Wagon train dreams, p.1
Wagon Train Dreams, page 1
Wagon Train Dreams
WAGONS WEST
BOOK FOUR
LINDA FORD
Dedication
Dedicated to my grandchildren. I pray for your well-being and that you might find and follow your dreams. You make me proud. I love you.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Not the End (for you!)
Also by Linda Ford
Dear Reader
About the Author
Chapter One
The baby’s cries rent the air.
The sound tore at Joe’s thoughts. Sent claws coursing through his blood. Something was wrong with Petey. He urged his horse, Boots, to a gallop. The camp came into view. With a glance, he took it in—the wagons lined up waiting to resume travel, the travelers gathered in the shade as the oxen grazed the thick green grass on the noon break. Every face turned toward the little one.
Assured no danger lurked that would cause him to rein in, Joe focused on the distressed baby in his mother’s arms.
The tiny face was reddened, distorted with crying, and wet with tears. Blond hair clung to the damp forehead.
Joe rode forward. He didn’t wait for his horse to come to a stop before he slid to the ground and faced Hazel with her unhappy son. “The little warrior is upset.”
Was her face blotchy from dealing with an upset child? Joe glanced around. The others swatted at themselves. Ah, that explained Petey’s distress.
The air buzzed with mosquitoes. The annoying pests rose from the green grass. Twenty feet away, Joe made out the shimmer of water.
They’d stopped in a swamp.
If he’d been there, he would have warned them. But now they’d stirred up an angry horde of vengeful and hungry insects.
The best they could do was pack up and leave. When he started to return to Boots, the baby yowled like he’d been struck.
Petey reached for Joe as if appealing to him to ease his discomfort.
A thousand warnings crossed Joe’s mind. Harsh reminders of his station in life. But he couldn’t walk away from Petey.
“Come, Little Warrior.” He took Petey. Warmth accompanied the small body. Red, raised spots indicated where the insects had bitten him. He jostled the young one and murmured deep sounds in the back of his throat, sounds he’d heard from his mother before he became a man.
Joe’s insides calmed when Petey stopped fussing.
And jolted again when the crying resumed.
“I know something that will help.” He handed Petey to his mother, ignoring the wails of protest, swung onto his horse and rode deeper into the slough until he found what he sought. Mud. Fine black mud. Should have brought a container. His hands would have to do, and he scooped them full, guided his horse back with his knees, and dropped to the ground by Hazel. “This will work.”
“Mud?” She drew away.
The others crowded around, swatting and scratching. They would thank him later. Ignoring both their watchfulness and Hazel’s shock, he smoothed mud over Petey’s neck, his cheeks, and the backs of his hands. Sleeves covered his arms so he didn’t put mud there.
Petey quieted as he watched black cover his skin. He shuddered in a breath and then—
Nothing. Not another cry.
Joe held his hands toward Hazel, offering her the rest of the mud.
Did she want to try it?
Her blue-eyed gaze held his. What did she see? A man? Or a half-breed? A scout? Or a friend?
What did he want her to see?
He closed his mind to such questions. He knew what he was. And if he ever thought differently, there’d be both whites and Natives to remind him.
Blue eyes blinked. A hand reached out. A finger scraped along his palm. But he let no reaction come to his face or cause his arm to twitch.
She spread mud to her cheeks. Blinked again and seemed to hold her breath.
“Better?” He spoke softly, letting his voice express nothing. Nothing.
“I believe it is.” She spoke to the others. “Mud helps.”
“I’ll get more.” This time he took along a container, filled it, and returned for the others to dab the sludge on their bites.
“Say, Joe.” Cecil patted mud on Dobie, the five-year-old boy he and Louise had adopted. The whites of his eyes stood out in stark contrast. Cecil spread mud on his wife’s face, pleasure filling his expression. She seemed to enjoy it, too, if her grin meant anything. “Why aren’t they biting you?”
“Native trick.” Inside, he smiled. Outside, he revealed nothing.
“You think it might work on white people?”
Joe’s lips twitched at Cecil’s question. The man never missed a chance to tease. Not that Joe minded. It made the journey more enjoyable.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Maybe not?” Cecil’s older brother, Walt, asked.
Joe might have joshed with them longer except Bertie squirmed. His face wrinkled up fit to cry. Poor Bertie. A big man in body. A young child in mind. Joe would not allow his misery to continue. “No trick. Just common sense not to stop in a muddy swamp. And this.” He pulled the tied sprig from his pocket. “Sweetgrass keep mosquitoes away.”
The others crowded around him. Mud-streaked faces made his insides smile deepen.
The questions came. “Where can we find sweetgrass?” “Where did you get that?” “Do you have more?” Only Hazel held back, not asking a question, not looking directly at him. As it should be. Her being a white woman with hair the color of morning sunshine and eyes like the blue sky had dropped in bits of its color.
He didn’t answer until they quieted. “Some nearby.” He nodded toward where he’d found his and waited, knowing what to expect.
Some took a step in that direction.
But Gabe, the oldest man and the one Joe considered the trail boss, held up a hand. “Joe, can you show us?”
“First, we move.” The oxen wouldn’t get the rest they deserved with the mosquitoes bothering them. He touched Petey’s shoulder. “You feeling better, Little Warrior?”
“Betta.” His answer was clear.
Joe chuckled. Allowed himself a glance at Hazel. Satisfied at her calm expression, he turned away to help with the oxen. Then he stopped and handed her the sweetgrass. “For you and Petey.”
“I couldn’t—”
He waited until she took it. Then he followed the men. Soon, he waved off the flying insects and slapped them as often as the others. Once the oxen were hitched to the wagons, he rode ahead to the crest of a hill that put them some distance from the slough. The pesky bugs followed, but he signaled for the wagons to stop. The mosquitoes would soon retreat. “Come. I show you sweetgrass.” When everyone set to follow him, he stopped. “Maybe just Gabe and his sons.”
The four men trekked down the hill to where Joe had found the plant. “Lower stem looks purple. Flowers are yellow green. Roots white.” They needed to know how to choose the right grass without him.
When they were satisfied they had enough, they trooped back to the wagons and gave everyone a handful.
They hadn’t eaten their noon meal, so they grabbed something before moving on.
For a few miles, he led the way, but even a white man could see where to go with nothing but grassy hills ahead. Over the weeks they’d traveled together, he’d learned these white men were savvy about the trail. Even the women worked efficiently. Marnie, now married to Gabe, was organized and a good cook. Her daughters were, too. Irene, now married to Cecil. Hazel’s friend, Louise, had married Walt. That left Ruby and Angela without a man of their own.
And Hazel.
Joe might be half white, as Cecil and Walt liked to remind him, but he’d learned that the whites saw him as Native while the Natives saw him as white.
Fine. He would help these people reach Fort Taylor. On the way, he’d say goodbye to his mother and then—
Then he’d maybe head north or west to new lands. New prospects. New people. He’d be whatever the others allowed him to be on the outside. Inside, he would be Joe Dumont—a man proud of his heritage from both races. A man who knew the wilderness. A man who knew it was impossible to follow his heart.
Irene rode her horse to Walt’s side. They leaned over and kissed each other.
There were some things a man of mixed race understood he couldn’t have.
Joe kicked his horse into a gallop, bent over its neck, and raced far ahead.
Hazel scrubbed the remnants of mud off Petey. She’d given him a quick wash earlier in the afternoon, but it hadn’t been sufficient. The baby babbled out happiness. Something in his unclear words caught her attention. With him just over a year old, much of what he said was unintelligible.
“What did you say?” She stopped to listen more closely, trying to make out his words.
Big warrior!
Of course. Because Joe called Petey Little Warrior, it made perfect sense. A smile flicked over her lips. She hugged her son. “You’re very clever. Did you know that?”
Petey nodded.
She hugged him again. What would she do without this little life she’d brought into
“Down.” He squirmed, and she released him.
By the time she’d washed her own hands and face again, the bucket of water stood almost empty. Ma and Angela hovered over the fire preparing the evening meal. Irene had gone with Walt, supposedly to check on the oxen, but Hazel understood she couldn’t bear to be away from her husband. Something Hazel missed. Though she’d always had to make Peter pause to kiss her goodbye as he left to tend the store.
A glance around the camp didn’t reveal where the others were. Not that it mattered.
“Let’s get more water.” She scooped up her son, perched him on one hip, took up the empty pail, and headed for the stream, angling up from where the oxen grazed.
The sinking sun cast skinny shadows along her path. A breeze whispered through the trees, tossing the leaves back and forth on their branches.
She set Petey on the ground several feet from the water’s edge. “Stay here.” After moving along the gravelly verge, she reached the water and dipped the pail to fill it. Turning, she gasped. Petey had disappeared. When she spied him a few feet away, safe and sound amidst a field of pale purple flowers, her tension raced out so fast her knees shook.
Flowers waving their heads at about the same height as Petey’s head invited her for a closer look. She’d take the water back later. She left the bucket on the grassy verge to join him.
“Pretty flowers.” The color sent a burst of pleasure through her.
“Petty,” Petey echoed, touching the purple skirt of the blossom nearest him. From the center rose a greenish-brown cone.
“Looks like a dancing lady,” she murmured, sitting beside him to admire the scene. A whole field of dancing, bowing, twirling ladies. She trailed her fingertips over the nearest blossoms. Her sigh carried with it a good deal of regret. Her drawn-in breath brought hope.
If God so—
Her thoughts halted at the soft thud of a footfall nearby, and her muscles coiled, ready to escape. But it was only Joe.
“Petty fowers.” Petey babbled a few more words.
Joe always appeared to be listening and, on many occasions, surprised Hazel by understanding Petey’s baby talk. He hunkered down beside her son. Close enough she felt the warmth from his body and breathed in the scent of his fringed leather vest.
“They are more than pretty.” Soft words whispered from his lips. “They are good for a wound. Early leaves good for tea.”
The day’s heat lingered in the grass, and Hazel lifted her chin to allow the evening air to kiss her skin.
Lulled by the stillness around her, she finished what had been in her mind when Joe startled her thoughts from her. “‘If God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall He not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?’” Her whispered words drifted across the flowers. She swallowed hard. Why had she said them aloud?
Other than because they were bottled up inside her. Saying them brought a degree of release for the myriad of locked-inside feelings.
Joe didn’t say anything. He just sat and stretched his long legs out in front of him.
She kept her gaze on his moccasins. What would he think if he learned she’d embroidered a likeness of them on a quilt square?
“My father said God cared for little things as much as He did big things.”
She’d never heard him mention his father before. Or anything about his family. Of course, being the scout, he didn’t spend a lot of time making small talk. Ducking her face to hide her grin, she acknowledged that he was a man of few words. But each one like…
A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver. Her father had said that verse often. Heat rushed up her cheeks as she thought how Joe might react if she told him what she was thinking. “How much longer until we reach Fort Taylor?” Seemed like a safe subject.
“We have many wonders yet to see.”
“Wonders? I hope you don’t mean alkali flats or flooded rivers.” She shuddered.
A low, pleasant sound came from him, and she shifted her gaze. He was laughing. A quiet happy sound.
“Might be more bad places, but we will cross the Qu’Appelle Valley. Beautiful place. My home. I see my mother.”
At the way his quiet voice deepened, she couldn’t take her gaze off him. He never seemed to show emotion, but clearly, home meant something to him.
His gaze stayed on the flower in his hands. Dark-skinned, strong hands that she’d seen pull an ox around or push a wagon from mud, and yet his fingers trailed along the flower so gently the petals swayed in a slow dance.
“And then the Cypress Hills. You will like that place.” He sat up straight and looked directly at her. “And then the mountains.”
She looked away, focused her attention on the flowers, mesmerized by their gentle swaying.
“When we get to the fort”—a safe topic for her to pursue—“I’ll see my brother, Carson, again.” Words poured from her mouth. “I haven’t seen him since—” Her shrug was meant to hide the catch in her throat, not to indicate indifference. “He wasn’t able to come when our father passed nor when my husband was buried. He hasn’t seen Petey.” The catch returned and wouldn’t be dismissed. “I miss him.” The words scraped out of a raw throat.
“More than your brother be there.” It was a statement, not a question.
She should push to her feet, move on before—before she—but she seemed rooted in place. “Maybe. I hope so. It’s my chance to start over.”
Petey stood in front of Joe and reached for his hand. He babbled something.
Hazel stilled. Would Joe be able to make out the words big warrior?
“Is that right?” Joe’s deep laughter meant he understood and maybe liked the name Petey had given him.
Petey grabbed Joe’s hand, tugged, and then fell down.
Hazel knew the game. Pretending to fall so someone would pull him back to his feet. Would Joe recognize it?
Petey waited, his look clearly asking for help. At least his wish was clear to Hazel.
Maybe to Joe as well, for he held out a hand, waited for Petey to grab it, and then lifted him to his feet. No sooner was he standing than he fell. Joe helped him up again and again until Petey laughed so hard he struggled to catch his breath. He forgot the game and wedged himself between Joe’s knees.
Joe rubbed his back.
This kind of tenderness was what Hazel wanted for her child. But not from a man who spent his life wandering across the country. Who wouldn’t give her the home she longed for. Never mind that at the moment she didn’t have a house, a stable bed, or anything permanent. She’d lost part of her world almost two years ago when Peter died, and she’d left behind the rest of it when she joined her mother and siblings on this journey.
“I must get back.” She scrambled to her feet.
Joe rose with more grace, holding Petey. “I’ll help you.”
“That isn’t necessary.” But he transferred Petey to one side, crossed toward the river, and caught up the pail of water. Apart from a tug of war, what choice did she have?
Her limbs creaked on their way back to camp. She didn’t want to be rude. Or make him think—but she had no reason to suppose he viewed her as anything but one of the group he meant to get safely to the fort.
“Thank you.” The words stuttered from her lips as they reached the wagon, and he put down the pail and her son.
He strode away, back toward the river, and she kept her attention on the contents of her wagon, though she didn’t need to see them to know what she had. Her sewing case. A trunk of bedding. A satchel of Petey’s clothing. A crate of her possessions, among them, her Bible, her marriage certificate, her sole picture of Peter, and another of his store. And the letter Carson had sent. The words seared into her head. Words that had given her an added reason to leave behind all that was familiar. She didn’t mind because her mother, her sisters, and Bertie were going.
But Joe’s words about her future reminded her of what she had to deal with when they reached the fort.
Chapter Two
In the past, Joe only called an early halt to traveling because of pouring rain or broken equipment. But the oxen’s tongues began to hang out, so the August heat was getting to them. They would stop early today. A decision made not only for the sake of the animals but also for the weary humans accompanying them.
