Page 7 of Wagon Train Hope
They returned to the picture of Irene holding Petey. The baby was sweet, always smiling at those around him. He’d toddled to Walt once, catching Walt off guard. He hadn’t known what to do. An unusual sense of tenderness had left him motionless. For the first time ever, he had wondered about having children of his own. The thought lingered, even though he tried to dismiss it.
Normally, he didn’t let his feelings affect his actions.
Like his grandfather had said on more than one occasion, “If you’re going to follow your heart, be sure it’s in the right direction.”He’d follow the older man’s advice andnotlet himself be drawn in an unwise direction.
Chuckling, he recalled the way he and Irene had dueled with the words of that song. Had she been unaware of it? His eyes narrowed. She’d known what she was doing, caught up in the singing challenge as much as he.
Something he’d never done before. Maybe this is what Grandfather meant about being careful in what direction you let your heart lead you.
Every remnant of laughter fled. He meant to follow his head, not his heart. Starting tomorrow, he’d be giving that gal a wide berth.
He circled the camp again. Walked around the resting oxen. The sky blushed pink as if?—
As if reflecting what was on his mind?
He slammed the door to the traitorous thought. No, sir, he wasn’t picturing the way Irene’s eyes had flashed with the reflected light of the burning coals as he watched her across the dying fire.
Nope. All he had on his mind was checking every shadow for lurking danger.
The camp stirred. Joe raked the embers and blew on them until flames licked at the wood. Pa emerged from the tent he shared with Marnie and stretched. He planted his fists on his hips and glanced around, looking satisfied with the world.
Walt leaned back on his heels and grinned. His pa deserved to be happy. For years, he’d worked hard to take care of Walt and Cecil after their ma died.
Irene backed out of her tent. The canvas caught at her hair and tousled it into a sunshine-colored fan.
Smoke drifted in his direction, stinging his eyes, and he moved aside and focused his gaze on the shadow-filled trees to his right. Today, he was going to ignore Miss Irene Woods. Pretend she didn’t exist. Not look in her direction.
Determination, perhaps with a touch of desperation, made him strike his heels to the ground with unusual force as he circled outside the wagons, checking everything one more time before the coffee aroma drew him to the fire. Everyone was there, crowded around, holding out their hands to warm them from the morning chill.
“Irene, pour the coffee,” Marnie called from where she bent over frying griddle cakes. “Breakfast will be ready shortly.”
Walt swallowed hard, hoping no one heard as he held out a mug. He kept his attention on the dark liquid filling his cup, the fragrant steam rising to his nose, the heat of the handle…the way the breeze teased her hair, the scent of something gentle?—
Whoa!
Gentle did not fit Irene. Besides, he’d made up his mind not to think of her. He gulped the hot liquid, burning his tongue. The sting was welcome. Reminding him how dangerous seemingly simple things could be. Like…like…well, shoot. It didn’t matter if no other example came to mind. Everyone knew it to be true.
One of Bertie’s cats wound around Irene’s feet. She stumbled.
Walt caught her elbow. “Careful with that hot coffee.”
She jerked away, shot him a look of protest, and scooted out of his reach. “Bertie, your cat is hungry. Take care of her.”
“Here, Fluff.” The cat trotted to Bertie. A rumbling purr rattled from it as Bertie stroked her fur.
Walt sank to the ground and sipped the hot coffee, ignoring his stinging tongue.
Just as he’d tried to ignore her, but she wasn’t making it easy as she circled past him to fill Cecil’s cup. Finally, she finished serving coffee and sat beside her sister, Ruby, about as far away from Walt as the circle allowed.
Relief sighed from his lips.
He ignored her throughout the meal and hurried away as soon as his plate was clean. He’d bring the oxen to hitch to the wagons. That would keep his thoughts occupied on something useful.
Cecil beat him to the pair that pulled Hazel’s wagon. When Walt took two steps toward Sal and Sid, who pulled the Woods’ second wagon, Irene shot him a stinging look to inform him his help wasn’t needed nor welcome.
His heels dug up a clump of grass as he shifted directions and went to help Pa with his pair of oxen. Even though he felt as useful as a clump of dirt.
In a few minutes, the wagons were ready, the meal cleaned up, the fire well and truly quenched, and Walt in his saddle.
