The Reluctant Bridegroom (26 page)

He watched her as she turned and walked away, and all day as he worked on the rafts, he thought about her praise with a warmth that almost made him forget about his encounter with Sky. He kept his eye on him, but said nothing. Penny uttered once under his breath, “I think more of Sky Winslow for this than anything else. It must be eating him alive—and for him to stay and help—why, that’s a miracle, Dave!”

Lloyd thought so too, but it grieved him when Sky saddled his horse and rode off when they stopped work. He lay awake for a long time thinking of what Winslow must be feeling. As the night wore on, he heard him ride in some time after two.

They finished the rafts the next day, and the rest of the trip was anticlimactic. Under Winslow’s direction, the wagons started on the portage. The rains stopped, but the river was high, so he told Lloyd, “Give us the rest of the morning, then push the rafts off at noon. Leave about ten minutes before you launch the next one.”

It had gone perfectly. The rafts came floating down into the calmer water, and the crew pulled them to the bank and loaded the wagons. It took most of the day to tie them down; then Sky took four men ahead with him.

“Start the first wagon at eight tomorrow morning. Thirty minutes later, the next one. That’ll give us plenty of time.”

“The river’s not so bad is it, Sky?” Dave said, hoping to see a break in the hardness of Winslow’s face.

“It could be a lot worse,” Sky answered blankly. He rode out with the others, and Lloyd turned away heavily.

The last leg of the Sandy River went as well as the portage.
The rafts rode high and the only incident was when one of them got hung up on some driftwood, but two of the men quickly pulled it off.

It was nearly dark before they got all the wagons off, but the next day they left for Oregon City, and spent two uneventful days on the trail.

Now they had come into the place they’d risked their lives to reach.

It wasn’t much of a town, Rita thought, taking in the muddy streets and the string of frame buildings that lined the main street, but the welcome they got made up for it. Men poured out of every doorway, and there was a high-pitched yelling as the crowd gathered around the wagons, pulling at the horses and waving their hats at the women.

As the procession stopped, Rita laughed, “They’re a pretty rough bunch, aren’t they? You find one who looks good to you, Rebekah?” She got no answer, and glanced at the other woman. Rebekah was staring at a young boy who had run out of a store and grabbed Sky Winslow around the middle. The two stood there, holding on to each other, oblivious of the crowd, and then Sky swung the boy around and saw Rebekah staring at him.

He stopped in his tracks, and his expression changed in a way she could not explain. He held her gaze for one long moment before the boy pulled at him, and he looked down. When he answered the boy and looked back, a tall young man had come up to Rebekah, sweeping off his hat and introducing himself, unknowingly blocking Sky’s view of her.

Her last sight of him was of the two of them mounting his horse and his spurring it down the muddy street, going at a fast run until she could not see him anymore.

Rita was being pulled toward a large building by anxious hands, but she resisted them long enough to draw close and say, “Forget him, Rebekah! Who needs a reluctant bridegroom when there’s men for the asking all over the place!
Welcome to Oregon!
”

Rebekah suddenly felt more lonely in the midst of the shouting throng than she had in all the emptiness of the great plains. She shook her head at the tall fellow who was urging her to let him escort her to the hotel, and went to find a place of quiet in the wagon. “I don’t want to go with them, Lot,” she said and got under the canvas. She picked Mary up and cuddled her close, and allowed the tears to flow.

“Welcome to Oregon!” she whispered—and wished that she were anywhere else in all the world.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SKY MAKES UP HIS MIND

The snowstorm caught up with Sky and Joe at the end of the first week of their trip north. When the sun shrank to a small, gray disk in the iron sky and the temperature plummeted, Sky said, “We’re in for it now, Joe. Got to make for McKenzie’s old place over by Sixpoint River.”

By the time they reached the deserted shack, heavy flakes had padded the earth with three or four inches of snow. “You take care of the horses, Joe, and I’ll get a fire going and fix some grub,” Sky said.

“All right, Pa.” Joe piled off his horse, took the reins from Sky and led the animals around back to a shed with a slanting roof branching off the main structure. He brought them inside, stripped off the packs and saddles, and dug out a small sack of feed. Pouring it into an old bucket, he gave each a turn, then went down to the river and brought back water. The horses emptied the bucket thirstily, and he went back to refill it. By the time he finished, the dark was closing in, and his hands and feet were almost numb as he stumbled to the front door and fumbled with the latch.

“Come in and warm up, Joe.” The warmth of the flickering fire was a welcome sight, and the smell of the sizzling steaks in the frying pan that Sky held stirred the boy’s juices. He stomped the snow from his feet, shut the door behind him, and sat beside the huge fireplace. “Glad we left that kindling and wood here last year, Son. Don’t reckon there’s been a soul here since we left. You get the horses fed?”

“Sure.”

Sky was amused at the taciturn answer; he had noticed that Joe was out to prove himself grown up: avoiding boyish chatter and speaking briefly in as deep a voice as possible. There were times when he forgot—like when he’d brought down the six-point buck early that morning. Sky had put him where the boy would get the first shot; and if he lived to be a hundred, Sky would never forget Joe’s wide-eyed excitement as he’d stood over the fallen animal, dancing and chattering loudly.

“Glad you got this fellow, Joe,” Sky said idly, turning the steaks. “We’d be chewing hardtack if you’d missed.” He cocked his head and allowed admiration to shade his tone: “That was a good shot.”

Joe flushed with pleasure. “Wasn’t much.” Then he forgot his resolution to keep his words to a minimum, and began to talk with animation of the hunt. His flow of words was slowed only slightly by the steak that Sky put before him.

Boy’s been dying for someone to talk to—never should have gone on that fool trip!
Sky thought. During his brief talk with Sam Birdwell, he’d learned that Joe had not been happy. “He missed you a lot, Sky,” Birdwell had said. “I tried to find things to do with him, but I’m a town man and he just naturally wanted to be outside, hunting and trapping. We’re
both
glad you’re back, Sky. Boy needs you.”

Winslow leaned back and ate slowly, enjoying his son’s company and pleased with the sight of Joe’s lean figure and lively face. The months had stretched his body out.
He’s going to be a big man—like his grandfather, maybe.
The thought of his father sent a wave of discontent through him, for much as he was enjoying the hunting trip, he knew he was only postponing the inevitable. A nagging sense of lost time disturbed him, for he was no closer to resolving the problem than before. By the end of the trail to Oregon, he had realized that getting a housekeeper was not feasible. And he could see nothing ahead for himself and Joe but more of what they’d had before—and it was not enough.

Joe was tired after the hard day, but he fought sleep as long as he could. The snow outside blanketed all sound, and it was satisfying to sit there beside the glowing coals. From time to time Sky would poke the fire, sending golden, fiery sparks up the chimney. Joe begged him for stories of his youth, and Sky managed to dredge up a couple he’d never told while he drank strong black coffee. As he told the stories, Sky was amused to see Joe manfully down a mug of the stuff, though he liked chocolate better.

“Better go to sleep, Joe,” he said after the fifth story.

“Aw, Pa, we can’t do nothin’ tomorrow anyway! Tell me something about when you was a boy with the Sioux.”

Sky poked at the fire, and the log shifted with a hissing sound. “Joe, do you remember much about your ma?”

An uneasy look passed over the boy’s sensitive face, and he mumbled, “Oh, just a little.”

“Pretty hard for a boy to be without a ma,” Sky said offhandedly. “Lot of things a father can’t do for a young’un.”

“We do fine, Pa!” Joe insisted, rolling off his back into a sitting position. “Pa . . . ?”

“Yes?”

Joe bit his lip, then blurted, “Pa, you’re not gonna marry up with one of them women, are you?”

“Hadn’t planned on it, Joe. Why?” The thought leaped into Sky’s mind that the boy was about to urge him to marry, but he saw relief on the thin face.

“Oh, Sam said once that he thought you might—but we don’t need nobody, Pa.” He grinned and twisted his head to one side in a starboard list. “We make out fine like we are.”

Sky shook his head soberly. “We can’t stay on a hunting trip for the next ten years till you’re grown, Joe. You need education.”

“I can be a trapper like you!”

“Time you’re grown, trapping will be over. It’s about that way now. Beaver’s getting thin, and now they’re using silk for hats in England. And the buffalo won’t last—not the
way they’re being killed.” Taking a deep breath, he asked, “What would you think of moving back to the Yellowstone country—back to where I grew up?”

“You mean with your ma and pa?”

“Yes. Be good for you to be around your kin—and the Mission’s got a good school.” He had already decided that it was the only course that made any sense, but he wanted Joe to like the idea, too, so he did not press the issue. “We’ll talk about it,” he said, then got up and stretched. “I’m tired. Let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow we’ll make some snowshoes and scout around a bit. Maybe get an elk.”

For a week they roamed the hills on snowshoes, finding plenty of game during the day and spending the long nights in front of the fire. The only book in the cabin was a battered old Bible that had been left behind. It had been soaked until the book was thickened, and some of the last pages were missing, but Joe liked the stories of the Old Testament—especially the heroic exploits of David, Joshua, and Elijah. Sky was saddened when he realized how little the boy knew of the Bible. He himself had soaked it up from the time he was eleven, for either his father or Missy had often read it aloud to him. He grimly determined that he would remedy the gap in Joe’s education, which was one more factor that tipped the scale toward his decision to move back to the Mission.

After a week had passed, he said, “Well, we’d better be headin’ back, Joe.” The boy ducked his head, disappointed, but the snow had melted enough for travel, and they made the return trip with no difficulty. Returning to the house was a bad experience, for it was dirty and damp with mildew. Sky silently surveyed the dirty clothes, the unwashed dishes with food hardened in them, and said, “We’ll go to town tomorrow, Joe. I’m going to sell this place. Look at it!”

“Aw, we can clean it up, Pa!” Joe protested. While he had come to accept a move to some degree, the house was all he’d known, and the reality of leaving it grieved him. The months
of town living had been hard on him, and now he was being asked to give up a life he loved for one he knew nothing of.

But Sky shook his head, and Joe saw that his father’s mind was made up. “Got to be a better way than living like a couple of hogs!” he said, and from the determined look on his face, Joe knew that it would be useless to argue.

The next day they rode to Oregon City. The streets were thick ribbons of mud from the thawing ice; and as they went down Main, Sky said, “Have to take care of some business, Joe. You got anything to do until I finish?”

“Mr. Emory said he’d have the new case for my rifle in a week. Have we got the money for it, Pa?”

“Sure.” Sky fished several coins out of his pocket and gave them to the boy. “It’ll do till we can get a Sioux squaw to make you the real thing. You can wait at Sam’s when you get through.”

“Okay, Pa.”

Sky watched him spur his horse into a gallop, then made his way to Sam’s store. He had an unpleasant chore to take care of, and he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. Stepping inside, he was surprised to see Karen Sanderson behind the counter. He felt embarrassment redden his face, for she had not spoken with him since the Tom Lake incident, and he figured she was probably still angry for the way he’d behaved.

She saw his reaction and said evenly, “Hello, Mr. Winslow.”

“Hello, Karen. Is Sam here?”

“No, he’s out campaigning.”

“Campaigning for what?” he asked curiously.

“He’s running for mayor.” She was a calm woman, but she shook her head disapprovingly, and her blue eyes were troubled.

“Mayor? I never knew he was thinking about politics.”

“I don’t think he wants it—but he thinks he’s got to do it.” She bit her lip. “I wish you’d try to talk him out of it, Mr. Winslow. He thinks a lot of you.”

Sky frowned. “Matthew Poole and Rolfe Ingerson have had this town sewed up tight for a long time. Trying to get Oregon City away from them will be like taking honey from a mad grizzly. They play rough.” Then a thought occurred to him. “Karen, have
you
married Sam?”