Page 13 of Mail-Order Bride Runaway
“Sure do. Knock. Knock.”
For the next hour, they told jokes, each sillier than the last. Laughter bubbled up inside her. A fly buzzed around her head, and she swatted it away.
Andy leaned forward intent on something ahead of them.
Her nerves twitched. She’d neglected to keep her eyes on her surroundings. Had Mr. Hartman found them? Gotten ahead of them. She didn’t look to see. Only one thing mattered—finding the axe which was no longer on her lap. Where was it? When had she forgotten to hold it tight? Her toes nudged something. There it was and she lifted it to her lap, comforted by its weight and the shiny sharp edge. Only then did follow the direction of Andy’s look.
Her air whooshed out. No one was on the trail ahead. Nothing but a dusty road with a dip to a dark ribbon of water and then a hill rising on the other side. “What’s wrong?”
He smiled with none of the humor of the past little while. “Probably nothing. We need to ford that stream. Shouldn’t be any problem.” His words should have offered reassurance, but they didn’t.
She strained forward as they began the downward slope.
He drew the wagon to a halt before the horses reached the edge of the water. “It looks muddy.”
“Maybe because there’s water there.” It seemed obvious to her.
“Others have crossed.” The deep ruts on either side suggested so. “Well, here we go.” He flicked the reins and the horses stepped into the stream—though it was more mud than water.
The horses’ hooves sank to their fetlocks. Before the wheels rolled into the mire, the horses were up to their knees.
“I don’t like this,” Andy muttered.
She leaned forward, clutching to the seat, silently urging the horses to keep pulling. “Is there another way to cross?”
“I don’t think so. Unless we want to go days out of our way.”
The first set of wheels rolled into the mud. The horses pulled. The wagon continued to roll. The second pair of wheels followed, sucked by the muck as they turned. Inch by inch, they moved forward.
Andy stood and hollered at the horses. “Giddup.” The horses strained into the harness.
Della glanced down. The wheels were no longer turning.
Andy hollered again. The wagon did not move. “Here.” He handed the reins to her. “You drive while I help them.” He didn’t ask if she knew how.
She gripped the leather straps in her palms. How hard could it be?
Andy lowered himself to the river. His boots sank. Every step required he fight against the pull of the mire. He reached the head of the horses, grabbed their harness, and pulled. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Della stood, braced herself against the seat and flicked the reins. “Hiyi,” she called. “Hiyi.” Mud slurped but the wagon moved only a fraction of an inch.
Andy struggled around to the back. “You get them to go. I’ll push.”
Again, she yelled, “Hiyi, hiyi.” The horses leaned forward and pulled.
“Holler again. Louder. Slap the reins. Make them care.”
“Hiyi.” Her voice was loud, harsh…mean, even. She flapped the reins against the horses. They strained into their harness. With a slurping sound, the wagon began to move. She continued to yell until the wheels reached dry ground. “We made it.” She turned to share the success with Andy.
He was on his hands and knees in the mire.
“Andy?” Was he hurt? She hung the reins, jumped from the wagon, and ran back to the water. One foot was in the sludge when he looked up.
“Stay there. I’m fine.”
For a man who said he was fine, he certainly took his time getting to his feet. Then he stood upright, dripping like last spring’s roadways. He shook his arms and wiped his hands down his front and sides.
“I’m a mess.”
