Echoes (26 page)

Her fingers found his and he pulled her hard against him. Immediately she felt the strength of his mass fighting the water and shielding her from the debris. He seemed to gain control, to slow them down and move them toward the shore though how he managed it was inconceivable. Then suddenly Dewey's arms opened and the rushing water sucked at her heavy skirts and towed her under. She couldn't see, couldn't catch her breath or keep her head above water. She was drowning, she was drowning….

Her flailing arms grew weak and she felt blackness forcing its way through her panic, but then something slipped over her head and down to her shoulders and jerked tight, yanking her backward. It had her, whatever it was and her overwhelming fear blossomed into crushing terror. She kicked and spun like a fish on a line until she heard her name coming through the haze of her frenzy and then Adam's arms were reaching down and hauling her up and she was beside him on his horse. She held on with all her strength as the horse labored toward the shore.

She gasped, coughing up the water in her lungs, retching into the river that sped beneath them and then at last she sucked in a breath of air. Short, hysterical bursts of sound broke from her lips. Where was Arlie? Rosie? Were they still in the water? She twisted round to search for the wagon.

"Hold still," Adam yelled.

"The wagon?" she cried.

"They're okay. They made it."

The horse hauled them up the bank. Still holding her tight, Adam spurred the exhausted animal parallel to the vicious rapids. She tried not to think of the long way the current had taken her. She tried not to think at all. Adam brought the horse to a stop, swung from the saddle and reached up for her. His rope hung slack from around her waist as she slid to the ground. She was crying, silent wracking sobs that came from deep within. Adam cupped her face in his hands. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice throbbing with emotion that betrayed the steady hold of his hands.

She nodded and he gathered her close to him, rocking her frozen body in his arms. Her teeth chattered and shock quaked through her limbs. Over Adam's shoulder she saw Rosie and Arlie locked together with the same stunned agony. Brodie lay just to their side, his chest heaving with the breaths he took.

Finally she was able to pull back, but she still kept hold of Adam's arms, as if the river could pounce from its banks and seize her from safety. She lifted her shaking hand and smoothed it over his forehead and cheeks. Adam pressed a fierce kiss into her palm.

"You're hurt?" he said, gently touching her face. His fingers came away with blood.

She shook her head, but she didn't know if she was hurt or not. She was numb and tears still streamed uncontrollably from her eyes, but as she stared around her, she realized where they were. "We're on the other side?" she breathed.

Adam made a sound low in his throat and leaned his forehead against hers. "Yeah, city girl. We made it."

Dewey, however, had not. As soon as they caught their breath, Adam and Brodie mounted up to search for him. In tandem they disappeared in the thicket that framed the long shores of Indian Creek.

Molly's rubbery legs would hardly support her as she stumbled to the place where Rosie and Arlie huddled. She sank down next to them and Arlie crawled into her lap.

Rosie dabbed at a gash on Molly's forehead, making a hissing sound as she worked, but she mumbled it would mend and set about binding the wounds on Molly's arms and legs. Molly didn't feel any pain, she was too numb yet for that. But tomorrow she would be black and blue.

As if in reprieve, the rain slacked and after a time the women moved camp away from the banks where the ground was more firm and open. It was some time later that the men returned. Dewey had not been found.

Molly was torn by her guilt for the uncharitable thoughts she'd had about him and his heroic attempt to save her from drowning. Over and over she played the events of the crossing, trying to remember just when, just how it had all happened.

Rosie set to frying some of their potted pork and the warm, homey smells conflicted with the wild, open kitchen in which she cooked. Arlie would not release Molly, so she held him beside the fire, rocking them both as she hummed lullabies and hymns. Adam and Brodie dismounted and unsaddled their horses in silence.

"He probably ran off on his own," Brodie burst out suddenly. "I knew he was a coward. We'd have probably gotten across a lot better if he hadn't been there. It was his horse that spooked the team. That's what caused all the problems."

Adam's eyes reflected the turbulent sky. Doubt, disillusionment, fatigue—all flashed like lightning through the bleak gray depths. He stared at his brother until Brodie looked away. "I guess we're lucky we're not looking for more than one body washed up," Adam said wearily.

"It's not my fault," Brodie muttered.

Molly looked up in surprise. Of course it wasn't his fault. How could it have been?

"I know," Adam said, sounding tired and aged. "I know. I'm going to gather some more firewood." He trudged off, his shoulders hunched and his steps heavy.

Above, the sky rumbled and in moments fat raindrops began to fall again.

Chapter Twenty-Five

After more than a month of unbroken travel, Molly was not prepared for the noise and excitement of Independence. Since crossing Indian Creek, the violent storms had diminished and then ceased altogether and the weather had made a miraculous turn into a gentle spring. The quiet of the following days spent forging miles of untamed terrain had lulled her into a sense of predictable solitude, where each day could be counted on to unravel much as the one before it.

But beneath a bright blue sky,
Independence exploded with sights and sounds and excitement. Emigrants packed the stores, restaurants and walkways, overflowing in a throng of foreign languages and apparel. Wagons and livestock swarmed the muddy streets, crowding even the narrow passageways down the middle. And everywhere, talk of gold ignited already combustible conversations.

Entering town, Brodie drove their oxen team cautiously into the masses, tipping his hat and apologizing when necessity demanded he force his way forward. Words spoken in unfamiliar tongues hit Molly in waves as they passed the clustered groups of gold seekers.

"I ain't never, ever,
ever
seen so many people," Brodie exclaimed for the tenth time. "If they all make it to California, there won't be enough gold to go around."

Even
New York City had never seemed like this. The throng made Molly unreasonably apprehensive. Adam had ridden ahead early that morning to explore the town, and Molly was anxious for him to rejoin them. She'd grown dependent on the sight of his straight back and broad shoulders riding ahead, but she sensed that something had changed in him since the river crossing. Something she couldn't put into words, but felt as acutely as she did the tightened muscles in her legs from the walking.

He'd become withdrawn, his smile came less frequently and his guard never lowered. At times she'd find the weight of his stare resting on her or Arlie and she knew that his confidence had been shaken. They'd never found Dewey Yokum's body and they'd no choice but to presume him dead. When Adam looked at them, she knew he was thinking how easily it could have been one of his own.

"There he is," Brodie said, pointing. Molly followed with her eyes, peering through the surging masses until at last she saw Adam riding towards them.

She watched as he navigated the crowds before he reined in beside them, looking tired and road weary but obviously relieved to have found them. His clothes were dust covered, his face drawn. His horse, which Molly had named Storm after his courageous rescue in the thunder and lightning, pawed the ground impatiently.

"Thought I'd lost you," he said, taking off his hat to wipe his brow.

"With all these people, it wouldn't have been hard to do," Molly answered, smiling at him.

Beside her, Brodie shifted closer. Adam was not the only one to undergo change since crossing the river. Brodie had become unbearably protective of Molly. She knew that his youth gave him an emotional level of interpretation and having seen death rush at Molly's feet, he felt strongly about her well-being. But his attentions went beyond that and they both knew it. Yet no amount of discouragement on her part could deter him.

"Adam, have you ever seen so many people in all your life?" Brodie asked.

Adam glanced at his brother with indulgence. "Never in all my life, Brodie. They're here from just about everywhere, too. I heard one fellow say he was from Iceland." Adam clicked his tongue at Storm and backed the gelding up a step. "I've spent the morning getting tramped on by half of them. There's a line a mile long to sign up for the ferry. Look over there." He pointed to a city of wagons that crouched at the edge of town. The canvassed tops, milling cattle and people seemed to stretch forever. "You see those wagons? Most of them have been waiting for days to get across the river."

"Days?" Molly exclaimed. She turned and exchanged a wide-eyed look with Rosie.

"From what I hear, could take as long as a week before the last of us get across." Adam eased back in his saddle. The exhaustion in his voice was echoed by the slump of his shoulders. The weight of responsibility seemed to ride heavy these days. "Follow me over there where that white tarp is. Someone is holding my spot while I came for you."

They followed him through the crowded streets and found a spot to wait off to the side. The crush of people had left an unpleasant odor in the air and Molly found herself wishing for the wide-open land again. The past month had done much to wear her down to bare threads, stripping her like lace and beading from a gown. How would she fare in this makeshift civilization?

A part of her didn't care. It would be heavenly to stay put for a few days.

Adam worked his way up in line, signed a registry and then moved to another line. Nearly an hour had passed while they waited until at last, one of the men behind the table called, "Francis A. Weston?"

Adam raised a hand and said, "Here."

Surprised, Molly looked at Rosie. "Why did that man call Adam 'Francis?'"

Rosie smiled and Molly acknowledged yet another transformation since the river. Rosie seemed to have aged a lifetime and now she looked frail and very old. So different from the woman who had left Ohio just a month ago. Molly worried about her constantly.

"Francis is Adam's Christian name," Rosie said. "My husband's family started the tradition after they lost six boys in one winter. Think it was Frank's great-great grandfather that decided after that all the Weston boys should carry the family name." She nodded at Arlie, "Francis Arlington," then at her eldest son. "Francis Adam," and then at Brodie, "Francis Ambrose."

"Ambrose?"

Rosie's smile took on a reminiscent air. "I picked that one. It was my Daddy's name."

Adam worked his way up to the man who'd called him and bent over the table. A paper of some sort passed between them as well as money. He returned and gave them all a tired smile.

"We'll be crossing end of the week. Until then we get to take a rest. I found out there's a party looking for others to join up. See that man over there?" Adam pointed to a stern looking man standing to the side of the tables. "His name's George Hanson and he's in charge of it. It'll cost us forty dollars, but they've got a guide who's made the trip once already. We'll be joining with them."

Molly let out a deep breath. So they'd made it in time. Soon they would be "joined up" and on their way west. Wishing she didn't feel as if they should turn back, Molly said a prayer of thanks.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Coming back to the present, Tess thought, was never as difficult as launching herself into the past. The return came with a blink and the realization that it was over. The vault through history was always gritty with motion and fear.

She should be used to the fact that the weeks spent traipsing across the country as Molly Marshall equaled moments of oblivion for Tess Carson. But she wasn't and each nuance of what she'd done, where she'd been, how none of it could have really happened pricked her like a hypodermic filled with speed.

She was still in her car, parked curbside in front of the library, but she was breathing like she'd run a marathon and her heart pounded hard and fast in her chest. Minutes ago she'd been talking to Lydia and drinking coffee. Before that, she'd been standing on Grant's porch as the sheriff picked him up. Yet in her mind she'd crossed a river and straggled into Independence with a part of the Weston family that had been dead for over a hundred years…

Tess covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath. Then and now. Both realities tugged at her, demanding she acknowledge them as real. But each time she went back the line blurred until both the past and present felt equally conjured. She stared out the windshield, torn between the defensive desire to go home, shut the door and seal herself in, and the paralyzing fear of doing just the same.

With a deep breath, she forced herself out of the sheltered cocoon of her car. As she locked the doors and faced the library, the hairs at the back of her neck rose and a chill whispered through her. Slowly she turned, giving the street a three-sixty that revealed nothing. Someone was watching her.