The Western Dare (Harlequin Heartwarming) (8 page)

Tracks left by the caravan were distinct. Beyond the copse of trees, the prairie opened into miles of gently undulating hills. Camp unwrapped and ate the last of his morning biscuits. It had taken longer to find his delinquent horse than Maizie’s best guess; if he wanted to rejoin the others today, he’d have to crank up the speed. Which turned out to be easier said than done.

Too often his mind wandered to what it must have been like for the early pioneers. No commercial planes overhead like the ones he saw jetting every so often across the cloudless sky. No automobiles whizzing to unknown destinations along U.S. highway 24, which, if he strained, Camp could just hear. The thought occurred to him that, accurate simulation or not, this trip was cheating. It held few, if any, surprises. A reenactment couldn’t compare with the excitement—not to mention the dangers—of facing the unknown that pioneers had experienced every day. He’d have to note that in his report.

Camp continued to amble along, drinking in the trill of the songbirds. Much of the earlier soreness had been worked out of his muscles. He was getting used to the roll and pitch of the wagon. Around two o’clock he crossed a small bridge that he recognized from Maizie’s brochure. Some distance off the trail sat Neff’s Tavern, the Santa Fe Trail’s first stage station. All that was left was a stone smokehouse.

There—he spotted it over to the left. He wished he could spare the time to stop. If the pattern of tire tracks was any indication, the main column had toured the site. Unfortunately the sun had passed its zenith; he needed to push on. As he plodded past the historic spot, Camp swore he’d triple-check every hobble tonight. With a last regretful glance at the place, he hoped Gina Ames had photographed it from all angles.

Somehow bringing up Gina triggered thoughts of Emily again. Camp was at a loss as to why the woman intrigued him. She was unlike any woman who’d ever caught his fancy. Starting with the days of youth, he’d tended to admire statuesque blondes. All clones of Bunny McPherson, the first girl to initiate him into the wonders of kissing. Bunny, two years his senior, had been voluptuous and generous. She’d had a sense of humor and zero inhibitions, the type of mentor every fumbling fifteen-year-old boy needed.

Odd, he hadn’t thought about Bunny in years. Yet at fifteen, he’d sworn that when he finished college he’d marry her. It wasn’t until the week following his sixteenth birthday, after she’d abruptly moved away, that he learned how many of the boys in his high school had the same idea. Most of them quickly found substitutes. Those guys had no discretion—or loyalty. Camp had a more difficult time transferring his allegiance.

That summer, his history club visited the Smithsonian, and he’d found a new love. Museums. Did that mean there was something wrong with him? Because years later, Greta had bitterly accused him of being married to moldy old museums. Come to think of it, Greta had little in common with Bunny.

Did Emily Benton? Not in looks. Emily was the opposite of tall and voluptuous. Not that there was a thing wrong with her proportions.

She wasn’t sleek or blond, either. But the riot of wildfire framing her oval face attracted him. A halo of shades that changed color with each flux of light. He’d dreamed the other night about what it would feel like to bury his fingers deep in those corkscrew curls.

He let his mind meander so long that when next he glanced up, he saw the sun dipping low. Surprisingly, he faced the Blue River ford. Someone—Maizie, he supposed—had tacked a message on a withered tree: His name in block letters, followed by “Water your team.” Then it read, “Cross here and turn directly into the sun. Stay between the Blue and the Little Blue till you reach Rice Farm. Go straight five miles to our campsite. Hopefully!” Yep, that was Maizie—she of little faith.

At the base of the tree, in a plastic bowl, someone with more trust in him had left three honey-drenched biscuits and a bag of trail mix. Camp grinned. He’d bet his bottom dollar that was Emily’s doing. Maybe she really was a reincarnation of Jessie Benton Fremont, the pioneer lady said to have nursed the sick and settled feuds within her husband’s caravans on a regular basis.

Camp owed Emily again. Big-time.

He worried about the river crossing, but he needn’t have. His team plunged into the water with little urging.

Problem was, they didn’t want to climb out. He lost a good half hour coaxing, cajoling and finally leading them. Fortunately, the Blue wasn’t deep at this point, only a few inches above Camp’s hips. And he didn’t mind, as his skin had begun to feel hot and itchy. So much so that he soaked his shirt and put it back on wet.

At first it felt good. But as the afternoon lengthened, the sun beat down without mercy, drying his clothes stiff. The itch came back—worse. His legs, his arms, his neck grew hot and tingly. The more he scratched, the more he itched. Camp tried concentrating on the serenity of the river that flowed in the direction he was headed. And on the beauty of the evening ambers streaking the sky. Nothing worked. Each passing mile became more unbearable than the last. He watched the sun sink into a flat puddle of molten gold, and even the coolness of evening didn’t help.

At one point he stripped off his shirt to check for fleas. There were none, and no welts, but rather a bright red, slightly bumpy rash covering his chest, arms and legs. An allergy? To what? His shirt was old and his jeans had been washed a hundred times.

Stars blanketed the sky and a crescent moon had risen by the time Camp spied a row of campfires in the distance. He was quite positive he’d never been so happy to see anything in his life.

Maizie and Robert ran to meet him. Sherry, too. Camp identified Brittany lurking in the shadows with Megan Benton. Gina lounged against her wagon. Only Emily was missing. Funny, but she was the one he wanted to see.

“Yo, there, weary traveler. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” Maizie grabbed the lead horses and guided his team in a circle until Camp’s wagon lined up with the last one in the row. Vaguely he registered that it was Emily’s.

Maizie instructed Robert to unhitch Camp’s team. She ambled back just as he climbed down. “I was beginnin’ to worry, boy. What took you so long?”

Camp snorted. What a stupid question.
She’d
sent him on that chase. Instead of answering, he pushed up his shirtsleeves, continuing to scratch his arms as he passed her. He intended to handle his own unharnessing.

Maizie grabbed his arm and whistled through her teeth. “Looks like Renegade wasn’t all you found today. Got yourself a right smart dose of poison sumac, I’d say. I warned the kids and out-of-staters. Didn’t think to caution anybody who’d grown up here.” Tobacco juice sailed past Camp’s shoulder.

“Stop that,” he bellowed. “Tobacco chewing is a dirty, filthy habit. Not to mention bad for your health.”

Her eyes popped wide. Emily materialized from the blackness, gliding between them. “Camp, don’t take it out on Maizie because you’re tired and out of sorts.”

“I have plenty of sorts,” he said curtly. “I also have this rash itching me to death. It’s a little late to be telling me I should’ve had sense enough to keep out of the stuff. There’s no poison sumac where I live.”

“How like a man to yell at women for his own stupidity. I should’ve known.” Throwing up her hands, Emily stalked away.

Camp felt bad. She wasn’t to blame for any of this.

Sherry inspected his blotches with a flashlight. “Leaflets three, let it be. I learned that as a kid in Girl Scouts, Nolan.”

“That’s poison ivy. And I was slightly more concerned with finding my horse than counting leaves. What in my first-aid kit will cure it?” he asked Maizie.

She tucked her thumbs in her belt. “Nothing I know cures it, boy. Cortisone cream takes away the sting and some of the itch. Water spreads the rash the first couple days, so don’t wash.”

“Great. I got plenty wet fording the Blue. That’s about the time I really noticed something was wrong.”

“Why did you get wet?” Gina asked. “We never left our wagons.”

“Yeah, well, somebody forgot to tell my team that. Those animals loved the water.” Camp thanked Robert nicely for helping him unhitch, but he rechecked every hobble himself. From now on, he’d
know
their tethers were secure.

“Don’t touch me,” Sherry said, jumping aside as he accidentally brushed her on the way past. “I read you can give that rash to people during the weepy stage.”

Camp ignored her. Robert gazed on him with sympathy. However, he and Maizie carefully avoided any contact as they left.

“Well, are you finally ready to concede that we women are better suited to pioneer life than modern man?” Sherry demanded.

“The trip is far from over. The deal, as I recall, was to determine whether or not modern women have what it takes to get from Boonville to Santa Fe.” Camp didn’t know why he was being surly. He wished everyone would leave him alone.

“Oh, you’re so stubborn. You should see yourself. Three days’ growth of beard, filthy clothes, and that rash is probably going to close one of your eyes.”

Somewhere, he dredged up the will to grin. “Today, me. Tomorrow, maybe you.”

“Are you ready to quit?”

“I’m sticking it out,” he said. “How about you? Had enough?”

“Certainly not. It’s just...you’re the only brother I have. A lot’s happened to you the last few days. Megan told Brittany how you ruined last night’s meal. Speaking of which—what did you do to her? She said it’d serve you right to starve. I thought she had a mega-crush on you.”

“Brittany’s a troubled girl, Sherry. Can you take her under your wing? Head her in the right direction?”

“At least she isn’t living hand-to-mouth trying to support one or two babies like some of the young women we counsel in the Hub.”

“If she keeps on her present course, it may happen. She’s obsessed with finding a husband. She could hook up with some total jerk.”

“Tell me about it. Most of my students wouldn’t be in the predicament they’re in if they hadn’t fallen for the wrong man. Marriage doesn’t mean happily ever after.”

“You sound bitter,” Camp said as they ambled toward his wagon.

“Informed and wary, not bitter. Then again, maybe you’re right. It’s not only young women who get mixed up with rotten men.”

Camp suddenly realized they were both gazing at Emily’s wagon. “Do you know anything about Emily’s marriage? Her application said she was widowed,” Camp said, careful to keep his tone light and his voice low.

Sherry shot him a narrowed glance. “Why would I know? She’s your applicant.” Sherry bit her lip. Had he found out about her bringing in Gina and Emily?

“No special reason. She’s your counterpart at her college. I know history profs at other institutions. I thought maybe you two had met at a conference or something.”

“Look,” she said. “I’ve gotta run. You’re beat. Why don’t I collect the data sheets tonight?”

“Would you? Hey, thanks. I’ll see what I can do about making myself presentable.” He scrubbed a hand over his ragged, itchy jaw.

“You’d better not shave, Nolan. The rash may be under your beard.”

“That’s a switch. What happened to my looking like a bum?”

“Can’t a sister have a change of heart?”

“While you’re feeling charitable, would you see if you have anything in your first-aid kit that I can put on this rash? I know mine only has the bare essentials.”

“I’ll look. If I have something, I’ll bring it when I drop off your info sheets.”

They parted. Camp’s first priority was to get out of his dirty clothes and to wash, even if he spread the rash. He didn’t want Mark Benton pointing out how rank he smelled. Or Emily. Not that she’d venture that close to him.

He’d just stripped off his shirt and was headed for the enticing
lap, lap
of the half-moon curve in the Little Blue River when Sherry rushed up carrying everyone’s data sheets. Camp retraced his steps and tossed the papers in his wagon.

She tagged after him when he started off again. “I didn’t have cortisone cream. Ooh, that rash looks awful. I’ll bet you don’t sleep much tonight. How long will it last?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never had anything burn, sting and itch at the same time. I don’t suppose there’s a closet herbalist around,” he joked.

She wrinkled her nose. “Ask Philly—Harv Shaw. He has an opinion on everything.”

“Good thing I’m bringing up the rear. If I had to listen to him pontificate, they’d haul me off for assault and battery.”

“Murder’s crossed my mind. Maizie has the patience of a saint.”

Camp laughed. “A tobacco-chewing saint? That’s a picture.”

“Come on, she’s perfect for this job. And she’ll add spice to your paper.” Sherry stopped short of the river. “Have you asked permission to include her?”

“No. I will before the trip’s over.” He dug at his rash. “This is driving me nuts. I don’t care what Maizie said, I’ve gotta wash off some of this trail dust. I doubt I’ll sleep anyway. Are you up for a game of poker? I’ll ask Robert and Maizie to join us.”

“Sorry, I’m going to bed. Three more days of eating dust before we reach the park in Council Grove—and then we get two blessed days of rest. I can’t wait to find a beauty shop and treat myself to the works. You’d better try to sleep. Maizie says it’ll hit a hundred degrees tomorrow.”

“I doubt pioneer women had beauty shops along their route,” Camp said dryly.

“Or doctors, either. You may have to ride into Independence to see one.”

“No, I won’t,” he called as she left, taking the only light with her. Most of the campfires were already banked for the night. He intended to build one and cook dinner after bathing. Too bad if he disturbed his neighbors. He still half expected Mark Benton to show up and get in his licks. “Trip must have worn the kid out today,” Camp muttered.

The moon, almost a quarter tonight, cast ripples across the water. Camp pulled his boots off, then his socks, and quickly shed everything else. He wadded the dirty clothes into a ball, taking care to drape his clean cutoffs and a towel over a jutting granite rock. Looking neither right nor left, he dived into the icy stream. It felt good.

Seated on a mossy outcrop about ten yards upstream, Emily Benton stifled a gasp that threatened to give away her position. She realized now that she should have called out before Sherry left. But she hadn’t wanted to appear to be eavesdropping. Emily had never dreamed he’d strip off his clothes and plunge to his neck in water after what Maizie said about water spreading the rash.
Now what?
Should she reveal herself, or try to skulk away unnoticed? If it wasn’t happening to her she’d laugh. She’d read this scene a thousand times in books.