An idea slipped into Faith’s mind. What if she went with them tomorrow? They’d said this upcoming journey would be shorter than most, likely only a month, before they circled back to the trading post to restock supplies before a longer trip that would last through the winter.
She could accompany them. They planned to start northward, and White Horse had once mentioned a waterfall he knew in that direction. She could at least check that one. And they might even pass others she could search.
Hope rushed into her spirit, and she spun to gather Bertie and head outside. She would have to be convincing, but hopefully her sisters wouldn’t mind her setting off with trusted friends to help share their faith.
It was time she took control of this search and accomplish what Papa had begged of them. Be the daughter he’d believed her to be. Then maybe the pain of losing him would finally start to heal.
TWO
Grant Allen eyed the horse preparing to race the flat stretch of land in front of him. Trappers and Natives had gathered in a line along the raceway, calling wagers up and down the row.
There weren’t as many men now as there had been a couple weeks ago, during the busiest part of the rendezvous. But he still had to move his gaze slowly as he studied each fellow, taking in his profile. His height. The width of his shoulders.
If only Grant had a better idea of what his brother looked like now that Will had grown to manhood. He’d finally found the Sheldon family who’d taken Will in as a boy, after their parents died. But talking with Sam Sheldon hadn’t helped as much as Grant had hoped.
He’d only said that Will was about the same height as Grant, maybe an inch or two shorter. Same color hair ... nay, a bit lighter. Not quite as filled out, though now that Will had come west and lived a year in these mountains, he might be more so.
And now that Grant had spent a month in this western territory and seen the horde of trappers, he had a feeling there might be more changes to his brother’s appearance. Did he wear an overgrown beard like nearly every other white man at the rendezvous? Or, at twenty years old, would Will be able to grow much more than scruff? Grant had shaved every day by that age, but more because his wife, Gloria, liked a smooth chin than any other reason.
“Hiya, Smiles.”
The voice barely penetrated his thoughts, especially with that ridiculous nickname. Only when the young trapper nudged Grant’s arm did he pull completely out of his ponderings to glance at the man.
Grant spared a nod, then turned back toward the raceway. This fellow had been one of the first in line to trade when Grant rode in with the supply wagons. Unfortunately, the young man’s furs had been poor quality, so he’d not received as many supplies in return as he’d expected. Since then, they’d passed each other several times, and the man had somehow dubbed him with the absurd handle ofSmiles, which made Grant want tonotsmile all the more.
The young trapper gestured toward the horses. “Already placed your bet?”
Grant shook his head. “Not much of a gambler.”
“Suit yourself.” The kid shrugged. “Got my eye on that buckskin.” He paused. “Reckon he could help me earn the difference of what I didn’t get on those sorry furs. What d’ya think?”
Grant eyed the animal. The dusky coloring with that black mane and tail was striking enough to catch any man’s eye, but it was theanimal’seyes that concerned him. Thelack of excitement there. And you could just see the flash of white at the corners.
Growing up in St. Louis—the Gateway to the West—he’d had plenty of chances to sit on a street bench and listen to the old men talk about horseflesh. He’d once heard a gray-haired man say you could never trust a horse that showed the whites of his eyes.
Grant hadn’t spent as much time around horses as a lot of fellows here, but he’d paid attention from that day on. More often than not, the man’s words proved true.
Even so, he’d rather stay out of this youngster’s business. The fellow had asked Grant’s opinion, though. And if he bet on the buckskin against that leggy bay with the itch to move out, he’d lose even more of the supplies he needed to survive the winter.
Grant glanced sideways at him. He was about the age Will would be—twenty years. He couldn’t actuallybeWill, though, not with that shock of blond hair.
But if Will were about to make such a poor decision, Grant would want someone to knock sense into him. He turned his focus forward again. “Save your trade goods.”
The trapper spit a stream of tobacco juice onto a rock in front of him. “Nah, I need to win enough powder to fill my cartridges through the winter. You think the buckskin’s the way to go?”
Grant shook his head. If the fellow was going to be bullheaded about it ... “Saw the bay run yesterday. I’d put my money on him.” Except he wouldn’t. He knew far better than to waste his funds on a wager.
“Alrighty then.” The man trotted off to place his bet, and Grant shifted his focus to those lining the far side of theraceway. He’d already questioned many of them, but none had heard of Will Sheldon. Nor Will Allen. He couldn’t be sure whether his brother had used the surname of the family who took him in or kept their real name.
As he finished studying the figures on the far side, the horses moved into position for the riders to mount. It would be a few minutes before they shot the starting gun.
And there came that young trapper, trotting back toward him, a grin as wide as the Mississippi River spread across his face. They should callhimSmiles.
Grant couldn’t help a surge of sympathy. He’d been a boy once, desperate to make sure he’d have enough to eat, willing to take a chance. He’d thought his choices had paid off, once upon a time. He’d managed to secure a wife far above his position in St. Louis society. And he’d become son-in-law and assistant to one of the leading solicitors in the city.
He should have known it wouldn’t last.
The trapper settled in beside him to watch the race. “Thanks for the tip. That bay is a real beauty.”
