Come Home to Me (5 page)

“Did you really kill five men all at once?” Billy asked loudly.

“And a bunch of Indians, too?” Tommy chimed in.

“That’s enough, boys,” Rachel hissed. Where had they heard such rumors? Deep down, curiosity ate away at her. Were the rumors true?

“If I see an Injun while we’re on the way to Oreegun, I’m gonna shoot him dead.” Billy jumped forward, his arms outstretched, pretending it was a rifle. His brother joined him.

“Papa’ll be proud.”

“Well, partner, if the Indian is friendly, you probably shouldn’t go around shooting him,” Mr. Owens said to Billy. His boyish grin was back. “And I’m sure your papa would be more proud of you for keeping the peace.” He turned his head, and his eyes met Rachel’s.  For a moment, the sensation of sinking into the depths of his penetrating gaze overwhelmed her.

“You’d best get back to your wagon, Rachel. Tomorrow’s gonna be a trying day, for all of us.” He sounded agitated, as if he’d rather be doing anything other than start this journey.

Rachel nodded. “Will it be dangerous? Crossing the river?”

“Yeah.”

Rachel blinked in surprise. He didn’t try and set her mind at ease, like most men would do, and tell her everything would be all right and not to worry. He’d given her a simple, no-nonsense answer to her concern.

“Thanks for supper,” he said. “I’ll bring your basket by your wagon in the morning. Just make sure your husband is alert and ready to do his job.”

Rachel nodded quietly. Whether Thomas would be alert or not remained to be seen. She hoped he’d sleep the rest of the night. She adjusted David on her hip, and nodded her head to Billy and Tommy, then moved to leave the barn.

“Good night, Rachel,” Mr. Owens called behind her. She stopped and turned her head.  She nodded politely, then ushered the boys out the barn door, wondering why it didn’t bother her that he called her by her first name.

Chapter 5

“And I’m telling you, it’s a bad idea to put the livestock on the ferry.”

Rachel’s head turned at the angry shout of a man’s voice. It was a voice that had become familiar to her. Jake Owens was in a heated discussion with the wagon master, Mr. Wilson. The wagon master was in charge of the group. Why was Mr. Owens challenging his authority?

Standing beside her wagon, she checked one final time that the butter churn was secured tightly in place. She had just poured this morning’s milk from Mabel, her cow, into the churn. It would hopefully turn to soft butter by nightfall. At least churning butter was one chore she’d be able to forego while on the trail. The constant movement of the wagon would do the job for her.

Thomas sat high up on the wagon seat, his eyes bloodshot and watery. Although he had slept through the night, he was obviously feeling the after effects of his overindulgence with alcohol from yesterday.  He sat stooped over, his elbows resting heavily on his knees, his head slung low almost between his legs. How was he going to manage driving their team of mules the entire day?

“Can we get down from the wagon?” Billy shouted, his head peering around the canvas from the back.

“No. You stay put,” Rachel said sternly.

“How much longer is it gonna be?” the boy whined.

“Once we cross the Missouri, you boys can walk a spell.”

Rachel understood the boy’s impatience. All the wagons in their group had been lined up along the banks of the wide Missouri River for nearly three hours already. They were all at the mercy of the man running the ferry. There was only one ferry, and it could hold no more than two wagons at a time. Many of the people in their group were starting to get restless.

Mary Holland waved to her from atop her wagon. She and her husband, Ben, were newlyweds, and planned to start their married life in a brand new place. During the almost two weeks since the group had been camped in Kannesville, Rachel and Mary had become friends. Rachel waved back, but remained standing near her own wagon. Mrs. Edwards and her daughter, Annabelle, held their heads together a few wagons over and whispered, pointing at the loud exchange between Mr. Wilson and Mr. Owens.

Mr. Owens swung his leg forward and over the saddle of his horse, and landed lightly on his feet in front of Mr. Wilson. Rachel’s wagon stood close enough to the two men, and their voices were loud enough to hear what they argued about. Earlier this morning, Mr. Owens had stood with the Reverend Johnson, after he came to say a prayer over the wagon train. Jake had looked angry then, too. What could the reverend possibly have said to him to make the scout so agitated?

“You gonna waste all this time, wanting to unyoke and unhitch all them teams,” Mr. Wilson shouted at the scout.  “We’ve burned enough daylight already.”

 Mr. Owens stood his ground. Not quite as tall as the wagon master, he refused to back away, and leaned forward.

“Is it worth losing wagons to save a few hours?” Mr. Owens argued. “These mules are cantankerous enough as it is, and asking them to stay quiet on a ferry is just plain stupid.”

Mr. Wilson spit tobacco juice on the ground. “We’ll let these folks decide for themselves what they want to do with their teams,” he said. “‘Sides, who’s gonna herd the stock through the river? That’s a darn foolish undertaking.”

The scout shook his head in apparent disgust, a look of contempt on his face. He turned his head at that moment, and glanced Rachel’s way. Their eyes met and held.  With a determined look on his face, he led his horse toward her.  He glanced briefly at her wagon, and at Thomas sitting on the driver’s bench. Mr. Owens’ eyes narrowed slightly, before he returned his gaze to her.

“Thanks for supper last night,” he said. His voice still held an angry edge. “That damn wagon master is gonna drown you all. He’s in such a damn hurry.”

Rachel shrunk back at his heated words and foul language. “But how will the animals get across?”

“They can swim,” he said. “It’s safer for everyone. The rest of your livestock needs to get across, too. Or is that fool planning to have them ferried, too?”

“I ain’t unhitchin’ the mules,” Thomas said gruffly from atop the wagon. Mr. Owens looked up at the man sitting high above him, and his face hardened even more. His eyes glazed over in cold fury. “If you want to get your family safely across this river, you’ll do exactly that,” he said angrily.

Several other men gathered around Rachel’s wagon. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. Most men sided with Mr. Wilson. Some suggested, in a not-too friendly manner, for Jake to lay off the bottle.

“You all can do what you want,” the scout finally yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “When you change your minds, let me know. But I ain’t fishing any of you out of the river when your wagons go tumbling.”

Abruptly, he reached for Rachel’s arm, and pulled her out of the circle of men. Startled momentarily, she fought against his hold. His grip tightened, and she had no choice but to step forward, or risk causing a scene. She shot a hasty glance over her shoulder. Thomas hadn’t even noticed.

“Listen to me,” Mr. Owens said in a low voice. He leaned his head in close to her, and his warm hand sent that same familiar tingling sensation down her arm as it had done the evening before, when he touched her in the barn. “If your husband won’t unhitch your team, at least do yourself a favor and stay on this side of the river with your kids. You can take the ferry after all the wagons are across.”

Rachel peered up at him. He wore a serious look, but there was genuine concern in his eyes.

“Shouldn’t Mr. Wilson know what he’s doing? Hasn’t he led several wagon trains?” she asked. Why had Mr. Owens singled her out among all the other people to pull aside?

“He sure doesn’t act like he knows anything,” he scoffed. “It’s suicide to put these animals on the ferry. Your life and possessions are worth more than saving a few hours of traveling time.”

He spoke with such passion and conviction, Rachel couldn’t help but believe him.

“I’ll talk to Thomas,” she said. “If he won’t listen, I’ll do as you say. But, who will herd the animals through the water? Isn’t that dangerous as well?”

Jake Owens’ face lit up in a smile that made her heart flutter. She barely stopped herself from clutching her chest.

“Sweetheart, do you think this is the only river you’ll be crossing?” he drawled.  “When we’re hundreds of miles from nowhere, there won’t be ferries waiting for you. I’ll get the animals across.” There was a note of confidence, but not arrogance, in his voice. Rachel took a step backward.
Sweetheart!
She stood much too close to this man, who made her feel things just by standing in his presence. He was a dangerous man, she realized suddenly, and remembered all the rumors about him. Dangerous to her, at any rate. She’d do well to keep her distance. She glanced around, hoping no one had heard him. To her dismay, she caught Harriet Edwards glaring straight at her.

“Let’s move out,” Mr. Wilson shouted at that moment.  Apparently the ferry operator had finally arrived. He waved to the first two wagons, which rolled forward toward the ferry landing.

“Goddamn fools,” Mr. Owens cursed under his breath.

Slowly, the first wagon moved onto the scow, which swayed back and forth with the uneven weight. The two mules pulling the wagon pranced nervously. The second wagon loaded onto the flat-bottomed boat, and the ferryman untied the line securing the vessel to the dock.

Rachel shot a fleeting look at Mr. Owens. His odd hairstyle made the dark brown strands on top of his head stand out in all directions. She was accustomed to seeing men’s hair slicked down onto their heads, parted in the middle, or worn rather long. This man’s hair stood up almost like a bristle brush. A day old stubble had grown on his chin and cheeks, making his face appear darker than it was. His firm mouth was set in a tight line, and his brown eyes flickered with anger. Even so, he was sinfully handsome.

Her arm began to tingle, reminding Rachel that he still hadn’t released his hold on her. When had he stepped close to her again? A sudden lump formed in her throat. The heady scent of leather and buckskin, horse, and clean male sweat penetrated her senses. She inhaled a deep breath, and her limbs began to weaken.

As if he sensed her distress, Mr. Owens met her gaze. His features softened, and a hint of a smile formed in the corners of his mouth, producing dimples in his cheeks. The sudden urge to run far away for fear she might do something she would regret later had never been as strong as it was now. Rachel yanked her arm from his grasp.

“I need to see to the children,” she said, hoping her voice sounded steady.

“Remember what I told you,” Mr. Owens warned, his jaw clenched.

Rachel nodded. A loud commotion came from the river. The ferry had reached the midway point in the river. The ferryman and a few men from the wagons used long poles to guide the scow through the murky water. It looked like backbreaking work, trying to keep the ferry from getting caught in the current. The ropes that acted as pulleys from either shore of the river didn’t seem strong enough to support the craft should the water become too swift.

Two of the mules pranced nervously, and moved further to one side of the craft.  The flatboat swayed precariously in the waves, one side dipping dangerously low into the water. One of the men rushed to the skittish animals, and tried to pull the team toward the center of the flatboat.  The mule he held to sidestepped suddenly, knocking the man into the river. Rachel couldn’t suppress a gasp.

“Shit! That’s exactly what I was afraid of. I tried to warn those idiots.” Jake Owens reached for the lariat hanging from his saddle and dropped his horse’s reins, then ran for the river. He yanked his belt from around his waist, and pulled his shirt off over his head, and dove into the turbid waters of the Missouri without a second’s hesitation. Rachel stood rooted to the spot, her mouth wide open. People shouted along the riverbank, and the man in the water flailed his arms wildly. It was Mary’s husband, Ben Holland. Another man had succeeded in calming the nervous mules on the scow, preventing an even worse accident. The ferry had almost reached the opposite shore.

Rachel reached for the reins of Jake’s horse, and dragged the mare toward the river. Men and women from the group lined the bank. In the water, Jake had thrown his lasso to the man, who luckily grabbed on.  Without getting near the frantic victim, Jake pulled Mr. Holland through the current. He reached the opposite shore of the Missouri at the same time as the scow. He pulled and tugged on the rope, reeling the victim to shore.

Fascinated, Rachel cheered alongside the people next to her. Several men murmured that they would be unhitching their teams once they got on the ferry. Mr. Wilson stood off to the side, a dark scowl on his face. Rachel’s lips widened in a slow smile. It had taken a near tragedy, but she was sure that the rest of the members of this wagon train wouldn’t dismiss Jake Owens’ suggestions so easily from here on. Clearly, he was a man with much more experience than Mr. Wilson. Regardless of the rumors about him, this journey might just be a lot safer with a man like him leading their group through the unknown wilderness. Her head turned toward her wagon. Thomas didn’t look impressed. In fact, he appeared as uninterested in what had happened here as he was in everything else these days.

Rachel’s smile faded.  With a slight shake of her head, her gaze returned to the man on the opposite shore of the Missouri. He’d been called a skirt chaser, a man who moved from one place to the next, and left broken hearts in his wake.  She could easily see why. She inhaled a deep breath, and her face grew hot.
Get those silly notions out of your head, Rachel. You shouldn’t even be entertaining such thoughts.

 
She glanced again to where Thomas sat on their wagon. Billy and Tommy had climbed on the seat next to him, and stared in awed fascination at what had transpired in the river. As usual, Thomas ignored his sons. Rachel frowned. Her heart went out to the boys. They needed their father. Why couldn’t he see that?

On the opposite shore of the Missouri, the two wagons disembarked without further incident. Mr. Owens stepped onto the ferry, and helped propel the craft through the water, using a long rod to push against the current. Rachel’s eyes fell to the shirt and belt on the ground several yards from her. Hesitating only a moment, she stepped forward and scooped up the items. Holding the cotton shirt in her hands, Mr. Owens’ male scent penetrated her senses. When the ferry reached shore, the scout jumped lightly onto dry land. With a dark scowl on his face, he marched toward Mr. Wilson.