Seb cracked an eye open and peered across the fire. “’Bout settlin’ down?” Jacob nodded. “You really think it’s come to that?”
Jacob suppressed another sigh (he’d never hear the end of it) and tried to explain his jumbled thoughts. “Just look around, Seb. The West is fillin’ up. Folks are floodin’ in, takin’ up any land that’s halfways decent. There’ll be nothin’ left for us, Seb.” Jacob looked out as the twilight deepened into night. “And I’m tired of spendin’ my days wanderin’, not havin’ a place to call home. I want to be like them,” Jacob said, gesturing emphatically to the dwindling fires of the wagon train. “To have hopes and dreams. To have somethin’ to live for.”
His last words echoed off the hills. A long moment passed. Finally, Seb cleared his throat and broke the silence. “Makes sense,” he said simply.
Jacob looked up in surprise. “Really?” he asked. “You thinkin’ the same thing?”
Seb snorted. “Me? Not hardly!” he replied. “You might be turnin’ into an old man, but I’ve got plenty of livin’ left to do, let me tell you.” He flicked the last of his cigarette into the fire. “But like I said, makes sense. For you.”
The conversation lulled into silence. Jacob absently rubbed a hand over his neatly trimmed beard, discontent swirling in eddies around his heart. It was all well and good to want to find a home, but what was a home with no one to share it with? And what kind of woman would want to hitch herself to a wandering cowboy like him, with nothing to his name but a horse and what it could carry?
He’d noticed a few pretty little things on this very wagon train. His brow furrowed. But it took much more than a pretty face to make it out here on the frontier. She’d have to be strong, and not just to handle the physical exertion of the endless toil, but she needed grit, determination, and heart to scrape a life worth living out of the wilderness. She’d have to be something else, that much he knew. Someone different from all the meek, helpless young ladies he had known who balked at dirt and were scared of their own shadows. His mouth turned up in a half smile. Not like a pretty face would hurt none. But Jacob didn’t know if such a woman even existed. He stared into the undulating flames and dreamt about a future that probably wasn’t possible yet tantalized him all the same.
The distinct sound of approaching footsteps caused the two scouts to tense, hands on their guns.
“Name yourself, stranger!” Jacob called out sharply.
The footsteps stopped. A disembodied voice answered from the night in a Georgian drawl that lit a lurid, long-suppressed memory in Jacob’s mind. “Andrew Thompson, gentlemen, I—”
“Walk into the light real slow-like, Mr. Thompson,” Seb cut him off coldly, “and state your business where we can see yer face.”
A tall young man, about their age, stepped into the light of the fire. “Evenin’, gentlemen,” he began again. Jacob’s jaw clenched. That accent. “I’m Andrew Thompson, and—”
“I don’t remember no Andrew Thompson on this here train. Do you, Jake?” Seb cut in again, his eyes locked on the newcomer. The fellow stood there with his mouth hanging open, clearly not used to being interrupted so frequently.
“Nope,” Jacob answered through clenched teeth.
The newcomer finally realized his jaw hung open and closed it with a snap. A light of anger flared up in his dark eyes, but he continued smoothly. “I’ve been talkin’ with Proctor, and he’s agreed to take me on as an outrider. Said you fellas could use a hand. Said I’d best find y’all and introduce myself, seein’ as how we’ll be workin’ together.”
Jacob spat into the fire, his action punctuated by the hiss of moisture hitting the red-hot coals.So Proctor thinks we need help from this greenhorn?Jacob thought. As if they needed help. He and Seb had done this trek almost as many times as Proctor had. What is this Georgia boy going to bring to the table? Jacob scowled.“Where were you when we left St. Joe?”
“I couldn’t get away ’til now,” Andrew replied curtly.
Seb grinned wickedly. “Aww, did yer mama finally let you leave?” He seemed oblivious to the fire of resentment he stoked in the newcomer. Or maybe he was fully aware and enjoying it. Or maybe, like Jacob, he was remembering the last time they had heard that accent behind the Opal in St. Louis, where Jacob had been beaten within an inch of his life and Seb had lost two fingers on his left hand. All because Jacob’s deadbeat father couldn’t afford the whiskey in his belly. Jacob breathed deep, rage flaring inside his chest.
“I got held up on the trail,” Andrew said roughly.
Seb stared at him, letting the tense silence fester. Andrew’s eyes narrowed dangerously under the flat brim of his black hat. Jacob saw atelltale twitch in his friend’s fingers where they rested on the grip of his pistol. He ground his teeth in frustration. He didn’t like this upstart any more than Seb did, but if he didn’t intervene, somebody was going to get hurt. Besides, this greenhorn hadn’t done anything other than speak in the wrong kind of drawl. Jacob wrestled his seething anger under tight control then extended his hand. “Welcome to the train, Andrew.”
Andrew hesitated, glancing at Seb. Then he took Jacob’s hand in a firm grip and sat down slowly.
Seb grinned as if nothing had happened, but a hint of malice remained behind his eyes. “Name’s Sebastian Charles Baker the Third,” he said, introducing himself like he was king of the world. “And this here’s my partner, Jacob Munroe.”
They settled into an awkward and strained silence. Jacob sighed again, not caring what Seb thought. It was going to be a long trek to Oregon.
Chapter 5
Thefirstdaysonthe trail passed by in a blur of activity. Uncurling the wagon circle in the morning and finding their places at night took twice as long as Proctor wanted, and everyone was on edge under his harsh demands. But he had led many trains of settlers to the West and had the reputation of perfectly timing the run to Oregon, waiting just long enough for the spring grass to establish itself to graze the stock, but not too long so that the trail was stripped bare by all the companies before them. There was talk amongst the travelers that he had lost both his brothers to the trail in the early winter of ’46 and he’d been trying to find them ever since. So everyone did their best to obey his orders and learn as quickly as they could.
Getting into the rhythm of travel was more difficult for some than others: what to cook, how to cook, packing and repacking the wagons, harnessing the ornery mules and the oxen teams, driving the livestock—every gram of energy focused on making it through the day to collapse exhausted at night.
Driving the wagon was almost as tiring as walking alongside, and with Pa and Ian and Danny mostly occupied with driving the cattle, this job fell to Kate and her mother. Mostly Kate, really. Unless the going was easy and the team just followed the wagon in front of them, Ma didn’t quite have the gumption to call the mules, and she really didn’t care to try. You had to show them you were in charge or else they wouldn’t listen to a word you said.
Kate watched the other pioneers and cringed. Many of them had no clue what they were doing, judging by the overloaded wagons and the number of accidents and runaways that had already happened mere days on the trail. These dreamy-eyed farmers had clearly never handled teams of mules before, let alone these green broke, third-rate beasts they had likely been duped into buying at exorbitant prices by skinners in St. Joe claiming they were from the finest mares and biggest jacks in town.
Kate was proud of her pa. He may not have sold the most mules, but he had a reputation up and down the Mississippi of only selling good, well-broke stock. She had even helped train them the last few years, much to her mother’s chagrin. But Kate was a good driver, Pa said, saying that he couldn’t be leaving the team and all their worldly possessions in more capable hands. Her father entrusting her with such a responsibility made Kate nearly glow with pride, although it didn’t quite stop her from longing to buck her responsibilities and go riding with her brothers. On the back of a horse: that’s where she truly belonged.
Kate stood at the back of the wagon, musing over the first days on the trail and gently mixing the beginnings of a biscuit dough. The wagon tongue folded down into a rough but convenient workbench for cooking and cleaning, and it was currently occupied with flour and rendered animal fat. She measured the lard, scraped it into the bowl of flour and baking soda, and plunged her hands into the mixture, combining the ingredients until it crumbled like handfuls of oats. Then she added water and a bit of fresh milk still warm from old Winifred, and the mixture began to look like something edible. At least this was one womanly skill she excelled at, one thing that she might actually accomplish up to her mother’s standards. Kate realized she was pounding the dough in frustration and eased up before it became so tough the biscuits wouldbake into bricks.
