Page 14 of Wagon Train Dreams
Joe gave the geese to Marnie. It had been unusual to come upon the two of them lingering in the reeds. They’d be a welcome change for the evening meal. Almost as one, the group thanked him. All except Hazel, who scurried to her wagon and looked for something. She didn’t glance in his direction.
Was she tired? Hungry? It seemed like more than that. Was she upset? But why?
Marnie and Angela took the geese away from the camp to pluck and clean them.
“Hazel?” He should let it go, but what if there was a problem? As guide, he had to take care of camp problems. At least if they affected the travel, this didn’t, but it did affect her. And him.
Her hands stilled, and she stiffened. She then returned to examining the contents of a box.
“Never mind.” He rode to where the oxen grazed, unsaddled Boots, gave him a good brushing, and patted his rump. “Go enjoy your evening.”
A spot near some trees suited him, and he put his saddle down, pulled a piece of pemmican from his saddlebag, and sat to his lonely meal. Ma made good pemmican. He’d get some more when he reached Fort Qu’Appelle.
The aroma of roasting goose reached him.
He gnawed on more pemmican. It was good but?—
He swallowed hard and drank from his canteen.
Louise’s voice rang out. “Supper.”
Another bite of pemmican. This one smaller and less satisfying.
Gabe trotted over from the camp. “Joe, come and eat. The geese smell mighty fine.”
Joe gave an acknowledging wave. “You enjoy. I’ll stay here. Keep an eye on things.”
Gabe studied him for a long, hard moment. Then nodded. “Very well.” He looked over his shoulder twice on his way back as if he wanted to say more. Thankfully, he didn’t.
Alone and finding the pemmican unsatisfying, Joe used a sharp stick to dig a circle in the ground before him. Making it big enough for a campfire. All he needed was some rocks, a shovel to expose the dirt, and some wood.
But he had no need of a fire. The evening was plenty warm. And he had no food to cook.
Blade by blade, he plucked the grass from the circle he’d drawn. Just in case he needed a fire later. However, the mightiest flames would not drive away the chilled feeling inside him. Of course, Hazel didn’t see him as anything but the scout. Sure, he brought in fresh meat. No doubt she enjoyed that. But he was only?—
No. He was Joe Dumont. His mother was a good woman who had done her best to teach him about her people. Being raised in the orphanage left her with very little firsthand experience. His father had been a proud man. A wise man who got along with both Natives and whites. Now Joe must do the same. Except there were limitations to what he could do and be at least in the eyes of others.
His future lay ahead of him. He’d find a place where he could build a home. And?—
A home meant a family.
Squeezing his hands into knotted fists, he slammed the door on the idea.
Footsteps approached. His thoughts scattered like dry leaves in the wind as Hazel drew closer carrying a plate loaded with food.
Saliva flooded his mouth.
“I couldn’t think of you not enjoying this meat when you were the one who provided it.” She handed him the plate and sat in the grass facing him, her legs pulled up neatly under her blue-gray dress, her hands folded together in her lap.
“Thank you,” he managed. And bowed his head to pray. And not just thanks for the food. He needed God’s strength and wisdom to keep his growing feelings for this woman under control. Buried in a fortress in his heart.
His first mouthful had him closing his eyes and holding back a moan of appreciation.
“I worried that you hadn’t eaten all day.”
She worried about him? The idea picked away at that locked fortress door. “I had pemmican.”
“I’m sure it’s good, but there’s nothing like a hot meal.”
