Walk on Earth a Stranger (16 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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M
r. Joyner jabbers incessantly as we ride toward the wagons, which suits me fine because I don't care for talking just now. I know I've made the right decision, but I feel like a shell of a girl, all hollow and aching at the possibility that I've missed Jefferson for good. What if I never see him again?

The Joyners had several delays on their journey, he tells me, including an inauspicious layover in St. Louis that involved riverboat gambling, where Mr. Joyner tried to increase their stake and would have, if not for that cheating Ohioan. But the good Lord watched over him, and he managed to come out even, more or less, by which I gather he means “less.” But wonderful memories were made, and now they're here and ready to go, and all's well that ends well and every other phrase he can think of to make things sound good when they're not.

“We've had terrible luck finding a wagon train that would take us,” he says.

“Oh?” Peony's ears twitch; Mr. Joyner's gelding has veered too close for her comfort. I pat her neck to soothe her.

“Many of the so-called leaders of these expeditions are puffed-up martinets,” he explains. “Uncouth men who feel that the miles on their boot soles entitle them to pass judgment on their betters.”

“I see.”

“I saw right through them, of course, and they resented a man who could so easily smash their pretensions.”

“I'm sure.” I've been wandering the staging area for weeks, so I know full well that no one wants to take on an overloaded wagon.

“We finally found a small company of God-fearing men,” he continues. “Mostly from Missouri, with a few other families besides. The group is led by an excellent man, Major Wally Craven, a veteran of the Black Hawk War, who knows how to deal with Indians.”

We near the camp, which is a tight bundle of wagons and campfires and small tents. He says, “I'm off to tell Major Craven the news. He's eager to depart.”

“What should I do?”

“Familiarize yourself with the company and then come find my wagon. It's the big one.”

“I remember your wagon.”

“I've hired one other young man. He came west with a German family from Ohio. They're part of our company too, though he works for me now. He's congenial and hardworking, so don't you worry about his deficiencies.”

I have no idea what he means by “deficiencies,” and I'm making up my mind whether it would be impolite to ask when he says, “Speak of the devil, and he appears.”

He points to a rider coming across the field. “There's the fellow now. Go on, introduce yourself and ask him to perambulate the camp and familiarize you with our traveling compatriots, as well as the procedures we've agreed to follow. I'll meet you at the wagon later.”

Mr. Joyner leaves my side, and the distant rider approaches. Two dogs dash forward to greet me, tails wagging. One is the Joyners' floppy-eared hound dog, my old friend Coney.

The other is Nugget.

I snap the reins, and Peony surges forward. “Jefferson!” I shout.

“Hello!” he shouts back, pulling up on the sorrel mare. “You must be the new fellow. . . . Lee?”

I rein in Peony so that we're sitting in our saddles face-to-face. Tears brim in my eyes, but I don't care. If we weren't mounted up, I'd throw my arms around him right in front of everybody.

He's taller now. Even leaner than before, with sun-darkened skin and a hard line to his jaw that makes him seem years older. He's staring at my face, not smiling, not talking. His near-black eyes are wide with something I don't understand.

His gloved hand comes up and cups my chin. His thumb is so near my lips I could almost kiss it. “Leah,” he whispers at last.

“Hello, Jeff,” I whisper back.

He peers closer, his hand dropping away. “What happened to your hair?”

“I cut it.”

“Why on earth would . . . Oh.”

“I'd appreciate it if you kept my secret.”

He frowns. “I don't see how anyone with half a mind would mistake you for a boy.”

“It's worked so far. I'm strong and I work hard and I ride well.”

“Also, you can spit farther than any boy I know.”

“And shoot straighter!”

He nods solemnly. “And opine louder.”

I'm grinning big enough to burst. “Sure is good to see you, Jeff. I was afraid you'd left Independence already. Worse afraid you didn't make it here at all.”

Nugget nuzzles my boot in its stirrup. Jefferson is wearing boots too, now. They're years old if they're a day, but they're probably brand-new to him. “Good to see you too, girl,” I tell Nugget, still staring at his boots.

My skin buzzes as he looks me over, from head to toe and back again. In a dropped voice, he says, “I have a secret too.”

“Oh?” I lean closer.

“Been going by my mother's name—Kingfisher—since I crossed the river.”

“Oh.” It makes me sad, though I'm not sure why. “Jefferson Kingfisher,” I say, trying it out. “How come?”

A shadow passes over his face. “I don't want anything to do with my old man.”

“Can't say I blame you.”

By silent agreement, we've drifted to the edge of camp, away from prying ears. He says, “My mother's people came out this way, you know. The Cherokee crossed the border here, went up to St. Louis to trade. Figure if someone hears my name, and they know her, word might get back.”

I open my mouth to remind him that it was more than ten years ago, but the look on his face makes me say, “Good thinking. Any luck?”

“Not yet.”

“I'm riding under a different name too. I put this on”—I indicate my clothes with a gesture of my hand—“and when people asked my name, I didn't want to say Westfall. So . . . I said McCauley.”

“You gave them my name!”

“I remember someone saying we ought to get married.” I say it like it's a joke, but I watch him carefully for his response.

His cheek twitches. “I . . . Well . . .”

I blurt, “My uncle killed my folks.”

His mouth drops open, and there's something gratifying about the horror on his face. He collects himself quickly and says, “You're
sure
it was him?”

“Sure as the sunrise in the east.” I can't stop staring at him. He's so comforting, so familiar. But he's different too, in ways that give my chest an ache. “Hiram showed up right after you left,” I tell him. “He was covered in gold dust. Couldn't stop talking about how the place was all his now. How
I
was all his now.”

“That's . . . I'm so sorry, Lee. Why'd he do such a thing?” He scans the horizon, as if expecting him to appear. “Where is he now? And where's your rifle? You ought to keep it handy. I'll keep mine loaded as we ride—”

“Jeff, can we talk about that a little later, maybe?”

He gives me a dark look. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

I feel his gaze on me as we aim our mounts back into camp and weave them through the cluster of wagons. Come departure day, they'll leave one by one, forming a neat and lovely line. I've seen it happen a dozen times.

“Anyway, I had to get away,” I whisper. “Become someone else. Yours was the first name that came to mind.”

“Well, you can have it, Lee McCauley. I don't need it anymore.”

“No, you don't, Jefferson Kingfisher.” He aims the sorrel mare toward a huge flock of sheep, and I turn Peony to follow him. “You give that horse a name yet?”

“What's wrong with ‘the sorrel mare'?”

“‘Sore old mare' is more like it.”

“Don't listen to her, girl,” he says, reaching down to pat her neck.

But he keeps staring at me, the same way I'm staring at him, like I can't believe he's really here. After a long silence, we suddenly crack grins at the exact same time.

“Sure is good to see you, Lee,” he says in an abashed voice.

To distract from the warmth in my face, I gesture toward the wagons. “Which of these did you come with? Mr. Joyner said you were with a German family from Ohio.”

“The Hoffmans. They're good people.”

“How'd you end up with them?”

“Not a lot to tell,” he says. “After I crossed the Ohio River, I joined some folks headed north along the Mississippi. Families, mostly. The Hoffmans were with them. When it was time to cross, everyone hired passage on a steamboat, but I hardly had any money left.”

I can sympathize.

“So I kept going upstream a few days until I found an old raft, lodged on shore after high water, and I wrangled it into the river. I drifted across—mostly downriver with the current—pulling the sorrel mare behind. Didn't know if she'd make it, but she's a dab at swimming, that girl. Landed near St. Louis, where I met the Hoffmans again. We decided it must be providence.”

We're still meandering aimlessly, and I'm not taking everything in the way Mr. Joyner wanted. “So you and the Hoffmans decided to travel together?” I ask.

“I helped out a little in exchange for meals. It's a big family; father, mother, six kids, and the oldest only fifteen. The little ones are hard to keep track of sometimes. We've been trying to join a company since we got here, but no one would have us.”

He pauses, frowning. Then he adds, “The Hoffmans' English is a little funny, and apparently I look too much like my mother's people. Finally, Major Craven let the Hoffmans join his outfit. Then Mr. Joyner offered me a job, and the Major didn't object, so I stayed on. How about you? How'd you get here?”

For months I imagined telling Jefferson everything that happened to me, imagined the sympathy on his face, maybe the quick hug that would ensue. Now, though, I just want it all behind me, so it comes out in a rush: “I left a few days after you did. Sold Chestnut and Hemlock to pay my way here, but I got robbed along the way. In Chattanooga, I found work on a flatboat, which brought me all the way to Missouri, but I got sick for a bit, and that slowed me down. I arrived weeks ago.”

“Wait. You got robbed?”

If I tell him I lost Daddy's gun, the hurt might be too much, so I say, “I've been looking everywhere for you.”

“I figured if I stayed in one spot, it would be easier for you to find me.”

“I have the worst luck,” I say, shaking my head. The only place I avoided was the place Jefferson had been the whole time.

“Hey, we're going to change our luck, right? As soon as we get to California.” His grin is so easy now, like the weight of the world has fallen away. Maybe it's being away from his da that's done the trick.

“Sure, Jeff.”

“Mr. Joyner ordered me to tell you about our company,” he says. He points out a group of twenty or so wagons and twice that many men, all set apart from everyone else. “That lot from southern Missouri decided to head out at the last minute. We've been waiting for them to pull their gear together.”

“A rough-looking bunch.”

“Maybe so. But there aren't enough for them to feel safe from Indians, so they needed to merge with another group. It's all men, no families. And, Lee, they don't know a lick about gold mining. You and I have more experience than the whole group put together.”

Jefferson doesn't know the half of what I can do. “They good folk?”

“The opposite of good folk. Their leader is a fellow named Frank Dilley. You don't want to cross him.”

“I'll keep that in mind. Is that the group Major Craven came with?”

“No, Craven is a guide, hired by Mr. Bledsoe, who's a sheep farmer from Arkansas.” Jefferson waves toward a smaller group of wagons, all filled to bursting and sunken deep in the mud. “He owns all ten of those wagons. He's a late arrival too, just like the Missouri group. All the other wagons belong to families. The families don't trust the bachelors, and the bachelors don't like the families, but everyone seems to get on with the Major.”

“The families?”

“You'll see. That wagon over there? That's the Hoffmans.”

Three small children chase one another around the wagon wheels. An older girl with blonde hair spilling out from under her bonnet keeps an eye on them. She sits on a stool, knitting a stocking and whipping through her stitches without looking down once. When she sees Jefferson, a huge smile lights her face.

“Who's that?” I ask. She's a lovely girl, with a tiny nose and
rose-flushed cheeks and eyes the color of an indigo bunting. Even Annabelle Smith back home couldn't hold a candle to her.

“That's Therese,” Jefferson says, tipping his hat to the girl. “She's nice. You'll like her.”

“I see.” My gut is suddenly in knots. Therese is the real reason he followed the German family from Ohio. It's written all over his moony face. Maybe Jefferson wasn't waiting in one spot in Independence so I could find him. Maybe he wasn't even looking for me.

“Hallo,” she says as we approach.

“Therese, this is my old friend, Lee. Lee, this is my friend Therese.”

“Pleased to me meet you,” she says, her consonants soft and clipped.

“Nice to meet you too,” I reply, and I mean it. If Jefferson says she's good people, then that will have to be enough for me. At the last second, I remember to tip my hat like a proper young man.

“Lee is going to help the Joyners wrangle their gear.” Jefferson straightens in his saddle. A sweep of his arm encompasses all the wagons. “I'm supposed to show her—”

I glare at him, but he's already caught himself.

“Er, I'm supposed to show him the wagons and the camp, describe the work, and . . .”

Jefferson has always been a terrible liar.

“Better get back to it,” I say. “Be seeing you around, miss.”