Authors: Beth Williamson
“Well, of course you can teach me all about it on the way to Oregon. After all, four months is quite a long time to get to know somebody.” She grinned. “I find you very handsome, Mr. Malloy. Why aren’t you married?”
John almost swallowed his tongue. He kept his face impassive while his gut churned. “Miss Harvey, I really have a lot of work to do, so if you don’t mind, I’d best get to it.”
Veronica’s smile widened, her teeth shining in the bright sunshine. Before he could stop her, she leaned over and kissed him squarely on the mouth.
“I’ll see you later, John,” said Veronica as she turned to walk toward the back of the wagon. “Quite a long time indeed.”
John rubbed at his mouth, trying to rid himself of that kiss. Damn, he hadn’t expected her to be that forward. He glanced around, hoping like hell no one had seen that. Veronica’s younger brother, Arthur, stood at the back of the wagon, watching him. The eleven-year-old was quiet and not at all like his father and sister. He must have his mother’s coloring, with the dark brown hair and dark eyes.
Mrs. Harvey was in the back of the wagon, no doubt trying to stay out of the sun. The woman barely left it, and today was no exception. He heard her murmuring to someone behind the canvas and he was pretty sure it wasn’t the lonely young boy watching John.
“Hey, Arthur, come here.”
The boy obeyed, albeit slowly. He wore high-quality clothes—store-bought, of course—but they had tatters on the cuffs and a few smudge marks. John was glad to see at least one Harvey acted his age.
“I have a job for you. I’m thinking you’re old enough to have a job.” John folded his arms and watched the boy’s reaction.
Arthur puffed up his chest and nodded sagely. “I’m old enough for a job. I fetch all the water, build the fire and clean up around the camp already.”
“Good to know you’re a hard-working man.” John gestured to the oxen. “I need you to keep an eye on these animals for me.”
“Their names are Magellan, Hudson, Lewis, Clark, Davy and Crockett.”
John smothered a smile. “If that’s what you call them. The yokes can hurt them if they aren’t situated just right.”
“If you show me what to do, I can do it, Mr. Malloy.” Arthur looked so serious John almost reconsidered. If the boy failed at the task, he’d take it twice as hard. However, considering his family, it might be the first time anyone had given the boy a true responsibility. He seemed like the only good apple in the Harvey barrel.
“All right, then let me show you.” John pulled the boy over to the oxen and spent the next fifteen minutes demonstrating the proper placement of the yoke, traces and cinch. By the time they were done, Tom was nearly bouncing up and down in the saddle with impatience.
“It’s time, Malloy. My brother’s about to call the start.”
With one last pat on Arthur’s head, John swung up into Blue’s saddle and headed for Buck Avery. He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. This was not only the beginning of the trail for these pioneers, it was the beginning of his final trail ride.
Finally. John Malloy would get his piece of land. He could hardly wait.
Frankie stood beside the wagon, vaguely listening to her sisters chatter on beside her. She watched the rest of the wagons impatient to move as the Chastains waited their turn. They were toward the back of the line, their rig slightly ragged but serviceable. It had been what they could afford.
She shifted from one foot to the next, leaning against the canvas. Her thoughts drifted to John Malloy and the way he treated the old woman who refused to leave. Francesca didn’t blame her for not wanting to go. She was nearly ancient—there was little chance she’d survive the trip to Oregon. The family had made a choice, a difficult one, to make the trek to the land of milk and honey rather than wait another year. The old woman was a casualty of the family’s decision, as horrible as it was.
John had treated the old woman like a lady, with respect and gentleness. Frankie didn’t need to see that side of him. She wanted to believe he was a silly man with little regard for women. Yet he had shown a completely different approach with the old woman. Perhaps it was for show, to get the woman settled so they could get moving this morning.
Her heart had performed a silly pittypat after watching Mr. Malloy with the old woman. Frankie wanted to hear that tone spoken to her, as stupid as that was. There was something about his voice that sent a skitter of awareness down her skin.
“Don’t you damn well think so, Frankie?” Charlotte was dancing from foot to foot, her still boyish figure swallowed in a dress two sizes too large. Frankie recognized it as one of Isabelle’s that had been outgrown years ago. Charlotte never cared much for how she looked.
“Papa will spank you if he hears you cursing.” Francesca shook her head at Charlotte’s stubborn expression.
“I don’t care a whit.” Charlotte stuck her chin in the air. “I’m nearly sixteen. I can damn well curse if I want to.”
Frankie remembered being fifteen, being naïve and full of herself. Now at twenty-one, unmarried and wiser, not to mention cynical, she ached to be that innocent. Choices made and decisions never to be undone shaped her life.
“Of course you can.” Frankie pulled her into an impulsive hug. “Do not ever change.”
Charlotte pulled back and shook her head. “You sure are acting dotty. Hell if I know why.”
Frankie laughed out loud, and it felt so good, she did it again. She took Charlotte’s hands and danced in a circle. Isabelle and Josephine stopped to stare, and even Maman peered at them from her perch on the wagon seat.
“Francesca,
cherie
, what is happening?” Maman called.
“I am happy to be free and on our way.” Frankie’s smile was genuine for the first time in nearly a year. “And although they drive me to distraction, I love my sisters.”
“How interesting.” Maman gave her a small smile and disappeared from view.
“Well, I’m not professing goddamn love for any of you.” Charlotte’s expression told the story. “There’s no chance in hell.”
This time Josephine chuckled, then Isabelle tittered. Frankie held in another laugh until Charlotte’s expression melted into mirth.
“You are ready for an asylum, Frankie. Crazy as a shithouse rat.”
This time all four sisters laughed together until Frankie’s stomach hurt and tears squirted from her eyes. The future and potential happiness were ahead of them—dark times lay behind them. Frankie could finally stop looking over her shoulder.
“Oh, the wagons are moving.” Charlotte wiped her eyes and stood on her tiptoes to peer at the line of wagons.
Frankie’s belly fluttered. Oregon had been their only choice, and she had done everything in her power to make sure the Chastains made the trip west. Now that they were here, ready to leave, to embark on the longest, toughest journey of their lives, her heart had begun to beat again. Excitement jumped through her.
A hush fell over the wagon train as Buck Avery stood tall in the stirrups. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. He was a bear of a man, with dark curly brown hair and blue eyes. “Our first leg of the journey will begin here to the Kansas River Crossing, a little over a hundred miles. If anyone breaks down or needs help, please give us a shout, we’ll have riders up and down the sides of the trail.”
The silence of the waiting group was only broken by the occasional shuffling of the oxen as they waited.
“If there’s no more questions, we’ll be on our way,” said Buck. He turned his mount west and raised his right arm over his head. “Wagons ho!” he shouted.
With that, the wagons began to move one by one.
The dark stranger arrived in Independence under the cover of night. His bulky form slid into the hotel as quietly as a gust of wind. He stepped up to the counter, his hat hiding much of his face except for the bushy black beard on his jaw.
The young clerk behind the counter stared at the man, goggle-eyed behind his thick spectacles.
“I need a room.” The command made the clerk jump about a foot in the air. The stranger was used to the reaction and counted on it. A poor Irishman had few choices, and he’d made his long ago.
“Y-yes, sir. I’ve got one right on the second floor. It’s c-clean and only steps from the washroom.” The clerk’s hand shook when he held out the key.
The stranger slapped down two dollars and snatched the key. “The wagon train headed to Oregon still here?”
“Um, they leave regular-like, mister. Right now there is one just west of town, but another left two days ago.” The clerk slowly reached for the money.
The stranger squeezed the key in his hand. “The wagon train that left, was that led by Buck Avery?” That name was hard-won and cost him days of tracking his quarry.
The clerk’s eyes widened more, impossible as that seemed. “Um, y-yes, sir. It was.”
“Fucking hell.” He pounded the desk with one meaty fist. “Where can I find a horse to catch the wagon train?”
“I’d talk to old man Gunderson at the livery.” The clerk didn’t let go of the money, but he didn’t step back either. The boy had balls after all.
Declan Callahan stomped up the stairs, his bag slung over his shoulder. He cursed his luck for arriving two days late. Damn it to hell. If he went back without the woman, he would be dead before he had a chance to tell his story to his boss. He had to catch them. There was no other choice.
During the first week out, the mood at each night’s campfire was jovial and full of laughter. The four Chastain sisters snuggled together for warmth as they had done since they’d arrived in Missouri. Frankie, as always, sat in the middle with Charlotte tucked under one arm. Isabelle and Josephine were on either side. They were all different pieces and parts of their parents.
Maman and Papa sat on the other side of their small fire, his arm resting gently around her shoulders. They were affectionate with each other and their daughters, an unusual occurrence many people attributed to their French upbringing.
However, Frankie knew that wasn’t the real reason. After meeting various French immigrants in New York, her parents were an anomaly amongst their fellow countrymen. Theirs was a true love match, one that she envied and at the same time wondered how she would survive such an intense relationship.
“Papa, tell us a story.” Charlotte was sleepy, but she always had the energy to beg their father for a tale. He was a wonderful storyteller.
“You will not stay awake for one.” He smiled at his youngest daughter. “Your eyelids appear to weigh more than you.”
Charlotte struggled to sit up straight, bumping her sisters in the process. They all chuckled at her attempt to ignore her sleepiness. “I am wide awake.”
Their father hesitated, glancing at Maman. She lifted one shoulder with a smile. He kissed her forehead and looked at his daughters again.
“One short story, then it is bedtime for everyone,
oui
?”
A long day of walking made each of them tired. Going to sleep should not be a problem, but they pretended to moan and groan, mostly for Charlotte’s benefit, before agreeing to their father’s terms.
“Do you have a favorite you would like to hear?” he asked.
It was all part of the game they played. Their favorite story was always the same one. Papa told it so well, with such passion in his voice, it had captivated each of them from the time they were small.
“The story of the princess and the carpenter.” Charlotte spoke for all of them, never needing to ask what they wanted to hear.
“Ah, of course. Why would it be any other?” Papa grinned. “It was 1825 and a young apprentice carpenter was practicing his craft in a small village outside Paris. He was poor but proud of his skills, although he was barely making enough money to feed himself.”
Frankie watched her sisters’ faces as they fell into the story immediately, taken by the tale of how their parents met.
“One day the apprentice was approached by his teacher, an old carpenter with the skills of more than fifty years, to create a music box. It was to be a gift for a rich young lady for her eighteenth birthday from her father, a physician.” Papa paused, waiting until Charlotte could not keep quiet.
“Tell us what happened!”
He grinned at her. “The apprentice spent hours crafting the gift from the most beautiful rosewood music box. He included music from the great composer, Herr Mozart, a tune that spoke of the beauty of life, of the notes and of the owner of the box.” Papa glanced at Maman. “When the day arrived, he wrapped the music box in a piece of white satin and delivered it to her house. Unaware of the gift her father had commissioned, the young woman answered the door.”
This time it was Maman who smiled. “And found a scruffy young man with two days’ growth on his cheeks and dirty fingers. She sniffed and closed the door in his face.”
Frankie chuckled, despite the fact she’d heard the story a hundred times. She knew what was to come, but she never tired of hearing it.