Page 13 of Wagon Train Hope
“You mean wild?”
“I mean free.” Her eyes met his in a wordless duel. “Free to be me.”
“Have you always been wild?” He decided not to use the same term she did.
Her line jerked, and she brought in another fish, its scales flashing a rainbow of colors. With quick, sure movements, she unhooked her catch and dropped it into the bucket. “As long as I can remember, I was allowed to run, to explore. To be free. I could go wherever and do whatever so long as I didn’t worry Ma.” She continued to talk, not distracted by taking care of her catch. “Ma had her hands full with Bertie and Ruby who was a baby. Hazel was maybe nine and helped Ma. Carson followed Pa around.” She fixed another maggot to her hook, shivering delicately.
Knowing her attention was elsewhere, Walt grinned at her obvious dislike of the crawlies.
“I loved exploring. I discovered all sorts of exciting places—the creek with muskrats, trees to climb, wild animals to watch.” She tossed her line in the water and sat again. “I remember one time Pa brought home a calf.”
Light danced through her eyes.
No, it was only a reflection of the running water. It did not come from her eyes, and even if it had, it made no difference to—what? His opinion of her? He shepherded his thoughts back into submission and concentrated.
“I suppose I was maybe six at the time. I told Carson I wanted to ride it. Carson said I couldn’t. I was too small. And a girl. I said I could do anything he could. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Betcha can’t ride it.’ When I insisted, he told me to prove it. He grabbed the calf and managed to get on its back. But fell off when the calf jumped. ’Course, I laughed.” She shot him a look full of—challenge?
Did she think he’d point out that she was a girl and not very big? Six. And already set on getting herself into trouble.
Her tone lilted like the brook. “Then he held it as I climbed aboard. It was harder to stay on than it looked. I hung on for dear life as the calf bolted. I fell off hard. Hurt my arm. Carson said he had to tell Ma. I said it was fine and begged him not to tell her. I hid the pain for days.” She rotated her arm. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”
He was getting a picture of her. Unsupervised much of the time. Doing silly, sometimes risky things, perhaps in the hopes of getting some attention from her busy parents. Sympathy crowded in beside his annoyance.
“It must have been difficult having a brother like Bertie.” Who required so much of her parents’ time.
“Bertie is Bertie. Harmless, gentle, kind. I learned young to watch out for him and protect him.”
A fish took Walt’s bait, and he lifted another trout from the river.
Irene brought in yet another and again shivered as she put a maggot on her hook. She dropped her line into the water, but her attention was on him.
“I remember seeing you in Bruffin. Why were you there? And why didn’t you come visit? Our parents being old friends and all.”
He gave the dangling line more attention than it required. How was he to answer her? Certainly not with the whole truth. After all, he’d been nineteen at the time and feeling sorry for himself. He was long past that.
4
Irene ignored her fishing line in favor of watching Walt. Her question made him look away from her as if the fish wouldn’t bite if he didn’t stare at the water. How odd. After all, it was an ordinary question. She’d seen him walking down the street. His legs ate up the distance. His dark eyes had met hers. Her cheeks might have grown warm, and she might have given him her best smile, which he ignored. But then she was a silly almost-fourteen-year-old, and he a grown man. Why would he notice her?
Still, his total disregard—or did she mean disinterest?—had stung at the time. Her dark-blue dress was rather fetching…for a dress. Ma had braided her hair neatly. Her face was clean. Yet he didn’t so much as smile at her. She’d felt invisible.
Now was his chance to offer some explanation.
He adjusted his fishing pole and shifted his legs. Long legs, just as she remembered.
She pulled her own legs closer to her body. Her fingers coiled more tightly around her pole.
For the space of two deep breaths, he didn’t answer. Butshe wouldn’t be letting it go. If he packed up and left, she’d follow and ask again.
A sigh rumbled from his lips. “That was what? Five, six years ago?”
As if that made it unimportant. “Almost six. I remember clearly.”
His eyebrows hurried toward his hairline.
She scrambled to give a reason for such a clear memory. “My dress was new. I was rather proud of it.”
“Don’t suppose it still fits?”
