by Tina Susedik
“What’s that?”
“We spend the next few months preparing for your trip out west. I’ll have Josiah ask around and find out what you need. And . . .” She tapped a finger against her lips. Her eyes twinkled. “When’s the last time your in-laws were here?”
What was she thinking? “Not since I married Peter.”
“Wonderful.” Mary clapped her hands.
“Why?”
“They don’t know what furniture and belongings you have, do they?”
Sarah frowned. What was Mary getting at? “No.”
“You can sell things and keep the money. They’ll never know the difference.” Mary tapped her lip again. “Our daughter is getting married this spring and will need to set up house. Her future husband can afford to buy your things. What do you think?”
What did she think? Besides giving her some extra funds, it would be like spitting in her in-laws’ faces. With her heart feeling lighter than it had in years, she pulled Mary into another hug. “I think you’re wonderful.”
“Good. Now get something to start making a list. We have work to do, my girl.”
Chapter 4
Jack stood at the beginning of the line of thirty prairie schooners outside of Independence, ready to look for any problems with oxen, horses, or wagons. He and another guide would go through each wagon, making sure the families were prepared for the long trek to Oregon City. Then the wagon master would call to start ‘jumping off.’
The first day would be short to get everyone organized. It usually took a few days for people to figure how to drive their wagons in an orderly manner, learn the rules of the trail, and how to set up camp at the end of the day.
He hitched his collar over his neck. Even though it was early May, the morning wind was brisk and cool. Thankfully the April rains had stopped and the ground dried out. Driving heavy wagons through mud was not a good way to start the two-thousand-mile trip.
The worst part of going through the wagons was telling people they had to leave many of their prized belongings behind. Over the past four years, he fought and argued with couples about bringing pianos, beds, dressers, and china cabinets filled with dishes. After four trips, he knew this time would be no different.
Hell, he understood folks’ desires to bring the comforts of home and family memories. They needed to understand that a lighter load was easier on the oxen pulling the wagons. The trail west was littered with discarded furniture, trunks, clothing, and extra food, not to mention the bones of oxen, mules, and horses that simply gave out from pulling heavy loads.
So far today, the wagons he walked past looked to be in good shape. He’d given approval for the first wagon he inspected when one of the other guides, Horace Manny, approached.
The man made Jack’s skin crawl. He never shaved, so his scraggly beard hung down his chest. Bathing, or even washing occasionally, was as rare for Horace as seeing a whale in the desert would be for Jack. The guide’s clothes, if he ever took them off, were so encrusted with dirt they could probably stand up on their own. Despite being able to smell the man a good distance away, Horace fancied himself a ladies’ man, when in reality, he was a no-account son-of-a-bitch.
“Hey, Billabard.” Horace spat a stream of brown chewing tobacco near Jack’s boots. “Did ya hear we have a widder woman traveling with us?”
Shit. Unless she was a grandma with no teeth and hands curled with arthritis, this could be a problem. Jack strode to the next wagon, knowing Horace would follow. “You don’t say.” Why wasn’t the man checking on the stock like he was supposed to? “Are the animals ready to go?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll check ‘em in a minute.” Horace stuffed another wad of chaw in his cheek, making him look like a chipmunk with a face full of nuts. “I hear tell she’s traveling with a young boy.”
“Yeah, so?”
“You know how widder woman are.”
Jack rounded on the man. “No, I don’t. Why don’t you explain it to me.”
Horace rubbed his filthy hands together. His leering smile sent warning signals to Jack. “They’re lonely. Miss havin’ a man take care of their needs. Could mean some fun on this trip. Too bad about the boy, though.”
It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to punch the reprobate in the face before the trip even started. What the hell was Samuel Hunt, the trail master, thinking when he hired Horace on? In Jack’s mind, the man was worthless.
“What do you mean, ‘too bad about the boy?’”
“You know how brats are. Always gettin’ in the way. Kinda cramps a man’s style, if’n you know what I mean.” Horace’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
All right, time to halt any ideas Horace may have of doing anything to this woman and her son. “Didn’t you read the rules?”
“Can’t read a lick.”
Jack pointed a finger at the man’s chest. “Then I’ll remind you what Samuel told us. No drinking. No swearing in front of the womenfolk. No stealing. And most of all no fraternizing with the women.”
Horace took off his grubby hat and ran his hand down the back of his neck. “Well, now. I reckon I don’t know what that frat . . . whatever you said means, so I can hardly obey it, can I?”
“It means, you leave the women alone. You don’t talk to them unless they talk to you. You don’t eat with them unless they ask. You don’t approach their fire unless given permission. You stick with guiding and hunting. Got that?”
“Well, hell, Billabard. This is one helluva long trip. Won’t be long before I get invited to the widder’s wagon. She’s got to be awfully lonely.”
“You just listen to what I said and leave her alone.”
Horace folded his arms across his chest. “Or what?”
“Or you’ll deal with me.”
“Seems like you already have your eyes set on her.”
Was the man deluded? “I haven’t even met the woman, so how the hell can I set my cap for her? Just do your job and stay away from the people, especially the women.”
“Whatever you say.” With a wink, Horace slapped on his hat and sauntered away.
Shaking his head, Jack moved to the next wagon, checked the supplies, argued with the husband to lighten the load, then moved on. As he approached the middle of the line, a woman held the hand of a small boy. She glanced over her shoulder.
Jack’s heart slammed in his chest, and his vision blurred. For four years, he’d carried the memory of the woman by the strange tree. But that had been a dream. Hadn’t it?
The boy tugged on her skirt, and she bent to say something to him. Wisps of blonde hair tumbled from her bun, touching the bonnet hanging down her back. A premonition hit him like a horse’s kick to the stomach. Was this the widow woman? Please don’t let this be the widow woman. His legs and hands shook as he approached. Hell, he was a man, and she was just a woman. He shouldn’t be nervous to talk to a woman, should he?
With a deep sigh, he slapped the side of his leg for his dog, Avery, to follow, then pulled back his shoulders and strode over to the woman and her wagon. The only thing he could do was his job. He tipped his hat.
“Ma’am. I’m Jack Billabard. I’m here to check your supplies and equipment. Can I meet with you and your husband?”
The woman reached out her hand. She wanted to shake his? That was a first. Women didn’t usually shake hands. Must be one of those progressive types. Her hand and fingers were slim, almost delicate. When she slid her palm into his hand, warmth spread up his arm.
“I’m Sarah Nickelson and this is my son, Tommy.” Her face turned red. “I . . . um . . . Tommy and I are traveling alone.”
Shit. She was the widow. “Where’s your husband?”
“Deceased.” She must have picked up on his skepticism, because she added quickly, “Don’t worry, I can take care of mys
elf and my son. I’m young and strong.”
“You can handle your oxen and wagon?”
Sarah nodded. “Yes. I’ve been practicing all spring.”
The temptation to feel her arm muscles was overpowering. Would she hit him or scream if he did? Even though she was tall, at least a head taller than most women, she was slim. She wore a simple skirt devoid of those layers of petticoats that caught on cactus and tumbleweed.
Could he convince her that traveling two thousand miles without a man for protection was not a good idea?
“And I can help my mommy,” the little boy said, raising his arms to show off his muscles. “I’m strong, too.”
Pain shot through his heart. His son would have been a little over four already. Would he have turned out to be as protective as Tommy?
The boy tugged on Jack’s pant leg. “Hey, mister. Is that your dog?” He pointed to his Australian shepherd.
“Yup.”
“I gots a dog, too.”
Jack squatted before Tommy and scratched Avery behind the ears. “You do? What’s his name?”
“Daisy, and she’s a girl.” Tommy tipped his head to the side and stared at Avery’s stomach. “Is your dog a girl?”
“No, he’s a boy.”
“Too bad, ‘cause they could be friends. Boys don’t like girls.” Tommy ran to the back of the wagon. “Daisy. Come here.”
Jack peered up at Sarah from beneath his hat. Behind her hand, he detected a hint of a smile. His heart skipped a beat. “What do you think, Miz Nickelson? Should Avery and Daisy be friends?”
“By all means. As long as they don’t get too friendly, if you get my drift.”
Hastily, he rose. Was he wrong? Had she just made a suggestive innuendo? Surely not. Women didn’t say things like that, did they? Anyway, his wife never had.
Tommy returned with a small border collie in his arms. “This is Daisy. She’s my bestest friend ever.”
Beside him, Avery growled, then jumped at Daisy. “Down, boy. Looks as if they won’t be friends after all, Tommy.” Before anyone could stop her, Daisy leapt from Tommy’s arms. In the way dogs had, they sniffed, circled, then bounded off together.
“Daisy!”
Sarah grabbed Tommy’s arm. “She’ll come back, honey. She knows where our wagon is.” She picked him up and patted his shaking back. “She loves you.”
Jack had a bad feeling. “Uh, Daisy’s not in heat, is she?” He realized his mistake when Tommy looked at him with red, watery eyes.
“What’s that mean? She’s not sick, is she?”
A lesser man probably would have shriveled under Sarah’s glare. He was made of stronger stuff—he hoped. “No, she’s not sick, son. She’s . . . she’s . . .”
“It just means she wants to play with other dogs. Right, Mister Billabard?”
Okay, so maybe her raised eyebrow made him shrivel a little, but not much. “Right, Miz Nickelson. Since they’re going on this adventure together, they want to get to know each other.”
Sarah’s smile made him feel better. He must have said the right thing. He slapped his gloves on his pants. “I’d better check your supplies.”
Tommy disappeared into the wagon. Sarah didn’t say anything, simply stood, hands folded in front of her. She didn’t look any older than eighteen, let alone old enough to have a boy Tommy’s age. Her plain blue blouse covered medium-sized breasts, while her small waist tapered to hips made for a man’s hands. Those legs under her skirt were probably long enough to wrap around a man’s . . .
His body jerked. Where the hell had those ideas come from? He hadn’t been interested in a woman since his wife died. Not even a glimmer of interest, and now his body was coming to life after only a few minutes of meeting her.
“Well?” Sarah interrupted the flicker of desire washing through him.
“Well, what?”
“If you’re done looking me over, are you going to check out my supplies?”
Oh, right. He was here to do a job, and not lust over a widow. “Uh, Miz Nickelson, are you sure you can make this trip alone?” As soon as he said the words, he knew he was in trouble. Her face turned red. She slammed her hands on her hips.
“Mister Billabard, I assure you I can handle those oxen. I can handle the wagon, my cow tied to the back, cooking over a fire, and anything else you throw at me.”
Jack removed his hat and ran his hand down the back of his neck. “That may be so. There are other problems a woman traveling alone may encounter.”
“Like what?”
“Like men.”
Sarah flattened her lips and folded her arms across her chest. “I can take care of myself and my son. If I need any help, I’ll ask the family behind me. I doubt Mister Olson will attack me. His wife would kill him.”
Biting back a smile was difficult. Sarah was right. Jed Olson, in his forties, was married with nine children. From the brief encounter he’d had with the couple, he knew them to be very much in love, his brood well behaved, and the entire family willing to help where needed. But still, there were men like Horace to consider, and with a comely widow like Sarah part of the wagon train, bad things were likely to happen.
“Let me see your hands.”
Sarah frowned. “What?”
“I want to see your hands.”
With a sigh, she held them out, palms upward. Below each finger and alongside her forefinger were calluses. On the palm of her left hand was an unbroken blister.
“Didn’t you wear gloves when you practiced driving your team?”
“Yes, I wore gloves.” She curled her fingers into her palms. “The blister is from grabbing a hot handle on one of my pans. Now if you’re through analyzing me, go check my supplies.”
Jack inspected the side of the wagon. Like with the dogs, he had a bad feeling.
~ ~ ~
Sarah’s initial reaction to Mister Billabard was surprise. She’d never met him, yet he seemed familiar. The way he stood with his rifle at his side reminded her of the man by the strange tree in her dream.
When they’d clasped hands, the warmth from his skin moved up her arm, rather like when she’d touched the tree. This time she couldn’t explain it away to a slap on her face or a dream.
She was very much awake and aware of Mister Billabard’s masculinity. Something fluttered near her heart, settling in her stomach. Maybe he was right. Maybe she needed to be afraid—not of other men, but his effect on her. Like she was flying down a steep hill on a sled.
Mister Billabard lifted the water barrel’s lid, bringing her from her disturbing thoughts. He checked the leather box containing tools necessary for repairs.
Would the man agree she’d prepared well?
While she understood he was only doing his job, his comments about her inability to take care of herself were irritating.
He didn’t know the hours she’d spent over the past few months learning to drive the wagon with the two beasts Tommy named Rose and Tulip. Nothing she could say convinced her son those names didn’t exactly fit two male oxen nearly taller than herself.
The man had no idea the blisters, the aching arms and shoulders she suffered, until her body adjusted to the physical work of handling the oxen and packing for the trip. He couldn’t know how she’d sold her belongings, piece by piece. Or how her body had throbbed after days of filling barrels with meat, eggs, flour, and other necessities for the trip.
What she didn’t dare tell him was she’d burned her palm while learning to cook over an open fire, something she hadn’t quite perfected yet. Maybe by the end of the trip, she’d figure out how not to scorch everything, including her own skin.
Before preparing for the trip, she’d pored over a guidebook written by a woman whose family had made the trek in 1850. The detailed i
nstructions on what to bring were helpful. The woman had traveled with a family of six, so Sarah cut the amount of food and supplies by two thirds then added a little more to be on the safe side.
Without having to feed Peter, she could pack less food. She’d secured eggs in small barrels of cornmeal, chosen her seasonings carefully, and packed everything in the wagon per the woman’s instructions, leaving room for a small bed for her and Tommy in case they couldn’t sleep outside.
She’d spent the winter sewing clothes, blankets, and making sure she and Tommy had extra shoes, boots, and hats. In the spring she stored up bags of flour, brown sugar, beans, rice, coffee, and saleratus for making bread and biscuits. Instead of using her mother’s old, worn-out pots and pans, she purchased a cast-iron Dutch oven and skillet. Not that it much helped her ability to cook over a fire.
The only bright side was knowing the bills for everything went to her in-laws. And she had no compunction in spending as much as possible.
To add to her coffers Sarah sold her favorite rockers, beds, tables, and most of her beloved books. The black and silver stove Peter had bought her for a wedding present fetched a handsome price. The money was now buried in a hidden compartment beneath her bed in the wagon.
Mister Billabard walked around the wagon, interrupting her thoughts. He checked the wheels, canopy ties, and stepped to the rear, patting her cow. “What’s her name?”
“George.” At his raised eyebrow, she went on. “I know. Strange name. After Tommy named the two oxen Rose and Tulip, he chose a boy’s name for the cow.”
“Cute kid.”
“Mommy, catch,” Tommy yelled before leaping from the end of the wagon into her arms. She staggered backward, managing not to tumble to the ground by the strength of Mister Billabard’s hands at her hips. Even through her skirts and petticoat, their heat burned her skin, traveled down her stomach, and settled in her core.
“Whoa. Easy there, Mister Nickelson. You nearly knocked your mother over.”
