He shrugged. “It means there’ll be more people moving in. Trade goods will be moving up and down the river faster.”
She thought of what steamboat trade would mean to her father’s expanding business and knew what Thomas O’Hurley’s reaction would be. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
“For some. For me, I’m just glad I decided to be movin’ on.” He didn’t meet her eyes as he shifted in the saddle and adjusted the reins. “I imagine Nette and Luther have their hands full right now trying to get everyone fed. Looks like that bath of yours is going to have to wait.”
“That’s all right. I don’t—What are you staring at?”
He was assessing her, his gaze sweeping over her face, her hair, her hands where they gripped the reins. And he was frowning. “Nothing.”
“I can tell by the look on your face that you’re thinking of something. What is it?” It was obviously a thought that was giving him grief.
“You could get up north a lot faster if you’re aboard when she pulls out.”
“Who?”
“The steamboat.”
Intense, unexpected panic swept her, unlike any she had known before. “North?”
“On to Canada. To find your father.” He prodded her memory.
Her heart hit her stomach. “Canada,” she whispered.
Endless miles of grueling travel. Weeks, perhaps months. Stifling a groan, she wished the world had suddenly shrunk to the size of a pea. She was almost tempted to blurt out the truth—that she must have been addlepated to undertake this trip. She had been bent on adventure, unaware of the costs or the consequences.
She didn’t want to think of heading north. Right now she was weary to the bone and wanted nothing more than to plunk down until she felt rested enough to decide what to do. Frowning down at the steamboat, feeling as if it were some evil force sent to spirit her away, Jemma realized with aching clarity that the very last thing she wanted to do was board that boat.
Nor did she think she could bring herself to say goodbye to Hunter Boone just yet.
“I—” She started to object, but he was already on his way.
Jemma cast another glance at the steamboat and hurried to catch up. She followed Hunter to the largest cabin—the one that fronted the river—dismounted, and tied her horse to the hitching post beside his. When he opened the door, the deceptive peace outside was shattered by the din of voices and the press of too many bodies crowded in one room. Makeshift trestle tables were set up end-to-end, covering nearly every inch of open floor space.
As if they had not eaten in weeks, men of every size and description sat shoulder-to-shoulder and shoveled down forkfuls of generous mounds of ham, mashed potatoes smothered in brown gravy, and string beans mixed with bacon. Two spotted hounds ran back and forth beneath the tables, noses to the ground, hoping for any scrap that might hit the floor.
A white-haired woman whose lined face told a story of its own carried a heaping platter of ham over to one of the tables. Reed-thin, with her hair wound into a bun at the nape of her neck, she moved with the agility of a woman half her age, bantering easily with the men as she refilled their plates, urging them to “eat up, ’cause these are the best vittles you’ll see anywheres.”
Two others helped serve the travelers. One was no more than a girl, with lanky, unkempt hair, wearing a faded brown dress that was a good five inches too short. Unlike the older woman, the girl spoke to no one, nor did she make eye contact. She slipped around the room so quietly, so unobtrusively, that she was barely noticed.
Jemma was hard-pressed to tell the age of the third woman in the room, but guessed she might be in her twenties. Her hair was chestnut, her face weather-worn; and she was thin but smiling and cordial to the guests at the crowded tables. She and the older woman had established a routine, one assisting the other when needed, handing platters and bowls back and forth without having to communicate in words. Jemma realized with a tinge of jealousy that she had never been in such communion with another living soul.
There was so much commotion in the room that no one had yet noticed their entrance. Hunter leaned close and said, “I’m going behind the counter to help Luther.” He nodded in the direction of a tall blond man who looked very much like him but was of slighter build. It wasn’t until then that Jemma realized that the cabin must be the trading post Hunter had mentioned.
Around the walls were rows of shelves lined with various and sundry items, neatly folded piles of blankets, and cooking pots and pans of every shape and size. She recognized barrels of dry staples and stacks of folded fabrics. Hunter’s brother was spreading out what looked like an iron trap along the wood plank counter where it could be more easily displayed.
Oddly, when Hunter stepped away from her, she felt abandoned and more out of place than ever. Glancing down, she became aware of her bedraggled appearance. The baggy trousers were stiff with dirt and mud. She was thankful that the heavy wool coat covered the white shirt now soiled beyond redemption. Reaching up, she tried to shove the trailing ends of her tangled hair beneath her hat, but it was so hopelessly snarled that her fingers caught and pulled. Tempted to step back outside and find a stream or even a horse trough where she could wash, she looked up just in time to see that the older woman standing not two feet away had lost her grip on a heavy platter piled high with ham.
Jemma dove for the platter and grabbed it just before it hit the ground. A few pieces of the slippery ham had barely touched the wood plank floor when the hounds ran over, tails high and wagging furiously, and gulped them down without chewing.
Jemma straightened to hand the woman the platter and found the gray-haired lady watching her closely.
“You just now coming in off the steamboat? You almost missed the meal,” the woman said. Without looking away, she passed the platter on to a bearded man sitting at the end of the table.
“No, I came in with Hunter.”
“Hunter?” The woman’s gaze swung around the room. When she saw Hunter behind the long counter with Luther, her stare whipped back to Jemma. This time the matron looked her up and down. “Well, I swan. Don’t that beat all. I’ll bet once you’re all washed up you’re prettier than a June bug with those dimples and big blue eyes.”
Somehow, the woman made being as pretty as a June bug sound like the grandest compliment in the world. Jemma found herself smiling.
“I’m Jemma.”
“I’m Nette Taylor. You stayin’ on, Jemma?” Nette glanced over at Hunter again.
“Well, I don’t—”
The tall, chestnut-haired woman bustled up to Nette. She cradled an empty bowl in her arms. She was reed-thin; her calico dress hung from her shoulders without touching her anywhere.
“We’re out of potatoes, Nette.” There were questions in the woman’s eyes as her gaze settled curiously on Jemma.
“I’m not mashing any more potatoes for this bunch. They’ve had enough. ‘Sides, none of ’em will go away from my table starvin’. At this point they’re eatin’ out of sheer gluttony and for fear they won’t get better where they’re goin’.” Nette nodded at Jemma. “Hannah, this is Jemma.” There was a dramatic pause before the woman added, “She just come in with Hunter.”
“Hunter’s back? Thank the Lord. When these men are finished eating they’re going to want whiskey and supplies, and Luther already has his hands full.” She nodded to Jemma. “I’m Hunter’s sister-in-law. Luther’s wife. Glad to meet you.”
Jemma didn’t miss the look that passed between Nette and Hannah before Hannah said, “So, you came in with Hunter?”
“Yes. I needed a guide upriver—”
One of the steamboat passengers called out to Nette. She waved in his direction. “Let’s get the apple pie passed ‘round so we can get these men on their way. We could sure use your help, Jemma.”
Jemma blinked twice and looked down at her soiled clothing. Obviously, her ragged appearance meant nothing to Nette or Hannah. The young girl she had seen earlier and assumed
was Lucy had disappeared. Hannah was already back to serving the travelers. Jemma took in the boisterous crowd at the long tables and then glanced over at Hunter. He stood behind the counter dispensing shots of whiskey out of a stoneware jug, too involved even to look over and see how she fared.
Nette walked away, obviously taking Jemma’s silence for agreement. Jemma experienced a moment of panic. She had never in her life served a meal, never even carried a platter to the table. Used to being waited on, she had no idea how or where to begin, what to say or do, but before she could hesitate any longer, Hannah was walking toward her with a wooden tray crowded with an array of mismatched plates that held golden slices of warm apple pie. Her mouth began to water as she slipped off her hat and coat and set them aside.
“Here,” Hannah said, handing her the tray. “Pass these out while I go cut more. And make sure nobody takes more than one piece or there won’t be enough to go around.”
Hannah left her standing with the heavy tray in her hands. Jemma took a deep breath and, carefully balancing the heavy load, cautiously walked over to the tables. When she began handing out plates of pie, a ruckus went up from the men when they realized dessert had arrived. They were a rowdy lot, talking of little but their experiences on the trip upriver, the impending cold weather, and Nette’s delicious apple pie. Although none of them appeared to be what Thomas O’Hurley would have considered a cultured gentleman, no one made any undue remarks to Jemma while she moved among them. They were respectful and grateful for the meal.
When they were finished, one by one the men left the table and began milling around in the section of the large room that was devoted to supplies and other items. Some took the time to pull up a barrel, relax, and enjoy a pipe full of tobacco. Others went straight to the counter for whiskey or to barter with Hunter and Luther over blankets, hardware, gunpowder and shot, and staples. As the travelers left the table, Nette and Hannah began clearing the avalanche of dirty dishes the men had left behind.
Jemma followed their lead and pitched in to help, carrying stacks of empty plates and platters, soiled flatware, and mismatched glasses, mugs, and cups out to a smaller cabin that had been added on behind.
The addition was barely as large as the foyer in her house in Boston. It was attached to the end wall of the trading post and contained its own fireplace, a huge, cavernous affair made of stone and mortar. Water was boiling in large pots on hooks sunk into the fireplace wall; the steam added warmth to the already overheated room. Jemma let the close heat seep into her, a welcome delight after so many days and nights with only a low campfire for warmth.
She set down a stack of dishes beside one of the wash-tubs filled with warm water. While Hannah went back to the dining room for more plates, Jemma paused a moment to stand before the fire and let the heat and steam seep into her. Pushing stray, tangled curls back off her face, she took a deep breath and then turned away from the fire, intent on going back for more plates.
“You look tired enough to drop. Why don’t you amble over to my cabin just across the way and take a little nap? If I know Hunter Boone, you two didn’t waste any time coming up the Trace.”
Jemma turned around and found Nette, up to her elbows in dishwater, watching her from across the room. Stacked on a crude log table beside her sat what appeared to be an entire pantryful of dishes and soiled utensils. There were huge dirty pots and pans stacked on the hearth.
“How on earth are you going to get all this done?” Jemma shook her head in awe. She had no intention of leaving the woman with all this work.
“One dish at a time,” Nette laughed, undaunted.
Jemma smiled and began rolling up her sleeves. “Tell me what to do,” she said.
Nette looked at her face closely, and then down at her hands. It appeared she was about to refuse the help, but then said, “Not much to it. You just pick up one of those dish towels on the stack over yonder and when I hand you a wet plate, you wipe it dry.”
For over an hour they worked side-by-side, Nette chatting about the wonder of the steamboat. She predicted that steam was a passing fancy and said there was nothing safer and more riverworthy than a nice, sturdy flatboat. Hannah bustled in and out, carrying in more dirty dishes. Nette talked while Jemma wiped the dishes dry, pausing only to change dish towels as needed.
Slowly, the pile of clean items grew, while the dirty ones disappeared into Nette’s dish tubs. Jemma didn’t realize the full extent of her exhaustion until Hannah called on her to help carry a steaming pot of water over to the tub. As the steam billowed up into their faces, Jemma felt her head begin to swim. When the pot was emptied, she quickly stepped back, crossed the room and leaned against the stone fireplace. Neither Hannah nor Nette had noticed.
“I need to go see about the children,” Hannah was telling Nette. “It shouldn’t take long. Noah volunteered to look after them while I helped out here.” She reached up and tucked a wisp of her long hair behind her ear. To Jemma, the sound of her voice seemed to be coming from far, far away.
“We’re nearly done, thanks to Jemma here,” Nette said. “No need for you to come back. Stay home and tend to all those young’uns if you need to.”
Hannah took a coat off a peg on the wall, slipped it on, and left after a quick good-bye to Jemma, who hadn’t left the fireplace. Nette turned her way and paused, studying her closely. “You look white as a sheet. You feel all right?”
Jemma was afraid to speak. Her head was spinning; her knees felt as if they were slowly dissolving. There was a distinct, increasing hum in both her ears.
Nette’s image began to blur. Frightened by the strange sensations, Jemma began, “I’m not … I don’t …”
Before she could explain, the room went black.
Chapter 10
Too many people in one room tended to make Hunter nervous, even if they were spending money that was going into the till. Riding over the knob earlier and seeing the steamboat anchored off Sandy Shoals had given him a shock. He had suspected it was just a matter of time before steam travel took over the river, but he hadn’t realized that day might be just around the corner. They never saw more than an occasional keelboat this time of year, so the steamboat crowd had been a surprise, not just to him, but everyone at Sandy Shoals.
“ ’Nother whiskey.” A short, balding, obnoxious man standing at the counter in front of Hunter tapped his glass impatiently on the stained wood bar.
“Three-shot limit,” Hunter told him as he moved to pour a glass for a traveler farther down the line.
“I never heard of such a thing,” the short man sputtered, his fingers clutching the empty whiskey glass. He’d already had his share and was showing the effects.
“It’s my post and my liquor. I figure I can make whatever rules I want.” Hunter wasn’t in the mood to argue. Luther walked up beside him and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Trouble?” Luther asked. Hunter knew that side-by-side they presented a formidable front, both of them over six feet and in prime condition.
“Ask him,” Hunter nodded to the short gent.
The man slammed his glass on the counter, craned his neck to eye each of them in turn, and backed down. “None at all,” he groused. Hunter watched the disgruntled customer pick his way through the room.
“When did the steamboat dock?” Hunter wiped down the wet counter with a damp rag, keeping his eye on the other men sidled up to the bar. He might sell the best whiskey in Kentucky, but he couldn’t abide anyone abusing Luther’s liquor to the point of drunkenness.
“Just this morning. Took a while for Nette and Hannah to lay out the meal for so many. I even made Lucy come in and serve, but shortly after you got here and that little friend of yours began to help, she slipped out back.”
Hunter had seen Jemma moving around the tables with a tray of pie and helping Nette and Hannah clear dishes. Even when he wasn’t looking her way, he knew where she was and what she was doing.
“I don’t know what’s gonna become of Luc
y,” he told Luther. “She’s scared of her own shadow.” She’d been shy even before her mother had deserted her like so much extra baggage; what little confidence Lucy had was slowly diminishing.
“Who is she anyway?” Luther asked.
“Who?”
“Come on, Hunter. That little blond dressed like a boy who sneaked in the door behind you. Who is she?”
His brother was trying to keep his query sounding nonchalant, but Hunter could tell that Luther was curious as hell.
“Her name’s Jemma O’Hurley. That’s all I know about her, except that she paid me good money to bring her upriver and she’s headed for Canada.”
“That’s it?”
Hunter pinned Luther with an impatient look. “That’s it, little brother, so quit diggin’.”
“She’s traveling alone?”
“Yep. Says she’s trying to hook up with her father and brother in Canada, but I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cause she’s fed me a full bucket or two of hogwash already. I don’t know who she really is or what she’s really up to.”
“Canada? Then you can put her on the steamboat when it pulls out.” Luther was watching him closely.
Hunter kept his reaction well hidden as he scanned the room. Men of every shape, size, and description filled the place, all of them different, all with one thing in common—they were headed up the Mississippi to the Missouri as far as the boat would take them and on to parts unknown. Some were scoundrels, some honorable, but he couldn’t tell by looking at them which was which. There wasn’t a woman among them.
“Hunter?” Luther prodded.
“What?”
“So will she be taking the steamboat when it pulls out?”
Luther was watching him so closely that it set Hunter’s teeth on edge, but more than that, trying to picture Jemma traveling with these strangers—fending for herself, the only woman around for miles, alone, at the mercy of her fellow passengers—was making his stomach turn. He glanced across the room at the fat drunk leaning against a table, spitting as he babbled into another man’s face, slurring his words.
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