The Trail Master's Bride (2 page)

It took an extreme act of will to keep from running after them and slapping the smile clean off smug Vanessa’s face. She held her temper in check until the door shut behind them, then her fury ignited, flaming as bright as her fiery hair. She’d grabbed the first thing within reach—which happened to be her new stepmama’s treasured vase from the hall table—and watched as it exploded in a thousand pieces against the stout oak front door.

“Mina.”

Her name being called from a distance slowly pulled her from the fog of her memories as her mind’s eye watched the shower of hideous orange and green glass rain down. That the monstrosity of a vase was gone didn’t faze her; in fact, it brought her great satisfaction. She’d hated the gaudy piece since it matched her mama’s tastefully decorated house in no conceivable way. Mina could still see the glimmering glass shards in the lamp light and hear the tiny shattered fragments pinging off the foyer’s tile floor. Her lips tilted into a small smile as she recalled Vanessa’s temper tantrum the next day.

“Aramina!” Her full name this time and the snappish tone made her head come up. Elliott was standing at the bottom of the incline, hands on his hips while glaring at her. He tended to do that a lot. “What in the world is the matter with you today, girl? Get your head out of the clouds. It’s time to pull out.”

Her gaze shifted behind him. The trail master stood tall on the docks directing the first few wagons up the wide wooden ramps onto the ferry. Her stomach rolled as an uneasy feeling swept through her, along with a sense of foreboding. Resigned, she put one booted foot in front of the other and went to join her irritated husband as they began this next leg of their journey, all two thousand miles of it to Oregon Territory and an unknown future.

Chapter Two

Sweat trickled down her spine and between her breasts as the sun beat down upon her. It was quite a change from the frigid cold of only a week ago. The weather had taken an abrupt turn, as had her life, and Mina wasn’t at all happy with the new direction. As a city dweller, she was accustomed to leisurely strolls, not long, arduous marches where she was exposed to the elements for hours on end, and it was taking its toll. When she looked in her small hand mirror each night, the changes were unmistakable. Her lips, once smooth and pink, were now red and cracked from the sun. The complexion that she’d worked hard to keep creamy white, as was the fashion at home, was now a golden brown. A smattering of ugly freckles had developed across the bridge of her nose, the tip of which remained rosy red despite the wide-brimmed bonnet she never went without. Her muscles ached, her feet never stopped throbbing, and with barely a dent out of the grueling trek ahead, her clothing was already loose. Partly from the excessive exercise, the other part due to her abysmal cooking, with Elliott not faring much better. At this rate, she would be nothing but a bag of bones when she limped, or possibly crawled, into Oregon City in late summer.

As if thinking it made it come true, she stepped on a jagged rock and stumbled. She cried out sharply as her ankle buckled and searing pain shot through it. No one seemed to hear or care, however. Lurching forward, Mina grabbed onto the side of the wagon for balance, silently cursing the rocky road and the very existence of the accursed prairie.

With no choice except to continue on, she stepped gingerly, favoring her tender right ankle with a pronounced limp. When the wagon hit an unusually large rut, it creaked loudly, the bonnet swaying wildly as the contents inside clanged and banged about. She exhaled a long, slow breath as her shoulders slumped tiredly, knowing she’d have another mess to clean up when they stopped at day’s end and prayed that nothing essential was broken. She eyed her home for the near future, an eleven-by-four-foot wagon. She’d tried riding at first, but the crude conveyance was a far cry from her father’s well-sprung carriage and the hansom cabs in town. She wasn’t used to being jarred until every tooth in her head ached, the wheels seeming to find every yawning furrow and large rock along the rough path. By midday on the first day, she’d had enough. Every muscle and bone in her body had been screaming in pain when she climbed down from the high seat; she swore even her fingernails and hair hurt.

After that, she walked, from daybreak until almost dusk like everyone else, the exception being the very youngest who rode in the back of the wagons, some toted on their mama’s backs when they lagged behind. Yes, she plodded along just like the others, until that morning, that is, when her aching feet had foolishly prompted her to attempt the rough-hewn wooden bench in front once again. She should have known better, the memory of her battered and bruised behind still fresh in her mind. She hadn’t lasted an hour before she jumped down unaided, wondering how on earth she would endure five, maybe six months of this torture?

Thankfully, the pace was slow, or she wouldn’t have been able to keep up. She learned she had the oxen to thank for that, for it was the valuable cattle that set the speed, not the drovers. Bearing the heaviest burden, the team was allowed to move along methodically, no more than two miles per hour as the team of four—in Elliott and Mina’s case—pulled nearly one thousand pounds of fully loaded wagon. By comparison, their haul was small since it was only the pair of them. The larger families’ wagons were huge, carrying double and triple the amount. The weight of those wagons was staggering, requiring a team numbering at least eight.

While Mina nursed her sore ankle, she eyed the back of her new husband’s head. He wasn’t faring much better than she, his fair skin burned bright red from the sun. Still, he was the man and stronger. Therefore, he had to take charge of the team. Sometimes he rode to drive the team up an incline, which were few on the seemingly endless grasslands. Most often, like her, tired of the jarring from the uneven roads—if one could call the poor excuse for a cow path they traversed a road—and with only the one set of springs underneath the wooden bed doing little good, he would walk at the head of the team, guiding them by the lead pair’s yoke.

As she followed mindlessly, she saw the trail master approaching on horseback. Her eyes drifted over him as he pulled up alongside her husband for a few words. He was such a striking man, more so than ever she’d seen, not handsome in a classical, refined kind of way like many of the gentleman she’d met back in Boston. His were rugged, utterly masculine good looks that caused a little flutter in her stomach. As a married woman now, she knew her eyes shouldn’t stray, but she couldn’t resist his pull, taking what she thought were surreptitious glances at his incredibly broad shoulders. She caught glimpses of his throat and muscular chest in the V of his collar where two or three buttons were left open in consideration of the heat. At least fifty pounds heavier than Elliott, Mr. Carr also towered over him, her husband only an inch or two above her own average height. He had a lean waist and narrow hips, but the rest of him was all muscle. The way those muscles bulged and bunched beneath his clothes was hard to miss, especially when the broadcloth fabric of his shirt was tested each time he flexed his brawny arms.

Although his size and strength were impressive, his best feature by far was his eyes. A dark midnight blue, which stood out against the golden tan of his face. They could glimmer with humor as easily as they flashed with concern, and at times snap with anger. His overlong dark wavy hair peeked out beneath his wide-brimmed black Stetson and tempted her fingers to test its texture. He had a quicksilver smile, flashing easily, Mina noticed, though it wasn’t often aimed her and Elliott’s way, for they had already tried his patience on more than one occasion.

He guided his horse forward suddenly, moving in a direction that would bring him alongside Mina in a few paces. She wondered if he caught her gawking at him like a man-hungry debutante at her coming-out ball. Embarrassed, she looked away as he drew near.

“How are you faring, Mrs. Hobart?”

“I’m muddling through, sir. Thank you for asking.”

“You look a bit game.”

“Pardon?” She looked up at him in confusion, the term unfamiliar. Often his speech contained odd words and turns of phrase that seemed foreign. Western colloquialisms, she guessed.

“Game means lame,” he explained, nodding down at her feet. “You seem to be favoring that right leg.”

“Oh, yes. It’s my ankle. I stepped in a rut, but I’ll be fine.”

“Hmm, could be a sprain.” He glanced up at the sun in the sky. “In about an hour, we’ll be stopping for the noontime meal by a creek. Make sure to soak it good while we’re there. Wrapping it firmly with cloth strips will give it some support, as well.” Again, he frowned, his full lips downturned drawing her attention. “Perhaps you should rest it in the wagon until then.”

“No!” Her response came out sharper than intended. “All that bumping and bouncing around? No, thank you, my backsi—” She stopped herself short, appalled that she’d almost referred to her rear end in conversation. “I’ll be fine.”

He’d noticed her slip, the corner of his mouth kicking up on one side in amusement. Beneath her tanned skin, she knew her face blazed as hot as the sun. “Thank you for the advice, Mr. Carr. I will soak and wrap my foot as you suggested.”

His eyes twinkled as he tipped his hat and moved on. Unable to stop herself, she craned her neck and watched him go, her heart racing as it always seemed to do in his presence. It also lurched as she realized how close she’d come to humiliating herself in front of him. Facing forward, she pushed thoughts of him aside, reminding herself for the umpteenth time that she was a married woman. Telling herself to ignore the attraction, she determinedly focused on the trail ahead. Unfortunately, that put her in direct contact with Elliott’s fulminating glare as he looked back at her. She had no doubt he’d witnessed her moon-eyed perusal of their handsome leader. His lips twisted disdainfully before he too faced front.

Puzzled, Mina tried to figure out what emotion had ruled his scowling face. It should have been jealousy, seeing her chatting with another man, but it seemed more like disgust, or worse, loathing. Whatever it was, it disturbed her. His perpetual foul mood was setting the tone for this early part of the trip.

The long monotonous days melded together as the wagon train slowly moved westward. Along the way they encountered other emigrants, some in single wagons, others in long trains consisting of families and friends, or people who had banded together thinking there was safety, and better odds, in numbers. Even then, the trip was perilous, especially for easterners—greenhorns, dudes, and tenderfoots, she’d heard them called—who had no idea of where they were going and what dangers lay ahead. Elliott had been smart enough to sign on to a wagon train led by an experienced and well-compensated trail master, sometimes referred to as the wagon master or captain. He knew the trail and the terrain, as well as where to find precious, life-sustaining water in the dog days of summer, the best places to make camp, and also, how to avoid common pitfalls and hazards that many pioneers encountered along the way, costing many their lives.

The captain was also like a town sheriff, in charge of enforcing rules that all members of the train had agreed to before signing on, including rules of conduct, required care and securing of livestock, how to set up camp safely, and restrictions on drinking spirits and other errant behaviors. One stringent rule that was of particular importance was that the menfolk were responsible for the care and safety of their own family. Children were to be kept in check, not allowed to become unruly and for everyone’s safety, no one was allowed to leave the wagon train alone.

Nothing about that seemed unreasonable to Mina, so she didn’t object, except for the grueling schedule they kept. Rising before dawn, breakfast was prepared, the bedding secured, the wagons repacked and the teams hitched to the wagons. This was all done and they were well on their way as the sun tipped the horizon at their backs.

By noon, the cattle needed a break for food, water, and a cool-down necessary to endure the hottest part of the day, as did the people, so they stopped for an hour or more for lunch. The meal was usually something cold as no one wanted to unpack and repack a wagon or stand over the heat of a fire to cook.

The train didn’t stop again until the sun dipped low on the horizon. By this time they had traveled at least fifteen miles, sometimes more on a good day, and usually all of it was on foot. That didn’t mean it was time for rest. No. More work awaited them, including the women unpacking the necessary items for the evening meal, as well as clothing and bedding required for the night while the men tended the animals, completed any needed repairs on the wagons and set up a watch.

The wagons camped in a circle at night, just as the stories all told, but not for the reason they espoused. It was to keep the livestock secure and prevent them from wandering off, and if a storm blew in, with winds strong enough to topple a single wagon, they could hook together for added weight, keeping their sole means of transportation and survival from blowing away and being destroyed.

If they were lucky, they camped near a creek or a river that wasn’t brown with silt and could bathe, which left their precious water in their rain barrels for drinking and cooking.

Evening activities included lessons for the children with the adults socializing around the fire. Sometimes a man would bring out a fiddle and the children, who seemed to have an endless amount of energy, would dance, sing, or play games. Bedtime came early, because morning came even earlier and they would be up to do it all over again. The only exception to the routine being Sunday, which was a day of rest, for worship, naturally, and a much-needed break for the livestock. Unfortunately, work didn’t take a break as there were still meals to prepare, animals to tend, and dirty, dust-covered clothing to be washed.

As one day melded into the next, Mina became more and more miserable. Not only from the harsh conditions, but from the harshness of her marriage as well. Elliott was constantly annoyed with her, having left all patience and common decency back in Independence days ago. He should have known a city girl from Boston wouldn’t be able to do half the things a pioneer woman could do, like drive a wagon with a team of four oxen. He should have asked if she’d ever cooked a thing in her life, let alone over an open fire. She hadn’t, of course, the proof being that her coffee was as thick as glue, the bacon burned to a crisp, and she had no idea what a johnnycake was and at this point had no desire to learn. So, what was without question a woman’s chore had fallen to her husband. City born and raised himself, he wasn’t much better at it. To his credit, his meals weren’t burned to a crisp and were thereby edible, though just barely. As far as her reciprocating and sharing some of his burdens, as many of the other women did, it wasn’t happening in Mina’s case. Mainly because she didn’t know how. Elliott’s minimal efforts to teach her had fallen short, turning most often into shouting matches between the pair, tipped off by his impatience and Mina’s quick temper.