The Trail Master's Bride Page 3

  She blinked up at him, then looked away before bowing her head to stare at her hands, which were twisting in the folds of her skirt. He saw her shoulders shake as her breath escaped on a little sob. That’s when he realized how young she really was and felt like an ass for teasing her.

  He dismounted and held out his arm. “C’mon, darlin’. I’ll take you back.”

  As his hands encircled her slender waist, the tears came like a flash flood, pouring down her cheeks and dripping off the end of her chin. She surprised him next by stepping forward and pressing her face into his chest.

  “I don’t want to go back. I want to go home.”

  Very aware she was married, he still couldn’t stand by without offering her comfort. Cautiously, he brought his hands up and stroked her upper back. “Wouldn’t your husband miss you if you go?”

  “I highly doubt it,” she stuttered on a shaky sob. “More like he’d have a celebration. I can’t do anything right so I know he’d be happy to see the end of me.” She sniffled, wiping at her tears with her fingers, unable to keep up as more rolled down her cheeks. “He couldn’t even be bothered to come after me, could he?”

  He didn’t feel he needed to answer that and fished in his pocket for his handkerchief. He offered it to her. “It’s clean.”

  She huffed a little breath, as though finding that funny for some reason, and accepted it. His tension eased a bit, thinking the torrent of tears had passed. Then, he pressed her for an answer to something he’d wondered about since Independence.

  “Why the hell did you marry that idiot?”

  This time she laugh, just a short burst and without much humor. It was the first he recalled hearing from her, a soft and throaty laugh that he liked and that stirred up feelings he shouldn’t have for a married woman.

  “It’s a long story.” She sucked in a calming breath that hitched a bit as she mopped her face with his linen. “Suffice it to say we don’t suit.”

  He grunted, giving her shoulders a sympathetic squeeze. “All too often life gives us challenges with very few choices.” Her head came up in question. Not willing to go into his personal struggles, he put on his master’s hat. “You know it’s not safe to go traipsing off on your own in the dark, or at any time for that matter.”

  “I do. It’s just that Elliott can be…”

  “A horse’s ass?”

  She laughed for real this time. “Yeah. In fact, I very nearly called him the same thing before stomping off.” Quieting, she admitted, “I lost my temper.”

  “Then I can expect that this won’t happen again? The stomping off part, I mean, Elliott being a horse’s ass seems to be a forgone conclusion.”

  She grinned up at him briefly, but the next instant her smile faded and she pulled away. Clearly, in that instant, she realized as did he, that this shared moment in the dark with her in his arms shouldn’t be happening.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Next time my husband makes me furious, I’ll have my temper tantrum within the safety of the camp.”

  “I have your word?”

  “I promise.”

  “Good girl.”

  Her back went ramrod straight at that remark and he felt it was best if they headed on back. He lifted her into the saddle and mounted behind her.

  “I’m not a girl, sir,” she murmured as he slid his arms around her to take up the reins.

  “How old are you?” he asked, as he guided his horse back toward the camp. “Twenty-two, twenty-three at most?”

  “I’ll be twenty-one, the seventeenth of next month.”

  He chuckled. “As old as that, huh? I’m thirty-one, darlin’; to me, you are a girl.” That’s what Weston said aloud; inside he was thinking she was far from it, especially with her warm, soft body pressed against his front, the roundness of her bottom conforming to the spread of his thighs and the underside of her full breasts brushing against his forearm with each stride of his horse.

  Damn! She made him hard and ache with desire. The sudden tightness of his denim trousers was indisputable proof of that. He fought against it though, telling himself it wasn’t her, rather the fact it had been a while since he’d been with a woman. Besides, she was unavailable. If she weren’t married, she was still too young, too green, and much too soft to make it in the harsh world he lived in. She was also sassy, spunky, and delightfully curvy in all the right places, which, like her laugh, he liked a whole helluva lot. He stifled a groan as Mina wiggled her soft bottom, making herself comfortable in his lap.

  He heeled his horse into a fast gait out of self-preservation. As they raced back to camp, the rapid pace stirred up the rush of warm air around them, sending tendrils of her sweet-scented long hair that had come loose from her braid whipping across his face.

  Damn! He repeated silently as the ache she’d roused became a burning need. He urged his horse faster.

  * * *

  Exhilarating. That was the only word that could describe the feeling of riding across the plains under the moonlit sky while held tightly by strong arms and for the first time in her life feeling valued and secure.

  It was silly, really. The man was simply doing his job. A job that should have fallen to Elliott. Where her husband had failed, Mr. Carr had stepped in and seen to her safety. Tall, muscled, handsome, he was the antithesis of Elliott Hobart. Mina lamented how ill-fated misfortune always seemed to find her. Why couldn’t she and Weston have met at a different time under different circumstances?

  Again, it was a silly notion. That this rugged Western pioneer would want an inept city girl like her was truly laughable. For that matter, that she would include life on a wagon train into a romantic daydream of what she hoped her life would be, even more so.

  Too soon, the lights of the camp up ahead came into view.

  “So, to be clear, we won’t have a repeat of this late night ride, will we, Mrs. Hobart?”

  “No, sir.” Embarrassed that she had acted like the girl he had called her earlier, she didn’t elaborate.

  Further conversation ended as he pulled up alongside their wagon where Elliott and Mr. Jacobs were waiting. He didn’t dismount; instead, he eased her down with one strong arm, bending low in the saddle to steady her until she found her footing.

  “Let’s try to keep the marital drama to a minimum, from here on out.” His eyes were on Elliott as he spoke. “It’s not fair to disturb the other folks with your private affairs.”

  Her husband didn’t give a verbal response, though the way he pushed away from the side of the wagon where he’d been leaning, and by the fierce glare he sent Mina’s way, it was easy to see he’d gotten Mr. Carr’s point.

  Their wagon master obviously wanted more of an agreement. “Mr. Hobart, it isn’t unheard of to put troublemakers off a train for the good of the rest of the group. Please, keep that in mind.” He then nodded to Jacobs and tipped his hat to Mina with a short, but polite, “Ma’am,” and rode off into the night.

  Mr. Jacobs also bid them goodnight, which left her alone with her disgruntled husband.

  “Did you hear?” he demanded, though he did so in a hushed voice. “If we get thrown off this train, it will be because of your foolishness. I suggest you grow up good and fast, Mina Franks.”

  “It’s Hobart,” she hissed back. “For some reason you keep forgetting that, husband. And, if we get thrown off this train, it’s because you are an intolerant dolt who won’t take the time to show me what needs to be done.” She took a step forward. “I rue the day I said ‘I do’ to you, Elliott. I’d have fared much better at home with my indifferent father and his witch of a bride.”

  “Fine. Once we arrive in Oregon, we’ll part ways.”

  Shocked that he’d called her bluff, Mina stepped back. “What?”

  “We’ll find an attorney and get a divorce. That should make both of us happy.”

  “But what will I do?”

  “Frankly, I don’t care.”

  “It was the inheritance from my grandmother that made this
possible, bought the wagon, the oxen, paid the fees, and purchased the land. You can’t just take everything and leave me penniless.”

  “When you said, ‘I do’ on that dreaded day, it all became mine under the law.”

  “So you’d leave me destitute? You wouldn’t.”

  “Push me further, Mrs. Hobart,” this came out with a sneer, “and you’ll find out for yourself, won’t you?”

  “I’ll fight you. Besides, a divorce is hardly necessary when I can get an annulment. It will be like we never said vows and everything will revert to me.”

  “Women can’t own property, you fool. It would revert to your father and you’d be back under his control once again.”

  “Better him than you!” Mina shot back.

  “Keep your voice down,” Elliott hissed, glancing around. Seeing they were alone, he glared at her for a long moment then surprised her by being reasonable. “Let’s make a deal. Neither of us wants this sham of a marriage. Once we arrive in Oregon City, I’ll make a settlement on you including funds for travel to wherever you want to go. We’ll be rid of each other for good.”

  She didn’t think it was fair that he would reap in anyway what he didn’t sow, in the form of a single penny from her inheritance, but she’d argue about that when the time came. With little choice, as always, other than being stuck with a man who detested her (the feeling quite mutual, as it were), she nodded her agreement.

  “Good. Until then, try to be civil, and act like a wife and a helpmate, for Christ’s sake.” He stalked off, disappearing into the shadows beyond the circle of campfires. She looked after him, her mouth agape with outrage. For him to accuse her of being uncivil was like the pot calling the kettle black. All the same, arguing with the unreasonable man did no good. At a loss, she started toward the wagon, hating that she was dependent on the likes of Elliott Hobart for her future, for her very existence.

  A noise behind her had her spinning. Much to her dismay, she saw Mr. Jacobs standing beside his wagon, no more than twenty feet away, smoking his pipe. His wife was at his side. From the looks on their faces—his concerned, hers sympathetic—they had heard every word. Her chest burned with embarrassment as she felt heat rise to her cheeks. Airing dirty laundry had become a common occurrence for her and her husband. She vowed, no more. She also determined not to allow Elliott to bait her anger again. Somehow, she had to make the best of this tenable situation so that when she arrived at the end of the trail, she would be free of him.

  Then what? a voice in her head asked. Mina didn’t have an answer, but she had fifteen hundred miles to figure it out.

  * * *

  Her vows and determination didn’t hold up a week before her anger erupted again. Elliott, despite touting civility, seemed to enjoy needling her, picking at her flaws and harping on her ineptitude at every turn. She’d taken all she could one evening when she had inadvertently burned the stew. It wasn’t inedible; only what was at the bottom of the pot was scorched. He wouldn’t let up, however, and Mina had all she could take. In a fit of pique, she dumped the entire kettle of stew in the fire, said a few very unladylike words, and stormed off—again. She didn’t go as far this time, only to a line of trees in the distance planning to cool her temper and collect herself.

  She’d been allowed no more than five minutes of solitude before an exasperated Weston Carr had once again come to fetch her back. On foot this time, there was no thrilling ride while held in his arms, no teasing, no conversation, no soothing touches like before, only an iron-hard hand on her arm, as good as dragging her back to camp. She protested, digging in her heels. At a point halfway between the trees and the wagons, he halted and turned to her. Only then did he speak his first words.

  “Man or woman, Mrs. Hobart, to me a promise given is a promise kept. I don’t appreciate being lied to and having to come after you every time you get a bee in your bonnet and run off. If I have to do so again, you will not like the consequences. Are we clear?”

  Mina swallowed, not liking the angry and very resolute expression on his face. She also didn’t like the thought of what his consequences might be. Swallowing hard, she nodded.

  He began walking again, pulling her along silently, his long fingers wrapped around her wrist in an unbreakable grip until he deposited her at her husband’s side. “Take your wife in hand, Mr. Hobart. Or for her own sake and that of every man, woman, and child on this the train, I’ll see to it for you.”

  Mina had stared after him slack-jawed with indignation, not missing his meaning, now fully understanding what his concept of consequences were. Elliott hadn’t missed it either and much to her surprise, did something she’d never seen before—he burst into laughter.

  “Now there’s an excellent idea,” was his broken response, the words interspersed with great guffaws and howls as he bent over, holding his belly, horse-laughing at her expense. Mina wasn’t the slightest bit amused; quite the opposite, in fact. Her humiliation had risen to new heights, especially considering some of the other families had come out to bear witness to the spectacle. In a huff, and cursing all men to perdition with every breath, she stomped to the wagon and climbed in, pulling the flap closed behind her. Only then did she succumb to silent tears over what her life had become.

  Chapter Four

  Swaying on her feet, she watched as another shovel full of dirt filled the shallow grave. The sound of the dry earth mixed with stones and rock as it landed jarred her to the bone, her exceedingly tired bones. Exhaustion filled her very soul. If not for kind Mr. Jacobs standing by her side, his hand on her back in support, she would have fallen in a heap beside her husband’s open grave. Tears prickled behind her eyelids, not because she loved or even cared for Elliott Hobart. Certainly, there was no love lost between the two of them, not by a long shot. Rather, it was because his death seemed senseless, as were the deaths of the other twenty-one members of the wagon train—men, women, and several of the precious children—almost half of them, who had also succumbed to the deadly illness that had devastated their group.

  A little over a month ago, a relatively short measure of time, which to Mina seemed like an eternity now, they had been an eager bunch, anxiously anticipating the journey to their new homes and the beginning of their new lives. Excited to face the challenges of a cross-country trek, to see sights they had only imagined, and experience new adventures they hadn’t thought possible. With the help of a seasoned captain and experienced trail guide, they had been better prepared than most, planning for the inherent risks involved in a two-thousand-mile overland trip: broken equipment, injured livestock, drought, depleted supplies, threats from outlaws and Indians alike. Never did they expect to be attacked by a deadly enemy they had no defense against—smallpox.

  Tracked to a family hailing from Philadelphia, where an outbreak had occurred in near epidemic proportions, one after another of them had fallen ill, spreading from wagon to wagon. With each subsequent outbreak, the infected wagons had been isolated in a measure to contain the spread of the disease. Now only four wagons were untouched by the illness. These were camped across the river waiting to move on. One family, more daring than the rest, went on ahead, preferring to risk traveling on their own than contracting the illness.

  Mina had been appalled, looking on helplessly as people died. Coming from an eastern city, she was one of only a handful of the adults on the train who had been vaccinated. Even fewer of the children had been inoculated. Poor, uneducated, or untrusting of the controversial vaccine, for whatever reason, so many died needlessly when there was a simple preventative and had been for years.

  Mina looked around at the men who had seen fit to dig Elliott’s grave—one of so many in the past few days—and she wondered what she would do next. She didn’t mean in the next few hours, days, or weeks; she meant long term. Imminently, following the burial, to stop the cycle and further dissemination of the disease, all of Elliott’s blankets and clothing would be burned. She’d watched it happen to the others, nearly entire con
tents of wagons burned to the ground to diminish the threat. Only items that could be thoroughly scrubbed with the harsh lye soap were retained: metal, glass, and the wooden wagon, mostly. After, she would remain with the afflicted, isolated until it was clear no others would fall ill; only then would they be allowed to rejoin the group.

  The devastation had brought the wagon train to a grinding halt. Mr. Carr told them that most often, although it sounded cruel, families afflicted by disease were left behind while the train moved forward. The importance of keeping on schedule and being through the mountains before the first snows of early fall was crucial to everyone’s survival. In this case, because it had touched nearly every wagon on the train, he didn’t risk moving forward the few miles left to their next stop at Fort Kearney, which was the first of the few trading posts along the way. He feared bringing smallpox with them and spreading it further. So they waited, watching helplessly as loved ones sickened and passed on.

  Thankfully, no new victims had fallen ill in the last five days and hope had flared amongst the grief-stricken that the worst had passed.

  Clanging metal drew Mina’s attention downward. The men were finished, their shovel heads banging together as they tamped down the dry earth. Others moved forward then and began stacking rocks over the grave to keep it from being desecrated by animals later.

  “I’ll get the fire started,” murmured the captain, as he walked away with his shovel.

  Mina didn’t respond. What was the point when fate had left her no other choice? With dry eyes, she proceeded to the large pile of her and Elliott’s belongings that would be set to blaze. It was nearly everything she owned. Some mementoes from her childhood, when her dear mama had been alive and she and her sister Ruth had been happy.

  It seemed a lifetime ago.

  As the torch touched on the soiled blankets and ignited, Mina swallowed hard against her tears. The fire spread quickly—first to Elliott’s clothing, and then, as the flames licked higher, to some of her own she’d worn while caring for him. When the linens caught fire, the threads becoming black and shrinking in on themselves, her chest felt heavy. They had been a part of her hope chest, left to her by her mama as well as the delicate lace shawl her grandmother had hand tatted; now, nothing more than smoldering gray ash.