Wagon Train Sweetheart. Lacy Williams
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eldest brother, Grayson, had written of the widowed local sheriff, Tristan McCullough, who had become his close friend in the Oregon Territory. Tristan had three young daughters who needed a mother. Both Grayson and Ben seemed in agreement that the man was a match for Emma.
She wasn’t entirely convinced that this was her purpose, even if her brothers seemed to be certain. She would wait until she met the man before she decided what to do.
Unanswered questions swirled in Emma’s head as she trailed the men carting Mr. Reed to their wagon, but the biggest remained: Where would Mr. Reed stay? Obviously, he couldn’t walk to guide the Binghams’ oxen.
And from what she knew of Abby’s wagon, there wasn’t room for a mouse, much less a man as tall as Mr. Reed.
Ben had made himself Mr. Reed’s caretaker when he’d stood up for the ill man. Would Ben—and Emma by association—be forced to keep Mr. Reed in the Hewitts’ wagon? If he must stay in their wagon, the precious little privacy she fought for on this dusty wilderness trail would be gone.
When they arrived at the family campsite, Rachel and Abby were there, packing up the breakfast dishes.
“What happened?” Abby asked, moving toward Ben, almost as if by instinct.
“We need to clear a space in your family’s wagon,” Ben told his fiancée. “Reed fell sick—measles.”
“Will there be room…?” Abby’s question trailed off as she moved with the men toward the Binghams’ wagon. Emma remained near the fire with Rachel.
“Did the committee reach a verdict?”
Emma shook her head slightly. “He collapsed. Ben demanded they hold the verdict until he is recovered.”
Rachel watched Emma carefully. “You don’t think he is guilty?”
Her sister saw too much. They had always been close. But Emma did have one secret—that she hadn’t wanted to come West at all.
She shrugged, moving to pick up the breakfast skillet to take it to the family wagon. “Even if he is guilty, he deserves to be treated fairly. No man deserves to be left in the wilderness to die.”
A shiver raced through her, just thinking about it.
“That’s his punishment? How utterly unfair!” Rachel was a passionate person—and much more outspoken than Emma.
She went on, spouting her thoughts as if she was defending Mr. Reed in front of the committeemen herself. “I’m just glad Ben was there to stand up for him.”
Emma was, too. Part of her wished that she had been able to stand up against the injustice. Perhaps that should become her new purpose.
Finding her voice. Or risk losing it forever.
“Your presence here is quite inconvenient.”
Emma bathed Mr. Reed’s face with a rag dipped in tepid water from the small basin she’d tucked between two crates in the cramped Conestoga wagon. She was down to the dregs of what she’d started with—most of it had splashed onto her as the wagon jostled over the rough terrain.
She dared speak to him so rudely only because he hadn’t regained consciousness after his collapse early this morning. If he was awake, she never would’ve had the courage.
And he probably wouldn’t have heard her, anyway.
His continuous unconscious state worried her. Where her knuckle inadvertently brushed against his cheek, his skin burned her. His fever was high. Dangerously so.
“Crossing the creek again,” Ben called out from outside the wagon, where he walked beside the oxen.
Again?
Emma braced one hand against the sideboard. The wagon lurched and she slid forward, then another unexpected drop sent her sprawling, her arm resting across Mr. Reed’s massive chest and her chin on his shoulder.
“Sorry,” she muttered, even though he couldn’t hear her. She quickly pushed herself upright and away from the man.
After endless days of walking—sometimes as much as twenty miles—Emma had never thought she’d want to hike again. Until this very moment. When would they stop for luncheon?
There was no space. The Hewitts’ wagon hadn’t been overfilled as Abby’s family wagon had, but their provisions were many and there wasn’t room for two grown people back here.
She was alternately worried for Mr. Reed’s health, and embarrassed about their shared close confines.
More so because she knew Mr. Reed didn’t like her. She had no idea why, or what she’d done to offend him. But it had been very clear from their few interactions at the evening meal that he had no wish to be friends. The Hewitts shared a campfire with the Binghams and Littletons to conserve fuel. As Mr. Reed drove the Binghams’ wagon, he ate supper with their group. Several times when Emma had offered Mr. Reed a supper plate and attempted polite conversation, he’d avoided her gaze completely and nearly ripped the tin plate from her hands before disappearing into the shadows. As if being in her presence irritated him.
After the third time, she’d quit trying to be kind and merely served his plate in silence. Unlike the times when papa’s illness had made him difficult, she didn’t have to accept the rudeness from a stranger.
He moaned, a low sound of pain that tugged something in the vicinity of Emma’s gut. He was alone, with no one to care for him.
Her innate compassion dictated that she do for him what no one else would. She hoped someone would do the same for her should she need it.
“I know you don’t like me very much,” she whispered, dabbing the cloth over his forehead again. “But it would be lovely if you would wake up.”
But Mr. Reed made no response.
The caravan slowed and stopped for the noon meal and Emma was relieved to escape the wagon for a few moments.
Ben allowed the oxen out of their traces and led them off to graze for a bit. Rachel and Abby had their heads together, probably planning supper or trading news from elsewhere in the wagon train.
And Emma was left standing in the shade of the wagon. She arched her back, hands at her hips, attempting to shake the aches that being hunched over and jostled all morning had given her.
The landscape had changed subtly in the past days to bare, sandy plains. There was little vegetation, only the occasional wild sage. Ben had told her earlier they should come upon the Wind River Mountains by the end of the day.
“How does your patient fare?”
Emma looked over her shoulder at the familiar, friendly voice calling out. Clara Pressman. Disguised as a man. “Clarence” Pressman was only a ruse to hide the truth.
Emma had discovered the masquerade after they’d left Independence, Kansas. Clarence had gotten a nasty cut on his back and Emma had been called to aid him. While cleaning the wound, Emma had discovered his secret. Clarence was Clara.
And Clara was pregnant. Very much alone, after her husband had died, with no family in the East and no home to return to—her husband had sold everything to make the journey West—she’d decided to go on alone and meet up with her sister who already lived in Oregon. She’d felt it necessary to hide her true identity, fearing the organizers wouldn’t allow her to make the trip if they knew she was a pregnant woman on her own.
She’d probably been right. Emma didn’t necessarily agree with the ruse, but Clara had held up remarkably well on the journey so far.
Nearby, Clara was unhitching a yoke of oxen along with Mr. Morrison. Emma waved at her friend and called out a greeting to both.
Clara nodded, but