100% Pure Cowboy (7 page)
It really was a shame that the two girls would be parted so soon. They had a lot to offer one another. Mollie's innate sweetness and love of the land was rubbing off on Lynn who, in turn, was eager to coach her country friend in the finer points of becoming hip.
“Can you believe Mollie's never even heard of Iggy Pop?”
“Can you believe Lynn's never ridden a horse?” they asked their parents respectively.
Both Cody and Danielle shook their heads in mock disbelief.
Danielle was glad that Cody gave the girls several short breaks during the day to rest. Just how easy it would be to fall prey to heat exhaustion among other numerous perils of the trail was clearly illuminated in the diary that Danielle had received the first day of the expedition.
What had started out as merely another choreâreading about the lives of actual pioneers who had traveled the Oregon Trailâsoon became something to which Danielle looked forward. Stolen moments alone with Matty O'Shaw, the author of the diary that she carried in the pockets of her full gingham skirt were becoming a bright spot in her day. Simple and to the point, Matty's words poignantly described both the perils and the beauty of the Old West. During rest periods, Danielle slipped into the shade of the wagon, opened the diary, and allowed herself to be drawn into the past.
June 12, 1846
Saw my first Indian today. Rather than the frightening savages about which we have been warned, the fellow looked more forlorn than bloodthirsty. Watching the progression of wagons miles long dissecting these lonely plains, it surely must have seemed to him that all mankind has turned his face westward. The resigned expression that he wore bespoke the realization that his native land will not long remain untouched by the white man's hand.
Among us there is much grumbling about the heat and the never-ending wind which assails us with great clouds of dirt for days on end. For my part, I try to keep my eyes on the wildflowers of the prairie which are unmindful of the poor quality of soil in which they flourish.
Every day more fall victim to the cholera that claimed my own dear husband. I miss him terribly. It is much harder than I had imagined to fulfill my promise to John. Today Mr. Bennet, our wagon master, informed me that my family will be left at the next settlement. He has been approached about the propriety of a widow with three small children traveling in the company of so many unattached men. I bade him not to worry and assured him that as I will be showing soon few men will be interested in me. The poor man looked positively stricken at the news that I have every intention of delivering the baby in Oregonâjust as I promised John.
Closing her eyes against the glaring sun, Danielle contemplated the courage of women such as Matty O'Shaw. Thirty years old, she had given birth to five children, two of which were stillborn, and assisted her husband through an agonizing death. Instead of succumbing to grief and self-pity, she bravely lifted her chin and pointed it westward, praying for the strength to fulfill the promise she made on her husband's deathbedâto keep going, to give their children a new chance in the promised land.
The woman had grit. The same kind of grit that Danielle supposed made Cody Walker such a good leader. She was amazed how he had been able to instill in a wide cross section of teenage girls trust not only in him, but also in each other and, perhaps most importantly, in their own innate abilities. Unwilling to risk his disapproval, each day they rose to meet the expectations he set for them. With his tight jeans, cowboy hat, mischievous smile, and a firm hand, Cody was proving himself a hero for the nineties. The kind of man that every little boy wanted to grow up to be and every little girl wanted to grow up to marry.
Hearing the sound of childish laughter resounding over the foothills of the Wind River Mountain Range, Danielle was suddenly very glad that she and Lynn had embarked upon this historic trek. The endless blue sky overhead was truly medicine for weary hearts. Oregon Butte loomed in the distance, a great blue chunk of granite as solid as Matty O'Shaw's resolve.
Open spaces and a commonality of tasks were having an almost magical effect upon Danielle's relationship with her daughter. Life without television, telephones, and music videos wasn't all bad. Like the many wildflowers strewn along the trail, the art of conversation was experiencing a beautiful rebirth. A gentle breeze tugged at Danielle's skirt, and she could almost hear the sound of a certain stubborn pioneer ghost whispering her approval.
Although it was nice to be sheltered from the relentless prairie winds, the foothills of the Wind River Range presented their own unique challenges. Small creeks crisscrossed the countryside, and Danielle soon came to appreciate the wisdom of Cody's directive that only skilled drivers be allowed on the wagons. There were a total of ten wagons, and not a man among them but their wagon master.
If ever there was a study in female ingenuity and pluck, this was it. Mollie and a Native American girl by the name of Brook Warren were the youngest drivers. Seven other den mothers were in charge of driving their wagons: Kathy McCuen, Pat Curtis, Vicki Zoller, Brandi Winchester, Sandy Burke, Bev Marshall and June Matson's mother, Barbara. Raised on ranches since birth, it never occurred to these determined individualists that handling a horse and wagon was the least bit unfeminine.
The infirmary/supply wagon that followed up the rear was driven by an older woman of indiscriminate age who could have passed herself off as Methuselah had she wanted to. Rose's name was tattooed on her right shoulder. She spoke little to anyone and spat chewing tobacco alongside her wagon with obvious relish.
That left Danielle and Joy Lawton, the only other out-of-stater, walking alongside the wagon train. The two pedestrians took to one another immediately. Both divorced mothers had been coerced into sponsoring their troops with equal measures of guilt and false promises that certain luxuries would be afforded them.
It amazed Danielle to see such cumbersome conveyances as these covered wagons coaxed up hillsides of sheer rock. The wheels fit neatly into existing groves, worn several inches deep by travelers well over a century ago. With each passing mile, Danielle not only gained respect for pioneers such as Matty, but also for the modern man leading fiftysome girls through the corridor of the past with a firm hand and a smile that as Mollie so succinctly put it “could charm the rattles out of a snake.”
Splashing through ankle-deep water in the middle of the open plains was bizarre. It was interesting to read in Matty O'Shaw's diary how the water shaded by the long grasses of the open prairie froze in winter and provided the pioneers into late spring with one to two foot chunks of a most precious commodityâice.
Crossing the ice slough gave Danielle a false sense of well-being. When they once again came upon the Sweetwater River, her confidence deflated like a balloon with a slow leak. To reach the convergence of the Oregon, California, and Mormon Trails, they would have to cross the Sweetwater here. Due to an unusually wet spring, the water was high. Churning water surged around and over boulders that would surely prove treacherous to anyone who lost their footing. Danielle stood on the bank and stared fretfully at the swirling chaos. The dog paddle she had displayed for Cody the other night was the height of her swimming ability, and she had no desire to exhibit it for the rest of the wagon train. The fast-running current terrified her.
Without a bridge in sight, she questioned the wisdom of fording such a dangerous crossing. If he knew she was afraid, Danielle was certain that Cody would lampoon her unmercifully. Swallowing her apprehension like a bitter pill, she muttered the now-familiar phrase to herself, “Cowboy up!”
She was relieved to see Cody direct the wagon train down the river a ways to a bend where the water was slower and more shallow.
“We'll cross here,” he said as nonchalantly as if he were picking out a restaurant for the evening.
When Mollie volunteered to be the first to ford the river, Cody couldn't disguise the concern in his eyes. A flash of pain crossed his bright irises as he recalled the freak accident that had claimed Rachael's life. The fear of losing his daughter to a similar trick of fate made him all the more protective of her. Just the other day Mollie accused him of trying to raise her in a bubble. Though he assured her that wasn't the case, Cody was forever pledged to do everything in his power to protect his daughter from harm.
Cody's knuckles turned white against the rein he had subconsciously wrapped too tightly around his left hand.
Damn it all, why did Mollie have to be such a confounded tomboy? She was certain to take offense if he insisted on driving the wagon across himself. Such an act on his part was sure to manifest itself into another long, drawn out “discussion” about why he wouldn't let her start rodeoing.
“You take it real slow and easy. No showing off,” he said at length. Leaning out of the saddle, he reached over and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
The gesture was so sweet, so automatic, that Danielle's heart bumped against her chest. Whatever else she thought about Cody, there was no doubt he was a kind and loving father.
“Haw!” Mollie called in a voice that cracked the air like a bullwhip. She gathered both reins in one hand and flicked a light whip to the horses' flanks. With a slow, easy lurch, the wagon crept toward the river. As they stepped forward into the current, the wagon rocked unsteadily, and Danielle felt her breath catch. In a very short time she had come to care deeply for the little girl who sneaked her both candy bars and encouraging words along the trail.
If anything happens to her...
Danielle couldn't even think about it. Losing Mollie would be like losing the sunshine. The lead horse stumbled, almost pitching their ponytailed driver headlong into the river. Danielle's stomach leaped to her throat.
A deft maneuver on Mollie's part brought the horse back into its traces. Just as quickly as the wagon had entered the current it seemed the girl was on the opposite bank basking in the warmth of the sun and of the spontaneous applause of the entire assemblage of Prairie Scouts. Hopping off the wagon, she took a theatrical bow.
As the other drivers lined up to take their turn, Cody directed those on foot to hitch their skirts up around their waists and wade on across, downstream from the wagons so if they happened to fall, they wouldn't be swept into the horses.
It all made perfect, terrifying sense to Danielle, who was nervously awaiting her troop's turn. Dutifully they did as they were told, shucking off their shoes, tying them together, and hanging them around their necks.
“Come on, Mom,” called Lynn, splashing the cold water with the brash surety of youth. “Don't be such a fraidy cat!”
Danielle felt Cody's eyes upon the interchange. Though she had little desire to “hitch up her skirt” while those penetrating blue eyes were watching, she had little choice. She could hardly admit being afraid to the man who said he couldn't be bothered baby-sitting a bunch of city slickers.
Lynn extended her mother a helping hand, and she stepped upon the closest exposed rock.
It was almost as arousing watching Danielle Herte enter the water as exit it the other night. All of a sudden Cody came to understand how those old pioneers could have gotten so turned on by the mere glimpse of a turned ankle. If they had gotten a gander at thighs as shapely as this woman's, he had a feeling that the Oregon Trail would have ended right here.
Cody was uncomfortably aware that the bulge in his jeans would be hard to explain to a group of hormonally crazed teenage girls. He was just shifting in the saddle trying to get his libido under control when he saw Danielle slip, grab for a piece of the sky, and fall into the river. Her scream was stifled by a mouthful of water.
Though the impact of that sound seemed to cut off the blood to his heart, it didn't delay his instincts for a second. He dug his heels into the Appaloosa's flanks and headed downstream. Positioning himself a short distance in front of Danielle's flailing form, Cody plunged into the water and a minute later dissected her course.
She was sputtering and scared, but it appeared that nothing more than her pride was hurt. Cody reached a hand out to her. Their eyes locked, and for a brief moment they were bound to one another in the midst of a swirling whirlpool.
I wouldn't take your help if you tied a pink bow around that fat cowboy hat of yours and begged me!
he remembered her once saying.
he remembered her once saying.
Recognizing that very same stubborn flicker of resistance in Danielle's eyes, Cody wondered if there would always be this sense of challenge between them. Surely the woman couldn't actually prefer drowning to accepting his help.
“Maybe you should try standing up to see if you really are in over your head,” he suggested, a glimmer of mirth tickling the edges of his mouth.
Too panicked to have even thought of testing the depth of the water, Danielle couldn't believe she could make such an embarrassing fool of herself. She stopped flailing her arms and put her feet beneath her. As she went under with a surprised glub, Cody grabbed at her hand and in a smooth, effortless motion fished her out of the water.
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