Читать книгу Jeb Hunter's Bride - Ana Seymour - Страница 10

Westport Landing, Kansas

April 1857

Jeb Hunter rode along the double row of wagons, nodding an occasional greeting to his newest band of pilgrims. The wagons always looked so fresh and pretty at this stage—their hickory-stretched covers flapping proudly in the gentle Kansas breeze. It was the largest group he had taken yet. From a trickle of daring pioneers a decade ago, the western flow had grown to a mighty river, so that by now at midseason the trail outposts—Fort Kearney, Fort Laramie and the like—were bustling cities with thousands of wagons passing through. But the numbers hadn’t lessened the danger, nor lowered the toll. Each time Jeb went across, the crosses marking trail deaths had multiplied like seeds scattered in the wind.

“Afternoon, Mr. Todd, Miz Todd,” Jeb called, flicking his finger against the brim of his leather hat. The Todds were exactly the kind of people he liked to have in his party. Frank Todd was coolheaded, strong and a good shot. And he only had a wife to watch out for—no children, no mother or sister-in-law to lessen the odds. One man protecting one woman, the way things were meant to be. Every time Jeb took on a big family with helpless females and children he felt the familiar knot in his stomach. It wasn’t as bad as it used to be. There had been times after he’d lost Melanie that the knot had gotten so big and tough, it would actually make him sick. He’d have to stop along the trail and puke out whatever had gone into his stomach over the past few hours. But nowadays he could usually swallow down the knot and get his mind back to other matters.

Frank Todd hollered back to him. “Will we be ready to roll on schedule tomorrow, Captain?”

Jeb nodded and reined his horse to pull closer to the Todds’ wagon. “We’re waiting on two more outfits, and they’re both due in this afternoon.”

“One will be those Irish boys, isn’t that right?” Eulalie Todd asked. At Jeb’s nod she continued, “Those poor boys with their father dropping dead so sudden like. It’s a wonder they still want to make the trip.”

Jeb frowned. “Their father already had his equipment all purchased. He did a good job of it, too. It’s a fine wagon. But I’m not too comfortable myself with the thought of the two of them tackling it alone. If we could talk them out of it, I’d be a mite relieved.”

“Don’t we want all the wagons we can get?” Frank asked.

“Not necessarily. We already have nearly fifty, and anything more than that can get difficult to manage.”

“Do you want me to talk to the boys when they get here?” Frank had been elected representative for the paying members of the association, which meant that Jeb could use him as an arbiter if there was a disagreement among the settlers. They also were carrying Jeb’s personal supplies and food. Once they started rolling, he would camp with them each night and share their cookfire.

“No, I’ll handle it. Legally, they’re signed on, and their wagon’s already been delivered here from Boone’s place. So if they’re up to it, I guess we’ll take them.”

Frank nodded his approval. “You tell them to call on Eulalie and me if they need some extra help.”

Jeb smiled. “The papers say Gallivan’s children are thirteen and nineteen years old. Thirteen’s barely out of knee britches, but I’m hoping that the nineteen-year-old will turn out to be a burly fellow who can pull his own weight.”

“Well now, I’d say nineteen’s a fine age to be starting a new life out West,” Eulalie Todd offered. “Most lads are in their prime by then. But they’ll be grieving still. You tell them to come on over and see Eulalie if they get to feeling poorly. I’ll feed them a nice hot bowl of turnip soup.” Her voice became wistful. “Back home we’d have the house full up of neighbor children every time I made my turnip soup.” She looked over her shoulder as if she might see all the way across the prairie to the neat brick house she had left behind in St Louis.

“I’ll do that, ma’am.” Jeb turned to her with the deep smile that lit his face only seldom these days. “And I’ll plan on polishing off a bowl or two of that soup myself.” He winked at her, then tipped his hat once again and rode away.

Patrick eyed their new wagon with a look of dismay. “How are we supposed to fit everything in there, sis? Papa’s tools alone will take up half the space.”

Kerry was thinking the same thing. She had that sick feeling in her stomach that had become so familiar since the day three weeks ago when she and Patrick had returned to their hotel room back in St. Louis to find their father slumped over the edge of his bed, still and cold. She took a deep breath. “We’ll take out all these supplies and put the toolboxes in first, then pile things on top of them. It’ll be tight, but I think we can do it.”

“And where do we sleep? On top of the roof?” Patrick’s voice gave signs of beginning its descent into manhood, but at the moment it was shrill, sarcastic and annoying.

“We’ll sleep on the roof if we have to in order to get all this to California. If Papa could bring these things all the way from Ireland, I can sure as shooting get them to California.”

Her brother leaped nimbly into the back of the wagon. “We could just take the metal pieces and leave some of the wooden things behind. I can make new ones myself when we get to California.”

This last was said with a deliberately casual air that told Kerry her brother knew perfectly well that his woodworking was not even close to the master craftsman level that had been passed along in the Gallivan family for generations. Patrick was good with his hands, but he had not had time to develop his father’s skill. But Kerry would never be the one to tell him this. “It was Papa’s dream to start a new life in California, Patrick. To start over on rich, new land and with the things he brought from home. Now that he’s gone, we’re going to do it for him. We’ll find the room.” Kerry bit down hard on her lip. This was not the time to give way to grief, or to discouragement “Maybe we don’t need all these supplies the Boone store sent. There are only two of us to feed now instead of three.”

“That’s right. Papa certainly won’t be eating anything this trip.” Patrick’s face brightened. “Maybe we could sell some of this food back to Boone’s and it would give us a little cash.”

Kerry tamped down her annoyance at her brother’s light tone. She knew that Patrick missed their father every bit as much as she did, but his youthful high spirits gave him the edge on dealing with his death. With each passing day, it seemed to be easier and easier for her brother to talk about him, to consign him to a place in the heart and mind reserved only for memories. Kerry had not reached that point. She still felt as if any minute she would turn the corner and see his dear, weathered face. When the realization hit that this would never happen again, she’d feel as if a hand was clutching at her throat, threatening to squeeze away her breath. Sean Gallivan was dead. After all his dreams, all his planning, all his saving, he would never see his dream fulfilled in the promised land of California. But she would.

“We’ll ask Captain Hunter when he shows up. In the meantime, let’s start moving some of these barrels out so we can get organized.”

“I thought the captain was supposed to be here to welcome us.”

Kerry pulled herself up beside her brother. There was scarcely room for the two of them inside the narrow bed of the wagon, which was already crammed full with the supplies her father had ordered. Patrick was right. There was no room left for the beloved woodworking tools that had been made by their great-grandfather—two heavy boxes of them that had already journeyed across an ocean and a third of a continent.

“Captain Hunter has many duties. I’m sure he’ll be along directly.”

Kerry was in no hurry for the meeting with the wagon train captain, knowing that the encounter would be the first true test of her disguise. This morning when they’d left Independence, Patrick had settled the roominghouse bill himself and the man at the livery stable had hardly given her a glance. And she was becoming more comfortable in her brother’s trousers. But she couldn’t hope to escape scrutiny forever.

She worried about her face. Before packing her mirror, she had taken a long look at herself. The short hair didn’t change the fact that her face was distinctly feminine—the lips full and red, the bright blue eyes heavily lashed. Her face was bronzed by the sun, not lily-white like that of the true ladies she had seen parading up and down Park Avenue back in New York. But her cheeks were smooth as polished marble. No one who came close would believe that they belonged to a man. Once they’d left the city this morning she’d rubbed dirt all over her face, much to her brother’s amusement.

“Hallo there!” A voice reached them from the front of the wagon.

Patrick jumped down and leaned around the edge. “We’re back here.”

From the dark shelter of the wagon, Kerry peered out at the man who was pulling up his horse next to her brother. Her first impression was that he was big. Even mounted in his saddle, she could tell that he was much taller than the immigrant lads she had spent time with back in New York. Fully half a foot taller than Mickey Flanagan, she’d wager.

“Mr. Gallivan?” the man asked, bending to look inside the wagon.

Kerry’s stomach tightened. “My father’s dead,” she said gruffly, remembering at the last minute to keep her voice low.

The man looked disconcerted. He rubbed a hand along a whiskery chin. “Ah…I know that. I’m sorry. We’ve been in touch with your lawyer, of course. But I was addressing you, sir. I’d be happy to call you by your first name, if you prefer, but I don’t know what it is. I’m Jeb Hunter,” he added.

Kerry sat back on her haunches and willed herself to stay calm. Of course, she was Mr. Gallivan now. And she’d have to do a better job of keeping her wits about her if she wanted her ruse to succeed.

Her brother calmly reached a hand toward the newcomer. “Pleased to meet you, Captain. I’m Patrick, and that’s Kerry. Skipping the ‘mister’ part would be fine with my…ah…brother.”

“Kerry?” the captain asked, still trying to see into the dim interior.

“Ah…Ker…ah…Kiernan.” Patrick corrected firmly.

Captain Hunter cocked his head. “Irish name, right? Well, are you two gentlemen finding everything to be satisfactory?”

Patrick looked at his sister to reply.

Kerry took a deep breath and spoke carefully in the deep voice she’d been practicing. “We seem to have a few more supplies than we can fit, Captain Hunter.”

Jeb grinned. “Old Albert Boone knows how to pack them in, that’s for sure. But I think you’ll find that they’ve given you just enough to cover your needs. The wagon may look crowded now, but you’ll get used to it.”

Kerry risked leaning a little into the sunlight. In spite of her resolution to stay away from Captain Hunter, he would have to see her face sometime, and it might as well be now. “The problem, Captain, is that we’ve brought a few items along with us from New York that have to go in our wagon.”

She noticed that he started a little when he saw her, and she quickly pointed behind him, hoping to distract his attention. Jeb gave her one more hard glance, then turned back toward the rented wagon. With a low whistle he swung a long leg over his horse and jumped to the ground. “What in the name of Jupiter is all that?”

He didn’t sound pleased. Kerry swallowed. “There’s some farm equipment, and the two boxes are my father’s tools.” The defensive tone made her voice creep higher.

Jeb stalked over to the freight wagon and looked at the jumbled contents with disbelief.

Once again Patrick took charge. “My brother and I are going to start our own ranch in California. My father brought those things with him when he came from Ireland.”

Jeb turned around and looked from Patrick back over to Kerry, who had once again retreated into the shadows. He shook his head. “There’s no way you’ll be able to take all this with you. Your father should have understood that it would be impossible. I’m sorry, lads.” He lowered his head and once again tried to peer inside the dark recesses of the wagon. “Listen, I know your father’s death must have been a terrible shock to you two. If you want to head on back to New York, I’ll be sure you get your money back from the association and from Boone’s, too.”

Kerry’s cheeks flushed hot. She had been told one time too often over the past few days that she ought to consider giving up. Vaulting over the lip of the wagon she landed hard on the ground and turned to face Jeb Hunter with her hands on her hips. “Captain Hunter, my brother and I are going to California, and we have a contract that says you have to take us.”

He took a couple steps toward her. His eyes were an odd hazel color, the corners crinkled from years of riding outdoors in the prairie sun. He had a strong face that matched the raw strength of his tall body. Her anger died as swiftly as it had arisen. “We won’t give you any trouble,” she added softly. “I promise.”

Jeb looked at her curiously, then over at Patrick, and back once again to the loaded freight wagon. “That stuff came all the way from Ireland?” Jeb snatched his hat off and ran a hand back through his unruly, light brown hair.

“All the way from Ireland,” Kerry said firmly. “And now it’s going all the way to California.”

Jeb looked uncertain. The expression didn’t sit naturally on his face. He stretched his neck to look around toward the front of the wagon where the team of four oxen grazed placidly. “The more weight your oxen pull, the more water they’ll need.” Jeb put on his hat and pushed it to the back of his head. “Water can get mighty precious along the trail.”

Kerry had begun to relax. Though he had given her some strange glances, it appeared Captain Hunter was not going to question her identity as the son of Sean Gallivan. “I’ve noticed that many of the families are bringing along a milk cow. Will their cows need water, Captain?”

He gave a reluctant smile. “I reckon they will.”

Kerry nodded. “Then you can just consider the extra equipment to be our milk cow.”

Jeb pulled himself back on his horse in an easy, natural motion that did something queer to Kerry’s insides. “I’ll make a bargain with you. Cut this stuff in half.” He gestured to the freight wagon. “Leave the plow, one of those toolboxes, whatever else you can. There’ll be a representative from Boone’s out later on this afternoon to take back any leftover supplies. He’ll probably give you some money for whatever you have to leave behind.”

“Captain Hunter, my brother and I have already had to leave the body of our father behind in St Louis. I intend to take whatever else I can of him to California.” Kerry realized that her voice had trembled slightly. Furiously she bit painfully into her lower lip. But her emotion had apparently not affected Jeb Hunter.

“I’m sorry. At least half that pile stays here…or you and your entire wagon stay. Take your choice. We leave at dawn, boys. I’ll leave you alone to make your decision.”

When Kerry made no reply, Patrick said, “Thank you, Captain. We’ll be ready to go at dawn.”

Jeb took a last look over at the freight wagon. “Just remember we’ve got two sets of mountains to cross before you get to the California. My best advice to you is to travel as light as possible.”

Then he wheeled his horse and rode off, sending up a cloud of dust that stung Kerry’s eyes.

“Maybe he’s right, Kerry,” Patrick said after a moment. “We don’t really need all those things. I can get new tools when we get out there, and then I’ll make whatever else we need.”

Kerry had a sudden vision of her brother as a small boy sitting at their father’s side, earnestly copying each move of Sean Gallivan’s sure, swift hands. She blinked hard and let the tears well up to wash away the dust. “We’re going to build Papa’s ranch in California, Patrick. It’s going to be every bit as rich and beautiful as he dreamed. And,” she added fiercely, “we’re going to do it with his grandfather’s tools.”

They had worked through the night. The settlers’ representative, Frank Todd, had ridden up at dusk to invite them to a campfire and farewell party, but they had politely declined and continued shifting and shoving and unloading and reloading until the inside of their wagon was more intricately arranged than a Chinese puzzle. It had been almost dawn before Kerry had been satisfied that everything was packed. The two big toolboxes were covered with supplies, impossible to see from any angle. Everything was on board except for a box from the Boone store labeled Meat Cakes.

“I think I’d have trouble getting one of these things down anyway,” she’d told her brother.

“They’re not so bad,” he’d replied, munching on one. “At least they’re not fish.”

When their father had become fanatical about his plans for the journey to California, they’d saved money by eating the broken and sometimes half-spoiled pieces of fish Patrick had been able to bring home each day from the docks. Now just a fishy odor was enough to make them both queasy.

The man from Boone’s outfitters had come and gone the previous evening, so the box of meat cakes sat in the grass alongside the wagon. “We have an hour or so until dawn,” Kerry said finally. “We could probably sleep.”

“I’m too wide-awake,” Patrick replied, sitting down beside her at the little campfire they’d kept burning through the night. “It’s hard to believe that we’re finally on our way. So much has happened…”

His voice trailed off. “It’s not fair, is it?” Kerry mused. “He should be here.”

Patrick nodded as they both stared at the glowing embers. After several minutes he said, “You go ahead and sleep if you want, sis. We have a long day ahead.”

“No. This is restful right here. A few moments of peace before everyone else is awake. Maybe we’ll be able to sleep along the way.”

Patrick grinned. “Show me a square foot of space inside the wagon where I can curl up and then I’ll think about napping.”

Kerry sighed. “There’ll be more space as we use up the supplies along the way.”

“You boys must be eager to get started.” Jeb Hunter’s voice came out of the darkness behind them. “You’re the first ones up.”

“We haven’t been…” Patrick began, then stopped as Kerry elbowed his side. “Ah…we’re ready and waiting.”

“I hope you got enough rest. The first couple of days are usually grueling.” Jeb glanced over at their wagon. “I see you got your wagon loaded. Did you sell the rest of your stuff back to Boone’s?”

“Yup. No problem,” Kerry replied quickly without so much as a stammer. What was one more lie among the many she would be forced to tell to maintain her masquerade?

Captain Hunter was studying them keenly in the firelight. Kerry didn’t like the speculative look in his eyes when he glanced her way. She bent over to put a log on the fire, hiding her face. “Like my brother said, we’re ready to go.”

Jeb sauntered casually over and peeked in the back of the wagon. “It looks pretty full up in there.”

Kerry gave a noncommittal murmur in reply.

He walked back over to the fire and stood towering over them. “Just so you understand. Sometimes the trail gets too tough—we have to lighten the load, leave things behind. You’ll find the way littered with family heirlooms, tools, furniture, all kinds of ‘essentials’ that somehow just don’t seem that essential anymore a thousand miles out from Westport Landing.”

Kerry wanted to look him directly in the face, but she had to remember that her disguise was more important at this point than her pride. She kept her eyes lowered. “I understand what you’re saying, Captain. I can assure you that my brother and I will do whatever it takes to reach California.”

“Well, I admire your attitude, Kiernan. That’s the kind of spirit we need along the trail.” Jeb lapsed into silence as he once again studied the two Irish boys. He’d been disappointed when he first saw the elder Gallivan brother. The lad was slight, almost sickly thin, and looked not much older than his little brother. But the young Irishman had stood up to Jeb well enough—both brothers had, for that matter. Perhaps they would also stand up to the rigors of the trail. “How well can you boys shoot?” he asked them.

Patrick and Kerry looked at each other. “We’re willing to learn,” Patrick said finally. “There’s a fine new rifle with the supplies Papa bought.”

“You’ve never been hunting, never shot a gun?” Jeb asked, incredulous.

“There are very few buffalo wandering around the streets of Manhattan, Captain,” Kerry retorted, watching him from under her thick eyelashes.

Jeb chuckled, but shifted uneasily. He could swear that the boy raised his hackles in a way that he’d only experienced with women. It was an odd sensation. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that the lad was so femininely slender. And then there was that face, so perfect it looked as if it had been chiseled directly off one of the marble statues he’d seen once in a book.

“Well, you’ll have to learn to shoot out here—both of you. Maybe one of the other men will give you some lessons. Have you met your neighbors yet?” When both boys shook their heads he continued. “Up in front of you will be Scott Haskell. He’s an argonaut and is traveling alone.”

“An argonaut?” Patrick asked.

“A prospector. That’s what they’re calling them—after Jason and the Argonauts. You know—the never-ending search for the Golden Fleece.” There was a disdainful note to his voice.

“I thought the Gold Rush was pretty much over,” Kerry said.

“There’ll always be a gold rush somewhere as long as men think that money is the secret to a happy life.” Jeb had learned otherwise a long time ago, but it wasn’t a lesson he shared easily. “Anyway, the outfit behind you belongs to the Burnetts—a young couple from Virginia and their two young’uns. Nice folks.”

Patrick jumped up from his place by the fire, looking as if he was ready to start this instant. “Do we stay in the same order for the whole trip?” he asked their guide.

“We keep the same order usually, unless there’s a reason to switch. But each day the lead wagon goes to the rear.”

“How come?”

Jeb smiled. “It’s so that every outfit gets a chance at one blessed, dust-free day.” When Patrick looked confused, he added, “You’ll understand what I mean after an hour or two on the trail.”

He wished them luck on their first day, then left to begin a last-minute check on the other wagons.

By the time the first licks of dawn began appearing across the prairie, most of the camp was awake, bustling with energy and the same kind of suppressed excitement that Kerry could see in her brother’s face. She herself was wishing she could find a place to get away from everything and sleep for about a week. The long night of loading had taken a toll, as had the past few weeks of grief, strain and worry. Promising herself a good night’s sleep once they were out on the trail, she dabbed some water on her tired eyes, then rubbed more dirt across her cheeks.

Actually, she told herself, she should be feeling great. She’d successfully accomplished what she’d promised to herself as she’d stood watching her father’s body being lowered into the ground in a cheap pine box. This morning they started west. The wagon train captain had accepted them. Once they left Westport, there was no turning back. Even if her disguise was discovered, they’d have to let her continue on with them. The most difficult obstacle had been met and conquered. She should be feeling on top of the world, but as visions of her father’s twinkling blue eyes covered the blur in her own, she couldn’t seem to feel anything but tired.

“Wagons, ho!” She turned around at the sound of a childish shout, then blinked to try to clear her vision. She must be more tired than she realized, because she was suddenly seeing double.

“Forward, ho!” shouted vision number two. Kerry gave a small laugh at her own confusion. The pair were twins, of course.

“Good morning,” she said as the two identically clad youngsters ran up to her, stopping abruptly a safe five feet away. “Who are you two ladies?”

The little girls giggled and the one on the right said, “I’m Polly, she’s Molly.”

Kerry masked a wince at the thought of a mother who would name her daughters like two rhyming parrots. “Pleased to meet you. I’m…Kerr…Kiernan. Kiernan Gallivan.” She’d entirely forgotten to lower her voice, but the girls didn’t appear to question her masculinity.

“We’re Burnetts,” Polly added. “We’re gonna be your neighbors, Ma says, and we have to be nice to you, ‘cause you and your brother lost your pa.”

After too much false sympathy from strangers, Kerry found the girl’s directness disarming. Once again the unshed tears stung her throat. “Yes, we did,” she said softly. “How old are you two?”

“I’m older.” Polly continued to be the spokesperson for the duo. “Five minutes. But we’re both ten.”

Kerry turned her eyes to Molly, whose smile was just a little more tentative than her sister’s. “Well now, ten’s a wonderful age, isn’t it, just starting to be grown-up.”

Molly looked down at her scuffed shoes. “Pa says we get to drive the wagon,” she contributed in a voice Kerry could hardly hear.

“That sounds about right. My brother’s thirteen and he’s been driving for at least three years.” “But he’s a boy,” Polly pointed out. “That’s different.”

“Not always. It doesn’t have to be different.”

“You talk kind of funny.”

Kerry didn’t know if the girl was referring to her high pitch or her slight accent, but decided to stay with the safer topic. “That’s because I grew up in another country. Have you ever heard of Ireland?”

Both girls nodded and Polly said, “In school. On the train we won’t have any school and maybe not for a long time, but my Ma will teach us.”

“That’s good, Polly. Learning’s important.”

“That’s what Ma says.”

“It sounds as if your mother’s a smart lady,” Kerry replied with a smile.

“I told you girls not to bother the neighbors till we all get started.” A pretty blonde who didn’t look old enough to be anyone’s mother was walking toward them from the next wagon. The smile on her face diluted the reproachful tone of her words.

“She talked to us first, Ma.”

“They’re not a bother, ma’am.” Now Kerry made an effort to keep her voice low.

The woman came up behind her daughters and draped an arm lightly around each. “I’m Dorothy Burnett. And you must be one of the Gallivan boys.”

“I’m Kiernan, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.” Kerry took a step back toward her own wagon, hoping the woman would not offer a hand to shake. Her slender hands were the one part of her that was impossible to disguise.

“And I see you’ve already met Polly and Molly.” With a little laugh and the air of someone who’d made the explanation many times in the past, she continued, “Their real names are Priscilla Jo and Margaret Mary, but their father put the nicknames on when they were just babes and somehow they’ve stuck.”

Kerry grinned. “Polly and Molly it is, then. You girls will have to help me out on which is which for a while.”

“They’ve been known to trick people in the past,” Dorothy said, laughing, “so be careful.”

Kerry was drawn to the woman’s warmth. It was nice to have another young woman along as a companion, and for a moment she felt a pang knowing that, thanks to her masquerade, she and Dorothy would not be able to become confidantes. It would be comforting to confide her secret to someone. “That’s all right, girls,” she said a touch wistfully, smiling down at the twins. “I’ve been known to trick people myself on occasion.”