White Nights (8 page)

As if he knew where her thoughts had taken her, James smiled, revealing an unexpected, but sweetly appealing dimple in his left cheek. Her pulse raced. Oh Lord, no man should have such a powerful smile.

His hand lifted, his thumb brushing a wisp of hair from her face. “A man of honor should state his intentions up front. You have no male relatives for me to speak to, so let there be no doubt between us, Eirica. I aim to court you. I want to start a new life in Oregon with you at my side, as my wife. I’ve raised my brothers and sister and I’m not getting any younger. A man needs a family of his own.”

Eirica felt adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions. James seemed to be everything she’d ever dreamed of, longed for, but she knew first-hand how fast a man could change once he had what he wanted.

But James isn’t anything like Birk. He’s different. He’s kind.

He’s the hero I’ve dreamed of all my life.

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. The pain of knowing she’d once thought the same of Birk made her wary. How could she trust herself to recognize the truth? “James, I don’t know what to say—”

He reached out to place one finger tenderly against her lips. “Don’t say anything. I won’t rush you, but it’s best you know now how I feel. Just think about it, about us. Give me a chance. That’s all I ask.” His finger slid down past her lips, lingered just beneath her chin before he turned his attention back to the trail, whistling softly.

Eirica touched her cheek, then, her lips. Things would never be the same between them. Before, their attraction had been unspoken, something neither had acknowledged. But now, with his boldly spoken words, it hung between them.

James wanted to court her. He wanted her for his wife.

She longed to put her trust in him, to allow herself to dream of love and happiness. She wanted what he offered, what his heated gaze promised.

Eirica forced her mind away from such foolish notions. Her weakness made her angry. If she married James, she’d lose the independence she’d gained with Birk’s death and her dream of owning land would also die.

And it was that dream, the need for security, that gave her the courage to face each day and continue on. Like Sofia, she would lay claim to her share of land, as was her right as a widow, and in Oregon, she’d have what she’d never had before: security—land—in her name, not a husband’s. Not even for love could she give that up.

Coralie walked behind her wagon, the merciless sun beating down on her. She stifled the complaints gathering in her mind. She was hot, tired and so sick of the dust. But what good would it do to protest day after day that she was tired of walking? It wouldn’t change the fact they still had weeks of travel left.

Weariness glazed her eyes and thirst left her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. She eyed the water barrel on the back of the wagon several feet in front of her, but the effort to quicken her steps for a taste of tepid water seemed too much. No, this trip had not been anything like she’d thought it would be.

She shuddered, grateful her friends back in Westport weren’t there to see how awful she looked. If Sarah or Becky ever saw her wearing plain calico and thick, clunky boots instead of fine slippers made of the softest kid leather, they’d just about faint.

Coralie sighed with longing. Someday, she’d don the fine silks and satins she’d worn all her life. She had one last delicious creation hidden in her trunk. Thank goodness she’d been smart enough to save it for her arrival in Oregon City.

She dabbed the beads of sweat forming along her forehead and grimaced at miles of white-capped wagons stretching out beyond forever. If she never saw another covered wagon, slept in a tent on the hard ground or cooked bent over a fire with the wind whipping her hair and skirts, it’d be fine with her.

And while most emigrants had to continue that existence through the first winter, she’d already decided to find herself and Jordan a room in a hotel or boarding-house. Surely, Oregon City would have something decent? Everyone else could share a one- or two-room shack until they could build permanent homes come spring. Not her. She planned on sleeping on a nice soft bed in a warm room and having what she missed the most—privacy.

Coralie wanted Jordan to herself for a while.

Images of her husband’s handsome face and hard, lean body made her sigh with longing. She rarely saw him during the day, forced to be content with his presence on those evenings when he wasn’t on first watch. And even when he did spend the evening with her, between the long grueling hours it took to prepare a meal and the rest of the evening chores, there was little time for talk. Most of the time, when they retired, they both fell into an exhausted slumber.

She frowned. Last night, cuddled close, she’d tried to tell Jordan about their baby, eager for his reaction when he learned he was going to be a father, but he’d fallen asleep! Tonight would be different. Just imagining his reaction made her smile and chased away the tiredness. She gave in to her need for a drink to ease her parched throat and swallowed two ladles of warm water, then joined her brother who flicked his whip to keep the sluggish oxen moving.

“What’s the grin for? What have you done now?” Elliot asked, his blue eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Coralie affected a look of outrage. “I haven’t done anything.” Well, she’d done something, as had Jordan, but she planned to keep that news to herself for a while. Instead, she threaded her arm through Elliot’s, her step light. “I’m happy, brother dearest.” And that was no lie, despite the dust and heat and long boring days and longer, lonely nights.

“She’s in love, Elliot.” Jessie spoke from behind them then dismounted Shilo, her black horse, and led her.

Elliot made a disgusted sound and quickened his steps. Coralie shot a warning glance at her sister-in-law. Poor Elliot. He suffered from a broken heart. She narrowed her gaze as sisterly indignation rose. How dare that mousy pastor’s daughter lead him on, letting Elliot believe they would marry once they reached Oregon.

The chit had no backbone, allowing her father to end their courtship just because Elliot didn’t belong to their church. Well, that was her loss. She had no doubt Elliot would find someone else, someone special. He’d already caught the eyes of several young women.

As if to prove her right, two giggling girls ran past, eyeing Elliot. Coralie scowled when they looked as if they were going to stop and chat. One narrow-eyed glare from her convinced them to keep going. A jab to her side let her know Jessie had seen her.

“What?” Coralie widened her eyes but determination filled her. Those two were simpering, giggling chits with heads filled with cotton and air. Neither deserved someone as wonderful as her brother.

Coralie couldn’t help glancing behind her to where Sofia and her three grandchildren walked beside their wagon. She focused on the older girl, Catarina, who was the same age as herself and Jessie.

“Mind your own affairs, Corie,” Jessie muttered beneath her breath, but she, too, eyed the De Santis girl with speculation.

Sniffing, Coralie whispered, “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought the same thing.”

Elliot glared at them from over his shoulder. “What are the two of you plotting now?”

“Nothing,” they answered in unison.

“Don’t get any ideas, either one of you.”

Coralie quickened her pace and caught up to her brother. She hooked her arm through his. “Oh, Elliot, love is wonderful. You’ll find someone else, someone worthy of you, maybe before we reach Oregon.”

Elliot pulled free. “Not a chance, Corie. I’m not interested in acting like a besotted fool again and you’d best remember that. You, too, Jessie.” He sped up the oxen, deliberately distancing himself.

Respecting Elliot’s desire to be alone, the two women dropped back. Glancing behind them, Coralie spotted Eirica walking beside James with Ian in her arms. Coralie laid her palm on her still-flat belly, glad she’d be in Oregon before she swelled with child. Life on the trail was difficult enough without the added burden of being so near birthing time.

Thinking of Eirica reminded Coralie of the woman’s mildewed baby clothes and blankets. If only she could sew—but she’d never seen the purpose in learning when her father owned a store and could either buy what she needed or hire the work out to a seamstress. She glanced at her sister-in-law. “How skilled are you with thread and a needle, Jessie?”

Surprised, Jessie lifted a brow. “Don’t tell me you want me to mend all those ruined gowns of yours? Not a chance. I hate mending.”

Coralie waved her to silence. “Not mending, sewing from scratch.”

Jessie grinned. “Well, James made me sew a shirt for him once. He thought it was important for me to know how. He gave me a good shirt to use as a pattern so I took it apart and made him a new one.” She giggled. “He wore it once. An hour. One sleeve was too short and tight, the other long and baggy. And the seams in the side had already started pulling apart.”

Laughing, Jessie slid Coralie a look of pure devilment. “The shirt was hopeless, as was the good one I’d taken apart. After that, whenever he or the others needed shirts, he paid someone else to sew them. Figured it was cheaper than wasting good material on my feeble skills. Why?”

Coralie wrinkled her nose. “I want to make Eirica some baby clothes. I suppose I could ask Anne to teach me.”

Jessie elbowed her. “I thought you were knitting a blanket for her baby.”

“Please, let’s not talk about that. By the time I finish it, her babe will be grown! Sewing has to be easier.”

Jessie rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Eirica probably already has everything she needs, Corie.”

“But she doesn’t, Jessie.” Eirica’s dismay at finding the baby clothes in ruins still worried Coralie. Her friend had looked so beaten and with all she’d gone through, Coralie wanted to do something to make it right. Quickly, she told Jessie what had happened. Then she grabbed Jessie by the hand and pulled her in the direction of the Svenssons. “Come on. Let’s go talk to Anne. She can teach both of us to sew.”

Groaning, Jessie pulled back. “Not me, Corie. I don’t sew.”

Coralie ignored Jessie’s protests. “If I have to learn to cook and sew and knit and heaven knows what else, you can learn to wield a needle right alongside me.”

Night had fallen when James shifted in his saddle then stood in the stirrups. The guitar slung over his back chimed with the motion. His mount, a mare this time, tossed its head and side-stepped, as if telling him to settle down. But he couldn’t. Thoughts of Eirica filled his mind and the need to see her made him restless. Knowing he had to give her time to adjust and accept his intention to court her, he’d volunteered for first watch, hoping it’d keep him too busy to think about her. But nothing could erase the feel of her lips against his. It didn’t matter that it had been brief, the barest brush of her silky mouth against his. The memory lingered, leaving him thirsting for more.

He ran a hand across the back of his neck. No matter how sweet the memory, kissing her had been a big mistake. For the first time since he’d met her, he’d had the opportunity to spend a whole day in her company and what did he do? Opened his big mouth and ruined it, sent her fleeing from him as soon as she’d been able to get away.

Depressed, he slumped in his saddle. “Way to go, you damn
palooka.
” Duarte, one of the horse wranglers, favored the term for a dumb lout and right now, James felt as though it fit him like a second skin. At the noon stop, Eirica had shared her cold meal with him and allowed him to watch the children while she rested, but when they resumed travel she’d avoided him, choosing to walk with Anne or Coralie. The same happened when they stopped for the night. She stayed away from his wagon.

Heck, he didn’t even get the chance to talk to her, to ask if he could set her tent up. Dante had taken care of it and unloaded what she needed for the evening. “Young whelp.” But there wasn’t any heat in his words. Sofia’s grandson might have eyes for Eirica, but he was too young for her—in life’s experience if not in age.

No. The person he lashed out at was himself. “Scared her off. So much for courtin’ and goin’ slow.” He slapped his thigh with the palm of his hand. Both his mount and the nearby cows started, but James didn’t notice. Over and over, he replayed the events of the morning, starting with Eirica’s stubborn attempt to handle the wagon. When he saw her struggling to control the team, witnessed the lines of defeat on her face and the tears in her eyes, he’d wanted to scoop her into his arms and reassure her that she didn’t have to do a man’s work, she had him to take care of her.

Yet, she didn’t want his help. Didn’t want his charity. Charity! The word still stung. As did her comment that friends didn’t barge in where they weren’t wanted. He shook his head, trying hard to understand her, but she didn’t make sense to him. Why would she try to handle the oxen in her present condition? Especially when she didn’t have to. It was just plain foolish in his opinion, as proven when Ian had toppled out of the wagon.

His heart still pounded when he thought of what might have happened. Seeing Ian fall had taken ten years off his life, and worse, had made him forget that Eirica was fragile, that she needed to be treated gently. He’d yelled at her, accused her of being so cussed stubborn that she’d endanger her children before swallowing her pride. Then he’d had the gall to kiss her and state his intentions.

No doubt. He’d really made a mess of things now.

Swinging his guitar from around his back to his front, he absently strummed the strings, seeking an uplifting song to chase away his depressing thoughts. What drifted over the herd of cattle were the soft chords of a mournful love ballad.

Nearby, a lone cow lifted her head in response and lowed at the sliver of moon hanging among bright glittering stars in a sky of translucent black. James closed his eyes and sent his baritone voice sliding through the night, soft and silky as the fur of a newborn calf. When the last note left his lips, James dropped his hand with one last strum across the strings. His gaze lingered on the shimmering sheet of light above him.