A frown pulled the man’s bushy, gray eyebrows low over his deep-set eyes. “Now, see here, young woman, we men have business to discuss. This is no time for female foolishness! Go back to your wagon and send your husband, or father, or—”
“My name is Miss Allen, sir.” She kept her tone respectful, but put enough ice in her voice to freeze the Kansas River flowing beside their evening camp. “I have no husband. And my father is in Philadelphia. I am the owner of—”
“Impossible! I personally signed up every—did you say Allen?” The man’s eyes narrowed, accused her. “The only Allen to join our train was William Allen and his wife.”
The man had all but called her a liar! Emma forced a smile. “William Allen is my brother.”
“Then your brother will speak for you, young lady. It is not necessary for you to attend this meeting.”
Emma took a breath, held her voice level. “My brother’s wife took ill and he was unable to make the journey. My sister and I have taken their place on the train.”
“Two lone women!” The exclamation started an up roar.
“Gentlemen!”
The word snapped like a lash. Every head swiveled toward the center of the group. Silence fell as those gathered stared at Zachary Thatcher.
“The trail to Oregon country is two thousand miles of rough, rutted prairies, bogs and marshes, quicksand, swift, turbulent rivers, steep, rocky mountains, perpendicular descents and sandy desert—most of the terrain seldom, if ever, traversed by wagon. Factor in thunderstorms, hailstorms, windstorms, prairie fires and—if we are too often delayed—snowstorms, and everything gets worse. You will never make it to Oregon country if you waste time arguing over every problem that arises. There will be legions of them. And this particular situation is covered by the rules and regulations settled upon by Mr. Hargrove and the other leaders of this enterprise before our departure. Now, to the business at hand. Miss Allen…”
A problem was she? Emma lifted her head, met Zachary Thatcher’s cold gaze and traded him look for look.
“This meeting is about tending stock and standing guard duty. Each wagon owner must shoulder their share of the work. I understand your hu—brother hired drivers. As it states in the rules, hired drivers will be permitted to stand for wagon owners—in this instance, you and your sister. Therefore, Mr. Hargrove is correct—your presence is not required at this meeting.” He turned to the thin man beside him. “Lundquist, your sons—”
The man nodded. “I’ll fetch ’em in.” He faced toward the river and gave a long, ear-piercing whistle.
She was dismissed. Rudely and summarily dismissed. Emma clenched her jaw, stared at the backs of the men who had all faced away from her then turned and strode toward her wagon. A problem! You would think she wanted—
Emma stopped, gathered her long, full skirt close, stepped around a small pile of manure and hurried on. Why was she so discomposed? Her demeaning treatment by the men was nothing new. She had become accustomed to such supercilious attitudes in her quest to be a doctor. Thank goodness Papa Doc did not share such narrow vision! Not that it mattered now. Her dream was not to be. Instead she was on this wagon train of unwelcoming men, headed toward an unknown future in an unknown, unwelcoming country.
Bogs, marshes and quicksand…swift, turbulent rivers…high, steep, rocky mountains… Emma shuddered, looked at her wagon. Her home. It was all she had. The reality of her situation struck her as never before. She sank down on the wagon tongue and buried her face in her hands to compose herself. Not for anything would she let Mr. Zachary Thatcher and those other men see her dismay.
Zach looked at the grazing stock spread out over the fields and shook his head. The men on first watch were taking their duties lightly, in spite of his instructions. But one stampede, one horse or ox or cow stolen by Indians, one morning spent tracking down stock that had wandered off during the night would take care of that. They would learn to listen. Experience was a harsh but effective teacher. So were empty stomachs. A few missed breakfasts would focus their attention on their duties. As for the camp guards—they, too, would learn to take advice and stay alert. Most likely when one of them was found dead from a knife wielded by a silent enemy. His gut tightened. He’d seen enough of that in the army.
He frowned, rode Comanche to the rise he had chosen for his camp and dismounted. He stripped off saddle and bridle, stroked the strong, arched neck and scratched beneath the throat latch. “Good work today, boy. If it weren’t for you, those emigrants would have lost stock while swimming them across the river for sure. But they’ll learn. And your work will get easier.”
The horse snorted, tossed his head. Zach laughed, rubbed the saddle blanket over Comanche’s back. “I know, they’re green as grass, but there’s hope.” He slapped the spots decorating Comanche’s rump and stepped back. “All right, boy—dismissed!” He braced himself. Comanche whickered softly, stretched out his neck, nudged him in the chest with his head then trotted off.
“Stay close, boy!” He called the words, though the command was unnecessary. Comanche never ranged far, and he always returned before dawn. And there wasn’t an Indian born who could get his hands on him.
Zach smiled, then sobered. They were safe from hostiles for now, but once they moved beyond the army’s area of protection it could be a very different story. Sooner, if one of these greenhorn emigrants pulled a stupid stunt that riled the friendlies. “Lord, these people are as unsuspecting of the dangers they’re heading into as a newborn lamb walking into a pack of wolves. I sure would appreciate it if You would help me whip them into shape and grant them Your protection meanwhile.”
He looked toward the red-and-gold sunset in the west, took off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, settled his hat back in place and headed for the wagons. There was one more piece of business to attend to before he turned in.
The small dose of laudanum she had finally convinced Anne to swallow had eased the pain. She would sleep through the night now. Emma pulled the quilt close under Anne’s chin, climbed from the wagon and secured the flaps. It would be a comfort if Anne would consent to share a wagon, but she insisted on being alone. Not that it was surprising. She had resisted all physical contact, all gestures of comfort since Phillip and little Grace had died.
Emma sighed and looked around the center ground of the circled wagons, now dotted with tents. It was so quiet she could hear the murmurings of the few men and women who still sat working around cooking fires that had died to piles of coals. Traveler, Lady and a few other personal mounts were grazing in the center of the makeshift corral, their silhouettes dark against the caliginous light.
She walked to her wagon, lifted a lantern off its hook on the side but could find no means to light it. She heaved another sigh and looked up at the darkening sky. She should probably retire as others were doing, even if sleep eluded her. But to be alone in the wagon without light—
“Good evening.”
Emma gasped and whirled about, the lantern dangling from her hands. “You startled me, Mr. Thatcher!” She pressed one hand over her racing heart and frowned at him. “Is there something you wanted?”
“I need to know why you and your sister have joined this wagon train. What purpose takes you to Oregon country?”
His eyes were hidden by the darkness below his hat’s wide brim, but she was sure he was scowling.
