Prairie Courtship

Zach frowned and settled back in the saddle. There had been a lot of grumbling when he pushed them to an early start this morning. The problem was the emigrants’ independent spirit. They balked like ornery mules being broke to harness when given orders. It was certainly easier in the military where men obeyed and performed duties as instructed. But it was not as lucrative. And, truth be told, he had his own independent streak. No more fetters of military life for him.

“We are going to be free to roam where we will, when we will. Right, boy?” Comanche flicked an ear his direction, blew softly. Zach chuckled, scratched beneath the dark mane. Of course he had his ambitions, too. A trading post. One that would supply both Indians and army. And the fee for guiding this wagon train to Oregon country, combined with what he had saved from his army pay, would enable him to build one next spring. The large bonus promised—if he got the emigrants to Oregon before the winter snows closed the mountain passes—would buy the goods to stock the place. He intended to earn that bonus. But in order to do that he would have to drive these people hard and fast. It snowed early in those high elevations.

Zach gave Comanche a final scratch and settled back, his lips drawn into their normal, firm line. Too bad they were not all reasonable men like Mr. Allen. It was obvious, even at his first meeting with the emigrants back in St. Louis, that the man understood the need for rules and limitations. Of course that wife of his was a different matter. She had no place on a wagon train with her fancy, ruffled silk dress. He had learned in his days of command to spot troublemakers, and Mrs. Allen spelled trouble with her challenging brown eyes and her small, defiant chin stuck in the air. She looked as stubborn as they came. Beautiful, too. More so today, standing there by the wagon in the soft, morning light.

Zach again crossed his hands on the saddle horn, drew his gaze along the line of wagons. There she was, riding astride, and looking at ease in the saddle. He never would have thought it of her with her fancy gowns and her city ways, but astride she was. Must have had that outfit made special. He’d never seen anything like it. She looked—

He frowned, jerked his gaze away. The woman’s beauty was but a shallow thing. He had overheard her complaining to Allen of their wagon being too small to live in. He shook his head, glanced back at the slender figure in the dark green riding outfit. Coddled and spoiled, that was Mrs. Allen. But she was her husband’s problem to handle, not his. And a good thing it was. He was accustomed to commanding men, not obstreperous women.

The lowing of oxen and braying of mules pulled him from his thoughts. Zach straightened in the saddle, stared at the mixed herd of animals coming over the rise behind the wagons. Those fool boys were letting the stock wander all over the place! And that bull in front looked wild and mean. If he caught a whiff of the river ahead and took it into his head to run—

He reined Comanche around. “Let’s bunch up that herd, boy.” The horse needed no further urging. Zach tugged his hat down firm against the wind, settled deep in the saddle and let him run.

Emma climbed to the top of the knoll, lifted the gossamer tails of the fabric adorning her riding hat and let the gentle breeze cool her neck as she looked back over the low, rolling hills that stretched as far as the eye could see. White pillows of cloud drifted across the blue sky, cast moving shadows on the light green of the new grass. It was a glorious day…except for the occasion.

She frowned, let the frothy tails drop back into place and turned toward the river. Her chest tightened, her breath shortened—the familiar reaction to her fear of water. She’d been plagued by the fear since the day William had pulled her, choking and gasping for air, from the pond on the grounds at their uncle Justin’s home. She’d been reaching for a baby duck and—

“Randolph Court.” Speaking the name drove the terror-filled memory away. Emma closed her eyes, pictured her uncle Justin’s beautiful brick home, with its large stables where she and William had learned to ride along with their cousins Sarah and Mary and James. It was there her mother had taught her to ride astride instead of sidesaddle. A smile curved her lips. She could almost hear her uncle Justin objecting to the practice, and her mother answering, “Now, dearheart, if riding astride is good enough for Marie Antoinette and Catherine the Great, it is good enough for—”

“Lundquist, get that wagon aboard! Time is wasting! We have ten more wagons to ferry across before dark.”

Emma popped her eyes open at Zachary Thatcher’s shout. Was her wagon—“Haw, Scar! Haw, Big Boy!”—No, it was Ernst moving Anne’s wagon forward. She held her breath as her sister’s wagon rolled down the slight embankment toward the river. A figure, garbed in black, appeared briefly at the rear opening in the canvas cover, then disappeared as the flaps were closed.

Annie! What was she doing? She knew Mr. Thatcher had ordered that no one cross the river inside the wagons for fear they would be trapped if— I want you to go home, Emma. It is foolish for you to come along, to place yourself in harm’s way so that you may doctor me when I no longer care if I live or die. A chill slithered down her spine. Surely Annie did not mean to— Her mind balked, refused to finish the horrifying thought.

The wagon halted at the edge of the riverbank. Men rushed forward to help Ernst unhitch the oxen. Others took up places at the tongue, wheels and tailgate. “No! Wait!” Her shout was useless, lost in the clamor below. Emma yanked the front hems of her long skirts clear of her feet and raced down the knoll.

“The teams’re free! Get ’er rollin’!”

The men strained forward, pushed the wagon onto the short, thick planks leading to the deck. Emma dodged around the wagon next in line and ran toward the raft.

“Sutton! Thomas! Chock those wheels fore and aft!” Zachary Thatcher grabbed chunks of wood from a small pile and tossed them onto the deck. “And see you set the chocks firm so that wagon can’t shift or roll. There’ll be no stopping her if she starts slipping toward the water.” He turned toward Ernst. “Lundquist, you get those oxen ready to swim across.”

Emma halted her headlong rush as the men, finished with their work, jumped to the bank. She stood back out of their way and stared at the raft sunk low under the heavy load. Only a few inches of the sides showed above the rushing water of the Kansas River. Every bit of courage she possessed drained from her. But Anne was in that wagon. Anne—who did not care if she lived or died. She drew a deep breath, lifted the hems of her skirts out of the mud with her trembling hands and ran down a plank onto the bobbing ferry. “Mrs. Allen!”

The authoritative shout froze her in her tracks. Emma grabbed hold of the top of the rear wagon wheel, turned and looked full into Zachary Thatcher’s scowling face.

“Come off the ferry and wait for your husband, Mrs. Allen. Everyone is to cross with their own wagon.”

The ferry dipped, shuddered, slipped away from the bank. Muddy water sloshed onto the deck and swirled around her feet. Emma tightened her hold to a death grip on the wheel and shook her head. “My sister, Anne, is lying ill in this wagon, Mr. Thatcher.” She instilled a firmness she was far from feeling into her voice. “I am crossing the river with her.”

“Your sister!” Zachary Thatcher’s face darkened like a storm cloud. “What sister? When did—”

“And I have no husband. William Allen is my brother.”

The ropes attached to the ferry stretched taut with a creaking groan. Emma gasped, turned and fixed her gaze on the men on the opposite bank hauling on the rope. Frightened as she was, the view across the water was preferable to the one of Mr. Thatcher’s furious face. The raft lurched out into the river then turned its nose, caught the current and floated diagonally toward the other side. She closed her eyes and hoped she wouldn’t get sick.

Chapter Two

“The last wagon is safely across, Anne. They are hitching up the teams to pull it up the bank.” Emma hooked back the flap of canvas at the rear of the wagon to let in the evening light. “Perhaps now the camp will settle into a semblance of order.”

“Perhaps. Please close the flap, Emma.”

How she hated that listless attitude! Emma let the flap fall into place and fixed a smile firmly on her face as she stepped to the side of her sister’s bed. “Would you care to take a short walk with me before the sun sets? I want to make certain Traveler and Lady swim across safely.”

“No. You go, Emma.” Anne lifted her hand and pushed a wayward curl off her forehead. “I am weary.”

“And in pain.” Emma dropped the phony smile and frowned. “You cannot move without wincing, Anne. I warned you riding would not be good for your injured ribs. It has irritated them. Your breathing is shallow. I will go get my bag and give you some laudanum to ease the discomfort.” She stepped to the tailgate.

“Please do not bother, Emma. I want no medication—only rest.”

“Annie—”

“I’ll not take it, Emma.”

“Very well.” Her patience had run its course. Emma pushed the canvas flap aside, climbed through the opening then stuck her head back inside. “But I shall return when Mrs. Lundquist has prepared our supper. And you will eat, Anne. You are my patient and I shall not allow you to die—even if you want to!” She jerked the flaps back into place for emphasis, whirled about and headed for a spot beneath a tree to watch the men swimming the stock across the river.

A low hum of voices, broken by the shouts and laughter of children, vibrated the air. From the adjoining field came the lowing of cows and oxen, the neighing of horses and braying of mules. Chickens and roosters, imprisoned in cages lashed to the sides of wagons, cackled and crowed. Dogs barked and snarled at enemies real or imagined.

Such a din! Emma nodded and smiled at the woman and daughter working over a cooking fire and made her way to the outer rim of the men grouped around the lead wagon. Heads turned her direction. Faces scowled. Her steps faltered. She braced herself and continued on.

“Did you want something, Mrs…”

Emma met a thin, bearded man’s gaze. The look of forebearance in his eyes caused a prickle of irritation that fueled her determination. “Only to be obedient to Mr. Thatcher’s order to assemble.”

“This meeting is only for the owners of the wagons. The heads of the families.”

Emma glanced toward the condescending voice coming from her left, stared straight at the rotund, prosperous-looking man who had spoken. “Yes. That was my understanding.”

A frown pulled the man’s bushy, gray eyebrows low over his deep-set eyes. “Now, see here, young woman, we men have business to discuss. This is no time for female foolishness! Go back to your wagon and send your husband, or father, or—”

“My name is Miss Allen, sir.” She kept her tone respectful, but put enough ice in her voice to freeze the Kansas River flowing beside their evening camp. “I have no husband. And my father is in Philadelphia. I am the owner of—”

“Impossible! I personally signed up every—did you say Allen?” The man’s eyes narrowed, accused her. “The only Allen to join our train was William Allen and his wife.”

The man had all but called her a liar! Emma forced a smile. “William Allen is my brother.”

“Then your brother will speak for you, young lady. It is not necessary for you to attend this meeting.”

Emma took a breath, held her voice level. “My brother’s wife took ill and he was unable to make the journey. My sister and I have taken their place on the train.”

“Two lone women!” The exclamation started an up roar.

“Gentlemen!”

The word snapped like a lash. Every head swiveled toward the center of the group. Silence fell as those gathered stared at Zachary Thatcher.

“The trail to Oregon country is two thousand miles of rough, rutted prairies, bogs and marshes, quicksand, swift, turbulent rivers, steep, rocky mountains, perpendicular descents and sandy desert—most of the terrain seldom, if ever, traversed by wagon. Factor in thunderstorms, hailstorms, windstorms, prairie fires and—if we are too often delayed—snowstorms, and everything gets worse. You will never make it to Oregon country if you waste time arguing over every problem that arises. There will be legions of them. And this particular situation is covered by the rules and regulations settled upon by Mr. Hargrove and the other leaders of this enterprise before our departure. Now, to the business at hand. Miss Allen…”