High Plains Bride. Valerie Hansen
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had already dismounted on a flat rise of land near the frigid but swiftly flowing river when his friend reined in and joined him.
“Here!” Will shouted excitedly. He spread his arms wide as he spoke, ignoring the buffalo robe slipping off the shoulders of his coat and falling onto the shallow accumulation of snow. “The main street will go across here, abreast of the river, and your mill can be upstream so you can either freight the lumber to town or float it if the water’s high enough. It’s perfect.” His grin widened. “Come on. Admit it. I was right.”
Zeb dismounted, ground-hitched his horse and tied off the mule’s lead rope to a sturdy cottonwood tree. “All right. I’ll go along this time. Just remember, this whole trip was my idea to begin with.”
Laughing, Will shook his head. “Sure, boss me around the way you did when we were boys. You may have money of your own but I had the brains and foresight to convince others to finance me.” He ducked as Zeb feinted a punch to his shoulder. “Grab the hammer and some stakes. We’re home. We’ll call it High Plains.”
He sobered as they paced off the land and then drove the final stake to mark their claim. Removing his hat despite the icy wind that ruffled his hair, he dropped to his knees atop the thick buffalo hide and bowed his head. Zeb did the same.
“Lord, we thank You for bringing us to this place and we dedicate this portion of High Plains, Kansas Territory, to You,” Will prayed aloud. “Keep us mindful of Your plan and continue to guide our paths.”
Zeb echoed his “Amen” and the two young pioneers rose. “Merry Christmas,” he told Will, frowning. “I sure hope you’re right about this being the right place.”
“It is,” his smiling friend assured him. “And a very Merry Christmas to you, too.”
Chapter One
High Plains, Kansas Territory
June 1860
The farther west their wagon train proceeded, the more Emmeline Carter missed her former home in central Missouri. The political climate back there had been in constant upheaval, especially since the hanging of the abolitionist John Brown in Virginia a scant six months before. Still, it was the only home she’d ever known, and life on the trail had her missing that sense of security.
Although there had been recent fighting amongst her former neighbors to the point of bloodshed, what was to say that life would be any better in Oregon? The fact that her taciturn father insisted so was not nearly enough to convince Emmeline.
So far, the journey by covered wagon had been trying but not altogether unpleasant. Word among the other women was that there would be many terrible trials to come during their months-long pilgrimage, but Emmeline was willing to wait and see rather than borrow trouble.
One of the worst naysayers had told Emmeline, just that morning, “You’ll soon see, my girl. There’ll be many a fresh grave along the trail before we reach our new homes. If cholera don’t get us, those horrid Indians will. I shudder to think what they’ll do to you and your pretty sisters, especially.”
“Then I shall pray earnestly that we don’t encounter hostiles,” Emmeline had replied, continuing to prepare the morning meal for her family while her sickly mother remained abed in the wagon, and her father, Amos, and brother, Johnny, tended to the oxen.
“Bess, Glory, fetch the twins,” she called, using that as an opportunity to cease listening to the dire predictions of the older woman whose wagon was parked next to theirs. “The biscuits are almost done.”
Emmeline knew that such rumors of catastrophe had to have some basis in fact. It had been frightening to leave home and hearth and start a journey into unfamiliar territory, especially since their already ample family of six now encompassed orphans Missy and Mikey, as well. Yet she was encouraged by the way everyone had helped gather firewood and dried buffalo chips for the fires and had taken turns caring for Mama when she was ill. Even little Glory had taken a turn. So had the eight-year-old twins.
If Mama had had her way she would have adopted their neighbors’ children outright after their parents both sickened and died so suddenly. It was only by divine providence that Papa had allowed her to bring them along in the hopes of eventually finding them a permanent home. Thankfully, they were small for their age and didn’t eat much. Keeping stocked with proper provisions to tide them over between supply stops was always a worry.
The responsibility of doing so had, of course, fallen to Emmeline, which was why she had walked from their camp to town after breakfast and was now getting ready to enter the prairie mercantile. This little town seemed peaceful enough, she mused. Perhaps the territories would be safer, less politically volatile, than her home state had been. As long as her father was around, however, a certain amount of trouble would keep dogging their path no matter where they went.
Emmeline felt like a mother hen as she shooed her brother and sisters and the orphan twins up the wooden steps and into the small store in her father’s wake. Since her mother, Joanna, had stayed in her bed in the covered wagon and sworn she could not manage to rise, Emmeline had had to once again assume charge of the children.
Fifteen-year-old Bess, four years her junior, was helpful in this kind of situation, of course, but Johnny, the next youngest, was worse than useless. She’d thought he was as bad as he could get at twelve. When he’d recently turned thirteen, however, she’d realized that his rowdy years were just beginning.
Since she’d had the foresight to braid her hair and fasten it at her nape, she pushed her slat bonnet back and let it hang by its ribbons to help cool her head and neck. The morning was already sultry to the point of being burdensome in more ways than one. It intensified the strong odors of leather and spices and salted meats inside the store till they nearly made her ill. Rivulets of perspiration pasted tiny wisps of loose hair to her temples.
And it’s only June, she thought, trying to keep her spirits up by sheer force of will.
“Bess, dear, you watch after the twins,” Emmeline ordered kindly. “Johnny, keep your hands to yourself. You know the rules. No penny candy.”
She hoisted five-year-old Glory, the youngest, on her hip and removed the child’s bonnet too. Together they wended their way past kegs of molasses, sacks of flour and other sundry supplies that were piled on the rough plank floor and stacked high on shelves that lined the walls all the way to the low ceiling. Various kitchen utensils and farm tools were suspended from the rough-hewn rafters, making the store seem even more overcrowded.
A man who was clad as a cowboy, dusty from his labors, turned to glance at her as she approached the counter to place the family’s order. Her father had already joined a group of men who were loudly discussing the conditions of the trail ahead of them and Emmeline knew that the mundane tasks had, as usual, been left to her.
The cowboy at the counter had already removed his broad-brimmed hat to show slicked-back, dark blond hair that curled slightly. His blue eyes seemed to twinkle as he nodded politely and wished her a “Good morning, ma’am,” without being formally introduced first.
Emmeline knew social mores were more relaxed on the trail, but her strict upbringing nevertheless caused her to hesitate before she replied with a terse “Good morning.” Seconds later, when he continued to speak, she realized that the man was assuming she was the mother of all these children! What an appalling notion.
“You have a lovely family,” he said, ruffling Johnny’s hair to distract him just as the boy was surreptitiously slipping his hand into a candy jar.
Emmeline, gritting her teeth, said merely, “Thank you,” and gave her brother a scathing look. Then she turned her attention to the pinch-faced, portly woman behind the counter. “How do you do. We haven’t been on the trail long, so we don’t require much, but I was told it was best to keep my larders stocked.”
“That, it is,” the proprietress said as if addressing a nitwit. She accepted the list Emmeline was holding, then leaned closer to speak more quietly. “You’re mighty young to have