Page 2 of Wagon Train Hope
As soon as she reached her horse, a beautiful sorrel gelding with a large white star on its forehead, she swung into the saddle and galloped away. Not until she crested the nearest hill did she slow and take in the view. The hills were rugged, as much rock as grass. The sun dipped to the west. Toward Fort Taylor and being reunited with her brother, Carson, a North-West Mounted Policeman. And a new life. One where people wouldn’t judge her or criticize her for wanting a little fun in life. For enjoying the freedom her choices availed her.
Time for her to return to the others. She again raced her horse, at full speed, toward camp. The wind pulled at her hair. Her braid would be undone by the time she stopped. But she couldn’t resist the way the swish of air past her head washed her insides clean.
The wagon’s once-white canvas covers had grown gray with dust and weather. The layout had become familiar. The half circle formed by the three wagons, the cook fire in the center, the oxen grazing and resting in the grass, now trampled by wheels and hooves. A stream of water nearby. Ma bent over the pot hanging above the fire as she stirred the stew. Hazel tended little Petey. Bertie, at the end of Ruby and Angela’s wagon, talked to his two cats while Alice and his three-legged brown dog, Limpy, played at his feet. Her gaze remained on him and his pets before she moved her attention further.
Her look stalled at Walt, who checked the wheels of the Millers’ covered wagon. He grabbed one spoke and shook it.Did he think it was loose? They had brought supplies to do minor repairs. Anything more—She shook her head. There was no point in dwelling on bad things that might happen.
He looked up at her rapid approach. She meant to thank him for his kindness with Bertie, but he straightened and gave her a hard look as she slowed before him. “One of these days, you’ll learn?—”
“Never.” She didn’t let him finish. Didn’t want any more of his dire warnings.
The annoying man might be gentle and kind with Bertie, but he was totally the opposite with her. Not that it mattered to her in the least.
Not in the least. Except?—
Wouldn’t it be pleasant if he wasn’t so dreadfully serious? For everyone, not just her. Though had she heard any of the others complain about his attitude?
She liked challenges. This might be the biggest one she’d tackled.
Could she make him see that life was an adventure to be enjoyed? That every bit of it should be lived to the fullest even if it carries some risks? Wouldn’t that be fun?
Walt Miller kickedthe innocent wheel as Irene rode away, her chin tipped in familiar defiance. The girl was a menace to herself and everyone on this journey. One of these days, she was going to get hurt or worse—cause someone else to be hurt.
He bent to put grease on the axle.
Why couldn’t she be more like her sisters or Louise, Hazel’s friend, who was a nurse? Not that he pictured her as a nurse, although she was protective and gentle with Bertie. And she helped Hazel with little Petey, Hazel’s year-old son.
He wiped his hands on a rag, hung the grease bucket back under the wagon, and pretended not to watch Irene take Petey from his mother and bounce him on her hip until the baby giggled.
She turned. As soon as her gaze met his, a scowl marred her pretty face. Yeah, she was pleasant enough to look at. No denying that. Dark blonde hair that often fell loose down her back or hung in an untidy braid. Right now, it was a tangle. No doubt from her wild ride down the hill. She was slender as a whip. And about as agreeable. She was bound to catch the eye of any man as she sat astride her horse, long legs clearly visible.
He swallowed back a grunt. But what man would deem her manner of dress or her behavior to be proper? A man would spend a great portion of his time riding after her to make sure she didn’t get herself into trouble.
Of course, no one had done so since they left Bruffin. She’d come and gone at will. No one worried about her. Though her mother always looked up at her movement.
He tossed the greasy rag into the back of the wagon, took a step away, then ground around, and returned to pick it up and put it in the can where it belonged.
Cecil rode up, grinning as usual. Cecil had the ability to pluck only enjoyable things from life.
“Hey, Walton, brother?—”
“Walt, if you don’t mind.” His protest was habit more than anything, his participation in something that gave Cecil pleasure. “What’s on your mind, little brother?” He didn’t need to ask. Nothing would stop Cecil from telling him.
Walt adjusted a trunk that had shifted as they traveled.
“I saw some red berries over there.” He pointed. “Figure they’re raspberries.”
Walt tipped his hat back and studied the place. “Seems amite early for them, don’t it?” It was only July. Was that early? He couldn’t remember.
“Only one way to find out.” Cecil reached past Walt and grabbed a pot from the back of the wagon. “You coming?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” His horse stood nearby. He snagged another pot, swung into the saddle, and followed his brother.
They rode away. Unless they heard otherwise, the ladies would assume they were going to help Pa and Joe with the animals, which suited Walt just fine. They would determine if the berries were edible, and then they’d pick some and take them back to the camp.
They edged past thorny shrubbery and found the berry bushes along the foot of tangled trees. No doubt of what they’d found. Ripe raspberries dotted the greenery with red.
Cecil barely waited for his horse to stop before he was on the ground and filling his face. Red juice ran down his chin.
