Chapter Eight

 

“Dai—sey, Dai—sey, give me your answer, do.”

I came back to the present and blinked with surprise. Jack was standing over me, his expression amused, the last notes of the old song still lingering.

“Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

“Reading a book, I see.” He pointed at the journal still open on my lap.

“It’s a special book. Written by an ancestor of mine who took this very journey back in the eighteen-sixties. My grandmother had it hidden away. I thought, well, my mother thought, it would be good for us to read it together.”

“That’s a great idea. Should be a real eye-opener too. Well, everything’s sorted and people want to get a move on. We should be going.”

“Of course.” I got up and hurried over to the wagon. He helped me up, and I settled gingerly back on the seat, realizing my bottom was getting sore.

He laughed, a startled expression on his face. “Bunny slippers?”

I’m sure I blushed. I had forgotten to change my footwear. I slipped my feet out of the slippers and wriggled them into the boots appropriate to the period. Not as comfortable as slippers, but I laced them up anyway.

He flapped the reins against the rumps of the patient oxen, and we were off.

“I wish we had cushions,” I muttered.

“In the back.” He gave a nod toward the bed of the wagon. It was quite a sight, all the white canvas stretched out over the high arch of the wooden ribs. “Along with another amenity I think we should keep to ourselves.”

Now he had me intrigued. “Yes?”

“A chemical butto.”

“What’s a butto?”

He gave a chuckle and held my gaze. “You’ll see, but first you must promise not to tell anyone we have it aboard.”

“I promise.” I crossed my fingers for emphasis and then offered my fist for a bump to conclude the deal.

He fist-bumped back and leaned in toward me to whisper in my ear, his hot breath trailing down my neck. “It’s a chemical toilet built into a crate. Specially designed by yours truly last night after work.”

“You’re not kidding?” I could feel my eyes open wide. Now this was a secret I’d take to the grave. “That was very thoughtful.”

“I know.”

I punched Deputy Sheriff Smugness on the arm.

Maybe this trip wouldn’t be as difficult as I’d anticipated. A lawman breaking a law—well a rule—for my benefit did not go unnoticed. I have to admit, some things I had been leery about regarding this trip, and he’d just fixed my biggest concern. With no prodding.

“Just for that I promise to bake you a saskatoon pie.” I’d noticed the bushes were loaded with the plump purple berries that show up like clockwork each July.

“How did you know that’s my favorite kind? The one type I couldn’t get in even the finest deli in New York?”

“I didn’t, but its mine too.”

“We never finished that truth test.”

“Hmm, I think I’ve had enough of it. ‘When you get interrupted by fate, best to pay attention,’ my grandma used to warn me.”

“And when you get encouraged to go a different course? That count too?”

“Not sure what you’re implying, but yeah, if the signs point to the right way to go, I’d take notice. I have a superstitious streak. You?”

“Maybe. I do believe there’s a hand larger than ours at the wheel. Seems whenever I need direction, something happens to deflect my course. If I pay attention, things tend to work out.”

“So why now, what made you come back home?”

“It wasn’t just one thing. Sweetwater’s been calling to me for some time.” He turned and stared into my eyes, confirming the truth of his words. “Being back, the memory of it doesn’t hold a candle to the reality. I know it was the right thing to do right down deep in my bones.”

“Nice to be so certain.” I had been so mixed up lately over going away. Scared I couldn’t hack it. Afraid I’d miss the town and the people too much. Be homesick. This was something I had to do, right? Otherwise, how could I prove myself?

“I think underneath it all,” he said, his tone low and thoughtful, “when everything else is stripped away, we know what’s right for us. Maybe not what our ego wants, but what our heart wants.”

I looked away, across the deep fields of bright yellow mustard toward the blue horizon that enhanced both colors. A surreal postcard with the addition of fluffy, white cumulous clouds drifting by on their way eastward. This was a moment I was not likely to ever forget. A moment right out of a fairy tale, but would it have a happy ending for me?

“You know, I’ve saved up some money and I’m looking to buy some land. I’d like to throw my hat in the ring on that property you own, though I don’t have the deep pockets of the Crown Development Corporation, I can certainly do better than the Green Wave or Boyd Nolan. I’m not trying to pressure you about it. This is a one-time mention. Do with the information what you see fit.”

“Really! What on earth would you use it for?” I thought of Sadie’s diary, and how the young couple had valued owning land. What would she think of my giving it up to finance a trip to New York?

“I don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll turn it into a bed and breakfast or a writer and artist retreat. Something that goes along with the image I have of this town.”

“Well, you haven’t lied to me yet,” I said, albeit a bit shaky. At the moment I envied the oxen plodding along, not worried a fig about the future or letting anyone down.

“Hidey Ho the wagons! Stopping for the midday meal.” Mel Bridges, our first unanimously voted in Wagon Master, yelled out from the front wagon and pointed to an open field with a small brook running nearby.

Normally a man in his position rode a horse, but Mel wanted to be there to help his wife, Sandra, and ended up doing things his way.

When the wagons had all pulled around and into a large circle, I could see who my neighbors were going to be for the next few days. Everyone looked so different milling about in their period costumes, and I noticed a few people walking rather stiffly.

I imagined how bruised up one would be by the end of the day or how pinched toes in strange boots would throb. I might need to get off the wagon and walk, to save my bottom. Even with the layer of fat I’d thoughtfully stored, it wasn’t enough.

“I brought a picnic basket for lunch,” Jack said. I could have kissed him for that, but instead I gave him an appreciative smile.

“I brought all the cookies we could ever need.”

“Perfect.”

I climbed into the back of the wagon, eager to see how he had stored our things. My trunk didn’t take up all the space, the wagon being larger than I’d suspected. A bedroll that had to be Jack’s was set atop his old-fashioned valise. I did know that the men planned on sleeping under the stars at night to give the women the privacy of the wagons, thank goodness.

A-ha, that had to be the butto over there. I checked inside the camouflage crate set to one side with a curtain fashioned above it one could pull around for complete privacy, and sure enough, there it was. A modern-day convenience that I was stoked to have onboard. Even more intriguing, he’d brought along a guitar. I shook my head. Jack must have been up most of the night setting things up.

I picked up the guitar and strummed a few chords, then tried a nice rock rift I’d practiced endlessly in high school, thinking if I worked hard enough I could one day play like the great Eric Clapton. Nice pipe dream well it lasted, though piano now filled that void when I could find the time.

I’m aware that music entertained many nights on the historic trail and I’d been told that would be true of our group too. Didn’t that sound heavenly? Not wasting any more time, I opened my trunk and grabbed a bag of cookies, then made my way outside, jumping to the ground.

Jittery excitement filled me at the thought of days and nights spent communing full time with nature. I had a sudden wish to bottle it and take it to New York with me.

“Was that you making the music?”

“It was. I take it you play?”

Jack was busy unpacking the lunch box he’d prepared. He handed me a sandwich. “Roast beef, courtesy of your cousin Rose. Yes, to your question, I play a mean folk guitar.”

“Thanks, you seem to have thought of everything.” I sat down on one of the old-fashioned wooden folding chairs he’d unpacked. “I wish I’d been able to bring my piano. Might be a bit tight in the wagon, though.”

“We aim to please, miss. Well, I’d bet pianos were hauled, though no one knows how many were left alongside the trail, sad to say.”

“You know you’re spoiling me.”

“Good. My dad always said, ‘happy wife, happy life.’”

I sputtered, choking on my food. “We’re not married!”

He purposefully patted my back, his hand warm through the thin cotton of my dress. “Just a pretend couple this week, I know. Good advice though. More men should consider taking it.”

Did nothing bother this guy? So unflappable while I’m a tad more high-strung. Well, maybe a bit more than a tad, with that unfortunate mercurial streak everyone’s always mentioning.

“My mother has a saying, ‘careful what you wish for.’ Share that sentiment around this town and the women will line up to get a chance at the new deputy sheriff. You’ll be inundated with marriage proposals.”

“Oh, I think I can handle myself.”

“Hmm, we’ll see. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I looked over at the camp as I handed the sack of cookies off to Jack. The wagons had circled and everyone was sitting or standing and enjoying their lunch. I counted heads. Thirty-nine as far as I could tell. Unless a few of them were seeing to the livestock following the wagons? Seemed everyone was doing their level best to make the experience as authentic as possible. No modern amenities.

Well, if one ignored the telephone wires strutting across the land like officious soldiers intent on doing their duty in the hazy distance beside the distant interstate running parallel to us.

Uh-oh. Sally and David sat together in deep conversation, sharing a lunch basket. She caught my attention when she pointed me out to David. He gave me a sharp look of appraisal.

Just the man I wanted to talk to. Time to set the record straight and doing it right out in the open with witnesses appealed to me. I set my sandwich down and got up, striding across the circle. “Hi Sally, David.” I got right to the point. “Just want to let you both know, I’m not ready to decide who I will sell my land to.”

She gave a guilty startle, her eyes darting around like a firefly. She always did prefer to be the one doing the interrogating.

David’s cold expression, while not as threatening as Boyd’s could be, still chilled me. Thin and long limbed, his power came more from self-possession and a belief he was always right than from his looks, though he considered himself a lady’s man. True, a dark magnetism shining from his deep-set eyes and a small scar bisecting one eyebrow gave him a rakish look. I thought he looked more faux Mafia than anything.

“Every day you stall, you’re holding up our operation, Miss Winslow, and that’s not right. Our aim is to improve this world we share.”

I took a deep breath. Counted to ten. “I will be the one who decides what needs improving on my land. Every time you push me, be on notice, it lessens your chances of ever getting any part of it.”

I turned and marched away, waving at another neighbor who sat with her husband in front of the big wooden wheels of their wagon. Georgina Harris waved back, her grin wide with delight, her yellow bonnet that matched her practical worsted dress shading her face, but her long brown braid clearly visible, snaking down her shoulder. She’s our town librarian and all-around supporter of anything going on.

Sitting back down, I ate the last bites of my sandwich, tucking the bit of damp linen material it had been wrapped in back into the basket.

Taking a glass of lemonade from Jack’s outstretched hand, I ignored his inquiring glance. “Thanks. Rose make this too?”

“No, I managed the lemonade. Fresh lemons and sugar, my mother’s recipe. Everything all right?”

“It’s perfect. Just like this day.” The words popped out, but since it was a glorious day, why not admit it? The words of my grandma summed it up brilliantly: “If today is a good day, it’s the only day that matters.”

A sudden crack of thunder in the distance made me startle. I glanced around. It was getting dark to the west of us. My superstitious nature kicked in and I amended my thoughts—it’s a very nice day, but not that perfect. Saying, “Knock on wood,” of course, I rapped three times on my wooden chair.

Jack gave me a closer look, seeming to be making his mind up about something, then got up and began hunting around at the area surrounding the camp. He came back a few moments later and handed me a bit of green foliage held by a thin stem.

“A lucky four-leaf clover,” he said.

“So, you’re superstitious?”

“About some things. Why take chances? At least you didn’t spill the salt.”

I tucked his offering into one of the pages of the diary, pressing it flat, then slipped the book back into a voluminous pocket. “I don’t think the clover counts unless you find it accidentally, but thanks anyway. Spilling salt is fixable, you know.”

“It is?”

I nodded, just as a flash of lightning slashed the sky with a fissure of fire. The air began to cool. Dark clouds billowed and headed right for us.

I persisted anyway. “Just send a few grains over your left shoulder and right into the face of the devil. Works every time. Brings back the good luck.”

“Good to know,” he said with a grin. “And don’t get me started on the proper use of a Ouija board. Personally, I don’t think there is one, but if you do take the chance, don’t ever use it in a graveyard, especially if it’s midnight. Just know you’re a goner and might as well hand in your chips.”

I faux shuddered. The approaching storm seemed less worrisome kibitzing around with Jack.

“We’d better get everything under cover. Looks like we’re in for a monsoon,” he advised.

We scurried about like the rest of the camp’s inhabitants, packing up our picnic supplies and boarding the wagon, storing everything inside. With nothing left to do after a few frantic minutes, we sat and stared out at the prairies through the opening in the front of the wagon.

The sky was darkening, turning more threatening by the split second, dark clouds converging overhead. The first fat drops of rain began to fall, followed by a deluge that hammered on the canvas.

I chewed on a thumbnail, watching the trail vanish behind the waterfall, my stomach a roiling mess of nerves.

“We’re safe here,” Jack said as if he could read my mind.

“Unless the trail washes away,” I said.

“Doubtful, most likely just a summer storm that will pass soon enough.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Have I ever lied to you before?” he teased.

“Since we met yesterday, not much opportunity for that, Deputy.”

We fell into a comfortable silence, watching the curtain of rain cocooning the wagon. Was Jack thinking how nice this was too? I snuck a glance at him, his chiseled jawline sharp against the landscape. He appeared deep in thought.

Then he must have noticed my watching him because he turned those devastating blue eyes my way, endowing me with a broad smile. He was too good looking for his own good. The most handsome man I’d ever come across in person.

He reminded me a bit of Blake Sheldon, the famous country singer, though he had a persona that was all his own.

“See, the rain is easing up. Won’t be long and we’ll be on our way.”

The last few drops fell from the sky, though the canvas around us continued to drip for a few more minutes. The wagon ahead of us began moving and Jack followed suit, giving the reins a sharp tug to get the oxen moving forward. At least the rain had eased the dust for those trailing behind us. I breathed in the fragrant sweet air, filling my lungs with its goodness.

My body swayed with the motions of the schooner as the miles crept by, lolling me into to a half sleep. It had been such an early morning.

Jack slid an arm around me and I leaned against his shoulder, pleased for the support. The fragrance he gave off was closer at this distance, and I breathed it in, soothed and entranced.