Wagon Train Sisters (Women of the West) (3 page)

After the last wagon departed, Sarah spent the rest of the day in the woods calling for Florrie, listening for an answering cry that never came. By evening, her appreciation of her brother had grown by leaps and bounds. She had never realized how much of the workload fell on Hiram’s shoulders. Pa, who’d never done hard labor in his life, had little to no aptitude for the hard work involved in driving a wagon across the country. It was Hiram who yoked and unyoked the oxen on both wagons, greased the wheels, built the campfire, found feed for their eight oxen and two horses, pitched the tents at night, and so much more. During the day, Pa drove their wagon because he had to. Other than that, he’d been content to let his son attend to the chores while he sat around the campground with similar-minded neighbors, discussing such topics as “manifest destiny” and why the United States must extend across the entire continent. He frequently quoted his favorite poet, Henry David Thoreau, with phrases such as “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you’ve imagined.”

Lately Ma greeted his remarks with a scornful sniff. “Right now the life I imagine is a soft bed and a roof over my head.”

With Hiram gone, Sarah assumed Pa would take over the tasks that needed to be done. Instead, when they returned from their search, he wearily sank to a seat by the campfire and waited for his supper. That they might need firewood never occurred to him. He looked so tired and drawn she didn’t have the heart to complain. Instead, she gathered sticks and branches herself, clumsily chopped them with an ax, and built the fire for their supper. Ma usually did the cooking, but tonight Sarah fixed biscuits, beans, and bacon while Ma sat silently by, occasionally throwing an angry glance at Pa. Not like her at all. Luzena loved her husband dearly, and he loved her. They never quarreled, but it was plain to see Ma was getting agitated. Each glance seemed angrier than the last until, while Pa was taking the last bite from his plate, Ma declared, “This is all your fault, Frank.”

Startled, he asked, “What’s my fault?”

Ma bristled. “All of this.” Her sweeping gesture took in the camp and surrounding forest. “You’re the one who insisted we come on this horrible journey. If it weren’t for you, I’d be sitting in my beautiful home in Indiana, and Florrie…Florrie…” She choked and could not go on.

“But that’s not so, my dear…”

Sarah shut out their voices. This whole disaster
was
her father’s fault, yet Ma wasn’t being fair. Never a good businessman, he couldn’t recover when his newspaper went bankrupt. Deep in debt, he was forced to sell the family’s home. Perhaps they could have stayed and somehow survived, but with unaccustomed firmness, Pa announced they were moving to California. Everyone assumed he, along with thousands of others, wanted to rush to the newly discovered goldfields, but his motive for moving was far less exciting. Mokelumne City was a small town in California, not far from Sacramento. When his brother offered a partnership in his general store there, Pa gratefully accepted. Others might get carried away by the prospect of picking huge gold nuggets off the ground, but he valued peace and security far more.

Like most of the women on the wagon train, Ma hadn’t wanted to go. Sarah didn’t either, although after her disastrous marriage, she would have been grateful to be back with her family, no matter where they went. No one suspected how awful her marriage had been. She’d never told. Even after Joseph died, she played the part of the grieving widow, fooling everyone. Well, not quite. Her perceptive brother guessed how miserable she’d been. Before they left Fort Wayne, Ma had wondered why she showed no interest in the suitors who’d begun to call. One of these days, she’d be honest and explain why.

Sarah slept fitfully during the night in the small tent pitched beside the wagon. Along with the eerie howling of the wolves, an unending swirl of unanswered questions kept her awake. Would they find Florrie? How much longer would Ma want to stay and search? Would they be able to catch up to the Morehead train? Loneliness gnawed at her. She missed her friends back home and the new friends she’d made on the train. She missed her brother, Hiram, the only member of her family who could even begin to understand her troubled heart. “Do you really miss Joseph?” he’d asked the day after the funeral.

“Why do you ask?”

Hiram got a quirky eyebrow-raised expression on his face. “They all think you’re grieving, but I know you, and I’d wager you’re not.”

She and her younger brother had always been close. She gave him a vague answer but wasn’t the least surprised he’d seen the truth. “I’ll tell you all about it when I’m ready.”

“That’ll be soon, I hope.” He eyed her with concern. “All you do is read and paint your little pictures. You need to get out more. Why throw the rest of your life away because of one bad experience?”

“I’m content as I am,” she’d told him, and she was. What more in life could she want than her watercolors, her books—she loved the works of Jane Austen—and feeling safe and secure in her parents’ home? This trip was simply an unpleasant interlude. When they reached Mokelumne City, she’d take up where she left off. Back home, she’d belonged to the Thursday Afternoon Ladies Literary Club. Maybe she’d start one in Mokelumne City. She would go to church on Sunday and do good works for the sick and poor. That was all she wanted out of life.

The next morning, she was up at dawn, had a fire going and coffee boiling by the time her parents emerged from the wagon. “What shall we do today, Ma? Shall we catch up with the train?” She held her breath, hoping her mother had decided to give up this hopeless search and get back to safety.

“We’ll keep looking.”

Sarah hid her disappointment. “All right, then. Maybe Florrie decided to go back the way we came. That’s where I’ll ride today.”

Pa looked skeptical. “Don’t know why she’d do that.”

“Neither do I, but do you have any better idea?”

Of course he didn’t. After breakfast, while Pa scoured woods they’d already searched, Sarah saddled Rosie, their chestnut mare, and set out on the barely discernable trail from which they’d come. If not for her worry over Florrie, she would have enjoyed her ride through the thick forest of pines, firs, and white-barked sycamores while the sun warmed her face and the pleasant scent of the evergreens wafted into her nostrils. Thank goodness, she didn’t have to ride sidesaddle anymore. Pa had sold her sidesaddle before they left, and she hadn’t been the least bit sorry to see it go. How nice to plant both feet firmly in the stirrups.
One good thing about a wagon train journey was many of society’s old, tedious rules were forgotten
.
Good. She was finding she liked it that way.

Every once in a while, she’d rein in her horse and call, “Florrie?” Nothing followed but silence, broken only by birds chirping and the gurgle of a nearby stream.
Where is my sister?
Anguish tore at her heart.
Oh, Florrie, what has become of you? Are you all right, or has something awful happened?

She rode for at least an hour. Far enough. Better turn back. She’d rest a while, drink some water from the stream, and then return. She tied Rosie to a tree and was sitting on a rock by the gurgling water when a group of men on horseback, followed by a single wagon, came into view. As they drew closer, she searched for a woman in the crowd, but no, this wasn’t an ordinary wagon train. These were all men, moving at a fast clip. This must be the company of gold seekers Mr. Morehead had warned them about. Her first impulse was to run and hide, but one of horsemen had already caught sight of her. Her heart beat faster as he rode to where she sat by the stream and dismounted. She rose to greet him, immediately catching a whiff of whiskey mixed with stale sweat. How disgusting. His looks were disgusting, too. Unkempt black hair sticking out from beneath a battered hat, big red nose, scraggly, tobacco-stained beard, wrinkled, spotted clothes that could use a good wash.

“Well, look what I found!” the man called to his companions. His insolent gaze swept her up and down. “Hello, little lady. What are you doing here?”

She didn’t like the way the man was looking at her with his bold, beady eyes
.
Anxiety shot through her. More than ever, she wanted to run, but she’d been raised to observe the social graces. She’d be polite if it killed her, and maybe it would. Good manners decreed she give him a polite answer. “Good morning. My name is Sarah Gregg. I’m with the Morehead Company. My sister disappeared two days ago, and that’s why—”

“Your sister!” The man let out a raucous laugh and addressed the eight other horsemen who’d ridden up. “Do you hear that? There’s more than one of ‘em out here.” He stepped closer. “Are you all by yourself?”

His rotten, whiskey-laden breath made her want to wretch, but she kept the smile on her face. “My wagon train is right up ahead.”

With a smirk, the bearded man looked back at his friends again. “Do you believe that, boys? I say there ain’t no wagon train up ahead. I say this pretty little lady’s all by herself.”

As the men on horseback replied with hoots and jeers, sick fear coiled in the pit of her stomach. They all looked as slovenly as this man, most with unkempt beards, not one friendly face among them. No more polite conversation. She was in trouble. She must get away. If she didn’t…

“Give her a kiss, Josiah,” one of the men shouted.

Oh, no!
This loathsome man was going to hurt her. She bolted, began to run, but the bearded man ran after her and grabbed her arm. She tried to yank her arm back, but his grip was as strong as iron. “You let me go!”

His grip tightened. He pulled her toward him. Oh, God, she’d rather die than feel those slobbery lips on her mouth.

A deafening crack filled the air. The man let out a scream of pain and let go his grip. He uttered a cuss word and clutched his arm, now encircled several times by a whip’s thin leather thong. “God almighty, Jack!” The man named Josiah glowered at a tall man in a wide-brimmed black hat who’d just ridden up. “Hell, I was just playin’ around.” He unwound the thin leather strip that had cut into his arm. “You didn’t have to use that whip.”

“Looks like I did.” The man named Jack pulled back the thong and wrapped it around the handle. Whip in hand, he slid off his horse and addressed Sarah. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”

“I…” Her voice shook and her heart pounded in her chest. The man with the scraggly beard was bad enough, but with his hard, dark eyes and unfriendly voice, this man with the whip was just as frightening. But she mustn’t show fear. She gulped and steadied herself. “I’m looking for my sister.”

“Out here?” His gaze swept the tall pine trees. “In the middle of nowhere?”

She looked up at him. He was tall and lean, somewhere in his thirties, she’d guess, with brown hair hanging nearly to his shoulders. At least he didn’t have an unkempt beard like the others. His deeply tanned face was all rugged angles, sharp planes, and high cheekbones. It would be a handsome face if he didn’t look so grim. “My sister disappeared from our wagon train two days ago…”

She explained how her mother would not give up, how the rest of the train went ahead and left them behind to continue searching.

When she finished, he shook his head and said sternly, “This is dangerous territory. You should never have stayed behind.”

Did he have to sound so hostile? “My sister is missing. What were we supposed to do?” She’d defend her mother against this stranger, even though she, too, thought Ma was wrong to stay behind. “I want to thank you for saving me from…” The image that presented itself to her mind was so horrifying she couldn’t find words. “From these men,” she ended lamely.

“Any time.” Hastily he turned to address his fellow riders who were still gawking at the scene. “That’s all there is to see. Get going. You’ve still got a lot of miles to travel yet today.” He gestured at the bearded man who by now was back on his horse, holding his arm in pain. “That means you, Josiah.”

The man sneered. “I don’t take orders from you.”

In a velvet soft voice, the man in the black hat replied, “No, you don’t, but you’ll take orders from this.” He raised the whip he was carrying.

Hatred blazed in Josiah’s eyes. Sarah held her breath while she waited to see what he’d do. After a long moment, he grasped the reins and turned his horse. “Let’s go, boys.”

Except for an older man with salt-and-pepper whiskers, the men turned their horses and headed up the trail. The older man watched them go, then looked down at his companion, his expression holding both amusement and amazement. “Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat, Jack! What are you doin’ tangling with the likes of Josiah Peterson? He’s killed two men that I know of and probably more.”

“He didn’t kill me, did he?” The man with the whip looked at Sarah. “Get your horse. We’ll take you back to your parents.”

She commanded her voice to come out strong and pulled back her shoulders. “And you are?”

“I’m Jack McCoy.”

Where had she heard that name before? She held out her hand. “I’m Sarah Gregg, and I’m pleased to—” Albert Morehead’s words popped into her head.
Lost all their money thanks to that card shark. Goes by the name of Jack McCoy. A scoundrel and ne’er-do-well if ever there was one.
“Oh, it’s you!” The words popped out before she could stop them
.

He looked puzzled. “Do I know you from some place?”

She so wished she’d kept her mouth shut. “No, but I’ve heard of you.”

“Good or bad?”

She disliked lying and wouldn’t lie now. “Bad. I heard you were a card shark and a scoundrel.”

The faintest glint of humor flickered through his eyes. “So what do you think?”

“I think where there’s smoke there’s fire.” She didn’t care for the way her words came out sounding prim and proper. She’d said them, though. Too late to take them back. “I don’t need an escort, Mr. McCoy. You needn’t bother.”

“No bother, Miss Gregg. Get your horse.”

“It’s
Mrs
. Gregg. I don’t like gamblers, Mr. McCoy.”

“I’m not going to leave you in the wilderness,
Mrs
. Gregg. Get your horse.”