by Jenna Kernan
“He was wrong to put us in such jeopardy,” she said.
“Reckon so. Folks deserve an experienced guide.”
Mr. Bonner returned red faced and panting. “Here’s the water.”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m fine now.”
He looked disappointed. She was about to reach for the cup when Bridger grasped it and drained the contents.
“Thank you kindly.” He turned back to Delia and said, “Bonner be a writer of dime novels. He heard about your story last night.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m very interested in your tale, Mrs. Channing. People back East are desperate for tales of the Wild West. I believe you’ve had the adventures of a lifetime. I work for a newspaper in Chicago. I’d like to buy your story for syndication.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” She didn’t want everyone in the country knowing she had lived with a trapper for several months. Whatever was the man thinking?
“Have you sold it already?” He looked desperate. “I’ll double the offer.”
“Whatever offer? Mr. Bonner, I’m not interested in selling my journal. It is private.”
“Not even for fifty dollars?”
She was shocked that he’d try to buy her. Then she considered what that money could do.
“Mr. Bridger, how much does a trapper make on his catch?”
“Depends on the trapper.” He offered no more.
“How much would Nash have made?”
“Well, he’s independent so he gets to keep all he brings. He don’t owe nobody that I know, so maybe four hundred.”
“How much to buy traps and an outfit for a trapper,” she asked.
Bridger smiled. “I figure a hundred and fifty would get you supplies and traps.”
She pointed at the horse she’d bought from the Nez Percé. “How much for that horse?”
Bridger walked to the spotted pony and ran a hand over her withers and down a front leg.
“Twenty dollars is a fair price. I’ll give you that or trade in supplies.”
Without her horse, she had no means of transportation back East. If she sold her journal, she’d expose her innermost thoughts to the world, but she might be able to stop Nash from signing on with an outfit. She didn’t have to sell. She could keep her horse and her privacy and take them back to the States alone.
“My year’s stories are worth more than a stack of beaver.” She was quite sure they were not. Still, she had learned something about bluff and bluster from spending the summer with Nash. “I’ll sell them for a hundred and fifty.”
The man smiled, seeming to enjoy the prospect of bartering with her.
“Well now. I’d have to see that journal of yours to know what it’s worth. Why don’t you let me borrow it?”
He must think she was three times a fool. “Oh, no. The journal stays with me.”
“Then how do I know what it’s worth?”
“Mr. Bonner, I lived alone in the mountains from October to May. I was rescued and captured by Indians and traded to Nash. Two different chiefs asked for my hand in marriage. I shot a grizzly, escaped Crow and Blackfoot and traveled the Bighorn rapids in a bull boat. And I recorded it all in this journal.” His eyes lit up at the worn leather book she held tightly in her hands.
“You say the Bighorn?” Bridger asked. “Anything particular you remember?”
“I’ll read it to you gentleman.” She sat on the log. Bridger took out his pipe and smoked as she began her tale. When she finished, she looked up at him to find his wrinkled face creased with a lopsided grin.
“You sure did run her, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
“Now there’s three of us,” he said.
She glanced at the reporter, afraid that her tale would not meet his approval. He looked stunned. His eyes focused at some place beyond her.
“I never dreamed a river could run like that. What a story! It’s better than gold. Mrs. Channing, I’ll give you a hundred twenty-five dollars.”
“Sold, Mr. Bonner.”
They didn’t find Bridger upriver. Nash shifted on the trade blanket he used for a saddle. Meeker had talked for the past five miles without stopping for air. He was about ready to tell the man to plug his hole.
“Missionaries wintered with the Nez Percé up a ways.”
“Missionaries?” It couldn’t be Delia’s group. “Who’s the boss?”
“Don’t know.”
“I’m going.” Nash kicked his horse to a gallop.
Meeker quickly caught up. “What’s the hurry?”
“Joe, Delia was traveling with missionaries.”
“You think it’s them?”
“How many missionaries you see this year?”
The horses raced side my side across the river meadow, startling several pronghorn.
“Not many.”
When he finally saw the smoke rising, he slowed his lathering horse. Joe reined in beside him.
“Why don’t they join the Rendezvous?” Nash asked.
“Too religious. They don’t approve the drinking and gambling. Trappers prefer it, too. Their preaching is a damn nuisance, always yapping about damnation. Dampens a man’s thirst, it does.”
Within a loose circle of battered tents, Nash found seven men all dressed in neat black suits, as if ready for Sunday services. They looked so out of place, camped here by the river, he laughed aloud.
“Damn ridiculous clothing,” Meeker muttered.
“Hello the camp,” Nash called.
A portly man with florid cheeks stepped up.
“Greetings, brothers. I’m Reverend Ruxton. Are you here to be saved?”
“From what?” asked Meeker. Nash sighed. His friend was bruising for a fight. Nash dismounted and extended his hand.
“I’m Thomas Nash. I’m looking for a group led by a man named Harcort. He here?”
The man looked stunned for a moment then grasped his crisp lapels with both hands.
He blustered. “I know of him, rest his soul.”
“What happened?”
“Our brothers met with hostile Indians. We are men of peace not war. We are not prepared for fighting.”
Behind him he heard Meeker mutter, “Dunderheads.”
“Did you know him or any in his party?” asked Nash.
“No, brother. We only know of him. We share the same mission and are also bound for Oregon. God favored us. We found these lost souls along the way.” He motioned to the Indians standing about. Nash noticed several men wore wooden crosses upon their bare chests. Their women were dressed in cotton skirts to their ankles. The ragged hems told of the impracticality of this latest innovation. “We saved their souls and they kept us alive through the cruel winter.”
“Hallelujah!” Meeker shouted.
The reverend frowned at Nash’s companion.
“Would you gentleman care to join us for lunch?” asked Ruxton.
Nash glanced at Meeker, whose sarcasm disappeared at the mention of food.
“We’d be obliged,” Nash said.
Nash accepted their hospitality for lunch. During the meal, they exchanged information. Meeker put his resentment aside long enough to eat and tell a few stories that featured Nash’s prowess as a mountain man.
“Perhaps you are an answer to a prayer,” Ruxton said. “We are in need of a guide to lead us to Oregon. Have you been there?”
“Been there,” Meeker interrupted. “Of course he has. He found the Wenatchee pass. He even seen the Pacific Ocean. I ain’t even seen that.”
Ruxton smiled. “It sounds like you are our man, Mr. Nash. You wouldn’t be a religious man, I suppose.”
“I spend some time on my knees, Reverend.”
“Splendid. Then you’ll consider it? We could pay you, say, two hundred dollars. And of course you would be welcome to one hundred acres of whatever farmland you choose upon arrival.”
Meeker’s elbow poked him in the ribs. “Sounds like a fair offer, Tuck. And yo
u’d be free by November to head back East.”
“Are you interested, Mr. Nash?”
“None of the other trappers are,” said Meeker. “We ain’t farmers. And the idea of spending three months with this bunch gives me a headache.”
He’d have enough money to send Delia back East and follow her in the spring. A thought struck him, forming like a cloud bank in his mind. His heart beat faster. She had been heading for Oregon in the first place. Would she—would she go with him?
“I might have a wife,” Nash said.
“Perhaps we can convert her. Is she Nez Percé?”
“She’s white.”
“White? You have brought a Christian woman into this wilderness?”
“No. I ain’t a fool. A group of missionaries brung her.”
The reverend harrumphed for a moment. “This is a dangerous trip. I don’t think a woman would be strong enough. She might jeopardize our mission.”
“Jeopardize? Reverend, you ever shot a grizzly?”
The man shook his head.
“Skinned an ox or other large critter?”
“Well, no.”
“Escaped from Blackfoot raiders or run the rapids of the Bighorn Canyon?” Nash scowled at the man. “She done all that, and more.”
“She sounds like a remarkable woman.”
“That she is.” He couldn’t keep his pride for her from puffing up inside him.
“Well then, bring her along. If you are interested, that is.”
“Yes, Mr. Ruxton, I’m interested. Have your people ready in two days. I’ll be back.”
Nash clenched the reins, resisting the urge to race back to her. They could marry. He could hold his head up and ask her to be his wife.
Chapter Twenty-Three
His horse skidded to a halt before her. Cordelia jumped to her feet at his frantic arrival. His lathered horse told of some catastrophe. He had signed the contract. Oh, please, God, no! She had sold her most precious possession for nothing.
He slid off the horse and she rushed to his arms.
“Delia, I got news.”
“I do, too.” Her mouth felt dry. She could barely get the words out. If he had signed, she could do nothing. When she had sold the journal she’d searched the camp for him but he was gone, so she had waited here. It was the longest day she could remember.
He kissed her quickly on the lips. She stared at him in wonder. His eyes twinkled and his face was flushed.
“What is it?”
He threw up his hands. “Well, I don’t know how to tell you, so I’ll just say it.” He glanced quickly about the camp. “Where’s your horse?”
“I sold her.” She watched his eyes narrow as he spotted the sixty steel traps lying on a red blanket by the fire. Her mouth went dry.
“What’s that?”
“Traps. I bought them for you.”
He didn’t look happy. Didn’t he want to be an independent trapper again? Those traps freed him from being a company man, unless he’d already signed. The thought froze her blood more surely than all the dark days of winter. He didn’t look pleased. Rather, he looked furious.
When she spoke, the accusation was clear in her voice. “You signed.”
“Your horse didn’t bring enough for that. Where did you get the money?”
“I sold my journal.”
He looked stunned. “You sold your—what do you mean?”
“A man from the newspapers offered to buy it, so I sold it to him.”
He grasped her shoulders. She lifted her gaze to meet his.
“Your journal?”
She nodded. “I have enough to buy you ammunition and supplies. Whatever you need for your own outfit. Just tell me you didn’t sign.”
“Your journal was private, Delia. How could you do that?”
“I don’t care about my privacy. I care about you. I love you.”
He was grinning now.
“Delia? I didn’t sign.”
“Oh, thank God.” She threw her arms about him, hugging him so tight she heard a rib pop. “Where were you? I was so worried.”
“Sit down, Delia.” Something was wrong. She sank to the log, clasping her hands in her lap. Why didn’t he tell her, instead of staring at her with that strange look on his face? Her hands were instantly slick with sweat. The sun suddenly seemed too warm as she sat on the log behind her.
“I heard some missionaries were living upriver with the Nez Percé.”
John…Harcort. Were they alive? But Bridger said they were all dead. Her insides felt as if a thousand bees stung her all at once.
“Delia, it’s not them. It’s a different group.”
The wind left her lungs and her body shrank, hunching down.
He was speaking again. “They’re heading to Oregon. They asked me to guide them. Delia, they offered me two hundred dollars for the trip and acreage if I want it. If we want it.”
“We?” A tiny prickle of hope tickled her belly.
He crouched before her. He grasped her hand in his.
“Delia, will you marry me?”
Her body trembled like a plucked banjo string. This was everything she wanted, he was all she needed in the world.
“There’s no guarantee, Delia. I understand that now. I’m ready to take the time God will grant us and be grateful for it. Be my wife. Come with me to Oregon.”
Tears streamed over the shallow dam of her lower lids. She tried to speak, but only a croak came from her lips, so she clamped her teeth together and nodded frantically.
“Is that yes?”
More nodding.
“Oh, Delia, that’s fine!” He hugged her.
From behind her came the sound of one man clapping. She turned to see Joe Meeker grinning from ear to ear as his paddle-wheel hands slapped together in a slow rhythm.
The following morning Delia stood in a new buckskin dress stained white with clay. She had bought it from the Nez Percé. A porcupine quill design in green and blue covered her from shoulder to shoulder.
The honorable Reverend Ruxton began the ceremony.
She glanced about the meadow. No drinking or gambling today. There was a wedding to attend. The rugged gathering of buckskin-clad men, Indians and several missionaries spread over the sloping meadow.
Nash held her hand, looking as proud as a Tom turkey.
He interrupted Reverend Ruxton’s welcome.
“I got a ring.”
“Oh, all right then, let’s have it.” He blessed the circle of silver, then placed it on the Bible. Thomas slipped it on her finger. She looked at the ring. It was covered with small rosebuds. The circle shape was a little rough, as was the seam where the ends joined.
He leaned close and whispered, “It was a silver spoon. I shaped it for you. Does it fit?”
She clasped the band of silver to her chest. “It’s perfect.”
The trappers groaned as the reverend began his reading from the Bible. Fur caps were drawn from many heads. His words droned on like the humming of a bee. Delia stifled a smile at the pained expressions of some of the trappers. Bridger stood stone-faced, and Meeker moaned as if he had a toothache. Somehow the reverend managed to get many of them to sing a hymn.
Finally Nash spoke his vows and she promised to be his wife. Before Reverend Ruxton could pronounce them man and wife, Nash scooped her into his arms for a fiery kiss. The flash of heat that always followed his touch ignited.
The sound of gunfire startled her back to her surroundings. The men cheered and others fired their rifles. Two trappers swung around and around, linked at the elbow.
Ruxton shouted above the cheer. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
Joe Meeker stepped forward. “Let me be the first to kiss the bride.”
Several men scrambled forward to form a line. Old Bill pushed Peg-leg Smith, who turned around and punched Bill in the stomach.
Nash pulled Delia behind him. “No one kisses this bride. Go find your own.” A groan of disappointment sounde
d. “No,” he said. “Now back off, you old billy goats.”
The men dispersed. She exhaled the breath she held. He was right to stop them.
“Thank you,” she said.
“The only one you’re kissing from now on is me.” As if to emphasize the point, he bent her over his arm for a wild blending of tongues. When at last he righted her, she was dizzy from his kiss.
Reverend Ruxton cleared his throat. She turned to face him, feeling embarrassed heat burn her cheeks.
“We’ll be heading back upriver,” he said. “I’ll expect you tomorrow morning. Enjoy your celebration.”
“Thank you, Reverend.” She extended her hand. “The service was lovely.”
“I wish you had a fine church in which to be wed, my dear. After all you’ve been through, you deserve that much.”
“What better church than God’s blue sky?” she asked.
Thomas slipped his arm about her waist. She saw the approval in his eyes.
Mr. Ruxton looked as if he was about to take issue, then changed his mind.
“See you in the morning, Mr. Nash.”
Delia turned to find Mr. Meeker still hovering about. “I think you’re a bad influence on us,” said Meeker.
“How’s that?” asked Nash.
“Bridger’s getting married tomorrow.”
Delia smiled, thinking of the Indian woman she saw him with.
“Give them our congratulations,” she said.
“Ain’t you staying?”
“No, I’m afraid we’ll be heading out tomorrow morning,” she said.
“You’re staying for the wedding feast, ain’t you?”
Nash looked him in the eye and asked, “Would you?”
The trapper lifted his chin and scratched his throat, considering. His eyes were on her now. She felt her face heat under his gaze.
“Reckon not.” He leaned forward and, quick as a striking rattler, kissed Delia on the cheek.
Nash stepped forward. “I ought to shoot you.”
“But you won’t, partner, you won’t.” Meeker slapped Nash’s cheek playfully, turned and howled like a wolf, then danced away.
