She wrapped her arms around herself, already feeling bereft at the absence of his strong embrace. “I have a lot to deal with right now,” she said slowly. “I don’t need another love gone wrong.”
“Who said anything about love?”
This only strengthened her resolve not to bite off more than she could chew. “Nobody, least of all me,” she said.
He cocked his head and studied her for a moment. “Maybe there isn’t any such thing as love. I sure haven’t seen much of it in my lifetime. Maybe all there is for some people is comfort in the night. And maybe that’s enough.”
As misplaced as sympathy might seem at this time, her heart went out to him. At least she had known love in her life, first from her parents, then from Leo. Well, maybe that hadn’t been love after all, but she had thought so at the time.
“You seem awfully disillusioned,” she said, straightening her clothes and putting some distance between her and Cord. She reached over and snapped on the overhead light. He was glaring at her, and she supposed she didn’t blame him.
“Perhaps. This is the second time you’ve backed off. Are you sure you aren’t disillusioned, too?”
His bold stare made her feel uncomfortable, and his question stopped her cold. Maybe, after Leo, she would always be wary of men and their motives. To remain innocent forever when you were out there in the world taking your licks like everyone else was impossible.
“I don’t know, Cord,” she said heavily. “I like being your friend, if that counts for anything.”
He stared at her for a long moment. His voice was surprisingly gentle when he spoke. “It counts for a lot, Brooke,” he said. He drew a deep breath, exhaled. The silence hung heavy between them.
“We’ll leave tomorrow morning at seven for Cedrella Pass,” he said finally. Then he turned on his heel and went through the door to his apartment. He didn’t close the door behind him, and neither did Brooke. For the first time it stayed open between their two private spaces.
Brooke settled herself into bed with Jerusha Taggart’s diary. She had a hard time concentrating on it, however, and at last she put the diary aside. Afterward, she lay awake long into the night, wondering what her reaction would be if Cord decided to come to her bed in the night.
But he didn’t. She knew he wouldn’t. She found herself imagining his hard body next to hers just the same.
Chapter Nine
When she stepped out into the stable the next morning, Cord was dishing feed into the horses’ troughs with an old coffee can. He turned and greeted her as soon as he saw her, treating her to a long smoldering glance that made her regret, if only momentarily, calling a halt to the previous night’s proceedings.
Brooke decided that it was best to remain straightforward and even a little brisk if they were to be together all day. While Cord went into the tack room, she spent a few moments petting the stable cat. She looked up when he reappeared.
“What’s this cat’s name?” she asked.
“Mrs. Gray. She’s not the most friendly feline I ever saw.”
“She likes me, I think.” She stood.
“Ready to go?”
“Sure. I want to bring some extra water.” She went back inside the apartment, and as she opened the door, the cat darted inside.
“No, you can’t stay in here,” Brooke told her. She picked the cat up and put her out. Mrs. Gray meowed pitifully, but Brooke remained firm. “You’ll have to tough it out in the stable,” she told the cat.
Cord was waiting for her in the borrowed Jeep when she came out, carrying the bottles of water and a jacket.
“We need to stop at the kitchen and pick up our lunch,” Brooke reminded him.
After they loaded the basket of food into the back of the Jeep, they proceeded around the hill that sheltered the old borax mine and started along the rutted track toward the line of mountains to the west. Scudding cumulus clouds cast shadows across the desert landscape, and before they had gone far, a pair of jet-fighter planes from the nearby air force base roared overhead, sketching straight white contrails across the sky. A hot day was in the offing, Brooke thought, but maybe it would be cooler once they started climbing the mountains.
“How is your work going?” Cord asked her after a time.
She shrugged. “The article about Rancho Encantado is still in its early stages. To tell you the truth, I’m much more taken with the diary and with some of the newspaper clippings from the time.”
“Why are you so interested in all that, anyway? What’s this special project you’re so keen to pursue?” His eyes upon her were curious.
“The Cedrella Pass episode would make a good book,” she said. “I’d like to write it.”
He seemed taken aback. “What kind of book?”
“I’m thinking along the lines of a nonfiction book that traces the families back to their lives in the East, that tells a little about the individuals and follows them through the ordeal.” She was slowly homing in on the book’s focus, and she sensed that the story would be more powerful if she concentrated on the people rather than the place.
“Isn’t the whole sorry episode best forgotten?”
Something about his tone of voice caught her attention—a harshness, a misplaced bitterness. She turned to look at him, but his eyes were focused straight ahead on the road and his posture gave nothing away. Still, she chose her words carefully.
“Cord, consider the play of personalities as the settlers travel west, the dangers of crossing the desert and of hostile Indians, the lure of gold in California. It could be exciting reading. Also, I have a personal interest. My great-great-great-grandmother died at the pass. Family lore is that she starved to death because of the wagon master’s poor judgment and lack of planning.”
“I see,” was all he said, but the words held a bleakness and he became very quiet.
At Padre’s Creek, the banks of the stream were flanked with cottonwoods and willows, a contrast to the desert beyond, and nearby stood the crumbling ruins of Padre Luís’s house. Cord gunned the Jeep through the creek shallows, and she turned to him quizzically. “You don’t seem enthusiastic about my book idea. Why?”
“In my opinion, that old story is better forgotten.”
“What happened at Cedrella Pass is history, Cord, part of the lore about the California gold rush. There are questions that have never been answered. For instance, wouldn’t you like to know how Tyson, the wagon master, came into possession of the map that led them into such a dangerous situation?”
“The Mojave Indians gave it to him. Everyone knows that.”
“He must have trusted them. Something must have gone terribly wrong. Tyson’s life was also endangered when they got snowed in at the pass.”
Cord’s lips tightened perceptibly. “Tyson was an idiot.”
“So it would seem, but the families that split off from the original wagon train at Santa Fe trusted him enough to go with him.”
“They were even stupider than Tyson, wouldn’t you say? Taking women and children across the treacherous desert on a route that had never been traveled? The wagons were too big to get through. The party wasted valuable time cutting down trees so that they could pass. Bad weather came, and they were trapped. They’re lucky they didn’t end up like the Donner party.” They were approaching a salt flat. Suddenly, he gunned the Jeep engine so that they fairly flew past it.
Brooke knew the story of the Donner party, trapped by early blizzards in the Sierra Nevada a few years before the Tyson group suffered severely in Cedrella Pass. Forty-two people in the Donner party had died, and rumors of cannibalism had haunted gold seekers who followed, most of whom went to great lengths to avoid traveling across the mountains too late in the fall.
Brooke took a deep drink of water, then offered the bottle to Cord. He declined, and Brooke faced front again. She tried to imagine the wagon train heading toward these formidable mountains, the fear as the travelers realized that a winter storm was approaching.
&
nbsp; She recalled one of Jerusha’s most compelling journal entries, which touched on the subject.
December 17, 1849
Today our men captured two Indian men as we approached the trail through the pass. The Indians were frightened, as well they should have been, for Mr. Tyson threatened their lives if they did not lead us to the spring. It turned out that the map was incorrect—the spring was located five miles to the north of where it was marked, and Mr. Tyson felt that the Mojaves who gave him the map had deceived him greatly.
We were desperate for water, and the children were crying most piteously from thirst as we made our way to the spring. Though winter is fast closing in, we had no choice but to detour. When we got there, we found an abandoned Indian village occupied by only one old woman. She and the Mojave braves spoke rapidly and angrily, and we could not understand what they said. They allowed us to drink from the spring and water our oxen, as well as replenish our water supply to take with us on the trail through the pass. As we left, however, the old Indian woman screamed curses, which did make Mr. Tyson look very worried.
Since he understands the Mojave tongue, I asked him what she said. He told me that the old woman had cursed us and our oxen and our wagon train most vituperatively. I asked him if he was afraid, and he did not answer.
Mr. Privette told Annabel and me privately that he believed the Mojave braves were very angry because we’d captured them. It is his belief that we should have treated them in a friendly manner and not held them hostage as we did until they showed us the spring.
Perhaps we are lucky to have escaped this incident with our lives. I continue to worry about Nathan, who is querulous in the manner of sick children. Teensy does not speak much but clings to her beloved china doll, Eliza, her eyes wide and fearful. It takes all her energy to get through the day.
As for the babe in my womb, I felt him move today for the first time. I console myself about the present privations by anticipating our lives in California once we have found gold. It will be a better life for all of us, including this unborn babe.
I mentioned this to poor Annabel in the hope of encouraging her. She did not reply. Annabel was the weakest adult of our party at the outset, and I am concerned about her cough. She has made me promise to look after her children if she does not live to see the goldfields.
Annabel, sick? Annabel, coughing? To Brooke, trying to read between the lines, it sounded as though Annabel suffered from what was in those days called consumption—tuberculosis.
Brooke had grown to like Jerusha Taggart after reading her diary entries. Clearly Jerusha was a conscientious young mother and was seeking to improve the family’s lot by making the trek to California. Brooke already knew that Annabel Privette had died along the way, said to be the victim of Willis Tyson. Had the Taggarts made it to the goldfields? Brooke wasn’t sure.
After Cord pointed out a white arrow painted on a boulder, which was the only indication that they had reached the Tyson Trail, the unpaved road became a track, hard going in some places. Cord drove competently and a bit faster than Brooke thought necessary, explaining the area’s geology as they went.
The mountains, Cord told her, were a rocky stack of old lava flows. “There’s an underground river below us whose source is in the mountains, and the river feeds the seven springs that irrigate Rancho Encantado’s valley,” he said.
The trail ascended sharply above a wash. Here the mountain slopes were sparsely populated by cholla and cactus, an inhospitable landscape. Farther on Joshua trees in a grove greeted them, their arms crowned with spring blossoms that resembled nothing so much as popcorn balls.
As the Jeep climbed higher, Brooke became fascinated by the change in vegetation. When they reached the summit of the first peak, they entered a forest of junipers. Cord stopped the vehicle. “Here’s where we eat lunch,” he said.
Brooke climbed down from her seat and took in the view. Ahead, where Brooke imagined that the Tyson party might have expected to see an end to their journey, there were only more mountains, each one seemingly more bleak and barren than the last.
They found shade amid the junipers, where Cord spread a blanket on the ground and Brooke set out the food. There was cold tarragon chicken, a salad, a loaf of crusty fresh bread and a thermos filled with apple cider. The chef had also included several pieces of fruit. It was more than they could eat, and Cord teased her about ordering for four people instead of two.
“Not four people. Three. I’m eating for two,” Brooke said, and he smiled.
“Sounds as if you’re getting used to the idea of having the baby.”
“I am. I’m making plans, deciding where I’m going to live, things like that.”
He looked surprised. “You’re moving out of L.A.?”
“Not necessarily, but I’ll need a bigger apartment. I want the baby to have her own room.”
“How do you know it’s a girl? It’s a little early for an amnio, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I think so. I didn’t expect you’d know about amniocentesis.”
He grinned. “Must have read something about it in one of those dog-eared Fling magazines I saw in doctors’ offices.”
“I’m the one who should have been reading those articles,” she said.
“You never did say how you know your baby is a girl.”
She leaned back against a boulder. “I just know, that’s all.” It was because of one of those strange messages that she’d received since she had been here, the kind delivered directly into her ear by a Spanish-accented voice. But she didn’t feel like explaining this to Cord, so she changed the subject. “Why haven’t you ever married, Cord?” she asked.
He flicked a bread crumb off the blanket and gazed into the distance for a moment. “It wasn’t in the cards I was dealt,” he said finally.
“You’d be a wonderful father.”
“I’m not worthy of children,” he said tightly. Then, ignoring her perplexed expression, he began to toss picnic items back into the basket. “Come on, it’s time to leave.”
As she helped him clean up the site, she pondered what Cord had said. Not worthy of having children? It was a strange thing to say, and it was sad, too, considering how they seemed to love him.
As soon as they had settled inside the Jeep, she spread the map across her lap and studied it as they descended into the valley. On their climb up the next mountain, they found themselves travelling on a series of switchbacks. When they reached the peak, Cord stopped so she could take in the panorama before them.
“I can only imagine how daunting the journey must have been for members of a wagon train who were hoping to reach the goldfields before cold weather set in,” she said musingly. “Or two wagon trains, come to think of it.”
“Two? Only one wagon train came through here in 1849. The Tyson party.”
She shook her head, glad that he was showing interest in the facts her research had produced. “At first, when the six families left Santa Fe, there was one wagon train. But according to Jerusha’s diary, three of the families and four single men became distrustful of Tyson and began to fall back so that they wouldn’t have to do what he said.”
“You’re really into this, aren’t you?” Despite Cord’s obvious effort to remain uninvolved, she detected a hint of admiration.
“Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”
Cord didn’t speak. She sensed that he disapproved of her book project, and in a way, she didn’t care. In another way, she cared very much, mostly because she wanted his approval. She wasn’t quite sure why, other than she had grown to respect him. Maybe it was that she wanted him to respect her, as well.
“Anyway,” she went on, “the party split up before they got to the mountains. Both groups managed to find shelter, but in different places.”
“Are you sure? I never heard the story told that way.” Cord kept his eyes on the track.
“Why would Jerusha tell it other than it was? Her family, the Taggarts, and my ancestors, the Privettes, and anoth
er family named Cokeley stuck together with Mr. Tyson, along with a few single men. The others, who came to be known as the Hennessy group, shunned the Tyson party.”
“You’d think there’d be safety in numbers, that they’d stay together no matter what.”
“Eugene Hennessy, the leader of the Hennessy group, hated Tyson with a passion. After a couple of instances when the Mojave map proved wrong, he wanted to cross the desert in the north instead of taking this southerly route. Tyson refused, and it was too late for the Hennessy group to head north on their own.”
“Too late because of the snow?’
Brooke nodded. “Winter weather was the main thing they were trying to avoid. Anyway, both groups found shelter in caves in these mountains. The Hennessy group, straggling along separately, ended up several miles from the Tyson party.”
“I wonder why I haven’t heard about this before.”
“No doubt because all the published reports were one-sided. Rescuers reached both groups on the same day. Reporters interviewed members of the Hennessy group, assuming that they spoke for both contingents. Of course, they had negative things to say about Tyson.”
“You learned this from Jerusha’s diary?”
“There’s certainly no mention of it in the history books. Jerusha went into a lot of detail about the Tyson-Hennessy split.”
Cord seemed thoughtful as they descended into a canyon where the trail became narrower, in some places barely wide enough for the Jeep to pass. At one point, Cord pointed to the cliffs ahead. “See the cave openings up there?” he said. “That’s where we’re going.” He cast an eye skyward and shook his head. “I sure don’t like the look of that,” he told her.
Brooke followed his line of sight and saw dark thunderclouds piling up in the west. “Thunderstorm?”
He nodded. “The spring storms in these mountains can be fierce. Let’s hope it’s traveling north,” he said. He appeared to dismiss the possibility of the storm’s affecting them, but later, when he thought she wasn’t looking, she caught him sending worried glances in that direction.
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