Brides of Prairie Gold (29 page)

It surprised her how much of a hardship the weather continued to be. Hot sun blazed in their faces most of the day, but the temperature plummeted at night. The climate never felt just right, it was always too hot or too cold. Sudden storms had become the norm, billowing up out of the north to drench them or batter their bonnets with hail. And for several weeks, they'd been watching tornadoes rip across the prairie. Thus far, prayers had held the tornadoes at bay, but they'd suffered from hot winds and swirling dust.

Pulling her shawl close around her shoulders, Mem tossed back her long auburn braid and peered toward the glowing coals of the fire Smokey Joe had earlier coaxed into flames by standing over it with a borrowed parasol to shield his efforts from the hail and light rain. To Mem's relief, the night sky was clear and Smokey Joe's cook pit was deserted.

She seated herself on a damp log beside the embers, sighed, and gazed up in time to see a shooting star streak across the sky. It struck her as amusing that earlier today, suffering from the heat, she had wished for rain. But when the temperature sank, and marble-sized hail began to pelt them, she had wished for the return of the sun. Smiling, she touched her sunburned nose and forehead, feeling peeling skin. In the last day or so, all of the women had suffered sunburns.

It was daunting to realize that half of the journey still lay ahead. Mem's smile faded and her shoulders slumped. The joy had gone out of the trip.

The pleasure, the zest, the sense of adventure she had left them behind in a dark copse of whispering cottonwoods.

Several minutes elapsed before she became aware that someone had joined her at the far end of the log. She jumped and clutched her shawl before she recognized his profile.

"Forgive me if I startled you," Webb quietly apologized. When Mem silently started to rise, he quickly inquired, "Are you having another of your headaches?"

She hesitated. She ought to go. If she possessed a grain of sense, she wouldn't do this to herself, wouldn't torture herself by remaining here with him. She commanded her legs to rise and walk away. Do it right now. Leave.

"I'm worried about Bootie," she heard herself say. She settled on the log and gazed into the embers. "She thinks she killed those two teamsters." She related Bootie's encounter with Jake Quinton at the Addison farm.

"I learned about the incident when it happened," Webb interrupted. "Miss Boyd told us."

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence at the mention of Augusta's name.

Mem lowered her head and released a slow quiet sigh. They were clever about their desire for each other. She had observed them intently. Had she not witnessed their passion beneath the cottonwoods, she could actually have believed that Webb and Augusta disliked each other. Augusta couldn't keep her eyes off of Webb Coate, that was true; but she glared as if the very sight of him offended her. When Webb was forced to look at Augusta, his eyes flattened and went cold. Only one who had seen them wrapped in each other's arms as Mem had would guess the truth.

She touched the braid falling over her shoulder and remembered Webb pulling Augusta's braid through his hands. With all her aching heart, she wished she had never wandered into the cottonwoods that night.

"The teamsters' deaths had nothing to do with your sister. Tell her she isn't to blame."

"I've told her again and again. Telling her does no good."

"Cody and Jake Quinton have a history that goes way back." Speaking quietly, his mingled accents soft on her ear, Webb told her about Cody sentencing Quinton to six months of hard labor and Quinton's vow for revenge. "He'll dog us all the way to Oregon. It won't end until Quinton is dead."

Mem nodded. "I'll tell Bootie." She hesitated. "May I tell Perrin also?"

"If you like."

Suddenly Mem's spirits soared. Webb had confided in her. He trusted her judgment. Sliding a look from the corner of her eye, she studied his strong face, shadowed by the dim light.

He sat forward, elbows on knees, his head tilted back to gaze at something on the dark prairie. Black hair fell to his shoulders, tapered hands rested lightly at the top of his shins.

Mem's heart rolled in her chest. She loved the quiet powerful look of him. The strength and stillness that radiated from a spirit that could never be conquered. She loved the blend of cultures that reflected in his features, his fluid movements.

Helplessly, hopelessly, she conceded that she loved everything about him. The melodic sound of his voice, and the way he listened. The way his black eyes sparkled when he was amused, and the stories he told. She loved the gracefulness of his walk, as if he were one with the earth and sky, as if he inhabited a world invisible to others.

Mem's heart glistened in her eyes. With all her plain unvarnished soul, she wished she had been born Augusta Boyd.

But she was not Augusta. She would never be a beauty or turn men's heads. She would never stir Webb Coate's passion. He would never look at her as he had looked at Augusta in the moonlight.

Yet, she told herself, there was something between them, a companionship that was intimate and comfortable. They had shared confidences with each other as only good friends did.

A sigh stirred her bosom. If friendship was all that Webb could offer, then she would accept his friendship, and gladly. Twenty-eight-year-old spinsters were accustomed to settling for crumbs; she didn't even mind anymore. Her blunder lay in forgetting for a while who she was, a tall ungainly creature who was too plain and too outspoken to arouse men's passions.

Rising, she studied the fringe on his jacket rather than meet his steady black gaze. "I believe I'll return to our tent and try to get some rest. My headache's gone." Surprisingly, it was true. It occurred to her that Webb Coate's company was more effective than any headache nostrum she had ever swallowed.

He nodded, then shifted toward the darkness. "You've been keeping your headache inside your tent. Perhaps you will come to Smokey Joe's fire again"

Her eyebrows lifted as swiftly as her heart. He had missed her company since she'd been avoiding him, was that what he was saying?

"Good night, Tanka Tunkan," she said softly, not trusting herself to say more.

She thought he smiled, but the shadows were too dense to be certain. "Good night Mem."

He had called her Mem! Absurdly pleased, feeling as if she had won a stupendous victory, she floated back to her tent.

What on earth had made her think the joy had fled from the journey? Other than her father and Bootie's dear husband, Robert, no man had called her Mem. Her name, a silly one, she'd always thought, sounded almost like a caress when spoken by a man.

Crawling inside the tent, she rolled next to Bootie and clasped her thin pillow in her arms. It was a long time before she fell asleep, a smile on her lips.

Augusta rode in the whiskey wagon, seated beside Heck Kelsey at the reins. Ahead, low barren hills sloped away from the whitewashed adobe bricks that surrounded Fort Laramie. After struggling to cross deep ravines and rushing streams to reach this unpromising place, she had expected more reward for the effort. But there was nothing appealing about Fort Laramie. It had been plunked down in the midst of scrubby junipers and sagebrush, without a single tree to offer shade from the harsh sun.

She began to understand why the other brides had chosen not to visit the fort, deciding instead to send money and requests for fresh provisions with Cody or Heck. Biting her lip, Augusta almost wished she had remained in camp. Right now she could be enjoying an all-over bath in the clean waters of the Laramie River. She hadn't had a real bath in three weeks.

But, she thought grimly, unlike the others she had business to conduct. She didn't intend to leave the fort until she hired a maid to replace Cora. Doing so would prove Perrin Waverly wrong, an event she anticipated with smug pleasure.

Also, she hastily reminded herself, if opportunity presented, she would discreetly inquire if anyone had been asking after the Eagglestons. It eased her conscience to promise that she would seize the chance should it happen along.

In the meantime, she would borrow just a teeny-tiny bit more of the Eagglestons' money and treat herself to fresh eggs and vegetables, perhaps some marmalade if she could find any in the post's stores. Also, she wanted some rice powder to lower the color in her sunburned cheeks.

A small sigh passed her lips. It was so nice to hear the clink of gold coins rubbing together in her little wrist bag when the wagon tilted over a stone or a rise. It sounded safe.

"So, lassie, are ye 'aving a gud journey?" Heck Kelsey asked, sliding a look at her.

The various accents he affected amused the others, but Augusta found them irksome. She supposed Heck Kelsey was in love with her, but it wasn't especially flattering. He was merely a blacksmith.

She touched his sleeve with the tips of her gloves, a gesture intended to soften a blatant rejection. After all, she occasionally needed him to repair a wheel or a bit of harness.

"I have a headache, Mr. Kelsey. I'd rather not talk."

"I am zo zorry, Mademoiselle." As she hadn't toured the Continent, she didn't know if he genuinely sounded French.

Another sigh fluttered between her lips. She had to endure the company of a frustrated actor, and there was no place to look during the drive to the fort except at Webb Coate's back.

As the wheels bumped closer to the gates, Webb and Cody dropped back to ride alongside the wagon. Her heart lurched and the beat accelerated as she realized that Webb would be on her side. Pressing her lips together, she fixed her gaze forward. She wouldn't permit herself to glance at his profile.

But she was conscious of him as she was every moment of every waking day. Whenever he passed nearby, her senses opened and she found herself acutely aware of every small thing he did or said. Gripping her hands in her lap, she desperately tried not to remember his long fingers stroking her hair or the hard thrilling pressure of his lips crushing hers. A light sheen of perspiration appeared on her brow, and she clenched her teeth to suppress the moan that built in her throat.

That she was capable of lust shocked her deeply. And it shamed her to the core that the object of her lust was a barely civilized heathen. Whenever she looked at Webb or tormented herself with thoughts of him, she shrank from the sound of a dozen generations of Boyds rolling in their graves.

Even so even so. Lowering her head, she touched gloved fingertips to a hot forehead and closed her eyes lest she surrender to temptation and look full at him.

It kept her in a constant state of agitation to think that whoever had snooped on them in the cottonwoods also watched them in camp, waiting to see her betray her dirty secret. To thwart this unknown sneak, she seized every opportunity to make a scathing remark about Webb Coate. When she absolutely had to look at him or address him, she made herself concentrate on what he was instead of how he made her feel. She displayed her superiority and revulsion to him and to whoever spied on them.

The whiskey wagon rattled through the gates of the fort and she looked around, first letting her gaze linger on Webb's stoic features. A stab of disappointment pierced her chest when she discovered he faced forward, not looking at her. Of course, she didn't want a dirty savage looking at her. She was glad that he had learned his lesson. Still, if he would just