to the low ceiling. Various kitchen utensils and farm tools were suspended from the rough-hewn rafters, making the store seem even more overcrowded.
A man who was clad as a cowboy, dusty from his labors, turned to glance at her as she approached the counter to place the family’s order. Her father had already joined a group of men who were loudly discussing the conditions of the trail ahead of them and Emmeline knew that the mundane tasks had, as usual, been left to her.
The cowboy at the counter had already removed his broad-brimmed hat to show slicked-back, dark blond hair that curled slightly. His blue eyes seemed to twinkle as he nodded politely and wished her a “Good morning, ma’am,” without being formally introduced first.
Emmeline knew social mores were more relaxed on the trail, but her strict upbringing nevertheless caused her to hesitate before she replied with a terse “Good morning.” Seconds later, when he continued to speak, she realized that the man was assuming she was the mother of all these children! What an appalling notion.
“You have a lovely family,” he said, ruffling Johnny’s hair to distract him just as the boy was surreptitiously slipping his hand into a candy jar.
Emmeline, gritting her teeth, said merely, “Thank you,” and gave her brother a scathing look. Then she turned her attention to the pinch-faced, portly woman behind the counter. “How do you do. We haven’t been on the trail long, so we don’t require much, but I was told it was best to keep my larders stocked.”
“That, it is,” the proprietress said as if addressing a nitwit. She accepted the list Emmeline was holding, then leaned closer to speak more quietly. “You’re mighty young to have so many children. How did you manage it?” She briefly eyed Emmeline’s father. “Marry a man with a passel of ’em already?”
“No. That’s my father, Amos Carter, and these are my brother and sisters,” Emmeline explained, taking care to raise her voice enough to disabuse the cowboy of her supposed motherhood. “Except for the twins over there. We’re taking them to Oregon with us in the hopes of finding them good homes.”
“I might be interested myself if they was old enough or strong enough to be of use round the store,” the woman said. “How old are they?”
“Eight, but they’ve had a hard life so they’re small for their age.”
“I’ll say. Plum useless, if you ask me.”
Hoping that Missy and Mikey had not overheard the woman’s cutting remarks, Emmeline noted that Bess was teaching them to play checkers at a small table next to the unlit, barrel-shaped, wood stove. Happily, their attention to the checkerboard and the overall din of conversation within the small store had apparently rendered them oblivious to the woman’s unkindness.
The cowboy, however, was far from unaware. “Excuse me for saying so, Mrs. Johnson,” he drawled, barely smiling at the older woman, “but don’t you think it would be wiser to keep such untoward opinions to yourself?”
The proprietress huffed, “Well, I never,” and turned to go about her business, leaving Emmeline and the friendly stranger standing at the counter together.
“Thank you,” she said, meaning it sincerely. “The twins have had a difficult year since they lost their parents. They’re just now beginning to act like normal children again.”
“My pleasure, miss.” He bowed slightly. “The name’s Will Logan. I own a little spread south and west of here. The Circle-L. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
“I’m sorry, no. I’m merely a traveler passing through. But I’m sure your ranch is lovely.”
He chuckled. “Well…I wouldn’t say that, exactly. Not yet, anyway. Give it time. I’ve only been in these parts for a little while, myself.” Gesturing at the store building, he added, “My friend and I founded High Plains just a year and a half ago. It’s his mill that’s been providing most of the lumber for the town, of late.”
“Even that magnificent church house we passed just east of here?”
“You can thank our town ladies and the New England Emigrant Aid Company for that,” Will admitted. “The door and windows were shipped from Boston and so was some of the finer wood for the interior. But the structure itself took shape right here in High Plains.”
“Then you should be very proud, Mr. Logan.”
Will grinned and shook his head. “I try hard not to be too highfalutin. Don’t want the good Lord to get mad ‘cause I took the credit for His work.”
“I’m sure that building the big church will satisfy Him,” Emmeline said, noting that her companion did not appear to agree. His smile faded and he seemed to be studying her.
Finally, he said, “I doubt that the Father, the creator of ‘many mansions’ is too impressed by any building man makes.” He replaced his hat and touched the brim politely. “Well, if you all will excuse me, I have to stop at the mill and then head back to my spread. I wish you and yours Godspeed, miss.”
Watching the broad-shouldered, appealing rancher turn and start toward the door, Emmeline was taken by how optimistic he had seemed in spite of the obvious hardships inherent in his line of work, not to mention starting from scratch and building an entire town in the space of just a few years. What an admirable man. His attitude served to make him quite attractive indeed.
She supposed she would need that kind of extraordinary fortitude—and more—to face the rest of her journey. She just hoped she was up to it. Taking charge of her siblings and the twins wasn’t new to her. It was being in unfamiliar territory that gave her pause. Still, as long as they were together, as a family, she supposed they’d manage to cope.
The idea of family caused her to glance over at her father and shiver in spite of the humidity and high temperature inside the stuffy mercantile. Papa might not be the meanest man in the world, but he had to be close to the top of the list.
Emmeline had spent most of her life trying to placate him and protect both her mother and her siblings from his unpredictable fits of temper. That was why she’d never marry or otherwise leave home. Papa had wasted his breath ordering her to stay until little Glory was raised. She wouldn’t have abandoned her sisters, her ill mother or even troublesome Johnny. Not under any circumstances.
The Garrison mill sat west of High Plains proper, a little past Zeb’s impressive, whitewashed, two-story house. Will found his old friend working on the cutting floor instead of sitting behind the desk in his small office.
“Morning,” Will called, having to shout to be heard over the sound of sawing.
Zeb grinned, waved a greeting and loped toward him. “What brings you to town?”
“Just needed a few things over at Johnson’s. And I want to order some two-by-six planks from you. I’m finally going to put a floor in the bunkhouse. There’s no hurry, though. I’ve got all summer to finish the job.”
“Good, because we’re running near capacity.”
“Even now? I thought the rush was over.”
Zeb wiped his brow with a handkerchief as he gestured downriver. “Nope. Guess some of those new settlers are tired of living in tents and wagons. They’re planning to build real houses and maybe a business or two. Good
