Page 17 of Wagon Train Promises
He lifted one hand dismissively. “I’d need an oven.”
Of course, he would. She looked across the river. “How long before we can join the others?”
He ate the last of his biscuits and drained his cup. “I can’t say.” He set aside his dishes and went to the bank, looking across the rushing water. “It hasn’t lowered any. In fact—” He looked from one side to the other and didn’t finish.
He didn’t need to. She knew what he meant.
The bush that had its feet by the edge of the water now had it up to its knees.
The river had risen since this morning. Where was all the water coming from? How much more would come their way?
She turned back to study the wagon. It was a good fifty feet from the edge of the water and on a bit of a hill.
Still. If the water continued to rise, how safe were they?
CHAPTER 5
Cecil studied the water. Yep, it was higher. He looked as far upstream as possible. Was it raining beyond where they were? But the sky was clear, the sun warm. Surely, this was the end of rising water. Otherwise?—
There was no need to disturb Hazel or frighten either of the women. He wouldn’t hitch the oxen to the wagon just now. But he’d be watching the water level.
Across the flooded river, their guide, Joe, stood with his arms crossed. It seemed he, too, watched the water. The distance and the roar made it impossible for them to shout to each other, but Joe lifted his hand in greeting. Was he warning them? Or reassuring them? Not that it mattered. He couldn’t get to them any more than they could get to him and the others.
A tree churned by in the rushing water. Of one thing, Cecil was certain. They’d be stranded on this side of the river for a day or two—likely more. Might as well make the best of it.
“Tea was good.” He hoped to erase those worry lines from Louise’s face, but they remained. He needed to do better. “Biscuits were almost as good as oatmeal-raisin cookies.”
A smile began in her eyes and spread to her lips. “Yours or your grandmothers?”
“Huh. I doubt you could tell the difference.” He let the sentence hang, and when he saw she was about to say something, he added, “At least after my first few attempts.”
That brought a chuckle from her. “Truly? And how were the first few attempts? Pray tell.”
As they talked, they made their way back to the fire and the log stools. “How was I to know that the oven would get too hot?” He let an injured tone creep into his words. “Gramma didn’t say how much wood to put in. Only that I’d need more.”
“Let me guess. You figured lots.” Amusement tickled her words.
“Well, it seems to me that if you’re going to do something, you shouldn’t be half-hearted about it.”
Her laugh rumbled. “What happened to the cookies?”
“They were, well, a little crispy.” He held up a hand to signal there was more. “But edible…” Another wave of his hand. “But only because Gramma smelled them and insisted I take them from the oven.” He sighed. “Gramma said she’d always used her nose to cook.” He bent over and made a stirring motion with his nose.
Louise snorted her laugh. “I doubt that’s what she meant.”
Cecil pulled in a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose not, but that’s how I pictured it.” He grinned at her. “I confess I never had the nerve to tell her that.”
“Wise move.”
The look they gave each other was full of mirth. And something else that edged around his heart like a warm hug.
Whoa. He’d never been one for fanciful thoughts. To ease the feeling, he brought to mind a memory. “I was two when my mother died. I don’t remember her. I remember Gramma holding me. I remember crying. I remember crying when Pa rode off.” He shook his head. “That makes it sound like all I didwas cry, and that’s not how it was. Because I learned to laugh. Make Gramma laugh.”
“How did you do that?”
“One day, as Pa was leaving and I was feeling weepy, I said to Gramma, ‘I’m destated.’ I meant devastated. Anyway, it hit Gramma as funny, and she laughed hard. I ended up laughing too, though I wasn’t even sure why.” He’d been afraid Louise would think his story foolish, but her smile was warm, maybe even a little welcoming.
Shoot. This being alone with her was doing unsettling things to his thoughts. Yet he couldn’t stop talking about his grandmother. Or the things he’d learned, and he didn’t mean about hot ovens or making cookies.
