Brides of Prairie Gold (8 page)

Finally, she realized with a jolt of fresh shock, if she weren't the representative, she would have no reason to see or speak to Cody every day.

Right now, she told herself, losing contact with Cody did not loom as a great loss. Right now, Cody Snow was the enemy. Like all men, he threatened to take something away from her, something she valued, something she needed. Her chin rose and her dark eyes snapped and flashed.

"How did you respond to the interruptions that annoy you so much?" she asked in an unsteady voice. If she hadn't been so frightened of losing the representative position, she doubted she would have found the courage to confront him. He was an intimidating man, and confidence was not her strong suit. "Did you answer their inquiries?"

An impatient movement of one large square hand dismissed her question. "Of course."

"Then you didn't help much, did you?" The words emerged with a sharp edge, propelled by a burst of self-preservation.

It amazed her to discover she possessed the backbone to speak so plainly. But if she had learned nothing else in the last dismal years, she had learned that a man would trample her if she gave him the chance. After Joseph, she had decided it wouldn't happen again. Plus, she needed this position. Her shattered self-esteem desperately required something to build on.

Or maybe she lashed out at Cody because she disliked how flustered it made her feel to be alone with him. She didn't want to feel drawn toward him or any man. She didn't want male scents stirring that hollow space inside her, filling it with strange restless yearnings. Cody made her feel tense and aware of herself as a woman and aware of him as a man, and she didn't like it, didn't want those feelings ever again.

Cody contemplated her squared shoulders and the angry glances that flashed from the sides of her lowered bonnet. He threw back his head and laughed. The sound was as deep and full-bodied as it was surprising. Astonished and offended, Perrin stepped backward from his amusement.

"I'm not laughing at you," he said finally, sensing her offense. "I'm laughing because I made a stupid mistake. You're right. I've undermined you, and I apologize."

Perrin couldn't believe what she heard. Flustered and suspicious, she threw out her hands. "You shouldn't answer their questions. You should direct them to me."

"You're absolutely correct. In the future, if someone approaches me directly, I'll send them right back to you. I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was contributing to the problem."

Perrin stared. Never in a lifetime had she expected to hear a man acknowledge a fault or apologize so readily. Biting her lip, she frowned and examined him with frank distrust.

"If you'll do that," she said slowly, "it would help me enormously."

"I should have spotted the problem myself." He smiled down at her, sunlight slanting across his eyes, making them shine like deep blue crystal. Lightly touching her elbow, he started to lead her toward Smokey Joe's wagon and away from the noise Heck Kelsey made pounding out a length of metal.

But his step faltered and almost instantly he pulled his hand away as if the touch of her scalded him. "Will you accept a cup of cider as a peace offering?"

A warm tingle shot to her wrist and traveled up her shoulder, continuing to radiate from the spot he had touched. Perrin bit her lip and dropped her head. So he was aware of her too. The realization sent a dizzying sensation through her body and she touched her fingertips to her forehead. The last thing she needed was for anyone to observe his sudden awkwardness coupled with the bright bloom on her cheeks, and speculate what it might mean. Fresh rumors would fly, and she could abandon all hope for acceptance.

"Mornin', Miz Waverly." Smokey Joe tipped his hat, then returned to slapping lumps of floured bread dough across the wagon's sideboard. Sunlight cascaded down his long braid in a shine of silver. His drying hair suggested that Smokey Joe had already sampled the stream.

Cody opened the bung on a cider barrel and filled two tin cups. Perrin was careful not to touch his fingers when he extended one to her. "If we can maintain this pace, we should reach Fort Kearney early next week." They moved away from Smokey Joe's fire, and Cody faced toward Addison's farmhouse, his gaze narrowing.

Not wanting to mimic his every move, Perrin shifted in the other direction to inspect the ruts tracking across the land. Far in the distance, she could see the swaying canvas tops of the train ahead of them. Suddenly she experienced a glorious, blinding impression of curving blue sky, green-brown earth, and the small slow-moving white dots of canvas. The beauty and vibrancy of sky and earth, of blue and green and white raised a lump to her throat. With all her heart she wished she possessed Thea Reeves's talent for art and sketching.

When she turned away, the scene too achingly beautiful to bear, she discovered Cody watching her. "It's just"

"I know," he said softly.

For one strange moment they held each other's eyes and Perrin's chest tightened at the unexpected intimacy of sharing an instant of perfect unspoken accord. He knew exactly what she was thinking and feeling; she knew that he shared the same sensations. She didn't recall such a stunning certainty ever happening to her before.

After a minute Cody cleared his throat, then raised the cider to his lips. "How ill is Winnie Larson?"

"We all assumed it was coach fever," Perrin answered slowly, grateful to move beyond the disturbing moment of mutual understanding. "But she should have recovered by now." When she saw a spark of alarm flare in Cody's eyes, she added hastily, "It's not cholera. Sarah Jennings has seen cholera and this isn't it. Winnie isn't feverish or nauseous. She's just" Puzzled, she shook her head. "I don't know."

Winnie Larson's condition had become a continuing and worrisome enigma. She didn't exhibit real symptoms of illness, yet neither was she capable of functioning adequately. When she attempted to help Jane Munger, her wagon partner, her mind drifted in the midst of a task and she seemed to forget what she was doing. Last night, when Perrin had stopped by Jane's and Winnie's wagon, she had discovered Winnie standing beside their cook fire, swaying and smiling into the flames, a pan of bread forgotten in her hand.

Jane had pressed her lips together and shrugged helplessly.

Dark circles rimmed her eyes, and her vivid coloring had dimmed with fatigue.

Perrin frowned. "I've tried speaking to Winnie, but it's like talking to a cloud."

"Are there other problems I should know about?"

She couldn't give up this job, she could not. It felt so good to have a purpose, to believe that she might make a difference, however small. She simply could not let the other brides cast her back into loneliness before she had a chance to redeem herself. Somehow, some way, she vowed to prove to Cody and the others that she was more than her reputation suggested.

"Ona Norris wrenched a finger. Bootie Glover set the grass on fire around her firepit, but Mem put it out." She paused and drew a deep breath as she always did before she could make herself speak Augusta's name. "One of Augusta Boyd's cows is limping."

"Tell Miles Dawson to take a look at it."

When she spoke again, the words came in a fierce rush. "I'm going to succeed as the women's representative, I know I can do this, and I will! But if" She swallowed and made herself go on. "If you find it necessary to replace me I think Sarah Jennings really wants the position. Hilda Chun or Mem Grant would also be good choices."

Two weeks on the trail had revealed which of the brides could be depended on to approach a task straightforwardly and without hesitation or complaint. Sarah, Hilda, and Mem were as different as three women could be, but they were alike in competence, attitude, and strength of character.

"Are you suggesting that I replace you with Mrs. Jennings?"

When Perrin realized how readily the other brides would follow Sarah, or Hilda, or Mem, her heart sank.

But trying had to count for something. Didn't it?

"No. I want you to give me another chance."

He hesitated, then walked out on the short grass budding on the land. Finally he turned and looked at her. "I don't know why, but I'm pulling for you, Mrs. Waverly. I'd like to see you succeed." He tossed the rest of his cider on the ground. "Don't misunderstand. This gets corrected or we make a change. I don't have time for constant interruptions. If you can't handle being the women's representative, I expect Sarah Jennings can."

"I can do it!"

"Show me."

Turning so abruptly that her skirts billowed behind her, Perrin walked away before he could see the tears of frustration that sprang into her eyes. All right. Now all she had to do was figure out how to make the women come to her instead of bothering Cody. And she had to fight her attraction to him. She would. She had to.

Miles Dawson and John Voss strung a rope down to the stream so none of the women would slip and fall, and they hacked a crude path through the thicket of willows crowding the banks. A second, separate bathing spot was designated for the men.

Though the brides agreed the males in their train appeared to be honorable, they also knew the young teamsters could be prankish, so Perrin Waverly volunteered to stand guard at the top of the rope and chase away any male who wandered too near. With their privacy ensured, the other women could enjoy their first bath since the journey had begun. Everyone hurried through irksome chores in anticipation of the treat.

Hastily, Mem Grant lined up tins of rising bread dough, crowding the pans along the wagon's sideboard. That done, she filled a large pot with water from the barrel she would replenish later today, and put the supper beans to soak. Next, she sorted the laundry into piles and located a cake of mild soap that would serve for laundry and for a bath. Lye soap would have been better for the laundry, but she couldn't find her wash supplies.

"Where are our towels?" she muttered in exasperation. Mem couldn't stand fully erect inside the wagon, couldn't reach the trunks in the back of the wagon bed. She had believed she had planned the load carefully with everyday needs within easy reach, then the food barrels, and finally the items they would not require until they reached Oregon and set up housekeeping. Frowning, she tried to recall who had packed the linens. Surely Bootie hadn't packed their towels in the Oregon trunks.

"It's warm today, but the wind is chilly," Bootie called, raising her voice so Mem could hear her inside the wagon. She wrapped dust-caked skirts around the bundles of soiled linen so their petticoats couldn't be seen. "Augusta said there was ice in the water."

"A brisk dip will be invigorating. Where on earth are the towels?"

"I've never bathed outside, or in front of other people," Bootie added. Mem glanced out the back of the wagon and saw her sister wringing her hands and glaring as if the air and sunshine were enemies. "But if Augusta can bathe in a stream, so can I."

"You certainly can if you want to be clean. Heaven knows when we'll have another chance." To fend off the headache building at the top of her spine, Mem planned how she would describe stream bathing in her journal. She would make it sound exciting and extraordinary to her descendants, perhaps amusing. But the words wouldn't form in her mind. Right now all she could think about was the anticipated pleasure of washing the travel grime off her skin and trail dust out of her hair.

Bootie offered a hand when she climbed down from the wagon, but Mem waved it away. If she relied on Bootie, chances were they'd both fall to the ground. "We'll use these old shawls as towels until I can find ours." She lifted a bundle of laundry, waited for Bootie to gather a pile, then they walked toward the ropes the teamsters had strung.

"Oh! I meant to ask. Do you recall the names carved on the crosses we passed last night?"

Mem looked at her sister. "What is the point of filling your trip journal with the names of people who have died?"

She didn't understand Bootie's obsession with the graves they passed every day or so. Here they were, having the grand adventure of their lives. There were a thousand new and exciting experiences to record. The first river crossing, the first antelope sighted, the first meal that wasn't raw or overcooked, the first warm day, the first bath in a cold rushing stream.

A fringe of reddish gold hair and Bootie's frowning gray eyes were all that showed above her bundle of laundry. "Augusta says it's important to make sure those poor unfortunates are not forgotten."

"Then let Augusta record their names."

"Augusta says it is our Christian duty to assume this obligation. Besides, I can't think of anything else to write in my journal."

"Augusta says!" Mem rolled her eyes. "I am growing thoroughly weary of hearing that Augusta says this and Augusta says that. Perhaps you've forgotten that less than a month ago, Her Majesty wouldn't deign to give you a nod when she passed you in the street. And frankly, I doubt you'll be deluged with invitations from her once we arrive in Clampet Falls. Why you follow after that woman like a lapdog mystifies me."

Bootie's eyebrows soared above the pile of laundry. "Augusta and I are becoming friends! She's a true lady!"

"So are you. So what? If you ask me, Cora Thorp has more character in her little toe than Augusta Boyd has in her entire snooty body. That poor young Miss Thorp is working herself into a state of exhaustion because your esteemed 'friend' considers herself too refined to lift a finger."

The mere suggestion of Augusta Boyd assisting with the tasks of ordinary mortals appeared to shock Bootie. Mem sighed. She wondered if Bootie had really joined this venture to be with her, or if the appeal of the journey had been that Bootie had finally spied a way to insinuate herself into Augusta Boyd's charmed circle. If Mem had an apple seed for every time Bootie had taken to her bed in grief over being excluded from one of Augusta Boyd's teas or soirees, she could have planted an orchard.

They washed their laundry first, clumsily and not very thoroughly. Smiling, they exchanged excuses with Hilda Clum and Cora Thorp as to why they were not taking time to heat boiling water and do the job properly. Mem was not the only bride to rush through her chores; apparently everyone was impatient for a bath and eager to visit Addison's farmhouse and see what there was to see. Bootie helped her drape their wet petticoats and gowns on willows to dry in the thin spring sunshine, then finally they were free to rush down to the bathing area.