by Merry Farmer
“What I mean to say,” Lucy went on, “is that I would love to marry, but only if it was someone I wanted to marry.”
“There are plenty of single men in this wagon train,” Josephine said. “Let’s see if I can’t pick out one or two for you to choose from.” She sat straighter, lifting a hand to shield her eyes as if she would search out all the men and do some match-making right there.
Estelle’s heart did a small flip, and without thinking of it, she twisted to look over her shoulder at Graham again. He was plodding along, red-faced and sweating with effort. Estelle’s chest tightened. Clearly he was struggling, and yet he kept on going.
“You fancy the soldier there, do you?” Josephine spoke with surprising softness from the edge of her wagon seat. “Lt. Tremaine, isn’t it?”
“Oh, I, um,” Estelle stumbled. “I’m not the marrying type,” she managed at last.
“Not the marrying type?” Lucy balked. “Every girl is the marrying type, if the right man comes along. As for me, I don’t expect to find a man here on the trail. I’m certain that once I reach Wyoming, my father will know a full cadre of eligible Wyoming landowners that he can introduce me to. Why, I want a strong man, a man with mettle.”
Lucy went on, describing in minute detail exactly the man she wanted. Estelle listened, but with only half her attention. She turned to look behind her again, insisting it wasn’t to check on Graham. He was pushing on. His eyes flickered up to meet hers. Estelle drew in a breath and faced forward.
“Mark my words,” Josephine said. “I’ll have found husbands for all of you by the time we reach the split to Denver City.”
Lucy laughed. “I’d like to see that. But you’re a single woman too, Miss Josephine. Maybe we’ll find a man for you.”
Josephine barked a laugh. Unladylike as it was, it fit her to perfection. “I’m far too old to let a man into my life, dear. Granted, I’ve known one or two in my day that I accounted quite special, but keeping one close by? I’m far too old for that.”
“How old are you?”
“Forty-five,” Josephine answered with pride.
“That’s it? That’s certainly not too old for love,” Lucy insisted. “Why, love is the best thing there is. Everyone should be open to it.”
Not everyone, Estelle thought. For some, love and closeness could only dredge up questions that were best left unasked.
It never ceased to amaze Graham how the absence of less than twenty-four inches of his body could cause so many aches and pains in the rest of it. The wagon train pushed on all morning, finally stopping for a late lunch as the sun began its descent in the western sky. Graham had walked the whole distance, refusing to let himself stop and ride even when his crutch rubbed blisters under his arm. He’d broken down and taken out his second crutch to ease his steps, but the joints in the knee and hip of his remaining leg still felt as though they were on fire. He paid for his stubbornness the moment he stopped moving.
“I poured too much beer for the crew earlier,” Estelle said as she handed him a tin mug with just a skimming of froth. “I’d hate to let it go to waste.”
Graham wasn’t fooled. He grinned up at Estelle from the barrel where he’d planted himself fifteen minutes before. He’d shrugged out of his hot uniform coat and draped it on the grass beside him. Estelle must have seen that he was incapable of getting up and finding himself something to drink on his own, so she brought refreshment to him.
“Thanks,” he said, accepting the mug. He took a swig. Nothing had tasted so good in years. “It’s not that strong,” he commented after downing half the cup in one long draught.
“Pete says it’s best to drink either boiled water or something that’s been brewed,” Estelle explained, going back to work over the campfire where she was finishing up a light lunch for the train staff. “Water found out here can carry dysentery.”
“Makes sense.” Graham nodded and drank the rest of his beer.
“It won’t last for long,” Estelle went on. “Pete told me that he cut back on the alcohol supply for this journey. Apparently last year, a group of miners got out of hand with the whiskey on a daily basis and caused trouble.”
“Hmm.” Graham nodded. He had nothing else to add, and was too exhausted to search for something.
Estelle returned to her steaming pot, content to keep to herself for now. Graham smiled and watched her. Miss Lucy Haskell had talked her ear off earlier—and was still talking Josephine’s ear off a few wagons ahead—so Estelle was likely in the mood for peace and quiet. If he was being honest with himself, Graham liked the silence in spite of the company.
He laughed at himself and lowered to rest his elbows on his knees, cradling the mug. He should be grateful that he still had two knees to lean on. All of his doctors had told him it was a blessing that they hadn’t had to cut above the knee. Some blessing.
“Um, excuse me.”
Graham blinked and looked up to find a nervous young fellow hovering beside him. The man had a scruffy beard—as if he’d forgotten to shave for the past few days—and hair that needed brushing, but his clothes were well-made and spotlessly clean. That didn’t change the fact that he stared at Graham with a flash in his eyes.
Graham straightened, back stiff. “Can I help you?”
The man shifted, hands twitching at his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “Your leg,” he said, pointing. “I noticed earlier that you’re having trouble.”
“I don’t like to talk about it,” he said, then turned away to face Estelle.
Though she didn’t say anything and her posture hadn’t changed, Graham could tell Estelle was watching the exchange. There was a certain alertness to her, a tension in her jaw.
The man shifted to stand in front of Graham once more. “My name’s Gideon Faraday,” he said. A beat later, he extended a hand.
Graham arched an eyebrow in warning, hoping the man would get the hint and back off. He couldn’t sustain his defensiveness, though. Not when Gideon Faraday had such an expectant look in his eyes. Reluctantly, Graham shook his hand.
“Graham Tremaine.” Maybe if he offered nothing more, the man would go away.
No such luck.
“Am I right in assuming that you’re having trouble walking?” Gideon asked.
The man had some nerve.
“What do you think?” Graham snapped.
“Oh.” Gideon scuttled back, blinking fast. “No, no, I’m sorry, it’s not… I don’t ask out of curiosity.” He searched the camp, found a crate nearby, and dragged it over, sitting by Graham’s side. “I’m an inventor, you see.”
“An inventor?”
“Yes.” Gideon beamed like a child, though he must have been thirty at least. “Yes, well, a scientist, really.”
“Oh?”
“My background is in chemicals,” Gideon explained, “but I’ve dabbled in mechanics as well.”
He scooted closer, dropping his eyes to study Graham’s leg. He picked up Graham’s crutches, which had fallen to the grass beside his uniform jacket. Gideon hummed, nodded, and turned one crutch over.
“You hoping to invent me a new leg?” Graham asked, wry bordering on bitter. He shot a glance to Estelle. She was definitely watching. Curiosity had replaced her wariness.
“Yes,” Gideon said, distracted.
Graham’s brow flew up in surprise. Gideon turned the other crutch over a few times, then put both down, leaning toward Graham. He pointed to the knot in his trouser leg.
“May I see?” he asked.
Estelle straightened fully, all pretense of giving the two men some space gone. She didn’t say anything, but gave Graham a look as though she might.
“It’s not a pretty sight,” Graham grumbled.
“Oh, I don’t mind about that,” Gideon smiled, almost laughed.
Graham couldn’t decide if the man was crazy or just foolish. He snuck another look at Estelle, then sighed and reached for his trouser leg.
It had taken Graham m
onths before he’d been able to look at the stump where his leg used to be without his stomach turning, or worse, without wanting to weep. It wasn’t just a limb he’d lost, it was dancing, running, freedom. His future. As he loosened the knot and rolled up his trousers, his heart sank all over again.
“Oh,” Gideon said, brows lifting in pleasant surprise. “Why, that’s not bad at all.”
Not bad at all? Graham huffed a weary laugh. His leg ended roughly two inches below his knee. A series of ragged scars where his skin had been saved and sewn around the stump still stood out in livid red, even months later. The army doctor who had worked on him had done a fine job, if “fine” was the right word. He could still remember what his foot looked like—before it and his ankle had been crushed—could still remember what normal walking felt like.
“That shouldn’t pose much of a problem at all,” Gideon announced. He glanced back and forth between Graham’s leg and non-leg, a calculating light in his eye. “Give me a few days and I’ll put together something for you to try out.”
That was it. Gideon stood and took the crate back to the spot where he’d found it. He then turned and smiled at Graham.
“I look forward to working with you,” he said. “This journey should prove fruitful.”
Graham shared a confused look with Estelle as Gideon walked away.
“Well, that was different,” he said.
Estelle’s soft mouth curved into a smile. She returned to her work, but the smile remained, filling Graham with a sense of ease that was at odds with the abrupt arrival and departure of Gideon Faraday. He opened his mouth to comment on it.
“Excuse me, is Mr. Evans around?”
The question that stopped Graham from continuing his conversation with Estelle came from a middle-aged man in a suit that was just a touch too formal for the trail. He looked to Graham with a familiar spark of admiration in his eyes, or rather looked to his uniform with admiration.
“He’s—”
“Right here.”
Graham and Estelle both turned to find Pete striding up the line of parked wagons toward the camp.
“Ah, Mr. Evans,” the man in the suit said with a smile, walking to meet him. “Have you given any thought to my proposal?”
Graham checked with Estelle, but her brow had lifted in surprised curiosity. She didn’t know what this was about either.
“Yeah, and I guess it would be just fine,” Pete said. He turned first to Graham, then Estelle. “This here is Mr. Clarence Nelson. He’s had this idea of forming a trail council.”
“A trail council?” Estelle finished with the pot she was scrubbing, wiped her hands on her apron, and faced Pete and Mr. Nelson.
“Yes.” Nelson’s smile grew. He included Graham in the discussion as he said, “You see, I’ve found that groups of people, such as our wagon train, function better when they have a clear line of authority to govern them.”
“Isn’t Mr. Evans that authority?” Estelle asked.
“He is,” Nelson smiled, “but Pete here can’t be bothered by simple day-to-day things, like sharing rations or solving disputes or anything like that that comes up.”
“I thought that’s exactly what a trail boss did do,” Graham said.
Pete held up his hands. “This is my last trip west. I’m not too proud to spread around responsibility, especially if it means I can enjoy my last journey without settling a bunch of numbskull disputes.”
“Glad to hear it, Mr. Evans, glad to hear it.” Nelson shifted, tucking his thumbs into the pockets of his vest. “So you don’t mind if I form the council?”
“Be my guest,” Pete answered.
“I’d like you to be part of it, of course,” Nelson went on.
“Sure.” Pete shrugged.
Nelson turned to Graham. “And how about you, sir? Lt. Tremaine, isn’t it? We haven’t been formally introduced—something I’ve been meaning to remedy since this morning—but we would be blessed to have a veteran of this past war participating in our governance.”
“Me?” Graham balked. Who on earth would think to ask him to be a part of any council?
Still, a strange, prickling feeling spread through his chest. It had been months since he’d been recognized for his military service instead of the way it had all ended.
“It’d be an honor, Lt. Tremaine,” Nelson said.
Graham’s mouth fell open. He blinked a few times before letting out a breath and saying, “I’ll do what I can.”
“Splendid,” Nelson said. “And if you have any suggestions for other members, be sure to let me know. I plan to have the council up and running by the end of the week.”
“Works for me,” Pete said.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” Nelson went on, “I’ve got a wagon train full of people to introduce myself to.” Nelson nodded to Graham and Pete, tipped his hat to Estelle, then turned and headed on.
“Never had a trail council before,” Pete said, taking a seat beside Graham once Nelson was gone. “It might take a load off my mind.”
Graham’s lips twitched into a grin.
“That man is a politician,” Estelle said.
Pete laughed. “Probably, but if he makes this journey easy for me, he’s got my vote.”
Graham laughed with him. That in itself surprised him. Here he’d thought he’d go through the rest of his life with people avoiding him or showing him pity, but now he wasn’t so sure. He glanced across the camp to Estelle. She smiled and hummed as she went back to work. The sound filled Graham with hope and left him wondering what other miracles might happen on the trail.
Chapter Three
After hearing tales of all the hardships that could be encountered on the Oregon Trail, Estelle was surprised that the worst trial she faced in the first week of journeying was boredom. Walking all day, with only a short break to ride out the heat of midday, was a novelty during the first two days, especially with so many people to get to know. But by the end of six days, her feet and legs were tired, her back was sore, she had met as many of her fellow travelers as she cared to know, and the stark routine of the whole thing was beginning to make her mind fuzzy.
“I’m bored. This is boring. Let’s go back,” one of the orphans whined to Mrs. Gravesend.
They had finally stopped for a whole day, a Sunday. The wagons were arranged in a tighter formation, which meant that Estelle’s neighbors were clustered all around her. The orphans were wriggly enough when everyone was stretched in a line, but stopped, they seemed to be everywhere.
“Yeah, I want to go home,” another child, a girl around ten years old, moped early in the morning as Sunday dawned.
“You haven’t got a home, stupid,” a boy of about fourteen snapped at her. “That’s why we’re out here.”
“Children, hush,” Mrs. Gravesend scolded them, more exhausted than angry. She sat on a barrel beside their campfire, a hand pressed to her chest. Her face was flushed and she kept her eyes half-closed as she fanned herself with a tin plate. The poor woman didn’t look well at all.
“Do you need some help, ma’am?” Estelle offered from her own campfire. She had the crew’s breakfast done and served, and her only other plan for the day was to walk down to the river to bathe.
“Bless you, Estelle, but no,” Mrs. Gravesend waved her off. “Libby here can help me.”
She gestured to the oldest of the orphans, a willowy girl who must have been sixteen or seventeen. Libby exchanged a tired look with Estelle, but nodded that she would be all right.
The orphans continued to pout and whine. Estelle would have shared their sentiments, but for the fact that she knew she was better off where she was, in spite of the boredom. She stepped away from her campfire and circled around the back of the wagon to find her washing things. There wasn’t much privacy on the trail, and if she wanted to get clean without anyone seeing her, she would have to do it before too many of the pioneers woke up.
She peeked over her shoulder at Graham’s wagon as she started t
oward the river. Graham must have still been asleep. He deserved a rest after so many days of walking. He’d walked as much as he could in spite of his leg, then broke down and used two crutches instead of his preferred one, and only drove his wagon when he looked so exhausted Estelle that feared she’d have to rush to pick him up where he dropped.
The Platte River wasn’t exactly the most savory river to bathe in. It was slow-moving, shallow, and twisty, which meant that there was as much mud and silt as water rambling through its curves. Some of the tributaries were a bit clearer, but after decades of use as a water source along the trail, it was a challenge to find a spot that hadn’t been used as a latrine. Pete Evans was good about finding those spots.
Once she reached the river, Estelle undressed and laid out her clothes as quickly as possible. In just her chemise and drawers, she waded into the cool shallows of a tributary. The very last thing she removed was her bonnet. Holding her breath, she let her hair spill down her back.
Her hair was her curse. It was the one thing that gave her away. Her skin was smooth and light, as if she’d been in the sun more than she should. Her features were delicate, like her father’s family. But her hair was thick, jet-black, with tight curls. Having it uncovered filled Estelle with wariness, as if someone would spot her, put two and two together, and raise a fuss. That very thing had happened too many times for her to count. She tossed her bonnet to the riverbank, where she would be able to snatch it up quickly later, and dunked down into the water to wet her traitorous curls.
An unexpected smile crossed her lips. The water was cool around her dusty and heated skin. She’d brought a cake of soap out with her, and scrubbing herself thoroughly was good enough to bring a sigh of pleasure to her throat. Scrubbing her hair and scalp was almost as much a relief as a rainy day after months of scorching Georgia summer. She indulged in the feeling, massaging her scalp and floating in the water longer than she should have.
“Land sakes, Estelle, what are you doing down here alone?” Lucy’s voice snapped Estelle out of her reverie. “I told you she must have come down here. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to wander off alone on the trail? Mr. Evans told us so.”
