Tired though she was, sleep would not come. She found herself debating as to whether the Major was a gentleman or not. Surely his rank denoted that he was? Yet his behaviour belied it. She giggled when she remembered his expletive of ‘God’s teeth’. It was one she hadn’t heard since her father had died, and then only rarely.
Tom Marriot groaned and began to thrash in his blankets. Polly reluctantly left the warmth of her bedding and crossed to him. His forehead was burning, his hands cold. She felt the stone jars and they too had lost their heat. She fumbled with her cloak, not wanting to light a lamp and disturb the sleeping Lucy and Serena, and with a stone jar beneath each arm faced the freezing cold to return to the still-burning fire.
He was sitting on an upturned box, a military cloak around his shoulders, his feet wide apart, his hands between his knees as he gazed into the flames.
As she drew nearer she saw the silver of a flask at his side. Shock flooded through her. Her father had not been a Mormon but neither had he been a drinking man. But then he had not been a soldier and the Major had at least had the good manners not to offend by drinking openly in front of them.
He swung around at her step, his black eyes narrowing.
‘I have come to heat the stone jars for Brother Marriot.’
His muscles, which had immediately stiffened at her approach, relaxed.
With sudden nervousness Polly shovelled snow into a pan and set it on the fire, remaining as far away from the overpowering figure as possible.
If he had briefly thought she had come to seek his company he was disabused of it. The girl had no intention of flirting with him. Her errand in the depths of night was one of mercy, not of pleasure. Nevertheless, he found her a pleasant sight to watch as she shook the handle of the pan, swirling the snow around as it hissed and melted.
She couldn’t be a day over eighteen, but her body was that of a woman. She had come out hurriedly and her cloak was only fastened loosely at the throat, falling open as she leaned over the fire. He could see the soft swell of her breasts and the tantalising curve of her hips.
The pan handle grew hot and she gasped.
‘Here, let me.’ He crossed to her side, leather-gloved hands removing the pan and pouring the steaming water into the wide necks of the jars.
They were so near that beneath the brim of his hat she could see tiny flecks of gold near his pupils and was acutely aware of the undefinable smell of his maleness and the granite-hard muscles barely contained by his immaculately-cut uniform.
For his part, Dart noticed that near to, her beauty was not only fancy but fact. Her skin had not yet been weathered by the harsh winds of the plains and was as soft as that of a peach. Her hands too, instead of being rough and chapped, were soft and smooth and carefully tended. His eyes were no longer uninterested. They were bold and black and frankly appraising.
‘Thank you, Major,’ she said, hoping that he could not detect the tremor in her voice. If only he would finish pouring in the water and let her escape!
Her mouth, as he had seen at a distance, was soft and inviting. He wondered what it would be like to kiss and dismissed the temptation. He would only have an hysterical female on his hands and Nephi Spencer firing his six-shooter in all directions.
At last the water was poured and she began to screw the corks in with difficulty. Silently he took the jars from her and accomplished the task with two firm twists of his wrist.
‘Thank you.’ Her voice was low and well-modulated, but there was steel there, and sense. Probably more sense than was shown by her companions. He said suddenly,
‘Are the women of your party of the same determination as the men? Do they intend to continue West?’
She nodded.
‘Even the elderly ones?’
‘Yes.’ The jars burned against her cloak. ‘We have nothing to return to. The Marriot’s home was razed to the ground by a mob and the Spencer home pillaged and looted. Even Sister Schulster was terrified by vandals as she sat in her own parlour.’
‘Is Sister Schulster the sharp-voiced octogenarian?’
Polly wasn’t sure what the long word meant, but assumed he had guessed correctly.
‘Yes.’
The lines around his mouth tightened. ‘Take the hot jars to the brother who needs them and then return and tell me more.’ It wasn’t a request, but a command.
‘Yes,’ she said again, scurrying back to her wagon, her heart throbbing painfully.
To sit out late at night, unchaperoned, with the devastating Major was an impropriety that not even the kindly Tom Marriot would easily forgive her, yet the temptation was too strong to be resisted.
When she returned, he had kicked a box close to his own, and wrapping her cloak tightly around her, she sat where she was bid.
‘The Mormons I met at Richardson Point spoke of persecution and intolerance. I had not realised it was of such magnitude.’
‘It has been unspeakable,’ Polly said quietly. ‘When I was ten I lived with my parents on a farm near Shoal Creek. It was a sunny day and I was playing with lots of other children on the bank of the creek. One of them was a boy my own age, Sardius Smith. I did not know it, of course, but for weeks the surrounding townspeople had been insisting that all Mormons gave up their faith or leave the district.’ She was silent for a minute or two. ‘At tea-time we went to our homes and I was standing with my mother in the parlour when I saw a large body of armed men on horses, heading towards the blacksmith’s shop and mill. Their intentions were obvious and we heard one of our neighbours cry “Peace”, but he was shot down as we looked and then the riders chased our neighbours into the shop and all we could hear was gunfire and screams.’
She stared broodingly into the flames. ‘Sardius was so frightened he had crowled under the bellows of the forge, but a Mr Glaze of Carrol County found him and shot him through the head. Eighteen people died that afternoon. My father had been away buying livestock. When he returned he said he was ashamed to live among men who were murderers, and that although he was not a Mormon he would go with them and not remain behind. It was then that we moved to Kirtland.’
A dark brow rose queryingly. ‘Then you are not Mormon?’
‘No. Not yet.’
There was hesitancy in her voice and he did not pursue his question, but he was intrigued.
‘What happened in Kirtland?’
‘We were not left in peace there, so we moved to Nauvoo.’
‘And were not left in peace there either?’
‘No. My father was not a religious man, but he said that intolerance was one of the worst sins he knew of. Intolerance and hypocrisy.’
His mouth crooked in a mirthless smile. ‘He was right on that score,’ he said, and Polly was shaken from her own reverie of the past by the depth of feeling in his voice.
‘Have you, too, suffered from intolerance?’ she asked curiously.
‘I have and I no longer speak of it.’ His voice was curt.
She wondered if she should return to her wagon. He showed no sign of speaking any further with her. His face was hard and uncompromising, his thoughts obviously far from her and the problems of the little wagon train.
At last, uncomfortably, she rose to her feet and he said: ‘Do your companions realise that you are on the borders of Indian country?’
‘Er … yes.’ Polly did not know if they knew or not. ‘We have had friendly dealings with Indians in the past,’ she added, a trifle defiantly.
He laughed. ‘The Indians ahead of you are not Shawnees or Delawares. They are Pawnees and I doubt you will have any friendly dealings with Pawnees.’
‘Do you know much about them, Major?’
‘More than any man alive,’ he said, and there was a strange note in his voice that she could not identify.
She wanted to ask more, but knew that if she stayed any longer it would be unseemly.
‘I hope I have been able to help you with what you wanted to know, Major.’
‘That the w
omen are as stubborn as the men, no matter what their age? That death ahead is preferable to death in towns you have already been driven from? Yes, you have helped me.’
He did not wish her goodnight. She turned on her heel to leave him. So quickly that her foot caught in the hem of her cloak and she went sprawling face-down in the snow.
Before she could struggle to her feet strong hands had circled her waist. They lifted her and set her down, but did not release their grip. It was a pleasingly small waist. Dart Richards’fingertips met as he circled it.
The fall had rendered her breathless and for some unaccountable reason her heart was throbbing painfully.
His hold on her tightened as he drew her close to him and before she could utter a protest, his lips came down on hers in swift, unfumbled contact. She raised clenched hands to his shoulders to push him away, but she was helpless. As his lips parted hers, she was aware that though she fought and struggled, her one desire was to surrender. To circle his neck with her arms and to kiss him as passionately and as deeply as he was kissing her.
All too soon it was over. He thrust her from him, still keeping tight hold of her arms, a smile of delighted amusement on his face.
‘Who would have thought it? The Mormons have a little passion-flower in their camp. I wonder if they are aware of it?’
Polly’s pleasure turned immediately to fury. ‘How dare you treat me like a … a whore of Babylon!’
He let go of her, shouting with laughter.
Polly’s skirts whipped around her ankles as she raced for the sanctuary of her wagon. Hateful, detestable man. How dare he treat her so?
She pulled the blankets angrily over her shoulders. He would not have done so if Jared or Nephi had been present. He had taken unfair advantage of her. Major Richards was definitely not a gentleman. Her cheeks still burned scarlet. And she was not a lady. She remembered the tingling response that had seared her body as his mouth had closed over hers. She had never dreamed that a man’s kiss could arouse such response. Certainly Jared’s had not. Jared’s kisses had been warm and comforting and safe. Major Richards’ kiss had stirred her in a way that suffused her with shame, arousing in her longings she had never previously known existed. Worst of all, she would have to face him in the morning and behave as if nothing had happened.
His laughter still rang in her ears. She put her hands over them as if to shut out the sound. Lucy Marriot was right. Men outside the church were sensual and sought only their own gratification. The only happiness for a woman lay in marriage to a good upstanding member of the faith: to a man like Jared.
Her last, angry thought as she tossed and turned and tried to sleep, was that if Jared would kiss her as Major Richards had done, she would marry him tomorrow. But Jared would not do that for he had too much respect for her and she should be grateful for the fact. Her thoughts were low and impure and unfitting.
‘God’s teeth!’ she said beneath her breath, and having given vent to her anger and shame, closed her eyes determinedly against all thoughts of Major Richards and his laughing dark eyes.
When morning came, Tom Marriot’s fever had still not broken and Jared was harnessing the teams, his usual smiling face surly. Polly guessed that it would remain so until their unwelcome visitor left. She had no time to speak to him for there was breakfast to cook and the animals to feed.
As she hurried round the rear corner of their wagon she nearly fell headlong into a tin bowl of water balanced precariously on a drum of wheat. If the Mormons weren’t hardy enough to strip to the waist and wash in conditions that froze water within minutes, Major Richards had no such inhibitions. He was in the process of reaching for his shirt as she staggered to regain her balance. She saw a broad chest of the same olive flesh tones as his face and a pelt of dark, curling hair. Whipcord muscles rippled as he said lazily:
‘Good morning, Miss Kirkham. I hope you spent an uneventful night?’
‘An unmemorable one, certainly!’ Polly retorted and marched off, her skirts swishing.
Seeing his face and becoming fascinated with its strange handsomeness was bad enough. Being faced with the sight of the lean, tanned contours of his body was too much. She had seen Jared naked to the waist a hundred times, but had never taken any notice or thought it in any way remarkable. She knew she would remember the sight of the half-naked Major for a long time to come. Perhaps his sun-bronzed skin came from soldiering in California and Mexico, though that would not account for his raven-black hair and eyes. Sun would bleach, not darken, hair. She tossed her head and her ringlets danced around her face. She didn’t care anything at all for the ungentlemanly, arrogant and rude Major Dart Richards.
‘The Major tells us there’s a wagon travelling many miles behind the main party and not far ahead of us. From his description it sounds like Charity and Fletcher Merrill,’ Nephi Spencer said to Polly over breakfast.
The Merrills were close friends of both the Marriots and the Spencers. Emily Merrill was her own age, and they had shared an eighteenth birthday party only a month before.
‘Then why did he not tell us so last evening?’ she demanded indignantly.
‘Because if he had, young Jared would have insisted on tearing off into the night and probably broken both his neck and that of his horse,’ Nephi said equably.
‘Why should the Merrills have fallen so far behind?’
‘Sickness. They were afraid it was the cholera and did not want to spread it.’
‘Is Jared going to them now?’ Polly asked as she saw Jared saddling one of the horses and ramming a rifle down the side of a full saddlebag.
‘Aye. Tis best if they wait for us rather than put more miles between us and remain constantly alone and unprotected.’
Polly put down her dish and crossed the frozen ground to Jared. The snow crunched crisply beneath her feet and her cheeks were rosy with colour from the sharp air.
‘Brother Spencer has just told me of the Merrills.’
‘I must go to them immediately, Polly. Brother Merrill is no marksman and they are in Indian country now.’
‘Can you not persuade them to return and join up with us? It would be better than waiting days or even weeks till we catch up with them.’
‘That is what I intend.’ He swirled his thick cape around his body and pulled his hat low over his ears. ‘Look after Pa, Polly. You were right about mother. Her strength is failing, but I must go to the Merrills. You understand that, don’t you?’
‘Of course, and there’s no one else who could ride so hard or so fast.’
She remembered Emily Merrill laughing gaily as they had danced at their birthday party.
‘Pray God they are safe.’
‘Aye, and that you remain safe while I am absent.’
He drew her into his arms and kissed her goodbye and she made no protest, but responded in a way that would have shocked Tom and Lucy Marriot if they had been witness to the scene. Fortunately they were not and Nephi’s back was turned towards them. Only the Major could see and his face was completely expressionless.
She could feel Jared’s heart thump wildly against hers and was unhappily aware that she was not reacting in a similar manner.
‘Goodbye, Jared. Take care.’
She stood and waved and watched till he had ridden into the flat, barren wastes of the distance. He was a good man. Good men did not arouse lewd emotions. The knowledge brought her little comfort as she returned to her tasks.
The conversation between Major Richards and Nephi Spencer had developed into an argument on the Major’s side. Tom Marriot was leaning weakly out of his wagon and doing his best to make his voice heard. Sister Lyman was making hers heard only too well.
‘We go on, young man. How many more times do you have to be told?’
‘White men killed two Pawnee squaws only days ago. What sort of reception do you think they will give you?’
‘A friendly one as we shall give them. The red-men are our brothers, as are all men.’
�
�Commendable words,’ the Major said drily, ‘but hardly efficacious if uttered at the wrong end of a Pawnee arrow.’
‘We go on.’ This time it was Brother Cowley’s voice. ‘The Lord wishes us to establish a Promised Land in the Far West and that is exactly what we are going to do.’
The children were playing around them throwing snowballs and shouting with laughter, as they faced each other angrily. Sister Schulster descended falteringly from her wagon, a shawl covering her white hair, gnarled hands clutching it beneath her chin as she said bad-temperedly to the Major:
‘How much longer before we start off? Are we to wait till the Day of Judgment, or are we to get there before it?’
The Major groaned and raised his eyes heavenwards, though not in the sort of prayer that the Saints would have found commendable.
‘Come on, Pa. I want to see some Indians,’ little Jamie was saying pleadingly.
Serena Spencer was fingering the gold braid on the Major’s sleeve and gazing up at him with eight-year-old adoration.
Sister Lyman had returned to her wagon and her harnessed team and sat with the reins in her gloved hands. Brother Cowley, too, sat at the front of his wagon and showed every intention of driving his team, single-handed. Polly followed suit and vaulted into the teamster seat of the Marriot wagon.
Major Richards stood, his feet apart, his hands on his hips, every line of his body denoting his fury at the obdurate Nephi.
‘Will nothing on God’s earth make you change your mind?’ he demanded seethingly.
‘Nothing.’
The Major let out such a string of oaths that even Polly blanched. Then he swung on his heel and mounted his horse, the lines around his mouth white, his eyes as hard as frozen granite. Digging in his spurs he wheeled his horse not east, but westwards, galloping to the head of the convoy and saying to a delighted Nephi through clenched teeth, as he signalled the wagons forwards:
‘Just don’t sing! For the love of God, don’t sing!’
Chapter Four
A Many-Splendoured Thing Page 4
