She had come to realize there was a side to him others never saw. By day, he was unflappable, coldly reserved, forceful, and unyielding. But observing him as she did, she felt he was deeply concerned about his responsibilities. Maybe some felt he ruled with an iron fist, but she suspected that beneath the harsh facade he was a very sensitive man.
Some nights, despite the chill, he would strip off his shirt. When there was moonlight, she was awed by the sight of his muscular chest, powerful shoulders, and sinewy arms. Sometimes, he would take off everything and go for a swim or take a bath. And, again, if there was ample radiance, she would marvel shamelessly at his tight, sculptured buttocks, the backs of his rock-hard thighs.
The spying caused her no particular feelings of guilt, for no one knew. Her dreams were all that bothered her, stirring and haunted by wonder over what it was really like to be loved by a man. Images. Fantasies. She would awaken bathed in perspiration, feeling as though she were glowing inside and out.
And on those mornings after a passion-riddled night of imaginings, she felt a strange affinity for Cord she could not understand that evoked delighted shivers if she happened to see him. And, as always, she chided herself for such weakness.
* * *
Finally, they reached the eastern boundary of the Oregon Territory, but many did not rejoice over the milestone. Some wished they had turned back at Laramie, while others no longer looked to California as a land where hopes and dreams would be fulfilled.
Due to the increasing discontent, fueled by exhaustion, Cord found his job even more difficult. Like dry grass waiting to be struck and ignited by lightning, the atmosphere of the wagon train became volatile. Arguments increased, along with fist fights. Some of the women even engaged in hair pulling over trivial incidents. Accordingly, he had come to dread the nightly meetings, for they always turned into trying to resolve some dispute between families. Fighting seemed a welcome diversion to the misery of their existence.
The night Harry Turnage asked how long a layover they would have at Salt Lake, Cord knew what the reaction would be when he replied, "Two days."
"Two?" Harry echoed above the angry rumbling around him. "But it's our last big stop before crossing the Sierras."
Another voice joined in, also irate. "He's right. We deserve to stay longer than two days, for God's sake. We got to cross the Sierras, and we deserve a rest."
With a sigh, Cord asked wearily, "How many times do I have to say it: we've got to cross before the snows come? We could be blocked in the passes till the spring thaw. Even the relay riders suspend mail runs when the worst weather comes, and they've got those newfangled snowshoes for their horses. We've got to keep moving. Every day counts."
Wilma Turnage yelled, "I say we take a vote. Let the people decide how long we stay."
Cord felt his ire rising but managed to respond calmly. "As long as I'm wagon master, I'll make the decisions."
"Well, if enough of us decide we're laying over, you can't do nothing about it."
"I can leave you behind–you and anyone else who doesn't roll when I give the signal."
"Well, maybe we don't care," she fired back, shaking her head at her husband's whispered urgings for her to be quiet and resisting as he sought to pull her away from the gathering.
"Do what you want," Cord declared in disgusted conclusion. "Two days after we make Salt Lake, I'm pulling out."
With two days left before they were scheduled to reach the Mormon settlement, Jaime again followed Cord after dark. Maybe it was wrong, she reasoned, but it was something to do to wile away the boring hours. This time, however, there was no moon and she could barely see him, so she did not tarry. Besides, she was overcome by excitement, having long ago decided that once they left Salt Lake she would come out of hiding.
* * *
Cord heard the sound of someone creeping away through the bushes, just as he had heard the approach. He had known, each and every time, when he was being watched, and he knew it was a woman from her fragile movements. In the beginning, he was tempted to trap her and discover her identity, but then it became a novelty. Let her look, whoever she was. When he got tired of being spied upon, he would make his move. Till then, she could have her fun, and, besides, he had enough on his mind without concerning himself over some old busybody, probably Wilma Turnage, who, no doubt, was hoping to catch him doing something she could bitch about. Like secretly meeting somebody's wife, or maybe getting drunk.
Well, to hell with her, he thought, disgusted. To hell with all of them.
He stayed a while longer, then headed back to the supply wagon to bed down. Seeing Fletcher and Henderson waiting, he slowed his pace in apprehension. Jasper, their supply driver and cook, was nowhere in sight, but he'd left a good fire going, and in its glow Cord could see by the men's faces that something was up.
A pot of coffee was set near the fire to keep warm. Cord walked over, got a mug, and poured himself a cup.
Fletcher and Henderson murmured nervous greetings.
Cord sat down and said tonelessly, "All right. Something is wrong. Let's hear it."
Henderson gave Fletcher a jab with his elbow, indicating he was to do the talking.
Fletcher cleared his throat and began uneasily. "There's talk, captain, about how a lot of wagons are gonna pull out at Salt Lake."
Cord shrugged, sipped the coffee. "I'm going to California, with or without them. What's your problem?" he asked with narrowed eyes.
When Fletcher did not immediately respond, Henderson gave him another jab. "Well, we figure you won't be needing us no longer, since probably everybody is gonna drop out."
"Everybody?" Cord had not anticipated that, but neither did he care. Still, he reminded, "You two signed up to go all the way. I've still got Ruth and Martha to get out there. I'd like to have you along."
Fletcher swallowed hard and glanced away, not wanting to be the one to tell him.
Henderson, ready to get it over with, lost patience and blurted, "They ain't going either. I'm marrying Ruth and Fletcher's marrying Martha, and we're gonna find us a place to homestead."
For long tense moments, no one spoke. Cord stared into the fire, teeth ground tightly together, every nerve in his body tensing as he resisted the impulse to leap to his feet and crack their heads together. But as he sat there, he slowly got hold of himself and thought once more how he really didn't give a damn. He had tried. Done his best. The man who hired him wouldn't like the money he had lost, but he was rich and could stand it. No need to be upset. If they all dropped out, fine. He would keep on going.
"You know," he felt the need to say Finally, "those women agreed to get married in California. Not along the way."
"Sorry," Wallace and Fletcher murmured in unison.
Cord stood and flung his empty cup into the darkness. Then he walked away, still tempted to knock the hell out of both of them.
* * *
Jaime watched as Ruth and Martha gathered their things, preparing to move out. They were on the outskirts of Salt Lake and would arrive the next day, but Henderson and Fletcher wanted to pull out then and there.
"I still can't believe it," she said, shaking her head in wonder, having heard the story of their romances. "I had no idea all of you were..." She trailed off, not sure what to say. Though she was terribly upset by the news, it was still none of her business.
"It was a gradual thing," Ruth said. "But you don't have to worry. We never let them know about you."
Martha agreed. "No. We kept your secret. Honest." She then went on to point out, "But you know you can't stay here by yourself, and if you go to Captain Austin now, he's not going to let you go with him and won't care what happens to you."
Sounding braver than she felt, Jaime lifted her chin. "I'll find a way to get there somehow."
Martha exchanged a worried look with Ruth before asking, "Well, what are you going to do now? Everybody is quitting the wagon train."
"That's right." Ruth joined in. "There's nobody left f
or you to ride with."
Jaime lowered her face to her hands and fought to keep from crying. After all she had been through, all the weeks and months of hiding, it had come to this.
Just then Wilma Turnage poked her head through the opening in the laced canvas at the end of the wagon. By lantern light, she saw their faces and knew they had to be discussing Jaime's fate.
Ruth confirmed it by telling her, "She won't say what she wants to do."
In her no-nonsense way, Wilma snapped, "She has no choice. She's going with me and mine." To Jaime, she said, "Come along, child. Harry isn't sure where we're going, but you can go with us. We'll make sure you're looked after."
Jaime wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. God, she was fed up with having no choices in her life. Once, on the trail sometime back, she had seen a team of horses spooked during a thunderstorm. They had run wildly across the plain with no aim or direction, galloping furiously to try and escape an unknown fear. By so doing, they had destroyed themselves. The driver had jumped in time, realizing there was no hope of bringing them under control before they ran off the edge of a precipice to certain death below.
That was not going to happen to her, Jaime vowed. She was not going to run merely because something had happened she could not control. Somehow, some way, she would find an answer to her dilemma. Till then, she would have to endure as best she could.
Finally lifting her head, she thanked Wilma quietly, then gathered what few belongings she had and followed her to her wagon.
It was late when people finally bedded down. Jaime could not sleep, far too worried over her plight. Creeping out into the darkness, she made her way to the tiny stream where earlier the women had gathered to bathe themselves and their children in happy preparation for arriving in Salt Lake.
Hearing voices, she ducked behind a large rock. She was about to turn back when she recognized Cord. She could tell he was fired up.
"They signed on for the long haul. What I ought to do is put a bullet in them for desertion. That's what we did in the war, by damn,"
"This ain't war, captain. And if you'd been on as many wagon trains as I have, you'd understand it happens all the time. Folks drop out. Change their minds. And they don't care who gets hurt when they do. And you can't blame the promised brides, neither. A husband is a husband, the way they see it, no matter where they find him."
"Well, Jasper, at least you're here," Cord said.
Jaime's heart slammed into her chest as the idea struck. The supply wagon. Of course! All she had to do was slip inside it and hide among the crates and barrels, and as soon as they were a little way down the road, she'd let her presence be known. They would have to take her on to California with them.
By God, she told herself amid the thrilling rush, she was going to make it, after all.
She heard Jasper say he had to go check on the animals; then came the sound of his footsteps fading in another direction. She tarried but a moment longer, wanting to make sure Cord was not coming her way. Then she turned and started quietly back, anxious to slip her satchel out of the Turnage wagon and settle into Jasper's. In the morning, Wilma would wonder what happened to her but not for long. Like everyone else, Wilma was excited and anxious to get to Salt Lake and would quickly forget all about her.
* * *
Cord was sprawled on the ground but suddenly sprang to his feet to cry out, "All right, dammit, who are you? I think it's time you showed your face."
Terrified, Jaime broke into a run.
Cord started to follow, then swore and dropped back to the ground. “Oh, to hell with you, whoever you are.”
After tonight, she wouldn't be bothering him again. Nobody would. Because Jasper didn't have him fooled, not a bit. He knew the traitorous son of a bitch was deserting to go with the others. He just didn't have the guts to tell him so.
Cord closed his eyes and let sleep take over. He was going to spend the night right where he was, and when morning came he was leaving. He would take the supply wagon and continue on by himself.
He didn't need anybody, by damn.
He would make it on his own—like always.
Chapter 8
Jaime burrowed beneath sacks of flour and sugar and then spread a canopy, completely covering herself. Two days at the most, she figured, and she would be able to come out of hiding for good. She had a canteen of water and some buffalo jerky. She could survive. The greatest risk of discovery would come at night. She would have to slip out then to relieve herself. But surely Cord and Jasper would have things to take care of, like tending the animals and such, that would take them away from the wagon.
She harbored no hard feelings for the others and wished them well. They owed her nothing and had already helped in many ways.
The night air was cool, but lying between the burlap bags, Jaime was warm and cozy. Soon, despite the sound of laughter and merriment coming from the distant encampment, she felt herself drifting away.
* * *
It was still dark. To the east, there was not yet a hint of dawn. Cord hitched the mules to the wagon and tied his horse behind. He wanted to be on his way before the others began stirring about, knowing there would be those, like Wilma Turnage, who would gloat over his being completely abandoned. Not that he truly gave a damn. He just didn't see giving her the satisfaction of thinking he did.
Some wagon trains succeeded. Some didn't. He was just glad it was over.
He popped the reins and set the mules lumbering forward, skirting around Salt Lake. He could have made faster time on horseback but took the wagon so he would have supplies if bad weather made it necessary to hole up a spell.
Dawn came, the sky overcast. Cord welcomed the chilling wind. He was heading for the Great Basin, a killer of men. Isolated and rimmed, it formed a cauldron of white salt sands, baked clay wastes, and the circling mountains reflected the heat of the sun like a mirror. Bleak and desolate, the Humboldt River did not flow, it oozed, disappearing eventually into a thick sponge of alkali dust. But till then, he looked forward to a fairly smooth trail amid the cool green foothills composing the basin's outer walls.
He was not too concerned about Indians, even though he traveled alone. He had his weapons beside him: two Spencer repeating rifles, as well as double-holstered guns. He could also speak the language of the two tribes he might possibly encounter—Paiute and Shoshone. Being able to tell them he intended peace, and offering them a few beads and trinkets, should get him through without incident.
Frankly, he could understand the Indians' anger over the white man's intrusion: After all, the first gold seekers had left devastation on the plains in their wake—dead buffalo by the thousands, death from the cholera they brought, as well as trampled and dying grass caused by the wagons and animals.
Late in the day, rain began to fall. He set his sights on a craggy formation in the distance, figuring he would camp there for the night and have shelter beneath the outcropping rocks.
Inside the wagon, Jaime had been dozing off and on all day. Her stomach gave a rumble, and she ate a piece of buffalo jerky, which made her thirsty. Finding her canteen, she took a long sip of water.
Stiff and sore, she longed to stretch her aching limbs.
Slowly, cautiously, she pushed away the sacks and peered about. The canvas had been laced and drawn together tightly at both ends, but rain was still blowing in. Crawling forward, careful not to knock over crates or barrels, she looked first out the rear but saw nothing but empty wasteland.
Moving to the front, she saw Jasper hunched forward, hat pulled down over his head. He was drenched, and she felt sorry for him. At least she was reasonably dry, although if she didn't return to shelter beneath the canopy and sacks, she would also be soaked by the rain.
She was about to turn away when Cord saw a big rock in the road just ahead. With a curse, he snatched at the reins and yelled out at the mules, "Whoa, easy!"
In that heart-stopping instant, Jaime's hands flew to her mouth in a futile attempt
to stifle her gasp of horror.
It was Cord at the reins, not Jasper!
Cord heard the sound. With one hand, he jerked the mules to a complete halt, at the same time drawing his pistol and whipping about to demand, "Who's there?"
Jaime dove beneath the sacks, frantically, wildly, daring to hope he might think a wild animal had got inside but ran away when he yelled. It was too soon for him to find her. They had not been gone from Salt Lake even a whole day. He could turn around and take her back without losing hardly any time at all. And where was Jasper? Dear Lord, surely someone else was about.
She sank down and held her breath.
Cord dropped to the ground. Only an Indian could have been quiet enough to sneak inside without his hearing. In the language of the Shoshone, he commanded, "Come out. I mean you no harm. I will let you go in peace."
Jaime had been crouched with eyes tightly closed, dreading the moment she would have to stare up into his livid face. But when she heard the strange-sounding, guttural words, her eyes flashed open.
Cord repeated himself, then changed to the Paiute tongue. Both tribes could be found in the area, though he'd not seen any. Buffalo hunting was better farther south this time of year. Few braves ventured this far till spring.
Jaime was even more terrorized by the bizarre sounds.
Expecting a knife-wielding savage to leap out, Cord cautiously approached the rear of the wagon. "All right," he whispered. "You had your chance."
His right hand held a pointed rifle. With his left, he drew a knife from his boot. With one quick slash, he severed the gathering cord of the canvas, and it fell open, exposing the interior. He knew whoever was in there had to be hiding beneath the sacks, so with another slice, he ripped open the top bag.
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