He stood there for a moment in the quiet, then tucked the book in one of the packs and carried them to the opposite stall to load on the packhorse. He had his battle plan and his weapons. And he was certain now the Lord was blessing his efforts. He couldn’t wait to get back and lay siege to Emma Allen’s heart!
Emma threw off the covers, sat up and pulled the quilt around her. She could not sleep. She felt hemmed in, restless. How wonderful it would be to have someone to talk to when worry stole your sleep, and your peace. She stood and stepped to the front of the wagon, listened for any unusual sounds. Anything that might indicate danger. All she could hear was the river’s whisper as it brushed along its banks on its way. She untied the end flaps, peeked outside. Bright moonlight lit the landscape, turned the distant mountains silver.
She gathered up the dragging edge of the quilt and crawled outside to sit on the driver’s seat. The air was frosty. It nipped at her cheeks, her ears and toes. She drew her feet back under the quilt’s protection, folded the top edge high on the back of her neck, then grabbed both front edges and tucked her covered hands under her chin. They were well into October now. How long before winter would arrive? How would it come? With snowstorms? Ice storms? Or would it be gray and overcast and soak them with frigid rain? It was strange not to know what sort of weather to expect.
She lifted her chin, blew out a long breath and watched the small gray cloud appear. The air touched its cold fingers to her exposed throat. She shivered, tucked her chin back into its warm spot between her covered, fisted hands and looked toward the mountains.
The highest peaks were white with snow. Was it so deep it had closed off those narrow passes? Not that it mattered. She knew he wasn’t up there. He would have traveled beyond that distance long ago. Still, she liked to look at the mountains. It made her feel close to him. Fear clutched at her heart. She hoped he had an extra blanket.
It was done. Zach smoothed the rough edges where his knife had gouged the board, blew off the tiny bits of wood and slowly ran his hand over the surface to test for slivers. There was no roughness anywhere. He turned the board this way and that studying his work in the moonlight, then smiled and shoved the board in his saddlebag. Time to sleep.
A sharp yank on the ties freed his groundsheet and blanket. He stretched out and spread the cover over his legs. Cold air kissed his cheek. He frowned, looked up at the streaming moonlight. It was a clear night with a chill in the air. It could get down to a frost level before morning. He shoved off the blanket and put more wood on the fire, gathered up a few more pieces littering the ground under a nearby tree and carried them back to have close at hand. He didn’t want anything happening to those apple seedlings. He took hold of the double poles and pulled until the loaded end was near the fire. That should protect them.
He stretched out again, linked his hands behind his head and stared up at the sky. Where were the wagons? If he knew where Hargrove and the others had located their town, he could figure the best place to plant his orchard. And build the cabin. A nice one with two rooms, a lean-to kitchen and a loft. And a stone milk house. That would do for a start. He would build her whatever she wanted later on. There was plenty of timber on the mountains. And rocks for chimneys.
A frown drew his brows together. Would it be good enough? She was from Philadelphia. And judging from her clothes, and her sister’s and the way her brother had outfitted his wagons, they were wealthy. What if she refused him?
He scowled, flopped onto his side and closed his eyes. That was enough of thinking. No soldier should ever go into battle thinking he was going to be defeated. He would win Emma Allen’s heart. Nothing less was acceptable.
Chapter Twenty
Emma put her plate, cup and flatware in the small chest, tossed out the dishwater and set the small tub back on the shelf that had held the water barrel. That item, no longer needed with the river only a few steps away, had been upturned to use as a “table.” She dipped her fingertips into the small crock beside the chest on the shelf and rubbed the soothing balm into her hands, then lifted them and stroked them over her cheeks. The hint of lavender scent made her smile. In her next letter she would ask Papa Doc to send at least a dozen crocks of the hand balm with William—if he decided to come to Oregon country next year.
She frowned at the rush of hope and excitement that thought caused her, removed her long apron and hung it on the nail by the shelf. She had not yet overcome her selfishness in wanting her brother to make that dangerous journey; the loneliness made it difficult. And it was harder than ever with Annie gone to teach at the Banning Mission and the emigrants all spread out on their selected parcels of land. She had become accustomed to having the children racing around the wagons playing games and getting into mischief, and now they had new homes and this vast land to explore. And the women—
Stop! You are being pathetic. Emma made a wry face and walked to the fire to place the iron pan in which she had cooked the piece of beef that, along with yesterday’s cold biscuit, constituted her supper, onto the hot coals to clean. One small piece of beef cooked by herself, for herself, on her own small fire was pathetic.
The sound of children’s laughter floated to her from the direction of the Lewis family’s new home. No doubt Gabe and David were up to some high jinks. If so, there was a good chance she would see them soon. They were her most frequent patients. She laughed, grabbed her wrap off the sideboard of the driver’s seat and walked beyond the front of her wagon toward the plains so she could see beyond the Hargrove and Swinton homes to where the river emerged from the rolling hills. Joseph Lewis had decided to build there so the fall of water coming out of the hills would drive the blades of his sawmill.
She walked a few steps farther and peered through the dimming light. Yes, his wagon was standing outside their front door, waiting for tomorrow’s leave-taking. What a blessing it would be for everyone if he found the ship carrying his saw blades had arrived when he reached Oregon City. Everyone was hoping and praying it would prove to be so. They were all eager to have cut boards available to finish their homes. They were using split logs now for the roofs. She frowned and pulled her wrap closer about her against the growing chill. It made her wince every time she saw them lifting those heavy logs into place. If one of those ropes broke—
She shuddered and shifted her gaze higher. Black dots that were the emigrants’ oxen, mules and horses grazed on the rolling hills under the watchful eyes of the night guards. It would not be so when barns were erected.
She shook her head and looked again toward the river. Change had come so rapidly. The men had divided into crews, some to fell trees on the mountains and cut them to the needed lengths, others to haul them to town and still more to trim and notch them. All worked together to raise the houses. Even the children, who were so eager to help, had been given tasks according to their abilities. She had written a long and careful accounting of the building to William, had even drawn a map of the homes’ locations.
The first, up against the rolling hills, was the Lundquist farm. Soon to be two farms when Garth’s betrothed arrived next year. And standing on the riverbank, the Lewis home and the spot where the sawmill would soon stand marked by wooden stakes. Next—she shifted her gaze down the silvery ribbon of water—the Applegates’ home and cornerstones for the future mill. And then—again, a short distance downriver—the Fentons’ home and blacksmith shop.
Her gaze drifted over the empty space left for a schoolhouse and any businesses that might come to their town, skimmed over the Swintons’ combination home and general store, the Hargroves’ combined home and bank, and stopped on her wagon. Beyond that, at a distance too far to see in the deepening dusk, was the Fletcher farm. And then the Suttons’ and Murrays’. Those three families were still in wagons. But the Fletcher cabin was to be raised tomorrow.
She glanced up at the darkening sky, rubbed her chilled hands together and walked back to light her lantern. She knew how now, thanks to Mr. Thatcher. She pushed the t
hought of him away, placed the end of a long, slender twig against the dying coals of her fire, blew gently and when it burst into flame, held it to the wick in the lamp. She adjusted the flame, set her clean iron pan up on the surrounding wall of stone and rose.
A tiny thrill of anticipation zinged through her. This was where her home and doctor’s office would be. Soon. After the homes of the Fletchers and Suttons and Murrays. She had insisted her home be the last one built. She did not have a husband or children to make a home for, and the wagon was sufficient for a woman alone, though it would be wonderful to have walls and—
A slow rhythm, so scarce she wasn’t sure she heard it, echoed faintly through the night. Horse hoofs. More than one perhaps… How far away?
Her heart lurched. She held the lantern close, spun down the wick to extinguish the flame and turned toward the west, every fiber of her being straining to detect the sound she had heard in the distance. It came again, the sound of hoofs striking against rock. Slow, steady…Closer now. Indians?
Her mouth went dry. The dark pressed in on her. She pivoted and swept her gaze toward the emigrants’ homes. Without glass windows for candle or lamplight to shine through, they were invisible in the dark. Her fire! Had the stones hidden it from view? She snatched up the small hoe and dragged dead ashes over the glowing coals.
The hoofbeats had stopped. She cast a longing glance toward the Hargroves’ log cabin, torn between her desire to run to them for safety, and her need to stay outside and listen so she could give warning should danger come their way. Would any hear her cry? She tightened her grip on the iron hoe and inched her way back toward her wagon. She would go and alert John Hargrove. But if danger rode at her out of the night, she wanted William’s pistol in her hand.
Zach slipped from the saddle, let Comanche’s reins dangle to the ground then led the packhorse to the river and tethered him to a tree. That was lantern light he had seen ahead. He was sure of it, though it had been quickly extinguished. He shoved the travois beneath the low, feathery branches of a pine for protection, lifted off the packs and hurried back to Comanche. A quick dip into his saddlebags produced his moccasins. He tugged off his boots, laid them across his saddle and laced the moccasins on.
Comanche turned his head and nudged him in the chest.
“Sorry, boy, but I can’t let you roam until I know what’s out there.” He gave the strong shoulder a commiserating pat and jogged off into the night, following the river.
The smell of a smoldering fire led him to them. He stared across the river at the wagon cover, a leaden gray in the lightless night. The log cabin black beside it. And there was another. He’d found them.
He stomped down the impulse to splash across the river, find Emma Allen and kiss her senseless. That day would come. First, he had to show her that his opposition to her advice on the trail was of necessity, not desire. He had to convince the woman of his respectful regard for her position as a physician. Because any man that wanted to marry Emma Allen had to court the doctor, too. That much he knew for a certainty. The woman was a she-bear when it came to fighting for her patients. It was one of the reasons he loved her. He had to convince her of that. And he would start tomorrow. He grinned, turned and loped back the way he had come.
Emma dried her face, smoothed on some cream and scowled at herself in the small mirror. She had made a fool of herself last night, rushing to the Hargroves’ with a pistol in her hand and warning of “hoofbeats” in the night. Mr. Hargrove had warned the others and set guards, but it had all come to naught. And now John Hargrove thought her “hysterical.” And several of the men thought the “hoofbeats” she heard were only in her imagination.
Emma sighed, brushed a tendril of hair back off her forehead and pulled her Augusta spencer on over her red wool dress. The velvet fabric gave warmth without the bother of a wrap. And she wanted to look her most sensible and efficient after last night’s disaster. The frown reappeared in the mirror. She shoved the mirror back in the pocket on the canvas cover and climbed from the wagon. She had been sure she heard hoofbeats! Like now.
Emma turned toward the sound, stared through the morning mist along the river at the imposing figure atop a roan with distinctive spots on its hindquarters. Her heart stopped, lurched into a wildly erratic beat.
Mr. Thatcher had returned.
No. That could not be. Perhaps she was imagining things. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again. The man wore a fringed buckskin shirt. And he was leading a packhorse. But there was no mistaking that erect posture and those broad shoulders. It was Zachary Thatcher.
He rode closer, began to wend his way through the trees along the river.
Emma pressed her hand over the throbbing pulse at the base of her throat and stepped out of sight behind her wagon. She couldn’t let him see her. Not like this. Not while she was so…undone.
He stopped, tethered the packhorse to a tree branch then guided Comanche into the river. Water splashed around the big roan’s hoofs, rose to his knees, his belly then dropped again. Man and horse surged up onto the bank, headed her way. She stood frozen, willing Zachary Thatcher to not see her, begging God to blind his eyes to her presence. He looked straight at her, impaled her on the gaze of those bright blue eyes that peered out from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. Eyes that looked straight at a person, noticed everything about her— She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin.
He stopped, smiled. “We meet again, Miss Allen. Could you tell me where I might find Mr. Hargrove?”
She nodded, found her voice. “That is his cabin next door.”
He dipped his head, touched the brim of his hat and rode off.
She sagged against the wagon and watched until he disappeared around the corner of the Hargrove’s cabin.
“Haw! Haw!” A whip cracked, cracked again.
Matthew Hargrove! The first load of logs for the Fletchers’ cabin was on its way. And she had not even started her cook fire. She pushed away from the wagon, walked to the fire and used the hoe to scrape the ashes off the banked coals. A few handfuls of dry pine bark and some gentle blowing brought flames leaping to life. She added some small chunks of wood from her pile and went to the wagon to get the things she needed to start a pot of soup.
Zach stood in the doorway of the Hargrove cabin and watched the wagon come. He looked over his shoulder at John Hargrove who was pulling papers from a small chest. “Matthew is coming with a load of logs.” He couldn’t resist the temptation to bait him a bit. “You adding on to this cabin already?”
“No, no.” Hargrove shook his head and spread one of the papers out on the top of a dresser. “Those logs are for the Fletcher cabin. He’s downriver. Figures the plains will be good for farming. The Suttons and Murrays are downriver, too.”
Zach nodded, turned to face the dim interior of the cabin. “And Miss Allen’s cabin? Will she be next to you? Where her wagon now sits?”
“That’s right. Though I wish it were not! I dislike hysterical women.” The older man smoothed out the creases in the paper. “Now here—”
“Hysterical?” Zach frowned. The word had come out a bit too sharp. Lydia Hargrove had stopped making biscuits and looked at him. He slouched back against the wall.
“Yes. As hysterical as I’ve ever seen!” John Hargrove’s gray, bushy eyebrows drew together in a deep frown. “Last night, she came running over here in the middle of the night carrying a pistol and raving about some imagined ‘hoofbeats’ she heard coming our way. Got everyone stirred up.”
“It was not the middle of the night, Hargrove.” Zach gave him a cold look. He did not care for men who exaggerated the truth. “And it was not ‘hysteria.’ It was me.”
“You!”
“That’s right. I camped a short way downriver last night. But even if it hadn’t been me, Miss Allen did the wise thing in raising an alarm. Had it been someone bent on evil, delay could have brought disaster. It’s better to lose sleep than your scalp.” He gestured toward the
dresser. “Is that the map you were looking for?”
“Yes. If you will show me the land you are interested in, I’ll mark it off as taken.”
Zach nodded, strode to the dresser, looked at the map and pointed. “That’s the section I want.” The one behind Emma Allen’s lot. Where she will see me every day.
“Across the river?”
“That’s right. From this bend in the river all the way to the Blue Mountains.”
The banker gave him a sharp look. “That’s a big parcel, Thatcher.”
“I’ve got big plans, Hargrove. Mark it as taken.”
“The men got the Fletcher cabin well started to day.”
Emma glanced over at Lydia and nodded. She didn’t feel like chatting. She was exhausted from being around Zachary Thatcher. She had tried her best to avoid him, but every time she carried water to the working men, he called for a drink. And he had been in her line when she had ladled out her soup. And…and every time she saw him or heard his voice she tried to think why he had returned. And to prepare herself for his leaving. Her breath caught. He could not possibly be intending to cross those mountains now, could he? Not after all the warnings he had given them about the snows closing the mountain passes and trapping you— Is that why he had that packhorse and that—that trundling thing it was pulling? Were all those supplies in case—
“Emma! I asked you a question.”
She stopped, looked at Lydia. “I beg your pardon. I—”
Prairie Courtship Page 19
