aware of a sudden tenseness in her breathing, a quickening of her pulse.
“Good morning, Mrs. Allen.”
Emma turned, looked up at Zachary Thatcher sitting so tall and handsome in his saddle and gave him a cool nod of greeting. He was a lean man, muscular and broad of shoulder. But it was not his size, rather the intensity, the firm, purposeful expression on his weather-darkened face, the aura of strength and authority that emanated from him that produced an antipathy in her. Autocratic men like Zachary Thatcher were the bane of her life, had caused the demise of her dream. She refused to feed this one’s vanity by exhibiting the slightest interest in him or what he had to say.
A frown tightened his face, drew his brows together into a V-shaped line. “I see your lead team is not hitched yet. Tell your husband from now on every wagon is to be ready to roll out by first light.”
Emma stared up into those judgmental, sky-blue eyes. Clearly Mr. Thatcher expected an acknowledgment. “I will relay your order.” Her conscience pricked. She quelled the unease. It was the truth as far as it went. As for the rest, let the pompous Mr. Thatcher who formed his own conclusions believe what he chose.
He glanced toward the second wagon. “I understand your husband hired the oldest Lundquist sons to help him out—drive his wagons, herd the stock and such. Is that right?”
“They have been hired, yes.” There was that prick of conscience again. She clenched her hands and yielded to its prompting. “But I must explain that William is not—”
“I have no time for explanations or excuses, Mrs. Allen. Only make sure your husband passes my message on to his drivers. Tomorrow we start traveling at the break of dawn. Any slackers will be left behind to turn back or catch up as best they can.” He touched his fingers to his hat’s brim and rode off.
Tyrant! It was a wonder he did not make the members of the train salute and call him “sir”! Emma glared at Zachary Thatcher’s strong, straight back and shoved her conscience firmly aside. She had tried to tell him the truth about William. It was not her fault if he would not take the time to listen.
“Whoa, now, whoa!” Oxen hoofs thumped against the ground—stopped. Chains rattled at the front of the wagon.
Emma hurried forward. “Mr. Lundquist, Mr. Thatcher has returned. He ordered that from now on all wagons are to be hitched up and ready to leave by first light, else they will be left behind. Please inform your brother.”
Her hired driver’s head dipped. “I’ll see to it.” He leaned a beefy shoulder against an ox and shoved. “Give over, now!”
Emma left him to his work, glanced around the field. Everywhere she looked men were making last-minute checks of equipment, climbing to wagon seats or taking up their places beside oxen teams. Women and girls were dousing cooking fires, stowing away breakfast paraphernalia and gathering small children into the wagons. All was as she had watched their company practice over the past few days under Josiah Blake’s guidance—and yet completely different.
“Form up!”
The words cracked through the cool morning air, sharp as a gunshot. Zachary Thatcher’s order was picked up and echoed around the camp. Emma caught her breath and tugged her riding gloves snug. This was it. There was no more time. A tremble rippled through her, shook her hands as she loosed the reins tethering Traveler and led him to the side of the wagon to use the spoke of a wheel as a mounting aid. The light wool fabric of the long, divided skirt of her riding outfit whispered softly as she stepped into the stirrup and settled herself into the strange saddle with the horn on the front. William’s saddle. William’s horse.
Tears flooded her eyes. Her brother, her staunch protector, the only one of her family who shared her blood, would soon be out of her life—forced by his wife’s illness to remain at home, while she, who wanted only to return to Philadelphia, traveled with this wagon train bound for Oregon country. Oh, if only William had sold the wagons! But he had kept hoping. And then Annie had declared she would go to Mitchel Banning’s mission and teach in William’s place!
Emma’s shoulder’s slumped. When Annie would not be dissuaded, her fate had been decided. What choice had she but to come along to care for her injured sister? The sick, hollow feeling she had been fighting for days swelled in her stomach. Would she ever see William again? Or Mother and Papa Doc, who had taken them into their hearts and adopted them so many years ago she could remember no other parents?
Emma blinked to clear her vision, brushed the moisture from her cheeks and focused her attention on the last-minute rush of activity to block out the dear, loved faces that floated on her memory. Her heart pounded. Men’s mouths opened wide in shouts she could not hear over the throbbing of her pulse in her ears. Whips snaked through the air over the backs of the teams. Here and there a wagon lurched, began to move. She tensed, counted. William’s wagon—no, her wagon—was to be fourth in line…to what? A primitive, unknown land inhabited by heathen. It was insanity!
“Haw, Baldy! Haw, Bright!”
The command penetrated her anxiety, the roaring in her ears. Emma drew her gaze from the camp, watched the oxen her brother had purchased lean into their yokes and move forward at Garth Lundquist’s bidding. The wagon shuddered and creaked, rolled over the trampled grass. She swallowed hard against a sudden surge of nausea, made certain only the toes of her riding boots showed from beneath the fullness of her long skirts and rode forward beside the wagon. All through the eight-day steamboat journey from St. Louis up the muddy Missouri River to Independence she had managed to hold her apprehension at bay. Even when the steamer had run aground on one of the many sandbars, or when it had been raked by hidden snags, she had maintained her calm. But now…
Now there was no more time.
Emma closed her eyes, took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Still, who could blame her for her fearfulness? She opened her eyes and stared at the western horizon. This was not merely another drill to ensure everyone could drive their wagons and herd their stock on the trail. This was it. She was leaving behind family, friends and all of civilization and heading into untold danger. And for what? Someone else’s dream. If Mitchel Banning had not started that mission in Oregon country none of this—
“Haw, Big Boy. Steady on, Scar.”
Emma glanced over her shoulder, watched Garth Lund quist’s brother, Ernst, bring William’s second wagon into line behind hers. Anne’s wagon now. She and her adopted sister were on their own. A tremor snaked through her. Traveler snorted, tossed his head and danced sideways. She leaned forward, patted the arched neck. “It’s all right, boy. Everything is all right.” The horse calmed.
Emma gave him another pat and straightened in the saddle. How lovely it would be if there were someone to reassure her, to ease her fear. Disgust pulled her brows down, stiffened her spine. She had to stop this self-pity that eroded her courage and undermined her purpose. Still…
She halted Traveler and glanced over her shoulder. Perhaps she should try once more—now that the time of departure was upon them—to dissuade Anne from going to Oregon country. Perhaps the reality of the leave-taking had softened Anne’s determination. Perhaps. Hope she could not quite stifle fluttered in her chest.
Emma reined Traveler around, halted and stared as Anne, riding Lady, the bay mare William had bought for Caroline, emerged from behind her wagon. So Anne had, again, ignored her advice. She was supposed to be in the wagon. Abed.
Worry spiraled upward, crowded out every emotion but concern. Anne’s face was thin and pale beneath the russet curls that
