Baby on the Oregon Trail

by Lynna Banning

  “Thanks, Lee. Appreciate it. All of it.”

  Lee touched his hat brim. “Tell Emma thanks for the coffee.” He tramped back to Jenna’s camp, where Tess handed him a plate of beans and a hunk of corn bread. He didn’t see Jenna anywhere.

  “You make supper tonight, Tess?” he asked.

  “I helped,” the girl admitted. “Mary Grace made the corn bread.”

  He wanted to ask about Jenna, but he bit his tongue. Instead, he sat on the apple crate and absently shoveled food into his mouth while Tess and Mary Grace heated water to wash up the dishes.

  He couldn’t get that injured Indian kid out of his mind. He wanted to tell Jenna about him. He needed to lie next to her tonight, feel her body against his, hear her soft breathing. More than anything he just needed to see her. Talk to her.

  “Aren’t you hungry, Mr. Carver?” Mary Grace eyed his half-eaten plate of food. “Or maybe my corn bread isn’t any good?”

  “Your corn bread is just fine, Mary Grace. I’m just...preoccupied, I guess.”

  “Yeah. Jenna’s hard to get along with, huh?”

  “Kind of,” Lee said. Liar. It was hard to get along without her. If he could figure out what was going on in her head, maybe he could survive the next five hundred miles.

  “Did Jenna eat any supper?”

  “Some,” the girl responded. “Not very much, though. And her eyes looked real funny.”

  That did it. He rose, handed his plate to Mary Grace and headed for the wagon.

  “Jenna?”

  She lay curled up on a quilt underneath the wagon. “I’m awake, Lee. I’m glad you’re back. I was beginning to worry.”

  He knelt beside her and poured it all out, about the battlefield he’d stumbled across, the young, half-dead Sioux brave, about his conversation with Sam when he returned. It felt good to talk, get it off his chest. “Tomorrow I’m going to—”

  “No, you’re not,” she said quietly. “I know you want to look for your horse, but...”

  “But what? Jenna, you know what that stallion means to me.”

  “Yes, I know. But I don’t want you to risk your life getting it back. And the girls don’t, either. I—I don’t want to watch you ride off into God knows what and wonder if you’re ever coming back.”

  He let out the breath he’d been holding and stretched out beside her. Well, damn. He bent forward, pressed his lips to the back of her neck and tried to keep the smile out of his voice.

  “I have to go. But the day I don’t come back to you, Jenna, is the day you’ll know I’m dead.”

  She shot upright and conked her head on the undercarriage. “Ow! Now that’s a big relief, Lee Carver!”

  He reached up, grasped her shoulders and pulled her back down beside him. “At least you’ll always know...” he slipped one arm under her “...where I’m sleeping nights.”

  She made a choking sound. “Lee, do not joke about it!”

  “I’m not joking! If I’m not dead, I’ll be right here under this wagon with you.”

  But in the morning when he left, Jenna was so upset she would not look at him. Mercy, he was so anxious about that horse of his he didn’t even eat breakfast!

  The girls yoked up the oxen, and the wagon train finally got under way. Jenna drove with Ruthie on the seat beside her, and as they creaked and groaned their way slowly westward, she scanned ahead for any sign of Lee.

  The ground looked as if it had been picked clean except for scraps of cloth and a few broken lances scattered here and there. They rolled across the flat plain, and by their nooning the train had reached a slightly elevated valley of green trees and thick grass. A lazy river meandered beside the trail.

  While the girls waded in the river, Jenna cobbled up a meal of cold bacon and corn bread. After lunch Tess took Ruthie and her carved doll over to Sophia Zaberskie’s wagon, and Mary Grace lay down to rest in the wagon bed while Jenna washed up the dishes.

  She had just dried the last tin plate when a shadow fell across the wash bucket. Clutching the huck towel, she spun to find a tall, unwelcome figure in front of her. Her heart thudded behind her breastbone.

  “Randall! Where did you come from? What are you doing here?”

  “You asked me that last time, Jenna.” He sent her a cold, sneering smile. “I’ve been following this wagon train for weeks. I came for you.”

  She just stared at him.

  “I came,” he continued, his voice silky, “to take you away from this.” He gestured at the wagon.

  “Leave me alone, Randall.”

  He moved a step closer. “Leave you alone? I can’t do that, now, can I, Jenna?”

  “I want nothing to do with you. I made that clear back in Roseville.”

  He eyed her swelling stomach. “I think that baby says otherwise.” He took another step toward her.

  “No! Leave me alone,” she said, her voice rising. “Go away and leave me alone.”

  Quick as a snake he grabbed her forearm and dragged her forward, but she managed to wrench free.

  “You damn little—Come here.” He lunged for her and caught her around the waist.

  “Let me go!” she screamed.

  He dragged her around to face him. “You’re mine, by God.” He yanked her forward, and she cracked her hand against his cheek as hard as she could.

  Without warning he drew his arm back and backhanded her across the face. The blow sent her to her knees. Morgan swore and started toward her.

  And then a gunshot rang out. Jenna saw a look of surprise cross Randall’s face. A crimson stain spread over his shirt, and then his knees buckled and he pitched forward.

  Afraid to breathe, Jenna could only stare at him.

  Suddenly Mary Grace leaped out of the wagon, tossed Lee’s Colt revolver onto the ground and raced toward her.

  “Is he dead?” The girl’s teeth were chattering.

  Jenna pulled the girl down beside her on the ground and folded her into her arms. “I hope so.”

  Mary Grace began to shake, and then Sam Lincoln appeared, with Ted Zaberskie pounding at his heels.

  “Jenna!” Sam yelled. “I heard a shot. Are you—?” He stopped short at the sight of the motionless form on the ground. “My God.”

  Ted bent over the body. “He’s dead, Sam. Bullet went right through the heart.”

  Mary Grace let out a wail. “I killed him! He was after Jenna, and I—”

  Sam went down on one knee before her. “It’s all right, honey. It’s all right.” He shot Jenna a glance. “Good Lord, Jenna, you’re white as milk.”

  “I—I—” She couldn’t get a single word past her throat. Mary Grace began to sob, and then Emma Lincoln bustled in and knelt beside them.

  “Mary Grace,” the older woman said. “Hush up, now. You did what you had to do, so hush. Hush!” Over the girl’s head she spoke to Jenna.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Jenna could only shake her head. An instant later Tess ran up and stood frozen at the edge of camp, her face whey-colored.

  After the men carried Randall’s body away, Jenna felt Emma’s calloused hand on her shoulder. “Can you stand up?” the older woman asked.

  “Don’t know,” Jenna mumbled. “Mary Grace?”

  The girl looked at her, tears spilling from her hazel eyes. “I... I’m all right, Jenna, but I was so s-scared.”

  “You two, come on over to our wagon,” Emma ordered. “I’ve got some hot coffee and maybe a little whiskey, if I can find it. Come on, now.” Emma helped Jenna to her feet and propelled her past the wagon.

  “Give some whiskey to Mary Grace, too,” Jenna murmured.

  “And me,” Tess said, her voice shaky.

  “You’re t-too young,” Mary Grace said.

  At that, bot
h Jenna and Emma looked at each other and burst into laughter.

  But it wasn’t a laughing matter. Jenna shuddered. A man lay dead. A man who had wanted her. Or wanted to control her, always demanding her time and attention, insisting she act a certain way, dress to please him, and on and on. Why, she wondered now, had she put up with it? True, she had been young and infatuated with him, and that had been her downfall. Never again would she let herself be enamored of a man.

  She compressed her lips to keep them from trembling. The men she’d known had always wanted to control her. But now she had three young stepdaughters to raise and a baby on the way. From now on she would be her own master.

  She ran one hand over her belly. Randall Morgan might have given her this child, but he would never be part of its life. If she could choose a father for the babe, it would be someone like Lee.

  But that, she acknowledged, was the worst thing she could do to a man who never wanted to love anyone or marry again.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lee dismounted at the Lincolns’ camp. “Sam, Jenna’s camp is deserted. What’s going on?”

  Emma Lincoln pushed him down onto a wooden box and shoved a glass of something into his hand.

  “What’s this for? Where’s Jenna?”

  “It’s whiskey,” Sam said at his elbow. He tipped his graying head toward his wagon. “Jenna’s resting in our wagon.”

  “Why?”

  “Lee! Oh, Lee.” Mary Grace flew at him. “Lee, I shot him! I k-killed him dead. It was horrible!”

  He leaped to his feet, and Mary Grace flung her arms around his waist. “Shot who?”

  Sam pressed him back onto the crate. “That fellow Morgan. He sneaked into Jenna’s camp and accosted her. Mary Grace shot him. Used your Colt. Nice shot, too, right through the heart.”

  “Jenna? Where is she?” Lee started to stand, but Sam again shoved him down.

  “She’s fine, Lee.”

  “Oh, Lee,” Mary Grace sobbed. “I feel sick. Just awful.”

  He lifted her onto his lap and nestled her head against his shoulder until she quieted down. “I know, Mary Grace. It feels terrible when you take a life. But sometimes it’s the only thing you can do.”

  She clung to him. “I—I didn’t w-want to, but he hurt Jenna, and he was gonna do it again, so I—” She gulped a shaky breath. “Am I gonna go to hell?”

  “Well, if you are, honey, so am I. We’ll keep each other company, all right?”

  The girl nodded. If he wasn’t mistaken, she smelled of spirits. He sent an inquiring look to Sam, who tipped his head toward Emma.

  “I gave them all a teensy bit of whiskey to settle their nerves,” the older woman confessed.

  “Jenna had more than a teensy bit,” Mary Grace sniffled. “She drank two whole glasses.”

  Lee didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. He sent Sam another questioning glance.

  “Buried him,” Sam growled. “You’ll see where tomorrow morning when we pull out.”

  Mary Grace raised a tearstained face. “Are we gonna drive the wagons over his grave, like we did Papa’s?”

  “Yep,” Sam said. “You don’t have to watch if you’d rather not. You can detour around the place.”

  “No, I want to see. He was mean to Jenna.”

  Lee slid her off his lap, stood up and climbed up into the Lincolns’ wagon to see Jenna.

  She lay staring up at the canvas interior, her face white. “Lee? Did you find your horse?”

  He knelt beside her. “No. It’s not important, considering what happened here.”

  “It ish too important.” She was slurring her words. Must have had more than two shots of Sam’s whiskey.

  He lifted her hand into his own. “No, it isn’t important. I’ll just have to find another stud horse.”

  “Whatsa stud horse?”

  Lee chuckled. “Uh, well, it’s a male horse, a stallion, that covers a female horse and...uh...makes a colt.”

  Her eyelids popped open. “What does that mean, ‘cover’?”

  “It means...” He began to perspire. “Jenna, don’t you know anything about horses?”

  “Not a thing,” she admitted. “Mama never allowed me to ride.”

  “Well, ‘cover’ means to mate. When a stallion and a mare, uh...”

  Her cheeks grew pink. “Oh,” she said, her voice drowsy. “Emma said I could stay here tonight. Can you stay here, too?”

  “Don’t you think Sam and Emma might wonder what I was doing here?”

  “Yes, but I don’t care.”

  “What happened to setting a good example for the girls?” he said with a laugh. “Besides, someone should stay in camp with them.”

  “Oh. You’re right.”

  “Damn,” he managed. He leaned down to kiss her and got a big whiff of spirits. But she kissed him with enthusiasm. Twice.

  * * *

  Early the next morning Sam brought around Randall Morgan’s horse, a roan mare with a fancy tooled saddle. “I figure this belongs to you, Lee.”

  “Give it to Mary Grace. She’s earned it.”

  When Sam left, Lee made coffee and Tess fried up a skillet of bacon and scrambled six of Sophia Zaberskie’s eggs. Jenna stumbled over from the Lincolns’ camp, and Lee sat her down on the apple crate and wrapped her hands around a steaming mug of coffee.

  “I’m driving the wagon today,” he announced.

  Jenna nodded, then wished she hadn’t. Whiskey was dreadful stuff, really. But it had softened the shock of seeing Randall and... She closed her eyes. Watching him die.

  Poor Mary Grace. What a harsh way to grow up.

  After breakfast, Lee tied Mary Grace’s new roan mare onto the wagon and went to yoke up the oxen. Before the train pulled out, Mary Grace climbed up onto the box next to Jenna. “I don’t want to see that man’s grave,” she confessed, burying her face in her hands.

  “I do!” Tess announced from beside the wagon. “I want to stomp on it!”

  Jenna and Lee exchanged glances. “Maybe you’ll find your stallion today,” she said. “If you see him, I’ll drive the wagon and you can go after him.”

  Mary Grace raised her head. “I’ll go with you, Mr. Carver,” she announced. “I’ve got a saddle and everything.”

  They drove steadily all morning, drawing nearer and nearer to the jagged purple mountains that loomed ahead. It didn’t seem possible to Jenna that twenty wagons loaded with food and furniture and tools could climb over such towering peaks. But other trains had done it, and Sam said it was the only way to reach Oregon.

  The wagons climbed gradually into the foothills, where groves of fir and maple and aspen trees, their leaves nipped by frost, glowed scarlet and orange against the hillsides. The oxen rumbled over marshy patches and splashed across rushing brooks, and with each passing hour the trail climbed higher. The sky was so blue it looked painted, and the air smelled sweet and pungent.

  All at once the lead wagon jolted to a halt. Lee hauled on the reins to bring the oxen to a lurching stop just in time to avoid ramming the Zaberskie wagon. “What the—?”

  He looked up to see Sam running toward him, waving his battered hat. “Lee! Come quick!”

  The hair on his forearms prickled. He set the brake, jumped down off the bench and followed the wagon master to the head of the train where he stopped dead, unable to believe his eyes.

  A stone’s throw from Sam’s wagon four Indians sat their mounts, one of them obviously a chief from the cascade of feathers on his headdress. At the end of his braided leather lead rope danced Lee’s black Arabian stallion.

  He thought his heart would leap into his throat and choke him. He walked slowly toward the man, making the sign for peace.

  The chief dismounted and met him a dozen
paces in front of Sam’s wagon. Using sign language and what few Sioux words he knew, Lee gradually pieced together an incredible story.

  The chief said he had found the horse wandering free, and one of his braves led it to their camp, high on a mesa near Little Dog Valley. He did not hobble it, believing its owner was a Sioux warrior, and that he would come for it. But no one did.

  The next day he and his warriors fought a battle against the Crow. The chief’s son, Black Lance, fell on the battlefield, and that night when the braves returned to retrieve their dead, they found the boy alive, with Lee’s army canteen beside him.

  The old chief stepped forward and offered the lead rope to Lee. Then he signed that he wished to thank the White Eyes soldier for his son’s life.

  Lee couldn’t speak. The chief motioned to him, then laid the lead rope in his hand and spoke a single word. “Friend.”

  The chief remounted, motioned to his braves and wheeled his horse away to the east.

  A buzzing started inside Lee’s head, and it was a few minutes before he realized a crowd had gathered behind him. Above their murmuring he heard Mick McKernan’s sneering voice.

  “Now that’s what I call the luck of the devil. A beautiful woman and a prize stallion, too.”

  “Shut up, McKernan.” He moved to step past the Irishman, but Mick blocked his path.

  “Hey, Johnny Reb, why don’tcha keep the stallion and let a real man have the wom—”

  Lee dropped the lead rope and slammed his right fist into McKernan’s soft belly. When the Irishman straightened, Lee drove his left into the man’s jaw. Pain spiraled into his injured left shoulder, but McKernan went down like a clobbered bull.

  “What d’ya do that for, you coward?” Mick’s brother, Arn, yelled.

  “You have anything to say?” Lee grated in the younger man’s face.

  Mick groaned, and Arn dragged him upright.

  “Get this straight, McKernan,” Lee said, his voice quiet. “I don’t ever want to see you or hear you anywhere near the Borland camp or the Borland women.”

  Mick nodded, nursing his jaw.