High Plains Bride

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Prologue

Kansas Territory

1858

The two solitary riders felt the brunt of the wintry wind at their backs as they urged their weary mounts toward the closest high point in the flint hills. Both men were wrapped in buffalo robes they’d obtained from the Plains Indians they’d encountered near the abandoned Kansa Mission School at Council Grove.

Will Logan, in the lead, was glad they’d brought enough baubles with them to successfully trade for the thick, hairy robes. Though the hides weren’t the sweetest-smelling things he’d ever encountered, without their protection he and his friend would literally be freezing.

He pulled his broad-brimmed, felt hat lower and bent forward in the saddle, bracing against the force of the prairie gale and wishing mightily that he’d had the foresight to grow a beard and let his thick, dark blond hair reach his shoulders instead of keeping it so neatly trimmed.

His fingers were half-numb inside his leather gloves as he tugged on the rope fastened to their pack mule’s harness, urging the stubborn animal to keep pace. Although it plodded along in begrudging compliance, the rangy mule laid its ears back, snorted and blew clouds of condensation from its nostrils, clearly not agreeing that the small party was behaving sensibly by leaving the known route and pressing on into uncharted territory.

“Just a few hundred yards more,” Will shouted to his human companion.

Zeb Garrison kicked his bay gelding and pulled up beside Will’s sorrel. “So you say. I should have known better than to follow you out here in December. We’re both likely to freeze to death. And the horses, too.”

Will laughed in spite of the icy needles of frost pricking his cheeks and nose. “You got soft working in Boston,” he taunted. “This change will be good for both of us. You’ll see. And by getting an early start, we’re far enough ahead of other settlers to lay claim to the choicest plots of land in this neck of the woods.”

“Assuming we live long enough to enjoy them,” Zeb countered. “If the weather doesn’t kill us, those Indians we keep seeing in the distance might. I still say they’re tracking us. Probably want their buffalo hides back.”

“Nonsense. We bought them fair and square.”

With one final lunge, the horses gained the high ground. Will’s pale blue eyes widened, and he shaded them with his hand on his brow, sighing deeply. Below lay total vindication, as lush a valley as he’d ever hoped for and the wide, meandering river that completed their list of necessities. Too bad his doubting father was not here to see what he’d found.

Rising in his stirrups, Will turned to his lifelong friend, pointed and grinned. “There. See? I told you we’d find the perfect place for your mill and my ranch. I can picture it already. The town will go down there, thanks to the generosity of the New England Emigrant Aid Company, and I can use my stake from them to bring in longhorns to graze these hills. Eating switchgrass and big and little bluestem the likes of what grows here in summer will fatten up those critters real fast. They’ll be ready for market in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Zeb’s nod was barely perceptible beneath the bulky buffalo robe, but he did agree. “Maybe you’re right. It does look promising. I think I even see a small waterfall upstream that I can use for power. Still…”

Will wasn’t about to take no for an answer. He’d prayed continually for the good Lord’s guidance and knew without question that this was his personal promised land.

He passed the mule’s lead rope to Zeb, then gave his horse its head and let the animal choose the best route of descent from the wide mesa to the river valley below. Will was so exuberant he paid no heed as the animal’s shod hooves loosened bits of shale and ice that skittered down ahead of them like a miniature avalanche. This was his Eden. He knew it with all his heart and soul.

He had already dismounted on a flat rise of land near the frigid but swiftly flowing river when his friend reined in and joined him.

“Here!” Will shouted excitedly. He spread his arms wide as he spoke, ignoring the buffalo robe slipping off the shoulders of his coat and falling onto the shallow accumulation of snow. “The main street will go across here, abreast of the river, and your mill can be upstream so you can either freight the lumber to town or float it if the water’s high enough. It’s perfect.” His grin widened. “Come on. Admit it. I was right.”

Zeb dismounted, ground-hitched his horse and tied off the mule’s lead rope to a sturdy cottonwood tree. “All right. I’ll go along this time. Just remember, this whole trip was my idea to begin with.”

Laughing, Will shook his head. “Sure, boss me around the way you did when we were boys. You may have money of your own but I had the brains and foresight to convince others to finance me.” He ducked as Zeb feinted a punch to his shoulder. “Grab the hammer and some stakes. We’re home. We’ll call it High Plains.”

He sobered as they paced off the land and then drove the final stake to mark their claim. Removing his hat despite the icy wind that ruffled his hair, he dropped to his knees atop the thick buffalo hide and bowed his head. Zeb did the same.

“Lord, we thank You for bringing us to this place and we dedicate this portion of High Plains, Kansas Territory, to You,” Will prayed aloud. “Keep us mindful of Your plan and continue to guide our paths.”

Zeb echoed his “Amen” and the two young pioneers rose. “Merry Christmas,” he told Will, frowning. “I sure hope you’re right about this being the right place.”

“It is,” his smiling friend assured him. “And a very Merry Christmas to you, too.”

Chapter One

High Plains, Kansas Territory

June 1860

The farther west their wagon train proceeded, the more Emmeline Carter missed her former home in central Missouri. The political climate back there had been in constant upheaval, especially since the hanging of the abolitionist John Brown in Virginia a scant six months before. Still, it was the only home she’d ever known, and life on the trail had her missing that sense of security.

Although there had been recent fighting amongst her former neighbors to the point of bloodshed, what was to say that life would be any better in Oregon? The fact that her taciturn father insisted so was not nearly enough to convince Emmeline.

So far, the journey by covered wagon had been trying but not altogether unpleasant. Word among the other women was that there would be many terrible trials to come during their months-long pilgrimage, but Emmeline was willing to wait and see rather than borrow trouble.

One of the worst naysayers had told Emmeline, just that morning, “You’ll soon see, my girl. There’ll be many a fresh grave along the trail before we reach our new homes. If cholera don’t get us, those horrid Indians will. I shudder to think what they’ll do to you and your pretty sisters, especially.”

“Then I shall pray earnestly that we don’t encounter hostiles,” Emmeline had replied, continuing to prepare the morning meal for her family while her sickly mother remained abed in the wagon, and her father, Amos, and brother, Johnny, tended to the oxen.

“Bess, Glory, fetch the twins,” she called, using that as an opportunity to cease listening to the dire predictions of the older woman whose wagon was parked next to theirs. “The biscuits are almost done.”

Emmeline knew that such rumors of catastrophe had to have some basis in fact. It had been frightening to leave home and hearth and start a journey into unfamiliar territory, especially since their already ample family of six now encompassed orphans Missy and Mikey, as well. Yet she was encouraged by the way everyone had helped gather firewood and dried buffalo chips for the fires and had taken turns caring for Mama when she was ill. Even little Glory had taken a turn. So had the eight-year-old twins.

If Mama had had her way she would have adopted their neighbors’ children outright after their parents both sickened and died so suddenly. It was only by divine providence that Papa had allowed her to bring them along in the hopes of eventually finding them a permanent home. Thankfully, they were small for their age and didn’t eat much. Keeping stocked with proper provisions to tide them over between supply stops was always a worry.

The responsibility of doing so had, of course, fallen to Emmeline, which was why she had walked from their camp to town after breakfast and was now getting ready to enter the prairie mercantile. This little town seemed peaceful enough, she mused. Perhaps the territories would be safer, less politically volatile, than her home state had been. As long as her father was around, however, a certain amount of trouble would keep dogging their path no matter where they went.

Emmeline felt like a mother hen as she shooed her brother and sisters and the orphan twins up the wooden steps and into the small store in her father’s wake. Since her mother, Joanna, had stayed in her bed in the covered wagon and sworn she could not manage to rise, Emmeline had had to once again assume charge of the children.

Fifteen-year-old Bess, four years her junior, was helpful in this kind of situation, of course, but Johnny, the next youngest, was worse than useless. She’d thought he was as bad as he could get at twelve. When he’d recently turned thirteen, however, she’d realized that his rowdy years were just beginning.

Since she’d had the foresight to braid her hair and fasten it at her nape, she pushed her slat bonnet back and let it hang by its ribbons to help cool her head and neck. The morning was already sultry to the point of being burdensome in more ways than one. It intensified the strong odors of leather and spices and salted meats inside the store till they nearly made her ill. Rivulets of perspiration pasted tiny wisps of loose hair to her temples.

And it’s only June, she thought, trying to keep her spirits up by sheer force of will.

“Bess, dear, you watch after the twins,” Emmeline ordered kindly. “Johnny, keep your hands to yourself. You know the rules. No penny candy.”

She hoisted five-year-old Glory, the youngest, on her hip and removed the child’s bonnet too. Together they wended their way past kegs of molasses, sacks of flour and other sundry supplies that were piled on the rough plank floor and stacked high on shelves that lined the walls all the way to the low ceiling. Various kitchen utensils and farm tools were suspended from the rough-hewn rafters, making the store seem even more overcrowded.

A man who was clad as a cowboy, dusty from his labors, turned to glance at her as she approached the counter to place the family’s order. Her father had already joined a group of men who were loudly discussing the conditions of the trail ahead of them and Emmeline knew that the mundane tasks had, as usual, been left to her.

The cowboy at the counter had already removed his broad-brimmed hat to show slicked-back, dark blond hair that curled slightly. His blue eyes seemed to twinkle as he nodded politely and wished her a “Good morning, ma’am,” without being formally introduced first.

Emmeline knew social mores were more relaxed on the trail, but her strict upbringing nevertheless caused her to hesitate before she replied with a terse “Good morning.” Seconds later, when he continued to speak, she realized that the man was assuming she was the mother of all these children! What an appalling notion.

“You have a lovely family,” he said, ruffling Johnny’s hair to distract him just as the boy was surreptitiously slipping his hand into a candy jar.

Emmeline, gritting her teeth, said merely, “Thank you,” and gave her brother a scathing look. Then she turned her attention to the pinch-faced, portly woman behind the counter. “How do you do. We haven’t been on the trail long, so we don’t require much, but I was told it was best to keep my larders stocked.”