Frontier Courtship

Connell stomped down the street, pulling his hat lower over his eyes to shade them from the morning sun. It was going to be another scorcher. Pretty normal for this time of year hereabouts.

A green spring wagon clattered past, stirring up a cloud of dust. Ramsey Tucker rode the driver’s seat. Beside him, her back ramrod straight, her bonnet strings blowing behind her, sat Faith Beal. The bad blood between her and the captain was as thick as flies on a dead buffalo, so why had she insisted on letting him have his way?

Connell cursed under his breath. Why should he care? He had enough trouble already. He had to find Irene.

Pushing on the door to the saloon, he paused a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. The place was sure busy. Him, he’d rather have a steak than a slug of whiskey for breakfast. But here was where the drovers from the Tucker train had congregated, so here he’d stay. At least as long as they did.

What few chairs and crude benches the place had to offer were already taken. Connell leaned against the far, canvas-covered wall with some other latecomers and studied the crowd.

A short, slight man with a wary look in his eyes and a Colt revolver stuck through his belt sidled up to him and spoke. “You’re not with the Tucker train, are you?”

Connell shook his head. “No. Why?”

“Just wondered. It’s a big outfit, but I didn’t think I’d seen you before.”

“I rode in alone. You?”

“Lookin’ for a party going back to Missouri,” the thin man said. When he smiled, Connell saw he was missing his front teeth. It didn’t look like they’d been gone very long either, judging by his swollen lips and gums.

Noting the focus of Connell’s glance, the man closed his mouth as tightly as his injuries would allow. “Saw you face up to the cap’n this mornin’. Wished it’d been more of a fight. He needs to be taken down a peg.”

“You know him?”

“Too well.” The man rubbed his jaw. “Too blamed well.”

Nodding, Connell reached into his pocket for the miniature of Irene and held it out in his palm. “Ever see her before? Last trip, maybe?”

“Your woman?”

“Irene Wellman. My intended.”

“Nope. Sorry. You might ask them two by the door. If she was ever with Tucker, they’d know. They been his drovers for years.”

“Which ones?”

“Tall, fat fella with the beady eyes in the black vest and beat-up gray hat is Stuart. The shorter, weasely one next to him is Ab. He walks, you’ll see he limps a might. Understand he got hurt around St. Jo last trip.”

The hair on the back of Connell’s neck was bristling. “What makes you think my Irene might have been with Tucker?”

“It figures. You been payin’ a lot of attention to the captain’s affairs. If it was me and I was lookin’ for my intended, I’d start backtracking. Her trail lead you here, did it?”

Connell took a chance that the man really did have a grudge against the wagon boss. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Thought so. Word is, Tucker has a bad reputation with women. No offense, but was your lady the kind to change her mind about waitin’ for you and marry up with a fella like him, instead?”

“Marry him?” Remembering his recent meeting with the wagon boss, he didn’t see how any woman would consider agreeing to such a marriage bond.

“No. Irene isn’t like that,” Connell said. “We’ve known each other since we were children. If she’d changed her mind, she’d tell me straight out.”

“Well, like I said, if it was me, I’d talk to Ab and Stuart. You never can tell.” Pulling his battered brown felt hat lower, he used the floppy brim to partially hide his face. “Just don’t let on I sent you, all right?”

Palming the miniature, Connell agreed. He began at the closest end of the bar for his informant’s sake, asking after Irene as he worked his way along. By the time he reached the door, the fat man named Stuart was already gone. Ab, the weasel, seemed ready to bolt as well.

Connell touched the brim of his hat. “Morning.”

“Mornin’.” The shifty-eyed little man glanced toward the open door and shuffled his feet.

“I wonder if you could tell me…?” As Connell lifted the portrait, the man looked the other way, muttered something about being late and darted out the door.

Tucking Irene’s image away in an inside pocket with her last letter, Connell followed. He was in time to see the two drovers mount up and ride. For fellows who were just honest, hardworking hands, they were acting awfully suspicious. If they didn’t know anything about Irene, why refuse to look at her picture?

He swung easily aboard Rojo and trailed them at a distance. They made a dash straight for the Tucker train, then split up. The shorter man stopped at one of the wagons to help a lone woman harness a mule team. The same woman Connell had rescued twice.

Pondering all he’d learned, he squared himself in the saddle to watch and think. It was starting to look like the key to locating Irene might lie in that wagon train. Her last letter to him had been written while she was at Fort Laramie and she had mentioned a Captain T., without actually spelling out the man’s name.

Beyond that clue, Connell had no other leads. Perhaps a kind Providence was trying to tell him something. He had planned to follow the same trail the wagons did, anyway. Why not do it as an actual member of Tucker’s train?

Once the wagons were lined out and rolling, Connell figured he’d simply ride along by the Beal rig and offer his services. He already knew the women needed a driver. If he kept his eyes and ears open, someone might inadvertently give him a clue to Irene’s whereabouts. And in the meantime, he’d be able to keep a close eye on Miss Faith and her addlebrained sister.

It never occurred to him she might turn down such a sensible offer.

Riding drag for the first hour, Connell figured he’d picked up enough trail dust in his beard to grow potatoes. Shaking it off as he cantered forward, he drew up beside Faith’s wagon. There was no sign of her sister.

He tipped his hat. “Morning.”

“Good morning.” Her glance was cursory. “If you came to judge whether or not I was capable of handling my team, you can plainly see that I am.”

“Oxen would be better for a hard crossing like this,” Connell said, trying to steer their conversation in another direction. “You could pull a much bigger wagon.”

“I grew up with two of these mules, the lead jack, Ben, and one of the jennies. The other two came cheap. A good ox cost more than I could afford. So did a Conestoga.” She eyed him curiously. “Now that we’ve discussed my livestock, why are you really here?”

“Just passing by.”

“In the middle of the plains? Really, Mr. McClain.”

“Hush. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t use my name.”

“Why not?”

Connell shot a glance at the empty portion of the seat beside her. “Your sister isn’t with you?”

“Not at present. You haven’t answered my question.”

“May I come aboard?”

“No! I told you, I’m perfectly able.” She heard him mutter a string of epithets that reminded her of her father’s mood just prior to his leaving for the gold fields. Before she could protest further, Connell had urged his horse closer and stepped off onto the wagon seat as easily as if he did it every day.

His presence crowded more than her body. Her senses were full of him: his earthiness, the scent of the soap he’d obviously applied so liberally while at the fort. And his strength! Oh, my! He exuded the power, the controlled force of someone who knew his extraordinary capabilities and took care to harness them as long as he deemed necessary.