Page 3 of Wagon Train Redemption
“No, I’m fine.”
“I thought everyone had gone to town.”
No response.
“Did those men do anything?” Had he arrived too late to prevent them from touching her?
“No.” Her answer was short, perhaps indicating she didn’t wish to discuss it.
“It’s kind of hard talking to a wagon. Can you come out?”
Nothing. Or was that an impatient sigh?
Angela sat backon the wooden floor. She didn’t want to face this man. Would he think she’d invited that horrible pair to visit? A shudder rattled her bones and shook the wagon. Of course, she’d known she’d see Carson again. She’d thought it would be when they reached the fort, and she could slip away when he was around. But no, he’d attached himself to the wagon train making it impossible to avoid him.
Every time she encountered him, she remembered his unkind—no, cruel—words about her.
“Angela, is there something wrong?”
Indeed, there was. He was far too handsome and sure of himself. Especially for a man with his opinion of her. Knowing his feelings regarding her reduced her to a quivering mass of anger…or was it denial? Yes, it was the latter. He was wrong about her. She sucked in canvas-flavored air and released it slowly. Not that she had to prove it. His opinion didn’t matter. Fortified with that assurance, she pushed to her feet.
“I’m coming.”
She slipped from the wagon. Her feet on the ground, she pressed to the wooden gate and avoided looking at him, instead focusing on the table holding the baking she’d done—biscuits and cookies. They never had too much of either, and she did her best to keep their supply stocked.
“Why didn’t you go with the others?” His sharp voice sent an answering jab through her insides.
“Bertie didn’t want to go, so I said I’d stay with him.”
“Bertie? Where is he? I haven’t seen him.” He ducked to look under the wagon.
“He’s gone into hiding.” As soon as he noticed the strangers riding toward the camp, he’d disappeared as he always did when things frightened him. She moved along to look under the other wagons, but he wasn’t under them.
Carson whistled. The silence echoed around him.
Limpy should have answered with a bark or Alice, the goat, should have come bouncing toward them.
But not a sound. Not a movement.
“Bertie!” Angela’s voice bounced off the canvas and rolled down the slope to the creek.
“Bertie!” Carson’s call lifted upward and carried fortwenty feet before being absorbed in the sound of the water trickling by down the hill.
Nothing. Not so much as a rustle in the grass, a bending of branches, a whimper from Bertie, or a whine from Limpy. Even the rambunctious goat was silent.
“I’ll find him.” After all, she’d been left in charge of him. She trotted toward the nearest bushes. “Bertie? Alice! Limpy!”
Carson followed. “It’s not normal for none of them to answer.”
Angela might have pointed out that Bertie could be holding the animals in a tight hug that didn’t allow them to utter a sound. Or that the animals, sensing his fears, huddled silently with him. But he’d know that. He’d been dealing with Bertie much longer than she had. All his life in fact. Bertie had never recovered from a fever that hit him when he was four. He’d forever be a child in his mind, even though he was a large man in body. A sweet man-child.
They looked through the bushes but found no sign of Bertie or his pets and moved down the grassy slope toward the creek, Carson walking at Angela’s side. They didn’t speak as they poked through the bushes and pushed aside branches or paused to call and listen.
“I see him.” She pointed to the big man huddled under the boughs of a tall tree, his arms firmly around Limpy and Alice.
Alice wriggled free and, bleating, trotted toward Carson and Angela. Limpy escaped and did his three-legged, lopsided run to them.
Bertie, his face tearstained, watched them approach. Slowly, he eased out from under the tree and pushed to his feet. “Angela, you not hurt?”
