The Promised Land (Destiny's Dreamers Book 2) (8 page)

“Come and get me out of my wretched humor! Maybe even teach me how to dance.’’ Maggie banged her spoon against the porridge pan. The stuff really was becoming disgusting.

Jamie strolled up with Charlotte in tow, took one peek into the pot and grimaced.

“Porridge again? People over to the Donners are eating bacon, and real bread, and
jam
.’’

“
We
are eating porridge again.’’ She slammed some into a dish and shoved it at him. “Here.’’

Jamie looked at his mother, then his father. “Is the day after the Fourth always like this? `Cause if it is, I think I’ll pass on the Fourth next year.’’

Neither of his parents laughed, or even smiled. Jamie took his plate and rambled off in the direction of the Donner Party. Maybe someone would take pity on him and slap a little jam on top.

Johnny ignored the oatmeal and went off into the grass to seek a quiet brooding place. Maggie spooned porridge into Charlotte, put her into the wagon for a nap, and walked back out. Her glance took in both their wagons and all their earthly possessions. Was it really worthwhile, this thing they were doing? Would the printing press Johnny had salvaged so long ago ever make it to Oregon? If it did, would they~she and Johnny~would the two still be working together as a team, or would their current differences pull them still farther apart?

Maggie was fixing to allow herself a good wallow in tears when a movement caught her eye near the front of Johnny’s wagon. Had he returned to fuss with the traces? He’d been complaining that one of them was developing a crack.

No. Even with their fight and his hangover, Johnny would not be moving so stealthily. Maggie strode over to see what was going on for herself. Fight or no, this was still Stuart territory, hers as well as Johnny’s.

As she rounded the corner of the white top she caught a head pulled swiftly from the front opening. The man straightened himself to his full height and faced her.

“Mr. Gentry! Have you any particular reason for poking into affairs obviously not your own?’’

“Ah, the still fair Mrs. Stuart! So you’ve discovered my name!’’

His voice was oily today. Maggie trusted him even less than the night before.

“And you mine,’’ she shot back.

“It is a small world after all, this mutual camp of ours.’’ He brushed back his full head of hair trying to disguise the grease he’d gotten upon his pristine fingers.

“Riding with our train gives you no right to trespass.’’

“I was merely . . . seeking your husband. To inquire after his health.’’

“It would have been far better without the intervention of your fist last night.’’

Gentry chose to appear affronted. “I did not start the altercation, Madam.’’

“Fair enough.’’ Maggie sighed and backed off a step. Gentry took the opportunity to move forward several paces.

“I couldn’t help noticing the sign on your other wagon. About books. And, er, what appears to be a Ramage printing press in this wagon.’’

Maggie decided not to budge another step. She had a very strong suspicion that Gentry’s words carried more meaning than he intended. How would a man like this know enough about presses to recognize theirs as a Ramage?

“Are you in the trade yourself, Mr. Gentry?’’

“Peripherally, just peripherally. You don’t see many Ramages heading West. You don’t even see many back in the states.’’

“I’m not an expert. You’d have to take up that subject with my husband.’’

“Perhaps I shall.’’

He moved closer. Maggie could feel the warmth of his body. And a man smell about him. Not like Johnny, or even Red Eagle. It seemed compounded of bay rum and heat. And not just the heat of the day. Warning bells went off in her brain. Maggie took a stumbling step backwards.

His hand shot out to steady her. “What is a woman like you doing on this journey? You belong in different, finer places.’’

“I could ask the same of yourself,’’ she spat back as she loosed her arm from his grip. “We have predators enough already.’’

He laughed, and the sound was hard and sharp.

“You would make a fine addition to my collection, my dear. My collection of precious things. I will leave you now, as duty calls. But I will return for you when the moment is ripe.’’

Flabbergasted, Maggie could think of no retort. She only watched as Gentry returned to his own territory.

That evening before dinner Maggie was dutifully reporting most of what had occurred during her noon meeting with Gentry to her husband when Jamie appeared with a smirk on his face and strawberry jam on his cheeks. She stopped in mid sentence and frowned.

“Have you been begging sweets from the other train?’’

“No, ma’am. I never would beg.’’ He grinned to himself. Standing around looking hungry and hopeful wasn’t the same as outright begging, no way. Besides, those people had so much of everything. It seemed a shame not to help share it.

“Where did you get the jam, then, young man?’’

“Answer your mother, boy!’’

Jamie’s eyes skittered nervously to his father. He was still in a pretty bad way. Looked like trouble for sure. Jamie tried to remember the jam’s sweetness for one more forbidden second.

“Mr. Gentry. He was ever so polite about it. I didn’t ask for it at all, truly! I was just walking around admiring his horses and he comes up to me with this
huge
jar of jam and a spoon. He fills that spoon up right full and hands it to me, then starts in asking questions.’’

Johnny felt for his bruised cheek. “What kind of questions, Jamie?’’

The boy stretched his tongue out as far as it would reach to get to some more of that leftover jam. “Oh, nothing special. Just about your printing trade, and wherever had we got such a fine press? Stuff like that.’’

“And what did you tell him?’’ Johnny’s voice was too calm, like the summer prairie just before a thunder storm.

“I told him to ask my Pa, and the stinker pulls back the spoon afore I could dig in after some more!’’

“Jamie! Watch your tongue!’’

Jamie looked at his mother. He judged she wasn’t really that angry. Then he looked at his father. Pa had let out his pent up breath and was smiling. For the first time that day, as near as Jamie could remember.

“You did well, son. Now go off and play till dinner. But try to keep some distance between yourself and the Donner people. They’re not our kind of folks. Understand?’’

“Yes, sir. I guess so. Our kind of folks would leave out the jam if they had enough, like he did.’’

For once Maggie and Johnny were in agreement when Johnny commented softly, “
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.’’

Johnny recovered from his hangover. His face began to look as if it might regain its former shape again. But he hadn’t slept with his wife in days. Even if he’d agreed in theory that the Donner people were not
their kind of folks
, he seemed to feel duty bound to give his aid and assistance to that poor struggling widow, Annabelle Lorcum. The fact that she had a perfectly competent hired drover to assist her did not seem to register on either the woman or Johnny.

Johnny could not quite explain the phenomenon himself. Something kept drawing him in the Donner Party’s direction. He told himself he was doing exploratory investigations into Gentry’s background. But all he could learn was that the man was a competent gambler and sharpshooter, and that he had travelled extensively in Europe and the States before choosing the path West. If Johnny generally ended up near Annabelle’s wagon, if he chose to accept one of her precious tinned sweet biscuits, why that was just being neighborly.

Maggie retired early with the children in the book wagon, leaving her husband alone with the tent. It was a wise decision in light of the reign of terror that descended nightly from voracious mosquitoes, but it did nothing to improve either of their states of mind. Johnny would wake up, itchy and cranky, longing for the balm of his wife’s smile. When it was not forthcoming he’d go in search of one that he knew was.

The drought continued. Even the fine ladies of the Donner Party began to wilt. The wagons crossed and recrossed the swift currents of the Sweet Water and were hit with clouds of sand and dust, dimming the sky and sage-covered hills, penetrating everything. Then they had the ill luck to have their cattle fill themselves with bad water at an alkali marsh.

It was the noon break again, and the wet depression seemed very inviting. The emigrants loosed their stock. Too late they tested of the water themselves. The recalcitrant animals would not be chased away, or even stampeded from their drinks, but when filled lay down with pitiful groans and could not be moved.

The Stuart’s wagon had been to the rear of the line again~for once a saving grace. Johnny had not yet freed their oxen before worried friends came running back. Johnny left the poor beasts yoked, struggling to reach the water they smelled, tongues lolling, breasts heaving.

The Donner group was hardest hit. They’d insisted on barreling ahead that morning, saying they hadn’t officially signed on with the Chandler party, and couldn’t be constrained by its rules. Even with this insult Maggie could not but feel sorry for the new party. Scores of oxen were lying bloated around the marsh, moaning piteously. She glanced at her husband. He was focused beyond the disaster, off into the mile long marsh before them. There was a curious expression on his face. He turned to his son.

“Jamie. Run get me the ax and a bucket like a good boy, please.’’

Jamie ran, and Johnny squished off through the depression, mud and corrosive waters up to his knees. Soon Jamie was back, chasing after his father through the swamp before Maggie could stop him. She watched as Johnny chose a spot covered with a tuft of sod and sank his ax into it. He did this again and yet again, stooping to examine something. Maggie was beyond curiosity by this point, and finally scooped up Charlotte in one arm, her skirts in her other, and waded in.

“What is it, Johnny?’’

He flashed one of his old grins, too long absent from his face. “Come and see, Meg!’’

He was holding what appeared to be a hunk of ice in his hands. How could that be? Maggie went closer. It
was
ice! She watched as he held it to his tongue and tasted of it.

“It’s clean. Pure water, I’d judge.’’

“But how did you ever~’’

“Jim Bridger was talking about an ice slough coming back from the buffalo hunt. I figured we should be coming near any day.’’ He slung the six-inch piece into the bucket.

“It’s as good as any you harvested back in Ohio on your father’s farm. We should be able to dig enough to water the animals and give the children a treat.’’

Maggie turned to Jamie. “Run back and get the shovel, son. I intend to help.’’

The boy hesitated. “Couldn’t I have a little piece of it now? I’m mighty hot already, and I could show it to the others, to prove what Pa found.’’

Maggie laughed and Johnny cut off a fist-sized hunk. Jamie raced back, holding the sliver in his hand like the miracle it was.

Soon the entire area was being dug up by both parties. They mined for it in the worst heat of the day as if it were gold, not water they were after.

Johnny was a hero again. There was talk about putting Johnny Stuart forward as captain when Chandler finally pulled his hat out of the ring. It was a fair certainty Chandler was on the verge of doing this. And hadn’t Stuart shown imagination today, daring during the buffalo hunts and bravery over that Indian business?

Maggie ignored the remarks she caught. It was easy to be the hero for a day. As soon as the ice melted in all those buckets the same folks would be complaining again as they wiped their brows~castigating Johnny, or anyone else at hand, for not coming up with another miracle for their comfort.

Still, she was refreshed by the incident. Refreshed enough to assay an attempt at making it all up with Johnny. Cutting up little chunks of ice for the baby to suck on and play with, Maggie glanced around to where her husband was tending their oxen. Her mouth was forming into a smile to welcome him back into the fold when Annabelle Lorcum sashayed into view, wringing her petite, lily-white hands. Without even a glance at his wife, Johnny dropped everything to inspect the widow’s ailing stock. Maggie shut her lips into a thin line that was both unbecoming and habit forming.

On the far side of the marsh was good grass, and a final halt was called for the day. It was necessary for the oxen who had survived the bad piece of water. For the dozens whose stomachs were yet swelling beneath the sun there was no longer any hope. For Maggie, too, hope was wearing thin.

She was trying to grind together some pemmican in a mortar when she received a rare visit from Ruth Winslow. Maggie looked up in surprise. Her fingers dropped the pestle that had been pulverizing jerky with an anger that would have destroyed any living thing beneath her hand.

“What is it?’’ Her voice came out more aggressively than even Maggie had expected. She tried again as she saw Ruth flinch. “Excuse me. I fear my mind has not been harboring Christian thoughts.’’

The preacher’s wife took a very tentative step forward. “If this is an ill-conceived moment~’’

“No . . . No.’’ Maggie sat back, her work forgotten. “I only feared for the continued existence of the entire male gender if they had been beneath my hand a minute past.’’

“It happens to you, too? I thought it was only myself. The . . . the anger that wells up, unwanted. I have tried so hard to fight it. Surely God could not countenance such feelings~’’

“And why not? They say He made them all in
His
image. That presupposes that He approves of their swaggering, their womanizing. Lords of the earth! Just think for a moment if He had been a She. Think of the revenge we women could have!’’

Ruth Winslow was taken aback at the thought, but not as much as Maggie might have expected. Perhaps blasphemy had a natural place in the barren landscape of earth they were currently traversing.

Ruth settled next to Maggie, anxious for a continuation of the most fascinating conversation she’d had in months. Her husband could not castigate her for this. This was
theology
, and she was but continuing his work.

“I cannot understand these sentiments from you, Mrs. Stuart. You, whose husband shoulders more of the communal work than any other man in both trains. Even now I saw him walking with your children. Had my husband been taking our children in hand, or some of the chores, I would praise God whilst it lasted. Instead, he be in hiding, trying to meditate on the mysteries of the Donner Party . . .’’ She stumbled to a halt.

Maggie cut in quickly. “You’ve noticed something? Tell me, please!’’

Ruth pulled back. “It’s nothing. Just the Reverend’s natural inclination to look for the bad before seeing the good. His feelings lie strongly with an Old Testament God.’’

“Meaning do unto others before they can do unto you? An eye for an eye?’’

The preacher’s wife sighed. “Something like that. I often wonder at the incongruity of it from a Christian minister’s mouth. He would have fared better in the days of blood sacrifice atop a burning pyre. He’ll not forget, and believes that no one else will, either.’’

Maggie’s mind was churning at top speed. “Is that why he carries his hatred of the Mormons into his talks? Have they done something to you in the past?’’

“It’s not what they’ve done to us~’’ Suddenly Ruth Winslow was remembering herself again. “I’ve left something on the fire that must be looked after.’’ She was struggling to her feet.

Maggie held out an arm to stop her. “But what you came to talk about. It concerns the Donners, doesn’t it?’’