Chapter One
INDEPENDENCE, MISSOURI— May 1877
The billowing, white sails of the wagons almost made her change her mind.
Sophia Zane swallowed hard, her hand gripping the handles of her carpetbag. All that canvas, covering the wagons and rippling in the wind like clouds moving across an endless sky, reminded her of exactly where she’d be going if she didn’t turn around right now.
The desolate West. Wide open. Dangerous. Alone.
Sophia glanced behind her at the road. If she turned around, she would be in familiar surroundings—but she would have nothing. And that was only if Mr. Durham saw fit to leave her alone after taking everything she had, instead of making her Mrs. Durham.
She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. She could do this. The money was her family’s—hers alone now—not Mr. Durham’s. Despite what his attorney had told her.
And she would use it to buy her way onboard one of these wagons, a far less expensive means of travel than the railroad.
Clutching her carpetbag to her as if it were the only thing keeping her from drowning in her own fear, Sophia forced herself to move toward the circled wagons. A woman with a kind face pointed her toward the wagon master.
“Pardon me, sir,” she said to the man bent over the raised leg of his horse. Nearby, another man lay beside his wagon, pale and appearing to be ill.
The wagon master straightened, letting the horse’s hoof return to the ground, and glanced from her face down to her carpetbag.
Sophia pushed a lock of hair from her face and opened her mouth to ask how much it might be to join a family on one of the wagons, but the man spoke first.
“Miss Daisy Timperman? You’re late. We assumed you’d changed your mind. Find your party. We leave in the morning.”
Sophia blinked at him. He thought she was someone else. Someone who had already paid for her place here and . . . and hadn’t arrived. She ought to tell him the truth, give him the name she’d already conjured up for this journey. But . . .
If this Miss Timperman chose not to come, what would it hurt to simply take her place? Sophia could save the money she’d intended to spend on travel to secure her future in . . . wherever it was this wagon train was going.
“Yes,” she said before she could change her mind. “I . . . I don’t suppose you could remind me of the name of the people with whom I am traveling?”
The wagon master looked at her as if she were simple-minded. She could hardly blame the man. Who paid the sum needed to travel west and then forgot the name of one’s traveling party?
She gave him her most winning smile, and he shook his head and laughed a little.
“I believe you’re with the Randalls. Husband and wife, third wagon to the left.” He pointed in the correct direction.
Sophia thanked him and made her way toward their wagon. A young woman, not much older than Sophia herself, noticed her the second she approached.
“You must be Miss Timperman,” she said with the friendliest smile Sophia had seen since her own mother had passed.
It caught her off-guard for a moment, and she paused as bittersweet memories of Mama flooded her mind. And she instantly felt guilty about pretending to be someone else.Mama would understand, she told herself, and she forced her legs to move toward the woman waiting for her.
“I am,” she finally said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Randall.”
“Well, come. Let’s get you settled and then you can help me with supper.” Mrs. Randall reached for Sophia’s carpetbag. Sophia handed it over gratefully. The money was safely hidden in a secret pocket she’d sewn into her dress. It was heavy, but far preferable to risk of losing it in the carpetbag.
Mrs. Randall chatted amiably as they cooked over an open fire, and thankfully Sophia didn’t have to fill in with much conversation of her own. Up and down the circle of wagons, Sophia spotted other women—and a few men on their own—doing the same. Just as they were finishing up, Mr. Randall arrived laden down with sacks and bundles wrapped in brown paper, which Sophia found out quickly were their last-minute supplies of food. Flour, beans, sugar, potatoes, cornmeal, and other things they would need to make last for weeks.
“The missus and I are taking the trail clear out to Oregon. Mr. James said you would be leaving us in Colorado,” Mr. Randall said, clearly curious about why Sophia—or Daisy—would be going to Colorado.
Which would be easier to answer if Sophia were actually Daisy.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m going to Colorado.” And then she hoped he wouldn’t press any further.
It must have satisfied his curiosity, because Mr. Randall went on to inform them that a man traveling on his own had fallen sick and would be remaining behind. That must have been the fellow Sophia had seen when she first arrived. He had looked terrible, and she hoped he would improve.
As they bedded down for the night with Sophia and Mrs. Randall in the wagon, and Mr. Randall sleeping outside to keep an eye on the horses, the entire wagon train grew quiet.
