The Western Dare (Harlequin Heartwarming) (25 page)

“My dad raised Charolais,” she said. “I used to run circles around guys like that.” She inclined her head toward the bull, which had stopped to paw again.

“Yeah. Well, in another life I medaled in the hundred-yard dash. So you help Harv. I’ll distract the bull and hightail it over the gate.”

“Too far,” she muttered. “Uh-oh. Time’s run out. Quit trying to act macho. Harv’s too heavy for me to budge.”

Before Camp had time to think, she darted at the animal, flailing her arms. Left little choice, he climbed up two rungs so he could better reach the impaled man. Above the sound of blood rushing in his ears, Camp heard people shout. He wanted to check on Emily, but he almost had Harv free. Besides, having seen Emily in action during the tornado, he had to believe she could do what she said.

And she would have if the bull hadn’t swerved around her and charged the men.

“Ah!” Camp felt Philly disconnect from the barbs and fall into his wife’s waiting arms. Camp should have followed. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder to check on Emily—and smelled the hot, putrid breath of the bull. Next, he heard denim rip, and a searing pain tore up his calf. If not for the hands dragging him over the fence, he’d have lost purchase and become a rag doll for three thousand pounds of royally ticked Santa Gertrudis.

Camp clutched a torn, bloody pant leg, noting with relief that Jones and some of his men had arrived and gotten Emily out, too.

It was Megan’s white face that Camp noticed, even more than the sticky blood seeping through his jeans. She was literally shaking. Then Emily appeared, blocking his view. She brushed his hands away and began to mop at blood with a handkerchief that smelled of jasmine. Camp gave himself over to her ministrations.

“The brat just stood there and laughed.” Harv’s eyes bulged. He’d zipped his pants, but still had a large L-shaped flap in the seat, exposing his underwear.

“I’m awful sorry.” Her guilty eyes flew to Camp. “I—I didn’t think anything bad would hap-happen,” Megan stammered.

Camp felt sorry for her. Anyway, why hadn’t Harv asked to use the bathroom in the house? At the very least he should’ve realized the barbed wire wasn’t for looks. Camp thought maybe he was more willing to be magnanimous toward Megan because he felt protective of her. Or because Harv Shaw had been a horse’s patoot from the get-go. “Come on, Harv. Where’s your sense of humor? We must have looked pretty funny. And you can’t blame the bull when they’re probably barbecuing his brother. I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked up an appetite. What say we put this aside and go eat?”

Had Camp imagined it or was there a modicum of respect along with the regret in Megan’s eyes? Before he managed to ferret it out, Mark ran up, asking if he could bring Camp a soda or anything.

“No, but thanks, sport. I’ll be fine once I get this leg taped together. Please, everyone—go back to the party.”

Surprisingly, Megan came forward. “Mom, I’ll go get the first-aid kit.”

“Uh, thanks, honey. We’ll meet you at the wagon.” Emily helped Camp to his feet. She shook off the hand of the cowboy who tried to take Camp’s weight—the young Eastwood who’d been following her around. “Go back to the barbecue, Dylan. My kids and I can manage.”

The man’s gaze bounced from Emily to Mark to the retreating Megan. “They’re yours? But they’re...you don’t look old enough,” he burst out.

“Megan is fourteen, and Mark is twelve. Believe me, I’ve earned my parenting badge for every one of those years, and then some.” She would have slipped her shoulder under Camp’s arm again, but Sherry nudged her aside this time.

“You go with Dylan, Em. I know how fussy Nolan is about his clothes. I’ll see him back to the wagon, tend his leg and find him a clean pair of jeans.”

Some of Emily’s joy folded in on itself. But she hated to make a scene. And if Camp wanted her help over Sherry’s, he didn’t say so. She pasted a smile on her face. “Let me stop and tell Megan not to bother with my first-aid kit, Dylan.”

“Sure. Sure. You go on. Uh, do the other ladies all have kids, too?”

“Not Sherry or Brittany. Sherry just took off with her brother, and it appears you’ll have to pick a number to wait for Brittany.” Doing her best to keep a straight face, Emily pointed out the young woman already ringed by admirers.

Leaving Dylan to his fate, Emily hurried to where Megan waited. “Sherry’s taking care of Camp’s injury. Why don’t we go eat?”

“I’m not hungry. Mom...could we maybe grab some time later to talk? I mean, just the two of us?”

Emily sucked in a sharp breath at Megan’s earnest tone. “Why, ye-yes. Any time. I’m always available for you and Mark. You know that, don’t you? Your welfare comes first with me.”

“Really? Then do you mind if we talk now? Otherwise, I—I might lose my nerve.”

“This sounds important. Shall we walk?” Emily linked her arm with Megan’s and they strolled back the way they’d come. “Avoiding the bull, of course.” She smiled.

Megan looked troubled. “Camp asked me to go for help. I didn’t.”

“Oh.” Emily’s loose hold on Megan’s arm tightened. “I wondered what Harv was yammering about. This time, your decision had serious consequences. You need to realize that, Megan. Is this what’s bothering you?”

“Yes and no. Tell me why you and Daddy lived like strangers in the same house,” she blurted.

“Sweetheart...” Emily’s voice was strangled. “I, ah, I guess you have a right to know.” Little by little, as they walked, she unveiled the truth about Dave’s decline and how the money his parents had handed him only made his slide into booze easier and faster.

Eyes huge and weepy, Megan asked in a shaky voice, “Why didn’t you just take Mark and me and leave?”

Emily attempted to explain the far-reaching influence of Megan’s grandfather in terms she hoped made sense to a fourteen-year-old.

“Toby and Mona are awful,” Megan burst out angrily. “How could you let me believe them all this time?”

“How could I not? Don’t you understand, Megan? They had...still have the power to take you and Mark away from me.”

The girl threw herself into Emily’s arms. “Mama, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I help...helped them.”

“There, there, hon.” Emily hugged her tightly. She, too, cried. “That’s why I chose this trip. I’d hoped—but what on earth happened today to bring this about? Not that I’m complaining.” She sniffled, wiping first Megan’s eyes, then her own.

“Camp’s the reason.”

“Camp?” Emily drew back. Her heart began to hammer. Did that mean he had talked with Megan? That they’d buried the hatchet? She was almost afraid to hope.

Megan wriggled out of her mother’s arms. “He, uh, caught me feeling sorry for myself. I don’t ’xactly remember what all he said—except that you loved me enough to tell him to flake off. Mom, I figure you
must
love me bushels to dump him like that.”

Emily’s heart wrenched. She felt it tear in two. She had to force her arms around Megan this time. But she should have known better than to wish for too much good luck. Why wasn’t it enough to be mending bridges with Meggie?

It was, and yet...

The piece of Emily’s heart that Camp had begun to thaw didn’t want to go back into cold storage. Unfortunately, Megan hadn’t minced words over the reason for her abrupt turnaround. Emily dared not even contemplate risking the loss of her daughter’s tenuous trust. She simply had to avoid Camp at any and all cost.

The remainder of the day posed no problem. Megan never left Emily’s side, and Camp spent the bulk of his time in the company of their host.

Prodded by the hot, drying winds that blew in, Maizie announced they’d leave at dawn. At first there were grumbles, but after cleaning up and delivering a profusion of thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Jones, everyone seemed ready to turn in.

Morning brought harsher winds. No one complained. They were just glad the monsoons had passed. Maizie said there’d be three days of hard driving to reach Wagon Mound, at which point, weather permitting, they’d take a side trip to Fort Union.

Camp half expected Emily to fuss over his injury—would have welcomed it. But she seemed preoccupied. So he left Sherry’s original bandage in place.

At their few brief breaks and throughout lunch, Camp observed that Emily and Megan appeared to be tighter than ticks on a hound. That was good. He assumed he’d played a small part in bringing about their reunion, so Camp was at a loss to understand why Emily now went out of her way to avoid him.

He’d ask her outright at supper. That plan got sidetracked by a sandstorm that drove them all inside their wagons for the next two days.

Early the third morning, Maizie clanged them awake before dawn. “Rise and shine,” she roared in a voice loud enough to wake the dead. “We’ve gotta make fast tracks today unless we want to bog down in the shallows of the North Canadian River. If this sand keeps rolling we’ll be in silt up to our armpits.”

“You do have a way with words,” Camp grumbled, poking his sleep-rumpled head through the canvas. Sand trapped between two wagon bows dumped on him.

Mark and Jared hooted with laughter at Camp’s expense. The others were a little more restrained, except for Sherry.

“At last!” she said, laughing. “Mother Nature finally agrees that you should bathe. I understand not wanting to wet the cut on your leg, but did you break the arm that holds your razor?”

Camp snorted. “I only let shaving go for two days. Besides, I distinctly remember hearing you say how suave George Clooney looks with stubble.”

“George has that helpless I-need-a-keeper look,” Sherry said. “Sorry, bro. You look more like a gorilla.”

“Well, since we’re related...”

Maizie stuck her thumb and finger between her teeth and whistled shrilly. “Save the family squabble till we hit Wagon Mound. Then you two can trade insults all you want. You’ll need that excess energy to push these wagons through sand.”

That sobered everyone. Camp withdrew to check the covers on his stores. Emily might act aloof; Sherry, however, seemed more her old teasing self. What was up with Emily? Camp gave up trying to figure her out in the face of hordes of giant blackflies that swarmed around horses already edgy from stinging sand. With each successive break they took, Maizie’s temper mushroomed.

“Keep that rear in gear,” she yelled at Camp after he slowed his team to a walk in order to check on Emily, who had all but stopped her wagon.

Camp’s own composure snapped. He was drenched in sweat and his leg throbbed. “We’ve got women driving three wagons, Maizie,” he said angrily. “Maybe
you
have the strength of two mules, but they don’t.”

Sherry swung around and attacked Camp. “Pu-leeze! Speak for yourself. We didn’t come this far to wimp out now. Feel free to quote me in your paper.”

“Forget my paper, Sherry. Can’t you see that Emily’s played out? Last time we switched her teams, she got stuck with four ornery Belgians. They’d pull my arms out of their sockets, too, for crying out loud. It has nothing to do with gender.”

“Ha! You say that now, but what’s to prevent you changing your tune when you actually write about this incident?”

Emily glanced at Sherry’s red face and the tired lines fanning from Camp’s eyes. “Why would he be dishonest, Sherry?” Emily asked quietly.

“Yeah, sis. I’m not the one who loaded the dice here. You’d better ask yourself how many friends you’ll have if you kill off Emily and Gina.”

Sherry sucked in a sharp breath, once again feeling betrayed by Emily. And by Nolan. “I thought they
were
friends,” she said in a shaky voice. “Apparently I was wrong.” Swiftly, she moved up in the line. She wouldn’t let them see her tears.

All Camp saw was a flicker of pain that sliced through Emily’s blue eyes. As for his sister, he didn’t know her anymore. “Emily...I...” He stretched out a hand. It hung in the wind as Emily slapped her reins. And as she’d done on their first day out, she left Camp in a film of red dust.

Who’d have thought that one simple academic paper had the potential for causing so much trouble? Camp sighed. He knew he only had until Santa Fe to set things right with Emily.

Soon, lethargy crowded everything else from Camp’s mind as their grimy column limped toward the rock formation. Early pioneers had named it Wagon Mound because its outline resembled a Conestoga pulled by a brace of oxen.

Oddly enough, someone driving more modern conveyances—off-road vehicles—had beaten them to the long-awaited shelter. Eight to ten men milled aimlessly beneath a gaudy blue cabana. It looked surreal and out of place to Camp. As the wagons lined up and stopped, flashbulbs suddenly winked in rapid-fire succession.

“What’s going on?” Camp worked to calm his high-strung team. Had they stumbled into a movie set? When the spots before his eyes cleared, the first person he saw was his history colleague Lyle Roberts. And Jeff Scott. Their clean clothes left the biggest impression on Camp. He passed a hand over his bloodshot eyes, wondering if they were a mirage. But no, reporters swarmed the wagons. One particularly aggressive journalist badgered Gina to tell him about her injured leg. The few men Camp didn’t recognize turned out to represent syndicated newspapers.

Imprinted on Sherry’s grim features, Camp saw a firm belief that he’d arranged for this welcoming committee. Groaning, he dropped the reins long enough to massage his aching leg. Whoever engineered this twist of fate had ruined everything. After this, it was unlikely Sherry
or
Emily would ever speak to him again.

Philly was the only one delighted with the invasion. He swooped down, taking his day in court, so to speak. If there was any part of the trip the man
didn’t
complain about, Camp couldn’t figure out what it’d be. But for the life of him, he felt too beat to care.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Exploring the Santa Fe Trail is still a huge adventure. Not for the fainthearted.”

—Caption beneath a newspaper photograph of Camp.

L
YLE
R
OBERTS
STARTED
to clap Camp on the shoulder, then encountering his filthy shirtsleeve, drew back and dusted his hands. “Congrats on making national news, buddy. Our boss is rolling in clover. He loved having the department’s name splashed all over TV. But why give so much credit to the women? Outrunning a tornado should have scared them into dropping this project faster than last year’s wardrobe.”

“What are you talking about? We weren’t on television.”

“Indirectly you were.”

Camp wondered why he’d never noticed before that Lyle had an oily smile.

“An Oklahoma news team interviewed a pilot. He and his boss, some farmer, expounded at length about your escapades. They were unduly impressed that women drove some of the wagons. That’s why I rounded up this crew—to counter the damage, so to speak. These women won’t look quite so impressive when these guys write their articles.”

Grabbing Lyle by the front of his spotless jacket, Camp all but yanked the shorter man off his feet. “See here. My paper isn’t a hate vehicle against women.”

Lyle’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “No? At least a
them and us
piece, then. I thought that was the whole idea.”

Camp tightened his grip. “Your attitude toward women stinks. The group did a fine job coping in every instance. Don’t you dare knock them until you’ve trekked this trail yourself!” Releasing Lyle before he lost it totally, Camp rolled his tired shoulders and limped off to tend to his horses.

Jeff Scott, who’d witnessed most of the byplay, approached Camp. “This publicity gig on the heels of your run-in with a twister was probably bad timing. I’ll pass the word. We’ll leave now—save our brouhaha for your arrival in Santa Fe.”

“You do that,” Camp snapped.

“Ah, what’s your expected ETA?” Jeff jumped back as Camp detached the forward singletrees, freeing the first two of the giant, dust-covered Percherons.

“Next Friday, barring any other unforeseen problems.” Camp’s irritation cooled. He’d always found Jeff to be reasonable.

“If by unforeseen you mean stormy weather, relax. The five-day outlook for this area is much improved. Sun, sun and more sun.”

“It’s not just the rain,” Camp said wearily. “Wagons break down. Horses go lame. Sun blisters. This wind stirred up a dust bowl. Good water is scarce. Along the Santa Fe Trail, conditions haven’t changed much in a hundred years. That’s what I’ll explain in my paper. And we had advantages the pioneers lacked. More towns. Better supplies. And no worries about attacks by renegades.”

Jeff’s jaw tensed. “But you ran afoul of an outlaw. Or so Sherry said.”

Camp’s shoulders stiffened. He’d forgotten Garrett Lock, Ph.D.—the fellow scholar. Since he couldn’t think of a way to set the record straight without embarrassing Sherry, Camp let Jeff’s remark pass. Still, Camp had second thoughts about letting these guys walk away with that story. Who knew what they’d print?

“Say, Jeff, why don’t you and Lyle tag along with us from here to Santa Fe? Tomorrow we’re visiting Fort Union. Frankly, I’ve always thought a discussion of the frontier escort provided early traders would make a publishable paper.”

“I don’t know...” Jeff raked a dubious eye over Camp’s dirt-encrusted face.

“Come on. Before Lyle spouts off about my group’s performance on the trail, he ought to observe them in action.”

“I suppose. But we didn’t bring any camping gear.”

“You’re welcome to use my wagon. I’ll bunk with Robert Boone.”

“Ah, we don’t have food, either,” Jeff added hastily, as if searching for an excuse.

Camp grinned. “No problem. Men are born hunters, right? We’re natural providers. Isn’t that what you told Sherry at the college Christmas party?”

Jeff’s face turned a sickly green. “Did I say that? I’ve never shot a gun.”

Emily appeared in Camp’s peripheral vision. The red dust had coated her normally shiny hair. Untidy or not, she still looked beautiful. When she finally reached him, Camp reined in the warm greeting that rose to the tip of his tongue, lest Jeff see the truth of his feelings. No telling what mischief the men could make of that.

“Emily, you met Jeff Scott in Boonville,” Camp said. “I’ve taken the liberty of inviting him and Lyle to join us for the rest of the trip.”

Emily’s eyebrows shot up. “Maizie’s not too keen on Philly blabbing to the press, Camp. Maybe—”

“I’ll talk to her,” Camp broke in smoothly.

“Okay. So how many are staying for dinner? We’re doing potluck tonight. Something simple. Potato-cheese soup and corn bread.”

Jeff patted his stomach. “Great! All we’ve eaten today is snacks. Your train showed up three hours later than we calculated. By the way, it’s good to see you again, Mrs. Benton,” he said effusively. “I’m not the best in the kitchen,” he added. “But I can manage a potato peeler.”

Emily looked Jeff over thoroughly, her eyes revealing nothing of her assessment. “Fine. The rule on the trail is, if you want to eat, you help. Camp, Maizie asked if you, Mark and Jared would hunt up something to burn. We’re out of firewood.”

“Will do. As soon as I picket my team.” It was all Camp could do to hide a grin. He’d bet Jeff had no idea how many potatoes it took to feed this crowd.

“Say, Jeff. Send Lyle and your newshounds to Maizie for a list of chores. She assigns nightly duties. Or Lyle could pull the rocks out of the back of my wagon, build a fire ring and start coffee. Coffee beans are in the canvas sack. The pot and grinder should be there someplace. Water’s in that barrel.” Camp pointed to the dirt-caked oak container lashed to the right side of his wagon.

Jeff’s eyes widened as he darted a quick glance to Lyle and a photographer, swaggering along the row of wagons. “I’ll tell him, but I wouldn’t recommend drinking the coffee. Lyle can’t even boil water.” With that, Jeff trotted off.

Emily’s eyes crinkled at the corners as her gaze met Camp’s. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it promptly when Sherry stalked up.

“Hobnobbing with the enemy again, Em?” Sherry whirled on her brother. “Having those macho jerks meet us here was a low, sneaky blow even for you,” she accused in a hurt voice.

“But I didn’t—”

“Like they just happened to drop out of the sky? Yeah, sure.” She turned her back. “Come on, Emily. If we whip up a meal fit for a king, we’ll present Lyle Roberts with a culinary feat that’ll put his great-grandma to shame.” Sherry virtually dragged Emily away.

Camp’s weariness struck again with a vengeance. He fed and hobbled his team, giving a lick and a promise with a dandy brush to knock the worst of the red dirt off their once-sleek coats. Tired as he was, maybe he’d skip supper and go to bed early. He didn’t have the stomach to listen to Sherry and Lyle sniping at each other all evening.

Emily let Sherry pull her back to the fireside because fixing food for their added guests would take all hands. But she hadn’t liked the pallor of Camp’s skin and decided to keep an eye on him. Was he coming down with something? He and Robert had done the greater share of the physical labor these last few days. If she’d done any shirking it was only because she’d been preoccupied with Megan.

Megan.
If only there was a way to make her judge Camp favorably. Ha! Scant chance of that. She had a better chance of being run over out here by a bus.

While Emily blended ingredients for the soup, Camp dropped off braids of tallgrass to burn in the absence of wood. He came by twice; neither time did he linger. Later, she noticed him carting things from his wagon to Robert’s. He’d washed, shaved and put on clean clothes. Was his leg bothering him? It looked as if he was limping.

Maizie clanged the bell announcing supper. Emily got busy dishing up soup and corn bread and lost sight of Camp. When all bowls were filled and everyone seated, it dawned on Emily that he hadn’t shown up.
Where was he?
Strangely, it was Megan who threw out the question.

“Where’s Mr. Campbell?” Her voice carried just enough to interrupt the talk and laughter being exchanged around the campfire.

Vi glanced up in surprise. “He brought us a huge armload of those grass things to burn. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Nor I,” said Gina. “He refilled my feed trough while the boys braided grass.”

Robert paused in the act of pouring honey over his corn bread. “Far as I know, he turned in. He’s bunking with me tonight. Gave these guys his wagon.” A jab of his knife singled out Lyle, Jeff and the young college reporter who’d elected to stay with the train. “Camp told me the others are leaving after they eat.”

“Camp’s not sick, is he?” Emily broke in, unable to contain her worry.

“Didn’t say so if he is.” Robert quirked a brow at Mark and Jared. “Did he mention being sick to you guys?”

The boys stopped shoveling soup into their mouths. “Nope,” they chorused.

Emily continued to fret. Since Doris and Vi volunteered to do the dishes, Emily went to check on him. Not wanting to call attention to her concern, she skirted the people who sat around the fire talking after the reporters had taken off.

She peeked into Robert’s wagon, but it was too dark to see if Camp looked feverish. Was his breathing normal? Emily listened carefully, the way she did if one of her kids was sick. But Camp wasn’t a child, nor was he hers to worry about. Wishing wouldn’t make it so. Turning to sneak off as quietly as she’d sneaked over, she ran smack into Sherry Campbell.

“What are you doing?” Sherry whispered.

Unconsciously, Emily raised a protective hand to her throat. “I, um, saved your brother some soup.”

“Why? Megan said you’d come to your senses. You have, haven’t you, Em?”

Emily’s lashes dropped over suddenly wet eyes. “I...I...” Clutching the bowl of soup more tightly, she started past Sherry.

“I don’t understand any of this, Em. I’d hate for either you or Nolan to get hurt.”

Emily’s steps dragged. “Where’s the hurt, Sherry? I don’t see.”

“After all the times you’ve said you don’t think you’ll ever recover from a rotten marriage? Well, Nolan’s suffering the aftereffects of a broken engagement, too.”

“He was engaged?” Emily’s chin quivered. “Recently?”

Sherry shrugged. “She married someone else last year. Nolan doesn’t talk about it. It’s a case of them being mismatched. She expected candlelight and wine from somebody who doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body.”

Emily recalled the tender way Camp kissed. She’d thought him terribly romantic. Although, who was she to judge? Odd that he hadn’t mentioned an engagement. But then, men rarely talked about their failures.

“Have you forgotten how upset you were when you thought I asked you on this trip to set you up with Nolan? I’d feel horribly responsible, Em, if either of you got hurt.”

Emily felt an old, familiar frustration. The type that occurred whenever she tried to please and appease. “The last thing I want,” she mumbled, “is to jeopardize our friendship.”

“Me, too.” Sherry looped an arm through Emily’s and led her away.

* * *

A
SULTRY
MORNING
added to the edgy tempers. Camp’s colleagues and the college reporter did nothing, but questioned everyone. Tired of it, the members of the wagon train voted to get under way early.

Maizie was bordering on apoplexy. She was furious that the reporter took down every word Philly said and ignored her remarks completely.

The majority blamed Camp for the burgeoning rift, so he kept to himself.

Try as she might to forget him, Emily’s eyes involuntarily tracked Camp. The deep lines bracketing his mouth concerned her. His normally warm eyes were dull. However, he cooked breakfast for his pals and hitched his team.

If Emily had known how much effort it took Camp to carry out each of the duties he performed, she’d have been really worried. This morning he’d finally gotten around to changing the bandage on his leg. The lower half of the cut where the bull’s horn had gouged deepest looked swollen and badly infected. Camp cleaned it with alcohol, and just about flew through the canvas roof. He smeared the area with antibiotic cream from his kit and covered it. The rest seemed to be healing.

Lyle’s litany of complaints kept Camp’s mind off his throbbing leg as the column lumbered steadily across the cracked, baked earth.

“My butt’s about to break,” Lyle groaned. “I wish I’d hitched a ride back to Santa Fe with the reporters.”

“Stuff a sock in it,” Jeff warned. “Keep complaining, and if Camp doesn’t plant you in that cemetery, I will.” He pointed off to the right. “See those hand-carved headstones? Let’s walk awhile. Hey, wouldn’t it be nifty if we stumbled across some old bones, Lyle?”

“
Our
bones, if this keeps up,” Lyle said. “I hope Camp puts in his paper that weak pioneers were probably shaken to death.”

Camp roused enough to get in a jab. “Women pioneers, right, Lyle? You said there were no weak men.”

That shut Lyle up. He clambered out with Jeff, muttering that a walk would do him good. Camp wallowed in the silence. During the brief respite he discovered Emily leaning out every so often to look at him. It cheered him to know that if he fell off his wagon, he wouldn’t go unnoticed.

His two talkative colleagues rejoined him much too soon to suit Camp. Especially as it ended Emily’s checking on him. It was another five miles before he managed to divert their attention to the vastness of the blue sky. The men failed to see any beauty in scenery. They did shut up, though, as the column neared Fort Union.

The lead wagon flushed a herd of antelope that’d been grazing in an uncut field of grain. All drivers slowed, angling for a better look. But the herd took off.

Whooping, Mark dropped back to keep pace with Camp. “Gina wants to set up for pictures. Man, this is neat. Those other forts were kinda swallowed by towns. This musta been what it was like for the real pioneers.”

Camp smiled. What a change from the sullen kid who’d fractured everyone’s ears with his music at the start of the trip. “Once we pass by, Mark, the antelope will come back. Gina can probably set up a telephoto lens from the fort.”