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Authors: Peggy L Henderson

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BOOK: Come Home to Me
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“Y’all gonna listen to me now?” he nearly shouted. His anger-filled eyes darted from Mr. Wilson to several of the other men who had gathered at the shoreline. No one said a word. “Get your wagons on the ferry, two at a time, and unhitch your mules and oxen. I need a few men to stay with the livestock until everyone’s across. If anyone’s brave enough to get on a horse and help me herd the stock through the water, I’d appreciate it. Everyone needs to pitch in to get the ferry across the river. Any questions?”

No one spoke up. There were plenty of murmurs and mumblings, and Rachel caught the dark look on the wagon master’s face. Jake Owens may have made a few friends here today, but he wouldn’t be counting Mr. Wilson among them. Harriet Edwards held one fist to her hip, the other hooked through her daughter’s arm. She spoke to another woman walking beside her as they marched back toward their wagons. Mrs. Edwards’ wide hips swayed wildly from side to side, making her skirt dance around her legs. Rachel was glad she didn’t have to listen to the woman’s rant. Reverend Johnson stood at the far edge of the wagon train. He looked to have a satisfied smile on his face. 

Mr. Owens reached his hand out to Mr. Wilson. Rachel held her breath. The wagon master hesitated, then clasped the scout’s hand. He had no choice if he wanted to save face among the group. Mr. Owens was smart to show in front of everyone that he held no ill feelings. It was up to the wagon master to reciprocate.

“Can we invite Mr. Owens to supper again?” a voice yelled from behind her.

Rachel turned to see Tommy running toward her. Billy nodded eagerly from atop the wagon a short distance away.

“What are you doing out of the wagon? I told you to stay put,” Rachel scolded, one hand on her hip.

“We want to hear him tell how he rescued Mr. Holland,” Tommy said excitedly. “Maybe he won’t fall asleep this time and will eat with us.”

“Yeah. Maybe I won’t fall asleep this time,” a deep male voice drawled.

Rachel’s heart leapt to her throat. She wheeled around.  Jake Owens stood directly behind her. He wore a wide grin on his face. It was the first genuine smile she’d seen from him today. Water dripped from his hair to his face. His bare skin glistened in the sunlight. Rachel’s eyes fixated on his shoulders, where water ran in thin rivulets down his arms and chest.

“Please say he can eat with us,” Tommy pleaded, pulling her out of her trance. She swallowed back the lump in her throat.

“Yes, of course,” she stammered, and Tommy cheered gleefully. She thrust the shirt and belt at the scout, suddenly remembering she still held his articles in her arms. To her mortification, her face grew warm again. She fumbled with his horse’s reins.

“Can I trouble you to keep these in your wagon?” Mr. Owens asked, gesturing at his clothes without taking them from her. He didn’t wait for an answer, and moved to the side of his horse.   With practiced speed and efficiency, he loosened the cinch from around his mare’s belly, unlooping the leather strap until it dangled to the ground. He reached up and lifted the saddle from the horse’s back. “And this.”

Rachel’s eyebrows drew together.

“Something I learned about herding steers through water,” he explained, as if reading the unspoken question in her mind. “It’s safer to ride bareback. Less chance to get hooked on a horn or something.” He strode to the back of her wagon and tossed the saddle over the tailgate, then returned and took his horse’s reins from her.  Leaning forward, he whispered, “I’d strip down completely if it was just me and a bunch of other wranglers, but I don’t think the fine ladies and the kids here would appreciate that.” His eyes twinkled mischievously, and his grin was pure evil. Rachel forced her mouth to remain closed. Was he joking with her? If so, it wasn’t funny. She darted a nervous glance around her. Luckily, everyone else, including Mrs. Edwards, was busy tending to their teams and wagons.

“Breathe, Rachel. You look like you’re about to pass out. I know I can’t be the only guy you’ve seen without his shirt on. I’m sure you’ve seen your husband in far less.” He winked at her.

“How dare you,” she hissed, trying to cover her embarrassment with anger. “I’ve never met a man as brazen as you, Mr. Owens.” She picked up her skirts.

His hand reached up and encircled her arm, preventing her from walking away. “I asked you to call me Jake, remember?”

Rachel yanked her arm free, and rushed past him. “I will do no such thing,” she said heatedly. A soft chuckle followed her as she stormed to her wagon. Thomas snapped the reins against the mules’ backs, and the wagon lurched forward to take up a place in line to the ferry. If he had noticed the exchange between
Mr.
Owens and her, he hadn’t given any indication. Thomas didn’t take notice of much at all these days.

Rachel followed behind the wagon, Tommy close on her heels. The boy had to run to keep up with her.

“Didn’t I tell you boys to stay in the wagon?” she snapped in a high-pitched tone, glaring down at Tommy. His blue eyes stared up at her, wide-eyed. He was obviously as surprised as she was at her sudden angry outburst.

“Yes’m. I’m sorry,” he said demurely, and cast his gaze at the ground. Rachel stopped and kneeled down. She held out her arms, and Tommy fell against her, wrapping his arms around her neck.

“No, Tommy. I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me,” she whispered. A pair of twinkling brown eyes, and a devilish grin flashed before her eyes.

 

Chapter 6

 

 

Jake reined in his mare, and patted her on the neck. The stout little mustang had to be the best trained horse he’d ever sat on.  A subtle shift of his seat backwards, and she stopped. If he leaned forward, she stepped out. A slight turn of his shoulders in either direction, and her body followed. At least the reverend had supplied him with a good mount, if nothing else. He’d almost forgotten the exhilarating feeling of sitting astride a horse, galloping across open country.

His eyes scanned far off into the distance. Open country was right.  After leaving the Missouri River a few hours ago, the wagon train made its way west, first through sandy marshlands as they moved away from the river and onto the uneven, rolling hills they entered now. In the distance, the hills blended into steeply ridged sandy bluffs. Tall grasses swayed in tune with the wind as far as the eye could see. At least there was food here for the livestock. That might not be the case the further west they traveled.

Details about the wagon trains along the Oregon Trail, information he’d thought long forgotten from many history classes, seemed to come back to him now as if someone had implanted a computer chip in his brain. This land was foreign to him, but he hoped to get a better feel for it once they entered more familiar territory further west in Wyoming, or what would someday be Wyoming.

 Judging by the map the reverend had given him, Jake guessed they were within an hour from a water source called Papillion Creek. Hopefully, the wagon master would agree to stop there for the night. They hadn’t covered much ground today, and after what happened earlier, Frank Wilson was not going to be his buddy on this trip. Jake wanted to get to Oregon as fast as possible, too, probably faster than the wagon master, but he couldn’t afford to be careless. The reverend had made it pretty clear that the safety of these people rested on Jake’s shoulders. He ran his hand through his hair. Dried grit and sand scraped against his scalp from the muddy Missouri.

 Getting all the wagons across the wide river had been an exhausting undertaking. Jake absently rotated his shoulders, the muscles in his arms sore and tight. They hadn’t lost any cattle as near as he could tell during the crossing. Three men had volunteered to help him get the cattle and mules through the river. Two of the men were bachelors, without families to worry about.

Elijah Edwards heartily shook his hand once the entire train was safely across the river and the mules and oxen were hitched to their wagons. Beaming brightly, he had slapped Jake on the back, congratulating him on a job well done, and that he had great confidence that this trek to Oregon would go off without any trouble. He had invited Jake to eat supper at his wagon that night. His wife, Harriet Edwards, had shot her husband a look of outrage. Just to irritate the woman further, Jake wanted to accept the invitation, but he wasn’t going to stand up Rachel a second time.

“I can’t, Edwards. I’m eating with the Parkers,” Jake told the farmer. “But thanks for the invite. Maybe another time.”

Mr. Edwards had nodded in understanding. Harriet Edwards’ ears had visibly perked when Jake mentioned the Parkers. The old bat was probably concocting wild ideas in her mind about him and Rachel, judging by her reaction the day before when she saw him at the Parkers’ wagon. He shrugged it off. What other people thought of him didn’t matter. He wasn’t here to make friends.

Jake’s little buckskin mare shook her head and snorted, her long black mane whipping in the wind. He reached forward and scratched her between the ears.

“Easy, Princess. We’re just letting the wagons catch up.” He turned his head. The train was still a good fifteen minutes behind him. Once satisfied that the train was underway, he’d given his mare her head, and she raced over the uneven soil, apparently as eager as he was to get away and be alone for a while.

He’d seen Rachel walk next to her wagon while her good-for-nothing husband sat in the driver’s seat. At least they had a solid–looking team of four mules. Her two older boys bounced happily along beside her. Where the toddler was, Jake hadn’t seen. He hadn’t bothered to stop and collect his saddle and shirt, something he wished now that he had done. Would there be any Indians out here, this close to the Missouri? And would they be friendly? Jake felt naked, exposed all of a sudden. He needed to remember to keep his weapons with him from now on.

He swung his leg over the mare’s neck and landed lightly on his moccasin-clad feet. Kneeling to the ground, he weaved strands of the long grasses in between his fingers. He stuck a blade in his mouth, and stared into the distance. His horse lowered her head and began cropping at the grass. The gentle afternoon breeze cooled his face and bare back. There wasn’t a cloud in the deep blue sky. Blue, like the color of Rachel’s eyes.

Jake clenched his jaw. What the hell was he thinking? Since his arrest he’d sworn off  women. Just the thought of Sandra left a bitter taste in his mouth. She’d flirted with him openly at the family ranch, shown him a good time, and had him all wrapped around her little conniving finger. Since laying eyes on Rachel Parker, his plan of staying away from women had taken flight quicker than a fly sucked out of a moving car window. He cursed under his breath.

When are you going to start thinking with the brain in your head rather than the one between your legs?
His brother’s words echoed in his mind. Dammit all! Just one look into Rachel Parker’s eyes, and he was lost. Something had twisted his gut and wrenched in his chest the first time he saw her, when she stood by that wagon facing into the wind. The sensation had been different from any of his previous infatuations. Every encounter with her in the last day and a half had only intensified those odd feelings.

She’s married
. He’d never chased after a married woman before, either. Not even one with a steady boyfriend. There were plenty of willing girls out there. He’d never had to resort to invading another man’s turf. Of course, in his time, most girls weren’t married and had three kids at her age, either.

 Jake laughed. This was absurd. Even if she wasn’t married, the thought of getting cozy with Rachel Parker was crazy. Rachel was the exact opposite of Sandra and every other girl he’d dated. She was definitely not the type to usually draw his attention, which only made his reaction to her more puzzling. She was a sweet girl. Wholesome. Just like he’d told Reverend Johnson.  And she was an assignment. Nothing else. He’d make sure she stayed out of trouble, and in five months or so, after he delivered her safely to Oregon and was back in the twenty-first century, he’d look up one of his old flames in Montana.

Thinking hard, he couldn’t remember a single face of any of his former girlfriends. Each time he came close to recollecting one, a dark haired, blue-eyed beauty invaded his thoughts.

Approaching hoof beats overrode the distant jingling of harness and the soft bellowing of cattle. The mustang raised her head, her ears pricked tightly forward. Jake stood, and turned to wait for the approaching rider. He recognized one of the men who had helped him herd the livestock across the river.  Annoyed that his brief moment of solitude was disturbed, Jake picked up his horse’s reins, and turned to meet the man.  Marcus Powell, if he remembered right.

“Wagon master wants to know if you’re lookin’ for a place to bed down for the night,” Powell said as soon as he reached Jake.

Jake pointed behind him. “Papillion Creek, about an hour away.”  He vaulted onto his mare’s back.

“Seen any sign of savages?” Powell asked, and leaned over his saddle to spit tobacco juice on the ground. He laughed. “Hell, I almost shot you. You look like a savage, ‘cept for that hair.”

Jake laughed. He had to admit there was some truth to that. Buckskin pants, no shirt, riding bareback through the hills. He might as well just stick some feathers in his hair.

“Ya got them ladies back at the wagons swoonin’, struttin’ around all bare-chested an’ all.”

“Yeah, I guess I should go get my shirt. I left it back with the Parker wagon.”

Marcus Powell leered, exposing a gap in his top front teeth. He leaned over his horse again and spit out more brown juice. “That Parker woman sure is something to look at, ain’t she?” he said, and raised his eyebrows.

Jake tensed. He gripped the reins tightly in his hand, and his mare pulled her neck and head forward in protest.

“She’s probably the most sightly woman on this here wagon train,” Powell continued. He was apparently under the impression that Jake was going to join him in this conversation.

“She’s also married,” Jake said, trying to keep his voice even.

Marcus scoffed. “Shore don’t seem like she sets her sights all that high. I seen that Parker fella drunk more than I seen him sober. Seems to like the bottle better’n his wife. Whadaya think, Owens? From what I heard tell, you’re good at gettin’ into a woman’s drawers. Prob’ly wouldn’t be too hard to get under her skirts.”

Jake didn’t stop to think. He merely reacted. His arm shot out and his hand fisted around Marcus’ shirt collar. He nearly pulled the startled man from his horse. “If I ever catch you within ten feet of Mrs. Parker, or hear you talk about her in a disrespectful manner again, I’ll kill you,” he growled between clenched teeth. His face was inches from the wide-eyed man’s, their horses stopped beneath them. He released his hold, shoving Marcus Powell backwards. The man lost his balance, and toppled from his horse. Jake took up his reins, and tightened his legs around his mare’s girth. She bolted forward, and Jake guided her toward the wagon train, cursing his fate with every stride.

****

Jake shook the water from his hair, and pulled his shirt on over his head. The creek was just as muddy as the Missouri River. Hopefully some of the grit would wash out of his itchy scalp.  Some fifty yards upstream, the wagons sat parked along the creek bank. The smell of smoke from fifteen or more campfires filled the air, mingled with the delicious odor of bacon cooking. Jake’s stomach growled loudly.

He strapped his belt around his waist, and picked up his rifle, then walked slowly toward the wagons. He passed cattle and mules that eagerly cropped at the grasses after their hard day of work. The loud chirping of crickets and other night-time bugs, mingled with the soft melodies of someone playing the harmonica, reminded him of cattle drives back home. Jake ignored the odd tightening in his chest.

After the train had come to a stop along this tributary of the Missouri River and everyone had their animals unhitched, Frank Wilson had told the group that each family was responsible for providing a man to watch over the livestock during the night. He rattled off names of those who would have first, second, and third watch this first night.

Jake was silently glad that Thomas Parker’s name hadn’t come up this time. He’d returned to the train to collect his clothes and gear after his altercation with that scum Marcus Powell, and seen Rachel’s husband sway precariously in the jockey box of their wagon. The man was obviously still hung over from his binge in the saloon. Jake hoped that, for Rachel’s sake, Thomas would sober up over the next couple of days. Rachel had shot him a brief tight-lipped look when he approached, and then quickly scurried to the opposite side of the wagon. One of her kids handed him his clothes and rifle over the tailgate while the wagon kept moving. He’d have to retrieve his saddle once the train stopped for the night.

Jake smiled. Rachel was obviously still mad at him for his rude remarks that morning. He should really remember that this was a different time, and people had different social values. His behavior might just get him shot. Now that he thought about it, one thing that Powell had said that struck him as true, was that Thomas Parker sure didn’t show much interest in his wife. Jake had pulled her aside, and stood way too close to be considered proper in any century, almost right under Thomas’ nose, and the man hadn’t so much as blinked. He couldn’t have been that hung over not to take notice of a stranger getting so cozy with his wife. His stomach growled again. Maybe he should have accepted Elijah Edwards’ invitation. He might not be welcome at the Parker’s wagon. He combed his fingers through his hair. There was only one way to find out. 

Jake made his way through camp. Families settled in around their campfires. Ben Holland nodded to him. His wife smiled, her eyes full of thanks. Holland had already thanked him profusely after Jake pulled him from the river. Women ladled out food from Dutch ovens sitting in the coals, kids sat wide-eyed by the fire, and men talked in hushed tones. Several people waved to him and smiled, while others cast him suspicious looks. He passed the Edwards wagon. Mr. Edwards was talking to Jeb Miller. They held up their coffee mugs in greeting, and Jake nodded. Mrs. Edwards stood at the tailgate of her wagon, fiddling with a metal pot. Next to her stood a girl who could only be her daughter. She had he same brown hair tied up in a bun as Mrs. Edwards. The girl looked over at Jake, and smiled coyly, then lowered her chin and batted her lashes at him.

BOOK: Come Home to Me
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