A Home for His Family. Jan Drexler
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“The good news is that we’re only a few miles from Deadwood, and the rain is easing up a bit.”
“Thank you.” Sarah answered him with a nod, but kept her face classroom-firm. She had already learned women were few in this western country, and men were eager to take even a polite smile as permission to overstep the boundaries of propriety. Aunt Margaret had the notion Sarah might find a husband out here in the West, but Sarah had no such dreams. Twenty-eight years old put her firmly in the spinster category and she was more than happy to remain there.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Mr. Johnson shifted his bulk and reached under his seat. The man’s cigar jammed between his teeth had bothered Aunt Margaret the entire journey from Sidney, Nebraska. “If you’ll oblige, I’ll take my bag. Since we’re this close to the camp, I might as well walk the rest of the way.”
He grabbed his satchel and squeezed out of the crowded coach. The other men spilled out after him like a half-dozen chicks from a grain sack.
“Are they all walking to Deadwood from here?” Aunt Margaret adjusted her hat as she peered through the open door.
Peder Swenson pushed himself up from his spot on the floor. “I’m not. But I am going to stretch my legs and see what’s going on.” The blond eighteen-year-old had kept them entertained with stories of his native Norway on the long journey.
As Sarah watched Peder stride away on his long legs, she couldn’t sit still another minute. “I am, too.”
Aunt Margaret grabbed her sleeve. “You will not. Who knows what you’ll find out there? We’ve seen enough of those bullwhackers along the trail to know what kind of men they are.”
Sarah held her handkerchief to her nose. Rainy weather kept the heavy canvas window covers closed, and even with the men gone, the heavy odor of unwashed bodies was overwhelming. “I’ll be careful. I have to get some fresh air. I’ll stay close by, and I won’t go near the bull train.”
Aunt Margaret released her sleeve, and Sarah climbed out of the stagecoach, aching for a deep breath. With a cough, she changed her mind. The air reeked of dung and smoke in this narrow, serpentine valley. She held her handkerchief to her nose and coughed again. Thick with fog, the canyon rang with the crack of whips from the bull train strung out on the half-frozen trail ahead. She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders and shook one boot, but the mud clung like gumbo.
A braying sound drew her attention to a wagon a few feet from the coach, leaning precariously close to the swollen, rocky creek at the side of the trail. She stepped closer to get a better look and nearly laughed out loud at the sight of a black mule tied to the back of the covered wagon. The creature sat in muddy slush as it tried to pull away from the rushing water and noise.
A tall man, soaking wet and covered in mud from his worn cavalry hat down to his boots, grabbed for the mule’s halter. “Loretta, if you break that rope again, I’m going to sell you to the first butcher I find.”
The mule shook her head, and he missed his grab, landing flat on his back and sliding down the slope toward the edge of the creek. As he fell, the animal flicked her gray nose toward him and snatched his hat in her teeth.
A giggle rose in Sarah’s throat at the sight, and her shoulders shook as she fought to keep it in.
The man rolled over, lurching to his feet as he grabbed his hat from the mule. “You stupid, dumb, loco...” He muttered all kinds of insults at the animal, who only tossed her head as he slapped the hat against his legs in an effort to clean the mud off it.
A young boy appeared at the back of the wagon, pulling the canvas cover open. He couldn’t have been older than eight or nine, with a straw-colored cowlick topping his forehead. Would he be one of the students in her new academy? Uncle James had written that several families lived in and around Deadwood and that some of the parents were desperate for a good school. Sarah had brought a trunk full of books and supplies for boys just like this one, and for the poor young women trapped in the saloons. She smiled at the thought. Dr. Amelia Bennett would be so proud of her.
The boy caught her attention again, shaking his head as he watched the man and the mule. “She was only trying to help.”
“Charley, the day that mule helps me do anything will be the day I eat my hat. I’ve never seen a more useless...”
“Not Loretta.” Charley’s voice rang with boyish confidence. “She knows exactly what she’s doing.”
The man leaned one gloved hand on the corner of the wagon box while he raised a boot to dislodge the mud with a stick. “Then why does she keep fighting me every time I try to get her to do something?”
“Because she’s smart. She doesn’t want to go any closer to this creek.”
The man stomped his foot back onto the ground and lifted the other one. “The horses don’t have any problem with it.”
Sarah glanced at the four-horse team at the front of the wagon. They stood with their backs hunched as the rain gave way to a cold wind that threatened to snatch her hat away. She pushed it down tight and turned back to the scene in front of her.
“The horses are stupid.”
The flabbergasted expression on the man’s face as Charley pronounced his judgment triggered another giggle. Sarah slapped a gloved hand over her mouth, but a snort of laughter escaped between her fingertips.
“Ma’am.” The man locked eyes with her, then released his foot, stomping the heel on the ground. “I’m happy to see we amuse you.”
“Oh, I’m...” She snorted again. “I’m so sorry. But the mule, and you and those poor...” She couldn’t talk through her laughter. “Those poor horses. I think the mule is right.”
“See, Uncle Nate? I told you.”
“Charley, get back in the wagon.” The boy ducked inside as the man called Nate strode across the few feet of trail toward her. “So you think the mule is right?”
Sarah’s laughter died. No answering smile lit his dark eyes and his lips formed a thin, tight line. She was the only one who had found the incident funny, but he didn’t need to condemn her. She lifted her chin. “You drove into a precarious spot. One misstep and your wagon and all its contents could end up in the creek.”
“You think we ended up there on purpose? The stagecoach...” He looked at the coach, and then at her. “Your stagecoach about ran us off the road.”
Sarah’s face heated in the cold air. A muscle in one of his stubbled cheeks twitched. “I apologize. I should have realized you were at the mercy of the crowded trail.”
He pulled his hat off and wiped a weary forearm across his brow. “Yes. The crowded trail, and the rain, and the forty freight wagons all trying to head into Deadwood today and the cold.” He turned away, gazing into the fog-shrouded pines looming above them at the edge of the canyon, and then faced her again. “And now it’s my turn to apologize. I’m letting my frustrations get the better of me.”
Sarah observed him as he waited for her reply. His apology had turned the corner of his mouth up in a wry grin.
“Of course, you have my pardon.” She smiled, breaking her self-imposed rule. “Anyone would be hard-pressed to let a day like today not frustrate him.”
As he smiled back, a gust of wind ruffled his short dark hair.
“You and Charley are on your way to Deadwood?”
“Yes, ma’am, we are.”
Sarah searched his eyes for that wild gleam of gold fever—the look that made the men she had traveled with lose all their common sense—but his brown eyes were calm and clear in spite of the tense lines framing them that spoke of exhaustion and many days on the trail. He met her gaze with his own interested one. Something foreign fluttered in her stomach.
“My uncle has started a church in town, and I’m a teacher. I’ll