Baby On The Oregon Trail. Lynna Banning
who you are, Mr. Carver.”
He’d joined the wagon train at Fort Kearney. A former Confederate soldier, Emma had confided. A Virginian. From a slave-holding plantation, no doubt. Jenna’s father had fought for the Union; he’d been killed at Antietam.
“I’ve come to yoke up your team.”
Her stomach clenched, and it must have shown on her face.
“Ma’am? Are you unwell?”
“Mr. Carver, surely someone other than you volunteered?”
His gaze flicked to the back of the wagon, where Tess’s face was peeking out from the curtain. “Mrs. Borland, is there someplace we can talk in private?”
“Why?”
Gently he grasped her elbow and moved her away from camp. “I want to tell you why I volunteered.”
“I don’t really care why, Mr. Carver.”
“I think you may when you hear what I have to say,” he said quietly. “You see, it was my horse your husband was stealing. I was the one who shot him.”
Jenna stared at him until her eyes began to burn. “Dear God in heaven, why would I want anything, anything at all, to do with the man who killed my husband?”
A flash of pain crossed his tanned face. “You probably don’t, Mrs. Borland. And I can’t blame you. But I’d sure appreciate it if you’d hear me out.”
Shaking with fury, Jenna propped her fists at her waist and waited. She could scarcely stand to look at him.
“I didn’t know who was taking my horse,” he said after a moment. “Didn’t recognize the man. But I knew my horse. The rider was heading hell-for-leather—Excuse me, ma’am. He was riding toward the trading post we passed yesterday morning. I fired my rifle and he went down.”
“You killed him.”
“Yes, I did. I’m sorry he turned out to be your husband, and the father of your girls there.” He inclined his head toward the wagon where three heads now poked out from the rear bonnet.
“‘Sorry,’ Mr. Carver, is not enough,” she snapped.
“I realize that. I know nothing can ever replace your husband, but I’d like the chance to do what I can to make it up to you. That’s why I volunteered to drive your rig.”
“You cannot ‘make it up’ to me, Mr. Carver. Ever. Don’t you understand that?” She clamped her lips together, afraid she would cry.
“I mean to try, Mrs. Borland. Where’s your yoke and the harnesses for the oxen?”
“Did you not hear me?” Her voice went out of control, rising to a shout. She hated him! He was a cold-blooded killer. “I do not want your help!”
He turned his back on her and peered under the wagon. Mary Grace stuck her tongue out at him, but he paid no attention. Instead, he snaked an arm out to capture the tack and moved off to where the oxen grazed inside the circle of wagons. He moved with such assurance she wanted to toss the hot coals from her morning cook fire into his face.
The instant he was out of sight, Tess scrambled down and planted herself in front of Jenna. “You can’t let him do this!” she screamed. “He was my father, and that man killed him. He has no right to be here, touching Papa’s animals.”
Jenna sucked in an uneven breath and wrapped both arms across her waist. “Perhaps not, Tess. But neither of us can yoke up the oxen, and he has volunteered. I will speak to Mr. Lincoln tonight and ask for someone else.”
The girl’s face flushed, but Jenna was suddenly too weary to care. Her shoulders ached. Her head felt as if it were stuffed with sharp-pointed rocks.
“Take Ruthie down to the latrine, then get in the wagon.”
She paced around and around their small campsite until Tess and Ruthie returned and Mr. Carver appeared, tugging the oxen, Sue and Sunflower, by their lead ropes. He said nothing, just moved past her, positioned the two animals in front of the wagon and went about jockeying the yoke into place and adjusting the harnesses, his motions unhurried.
Jenna stepped closer to watch what he did.
He paused and his gray eyes sought hers. “Want me to teach you and your oldest girl how to do this?”
“I—No. I mean, yes. But not my oldest girl. Tess would find such a task beneath her.”
His dark eyebrows went up, and then he nodded. “My little sister never wanted to curry her own horse. Same reason.” He went back to adjusting Sue’s harness.
“How did your sister turn out?” she blurted out. “Was she spoiled?”
He straightened, a look of such naked anguish on his face that Jenna winced.
“My sister was killed when Sherman’s men reached Danville and marched through our plantation. Some Yankee soldier bashed her head with his rifle butt. She was eleven years old.”
Stunned, Jenna stared at him, a choking sadness knotting her chest.
Mr. Carver shuttered his features and bent over the hitch again. “Watch now, Mrs. Borland. You have to pull this ring tight, or it’ll work loose.”
“Mr. Carver, I—I am sorry about your sister.”
“War is ugly, ma’am. We did some awful things to you Yankees, too.”
“But a child! Dear God, what is the world coming to?”
“Wondered that a lot when I was in the field. And later, fighting the Sioux.” He finished tightening the jangling metal, patted the heads of both animals and turned to her. “What are their names?”
“Tess, Mary Grace and—”
He smiled, and she was struck by how white his teeth were against the tanned skin. “I meant your oxen, Mrs. Borland. Helps to know how to address them.”
“Address them? Mathias never talked to the oxen.”
“Lots of folks don’t. I do.”
“Sue and Sunflower. Sue is the one on the left.”
He nodded and scratched Sunflower behind one ear. “If you’re ready to pull out, I’ll go get my horse.”
A horse! She was terrified of horses. One had bucked her off when she was eight; she’d never forgotten it.
“Aren’t you going to...? Mr. Lincoln said the volunteer would drive our wagon.”
“I will do that, ma’am. I’ll just bring my horse and tie it beside the wagon.”
Jenna checked on the girls. “You two can walk alongside the wagon if you wish. Or you can ride inside, but it will be hot when the sun is high.”
“I’ll walk,” Mary Grace said.
“Me, too,” Ruthie chimed.
“I’d rather die than see that man driving Papa’s wagon,” Tess muttered. “I’ll stay inside.”
Jenna found her sunbonnet and a blue knitted shawl, then climbed up onto the driver’s box. She supposed she could learn to drive the oxen. She’d never liked the two animals. She’d never liked horses, either. But she supposed she could stand Mr. Carver until they stopped for supper tonight and she could speak to Sam Lincoln about a replacement.
Within ten minutes he returned, mounted on a huge, gleaming black horse. He tied it to the wagon, climbed up beside her and lifted the reins. Then without a word he lowered them again and eyed Ruthie, who stood clutching Mary Grace’s hand.
“You want your little one to ride up here?”
“Why?”
“It’s safer,” he said.
“Very