The Complete Oregon Series, page 59
The men climbed over the corral rails, and that was the last time Amy looked at them. From then on, nothing existed in the world beyond her and the mare.
The grulla retreated into one corner of the corral. Sweat and rain darkened her gray coat. Her flanks quivered, and her tail was clamped between her legs. She watched Amy with flared nostrils and pricked ears. When Amy strolled over, the mare ran.
Amy followed, walking calmly but without hesitation. She ignored what the mud in the corral did to her lace-up boots.
Again, the mare fled to the other end of the corral.
Hundreds of times, Amy had watched their horses play the same game of catch. Measles and her daughters had been masters at this game. They chased away the other horses, sometimes by threatening a bite or kick, but mostly by stomping toward the horse. In a herd, the mare that could make the others move established herself as the leader.
Amy had learned to do the same. Jutting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she marched toward the mare.
The mare tossed back her head and looked beyond the corral fence for a place to flee.
Wrong move.
As long as the mare paid attention to anything but her, Amy kept driving her around the corral. She switched sides and slapped her thighs, making the startled mare swivel and sprint in the other direction.
After a few rounds around the corral, one of the mare’s ears flicked toward Amy. Another lap and the second ear followed.
Amy relaxed her arms and stayed in the middle of the corral instead of moving toward the horse, taking off some of the pressure.
The frantic racing around the corral slowed.
“Come on, Joe,” a man shouted to his friend. “Let’s go. This is getting boring.”
Fools. If the horse isn’t terrified and the broncobuster doesn’t lose a few teeth, they aren’t interested.
The mare’s circles around her became smaller and smaller until she turned her head to look at Amy. She chewed on the unfamiliar bit in her mouth.
Good. Chewing signaled that the mare was starting to relax. In response, Amy softened her own body.
Two more rounds and the mare’s head lowered, and she sniffed the ground while she walked. It was a sign of her beginning trust in Amy. A horse that dropped its head couldn’t look out for predators. Finally, the mare stopped in the corner where she had been when Amy had first seen her.
Her safety spot. Amy made note of it so she could use it to work with her. She stepped back and half turned, showing the mare her shoulder instead of her front. She had seen lead mares do the same when they allowed another horse into the herd.
The mare took a single step but then stopped and snorted at her. Curiosity gleamed in the big brown eyes, but the stiffness in her neck signaled that she wasn’t ready to approach Amy.
All right. Crooning soft words, she walked toward the mare’s shoulder. She moved slowly, but without hesitation. It wouldn’t do to sneak up on the mare like a predator on the hunt.
The mare stood stiff-legged, her ears twitching.
Amy stopped an arm’s length away.
With wide nostrils, the mare sucked in her scent.
Calmly, Amy touched the mare’s shoulder, just for the length of a heartbeat. Then she took her hand away. “See?” she whispered. “Getting touched doesn’t hurt.”
When the mare didn’t move away, Amy scratched the stiff neck and around the withers, the way she had seen horses groom each other. Her hands slid over the mare’s wet flanks, then down to her belly. She flapped the stirrups around, letting the mare know that the bouncing thing on her back was not a mountain lion out to kill her.
After a few minutes of retreating and advancing, the horse relaxed under her hand. Amy reached for the mud-crusted reins. When the mare pranced away, she stayed with her.
“Easy, easy, girl.” She smoothed her fingers into the horse’s mane and grabbed a strand. When she moved to put one foot in the stirrup, she remembered that she wasn’t wearing pants. Mama had even made her wear a dress instead of the split skirt she usually wore to town. In a dress, she could either ride sidesaddle or pull up the skirt and petticoats to straddle the horse—which would give the audience a good, long look at her legs.
Amy shivered. No, thanks. She didn’t want to give Buzz that kind of buzz. She reached down and, using a tear in the hem of her skirt, ripped the checkered fabric until she had enough freedom of movement.
She slid her left foot into the stirrup and slowly, without bouncing, rose up until some of her weight rested on the stirrup.
The mare snorted and sidestepped.
Amy dropped down. “Everything’s fine, beautiful. Let’s try that again.” She grabbed the reins and a handful of mane and rose up in the stirrup, this time a little longer. After a few more tries, she could do it without the mare dancing away. Gently, Amy swung her leg over and slid into the saddle.
For a few moments, she just sat, keeping her body relaxed. It had been hard to learn—staying calm and relaxed while she waited to see whether the horse would explode under her. The first time she had seen Papa do it, it seemed like magic.
The mare’s back felt stiff as a board, but when Amy didn’t pierce her with sharp claws or spurs, the grulla bent her head around to send her a startled glance.
Chuckling, Amy patted her neck. “It’s all right, girl.”
Gray ears flicked back to listen to her voice.
Amy gathered the reins in one hand and squeezed with her legs.
The mare took a startled step, and Amy relaxed her legs, rewarding the horse for reacting to her cues. One more squeeze with her legs and the mare walked around the corral. It took a while, but she finally dropped her head and her back muscles softened.
Tightening her legs, Amy urged the mare into a jog.
Instantly, the mare’s head reared up, and she hopped twice before settling down.
Amy grinned as she rode her around the corral. Despite her mousy look, the mare promised to develop a pretty smooth gait.
With light pressure, she reined in the mare and dropped to the ground. When she looked up, she realized she had lost her audience. Only Buzz waited in front of the corral. The other men and women gathered farther down the street, in front of the stage depot.
Oh, no, the stagecoach!
Amy wasn’t in town to gentle a horse. Phin’s betrothed was waiting for her and had probably been waiting for some time. The stage’s horses had already been exchanged for fresh ones, and the stage was pulling out.
She opened the corral gate and led the gray mare toward her buckboard.
“Hey!” Buzz called. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Amy whirled around. “What?”
“My money.” Buzz thrust out his hand, palm up.
The two gold coins felt heavy in her hand. It wasn’t her money to spend. Too late. She gritted her teeth and handed over the ten dollars.
Stage Depot
Baker Prairie, Oregon
April 20, 1868
The stagecoach swayed to a halt, and Rika braced herself so she wouldn’t be thrown onto the laps of her fellow travelers.
She drew in a breath. This was it, her new home. The stage’s leather curtains were drawn shut to protect them from the mud flung up by the horses’ hooves, so she hadn’t yet caught a glimpse of the town. The two passengers opened the door and climbed down, but Rika was almost afraid to step outside and see what she had gotten herself into.
One of the men offered his hand to help her out of the stagecoach.
With one step, Rika sank ankle-deep into the mud on the main street. She shook out her wrinkled, sooty skirts and stepped onto the boardwalk.
A few dozen buildings dotted the rutted main street. Wooden signs announced the presence of a barbershop, a doctor’s office, a blacksmith, and a saddle maker’s shop in the little town. In front of the dry-goods store, a brown horse stood hitched to a buckboard.
One of Rika’s fellow travelers disappeared into the barbershop; the other climbed onto a buckboard, tipped his hat, and drove off. Now only Rika stood waiting on the boardwalk.
She scanned the faces of the townspeople milling about Main Street, going into and coming out of buildings. The man with the handlebar mustache, her future husband, was nowhere to be seen.
The stage had come in late. Had he gotten tired of waiting and left? What if he changed his mind and no longer wanted a wife? Rika clutched her carpetbag to her chest.
Her gaze darted up and down the street, but no wagon came to pick her up. People hurried across the boardwalk, trying to get out of the rain that had started falling again. Some threw curious glances her way, but no one talked to her. Shivering, she slung her arms more tightly around the carpetbag.
A few young men wandered over from the livery stable. One of them doffed his battered hat. “Can we help you, ma’am?”
“No, thank you.” Rika drew her bag against her chest. “I am waiting for Mr. Phineas Sharpe, my betrothed.”
“Ah, then you’re plumb out of luck, ma’am, ’cause Phin left to drive a few horses up to Fort Boise and won’t be back for two months.”
The blood rushed from her face, and she swayed. “Two months?”
“Or more.” The man shrugged.
Oh, Jo. Good thing her friend would never find out that her beloved Phineas didn’t intend to keep his promises. Riding off to Boise when he knew his betrothed was coming... She was stranded in an unfamiliar town, forsaken by a future husband who had apparently changed his mind. What now?
“I’m sorry I’m late,” someone said behind her.
Rika turned.
A young woman stopped midstep.
Rika took in the woman’s mud-spattered bodice and the bonnet hanging off to one side, revealing disheveled fiery red hair. Under a skirt that was ripped up to midthigh, flashes of long drawers startled her. Behind the woman, a sweat-covered gray horse pranced around.
What did she do to the poor horse?
When the wild-looking woman reached for the carpetbag, Rika flinched away. “Who are you?”
“Oh.” A flush colored the stranger’s golden skin. She wiped her hand on her skirt, probably not getting it any cleaner. “I’m Amy Hamilton, a friend of Phin Sharpe’s. And who on God’s green earth are you?”
The young woman stared at her.
Amy stared back.
“I’m Johanna Bruggeman,” the stranger said.
Amy put her hands on her hips. “No, you’re not. I’ve seen the tintype. You’re not her.”
The fragile beauty of Phin’s bride had burned itself into her memory. The stranger, however, was neither fragile nor beautiful. While the tintype hadn’t provided colors, Amy could tell that Phin’s bride had fair hair. The stranger’s brown hair, though, shone with the same coppery gleam as the mahogany coat of Nattie’s mare. Her wide brown eyes reminded Amy of a spooked horse.
The woman’s gaze flitted around, and she hid behind her carpetbag as if it were a shield. But then she tilted her head and composed her stern features.
Like a mustang. Spooked but unbroken in spirit.
“Of course I am Johanna Bruggeman.” Her slight accent made the name sound exotic.
Right. She’s Dutch. So was she Phin’s bride after all? “Then how come you don’t look like the woman in the tintype?”
A muscle in the stranger’s face twitched. “Phineas showed you the tintype?”
Amy nodded and dug her teeth into her bottom lip. She hoped she wasn’t blushing. Why did she feel like a boy who’d been caught with the picture of a dance-hall girl? It wasn’t as if she had ogled the young woman’s picture. She raised her chin. “You still owe me an explanation.”
The stranger lowered her gaze. “I was too embarrassed to have my picture taken. I know men don’t find me all that appealing, so a friend allowed me to send her picture instead.”
Amy slid her gaze over her. She is a bit on the plain side. All the better. She had been afraid of how a woman who was every bit as beautiful as Hannah might make her react.
“I know it’s vain,” the young woman said. “But I hope you won’t judge me for it.”
“None of my business,” Amy said. Just to be on the safe side, she didn’t plan on having much to do with Phin’s bride. Easy to do, since she would be busy with the ranch. “All right, then let’s go. I’ll take you to the ranch. My family will take care of you until Phin returns.” She kept her movements gentle but firm, as if dealing with a young horse, and again reached for the carpetbag.
Finally, the woman handed over her baggage.
“Do you have any other bags?” Amy asked.
A flush stained the young woman’s pale skin. “No, just this one.”
As far as Amy was concerned, there was no shame in being poor. At least she wouldn’t have to drag half a dozen suitcases, bags, and hatboxes to the buckboard and could get back to the ranch sooner.
The ranch and Mama. No doubt Mama would have something interesting to say about Amy’s skirt and the mare.
Patches of mist drifted up from the river and mingled with the never-ending drizzle. In the gray light of the fading day, grassland stretched out in front of Rika like the sea beyond Boston Harbor, the wind rippling through the blades. The tang of pine and leather hung in the air.
Rika pushed her sodden bonnet out of her eyes and threw a glance at Amy, who sat next to her on the buckboard. Unlike Rika, she didn’t seem to notice the gloomy weather.
Rika glanced at the sinewy hands holding the reins. What a strange, unusual woman. Amy Hamilton was unlike anyone she’d ever met in Boston. After the mindless routine in the cotton mill, at least life out west promised to be interesting.
The brown horse in front of the wagon walked steadily, its head bopping up and down as it pulled them through a valley dotted with trees and bushes Rika didn’t know. A creek gurgled alongside them, and the horse’s harness jangled with every step. Behind them, the gray horse splashed through the mud. It had whinnied and struggled against the rope at first but had then gotten used to being tied to the wagon.
It’s so quiet. After the constant noise in the city and the clatter of the looms in the cotton mill, Oregon’s silence made her wish Amy would fill it with idle chatter. She looked at her silent companion, and when their gazes met, both glanced away.
Did she believe the lie about the tintype? Rika bit her lip until a coppery taste filled her mouth. She should have thought of that. Since Phineas sent his picture to Jo, of course Jo had to send one back. Rika had assumed Jo would rather use her money to see a doctor than waste it on getting her picture taken. She vowed to be more careful in the future. “A man in town said Phineas would be gone for two months. Surely he was joking?”
Amy flicked her gaze from the road to Rika. “No. Two months. Might be three. He sends his apologies.”
“But...” Rika reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the rumpled bundle of letters. “He said that he’d whisk me away to church the moment I stepped foot off the stagecoach, and now he’s not even here to greet me.” How serious could Phineas Sharpe be about his promise to marry her if he sent this strange young woman to fetch her?
“It couldn’t be helped.” Green fire sparked in Amy’s eyes. “My father needed him to drive a herd of geldings to Fort Boise. Out here, making sure the ranch survives is more important than getting married on time.”
Not to Rika. To her, getting married meant survival. “I understand,” she said stiffly.
Amy fell silent, leaving her to her own thoughts. Thinking wasn’t what she wanted to do. She wanted to let go of the past with all that it held, but her future was unsure and stolen from a dead woman.
The wagon crested one last hill. Below them, sheds and barns lay scattered around a two-story main house. Tall pines and spruce flanked the large veranda, and she imagined them providing ample shade in the summer and lending shelter from the snow in winter. Do they even get snow here in Oregon?
Paddocks spread out from both sides of the house, leading to a large, circular corral. Rika couldn’t see what lay on the other side of the house, but from somewhere, an herb garden saturated the air with the scent of sage and mint. The carefully tended home seemed like something right out of a fairy tale. Jo would have loved it.
When the buckboard rattled into the ranch yard, a large dog charged up the path, growling and barking.
Rika pulled her skirt around her legs, protecting them just in case the dog tried to bite.
“Quit making such a ruckus, Hunter,” Amy said. When she stopped the buckboard, the door of the main house swung open and a woman stepped onto the veranda.
Rika blinked, then glanced back and forth between Amy and the woman. With her flaming red hair and her slender yet sturdy build, the woman looked like Amy’s twin. When she came closer, a few lines around her mouth and eyes revealed her to be an older version of Amy.
Her mother?
Amy jumped down from the wagon seat and rounded the buckboard. She extended her hand to help Rika down, and after a moment’s hesitation, Rika laid her hand into the calloused palm and climbed down to look at her new home.
A grin sneaked onto Nora’s face as she watched Amy help the young woman off the high wagon seat. The gesture reminded her of Luke. “You must be Johanna.” She directed a smile at the slim woman next to Amy. “I’m Nora Hamilton. Welcome to—” Then her gaze fell onto Amy’s dress, and her mouth snapped shut.
Mud clung to the hem of the dress and painted an ugly pattern over the once clean bodice. The skirt and petticoat hung in ripped tatters, and Amy’s hair looked as if a flock of birds had tried to nest in it.
