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Chapter Twelve
Independence, Missouri
Early May, 1845
You’re supposed to be a man, so stop acting like a girl, Matilda Prescott silently warned herself.
She couldn’t afford to be distracted by a handsome cowboy. But there was something vastly appealing about a man so different from the dandies she’d known back in Saint Louis. Her eyes tracked him as he sat straight and tall in the saddle, moving as one with his mount, the sun glinting off his red-gold hair.
With no small effort, she dragged her gaze away from the rider. Hitching up her too-large pants, she concentrated on taking long, manly strides with no eyebrow-raising, feminine hip-swaying, as she headed toward the nearest covered wagon and the man loading provisions.
“Do you know where I can find the wagon master?” she questioned, pitching her voice low and deep.
The man scratched his whiskered jaw. “Miles Carpenter’s the gray-bearded gent in the red shirt over yonder.”
“Thank you.” She touched her hat brim, then headed toward the older man.
He was sitting on an overturned barrel, examining a broken leather harness.
“Mr. Carpenter? I’m Matt Prescott.” She extended her hand. “My younger sister and I would like to join your wagon train.”
He gave her an assessing look before setting his work aside and returning her handshake. “You’ll need a wagon and team and enough provisions to last through four or five months.”
“We have all that, sir. Everything’s at the livery stable, ready to go.”
“I heard a wagon had been left behind by the previous group. Was that you?”
“Yes, sir.” She gulped nervously, fearing what else he might’ve heard. Was her plan about to unravel at the seams?
“Why were you left behind?”
The question eased her mind considerably, proving he didn’t know the full story of how another wagon master had refused to take along two unescorted females after their father’s death. She couldn’t let the same thing happen a second time. Which was why she wasn’t giving this man the chance to turn down Matilda Prescott.
“Our father took ill after we reached Independence and when he wasn’t able to travel, the wagon train left without us.” She stayed as close to the truth as possible to minimize the possibility of tripping herself up later.
And prayed God forgave her for this deception.
“Where’s your pa now?” Mr. Carpenter asked.
Mattie blinked several times, determined she wouldn’t allow any tears to fall. Her father’s recent passing was a raw, unhealed wound, but she couldn’t show any weaknesses. Men didn’t cry. She dug her nails into her palms and closed her eyes, focusing on the physical pain to keep her grounded in the present.
When she had her emotions under control, she lifted her lashes and met the older man’s gaze. “Our heavenly Father called him home.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, son.” He rested his hand on Mattie’s shoulder for a moment, giving it a comforting squeeze. But she knew better than to hope his sympathy would extend to accepting the Prescott siblings without question. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
He eyed her askance. Should she have shaved a few years off her real age? She lacked the whiskers of a mature man, but the wagon master would surely deny her request if he thought her only a boy.
She waited for his judgment and breathed a sigh of relief when he let the matter of her age drop.
“It’s a long, difficult journey, and every family needs to pull their own weight. Can you handle the hardships we’ll encounter?”
“Yes, sir. I can take care of my sister and myself.” She hoped.
Please, Lord, help me keep Adela safe.
The younger girl was the only family she had left on this side of the Missouri River. But an aunt and uncle waited for them in Oregon Country, if only Mattie and Adela could reach them.
Several tense moments passed without a response from the wagon master, and Mattie’s heart pounded in her chest.
Finally, he nodded. “We leave tomorrow.”
“We’ll be ready.” She turned to hurry away before he changed his mind.
She missed a step when her gaze landed on the handsome cowboy she’d spotted a short time ago.
He was walking in her direction and offered her a cordial nod as he passed. “Howdy.”
She returned the gesture, but not the greeting, his intense blue gaze rendering her mute. Her eyes followed him as he continued toward Miles Carpenter.
Dressed in a blue chambray shirt, which contrasted with the red highlights in his hair, the younger man was a strapping figure next to the more portly frame of the wagon master. His angular jaw sported a dusting of cinnamon-colored bristles, and he was handsome enough to turn any woman’s head.
Realizing she was staring at him like a brainless ninny, she shook herself out of her stupor, then quickly ducked her head and continued on her way. Before anyone took note of her—pretending to be a him—making eyes at the cowboy.
“What can I do for you, Josiah?” she heard Miles Carpenter ask.
She didn’t listen to the answer. Instead, she turned her thoughts to the numerous tasks awaiting completion before tomorrow.
A
