Ella

by Sadie Conall

  ELLA

  escape west by wagon train series

  Copyright © 2018 Sadie Conall

  This book is a work of fiction except for the obvious historical facts. All other names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission from the author.

  All rights reserved.

  @sadieconall

  Contact Sadie here:

  sadieconallauthor@gmail.com

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  www.sadieconall.com - where you can sign up for her newsletter which goes out on the first of every month and check out links for free previews to her books

  Books by Sadie Conall

  Madeleine (seven-part series)

  historical romance fantasy

  When the Wolf Loves

  When the Wolf Hunts (previously published as When the Wolf Bites: Part I)

  When the Wolf Bites (previously published as When the Wolf Bites: Part II)

  When the Wolf Dreams

  When the Wolf Breathes

  Ryder: a boy alone

  a short story

  Escape west by wagon train (two-part series)

  historical western romance adventure set around mid-1840’s

  Ella

  Ruby – coming in 2019

  This book is dedicated to

  my readers

  and those who support me, you know who you are

  and to my sister Susan

  And a big thanks to Charlene Raddon who designed my

  cover. You can find her at www.silversagebookcovers.com

  Author’s Note

  I’m dedicating this book as a thank you to all those readers who have stayed with me over the past four years, for your kind words, your reviews on Amazon and Goodreads, your emails, your follows, likes and messages on Facebook and Twitter and to those who follow my newsletter.

  Also a special thanks to those readers who suggested names for the heroine of this story (which I asked for in my newsletter). To Robin for her suggestion of Ella which I love and to Karen and Linda for their suggestion of Constance and Julie for her suggestion of Martha.

  This story, unlike the Madeleine series, has no fantasy in it. It’s an historical western romance which begins near St Louis, Missouri in the year 1846, an exciting time in the young and rapidly expanding America, with steamboats and wagon trains struggling to cope with the influx of immigrants pouring into the territory.

  The lucrative fur trade is almost at an end and fur trappers are finding employment elsewhere, some as scouts on wagon trains. It has been almost sixteen years since President Jackson signed the Indian Removal Act, where many tribes east of the Mississippi River were relocated west of it so settlers could farm their lands, although by 1846 wagon trains had been rolling across their lands for almost ten years with an estimated half a million settlers heading to California, Oregon and Utah between the years 1843-1849 alone. And within a few short decades from the time this story is written, Native Americans living on their own lands will come to a bloody end as they are moved onto reservations, their land sold to settlers and railroad companies, with railway tracks eventually laid from coast to coast, opening the west to millions.

  But this story isn’t about the bloody wars which loom ahead for young America. It’s simply a love story which begins when fate crosses a young woman’s path and whether she decides to reach out to take the chance offered.

  I hope you enjoy it.

  Love Sadie x

  Table of Contents

  This book is dedicated to

  Author’s Note

  St Louis territory Missouri April 1846

  Chesterfield, Missouri April 1846

  St Louis Missouri April 1846

  Independence, Missouri May 1846

  Indian Territory: May 1846

  June 1846

  August 1846

  September 1846

  October 1846

  Fort Hall, October 1846

  Epilogue

  St Louis territory, Missouri

  April 1846

  1

  Marrok Gauvain crouched on a hill, looking through binoculars to the land which swept away beneath him. To the south and west lay woodlands and levees which ran down to meet the Mississippi River, north lay the bustling city of St Louis and east of him were rolling hills. He glanced back towards the river, for even at this late hour large steamboats, keelboats and paddle-steamers were making their way towards St Louis, eager to berth for the night and allow their passengers to disembark.

  He put the binoculars aside, squinting against the glitter of the setting sun on the water, watching as smaller vessels kept close to the banks, allowing right of way to the massive steamboats and paddle-steamers heading for the wharves of St Louis.

  But Marrok grunted as he watched them, wishing as he sometimes did that this territory was as he remembered it when he first came here ten years ago as a youth of nineteen. Back then, St Louis had outgrown itself as a frontier town and had settled into a bustling community of Indians, mountain men, French fur traders and settlers. But it wasn’t like that now. With the pressure to handle the hundreds of thousands of immigrants arriving each year with dreams of settling in Colorado, Oregon, California and Santa Fe, St Louis had become a boom town. Although Marrok knew better than anyone that progress was inevitable and with money to be made off those settlers, only a fool would dare try and stop it.

  A man once remarked to him that it had taken several hundred years to settle all that land east of the Mississippi River, therefore it was likely to take several hundred years to settle all that territory west of the Mississippi River. But from what Marrok had seen in the past few years, if the numbers of people pouring into the territory were any indication of it, that land west of the Mississippi would take less than a hundred years to colonize. Because it wasn’t just Americans arriving in their thousands with hopes of settling in the west, but people from all over the world. Miners, blacksmiths and farmers, wealthy businessmen, doctors and lawyers all following a dream of owning land, of building empires.

  And Marrok was one of them. So although he might wish to turn the clock back to how this territory used to be, he had also been seduced by the charms of the west. Indeed, he wished he were there now, in that fertile valley in northern Oregon with a river rich with salmon and forests teeming with elk and white-tailed deer.

  Ten months at the most, that was all, and he would be back there, carving out his own piece of paradise from the wilderness, this job done and forgotten.

  He watched as the boats berthed below the town and although he wasn’t a betting man, there was one wager he knew he would win. Almost none of those passengers would get a bed in St Louis tonight, not for a king’s ransom, for such a thing was almost impossible in these bustling times. Marrok knew it because he’d spent hours walking the streets of St Louis, trying to get two rooms. In the end he’d paid almost double the usual going rate for two tiny attic bedrooms with single cots in a boarding house way at the back of town. But at least the place was clean, which almost guaranteed it was also free of bedbugs.

  He sighed with fatigue and ran a hand over his face, feeling the dust and grim of the day’s travel along with the day old stubble on his unshaven jaw. But shaving was the least of his worries. He had no time for such luxuries.

  He put the binoculars to his eyes once more and swept the land around him, then confident he was alone and there was no-one to cause him trouble, Marrok packed
the binoculars away in his saddlebags before checking his weapons. One large knife hung in a leather sheath on his left hip. Another lay in a sheath on his right moccasin. A shotgun lay in a sheath by his saddle and a pistol lay in a leather sheath on his right hip. Another knife lay hidden within a leather bag which he carried over his shoulder, for Marrok trusted no-one these days, for along with the settlors pouring into St Louis came vagabonds, opportunists and thieves.

  He reached for the wide brimmed leather hat which lay across his saddle horn but before he put it on and mounted his horse, he turned once more to look out across the country around him, squinting in the glow of the setting sun, wishing he didn’t have to make the journey ahead of him. But he had agreed to it and he wouldn’t go back on his word. Besides, he was halfway there. And he’d been paid well enough to do it.

  He put on his hat and mounted his horse, but turned when he heard the sudden, distant sound of men’s voices raised in alarm. He pulled at the rim of his hat to shield his eyes against the glare of sunset and saw a paddle-steamer bearing down on a large keelboat. The men in the smaller boat raised their fists in anger as the bigger vessel came in too close to the bank. The paddle-steamer sounded its horn and bells, warning the keelboat to steer clear, its massive paddle to the rear of the boat churning furiously, allowing the vessel to move away just in time to avoid a nasty collision.

  Marrok felt the frustration of the men on the keelboat, for he had been on flat boats taking wagons across the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers when those massive boats came in too close. They dominated the river and although able to carry hundreds of passengers and livestock, they also brought chaos with them. For the smoke from their chimney stacks lingered long after they’d gone and the wake left behind damaged the levees. But they would keep coming upriver because of the money to be made off the people they carried and this morning alone, Marrok had counted twenty big vessels berthed below the town, both paddle-steamers and steam boats.

  He kicked his horse on down the hill towards a small woodland which lay some five miles in the distance, planning to set up camp there for the night. And even as he thought on it, Marrok felt the hunger pull at his belly. His only meal in the past twenty-four hours had been a quick meal in his favorite eating house in St Louis, after leaving his horse in a friend’s livery to be brushed down and watered. The middle-aged couple who owned the eating house never served up anything fancy, but Marrok had never once been ill from their food and their premises were always clean. Nor did he mind the eating house was in one of St Louis’s back alleys, well away from the hustle of the main streets, for Marrok liked the quiet there. And the couple always made him feel welcome, they didn’t care who he was or where he came from, as long as he caused no trouble and had money to pay for his meal. Although as twilight began shifting into grey shadows, Marrok knew it wasn’t food he desired, but the comfort of a warm fire and a good night’s sleep. He was tired, but he’d been travelling now for over a week for a job he should never have accepted, but he’d been paid beyond what the job was worth and at the time, Marrok thought he could squeeze it into all his other commitments. Although he knew now that he was pushing himself too hard. For tomorrow he must be on the road well before dawn if he had any hope of reaching the homestead before breakfast. And to make it back to St Louis by tomorrow night, he must leave the homestead by mid-morning because if he didn’t, he would struggle to meet his own obligations.

  He thought of the supplies he’d purchased that afternoon and decided to chance his luck and cut off some of the cured bacon to cook for himself, and take a few of the sweet bread rolls, for he had no desire to go to bed on an empty belly. Although he wouldn’t touch the eggs. He only had six and he might need them to sweeten the deal tomorrow morning. Because if she didn’t agree to return to Independence with him, this job would have been a waste of time for him and a waste of money for the man who’d paid him so much to ride all this way to get her.

  2

  Ella stood in the kitchen as Martha walked slowly around her, admiring the dress. “You make sure your hands are free of baking now, Martha,” she scolded. “I won’t get the stains out of it if you get something on it.”

  “Oh hush girl. You know full well I wouldn’t dare get this thing all dirty, for I do declare it’s the loveliest wedding dress I ever saw.” Martha stood back to admire the satin and silk creation.

  The dress was a perfect fit, hugging Ella’s body in all the right places with the deep rich cream complimenting her skin tones and dark hair, while the satin and lace gloves reached up past her wrists covering her work-worn hands.

  Ella lifted the satin skirt, feeling the weight of the half-dozen petticoats beneath it, then she dropped it, allowing the material to fan out around her.

  “Oh Martha, I do love it,” she said, a longing to her voice. “But you know as well as I do that I’ll never wear it, for how can I marry such a man?”

  “Because you’ve no choice,” a spiteful male’s voice came from the hallway.

  The two women swung around to see Milton, older brother to Quentin Torray, Ella’s late father, standing in the doorway. Ella felt disgusted to think he’d been standing there in the shadows watching her and wondered how long he’d been there.

  He stepped into the room, a sneer on his weak face as he admired the dress, making her skin crawl as he looked her up and down. When he raised his eyes to meet her own, Ella recognized his self-satisfied grin for what it was. An entitlement that embodied all his power and none of her own. He knew it and she knew it. But as he grinned, a vicious spitefulness to it, Ella felt that now familiar rage, a thing unknown to her before her father’s death. She felt it rise and take possession of her and before she could think on the wisdom of it, she leaned towards her uncle and when she spoke, her voice was low and full of venom.

  “I will not marry Jebediah Crawley. I would rather rot in hell than allow you to sell me off to that old leech. You have no authority over me, you’re not my guardian. And I’m telling you now Milton, the marriage to Jebediah will not take place.”

  She stepped back as her uncle took a deep breath, his face turning an angry red but before he could curse her and raise his fist, Ella turned on her heel, opened the kitchen door and stepped outside, slamming the door behind her.

  Milton followed her, wrenching the door open, even as Martha fled the kitchen to the safety of her own room at the back of the house. Yet she heard Milton’s rage, his voice booming out across the porch.

  “You damn well will marry Jebediah,” he bellowed, slamming his fist against the door frame. “The Church is booked for Saturday week. The Banns will be read out this Sunday.”

  He slammed the door so hard the frame around it rattled. Then Martha heard him stomp out of the kitchen and back down the hallway to the small study at the front of the house. It was a room which Quentin, her brother-in-law, had always used as his own. She heard Milton slam the door behind him, then there was nothing but blessed silence.

  *

  Milton sat down in the worn leather chair behind the old desk, his breath ragged with anger. He should be used to this defiance of his niece, but even after all these months, he was still astonished by it. For the girl had fought him every step of the way since his arrival here some six months ago.

  Although if he thought on it long enough, Milton knew the war between them had started on the reading of Quentin’s Will, read aloud by an attorney in Chesterfield, which bequeathed that all of Quentin’s belongings were to be shared between Ella, his only child and Milton, his only sibling. Partners, the Will had stated.

  Except neither of them wanted a partner. Certainly not Milton. Especially not a defiant young woman of twenty-five who should already be married with several children hanging off her skirts and living in her husband’s house far removed from this one.

  Within days of the Will being read, Milton had insisted the ranch be put up for sale so he could get his half of the money out of it, for he had no interest in making a
life here. He wanted to go back to New York. He wasn’t a rancher and never would be.

  But it was then, on his insistence that the ranch be sold, that the war between his niece and himself evolved into a full on battle. Because she didn’t want it sold. And as if the good folk in this god-forsaken place took her side, no-one came forward to buy the place, except one man.

  Jebediah Crawley, the richest man in the territory. But along with his offer to buy the ranch, came one condition. Ella was to be included in the deal as his bride and to get the deal done, Jebediah had offered Milton an extra bit of cash, which Ella knew nothing about.

  Milton had seen little harm in it, indeed he thought it was a good arrangement for all of them. He would walk away with a sizeable sum for his share of the ranch, plus a large amount of extra cash for making the sale happen.

  Ella would get her share of the ranch, plus a rich husband.

  Jebediah would get the ranch along with a young bride more than half his age who would give him sons and ensure his legacy lived on in this territory.

  Milton grunted as he thought on it. Ella should be grateful to him for setting her up for life, for Jebediah could give her whatever her silly female heart desired.

  Except she wasn’t grateful. And she was determined not to marry Jebediah, even though the marriage was to take place by end of April, or the deal was off. For Jebediah was now forcing Ella’s hand, well aware the girl had no desire to marry him, but he would have her as his bride, by whatever means it took to get her to the alter.

  Even starve her out, if necessary.

  And the end of April was only two weeks away.

  Milton reached for the bill of debt sitting before him. It was a debt he owed from gambling, although it was way beyond his means. And it must be paid, otherwise the man concerned, a professional card player who had arrived in the county upriver from New Orleans, would hurt him badly. And Milton didn’t doubt the threat, for he had seen the knives the brute carried.