Sweetwater Promise, page 7
“I didn’t bring any money.” Too bad, I would clean him out. Just to make my point, of course.
“No need. I have something else in mind, but since you’re so sure of yourself, I don’t imagine you need to know what it is until we finish, right?”
“Only if I get to ask the questions?”
He shrugged. “Works for me.”
“And when you lose, which is a forgone conclusion, you owe me a meal.” That would be perfect, save me from cooking one of the nights at least. Maybe we could bet every day and I could win each time and avoid cooking entirely. I narrowed my eyes. This was looking better and better.
“And when I win, you owe me a kiss. Fire away, beautiful.”
A kiss. Hmm, pretty harmless, right? Then why were my lips tingling at the suggestion? I marshaled my forces and laid out my most important rule. “One more thing, when you answer my questions, you have to be looking at me. Got it?”
He nodded. “No problem. My pleasure.”
I took a deep breath. “What year were you born?”
“Nineteen eighty-seven. I just turned thirty-three.” He leveled those deadly blues at me, allowing his sincerity to shine through. I swallowed, my mouth gone dry. “That was a baseline question, right?” he asked.
“I guess you could call it that. It helps if I know a person a bit.”
“So, did I tell you the truth?”
“Of course, but I’m just warming up.” A surge of emotion rose inside me. This was already proving to be fun.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Never you mind. I’m asking the questions here. Besides, my mother always says that’s not the kind of question a gentleman asks a lady.”
He chuckled. A low, throaty sound that made me feel good to be alive on this wonderful summer morning, moving through the sweet misty, air hovering over the wheat field we were now passing. Darn it, he made it too easy to forget that I should still be mad at him for doubting my ability to sleuth out the truth.
“Now it’ll get tougher.” Time to ask a bombshell. “Did you fall in love with anyone in New York City?”
“What?” His calmness vanished. So, he could be riled. Turnabout is fair play, Deputy.
“Just answer the question.”
He frowned. “But people define it in so many ways. How can one know for certain?”
“I don’t agree. It’s an easy one to answer.”
“How so?” He looked genuinely mystified.
“If you can’t live without them, that’s the real test. Love is unconditional. Freely given and a gift above all others.” A soft sigh slipped out as I thought of how many books I’d read that ended in happy-ever-after. The world knows what it is. Just got to fess up.”
“If that’s the definition we’re using—”
“It’s not a definition, it’s what it truly is. If you’ve ever experienced it, you’d know.”
“Then no, by that standard, I’ve never been. What about you? How can you know what it really is if you haven’t experienced it?”
“How do you know I haven’t?”
“Then where is the guy? If you can’t live without him?”
I rubbed my forehead. The twist in the conversation brought on an instant headache, like an ice cream brain-freeze. “Fine. You’ve just told me the truth.” I needed to find a safer question. What on earth had possessed me to ask him such a thing in the first place?
“Next,” he said, a muscle twitching under one eye. “But now I get to make a statement, and you tell me if I’m telling you the truth.”
“Of course.”
“I made detective first grade this past year working for the force.”
Ah ha! Now he was looking to impress me. So he’d succeeded. I nodded. “My turn. Have you ever arrested—”
A sudden lurch into a deep pothole brought the schooner to a bone-jarring halt, throwing us forward. The tin cup flew out of my hands, landing somewhere outside the wagon in the three-foot high weeds. I clutched at Jack to keep from spilling over the edge of the seat and onto the ground. His strong arms braced us and he pulled me back against his chest.
Nice. Even in the shock of the abrupt stop, I was all too aware of how sweet a position it was, tucked securely against him. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with his intoxicating scent. Oh. My.
“Whew, that was a close one. That rut was hidden by the deep grass. My apologies. I should have been paying closer attention.” We untangled our limbs—I was clutching him far too tightly—and he helped me to settle back safely onto the seat. However, the wagon was tilted at a weird angle and the oxen stayed still, waiting for us humans to sort it out.
“I think we’ll have to rock it back and forth.” Jack jumped to the ground and then helped me down, offering another unsettling moment with his hands clasped tight around my wished-for-but-impossible-on-Rose’s-food wasp waist. Sigh. How did earlier women manage it? Ah, the magic of a corset, I’d bet.
A few more men came up and they set to work. I went searching for my tin cup, worried that we’d be short of dishes without it. Just how far had that sucker flown? I scrambled about, using my foot to knock away the vegetation in efforts to uncover it. I kept sneezing from the dust and pollen I was stirring up with my actions.
It took a few minutes, but I located the errant drinking vessel leaning against a large rock. I thrust it into a deep pocket and discovered the journal. The men were still busy, using some lumber now to pry the wheel up out of the rut. I perched on the rock and opened the cover, settling in for a read of the beautiful cursive script.
Day 1: As I sit here in the shade of our prairie-schooner, I marvel at the devoted men and women that surround me. How do they have the strength to undergo this journey into the unknown? I feel strangely above it all. I go because Seth, my husband of five months, wants us to have our own piece of land. Says it will be our legacy to our children. That only land has permanence in this world.
I have not shared as yet that we shall have our first baby this fall, as I do not want to worry Seth when he has so much to do and think about. I pray it is a boy to help his father in the difficult years ahead, though part of me wants a girl badly.
I am concerned about my abilities as his wife to be able to provide well for him on this trip. I’m not a good cook. I burned the bread last night and though my darling husband said it was fine, just scrape it off a bit, I know differently. I must try harder. Maybe one of the women will help me learn how to do it better?
I have made a pledge to write something down each day. I hope I shall manage to keep this commitment.
Yours truly, Sadie Rose Winslow.
I sat back and stared out at the endless prairie grass not seeing the modern power lines and other marks of civilization, but the landscape through the eyes of an eighteen-year-old bride just learning about life. Stunning, to think she was carrying a child. Frightening too. I wanted to slip to the back pages to see if everything had worked out, but I forced myself not to cheat. If she could do such amazing feats, I could wait until I got there as well.
Chapter Eight
“Dai—sey, Dai—sey, give me your answer, do.”
I came back to the present and blinked with surprise. Jack was standing over me, his expression amused, the last notes of the old song still lingering.
“Sorry, I was lost in thought.”
“Reading a book, I see.” He pointed at the journal still open on my lap.
“It’s a special book. Written by an ancestor of mine who took this very journey back in the eighteen-sixties. My grandmother had it hidden away. I thought, well, my mother thought, it would be good for us to read it together.”
“That’s a great idea. Should be a real eye-opener too. Well, everything’s sorted and people want to get a move on. We should be going.”
“Of course.” I got up and hurried over to the wagon. He helped me up, and I settled gingerly back on the seat, realizing my bottom was getting sore.
He laughed, a startled expression on his face. “Bunny slippers?”
I’m sure I blushed. I had forgotten to change my footwear. I slipped my feet out of the slippers and wriggled them into the boots appropriate to the period. Not as comfortable as slippers, but I laced them up anyway.
He flapped the reins against the rumps of the patient oxen, and we were off.
“I wish we had cushions,” I muttered.
“In the back.” He gave a nod toward the bed of the wagon. It was quite a sight, all the white canvas stretched out over the high arch of the wooden ribs. “Along with another amenity I think we should keep to ourselves.”
Now he had me intrigued. “Yes?”
“A chemical butto.”
“What’s a butto?”
He gave a chuckle and held my gaze. “You’ll see, but first you must promise not to tell anyone we have it aboard.”
“I promise.” I crossed my fingers for emphasis and then offered my fist for a bump to conclude the deal.
He fist-bumped back and leaned in toward me to whisper in my ear, his hot breath trailing down my neck. “It’s a chemical toilet built into a crate. Specially designed by yours truly last night after work.”
“You’re not kidding?” I could feel my eyes open wide. Now this was a secret I’d take to the grave. “That was very thoughtful.”
“I know.”
I punched Deputy Sheriff Smugness on the arm.
Maybe this trip wouldn’t be as difficult as I’d anticipated. A lawman breaking a law—well a rule—for my benefit did not go unnoticed. I have to admit, some things I had been leery about regarding this trip, and he’d just fixed my biggest concern. With no prodding.
“Just for that I promise to bake you a saskatoon pie.” I’d noticed the bushes were loaded with the plump purple berries that show up like clockwork each July.
“How did you know that’s my favorite kind? The one type I couldn’t get in even the finest deli in New York?”
“I didn’t, but its mine too.”
“We never finished that truth test.”
“Hmm, I think I’ve had enough of it. ‘When you get interrupted by fate, best to pay attention,’ my grandma used to warn me.”
“And when you get encouraged to go a different course? That count too?”
“Not sure what you’re implying, but yeah, if the signs point to the right way to go, I’d take notice. I have a superstitious streak. You?”
“Maybe. I do believe there’s a hand larger than ours at the wheel. Seems whenever I need direction, something happens to deflect my course. If I pay attention, things tend to work out.”
“So why now, what made you come back home?”
“It wasn’t just one thing. Sweetwater’s been calling to me for some time.” He turned and stared into my eyes, confirming the truth of his words. “Being back, the memory of it doesn’t hold a candle to the reality. I know it was the right thing to do right down deep in my bones.”
“Nice to be so certain.” I had been so mixed up lately over going away. Scared I couldn’t hack it. Afraid I’d miss the town and the people too much. Be homesick. This was something I had to do, right? Otherwise, how could I prove myself?
“I think underneath it all,” he said, his tone low and thoughtful, “when everything else is stripped away, we know what’s right for us. Maybe not what our ego wants, but what our heart wants.”
I looked away, across the deep fields of bright yellow mustard toward the blue horizon that enhanced both colors. A surreal postcard with the addition of fluffy, white cumulous clouds drifting by on their way eastward. This was a moment I was not likely to ever forget. A moment right out of a fairy tale, but would it have a happy ending for me?
“You know, I’ve saved up some money and I’m looking to buy some land. I’d like to throw my hat in the ring on that property you own, though I don’t have the deep pockets of the Crown Development Corporation, I can certainly do better than the Green Wave or Boyd Nolan. I’m not trying to pressure you about it. This is a one-time mention. Do with the information what you see fit.”
“Really! What on earth would you use it for?” I thought of Sadie’s diary, and how the young couple had valued owning land. What would she think of my giving it up to finance a trip to New York?
“I don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll turn it into a bed and breakfast or a writer and artist retreat. Something that goes along with the image I have of this town.”
“Well, you haven’t lied to me yet,” I said, albeit a bit shaky. At the moment I envied the oxen plodding along, not worried a fig about the future or letting anyone down.
“Hidey Ho the wagons! Stopping for the midday meal.” Mel Bridges, our first unanimously voted in Wagon Master, yelled out from the front wagon and pointed to an open field with a small brook running nearby.
Normally a man in his position rode a horse, but Mel wanted to be there to help his wife, Sandra, and ended up doing things his way.
When the wagons had all pulled around and into a large circle, I could see who my neighbors were going to be for the next few days. Everyone looked so different milling about in their period costumes, and I noticed a few people walking rather stiffly.
I imagined how bruised up one would be by the end of the day or how pinched toes in strange boots would throb. I might need to get off the wagon and walk, to save my bottom. Even with the layer of fat I’d thoughtfully stored, it wasn’t enough.
“I brought a picnic basket for lunch,” Jack said. I could have kissed him for that, but instead I gave him an appreciative smile.
“I brought all the cookies we could ever need.”
“Perfect.”
I climbed into the back of the wagon, eager to see how he had stored our things. My trunk didn’t take up all the space, the wagon being larger than I’d suspected. A bedroll that had to be Jack’s was set atop his old-fashioned valise. I did know that the men planned on sleeping under the stars at night to give the women the privacy of the wagons, thank goodness.
A-ha, that had to be the butto over there. I checked inside the camouflage crate set to one side with a curtain fashioned above it one could pull around for complete privacy, and sure enough, there it was. A modern-day convenience that I was stoked to have onboard. Even more intriguing, he’d brought along a guitar. I shook my head. Jack must have been up most of the night setting things up.
I picked up the guitar and strummed a few chords, then tried a nice rock rift I’d practiced endlessly in high school, thinking if I worked hard enough I could one day play like the great Eric Clapton. Nice pipe dream well it lasted, though piano now filled that void when I could find the time.
I’m aware that music entertained many nights on the historic trail and I’d been told that would be true of our group too. Didn’t that sound heavenly? Not wasting any more time, I opened my trunk and grabbed a bag of cookies, then made my way outside, jumping to the ground.
Jittery excitement filled me at the thought of days and nights spent communing full time with nature. I had a sudden wish to bottle it and take it to New York with me.
“Was that you making the music?”
“It was. I take it you play?”
Jack was busy unpacking the lunch box he’d prepared. He handed me a sandwich. “Roast beef, courtesy of your cousin Rose. Yes, to your question, I play a mean folk guitar.”
“Thanks, you seem to have thought of everything.” I sat down on one of the old-fashioned wooden folding chairs he’d unpacked. “I wish I’d been able to bring my piano. Might be a bit tight in the wagon, though.”
“We aim to please, miss. Well, I’d bet pianos were hauled, though no one knows how many were left alongside the trail, sad to say.”
“You know you’re spoiling me.”
“Good. My dad always said, ‘happy wife, happy life.’”
I sputtered, choking on my food. “We’re not married!”
He purposefully patted my back, his hand warm through the thin cotton of my dress. “Just a pretend couple this week, I know. Good advice though. More men should consider taking it.”
Did nothing bother this guy? So unflappable while I’m a tad more high-strung. Well, maybe a bit more than a tad, with that unfortunate mercurial streak everyone’s always mentioning.
“My mother has a saying, ‘careful what you wish for.’ Share that sentiment around this town and the women will line up to get a chance at the new deputy sheriff. You’ll be inundated with marriage proposals.”
“Oh, I think I can handle myself.”
“Hmm, we’ll see. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I looked over at the camp as I handed the sack of cookies off to Jack. The wagons had circled and everyone was sitting or standing and enjoying their lunch. I counted heads. Thirty-nine as far as I could tell. Unless a few of them were seeing to the livestock following the wagons? Seemed everyone was doing their level best to make the experience as authentic as possible. No modern amenities.
Well, if one ignored the telephone wires strutting across the land like officious soldiers intent on doing their duty in the hazy distance beside the distant interstate running parallel to us.
Uh-oh. Sally and David sat together in deep conversation, sharing a lunch basket. She caught my attention when she pointed me out to David. He gave me a sharp look of appraisal.
Just the man I wanted to talk to. Time to set the record straight and doing it right out in the open with witnesses appealed to me. I set my sandwich down and got up, striding across the circle. “Hi Sally, David.” I got right to the point. “Just want to let you both know, I’m not ready to decide who I will sell my land to.”
She gave a guilty startle, her eyes darting around like a firefly. She always did prefer to be the one doing the interrogating.
David’s cold expression, while not as threatening as Boyd’s could be, still chilled me. Thin and long limbed, his power came more from self-possession and a belief he was always right than from his looks, though he considered himself a lady’s man. True, a dark magnetism shining from his deep-set eyes and a small scar bisecting one eyebrow gave him a rakish look. I thought he looked more faux Mafia than anything.
