Wagon Train Sisters (Women of the West) (32 page)

Luke, apparently realizing he couldn’t make a quick getaway, turned his attention to Lydia. “The day I settle down is the day I’m dead.”

The arrival of a handsome young man had dispelled Ma’s hostile mood. She gave Luke a friendly smile. “This is my oldest daughter, Lydia, Mister McGraw.” She nodded toward her second oldest. “This is my second daughter, Nellie.”

Nellie remained seated and managed a barely acceptable greeting. A sullen girl, she contrasted with her flighty sister in temperament as well as looks. She tended to sulk a lot when she didn’t get her way.

Luke gave the barest of nods to the sisters. His gaze shifted to Callie as she stood by the fire, coffeepot still in hand. She froze. If he said anything about their meeting by the stream, she’d die of embarrassment.

He didn’t. Instead, with an interested nod of his head, he asked, “And you are…?”

Callie opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Ma replied in an offhand way, “That’s Callie. She’s my stepdaughter.”

If Luke noticed the contrast in introductions, he didn’t let on. Solemn-faced, with only the slightest hint of a twinkle in his eyes, he looked at Callie. “Haven’t we met before?”

“I don’t believe so.” Warmth crept over her cheeks and she wanted nothing more than to run and hide.

“Callie, if you’re going to pour the coffee, then pour it. And offer Mister McGraw a cup.”

Grateful for the diversion, Callie busied herself serving coffee to their guests. She hardly noticed Ma’s pointed reference to her being a stepdaughter, not a daughter. Long ago she’d learned her place in the Whitaker household, which was somewhere between unwanted stepchild and lowly servant. She should be grateful just to have a roof over her head and three meals a day. Grateful forever, she supposed, although every once in a while she gave some thought to the fact she was now twenty-two, old enough to have a family of her own. Not often, though. Working from dawn to dusk on the Whitaker farm hadn’t left much time for contemplation.

Night had fallen. Florida pointed across the meadow where the glow from a large campfire cut through the darkness. “See our campfire? We have one every night when the day has gone well and the weather’s good. We sing, dance, play games, tell jokes and stories. Oh, we have grand time! One of the reasons I came over here was to invite you over to join us.”

Lydia clapped her hands. “We’d love to come!”

Callie was about to echo her words when Pa, quiet until now, stepped forward.

A tall man with big square hands and massive shoulders, he gave the appearance of strength and rigidity, a man not likely to change his opinion. Like most older men in the train, he wore a bushy beard, which he seldom trimmed, wool pants held up by suspenders, a cotton shirt, and a wide-brimmed, round-crowned hat. The stiff way he held himself said it all. “This family doesn’t hold with such frivolities, Mrs. Sawyer.”

Ma nodded. “My husband’s absolutely right. We keep to ourselves, so thank you, but we can’t accept your invitation.”

Callie wasn’t surprised Lydia made no attempt to appeal her father’s decision. She knew better. In the Whitaker family, Pa’s word was law. None of them would dare disobey, although Callie was tempted to speak up. For once, it would have been nice to sit with people who were laughing and having a good time. The farmhouse where they’d lived in Tennessee had been isolated with only a few neighbors, none of them close by. She suspected Pa had wanted it that way. Aside from a monthly shopping trip, they had gone into town only on Sunday to attend church. Afterward, they had returned straight home, never joining any of the social activities. No picnics or parties, and certainly not the dances.

Another ripple of laughter filtered from across the field, causing Callie an odd twinge of disappointment. Yes, it would have been very nice indeed.

Soon after, Florida and her brother Luke bid them good-bye. The jovial woman left with a friendly wave of her hand. “If you folks change your minds, come on over.”

Luke mounted his horse and followed, touching his hand to the brim of his hat. His eyes didn’t seek Callie’s. Why should they when Lydia was around? She was the beauty of the family. Nellie’s dark looks weren’t nearly as attractive, marred by a figure like Ma’s, short-waisted and on the heavy side. Callie had no way to compare herself to her stepsisters. Pa didn’t believe in the vanity of a full-length mirror, so she’d never seen her whole self reflected. Judging from Lydia’s tiny, hidden scrap of a mirror, she had brown hair, maybe with a touch of red, which she pulled straight back into a bun and paid little attention to. Her face didn’t seem remarkable in any way with its straight little nose and brown, wide-set eyes. Maybe not so bad—a face neither startlingly beautiful nor horribly ugly.
I wish Luke had at least glanced at me again
. She pictured how he had looked, standing in the creek in the altogether, an image that sent an unfamiliar tingle down her spine.
Am I crazy?
No man would look at her once, let alone twice. She wasn’t much better than a servant girl and should be grateful for her keep. It wouldn’t be fitting for her to forget her place and start getting grand ideas.

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Shirley Kennedy was born and raised in Fresno, California. In her early career as an author, Shirley wrote traditional Regency romances, one for Ballantine, the rest for Signet. Later on, she branched into other genres. She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, with her older daughter, Dianne, and Brutus and Sparky, her two editorial assistants who love to nap in the sunshine next to her computer while she works on her next book. Please visit Shirley at
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