Ripples Along the Shore (7 page)

“Yes. I’m Garrett.”

The younger fellow brushed the broad brim on his cavalry hat. “Robert Hughes, sir.”

“The fellow who left the note for me at The Western House?”

“One and the same.” He stuck out a sun-darkened hand for a shake. “Friends call me Boney.”

Fighting the impulse to laugh at the boy’s attempt to grow a beard was a definite distraction. Calling it
sparse
would be a compliment.

Boney cleared his throat, his eyes narrowed.

“Uh. Good to meet ya, Boney.” Garrett slid a stack of jerky off the counter. “I planned to look for you at the boardinghouse when I finished here. Seein’ that you found me first, you want to help me carry supplies to my wagon? Afterward we can talk over a coffee.”

“Yes sir, coffee sounds good.”

God may have skimped on the young man’s build, but Boney Hughes was as strong as any oxen. That kind of strength could come in handy on the trail. When they’d finished loading the wagon, Garrett motioned for Boney to join him on the seat and drove the brick-paved road to The Western House Inn. Garrett pulled the wagon to a stop at the meeting hall and set the brake. As soon as they lowered themselves from the perch, he started the conversation. “Your note said you want a trail job.”

“Yes, sir. Drover. Scout. Cook.” Boney darted to the back of the wagon. “Whatever you need.”

“Want to go west real bad, do ya?”

“That, I do.” The young man reached into the wagon and latched on to a crock of lard.

“That stuff’s going out to Mrs. Brantenberg’s farm.”

“Oh.” He let go and backed away.

“You runnin’ from the law?”

Boney chuckled. “No.”

“A girl?”

“No sir.” The wiry fellow hooked his thumbs in his trouser pockets. “Not runnin’ from anyone, except maybe the war.”

Garrett nodded and waved him toward the brick building. “Let’s go in for that coffee.” Inside, he led Boney to his usual table near the hearth.

“You ordering off the menu, Mr. Garrett?” The crisply dressed waitress looked at the slate board on the wall.

“No thanks, Millie. Just two coffees this time.”

“Be right back with ’em then.”

When she left, Garrett returned his attention to Boney. He liked the wiry fellow.

“Went as far as Arizona Territory with the cavalry, and I have a mind to see more of it. Land as wide open as the sky. And I ain’t much for sittin’ in one place.”

“Fair enough. I’ve been with two wagon train companies that went west. Full of adventure, if you can take suffering in the hardships.”

When the steaming coffee mugs arrived, Boney took a quick gulp, then wrapped his hands around the cup. “I saw your advertisement posted in Heinrich’s Dry Goods and Grocery.” He looked up, studying Garrett’s face.

A good trait—being able to look a man in the eye.

“You think you might have a job for me? Folks say I’m good with animals. I was a mule skinner in the cavalry.”

“Not good with people?”

Boney looked into the coffee cup. “They haven’t said the likes, but I s’pose you could judge that for yourself.”

“You’ve got an easy way about you.” Garrett took a swallow of the bitter coffee. “Plain talker, forthright. Refreshing qualities.”

“My ma didn’t cotton to puttin’ on airs.”

“Wise woman.”

“She was. She and my pa both died of the cholera. Been livin’ with my aunt and uncle in Saint Louis.”

“You’d be good to have on the journey. Consider yourself hired.” Garrett raised his coffee mug in a sort of man-to-man contract.

“I’m much obliged.” Dipping his chin, Boney lifted his cup till the two mugs clinked.

Garrett smiled. That gave him five hired hands. Folks were signing up to join the caravan. His wagon and supplies were ordered. Tomorrow night was the big town meeting, and he had the details ready for all interested. So, why did hesitation about leaving Saint Charles suddenly nag his gut?

A red-headed woman as lovely as a fine porcelain doll came to mind.

Eight

C
ranking the pump harder than she needed to, Caroline watched water splash into the metal washtub. The lye soap she’d added began to form bubbles, a perfect match for her boiling insides. Never mind that her sister hadn’t felt well through the night. On Jack’s orders, Jewell had just left the house with Mary to fetch a newspaper.

Caroline plopped a porridge bowl into the tub and watched suds take wing overhead. The man had lost a leg in battle, and he was letting it take his heart and mind too. Jack had been sour as vinegar for more than a year now. Fellow soldiers and others in the community had tried to reach out to him. Even his own family, but he wouldn’t have any of it. Labeled it
pity
.

She dunked the dish and scrubbed. Mrs. Brantenberg would say the war had given Jack a ragged scrap of fabric, a remnant that didn’t fit the pattern he’d laid out for his life. Caroline hadn’t lost a limb, but she knew about scraps that didn’t seem right for her quilt. Clearly, her brother-in-law had no intention of allowing God to have this piece of his life, to make something useful of it.

Gilbert and Cora were at school. Now that she was alone with Jack, she had a mind to hold a mirror up in front of the ungrateful man’s face. Had Phillip lived, even if he’d lost a leg, he wouldn’t have chosen to wallow in self-pity. At least Jack had his life. His family. A home, though it be humble. And crowded.

Dunking another bowl, she blew out a long breath. Best she kept her opinions to herself. Jewell had enough troubles … didn’t need her stirring a pot full of Jack’s discontent. Caroline didn’t blame him for experiencing melancholy. She’d felt it herself—grieved her loss, sank into despair. But he’d let it eat at him until he was just a shell of the man Jewell had married ten years ago. The worst part was that he didn’t see it.

Or didn’t care.

Shaking her head, Caroline recalled the support she’d received in her own distress. She was grateful for the love of her sister and her quilting circle friends. God had used them to help her see that He still had a plan for her.

Although, standing here with her hands in a tub of dishwater in another woman’s kitchen, she didn’t have a clue what that plan might be.

The scrape of colliding furniture in the next room pulled Caroline out of her ponderings. Jack’s wheelchair was on the move, and the slap of his foot on the wood flooring told her he was headed her way.

Turning her back to the kitchen doorway, she busied herself with the breakfast dishes.

“Where’s your sister?” Jack’s growl sent chills up her spine. However did Jewell tolerate his gruffness? And why?

Caroline drew a fortifying breath and faced him.

His chair rolled to a stop at the sideboard.

“You sent Jewell to the store.”

“Hours ago, I did.” His eyes narrowed to slits.

Swallowing her frustration, Caroline walked to the table, but remained standing. “She has Mary with her, and it hasn’t been twenty minutes.”

“Should’ve gone myself. Would’ve been back by now.” His hand shook on the arm of his wicker chair.

Water dripped from her hands, wetting the wood surface of the table, and she wiped them with her apron.

“It wasn’t a newspaper you really sent her for.”

He spun the chair to face her. “You got somethin’ on your mind?”

Caroline pulled a chair from under the table and seated herself.

“You women think you have all the answers.”

A vein in her neck throbbed. He was the one who had made the mistake of asking, and she wasn’t one to turn down such a rare opportunity.

“You gonna tell me what a rotten husband I am? And a rotten father?”

He knew and hadn’t done anything to make amends. Her stomach soured. “I don’t know why Jewell stays with you”—she raised her hand, hoping to stop his canned response—“and it has nothing to do with you having one leg.” She pressed her hand to her queasy stomach. “Nothing directly, that is.”

“Is that so?”

Caroline fussed with the edging on the plaid table runner she’d given Jewell at Christmas. “You’re not the only one who suffers, Jack.” Countless folks flashed in her mind. Anna. Mrs. Brantenberg. Hattie. Mrs. Pemberton. The Rengler brothers.

Jack planted his hands on the arms of the chair and hoisted himself from the seat. “You may have lost your husband, but you have both of your legs.” His face hardened. “You can go most anywhere you want to.” He slammed back into the seat, then spun the chair into the doorframe. “I suggest you do that. Go!” He’d hurled the words over his shoulder.

Now
she
was shaking. When Caroline heard the wheels of the chair in the distance, she stood on weak legs, thankful neither Jewell nor the children had been here to witness their heated exchange. She returned to the cupboard and the dirty dishes.

She was only making things worse, staying here. She wouldn’t be like Jack—hopeless and aimless.

When she’d finished cleaning up from breakfast, Caroline opened the kitchen door, then pulled the tub off the countertop. Outside, she stepped off the back stoop and flung the dirty dishwater onto the matted remains of last year’s garden.

She didn’t mind housework, but she needed something else to do.

She needed to teach.

Garrett rested his arms on the table and studied the man seated across from him. Father would’ve been about Mr. Otto Goben’s age had he … lived. “You said this was your granddaughter’s idea? You comin’ to see me?”

“Yes sir.”

Father’s cheeks were never that hollow. This man looked like he didn’t spend much time at the meal table.

“Long about last week, Anna Mae sat me down … said she was tired of dodging all the chairs I wasn’t gettin’ caned.” His cheek bulged, and Garrett knew his tongue was rolling a wad of chew.

“Dodging chairs?”

“That’s my work. Folks bring ’em to our house, and well, I haven’t been gettin’ much done.”

He had doubts the man could weather a windstorm, let alone survive walkin’ across the country. Garrett pushed back in the slat-back chair. “Mr. Goben, the trail west is hard. If you’ve been sick …”

Mr. Goben rubbed his gray whiskered jaw. “Not exactly. But Anna says I’m makin’ myself sick with grief. Her brother died in the war. Her mother hasn’t taken the loss well.” He scratched a balding spot at the center of unruly gray hair. “Truth is, neither have I.”

Garrett needed strong stock for the trip. Folks who could tend to their livestock and family. Do the upkeep on their wagons. Ford rivers. Garrett drew in a deep breath and blew it out. “Your granddaughter thinks joining the wagon train … going west will help?”

The waitress set Garrett’s plate in front of him, teasing him with the scent of braised pork chops and potato pancakes. “Thank you.” He glanced at Mr. Goben. “You sure you don’t want anything to eat?”

“Ate at home.” He looked at the waitress. “Thank you.” As soon as the waitress left, the elder man waved for Garrett to eat his meal. “Anna’s the kind that when she speaks, you’re gonna want to listen. The girl isn’t one to waste words on the wind.”

“Does she go out to Mrs. Brantenberg’s farm for the ladies’ quilting circle?”

A shadow darkened the man’s eyes. “When Anna’s mother stopped goin’ more than a year ago, she stopped too. Started up again last month. You know the widow?”

“Met her at the farm.” Garrett scooped another forkful of potato.

“I’m not sayin’ we’ll go, but Anna made a point worth listening to.” Mr. Goben reached for his glass of soda water.

The man’s pauses were almost more than Garrett could tolerate. Probably raw nerves about tonight’s meeting. That many people in a confined space. The trail would suit him fine.

“Anna said you can’t get anywhere stuck in the mud.”

Garrett shook his head, betwixt laughter and a holler.

“Apparently, she’s thinking me and my daughter’s been stuck in the mud. Thinks us all going with you will pull us out.”

“And what do you think?”

“Anna’s the smart one. Told her I’d talk to you.”

“You should come to the meeting here tonight at 6:30. I’ll have the contracts for signing up and a supply list for every family.” Garrett raked his hair. “Four to six months’ worth of hard travel through mountain passes and desert, sir, fording rivers with wagons and women. It’s a long walk.”

The man’s cheek bulged again. “Sounds like you’re trying to discourage me.”

Garrett laid his fork on his empty plate, swallowing his last bite of pork. “I have an obligation to discourage anyone who might be at risk due to ill health or a frail constitution.”

He’d been on the trail. Knew the hardships of traversing an unforgiving land. He’d heard death’s cries; seen the heartache. This was the first time he was the one making the decisions about who went and who stayed …

And he didn’t want to make a mistake.

Nine

C
aroline held a candle lantern in one hand and pulled her cape tight with the other. Thankfully, The Western House Inn was positioned just a few blocks up, at the corner of Boone’s Lick Road and Main Street. Not far from the center of town, but still it wasn’t proper for a lady to be out alone after dark. Jewell made sure Caroline had heard that twice, at the least.