The Trail Master's Bride Page 4

  Stoically, she bit her lip, knowing these were just things, yet they were nearly all she had left. When the fire spread to the wedding ring quilt that her mother had spent hours stitching by hand, a tear escaped and her hand fluttered up to her throat out of habit. Her breath caught, finding it bare. Panicked, she searched her memories. She had stored her choker in the tin box with her other keepsakes. Her eyes snapped to the blaze with dread. Others had helped her empty the wagon. Scanning the base of the fire, through red-hot flames and cinders she caught a glimpse of the familiar box with the blue label; the heat had already begun to bubble the painted finish on the outside.

  “No!” Mina cried as she lunged forward only to be driven back by a wave of intense heat. Glancing around, she saw one of the shovels lying on the ground. Without thought to anything except retrieving her treasure, she pressed close to dig the tin box out of the fire.

  Hard hands on her waist pulled her back. “What in blue blazes has come over you, girl,” the gruff voice cursed, “you’ll be burnt to a crisp.”

  “My mother’s cameo,” she cried, struggling against his hold. Her head flew back, her eyes imploring. “Please. The tin box, it wasn’t supposed to be burned.”

  Weston cursed beneath his breath and twisted. Mina’s feet left the ground as she was bodily moved out of the way. He pulled the shovel from her grip and quickly scooped the now flaming and melting mess of painted tin out of the fire. Pitching it onto a bare patch of ground away from the blaze, he topped it with a shovel full of dirt to extinguish the flames.

  Mina rushed forward to see if he’d been in time. As she brushed past him, foolishly reaching toward the smoking metal box, he caught her again about the waist.

  “Criminy! Let it cool first.”

  One of the women rushed forward and poured water over it, while another offered Mina a quilted cooking glove. This time as she moved toward it, Weston allowed it. On her knees in the dirt, heedless of the mud made by the dousing, she pulled off the lid and peered inside.

  With a loud exhalation, sounding much like a sob, she tipped out the contents. The lace was shriveled from the heat, but blessedly, the cameo was unharmed. Her stoicism fled. The physical strain and emotional upheaval of the trip, combined with her husband’s death and the uncertainty of what lay ahead for her now, was simply too much. She broke down, weeping on knees in the mud.

  “I’d have expected tears at the graveside, not over a few paltry material possessions.”

  Mina jerked, the harsh words cutting through her misery. Twisting her head, she looked up into the disapproving face of Avery Hill. Close in age to Elliott, they had become fast friends since joining the wagon train in Independence. He was looking at her now with contempt and, if the curl of his lip told her anything, disgust.

  “That was uncalled for, Hill. If you have nothing kind to say or condolences to offer Mrs. Hobart, move along.”

  The man stiffened, glaring at their intimidating leader. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut as the bigger man shifted closer. Evidently, thinking better of whatever he was going to say, he cast his cold-eyed glare on Mina.

  “Maybe I was out of line, and I beg your pardon if I am, even so, I doubt that’s the case. Never before have I seen a widow stand dry-eyed and cold over her dead husband’s body, but break down over a stone and a scrap of lace.” He then turned on his heel and stalked off.

  Mina watched him go, feeling the others’ gazes fall upon her when Mr. Hill was out of sight. She looked up, straight into Weston Carr’s dark blue eyes.

  “That was my late nana’s lace shawl.” Feeling the need to explain after Avery Hill’s unexpected and rancorous attack, she continued, her speech rushing. “The cameo was my mother’s. She wore it pinned to nana’s shawl every day after she passed, as far back as I can remember.” She sniffed, taking a stuttering breath, before going on. “You must understand, I have so little—”

  “There, there, gal,” a gentle voice said from beside her. “You don’t have to make excuses to us.” Mr. Jacobs, the older gentleman whose wagon was always parked next to her own, patted her shoulder in reassurance. His losses had been devastating; a daughter and his beloved wife both taken. Mina was touched that despite his profound grief, he was still able to offer her a kind word.

  A large shadow moved over her as firm hands reached down and grasped her upper arms. “Let’s get you out of the mud, darlin’.”

  “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful to Elliott.”

  “Pay Mr. Hill no mind,” the older man urged. “He has a poor history with women, which includes three former wives. Divorced, I’m told. The result of which has clearly left him bitter.”

  “Don’t make excuses for that jackass, Jacobs. He’s been a pain in my hind parts for nigh on two hundred miles.”

  “Of course, Mr. Carr, and might I say, you’ve been quite patient with us, despite all the trials and tribulations.” He offered his handkerchief to Mina. “I’m sorry for your loss, my dear. If there is anything that I can do, please do not hesitate to ask.” With a kind smile, Mr. Jacobs also walked away.

  That left her alone with Weston. Through watery eyes, she saw his head turn and his focus fall intently on her. His dark-eyed gaze was striking, framed by long black lashes and little lines radiating out toward his temples, from squinting against the sun on the trail, no doubt. That she’d believed him good-looking at first made Mina question her eyesight because as she’d watched him over the past weeks, she’d come to the realization that he was the most devastatingly handsome man she’d ever seen. Elliott had seen her watching him more than once and made crude comments about her lust-filled mind and lack of virtue. He had no interest in her so she wasn’t sure why he cared, except for injured pride, perhaps.

  Gazing down on her husband’s grave, she considered Mr. Hill’s condemnation. Mina was sorry for his passing, as she would be with any life. Subsequently, there was a niggling guilt that she felt nothing more. The cordial man she’d been acquainted with prior to leaving Boston had become downright mean. What’s more, she’d been nothing more than a pawn to him, after only her money. All in all, that made it difficult to bring up mournful tears.

  “Yours was a marriage of necessity, I’m guessing.”

  Startled, she glanced up at the very tall man at her side. As she’d guessed that first time she’d seen him, standing this close, his bulk blocked all measure of wind across the plains and the afternoon setting sun. Her eyes fell to his mouth, his words taking a moment to sink in. Finding them accusatory, her hands flew to her waist and flat belly. Did he think she was in the family way? An immaculate conception, to be sure, she scoffed silently.

  Weston easily read her reaction. “I didn’t mean to imply you were expecting. I’ve been doing this quite a while and have seen many a tenderfoot take this trip west. I’ve also had the unpleasant task of burying husbands and watched their wives weep rivers of tears over their graves. I know an arranged marriage when I see one. The question is why a young woman as comely as you, married a useless, ill-tempered sort, old enough to be her father.”

  “It’s hardly seemly to speak ill of the dead, sir. And tasteless to do so while the dirt of his grave is so freshly turned.”

  “Mm-hmm,” he intoned unapologetically. “You’ll find that out west, with the hardships and dangers we face daily, we’ve lost some of our social niceties.”

  “You censured Mr. Hill for the very same thing.”

  He shrugged. “Didn’t like your husband much. Don’t like the looks of that jackass, either. I reckon that’s why they got along, two peas in a pod.” He peered down at her, studying her as though she were a bug under a magnifying glass. “You didn’t answer my question. You said your papa chose him. Surely you had other beaus. Were you running from something? Is that why you married Hobart?”

  “Does it make a difference now?” Mina asked tiredly.

  “Suppose not, though I have to admit I’m curious.”

  Her brows furrowed over n
arrowed eyes at his persistence, but still she answered. “Our marriage was hardly convenient, and it was no love match. Our nightly sparring surely told you that. I believe I told you I wasn’t given any alternative.”

  “Why?”

  “My father’s twenty-two-year-old bride wanted me gone and made it happen.”

  He made another humming noise in his throat, whether in disapproval or understanding she couldn’t be sure.

  “The next question is, what now, Mrs. Hobart? Have you got any other family?”

  “I have sisters. They are wed and settled, except for Anna who is only ten.” Her eyes misted, missing Ruth and Anna desperately. “Other than that, none to speak of.”

  She looked away, shaking her head as Ruth’s image popped in her head. Her husband wasn’t much different than Elliott, or their father, and wouldn’t countenance letting Mina stay on indefinitely. She knew this to be true because the question had been asked and Ruth’s husband had answered with a definitive no prior to Mina’s hasty wedding.

  Weston looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then hummed softly as if coming to a decision. “You can post letters to your sisters at Fort Kearny. I can also inquire about an escort back to Independence while we’re there, although Fort Laramie may be our better bet.”

  Mina blinked up at him, puzzled. “To what end?”

  “To board an eastbound train to Boston, of course.” His brows arched practically to his hairline. “Surely you don’t mean to continue on alone?”

  “What choice do I have? My husband paid money down on a tract of land. My money. What little remained was invested in the team, the wagon, and what’s smoldering behind you. So yes, I intend to go on.”

  He frowned. “I don’t like having an unattached woman on my train, Mrs. Hobart. It’s asking for trouble.”

  Her eyes flared wide with fear. “Do you mean to put me out? In the middle of nowhere? We paid for a guided escort to Oregon. Are you reneging on your part of the deal?”

  His frown deepened, becoming a dark, intimidating scowl as he stepped closer. “Those are fighting words from a man, missy. I’m not certain how to respond to them from a woman, but I’m telling you now, they don’t set well with me at all.” His stare was unwavering and went on for several awkward moments, which had Mina regretting taking such a sassy tone with the big man. Her tongue often got her into trouble. Papa had upbraided her several times for her mouth, while bent over his desk, in fact. She shifted her weight slightly at the memory of his stout oak paddle striking her behind. Her skirts hadn’t lessened the brunt of the punishment one bit. She also recalled those times being one of the few she’d had her father’s undivided attention.

  “I meant no offense, sir,” she told him softly, her mood suddenly subdued.

  “Pull your wagon behind mine. Until I decide what’s to be done with you, you’ll have my protection.”

  All manner of passivity fled and her notorious temper flared. “Until you decide? What gives you the right to make decisions for me?”

  “Having my train struck by a deadly illness while smack dab in the middle of Indian territory with a green, troublemaking female on my hands. That’s what gives me the right, girl.”

  “I’m a widow, which hardly makes me a girl any longer. As for being on your hands, I can look out for myself.”

  “Yeah? Can you hunt? Fish? Gut a trout, if you can catch one? Skin a buffalo, if you should be lucky enough to fire a gun without shooting off your blame foot?” She opened her mouth to respond, but he held up his hand and stopped her. “No need to answer. I know you can’t because your man couldn’t do any of those things either. As such, the rest of the train had to carry you two greeners. Now that you’re alone, things can only get worse. I’m up to my ears with everyone’s bellyaching about it and we’re not even a quarter of the way into our trip. So, it ends now.” He leaned down, putting his face next to hers. “As for you, you’re a stubborn slip of a girl who doesn’t know when someone is offering a helping hand and a blasted good deal, to boot. To make it perfectly clear, that someone is me. So, move your damned wagon next to mine and I don’t want to hear any bellyaching from you, either.” Undeniably expecting that he’d ended the conversation with his decree, he turned on his large booted heel and began to storm off. Mina, however, couldn’t leave well enough alone and her mouth started flapping while her brain was a-napping, as her nana used to say.

  “You, Weston Carr, are a big, stupid oaf of a man; more so, if you think you can boss me around. My answer to your so generous offer is no, thank you. My wagon is fine where it is.”

  He stopped dead in his tracks, turning slowly to face her. Fire sparked in eyes, his face now dark with anger. Slowly, he retraced his steps, not stopping until his chest was a mere inch away from hers. He leaned down, using his towering frame with the clear intent to intimidate. It worked. She leaned back, although she held her ground.

  “You’ll find that I’m a man that doesn’t put up with sass and nonsense, Mrs. Hobart. So, you will do what I say, when I say or your backside will pay the penalty.”

  She gasped. “You wouldn’t dare raise a hand to me.”

  “A fist in anger, never. The broad palm of my hand across your troublesome backside, in a heartbeat. Don’t believe me? Push me farther.”

  With him glaring down at her, his tone soft and ominous, more threatening than his raised voice had ever been, her sharp tongue retreated and her backbone quickly fled. Mina wisely decided it was prudent to respect both the proximity of his very large hands and his overbearing, all-encompassing presence, and remain silent. He apparently took this as acquiescence, because he repeated, less the cursing, “Move your wagon, now.”

  This time she remained silent as he stalked away.

  Standing alone by the smoking remnants of what were her worldly possessions, a mere thirty yards from her husband’s grave, Mina felt the weight of loneliness on her shoulders, and the sting of her stupid, stubborn pride. She didn’t tell him she couldn’t move the wagon because she couldn’t manage the team. She hadn’t the strength or the intelligence evidently as Elliott had told her repeatedly when he’d tried to teach her to yoke and drive the team. Her eyes rose to what was left of her temporary home. It looked as though it had been scavenged; even the cover had been removed and burned. The few items deemed safe to keep were left outside waiting for the interior of the wagon to be scrubbed clean.

  With a harsh, jagged sigh, she moved toward it with no other choice but to get to it. Once again, tears burned her eyes. Her life, which hadn’t been much more than an unhappy existence in Boston, had spiraled down to a miserable state of subsistence. If she made it to Oregon, sold the land and her meager belongings, what then? Returning to Boston was not an option. She had no future there.

  Abruptly, she got a prickling sensation at the back of her neck and a feeling she was being watched. Twisting, she glanced over her shoulder and found Avery Hill regarding her from across the camp, his eyes narrowed, a look of hatred on his face. Taken aback, she searched her memory for a reason he would hold her in such utter contempt. Other than the few times he had come by to check on Elliott during his illness, she’d had little interaction with the man before today. Elliott must have shared their strife with him, and of course, as his friend, Avery had taken his side. She returned his stare until he moved away, heading back toward his side of camp.

  Mina stared after him for a moment, deciding to steer clear of him and anything to do with him. Having other things to do than worry over the odd behavior of a practical stranger, she grabbed the bucket out of the wagon bed, and the cake of lye soap one of the others had provided, before trudging dejectedly toward the creek. She’d have to endure as she found her way toward some kind of life for herself. Likely, she’d have to remarry. But to whom? Maybe there would be some sort of polite society in Oregon City. Failing that, maybe she’d find work—she was quite capable with a needle and thread—or sell off everything and travel south to one of the Californi
a cities, San Francisco or Sacramento, which she’d read were growing rapidly.

  Her bucket filled, she climbed into the wagon and began to scrub on hands and knees. Mina’s plans seemed all well and good if she survived the trip. The obstacles to that seemed to grow larger every day, her biggest one now having to deal with the arrogant and bossy trail master all while trying to drive a team cross country without a blooming idea of how.

  The lye burned her skin, turning her hands red and rough, but she had no choice, gloves being a luxury she no longer had. Tears rolled down her cheeks, dripping off the end of her nose and chin as she scrubbed the wagon clean of any remnants of the disease. Afterwards, she’d go to Mr. Jacobs and ask for another lesson in oxen droving.

  Chapter Five

  She didn’t belong here. Mina Hobart belonged in a parlor, sipping tea with her lady friends and wearing taffeta or lace, not in the middle of the godforsaken wilderness, by God. And, she surely didn’t belong on the seat of a buckboard trying to handle two pair of ornery cattle. As he watched her pull back on the reins and the team continue on as if she hadn’t, he swore if her good-for-nothing husband weren’t dead already, he’d kill him. He had no business bringing a citified young woman on such an arduous trip.

  She was a beauty, he’d give her that, particularly the mass of glossy red hair atop her head that had been kissed by long days spent in the sun and now glimmered with streaks of gold. Her once creamy complexion had warmed to a golden tan, which brought her eyes to an even lighter and more striking shade of blue. She’d also developed a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her smile transformed her features from beautiful to breathtaking, although he hadn’t seen it often, usually reserved for the children of the train and the ever helpful Ben Jacobs. As he watched her unobserved, he allowed a slow perusal of her figure; although not an inch over five feet five and slender, she was womanly, with curves in all the right places. She was young, however, and naïve, not to mention her upper body strength was for shit, which was evident as she tried to rein in the cattle that were ignoring her inept attempts to get them to fall in line.