Unconquerable Callie (2 page)

“So you see, I have to join this train. Mr. Farley is waiting for me,” she said. She launched into her rehearsed story. “I have some money and I sincerely believe we would mutually benefit from joining forces.”

“Miss Collins,” Jacob Monroe said, “your story is touching and I’d like to be of help, but I cannot. No, Phyllis.” He shook his head, silencing his wife. “It will be difficult for every woman on the train and they will have a man beside them. It would be impossible for a lone woman. I cannot be two places at once and Caleb, although strong for his age, is but a boy. There are dangers we can only guess at—Indians, drought, breakdowns, dust, fierce animals, illness. Not to mention four to six months of grueling hardship. No. Now, if you will excuse us, we need to get back to our wagon. I wish you well, I sincerely do. Phyllis,” he commanded and stood, turning toward the door.

Phyllis stood up. She stopped alongside Callie and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze of apology.

Callie didn’t watch them leave the room. She was mad. Outraged. What made him think she couldn’t handle whatever came up on the Oregon Trail? Hadn’t she just escaped Aunt Bertha and her well-meaning, overbearing, new husband?

She sipped her cooling tea, trying to steady her breathing. Aunt Bertha. Aunt Bertha had stepped in and become everything to her when she’d been orphaned at fourteen years of age, taking her to live on the outskirts of Mayton, Missouri. The old, two-story had a wide veranda that wrapped its arms completely around the house, starting at the front door and ending at the back. Aunt Bertha had turned the many rooms into a successful boarding house. It became home to Callie and she had learned to cook and clean, and make herself useful to Aunt Bertha.

Her aunt was sparse, dour, unsmiling, pessimistic, and on more days than not, gloomy. She was sure life had been unfair to her. And now she had a child to raise.

Callie was all sunshine, from her cloud of white hair to the freckles on her nose. She was tall for her age and gangly. Then, as she grew and matured, she became willowy. And, like the willow, Callie had learned to bend with life’s winds while remaining strong, unbreakable.

She took pleasure in life and dearly loved her aunt. There was no doubt that she was loved in return. While Aunt Bertha may not have voiced the words, she showed it by seeing that Callie had the same advantages as her many friends. Life was good.

That is, until Aunt Bertha had rented a room to Harold Stanton and his nephew, Wilmer. Harold had wooed and wormed his way into Aunt Bertha’s heart. What she saw in him no one but her knew. Maybe she was just tired of shouldering life’s burdens by herself. And to Bertha, Callie was a burden. Loved, but a burden nonetheless.

If Callie had followed most of her friends and married, Bertha might not have felt that way. But one of Callie’s traits was a strong determination to live life to the fullest.

Stubborn
, Bertha had called her.
Idealistic
.

Determied
, Callie responded. Determined that life held something more than marrying someone she didn’t love or respect just to join the ranks of the married and be looked after, controlled, by a man.

Callie cringed just thinking of Wilmer and how close she’d come to giving in to the pressure from Aunt Bertha and the pompous Harold. Day after day they forced her to spend time with Wilmer, listening to his soliloquies of how necessary he was to the town’s only men’s haberdashery. If Callie heard one more time how important the correct measurement and selection of material was, and how one’s suit made the man, she’d scream.

Finally, in desperation, knowing that if she stayed she’d find herself in a loveless marriage, Callie devised a plan of escape. Go West. Not all the way West. She’d leave the wagon train once it reached Wyoming Territory. In her heart of hearts she knew that Wyoming was the place for her. She had felt pride in a territory she’d never seen, ever since Governor John Campbell signed the Suffrage Act into law, giving women the right to vote, This was where Callie belonged. In Wyoming, she would be free to set up her own business. In Wyoming, she would not be simply an appendage of a man. She would not be placed slightly higher than a reliable servant.

She read all she could get her hands on about Wyoming and, without a doubt, in her mind decided on her future home: South Pass, a growing community fed by the Carissa gold mine. It was a town in need of her abilities, too. Callie was a cook, a baker. She could make a pie with crust so flaky it would sprinkle off your fork. She made cakes that dissolved on your tongue with a burst of sweet delight. She made bread so light and crusty, it begged to be cut warm and smothered in sweet butter and homemade jam. She made cookies that leaped from your hand to your mouth.

Men had to eat to exist, but they had to have baked confections to truly live.

She had to get to Wyoming. And if it meant lying and creating a make-believe fiancé, so be it. She would fight every obstacle and, in the end, she would set up her bakery.
Callie’s.
She could smell her first loaf of bread baking. She . . . Callie jerked herself back to reality. She had to get moving.

There had been so many days of scheming and sneaking around. But she’d met one of her biggest obstacles and succeeded. She had waltzed into the bank and requested a bank draft be sent to the U.S. Bank in Independence, Missouri. She’d experienced a few moments of sadness acknowledging that, without her parent’s’ death, and the sale of her home, there would have been no money to fund her dream. She also gave thanks to Aunt Bertha for seeing that not a penny was touched. Of course, Aunt Bertha had no way of knowing the money would be used in this manner. Still, it was hers and she was thankful for it.

She left the empty dining room and, with shoulders squared, set out for the general store. The town hummed like a beehive of angry bees, streets crowded with wagons of every description, vendors set up on any available space offering any and all items needed for the trip west. If you wanted it, Independence had it. You just had to find the right stall or store.

Callie strolled past each vendor seeing-without-seeing the wares. There would be time to stock her wagon once she had one. She reached for the door to the general store only to have it shoved open from the inside, hitting her with such force she went tumbling backward down the steps. She landed on her rump in the dusty street, hat askew, petticoats up over the top of her fashionable buttoned shoes.

Before she realized what had happened, she was pulled up into strong arms, then flopped over a masculine forearm while a large hand administered rib shaking blows to her back.

“Breathe.” The order came harsh in her ear while he smacked her back again.

“I said breathe, lady.” The stranger shook her.

“Stop,” Callie gasped weakly, head wobbling from side-to-side. “Stop pounding my back and shaking me.” She forced the words out between squeaky intakes of air.

As sudden as the earthquake had started, it stopped. She remained in a tight vise against the man’s chest.

Then he spoke again, his voice full of anger. “What in the hell, begging your pardon, Ma’am, but just what were you doing on the other side of that door?”

Callie pulled her head back and attempted to focus.
How dare him!
He’d just pushed her down two steps, into a dirty street, showed her petticoats to passersby, knocked the breath out of her, pummeled her back to black and blue, and then berated her for standing in front of a door leading to a place of business.

“You . . .”

“Hush,” he barked. “I hollered to ‘Stand clear’ before throwing open the door. Are you deaf?”

No, she hadn’t heard. She’d been thinking, worrying, about that dratted wagon. Anyway, it certainly wasn’t her fault and as soon as she freed herself of a pair of strong arms and a man smelling of witch hazel and the clean scent of wood smoke, she’d tell him so.

“We were rolling out kegs and barrels. You could have been hurt. I’ve seen some dumb stunts, lady, but standing there with your head in the clouds when someone is trying to prevent an accident, is just, well, it’s just crazy.” With that, he released her and set her firmly on her feet. He brushed off the dust clinging to her dress.

Callie eyed him apprehensively and backed away only to feel the heel of her shoe teeter over the edge of the step. She flailed her arms and would have tumbled back down the steps again if, quick as a snake, he hadn’t reached out and grabbed her.

“Ma’am,” he growled, “you’d better get home to the safety of your kitchen and not venture out without your husband on your arm. You’re a menace.” And before Callie could put her tongue into action, he picked her up like a doll and firmly set her to one side while he stormed down the steps. He was part of the crowd before she could speak all the unladylike words that were on her lips.

Of all the egotistical males, she had just met the king. How dare he admonish her to home and hearth? How dare he knock her down, brush her off, and scold her in front of everyone?
Men.
If she ever needed proof she’d done the right thing in seeking independence, there it was. A tall, strong, pigheaded stranger who just happened to have the deepest pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen.

Hanging around the general store was like panning for gold. It enabled Callie to gain a vast amount of knowledge. She overheard two men having a friendly argument on the issue of whether to use oxen, mules, or horses.

The taller, more vehement man, argued for oxen. And Callie had to admit he had a point.

“Now take oxen,” he said, “they can eat what grass is growing on the prairie. Your horse or mule needs grain.”

“True. But a horse or mule is faster. Can’t deny that. You pull that wagon by oxen and you can add days to the journey.”

“Can’t dispute you there. But oxen don’t cost as much as a horse or mule. There’s two pair of good-looking oxen for sale by a guy named Whittiker. His wagon’s over west of the smithy’s. I’m told he’ll take forty dollars each pair.”

“Whew. Forty dollars. They’re askin’ sixty to seventy dollars each for a mule. Horses go higher.”

“And you get out on the prairie and them Indians come along, they don’t look twice at oxen. Now give them a look at a good horse or a pair of mules, and they’re right desirable.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

“Oxen got a temperament lot like a horse. Mules, they’re contrary animals.”

“Yep.”

“Now a horse or a mule got them a tendency to run off. Oxen stay right around camp. And there’s no disputing they’re the strongest of the three. Don’t have to buy no expensive harness either. Onliest thing they need is an ox yoke, bows, and chain.”

“True. But you can’t argue oxen don’t do well in hot weather. Now a horse and mule, they tolerate heat.”

“Mmmm, but what about traction? Horse and mule’s poor in sand and mud.”

Both men then wandered outside to carry on the debate. It was enough, though. Callie wanted oxen to pull her wagon and she knew just where to buy them. Now all she needed was to find the smithy’s.

After several sets of directions, Callie was totally confused until she finally heard the ring of hammer on metal and knew she was near.

It wouldn’t do for her to walk into this male domain and brazenly ask about the location of the wagon with oxen for sale. She chewed at her bottom lip and ran several implausible lies through her mind. None would do. As she rounded the corner, she saw and heard several men talking to each other.

A very large man stood off to one side, legs spread, his body glistening with sweat. He held a hammer in one hand and brought it down soundly against a red glowing horseshoe lying on the anvil. He tap, tapped at the horseshoe, each blow ringing out a high-pitched melody. He raised the horseshoe up with a steel fork, scrutinized it, then, turning, thrust it into a brazier of glowing embers.

Even from a distance, Callie was sure she could feel the heat riding toward her on waves of air.

The man’s massive arms were bare as was most of his chest, which was partially covered by a short, black, leather vest. His pants sported a rope for a belt. He grabbed the handle of the large billows aimed at the brazier of coals, and, pumping it several times, sent a glow that, like magic, transformed the embers from dull red to icy white shards of heat. Again he lifted and scrutinized the horseshoe. He carried it, the ends as white-hot as the embers from whence it sprung, back to the anvil. He seemed oblivious to the voices carrying around him; his eyes and ears focused on the bent piece of steel and the ring of each blow. Every now and then, he’d rub his dripping forehead against his shoulder while never breaking rhythm with his dance of steel.

She watched him, entranced, her mission momentarily forgotten when she felt a tug on her sleeve.

“Miss Collins, Ma’am.”

“Why, Caleb. Caleb Monroe.” She smiled warmly at him.

“How-de-do, Ma’am. Do you recollect we met a few days ago in the hotel dining room?”

“Yes, I do recall our meeting. I recall it very well. How are your mother and father?”

“They’re fine, Ma’am. Well, not really fine, that’d be a stretch, I guess. Truth to tell, they’re pretty low.”

“Low?”

“Yes’m.” The boy shifted from one foot to another, never lifting his eyes. He swallowed hard and his Adam’s apple jumped up his thin neck. “They ain’t havin’ no luck selling what little they can spare. Don’t look too promisin’ for us to get to go West this year. Dad’s takin’ it pretty hard.”

“And your mother?” Callie knew it was impertinent of her to ask such a personal question, but she was genuinely interested in this family’s plight.

“Ma’s a believer. She says ain’t no wind don’t blow somebody good.” He raised his head, giving her the full benefit of the sadness in his eyes. “Don’t know about wind, Ma’am, but Pa says if something don’t happen soon, we’ll have to turn tail and head for Ma’s folk’s place. We left pretty proud and sure of ourselves. Grandpa and Pa had words over him taking Ma and me on such a journey.” He stared back down at his oversized feet. He was a picture of dejection, arms hanging at his side, shirt too small for his fast-growing body, its cuffs ending short of thin, knobby wrists.

He gulped again, cleared his throat, and in a voice that raised and lowered indiscriminately said, “Miss Collins, Ma’am, would that job you was offerin’ still be open?”

“Job?”

“Yes’m. The one you mentioned to my pa. You, uh, you said you would hire me to drive your wagon and help you along the trail West. Do you remember, Ma’am?” he asked in a hopeful voice.

“Of course I remember. And yes, the job is still open. But—.” She raised a hand, stopping the smile forming on his lips. “Your father refused that offer. Has he changed his mind?”

Caleb dug at a dirt lodged pebble with the toe of his boot. “No, Ma’am. He hasn’t. But,”-and the smile won out—“Ma said to find you and we’d find a way to turn Pa around. She said that sometimes the good Lord just needs some help in getting that wind to blow right.”

“Oh, Caleb. You have no idea how much this relieves my mind. We can do it, I know we can. We’ll win over your father; we’ll outfit my wagon.” Then she added under her breath, “When I get one.”

She finished with confidence. “We’ll join that train headed for Oregon.”

Caleb’s smile took over his face. “Yes, Ma’am, you’re right. We surely can. Speakin’ of wagons,” he added, lowering his voice, “I know where there’s a right good-un for sale. Fella’s askin’ pretty dear for it, but I heard Pa say it’s built like it’ll last. Light, but sturdy. Bed and running gear are hardwood, but the axle and tongue is hickory.”

“Bed?” Callie asked. It was like hearing a foreign language.

“Yes’m. The bed is, well, you know, the bed . . . the floor?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Go on, Caleb. This is exciting.” Her eyes lit with anticipation.

“Well, the bed is about ten feet long and a good four feet wide. It’s like a box, Ma’am, with the sides and ends about three feet high. The wheels got iron rims which are darn tough.” He eyed Callie speculatively, obviously hoping she was impressed with his knowledge.

“Why, he’s even got an extra axle to go with it. They’s seven hoops holding up the canvas. It’s been rubbed real good with oil, so it oughta keep out rain and some of the hot sunshine. It be waterproof all right.” He nodded, agreeing with every word he spoke.

“Ma said she wished ours was that roomy and well equipped. ‘Course she didn’t say that so Pa could hear. She surely liked all the hooks inside hanging from the hoops. They’re right handy, Ma’am, for clothes, milk cans, guns, anything that you need be hanging up offa the bed.” He paused and gave Callie an assessing look. “Bet you could stand up in it less’en a few inches. It’s a good five feet high at the peak.”

Callie clapped her hands together. Now, not only did she have the chance to buy her wagon, but she might have four oxen to pull it. And, best of all, with a little, well, maybe a lot of convincing from Phyllis Monroe, she’d not only have a strong, young man, but his family to help her on this journey to independence.