Brides of Prairie Gold (41 page)

He was certain now that neither of the new teamsters had tampered with his belongings. Perrin had been his first choice as the person leaving the articles, but his gut said it wasn't her.

So who was doing this? And what did it mean?

The best part of Augusta's day arrived when the train stopped for the evening and the brides lined up behind the arms wagon to receive their nightly issue of powder and shot. Then, while it was still light, they followed Cody to a target range that Miles Dawson had arranged away from the wagons.

After several weeks of practice, Augusta no longer shuddered as she shouldered her carbine and headed toward the improvised target area. Now she could shoot without the weapon's recoil throwing her to the ground; she could fire without closing her eyes, and she had learned to load on the run.

To her astonishment she was one of the most accurate shooters among the women. Once she understood that her surprising skill was not a fluke that would disappear at the next practice session, her confidence grew by leaps and bounds.

Her days passed in a series of impatient hours, waiting for the moment when she stepped up to the target. She liked the weight of the stock nestled against her shoulder, enjoyed the pungent tang that hung in the air after firing. It thrilled her each time she hit her target. She didn't even mind cleaning the gun afterward, as Cody insisted. Having the carbine in her wagon and knowing how to use it made her feel competent and powerful.

In Chastity, she had felt important and powerful enough to command deference. Now she understood how hollow her importance had been. There was nothing to do while driving the stupid oxen except think, and she had thought a lot about Perrin's comments. Her importance in Chastity had been based on social prominence, but that prominence resulted from her name and her father's accomplishments. Her standing in the community had nothing to do with her personally. She hadn't done a thing to deserve respect except be born as a Boyd. The insight shocked her deeply.

Now, with Webb Coate's continuing assistance, she was growing confident in genuine accomplishments that counted for something real. Never again would she be forced to wait for someone to dress her hair, cook her food, or wash her linens. She could drive a wagon, lay a fire, pitch a tent. And now she could defend herself. She would not have believed how exhilarating it felt to know she could do these things.

"I swan, Augusta. You could shoot the tip off a knitting needle!" Bootie straggled to raise her heavy carbine to her shoulder. She closed one eye and squinted down the barrel. Slowly, it sank toward the ground in front of her.

"Sarah is the best shot," Augusta remarked. It was her goal to shoot as well as Sarah Jennings. "Mem isn't bad either. Course, no one's as skilled at wielding a pot as you are."

Everyone on the firing line turned to stare at her. Perrin was the first to burst into laughter, then they all did.

"I've never heard you jest before," Bootie said, smiling and blushing with pleasure.

Augusta blinked in surprise. Good heavens. She had indeed made a humorous remark. Everyone was smiling at her and Bootie. Flustered, she spun toward the target and squeezed off a shot.

Only a slight hesitation saved her from shooting Cody Snow, who dashed in front of her, running toward Ona Norris. Heart slamming in her chest, she fanned her face rapidly and tried to catch her breath. She had been an idiot to fire impulsively.

Cody glared a warning at her, then turned his attention to Ona. He snatched the barrel of Ona's carbine and jerked it toward the sky. Now Augusta noticed that Ona's gun had sagged, had pointed directly at Perrin's stomach before Cody ran forward.

"How many times must I tell all of you! Sky, ground, or target. Damn it, you don't point a gun at another person unless you are prepared to kill that person." He scowled at Ona. "A careless accident could cost one of you a husband. I've told you from the beginning. The Oregon men won't accept a crippled wife. They insist on brides who are healthy and whole."

Ona glared up at him, white-faced. "I'm tired of these secrets and games!"

"This isn't a game. And there are no secrets here. Quinton will be back, count on it!"

Augusta was surprised that prim, quiet Ona stood up to the anger glittering in Snow's eyes. Ona's chin jutted, her cheeks flashed from white to red. She looked furious and her posture seemed oddly aggressive. Frowning, Augusta suddenly recalled Ona throwing down the teacup that belonged to Augusta's mother then deliberately crushing it in a fit of temper.

"I don't want to shoot a gun. I expect you to protect me!"

Cody examined her angry eyes and trembling mouth. "Fine," he said shortly. He took the carbine out of her hands, then walked to the front of the silently watching women. "When Quinton attacks again, and he will, ladies, here's what I want you to do. Sarah Jennings, Augusta Boyd, Mem Grant, and Perrin Waverly are our best shots. I want one of them on each side of the square, under a wagon. Hilda Clum, Bootie Glover, Cora Thorp, and Thea Reeves will run ammunition. Ona Norris will minister to any wounded. Are there any objections?" he demanded, staring at Ona.

No one spoke.

"Excellent." He ran an eye down the line of women, studying how they held their weapons. "That's enough for today. You're dismissed."

Ona whirled and ran past Augusta, heading toward her wagon. Augusta watched her go, thinking that not long ago she too had feared firearms, and she too had expected men to assume the responsibility for her protection. Perhaps she should speak to Ona and explain how it felt to contribute to her own defense.

She considered the idea while she cleaned her carbine, then dismissed it from her mind. Ona was a sullen little snip.

Before she returned to the wagon to prepare her evening meal, she scanned the faces of her shooting group, wondering if one of them was the person who had spied on her and Webb. Actually the incident had occurred so long ago that she believed Webb had been correct in assuming the snoop had not seen Augusta's face. If the spy had seen her, the story would have surfaced long before now.

She had begun to feel safe enough that occasionally her guard slipped. Twice now, she'd almost been caught gazing at Webb with longing in her eyes, first by Mem and then by that thorn in her side, Cora.

After coaxing her fire into a better showing, she hung a pot of soup over the flames, then poured a basin of water and washed her hands and face. She liked to delay lowering the tailgate as long as she could, liked to try to guess what Webb might have left her tonight. Sometimes he left food, a rabbit or a piece of venison, both of which she had learned to cook. Occasionally he left wood for her fire, a real treat. Twice, he had given her small wooden animals carved from the trunks of scrub oak. She treasured the carved deer and bear even though she suspected they were Indian things, and carried them in her pocket so she could touch them and think of him throughout the long lonely day.

Tonight, she found a bouquet of wild lupine. Gifts that made her life a little easier were better, but the bouquet was nice too, she decided, wondering what to do with it.

"Augusta?" Bootie's voice called from the deepening darkness. "Will you come with us to Smokey Joe's Friday Night?"

Every Friday, Smokey Joe offered his fire as a gathering place. Someone told stories or read aloud by the light of the flames. Sometimes the group sang the popular songs of the day. Sometimes they merely gossiped or exchanged personal histories.

"Perrin will be there," Mem casually announced, stepping up beside Bootie.

Learning that Perrin would be present made up her mind. "Thank you, but I believe I'll stay here and turn in early."

Undeniably, she owed Perrin a debt of gratitude. But Perrin Waverly was still the harlot who had seduced Augusta's father, and Augusta could not forgive that transgression. Hence, gratitude and hatred warred in constant conflict The easiest course was to avoid those places where Perrin might be.

After scouring the soup pot and her bowl, she mended a torn hem beside her fire, then set out the breakfast utensils before she wrestled her tent out of the wagon and draped it over the poles she had set earlier. After laying out her bedroll, she returned to sit beside the low flames in her fire pit, listening to the sound of singing drifting from Smokey Joe's fire.

Sighing, she tilted her head back and gazed at a moon that reminded her of the moon that had hung in the sky like a lemon crescent the night Webb kissed her. Her eyes closed and her mouth softened. Every detail of that long-ago night was as fresh as the air she breathed. It might have happened yesterday.

A low sound of despair issued from her lips and she dropped her head. What was she going to do? Her nights were tormented by wanting a man she refused to speak to during the day. Their situation had not been clear-cut prior to Cody's ultimatum that she master camping skills in a week. Now she and Webb were caught in a set of complications that made her mind reel whenever she attempted to sort things out.

During the day, Webb appeared utterly indifferent to her. When he absolutely had to speak to her, his voice was cold, his eyes went flat and expressionless. But he left her a little gift almost every night. He hadn't spoken again since the first two nights when he'd taught her how to make a fire and set up her tent. But she sensed his presence, and there were the gifts.

She knew he ignored her during the day because he was respecting her wishes. But the more Augusta thought about him, the more she yearned to see him alone. Perhaps he would steal another kiss. Perhaps, she thought, indulging her newest fantasy, they could have a small clandestine romance during the remainder of the journey. Kissing only, nothing more, and they would be utterly and absolutely discreet, with no possibility whatsoever of discovery.

A harmless dalliancewhich no one knew aboutwould add a little spice to the journey and break the monotony of her days. A few kisses would give Webb a memory to cherish all of his life, and a few kisses would satisfy her curiosity and get him out of her system. Allowing him to kiss her occasionally would be a way to thank him for helping her remain with the train.

She should thank him, she thought, she really should. Looking into the flames in her fire pit, she listened to the songs from Smokey Joe's fire. Webb seldom joined the group. Most likely he was with the men guarding the arms wagon.

She could stroll in that direction. She could inquire about the stream crossing scheduled for tomorrow and draw him away from the other men. They would walk into the dark hot night together. Perhaps their hands would brush. Perhaps he would take her into his arms and crush her to his magnificent body.

Oh, God, she was on fire for him. She burned for him.

He refused to be drawn from the men guarding the arms wagon. Twice, Augusta murmured a question and turned into the darkness, twitching the fringe of her shawl, enticing him to follow the moonlight gleaming in her hair. But Webb remained leaning against the wagon wheel, asking her to repeat her question.

Face flaming, furious that he was embarrassing her, Augusta fumed in the shadows where firelight faded into blackness, tempted to embarrass him in return. She would expose his little game and pay him back for making her feel foolish.

"I came to thank you for your assistance, Mr. Coate," she said crisply. "And for your gifts." Heck Kelsey and one of the new teamsters heard every word she said. They would tell everyone mat the half-breed was leaving secret gifts for a white woman.

Leaving gifts truly was an outrageous presumption on his part, now that she thought about it She stared at his strong cheekbones and powerful shoulders and felt her mouth tremble, felt a jolt of heat travel along her thighs. Suddenly she hated him for the way he made her feel, for what the sight of him did to her body. She hated it that he made her feel hot inside and restless with wanting. She utterly detested it that she felt dizzy with lust for an Indian savage.

"You don't need to hide behind my wagon like a sneak and a coward. You can offer assistance directly." A sick need to punish him for awakening her desire framed the sarcasm on her tongue. "Everyone knows I would never lower myself to become overly familiar with a half-breed. And I doubt you would assault me when a scream would bring half a dozen men running to kill you for daring to put your dirty hands on a white woman!"

Firelight honed his features as he stiffened against the wagon wheel. His black eyes raked her with such contempt that Augusta sucked in a hard breath and stepped backward.

Nausea clenched her stomach. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She hadn't sought him out to make him hate her; she had come hoping to walk with him beneath the moon, longing to sigh in his arms. Instead, fear boiled up inside her and she lashed out at him. But fear of what? Fear of the very rejection that she read in his stare? But that was ridiculous.

His lip curled and his voice sliced the night like a blade. "You're mistaken, Miss Boyd," he said coldly. "I have not assisted you in any way. I have not given you gifts. I have not hidden in the shadows of your wagon."

Heck Kelsey and the new teamster slowly stood beside the fire, looking back and forth from Augusta to Webb. Heck became more agitated by the minute as he listened to the exchange between Augusta and Webb.

"You're lying," she accused flatly, enraged that he would try to make her look foolish by denying helping her and giving her presents. Suddenly she was glad events were unfolding as they were. She had needed this reminder that Indians were liars, and so stupid they would lie about something pleasant like gifts. "Do you think I didn't recognize your accent that first night?"

Webb's dark hair lifted from his shoulders as he whirled to face Heck Kelsey. "There's only one person who could mimic my voice," he said, accusation heavy in his tone. "What the hell have you been doing, Kelsey?"

Heck cleared his throat and sent a weak smile toward Augusta. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I knew you needed help, and I just figured you'd listen to Mr. Coate where you might not listen to me. So I just It was only those first two days that I pretended to be him. The gifts, well, those are from me."