Frontier Courtship. Valerie Hansen
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Charity pressed a lace-edged handkerchief over her mouth and nose. “Not to me, Faith Ann. I think it’s awful.” She lowered her shrill voice to a whisper, her sidelong gaze darting to the stony-faced Indians. “Do you suppose they understand what we’re saying?”
Faith boldly assessed the native women. They were short, like herself, but twice as wide and far more rounded, and seemed to be cautiously avoiding meeting her eyes. Even the smallest children were careful not to look up at the sisters.
“I suspect they may,” Faith said, a bit ashamed. “Else why would they act so shy?” Lifting her skirts, she urged Charity up the high step onto the boarded walkway. “We probably hurt their feelings.”
The blue eyes grew even wider. “Do you think so? Oh, dear.” The fair-haired girl blushed as a tall, manly, cavalry officer in a uniform of blue and gold doffed his hat, bowing graciously as he passed.
Faith’s quick mind pounced on the occasion to raise her sister’s spirits. “There,” she said quietly. “See? Aren’t you glad you washed up and put on your best bonnet?”
“Captain Tucker already said I looked lovely, today,” Charity countered, blushing demurely and twirling the tails of the bow tied beneath her chin. “I think he’s wonderful.”
Her sister was appalled. “Handsome is as handsome does, as Grandma Reeder used to say.” Faith likened the horrid wagon boss to an unruly billy goat, bad to the bone and just as dangerous a creature to turn your back on. She knew better than to criticize him openly, of course, because he literally held their future in his hands. But that didn’t mean she had to pretend to admire him. He was a necessity. Nothing more.
Leading the way into the trading post, Faith took one whiff of hot, stale air and wished she could hold her breath indefinitely. The cloying smells were no improvement over the pungent aromas of the street, they were simply more varied. Spices, coffee beans, vinegar, molasses and salted fish added their own tang to the almost palpable atmosphere.
Judging by the overwhelming odor of sweat and smoke liberally laced with dried buffalo dung, most of the customers had long ago abandoned any notion of bathing, too. Not that Faith blamed them. Now that she and Charity had spent two long months traveling from Independence, Missouri to Fort Laramie in the Territories, they, too, realized how few of their old customs and manners fit the wearying trek.
Glancing around the crowded room for the proprietor, she spied an older woman with a topknot of gray hair. Faith watched her deftly wrap and tie a package, hand it to a matron in a dark wool dress, accept payment, then turn to help the next of the noisy, milling customers.
“Come on.” Taking her sister’s hand, Faith began to lead her between the piles of flour sacks, kegs of tar and barrels of pickles to wait their turn to order supplies.
They were quite near their goal by the time Faith paid full attention to the tall, broad-shouldered man at the counter ahead of them. He was as rustic as anyone present, yet different. Intriguing. For one thing, he didn’t smell as if he never bathed! While his back was turned, she took the opportunity to study him.
Long, sandy-colored hair hung beyond the spread of his shoulders. Worn buckskin covered him from head to toe. When he moved even slightly, he reminded Faith of the sleek, sinewy cougar she’d seen stalking a herd of antelope through the waving prairie grasses along the lower Platte.
Embarrassed to have been so bold, she lowered her focus. The man was speaking and his voice sent unexpected shivers up her spine. Her cheeks flamed as if touched by the summer sun. Surprised by the uncalled-for reaction, Faith nevertheless set aside her ideas of proper etiquette once again and peered up at him, listening shamelessly.
The storekeeper was looking at something cradled in the man’s outstretched palm. “Sorry, son. It’s been too long. I can’t say for certain. Maybe. Maybe not.”
Sighing, the man turned to go. With the Beal sisters directly in his path there was little room for polite maneuvering.
For a heart-stopping instant his troubled gaze met Faith’s. Held it. His eyes were the color of smoke, of a fog-shrouded mountain meadow at dawn. And his beard, almost the same hue as his buckskins, continued to remind her of a stalking mountain lion. Faith caught her breath.
The man nodded politely, pushing past them toward the door. Charity gave a little squeak of protest and fell back as he passed. Faith stood her ground. She had never felt so tiny in her entire life. Yet she experienced no fear, even though the plainsman was rough-hewn and dusty from the trail.
The gray-haired woman noted Faith’s watchful interest. “Feel kinda sorry for him, I do.”
Faith frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“That big fella. He’s lookin’ for his betrothed. Might as well be lookin’ for a will-o’-the-wisp. Got about as much chance a findin’ one.”
“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.”
Faith saw him pause to show something small to several groups of people, then square his hat on his head and leave the trading post. Thinking of her own home and family, her heart broke for the poor man. She knew all too well what it was like to lose a loved one. As she absently laid her hand over the heart-shaped onyx pendant containing a lock of her mother’s hair, she vowed to add the stranger’s quest to her nightly prayers.
The shopkeeper shrugged. “Happens a lot out here. Folks windin’ up lost, I mean. Now, what can I do for you ladies?”
Focusing on the reason for their visit, Faith took a scrap of paper from her reticule and handed it over. “We’ll need these supplies. Do you have them all?”
“Coffee’ll cost you dear,” the woman said, licking the point of a pencil and beginning to check off items on the list. “The flour’s no problem, though. And the bacon. You’ll have to go across to the mercantile if you want a paper of pins.”
“All right.” Faith couldn’t help glancing toward the doorway where she’d last glimpsed the intriguing man. Sadly, he’d gone.
“Indians steal pins if I keep ’em here,” the shopkeeper went on. “Candy, too. Regular thieves, they are.”
Charity grasped her sister’s arm in alarm. “You see? I told you we shouldn’t have come.”
“Oh, nonsense. Surely you don’t think there were no thieves at home in Ohio.” Faith shook her off.
“You in a hurry?” the proprietress asked. “Otherwise we’ll have this packed up and ready to go in an hour or so. Have to send Will out to the smokehouse for another side of bacon. You put aside enough bran to pack it in a barrel real good like?”
“Yes. And there’s no hurry,” Faith assured her, ignoring Charity’s scowl. “Our friend Mr. Ledbetter is at the blacksmith’s getting a wagon wheel fixed. No telling when we’ll be ready to go back to the train.”
“I got lots o’ pretty Indian trinkets,” the woman urged. “Or you could do what most of the ladies do and go wonder at the dry goods in the mercantile. They got twenty…thirty new bolts o’ calico since winter. Been meanin’ to go have a look-see myself. Never seem to find time.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Tell ’em Anna Morse sent you.”
Faith thanked her for her advice. “We’ll be back in a bit, Mrs. Morse. We’re the Beal sisters. This is Charity and I’m Faith. We’re with the Tucker train.”
“Yes,” Charity added proudly. “Captain Ramsey Tucker is kindly looking after us.”
Faith noticed an immediate change in the woman’s countenance. Her gray eyebrows knit, her wrinkles becoming more pronounced as her eyes narrowed in a wary expression. It was somewhat of a relief for Faith to see that she, herself, was not the only one disturbed by references to the captain.
That realization gave her pause. What might Mrs. Morse know about their wagon train? And would she reveal the truth, if asked?
Faith