Brides of Prairie Gold (38 page)

He stared at her, his arousal so strong that she could feel his need across the space that separated them. "You won't start respecting yourself until you start holding your head up. Do you know that you walk with your eyes on the ground, your head lowered?" His stare darkened to a scowl. "And, damn it, Perrin, you weren't just an itch that needed to be scratched!"

"Then what am I to you?" Her husky whisper vibrated with a need to hear an answeran answer he couldn't give.

"I don't know, all right? I don't the hell know!" He pushed a hand through the hair falling forward on his forehead.

"What are you looking for, Cody? What do you want?"

"It's time to settle down," he answered finally, clenching and releasing his jaw. "I want some land, a place that's permanent. Some cattle. Horses."

"Are there people in your dream?" she asked, trying to see his face in the darkness. "Who lives in your house with you?"

"Just me," he stated firmly.

Not a woman who had been another man's mistress.

Perrin's hand slid away from her face and she gazed up at him with a helpless expression. "We're both frauds, Cody Snow," she said quietly. "Neither of us has the courage to trust or love. We're both cowards."

She felt his eyes burning against her back as she returned to her wagon. With all her heart, she wished she were running toward him, not walking away. But she refused to let another man ruin the reputation she was fighting so hard to rebuild.

They painted their names in tar on Independence Rock, paid three dollars a wagon to cross the high, swift Sweetwater River, entered a stretch of deep sand and constant dust. When the women had enough energy to talk, they joked weakly that the mosquitoes were the size of hummingbirds.

Slowly, the barren, overgrazed road climbed the eight-thousand-foot summit of the Rocky Mountains toward South Pass.

To the north, Augusta saw the stunning Wind River Peaks arising above wide gray swales. To the south rose the flat top of Table Mountain.

She flapped the reins across the backs of her oxen, the motion automatic now. The ugly buckskin gloves she had borrowed from one of the teamsters concealed hands that had toughened over the last weeks. Her blisters had hardened into calluses.

That wasn't the only amazing change she had undergone. When she pulled her collar away from her throat and peered into the mirror, she could see a line of darkly tanned skin above the milky skin below. Only her nose continued to burn and peel.

Now she could set up her own tent, and she had learned to start a fire unless the wind was especially strong. The coffee she drank in the mornings had been made with her own hands. She cooked her own breakfast and supper. The menu never varied. She ate bacon and beans for breakfast, soggy biscuits and fried ham for the noon meal and supper. Having mastered these itemsand no one could be more surprised by her success than she wasit occurred to her that she might ask Sarah how to fry an antelope steak. It was stupid to continue refusing the game the men occasionally brought into camp because she didn't know how to cook it. She desperately craved variety in her limited diet.

But, amazingly, she was taking care of herself. Even more astonishing, for the first time in her life she had accomplishments beyond her illustrious name and ancestors.

Every day she grew stronger in knowledge and experience. But weaker with growing fatigue. It was beginning to worry her that it got harder and harder to pull herself out of her bedroll and face another grueling day.

Every time one of the brides jumped off a wagon to walk behind and rest shoulders stiffened from hunching over the reins, Augusta wished she had a wagon partner. It would be easier if there were someone with whom to divide the work, with whom to share the small things that happened each day.

It would have been nice to have someone notice the enormous changes she had made and perhaps offer a word of praise.

Biting her lip, Augusta twitched her oxen into line, following the wagon ahead of her, passing it, then turning her animals inward before she hauled up on the reins.

She remained on the hard wooden seat until one of the teamsters appeared to unyoke the oxen. Tonight they would let the beasts graze on the open range. It meant more work collecting them in the morning, but grass was sparse here, grazed out by the trains that had preceded them.

Climbing down, she flexed her legs and arms, working the cramps out before she dug a trench for a fire. She needed to cook her supper, fetch some water, wash out a few things, clean up the supper pot and dishes, set up her tent, roll out her bedroll, prepare the utensils for a quick breakfast, mend the stockings she was wearing, beg a little lamp oil from someone. Fatigue pinched her features at the thought of all that she needed to do.

But there was also a swell of pride at the knowledge that she would do what she had to. She knew how.

She had coaxed the chips into thin flames and ground some coffee beans before she felt someone watching. Startled, she jerked up her head.

"Cora!" For an instant she was absurdly glad for someone to talk to, even if the someone was only Cora. Then she noticed Cora's tight smug smile.

"It's hard, isn't it? Driving with no relief. Do your hands and shoulders shake at night when you crawl into your tent? Mine used to shake after I'd slaved for you all day."

The light went out of Augusta's eyes, and she stood up from the fire, wearily shaking coffee flakes from her dusty skirt. "What do you want?"

"Want? As a matter of fact, I came to offer help."

Suspicion thinned Augusta's lips. "What kind of help?"

"When we reach South Pass tomorrow, I plan to sell Thea's sketches while we're waiting for our turn to go through." A knowing smirk curved her mouth. "I wondered if you'd like me to ask my customers if they know anything about the Eagglestons."

Augusta's heart lurched and for an instant she thought her knees would collapse. Her breath stopped and she couldn't speak.

"You remember the Eagglestons, don't you?" Cora asked in a hard voice. "You should. You've been spending their money since you stole it off their dead bodies!"

Augusta gasped and threw out a hand to steady herself against the wagon wheel. "That is a lie!"

"Is it? I been thinking about this for a long time. You squeezed a penny till it shined before we buried the two teamsters. After that, you spent money on foolish trinkets and suddenly didn't mind buying fresh eggs and vegetables when they were available. I think you stole the Eagglestons' money."

"You're only guessing!"

"Not anymore, I'm not," Cora said smugly, studying the guilty crimson burning Augusta's face.

Augusta hid her shaking hands in the folds of her skirt. "No one will believe such a ridiculous story!"

"Probably not. The others think you're rich. But you ain't aren't, are you?"

"Are you asking me to pay you not to spread ludicrous rumors? Is that it?" She could hardly speak the words. There wasn't enough air in her lungs to push the words out.

"No," Cora said promptly. "It's bad luck to spend a dead man's money. But I figure to pay you back for all you done to me." She studied Augusta and smiled. "Someone left a note way back at the Chimney Rock, looking for information about the Eagglestons. If I find him, I'm going to tell him that you stole the Eagglestons' money. I'll tell him about those trips you took out behind the Eagglestons' wagon and how you came back with your gloves stuffed full of coins. That's what you did, isn't it?"

"I didn't steal anything! I just that was" She was dying. She could not pull enough air into her chest.

"Save your lies for the Eagglestons' friend or relative. It's his money you're spending."

Augusta stared. "It was you that night, wasn't it?" she whispered. "It was you watching us in the woods."

"What are you babbling about?"

Augusta bit her tongue. Maybe it hadn't been Cora. She was too tired to think. Crazily, she wondered if Cora had felt this exhausted, this low in her mind when Cora was riding with her and doing all the work. How had she borne it?

Suddenly she thought of the army of servants who had staffed the Boyd mansion in Chastity, most of whose names she couldn't recall. Had they gone to bed too tired to eat their supper? Had they ached deep in their bones? Had they resented and hated her?

She had never had such thoughts before, had never tried to imagine the lives of the people who had served her.

Cora threw Augusta a look of pure contempt, then tossed her head and returned to Sarah's wagon.

It was customary to camp a day at South Pass and celebrate reaching the highest altitude of the journey. High-spirited teamsters and passengers galloped along drifts of snow, firing their sidearms and whooping. The children from a Mormon train plucked wild alpine flowers near icy patches. Everyone marveled at snow in late July.

Mem and Bootie strolled down a row of wagon beds, twirling their parasols and examining various arrays of goods. It seemed everyone had something to sell. When they reached the plank Heck had set up for Cora, they paused to admire Thea's sketches.

"My, my," Bootie marveled, leaning to inspect the prices. "Is anyone actually paying a whole nickel for these?"

Cora displayed a tightly sealed jar and rattled the nickels inside. "Sold five sketches so far," she announced proudly. "And the questions they do ask!" She rolled her eyes and laughed. "I swear, the man who bought Jane's sketch well, he asked so many questions, I swear he fell in love with her portrait."

Bootie's gloves fluttered before her bosom. "Oh, dear! Jane didn't want her portrait displayed!"

"Oh?" Cora frowned. "Well, nobody told me."

Mem couldn't take her eyes off a sketch of Webb. Thea had portrayed him astride the mustang, returning to camp after a day riding out ahead of the train. His head was high, his body relaxed. Thea had captured the pride of a warrior, the grace of an Englishman.

On impulse, Mem dug a nickel out of her little wrist bag and dropped it on the wooden plank. "I'll take that one," she said, blushing to the roots of her hair.

Cora scooped the nickel up before the sun hit it. Carefully, she rolled the sketch into a cylinder and tied it with a piece of yarn. "Here's another that is especially good," she said, grinning as she pushed forward a portrait of Mem and Bootie carrying laundry toward a stream. Their sleeves were rolled up and their skirts tied back. Bootie looked pretty and flustered. Mem thought her own depiction was highly romanticized; she too looked almost pretty.

"Now, why would we pay a nickel for Thea's sketches when she'll give us one for nothing?" Bootie said, lifting an eyebrow at Mem. "And why would you want a portrait of that" she saw Mem's posture stiffen, "our scout?"

Because I love him, Mem thought hopelessly. "I want to remember everything about this trip," is what she said aloud.

Sometimes it was hard to protect another person's secrets. Right now she longed to reveal Webb's family identity and background just to watch her sister's expression. A sigh lifted her chest and she adjusted her bonnet against the sun's glare. She hadn't had a headache in several days and had dared hope they were gone forever. But now her head pounded.

"Mem?" Bootie asked as they began the walk back to their wagon. "Where do you go at night?"

A flush stained her cheeks. "I beg your pardon?"

"Occasionally I wake up and you're not in our tent." Bootie tightened her hold on the potatoes she had paid a fortune for at one of the displays. She kept her gaze on the ground. "I hope you're not doing anything foolish," she said in a voice more serous than Mem had heard from her in years.

"Foolish like what?"

"We have husbands waiting for us in Oregon. We'll live next door to each other, I'll insist on that, and we'll have a good life." She lifted eyes that were soft and gray and pleading. "Please don't do anything to spoil our future. Don't do anything you'll regret. Mr. Coate seems strange and interesting to youI know you're curious about himbut, Mem, he's only a half-breed scout. A man who lives on a saddle. He can't give you a home or any of the things that make life comfortable."

"Why do you well, that's just" Mem blustered into silence. Had Bootie spied on her? Did anyone else know about her and Webb meeting beside Smokey Joe's fire? They walked a little farther, then she said in a low tone, "What if I told you that I that Webb Coate and I are friends? Good friends."

Bootie didn't fall to pieces as Mem had half expected.

"It would make me very anxious," Bootie said finally, lowering her nose to sniff the potatoes. "Mr. Coate is not a savage as I used to think he was," she said after a brief hesitation. "He's polite and clean and he does his job well," she continued, listing the qualities she admired in a man. "He seems decent enough and respectable."

"But he's an Indian. Is that what you're trying to say?"

"It's unseemly to chase after one man when you're pledged to marry another. That's what I'm trying to say."

Mem stared at her sister, appalled. "Do you think I'm chasing after Mr. Coate?" A guilty flush stained her throat.

"And, you're right. He is an Indian. Not our kind."

The slur came almost as a relief. For an instant, it had seemed as if Mem were speaking to a stranger. "You know," she said, frowning, "I just realized something you're doing your share of the work!"

Bootie rolled her eyes. "Well, I swan! Of course I am."

"You weren't at the beginning." Why hadn't she noticed this before? Bootie had made tremendous progress toward finally growing up. There was no other way to say it. A burst of pride and surprise lit Mem's face. Before they reached their wagon, she praised Bootie extravagantly, then touched her sister's arm.

"Don't worry about me," she said in a voice of quiet regret. "Mr. Coate and I are only friends. I enjoy his company and he appears to enjoy mine. That's all it is or will ever be."

Heart aching, she accepted this was true. She and Webb continued to meet every night by Smokey Joe's fire, but he'd made no attempt to repeat the kiss they had shared at the Sioux village. Mem's lust and wantonness were wasted.