Page 35 of Wagon Train Hope
He took a step closer. Not once did he see Irene. Had she trotted out the camp’s far side?
Well, he’d see about that. Long strides carried him to the wagons, and a longer one took him across the wagon tongue.
Cecil lounged against a wheel, nursing a cup of coffee as if he had nothing better in the world to do.
Walt nudged him with his booted foot. “Your turn to watch the livestock.”
“Huh?” But at Walt’s hard look, Cecil got to his feet and ambled away.
Not until his brother was out of sight did Walt take a good look around. Air whooshed from his lungs. Irene sat in the shelter of the wagon Hazel and the baby rode in, her back to him. Was she purposely ignoring him as she played with little Petey? The baby laughed and clapped. Both sounds reverberated in Walt’s chest. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the nearest wagon and watched.
Bertie came to Walt’s side, the goat at his heels and the cats in his arms.
Walt looked for the dog. It had stopped to scratch itself.
“Whatcha doin’, Mr. Walt?”
His gaze had returned to Irene and the baby. “Enjoying the view.”
Irene glanced over her shoulder. Her blue gaze, dark with hidden emotions, crashed into his and stalled before she shrugged her back to him again.
That brief connection had jolted clear through him with the power of a streak of lightning. He thumped his fist to his chest to restart his breathing.
“Look what I find.” Bertie shifted one cat to his shoulder and pulled a short branch from his pocket. “Looks like a bird.”
With a hand that seemed oddly detached from his arm, Walt patted Bertie’s shoulder. “It’s a good find.”
“You help me find more treasures?”
“Sure.” Walt tore his gaze from Irene’s back, followed Bertie to the woodpile and poked through the bits and pieces with no idea of what he hoped to find. Nor was his mind on what his hands did. Mind and gaze were across the clearing, watching Irene and trying to sort out his thoughts.
As he’d tried to tell her, his only concern was her safety. Why would she object to that? Shouldn’t she be grateful, happy even, that he cared?
He picked up a mildly interesting root and handed it to Bertie.
“Thanks, Mr. Walt.” Bertie trotted over to show his mother.
With a restlessness he didn’t understand and didn’t like, Walt stared out at the beckoning hills. If not for the danger an intruder posed, he’d get into his saddle and ride into the wind until it blew his mind clear.
Not unlike what Irene would do.
Was she trying to outrun her thoughts when she rode wildly? What thoughts would trouble her? Besides annoyance at him for ordering her around. Besides being frustrated over the slowness of the trek. Besides wishing for things beyond her reach. Of course, maybe they weren’t as much beyond her reach as?—
Beyond her experience?
What did she want? Hadn’t she told him? Someone to accept her the way she was. Trousers. Wild rides. Challenging.
But could a man accept her like that? Could he? Shouldn’t she be more careful, less confrontational?
She met his gaze. Lowered her eyes and then returned them to his.
He stared at her long enough to make her uncomfortable and the others curious before he turned away. Needing to burn off the restlessness racing through his veins, he began to chop wood for the fire.
By the time he had enough firewood for the entire day and more stacked neatly, his foolish thoughts had been brought into submission. He took the ax to the wagon and stowed it. He trailed a finger along the top of the crate that held his belongings. Inside was the Bible Grandpa had given him. “Son,” he’d said. “Don’t neglect reading the Scriptures. They will guide you, reveal God to you, and encourage you.” Walt had seen his grandfather pull this little book from his pocket as he paused from working in the garden or forking hay. Indoors, the older man daily read aloud from the big family Bible Pa had inherited. But outside, he read from the tiny Bible Walt now owned.
Walt meant to honor his grandfather’s wishes, but he’d packed the Bible in the crate for safekeeping. His grandfather would be disappointed.
Walt grabbed a hammer and pried up the lid. The Bible was tucked into the corner, wrapped in a shirt to protect it. He pulled it out, unwrapped it, and held it in his palms. The leather cover was worn thin. The edges of the pages were dog-eared from use. He hammered the lid back into place and perched on the crate, his knees drawn up to his chest in the narrow space.
