Brides of Prairie Gold Page 6

  After a minute Cody cleared his throat, then raised the cider to his lips. "How ill is Winnie Larson?"

  "We all assumed it was coach fever," Perrin answered slowly, grateful to move beyond the disturbing moment of mutual understanding. "But she should have recovered by now." When she saw a spark of alarm flare in Cody's eyes, she added hastily, "It's not cholera. Sarah Jennings has seen cholera and this isn't it. Winnie isn't feverish or nauseous. She's just" Puzzled, she shook her head. "I don't know."

  Winnie Larson's condition had become a continuing and worrisome enigma. She didn't exhibit real symptoms of illness, yet neither was she capable of functioning adequately. When she attempted to help Jane Munger, her wagon partner, her mind drifted in the midst of a task and she seemed to forget what she was doing. Last night, when Perrin had stopped by Jane's and Winnie's wagon, she had discovered Winnie standing beside their cook fire, swaying and smiling into the flames, a pan of bread forgotten in her hand.

  Jane had pressed her lips together and shrugged helplessly.

  Dark circles rimmed her eyes, and her vivid coloring had dimmed with fatigue.

  Perrin frowned. "I've tried speaking to Winnie, but it's like talking to a cloud."

  "Are there other problems I should know about?"

  She couldn't give up this job, she could not. It felt so good to have a purpose, to believe that she might make a difference, however small. She simply could not let the other brides cast her back into loneliness before she had a chance to redeem herself. Somehow, some way, she vowed to prove to Cody and the others that she was more than her reputation suggested.

  "Ona Norris wrenched a finger. Bootie Glover set the grass on fire around her firepit, but Mem put it out." She paused and drew a deep breath as she always did before she could make herself speak Augusta's name. "One of Augusta Boyd's cows is limping."

  "Tell Miles Dawson to take a look at it."

  When she spoke again, the words came in a fierce rush. "I'm going to succeed as the women's representative, I know I can do this, and I will! But if" She swallowed and made herself go on. "If you find it necessary to replace me I think Sarah Jennings really wants the position. Hilda Chun or Mem Grant would also be good choices."

  Two weeks on the trail had revealed which of the brides could be depended on to approach a task straightforwardly and without hesitation or complaint. Sarah, Hilda, and Mem were as different as three women could be, but they were alike in competence, attitude, and strength of character.

  "Are you suggesting that I replace you with Mrs. Jennings?"

  When Perrin realized how readily the other brides would follow Sarah, or Hilda, or Mem, her heart sank.

  But trying had to count for something. Didn't it?

  "No. I want you to give me another chance."

  He hesitated, then walked out on the short grass budding on the land. Finally he turned and looked at her. "I don't know why, but I'm pulling for you, Mrs. Waverly. I'd like to see you succeed." He tossed the rest of his cider on the ground. "Don't misunderstand. This gets corrected or we make a change. I don't have time for constant interruptions. If you can't handle being the women's representative, I expect Sarah Jennings can."

  "I can do it!"

  "Show me."

  Turning so abruptly that her skirts billowed behind her, Perrin walked away before he could see the tears of frustration that sprang into her eyes. All right. Now all she had to do was figure out how to make the women come to her instead of bothering Cody. And she had to fight her attraction to him. She would. She had to.

  Miles Dawson and John Voss strung a rope down to the stream so none of the women would slip and fall, and they hacked a crude path through the thicket of willows crowding the banks. A second, separate bathing spot was designated for the men.

  Though the brides agreed the males in their train appeared to be honorable, they also knew the young teamsters could be prankish, so Perrin Waverly volunteered to stand guard at the top of the rope and chase away any male who wandered too near. With their privacy ensured, the other women could enjoy their first bath since the journey had begun. Everyone hurried through irksome chores in anticipation of the treat.

  Hastily, Mem Grant lined up tins of rising bread dough, crowding the pans along the wagon's sideboard. That done, she filled a large pot with water from the barrel she would replenish later today, and put the supper beans to soak. Next, she sorted the laundry into piles and located a cake of mild soap that would serve for laundry and for a bath. Lye soap would have been better for the laundry, but she couldn't find her wash supplies.

  "Where are our towels?" she muttered in exasperation. Mem couldn't stand fully erect inside the wagon, couldn't reach the trunks in the back of the wagon bed. She had believed she had planned the load carefully with everyday needs within easy reach, then the food barrels, and finally the items they would not require until they reached Oregon and set up housekeeping. Frowning, she tried to recall who had packed the linens. Surely Bootie hadn't packed their towels in the Oregon trunks.

  "It's warm today, but the wind is chilly," Bootie called, raising her voice so Mem could hear her inside the wagon. She wrapped dust-caked skirts around the bundles of soiled linen so their petticoats couldn't be seen. "Augusta said there was ice in the water."

  "A brisk dip will be invigorating. Where on earth are the towels?"

  "I've never bathed outside, or in front of other people," Bootie added. Mem glanced out the back of the wagon and saw her sister wringing her hands and glaring as if the air and sunshine were enemies. "But if Augusta can bathe in a stream, so can I."

  "You certainly can if you want to be clean. Heaven knows when we'll have another chance." To fend off the headache building at the top of her spine, Mem planned how she would describe stream bathing in her journal. She would make it sound exciting and extraordinary to her descendants, perhaps amusing. But the words wouldn't form in her mind. Right now all she could think about was the anticipated pleasure of washing the travel grime off her skin and trail dust out of her hair.

  Bootie offered a hand when she climbed down from the wagon, but Mem waved it away. If she relied on Bootie, chances were they'd both fall to the ground. "We'll use these old shawls as towels until I can find ours." She lifted a bundle of laundry, waited for Bootie to gather a pile, then they walked toward the ropes the teamsters had strung.

  "Oh! I meant to ask. Do you recall the names carved on the crosses we passed last night?"

  Mem looked at her sister. "What is the point of filling your trip journal with the names of people who have died?"

  She didn't understand Bootie's obsession with the graves they passed every day or so. Here they were, having the grand adventure of their lives. There were a thousand new and exciting experiences to record. The first river crossing, the first antelope sighted, the first meal that wasn't raw or overcooked, the first warm day, the first bath in a cold rushing stream.

  A fringe of reddish gold hair and Bootie's frowning gray eyes were all that showed above her bundle of laundry. "Augusta says it's important to make sure those poor unfortunates are not forgotten."

  "Then let Augusta record their names."

  "Augusta says it is our Christian duty to assume this obligation. Besides, I can't think of anything else to write in my journal."

  "Augusta says!" Mem rolled her eyes. "I am growing thoroughly weary of hearing that Augusta says this and Augusta says that. Perhaps you've forgotten that less than a month ago, Her Majesty wouldn't deign to give you a nod when she passed you in the street. And frankly, I doubt you'll be deluged with invitations from her once we arrive in Clampet Falls. Why you follow after that woman like a lapdog mystifies me."

  Bootie's eyebrows soared above the pile of laundry. "Augusta and I are becoming friends! She's a true lady!"

  "So are you. So what? If you ask me, Cora Thorp has more character in her little toe than Augusta Boyd has in her entire snooty body. That poor young Miss Thorp is working herself into a state of exhaust
ion because your esteemed 'friend' considers herself too refined to lift a finger."

  The mere suggestion of Augusta Boyd assisting with the tasks of ordinary mortals appeared to shock Bootie. Mem sighed. She wondered if Bootie had really joined this venture to be with her, or if the appeal of the journey had been that Bootie had finally spied a way to insinuate herself into Augusta Boyd's charmed circle. If Mem had an apple seed for every time Bootie had taken to her bed in grief over being excluded from one of Augusta Boyd's teas or soirees, she could have planted an orchard.

  They washed their laundry first, clumsily and not very thoroughly. Smiling, they exchanged excuses with Hilda Clum and Cora Thorp as to why they were not taking time to heat boiling water and do the job properly. Mem was not the only bride to rush through her chores; apparently everyone was impatient for a bath and eager to visit Addison's farmhouse and see what there was to see. Bootie helped her drape their wet petticoats and gowns on willows to dry in the thin spring sunshine, then finally they were free to rush down to the bathing area.

  Halting on the path, Mem observed the others for a minute, then laughed out loud with pleasure. Ona Norris and Thea Reeves frolicked in the cold water like young otters, splashing and shrieking and laughing as their skin turned red with cold. Sarah Jennings stood in water fluming around her knees, wearing a white shimmy and pantaloons, washing Lucy Hastings's hair. Cora Thorp, Hilda, and Jane Munger pressed head to wet head, examining a family of sand turtles they had found along the bank.

  Bootie and Augusta huddled on the stream bank in dismayed silence, the sun shining on loosened tresses of reddish gold and blond, contemplating the cold tumbling water with dread. They could stand there all day if they liked, Mem decided, but not her. She threw off her gown and petticoats, then ran forward in her chemise and pantaloons and plunged into the stream, yelping when the icy flow struck her skin.

  Lord, Lord, it was marvelous. An experience that was simply incomparable. How many women ever had the opportunity to bathe in the open air like a child of nature? After splashing water up her arms and over the goose bumps rising on her shoulders, Mem tugged her hair loose, then bent at the waist and let the heavy spill of auburn drop into the water. She laughed with joy as frigid water stung her scalp like icy needles. If she hadn't been a dignified twenty-eight year old, she would have joined the younger women splashing and chasing each other through the shallows. She was sorely tempted. But she had promised to relieve Perrin at the top of the rope, and it wouldn't be fair to waste time in play.

  When she stood upright to wring the water from her hair, she noticed that Bootie and Augusta still shivered on the bank, as dry as two Methodists, cringing from flying droplets and shuddering. As might have been predicted, Augusta's pantaloons were trimmed with expensive imported lace and her chemise had been tailored to her trim body instead of fitting loose like everyone else's did. Augusta observed Ona's and Thea's frolics with an expression of superiority and distaste.

  Mem truly did not comprehend Bootie's infatuation with Augusta Boyd. In Chastity, Augusta had been a distant queenly figure, too elevated by society and her own imagination to take notice of the likes of Bootie Glover or Mem Grant.

  A closer acquaintance forced by the trail had not improved Mem's impression. In her opinion, Augusta Boyd was self-absorbed, selfish, standoffish, and a generally useless woman. She was curt to the teamsters, imperious with Mr. Snow, and painfully rude to Webb Coate. She was barely civil to poor Cora Thorp and seldom mingled with the other brides. If Augusta Boyd was the product of money and position, then Mem was glad she had neither.

  Quickly she finished washing, glorying in the tingle of the cold water and in feeling clean again, then she dashed out of the stream, toweled her skin and hair, and hastily dressed.

  "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," she apologized to Perrin. Extending her hands, she laughed at the fiery glow on her pale, redhead's skin. "The water was wonderful! I hated to get out."

  When Perrin Waverly smiled, she was truly beautiful. Studying her, Mem decided that Perrin was, quite simply, one of the loveliest-looking women she had ever met. On the surface, Mrs. Waverly was small and delicate, but Mem sensed strength beneath those fine bones. It required strength and courage to face down the rumors Mem suspected Perrin must surely know were circulating among the women.

  Mem had no idea whether the gossip was true; she didn't know if Perrin Waverly actually was a fallen woman. But she had considered the matter and had concluded that she personally didn't care.

  In Mem's opinion, all women were but one catastrophic disaster away from sinking into shame. If Bootie and Robert had not offered Mem a home, she didn't know what might have become of her. Maybe she too but that didn't bear thinking about. In fact, it impressed her as rather hilarious that she, a virgin spinster, could even think about taking a lover on a paying basis. It was a good thing that Bootie couldn't read her mind.

  Nevertheless, it wouldn't do to rush to judgment as regards the choices Mrs. Waverly had made.

  "Are you and Hilda planning to visit the Addison farm this afternoon?" Mem asked.

  Perrin touched the dusty bun coiled at the nape of her neck and gazed toward the sounds of splashing and shouts of laughter. Eagerness sparkled in her large dark eyes. "I'm going, but Hilda hasn't decided yet."

  "If you like" Mem paused, then finished her thought before she could change her mind "I'll wait while you do your laundry and bathe. We could walk up to the farmhouse together." A decision which was certain to scandalize Bootie.

  Perrin's head jerked up, and a leap of gratitude moistened her eyes. "I'd like that," she said in a low voice, "Very much. I promise I won't be long."

  "Don't hurry on my account. I need to finish some baking before we go, and I promised myself I'd reorganize our wagon."

  Perrin touched Mem's sleeve, then started down the path to the stream, pausing once to look at Mem over her shoulder.

  After peering around to make sure none of the teamsters were lurking about, Mem sat on a large stone and fluffed a sheet of wet hair across her shoulders to dry.

  In her mind she continued to see Perrin's large eyes and moist gratitude. A sigh lifted Mem's bosom. It was time someone besides Hilda Clum offered Perrin Waverly a little support. "There but for the grace of God"

  There was precious little to see at the farmhouse, Augusta decided. She had walked this distance for nothing. The Addison boy's cider looked weak and it cost three pennies a cup. Still, she was thirsty after the trek so she poked about her purse with a stricken expression and pretended to Bootie that she had forgotten to bring any money. Permitting Bootie to buy her a cup of weak cider meant she had to put up with Bootie for the rest of the afternoon, and that would be a trial, but she deserved a cup of cider.

  The cider was as watery as she had predicted, but cool. After refreshing themselves, she and Bootie paid a duty call on Mrs. Addison at the house. The rooms were large and airy, but the furnishings proved as dismal as Mrs. Addison's outdated gown.

  "No sense of fashion at all," Augusta commented as they stepped off the porch and opened their parasols.

  "None," Bootie echoed.

  They strolled about the yard before stopping at a safe distance from the well housing, where three Indians sat on the bare ground, two men and a woman, expressionlessly extending their palms in silent appeal for coins. It was disgusting. Some of the brides gathered around them, and as Augusta watched, Lucy Hastings actually gave one of the creatures a nickel.

  "She is a preacher's daughter, but still"

  Bootie was about to agree, but before she could speak, Cora Thorp broke away from the group circled around the Indians and joined them, a determined look pinching her small sour features.

  "The least you could do is buy me a cup of cider too," Cora snapped, her expression daring Augusta to disagree.

  "Excuse us, will you?" she said to Bootie, then clutched Cora's elbow and drew her away from eavesdroppers. "How dare you address me in that tone!"

/>   Cora's chin came up. "I could buy my own cool drink if you'd pay me what I'm owed! And a trinket too if I wanted one. But I suppose that ain't going to happen, leastways not right now. So you can just give me enough for a cup of cider!"

  Icy fingers gripped Augusta's stomach. She didn't know what she was going to do. Cora was becoming more belligerent by the day, relentlessly demanding her wages. And Augusta couldn't pay them. Pride, and fear of exposure, was turning her into a nervous Nellie. She stared at Cora's cheap bonnet and jutting chin, and wondered how much time she had left before Cora started complaining about her wages in front of the other brides.

  The possibility made Augusta feel faint. She couldn't bear it that the pride of the Boyds rested on the crumbling discretion of a gravedigger's daughter. She would die, absolutely die of shame if the others discovered that she had only forty dollars to see her through to Oregon. Forty dollars was her entire fortune, all that remained after she had paid her father's debts and repaid the money he had embezzled from his own bank.

  And Cora wanted one-eighth of it. If Augusta paid Cora five dollars to clear her back wages, she would have only thirty-five dollars to last five months and two thousand miles.

  For a moment she stared into Cora's challenging eyes and she hated Cora Thorp with a passion she hadn't known she was capable of feeling. Then, tight-lipped and trembling, she opened the drawstring on the little purse dangling from her wrist and repeated the charade she had performed earlier for Bootie Glover.

  "I've spent the money I brought," she informed Cora in her most imperious tones.

  "You had money for your cider," Cora said, not believing her. "I want some too." She stamped her boot on the ground. "Damn it, I want my wages!"

  "Hush!" Panicked perspiration sprouted under Augusta's arms. "You don't need to shout. I I'll pay you a dollar when we get back to the wagon."

  "Good. But I want some cider now !"

  Horrified by Cora's rising voice, Augusta swiftly looked around to see if anyone had heard. She had to do something quickly. "Wait here, you sniveling little chippy!"