest, he reached up, gripped her around the waist, and lifted her right out of the wagon.

  The strength in his arms sent a giddy tremor through her. He must have seen the fear in her eyes, because he drew her close and steadied his arms around her once her feet were on the ground, giving her a moment to find her balance.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked, keeping his arms where they were.

  She glanced up at him. Strong, clean-shaven jaw, gentle smile. His uniform was clean and the shirt collar crisp. He smelled of leather and the outdoors, but it wasn’t unpleasant. A faint, hollow pulse ticked against her ribs.

  “I’m fine,” she gave her standard reply, lowering her eyes.

  “Good,” he answered, then let her go. “I can help you with your things if—”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  She stepped away from him, pressing a hand to her stomach. Perhaps she was hungry. Or maybe she was ill. That had to explain the odd feeling in her gut.

  There was no time to dwell on it. She smoothed her black skirts, brushed a stray wisp of blond hair away from her face, and marched to the front of the wagon. The oxen were already chewing parched grass in the spot where they had stopped to rest. All up and down the line of wagons, oxen were grabbing a bite to eat as the militiamen helped the pioneers to get organized. A few children were already running up to the palisade to peer through the cracks at the whitewashed buildings of the fort.

  “It’s bigger than Ft. Caspar,” Alice commented as she reached the front of the wagon and her father. “I hope they have a supply depot. We could use a few more—”

  She stopped when she saw her father crumpled in the wagon’s seat. His skin was pale and dry, and he’d dropped the long-handled whip he’d been using to direct the oxen.

  “Papa?” she shouted, hopping up on the edge of one of the front wagon wheels, the only foothold available. “Papa, what’s wrong?”

  As soon as she touched her father, shook him, he groaned and tried to sit straighter.

  “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just a little tired. Just a little….”

  He slumped again. Alice jumped down from the wheel and twisted, searching every which way for help, her heart caught in her throat.

  “Help, somebody, help,” she called out, too stunned to shout. “My father. Help.”

  Something about the slight, pale woman Jarvis had helped down from her wagon stuck with him, even after he’d let her go and moved on to others who needed help in the group of pioneers. She was a pretty little thing, hardly more than a wisp. If he was being honest, she wasn’t actually smaller than any other woman he’d had his arms around, but something in the way she’d looked up at him gave him the impression that those big, blue eyes were as pale as fine china, and just as fragile. He hadn’t wanted to let her go. Three seconds, and he somehow knew that she needed someone to hold on to her far longer than the time it took for her to hop down from a wagon.

  “Here you go, ma’am,” he said, handing a plump carpetbag to the older woman he’d just helped down from her wagon.

  “Thank you, young man.” She patted his cheek the way his grandma used to. “You’re a good boy.”

  Jarvis laughed. What would his father say if he’d heard that?

  He’d argue all the ways it wasn’t true, that’s what he’d do. That thought killed Jarvis’s smile. He moved on to the next wagon, though most of its occupants had already jumped down and were scattering toward the fort. It didn’t matter what his father said. His old Pop wasn’t there, so he couldn’t criticize.

  “Help.”

  A squeak, hardly louder than a rabbit in a lettuce patch, snagged his attention. Jarvis frowned and turned to find the source. On the other side of the wagon he’d just helped the old woman down from, his pale beauty stood wringing her hands. Panic splashed her cheeks pink. Without a second thought, Jarvis dodged around the confusion of wagons and oxen and people to help her.

  The trail boss reached her first. “Whoa there, Mrs. Porter, what seems to be the problem?”

  Jarvis caught up a second later. Mrs. Porter? A flash of disappointment squeezed Jarvis’s chest. The beauty was married. But that wouldn’t stop him from helping her when help was needed.

  “Oh, Mr. Evans,” his pale beauty scurried to meet the trail boss, grabbing his sleeve. “It’s my father. I’m afraid he’s sick.”

  Jarvis reached the side of the wagon as Mr. Evans climbed up to check the older man in the driver’s seat. “How can I help?” he asked.

  Mrs. Porter pressed her fingers to her pink lips, eyes wide and wary. “I don’t know. I was resting in the back of the wagon. My father was driving. I didn’t know he was sick. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s all right, ma’am,” Jarvis reassured her, touching her shoulder for a moment. He wanted to pull her close for a hug. He’d have to get over that strange impulse. Going around hugging unknown women was not the sort of thing a man of honor did.

  “What’s your name, soldier?” Mr. Evans asked. He stood on the tongue where the oxen were yoked, his arms around the older gentleman, who was making a feeble attempt to stand.

  “Flint,” Jarvis answered. “Jarvis Flint.”

  Mr. Evans nodded. “Help me get Mr. Sutton down.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jarvis checked on Mrs. Porter. She watched him with more worry than he cared to see from a pretty girl. He nodded to reassure her, then reached up to help her father. It was slow work. Mr. Sutton hummed and fussed as though trying to speak to them or wave them off and step down on his own, but he was clearly feverish. Jarvis briefly touched his forehead to be sure.

  “Is there cholera or diphtheria in the train?” he asked as he and Mr. Evans set Mr. Sutton on his feet.

  “Not right now.” Mr. Evans shook his head. “A few folks have had bad colds, a touch of flu.”

  “Can you do something for him?” Mrs. Porter asked.

  “We’ve got a doctor stationed with us,” Jarvis said. “I’m sure he—”

  “A doctor,” Mr. Sutton said, shallow and breathless. “Yes, a doctor. A doctor will be just the... just the thing.”

  “Here, Papa, take my arm.” Mrs. Porter skipped up to her father’s side and took his arm. She let him rest his weight against her shoulder, and the two of them started slowly for the fort’s front gate together.

  “Someone’s got to see to their wagon,” Mr. Evans said, running a hand over his face. “I’ve got the whole lot to get settled.”

  “I’ll do it,” Jarvis offered. He took a few steps forward to where the oxen were shifting, restless and eager to find some grass and a watering hole.

  Jarvis’s glance continued on to Mrs. Porter and her father. Something still didn’t feel right, like he was a cad for letting his pale beauty go on alone. The way she supported her father spoke of strength, but the fragility in her eyes told an entirely different story.

  “Hey.” He stopped Mr. Evans before the man could stride on to help the next wagon. When Mr. Evans turned, Jarvis asked, “Who is she?”

  “Mrs. Porter?” The man’s wistful smile only piqued Jarvis’s curiosity. Mr. Evans stepped over to him, swiping his hat off his head and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “Alice Porter. It’s a sad story,” he said. “She’s a war widow.”

  An odd mix of relief and regret snapped in Jarvis’s chest. He took another look at Mrs. Porter’s retreating back. Come to think of it, she was wearing black. He hadn’t thought about what that meant.

  “Her husband was killed last fall, almost a year ago. Her father the
re was on the verge of losing his business, so the whole family decided to up and move west.”

  “Whole family?” There were only two of them. Jarvis didn’t like the implication.

  “Yeah, her ma and sister had to stay behind in Nebraska,” Mr. Evans went on. “But I wouldn’t worry too much about them. The sister had a young doctor who’d taken a shine to her, and he stayed behind with them. Chances are, they’ll come through here in another couple of weeks.”

  “But she’s alone for now?”

  Mrs. Porter—Alice—and her father turned the corner and entered the fort, and Mr. Evans swung around to face Jarvis. He chuckled and slapped Jarvis’s shoulder.

  “Not sure you should get any big ideas there,” he said.

  “What? Why?” he asked, though he was sure Mr. Evans knew what he was talking about.

  “She’s a sad flower,” Mr. Evans sighed. “Poor thing hasn’t been all there for the entire trip. She sits and stares out at nothing most of the time, or rides in the wagon or naps. She’s perked up some, now that it’s just her and her father, but only because she has to.”

  “She’s in mourning,” Jarvis said, as though everything suddenly made sense. “Of course she’ll be listless.” He remembered the way his brother-in-law and his sisters were swallowed up in grief when his sister, Margaret, died of a fever a couple years ago. It’d taken him a good long time to smile again himself.

  “I need to get moving,” Mr. Evans said, slapping Jarvis on the back once more before turning and starting off. “Thanks for all your help.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Jarvis stepped around the wagon to unhitch Mr. Sutton’s oxen, but his eyes drifted back up to the fort’s gate in no time. He was there to help. The whole point of the militia was to help out when the army couldn’t be there. Judging by the funny ache in his chest, it looked like there was far more he was compelled to help out with than just oxen and wagons. He couldn’t shake the feeling that his pale beauty needed him somehow.