Brides of Prairie Gold (9 page)

Halting on the path, Mem observed the others for a minute, then laughed out loud with pleasure. Ona Norris and Thea Reeves frolicked in the cold water like young otters, splashing and shrieking and laughing as their skin turned red with cold. Sarah Jennings stood in water fluming around her knees, wearing a white shimmy and pantaloons, washing Lucy Hastings's hair. Cora Thorp, Hilda, and Jane Munger pressed head to wet head, examining a family of sand turtles they had found along the bank.

Bootie and Augusta huddled on the stream bank in dismayed silence, the sun shining on loosened tresses of reddish gold and blond, contemplating the cold tumbling water with dread. They could stand there all day if they liked, Mem decided, but not her. She threw off her gown and petticoats, then ran forward in her chemise and pantaloons and plunged into the stream, yelping when the icy flow struck her skin.

Lord, Lord, it was marvelous. An experience that was simply incomparable. How many women ever had the opportunity to bathe in the open air like a child of nature? After splashing water up her arms and over the goose bumps rising on her shoulders, Mem tugged her hair loose, then bent at the waist and let the heavy spill of auburn drop into the water. She laughed with joy as frigid water stung her scalp like icy needles. If she hadn't been a dignified twenty-eight year old, she would have joined the younger women splashing and chasing each other through the shallows. She was sorely tempted. But she had promised to relieve Perrin at the top of the rope, and it wouldn't be fair to waste time in play.

When she stood upright to wring the water from her hair, she noticed that Bootie and Augusta still shivered on the bank, as dry as two Methodists, cringing from flying droplets and shuddering. As might have been predicted, Augusta's pantaloons were trimmed with expensive imported lace and her chemise had been tailored to her trim body instead of fitting loose like everyone else's did. Augusta observed Ona's and Thea's frolics with an expression of superiority and distaste.

Mem truly did not comprehend Bootie's infatuation with Augusta Boyd. In Chastity, Augusta had been a distant queenly figure, too elevated by society and her own imagination to take notice of the likes of Bootie Glover or Mem Grant.

A closer acquaintance forced by the trail had not improved Mem's impression. In her opinion, Augusta Boyd was self-absorbed, selfish, standoffish, and a generally useless woman. She was curt to the teamsters, imperious with Mr. Snow, and painfully rude to Webb Coate. She was barely civil to poor Cora Thorp and seldom mingled with the other brides. If Augusta Boyd was the product of money and position, then Mem was glad she had neither.

Quickly she finished washing, glorying in the tingle of the cold water and in feeling clean again, then she dashed out of the stream, toweled her skin and hair, and hastily dressed.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," she apologized to Perrin. Extending her hands, she laughed at the fiery glow on her pale, redhead's skin. "The water was wonderful! I hated to get out."

When Perrin Waverly smiled, she was truly beautiful. Studying her, Mem decided that Perrin was, quite simply, one of the loveliest-looking women she had ever met. On the surface, Mrs. Waverly was small and delicate, but Mem sensed strength beneath those fine bones. It required strength and courage to face down the rumors Mem suspected Perrin must surely know were circulating among the women.

Mem had no idea whether the gossip was true; she didn't know if Perrin Waverly actually was a fallen woman. But she had considered the matter and had concluded that she personally didn't care.

In Mem's opinion, all women were but one catastrophic disaster away from sinking into shame. If Bootie and Robert had not offered Mem a home, she didn't know what might have become of her. Maybe she too but that didn't bear thinking about. In fact, it impressed her as rather hilarious that she, a virgin spinster, could even think about taking a lover on a paying basis. It was a good thing that Bootie couldn't read her mind.

Nevertheless, it wouldn't do to rush to judgment as regards the choices Mrs. Waverly had made.

"Are you and Hilda planning to visit the Addison farm this afternoon?" Mem asked.

Perrin touched the dusty bun coiled at the nape of her neck and gazed toward the sounds of splashing and shouts of laughter. Eagerness sparkled in her large dark eyes. "I'm going, but Hilda hasn't decided yet."

"If you like" Mem paused, then finished her thought before she could change her mind "I'll wait while you do your laundry and bathe. We could walk up to the farmhouse together." A decision which was certain to scandalize Bootie.

Perrin's head jerked up, and a leap of gratitude moistened her eyes. "I'd like that," she said in a low voice, "Very much. I promise I won't be long."

"Don't hurry on my account. I need to finish some baking before we go, and I promised myself I'd reorganize our wagon."

Perrin touched Mem's sleeve, then started down the path to the stream, pausing once to look at Mem over her shoulder.

After peering around to make sure none of the teamsters were lurking about, Mem sat on a large stone and fluffed a sheet of wet hair across her shoulders to dry.

In her mind she continued to see Perrin's large eyes and moist gratitude. A sigh lifted Mem's bosom. It was time someone besides Hilda Clum offered Perrin Waverly a little support. "There but for the grace of God"

There was precious little to see at the farmhouse, Augusta decided. She had walked this distance for nothing. The Addison boy's cider looked weak and it cost three pennies a cup. Still, she was thirsty after the trek so she poked about her purse with a stricken expression and pretended to Bootie that she had forgotten to bring any money. Permitting Bootie to buy her a cup of weak cider meant she had to put up with Bootie for the rest of the afternoon, and that would be a trial, but she deserved a cup of cider.

The cider was as watery as she had predicted, but cool. After refreshing themselves, she and Bootie paid a duty call on Mrs. Addison at the house. The rooms were large and airy, but the furnishings proved as dismal as Mrs. Addison's outdated gown.

"No sense of fashion at all," Augusta commented as they stepped off the porch and opened their parasols.

"None," Bootie echoed.

They strolled about the yard before stopping at a safe distance from the well housing, where three Indians sat on the bare ground, two men and a woman, expressionlessly extending their palms in silent appeal for coins. It was disgusting. Some of the brides gathered around them, and as Augusta watched, Lucy Hastings actually gave one of the creatures a nickel.

"She is a preacher's daughter, but still"

Bootie was about to agree, but before she could speak, Cora Thorp broke away from the group circled around the Indians and joined them, a determined look pinching her small sour features.

"The least you could do is buy me a cup of cider too," Cora snapped, her expression daring Augusta to disagree.

"Excuse us, will you?" she said to Bootie, then clutched Cora's elbow and drew her away from eavesdroppers. "How dare you address me in that tone!"

Cora's chin came up. "I could buy my own cool drink if you'd pay me what I'm owed! And a trinket too if I wanted one. But I suppose that ain't going to happen, leastways not right now. So you can just give me enough for a cup of cider!"

Icy fingers gripped Augusta's stomach. She didn't know what she was going to do. Cora was becoming more belligerent by the day, relentlessly demanding her wages. And Augusta couldn't pay them. Pride, and fear of exposure, was turning her into a nervous Nellie. She stared at Cora's cheap bonnet and jutting chin, and wondered how much time she had left before Cora started complaining about her wages in front of the other brides.

The possibility made Augusta feel faint. She couldn't bear it that the pride of the Boyds rested on the crumbling discretion of a gravedigger's daughter. She would die, absolutely die of shame if the others discovered that she had only forty dollars to see her through to Oregon. Forty dollars was her entire fortune, all that remained after she had paid her father's debts and repaid the money he had embezzled from his own bank.

And Cora wanted one-eighth of it. If Augusta paid Cora five dollars to clear her back wages, she would have only thirty-five dollars to last five months and two thousand miles.

For a moment she stared into Cora's challenging eyes and she hated Cora Thorp with a passion she hadn't known she was capable of feeling. Then, tight-lipped and trembling, she opened the drawstring on the little purse dangling from her wrist and repeated the charade she had performed earlier for Bootie Glover.

"I've spent the money I brought," she informed Cora in her most imperious tones.

"You had money for your cider," Cora said, not believing her. "I want some too." She stamped her boot on the ground. "Damn it, I want my wages!"

"Hush!" Panicked perspiration sprouted under Augusta's arms. "You don't need to shout. I I'll pay you a dollar when we get back to the wagon."

"Good. But I want some cider now !"

Horrified by Cora's rising voice, Augusta swiftly looked around to see if anyone had heard. She had to do something quickly. "Wait here, you sniveling little chippy!"

Instead of boxing Cora's ears as she yearned to do, she made herself stroll back to Bootie's side. "My dear Bootie, I do hate to impose on your good nature, but poor Cora forgot to bring any coins with her, and you know I did tooso silly of us bothso I wonder if you might lend me another three pennies. It's hot in the sun, and the poor thing would enjoy a sip of something cool."

Bootie leaned around her to peer at Cora, then spoke in a whisper. "She sounded so demanding. Do you permit her to speak to you in that tone very often?"

Augusta unclenched her jaw and lifted a gloved hand in an airy gesture of forgiveness. "She's hot and tired, poor thing. One must be charitable and take circumstances into account."

Bootie opened the drawstring on her little purse. "I swan, Augusta. You're truly a marvel of generosity."

"How kind of you to notice," Augusta murmured, lowering her lashes modestly.

Once she had Bootie's three pennies in her hand, she returned to Cora and slapped the coins against the palm of Cora's mended glove. "There! Are you satisfied?"

"No," Cora said sullenly, counting the pennies. "And I won't be until I get all my back wages!"

"Hush!" Panicked, Augusta prayed that no one had overheard. Bootie was watching, but Augusta didn't think she was close enough to hear. She fervently hoped not. A rivulet of nervous perspiration zigzagged between her breasts. Her lips trembled.

Hands clenched at her sides, eyes narrowed, she watched Cora walk toward the Addison boy's cider stand, imagining a swagger. Anger and despair twitched her lips. Cora was going to humiliate and destroy her; Cora was going to trample everything the Boyds had represented since the Mayflower.

With the help of the Boyd attorney, Augusta had managed to salvage the debacle of her father's disgrace and keep the worst of it from becoming public knowledge. But she didn't know how to stop Cora. For that, she needed money.

For a moment her shoulders sagged and helpless tears swam in her eyes. She couldn't manufacture money out of wishes and desperation.

It was the only thing she thought about, day and night. She desperately needed money to pay Cora's wages and shut her up, but there was no possibility of getting any. Every night while Cora slept, Augusta counted her forty dollars, again and again, praying that she had erred and her purse would yield hundreds.

"Augusta?" Bootie called.

"In a moment," she answered, hoping her voice didn't sound moist or teary. You are a Boyd, she reminded herself angrily, taking courage from the proud old name. Boyds do not make a public spectacle of themselves.

Now she noticed the group of hard-eyed men loitering beneath a budding cottonwood, watching her. Addison's farm appeared to be a gathering spot for all manner of unsavory characters. Dirty, bearded, and half drunk, the men looked like cutthroats all. She slashed them a glance of disdain before she rejoined Bootie.

"Any one of them would knock a woman over the head to steal the earrings from her ears. It's disgraceful that Mr. Snow and that Indian would expose us to such a low element!"

"I couldn't agree more," Bootie said with a sniff.

Bootie would have agreed if Augusta had claimed the sky was made of blue pudding. Actually, Augusta expected those she allowed into her circle to agree with her, but occasionally unthinking acquiescence could be annoying.

One of the men under the trees detached himself from his cronies, wiped a sleeve across his mouth, and ambled toward them, his strange yellowish eyes fixed on Augusta's breasts.

" 'Scuse me, ladies. Are you two of them brides off Captain Cody Snow's train?"

Augusta cast him a freezing glance and turned her back, but not before she noticed that his beard was ragged and untrimmed and he reeked of cheap whiskey. She was utterly offended that he imagined a lady such as herself would recognize his existence or speak to him.

Bootie's hands fluttered to her bonnet strings. She cast an uncertain look toward Augusta's stony profile. "Ah well, yes, we are."

Augusta sighed. Bootie Glover was such a silly, irritating little creature. If she could have caught Bootie's eye without facing the reprobate, she would have brought the brainless twit to her knees with one of her famous icy glares.

"Me and the boys was wondering what's ole Cody carrying in them freight wagons?"

"Are you a friend of Mr. Snow's?"

Augusta longed to give Bootie a slap. She could hear Bootie's voice oozing trust. The woman was hopeless. Was there no one to whom she wouldn't speak? Had she no standards at all?

"I've known the Captain for years, ma'am. Served under his command in the army, I did."

"Oh. Well, then, I suppose it's all right to tell. We're transporting arms to Oregon, and molasses to Fort Laramie."

"Do tell. Molasses and arms. Did I hear you right, ma'am? You did say molasses?"