Echoes (18 page)

When she returned to the house, she found Rosie still in the kitchen, wiping down the empty shelf that once held her pots and pans. The old woman looked up when she entered. "Now just what are you smirking about?" she asked crossly.

"You, still cleaning."

"I know it's just going to sit empty and get dust and dirt. Probably spiders. But I can't go off and leave it dirty."

"It was not a criticism, Rosie. Cleanliness
is
next to Godliness."

Rosie made her bunny laugh at that. "So they keep preaching. Reckon I oughta be sainted some day soon." She folded her towel and gently hung it on the rack to dry. "I was just a young woman when we came here. Younger than you are now. I delivered four children and lost two under this very roof. Bet you didn't know that, did you?"

Molly shook her head.

"The others were boys too. Now they're dead and buried out yonder with Frank—that was my husband." She sighed and dabbed at her eyes. "I can't believe I'm leaving."

Molly put her arm around the woman's strong, thin shoulders. "I'm a bit frightened myself."

"I sure hope the Indians don't get my hair," Rosie said seriously. "I ain't got much left, but I don't care for the idea of it leaving my head."

"Yes, I would prefer to keep mine as well."

Rosie caught her bottom lip with her two front teeth and stared at Molly's thick, brown hair as if its removal were tragically unavoidable.

"Rosie, you are going to scare me right back to New York."

Rosie's faded gray eyes twinkled. "I know better than that, Miss Molly Louise Marshall." She tittered again. "I sure know better than that."

Smiling, Molly said, "If I am honest, it's not the Indians I fear. It's the rivers."

"Why's that?"

"Because we must cross them."

Still arm in arm, the women looked around the empty house, both filled with a mild sense of shock. It had all happened so quickly, it didn't seem real. Yet the weeks before spent in frantic preparation could be felt in the ache of muscles and knotted ligaments of the back. They had potted meat, jarred fruit and vegetable alike, stored and salted, diced and boiled nearly everything in sight. Molly's hands were raw testimony to their labors.

From outside, they heard Adam calling their names with unmistakable impatience. Rosie heaved a sigh and nodded in a gesture that implied closure and resolve. "You ready?"

Molly handed Rosie her bonnet and tied her own beneath her chin. "I am ready."

The covered wagon was packed and yoked to a massive team of oxen. From the cover of her bonnet, she watched the Weston brothers check lines and wheels, halters and harnesses. Adam rechecked Brodie's lines, but never so that his brother would know. Molly admired the way he looked after his younger brother and shouldered the burden of responsibility for the entire family. He was a man who took his duties seriously and it eased her concerns knowing his competence was behind every step they would take.

"Come on, you two. Let's go," Brodie shouted, squirming in his excitement. He motioned them forward with animated impatience.

Molly scooped Arlie up into her arms and moved to the wagon where Adam and Brodie waited. Smiling that fine, broad smile that Molly had grown to expect from him, Adam relieved her of the pudgy, squirmy baby and hefted him up to the bench. He pointed a stern finger at him and said, "You stay put."

Arlie bounced his bottom on the seat with an overjoyed squeal that broadened Adam's grin. He looked at Molly, shaking his head. "We're in for it," he said.

"I am aware of that. Your son is perpetual motion."

She tipped her head back to look at him. Adam stood well over six feet tall with the broad shoulders and the muscular build of a man who worked with his hands instead of his words. Where Brodie had an infectious charm with his bright blue eyes and uninhibited enthusiasm, Adam's allure was more deeply male. It ran through him like the powerful current of a great river, so far below the surface it appeared not to flow at all. Until that is, one found herself caught in the stream and propelled in a new direction because of its force.

"Having second thoughts, city girl?" Adam asked, his voice soft and deep, lowered for her ears only.

"Most certainly not," she said. "It will take more than the jitters to be rid of me, Adam Weston."

Grinning, he wrapped his large hands around her waist and swung her up on the bench beside his bouncing son. Her stomach made an excited plunge as he lifted. For an instant her face was very close to his, so close she could smell the heat of his skin, breathe in the pulse of life that flowed through him.

Brodie was watching her when she finally managed to pull her gaze from Adam and turn around. The fixated stare reminded her of earlier when she'd caught him watching her dress, but now there was something new, something brooding about him that made her uneasy. He was flushed, whether from embarrassment, exertion or something else, Molly couldn't tell. Before she could ask if there was a problem, he spun away and grabbed his mother by the waist, startling her. Rosie swatted at his shoulders as he gave her a twirl and a kiss on the cheek before helping her up to the seat.

"Get on now," Rosie exclaimed, wiping her cheek.

Laughing, he gazed across the bench at Molly. The brooding look in his eyes had vanished so completely, that she was certain she'd imagined it.

"You know what I'm going to do when I strike it rich?" he said to Molly. "I'm going to buy you a dress the same color as your eyes. A silk one with all the—" He waved his hands over his chest. "All the little frilly things all over it. I swear I am."

"I fear that once we reach
California, shoes will be what I'm wanting."

"I'll buy you matching ones. And a big old house the same color."

"A house to match my gown and shoes?" Molly grinned, picturing the grand house painted the same shade of her eyes. Certainly it would look like the kind of place the Reverend had accused her of inhabiting.

"And I'm going to buy you a necklace with a big fat—" he hesitated pointing to a spot just below his breastbone while he searched for the word.

"Emerald," Molly offered helpfully.

"Emerald," he shouted. "That's right. The biggest Goddamned—pardon me—gosh darned emerald to wear on your pretty little neck."

Rosie tittered and elbowed Molly. "Maybe I can pitch a tent in your front yard."

Brodie flushed. "Well, of course I'll buy you one too, Ma," he said reproachfully.

Mounted on his prancing gray gelding, Adam said, "By the time you get done talking about how you're going to spend it, all the gold's going to be gone. Mount up and move out."

Brodie's blush deepened and he glanced down at his feet, looking once again the adolescent he was. With a sympathetic smile, Molly watched him climb into his saddle before she took the wagon's cool leather reins in her hands.

A moment later Brodie's whip cracked the air above the oxen's ears and his "yah" echoed on the crisp morning. The wagon groaned as the wheels reluctantly turned and the oxen started forward. Jingling harnesses chimed with the banging pots and kettles, creaking wood and the slow, lumbering pace of the animals. Rosie let out a second "yah" that drew the smiles of all of them. Their laughter beckoned the sun from the clouds and brought gold down to light their way.

If ever there had been a time for her to turn away from this journey, Molly thought, it was now gone forever. She bent her head and whispered a quick prayer. Placing her life and the lives of her sister's family--her family now--in the Heavenly Father's care, she asked Him to guide them with His loving hands.

And taking a deep breath, she held on.

* * *

At the edge of the town's borders, the vile coach driver who had brought Molly to Oak Tree met them on horseback. Two mules trailed him on a tether. Both were loaded down with bundles and satchels.

"Adam," Dewey said, smiling broadly. His wild and wooly brows rose up in query and his blackened teeth gleamed between his fleshy lips. "Heard you was heading on out to get rich. Can I join up? I brought my own." He half turned in his saddle and nodded back at the pack mules in case they were overlooked.

Molly pulled her gaze away from the monstrous mole on his face, scolding herself for the unchristian thoughts running rampant in her head. A man should not be judged by his appearance. Countless scriptures had been written about sinners who condemned God's messengers on the basis of their humble guise. But already she could feel the oily sheen of his lecherous gaze coating her skin.

While Adam and Brodie exchanged a few quiet words, Dewey sat open mouthed, looking from one to another like a dog certain a bone was soon to appear. She wanted to shout,
No, do not let him join!

After a moment Adam clicked his tongue at his horse and drew even with Dewey.

"You got to pull your own weight," he said. "It's not going to be an easy ride."

"Oh, I know, Adam. Sure I know that. And you ain't got to worry about me pulling my weight."

He doubled up a fist and raised his arm. Molly was unimpressed with the sagging bulge he proudly displayed. His odor was by far stronger than his physical strength.

"I'm strong as an ox," Dewey declared. "Strong as a
team
of ox."

And twice as fragrant. She could reprimand herself all she liked, but it did not change the fact that Dewey was the most repulsive being she had ever met. Grinning like an idiot, Dewey turned his horse in step with Brodie's and the group moved on. Molly snapped the reins over the oxen and followed.

In moments, the town became a smudge on the horizon behind them. Though Rosie chattered with her innate cheerfulness and laughter kept them company most of the morning, Molly's attempts to ignore Dewey Yokum were thwarted. He would not stop staring at her in a manner that left little doubt as to what deplorable thoughts filled that bulbous head of his.

She tried silent recital of verse in penance and asked the Lord to give her strength of character to see the goodness beneath Dewey's foul visage. But it did no good. Dewey was like weevils in the flour, ants in the sugar, curdles in the milk.

With her thoughts unpleasantly preoccupied, it seemed that time crept by as they moved ever forward, across fields strewn with waving grasses and wildflowers. Tiny pink Spring Beauty mingled with blue and white Hepatica followed their progress, turning their faces in search of the wanting sunshine. Had Dewey—Dew as Adam and Brodie were aught to call him—not been there offering a stream of pointless commentary, Molly would have enjoyed each moment.

Months, he would be with them now. Months.

Arlie kept himself busy crawling over the seat into the wagon and then back again, but by mid-morning, the tired little boy curled up on the seat with his head on her lap and went to sleep. He looked so small, so defenseless. The need to protect him rose fierce and strong inside her. He was not her son by birth, but she was his mother now and she embraced the duty whole-heartedly. At twenty-eight years of age, by most standards an old maid, she'd nearly come to accept the dismal reality that she would never be a mother. Never be a wife.

Her gaze strayed to Adam's lithe figure, moving as one with his powerful horse.
Flushing at her own thoughts, she looked away.

It was well after noon before they stopped to rest and eat near a small creek that gurgled across the meadow. A thick grove of oak and maple trees stretched high to the south and brushed the low wispy clouds with their peaks. Brown squirrels chattered noisily from within the thicket, occasionally dodging out to scold the travelers for their intrusion.

She looked longingly at the cool stream glinting in the sunshine and wanted nothing more than to strip off her boots and stockings and soak her feet in the cold depths. Better yet, she longed to soak her aching behind. Now that would turn the Reverend and his entire congregation blue, wouldn't it? Lady trotted up and sat at her feet, looking up expectantly.

"What do you think, Lady? Does a bath sound good?"

Lady gave a low yip that Molly interpreted as yes. Sighing, she hiked Arlie up on her hip and moved to help Rosie with the heavy crates stored in the back of the wagon. Then, balancing Arlie on one side, Molly poured the four of them coffee that was as cold as it was strong. She hoped the potent brew would chase back her dread of returning to the wooden bench of torture, as she was beginning to think of the wagon seat.

"Where's your cup, Dew?" Rosie asked when Molly did not.

Grinning, Dewey pulled a cup out of a deep pocket in his oversized jacket and held it out for coffee. Reluctantly Molly moved to fill it. As she turned away to set the heavy pot down, she caught Adam watching her with a curious frown. No doubt he wondered at her rudeness. A trifle ashamed of her stingy, unpleasant behavior, Molly made an effort to redeem herself by offering Dewey some of their lunch.

"Why, I thank you, Molly," he said, spraying her with spit in the process. "But I brung some of my own." He reached in his other pocket and pulled out a bundle wrapped in a dingy red and white napkin. Proudly he opened it to reveal a hunk of bread and another of cheese that looked like it had traveled in his pocket much further than a half-day's ride. Graciously he offered some of his lunch to all of them.