Walk on Earth a Stranger (29 page)

“That must be how the half-breed got hold of
her
,” Frank says, loud enough for everyone to hear. Jefferson leaps forward, but I grab his arm and yank him back.

“Ignore him,” I tell him. “Dilley's a toad.”

Jefferson's jaw is clenched tight, and his eyes flash darkly. For the briefest moment, he looks just like his da.

“He'll get his in time,” Jasper says.

“I think the time is right now,” Jefferson says, but the fight trickles out of him, and he backs down.

“See what I said about wearing the pants?” Frank haws.

The general goes on for a fair bit, and all the men pay close attention. Except Reverend Lowrey, who keeps glancing my way.

As evening falls, we pack up our gear to depart in the morning. Therese and I are taking clothes down from the laundry line stretched between the Joyner and Hoffman wagons.

“Look at this!” she says in disgust, waving a dark gray stocking at me. “Luther put a hole in it again. Too big to be darned. If he trimmed his toenails once in a while, I wouldn't have to do so much knitting.”

“I don't know how to knit,” I admit.

She gapes at me, but she schools her expression quickly. “Well, I would be happy to teach you. No, on second thought . . .” She leans forward and drops her voice. “If you learned, Mrs. Joyner would make you knit your way to California.”

I giggle, glancing Mrs. Joyner's way to make sure she didn't
overhear. “I bet you're right.” I grab a table napkin from the clothesline and shake it out. If I fold it now, while it's still sun-warmed, Mrs. Joyner might not insist it be pressed. “But will you teach me to knit later?” I ask. “When we get to California?”

Therese smiles. “Of course.”

Someone clears his throat, and I turn to find Reverend Lowery bearing down on us.

“Miss McCollin,” he says, not even knowing my name. “If I could have a private word with you?”

Therese's eyebrows rise. She turns away quickly, but not before I notice how hard she is trying not to laugh. I stare at her back, puzzled.

“Go on, Lee,” Mrs. Joyner calls from her place by the cook fire. Her tone is smug. Like she knows something I don't.

“All right,” I say to the preacher. “But let's be quick about it. I've got work to do.”

We step away from the wagons as the sun is dipping below the horizon. The damp summer breeze has a bite of sulfur, thanks to the hot springs. We're nearly to the river before we stop. Reverend Lowrey stands quietly a moment in his best black suit, like a crow. He clutches his Bible in one hand.

“Leah,” he says, eyes lowered. “Today's admonitions from General Loring brought to mind my own serious neglect of duty, and I wanted to apologize to you.”

“Huh?”

“Long have I indulged in grief at the loss of Mrs. Lowrey, and thus failed to see God's plan and purpose. I deeply regret
the hurt I've done you, in your condition.”

I recoil a step, even though I have no idea what he means. “What exactly is my condition?”

His gaze is earnest. “That of a young woman, alone in the world, with no man for protection.”

“I've done a fair job of protecting myself.”

He waves his hand like a teacher erasing a chalkboard. “Everyone knows how diligently you toil. You are, in fact, an exemplary worker, and when you apply those exertions to duties more befitting your gender, to housekeeping and raising children, you'll make a fine wife.”

“I guess.”

“What I'm trying to say is, I see our Father's hand at work. You, all alone in the world—”

“I'm not alone.” I didn't realize it until this very moment, but it's true. “I've got Jefferson, and Jasper and Tom and Henry. I've got Widow Joyner and her children. The Robichauds and the Hoffmans. I am”—a touch of wonder fills my voice—“blessed with friends.”

The reverend scowls—he's not a man used to being contradicted. “God took my beloved Mary because he has a purpose in mind for you. Our Heavenly Father, and myself—all of us—want what's best for you. God has cultivated within me a miraculous affection for your spirited ways and comely eyes. He wants you to find the right man to marry. That man is standing before you this very moment.”

My jaw drops open. This is even worse than Jefferson's proposal, and Jefferson had the excuse of no experience. A
miraculous affection?

Finally, I find words: “Oh, hell, no.”

He steps closer, looms over me. “I know you . . . carry on . . . with Jefferson. Under the wagon at night.”

I hold my ground. “
What?
”

“But I forgive you, my Gomer. I am your Hosea, and I will redeem you. Surely you see how unsuitable Jefferson—”

“What about Jefferson?”

“I don't wish to allude to his parentage, as that is something over which he has no control.”

I lean forward so that I'm right in his face. “If you don't wish to allude, then you'd better stop talking.”

He retreats a step. “I'm neither impugning his good qualities nor denigrating his character.”

“You are! You are definitely impugning and denigrating.”

He holds up his Bible with both hands, like it's a shield. “Let me start over again. What I'm trying to say is, Leah, it's not our place to question God's will, and it is clearly God's will that the two of us become man and wife.”

It's a testament to my fine character that I don't smash that Bible right into his nose. “You wouldn't know God's will if it tipped its hat and said howdy. My answer to you now is
no
and will always be
no
.” I turn to walk away but pause. “Because you've been grieving, I'm going to forget you said anything to me tonight. But I don't want you to bring it up again. Ever.”

I stomp back to the wagons hard enough to shake the ground.

Widow Joyner is repacking a trunk with clean clothes when I return. She looks up as I approach, and her expectant smile instantly disappears. “What happened?”

“The reverend and I had a theological disagreement that ended in a permanent schism.”

“So . . . no congratulations are in order?”

In answer, I lift the toolbox and slam it onto the wagon. I have too much to do to let that preacher waste any more of my time.

Jefferson is returning from the meadow where he's been keeping an eye on the oxen. “Hey, Lee, will you—”

“I don't want to talk right now.” I grab the grease bucket and crawl under the wagon to check the wheels.

Men. And their no-good, fool-headed proposals.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

T
he next morning, Fort Hall shrinks rapidly behind us. The animals have eaten their fill for the first time in weeks, if not months. The size of our company has doubled, because it now includes a group of settlers headed for Oregon, who will travel with us for a short while.

Major Craven tips his hat to me from the jockey box of the Joyners' wagon. He took Henry's suggestion, and Widow Joyner eagerly embraced it. That leaves me and Peony free to make our own way. I'm wearing Lucie's skirt, but I have trousers on underneath so I can ride without raising too many eyebrows. Everyone I pass is cheerful and energized, waving and smiling.

Everyone but me. My return smiles are forced, and I find myself drifting farther and farther from the line of wagons, wanting a little open air to myself.

Jefferson and the sorrel mare come up beside us, and it's fine as long as he's quiet. Then he says, “Hey, Lee—”

“I don't feel like talking or listening.”

“All right.”

I'm being unkind, but I can't help it. I stare after him as he rides over to the Hoffmans' wagon, and I'm screwing up my courage to apologize and explain, when he turns around and rides back, wearing a scowl as big as the western sky.

“They didn't want to listen either,” he says.

I say nothing. I'm not sure I made the right choice in the Robichauds' wagon. Now that I'm a girl, I'm treated like I'm nobody again, to be owned or herded or strung along, so helpless and awful that I must be redeemed or married off because it's convenient for someone. And it doesn't matter whether their intentions are wicked, like my uncle Hiram's, or good—more or less—like Reverend Lowrey's. It doesn't even matter if it's my best friend in the whole world.

It's possible the person I'm most steamed at is Mrs. Joyner. She knew the reverend was going to propose. It didn't matter that she desperately needs my help. It didn't even matter that we have a contract. She was ready to hand me right over to that self-righteous son of a goat.

Just like the folks back home in Dahlonega. They were relieved when Uncle Hiram showed up to take charge of me and my homestead.

There's not a place in the whole world where everyone isn't willing—no,
eager
—to give a girl up to a man. I don't want to be a boy again. I hate lying. But when I get to California, I might not have a choice—not if I want to belong only to myself.

At noon we cross Ford Creek. The grass is still good, and we let the animals graze for an extra half hour before continuing. By nightfall we reach the bluff above the Raft River and make camp. I spend extra time with Peony, making sure she's fed and watered and thoroughly brushed. Since the Major joined our wagon, the families have started taking meals together. I'm still in no mood for company, so I put off joining them until I see the Robichauds seated around the fire. The Robichauds have always treated me well, no matter what I'm wearing. Lucie is the one who said I could be whoever I want.

“Saved some for you,” the Major says, handing me a tin cup with beef and onion soup.

“Thanks,” I mumble, and go sit beside Lucie.

“I'm glad you came back,” she says to me.

“There's nowhere else to go out there,” I say.

“No, I mean, tonight. Tomorrow morning is our parting of the ways.”

I choke on my food. “What?”

“We've decided to head north for Oregon.”

“But why?”

Mr. Robichaud wipes his mouth with a kerchief. “General Loring made some good points yesterday. We're looking for a better country to raise our sons. California sounds lawless and dangerous.”

“The world is dangerous,” I say, my voice shrill. Lucie puts a gentle hand on my knee, which makes me feel worse.

“It is,” Mr. Robichaud says. “Our family has made it this
far without any losses.” He nods toward the Major, or maybe the Joyners. “Things are going to get worse before they get better for this group. With the cruelest part of the road ahead, we don't want to push our luck.”

“But what about the gold?”

He puts an arm around his wife. “Family is more important than gold.”

But you're
my
family,
I want to say. They showed me kindness when no one else did. They kept my secret without a second thought.

I get to my feet and start undoing the buttons of Lucie's yellow calico skirt. Several of the men avert their gazes. From the direction of the Missouri wagons comes a high whistle.

“Stop, please,” Lucie says.

“I've got on trousers,” I say.

“No, I want you to keep it. You're so pretty in it.”

“I can't!” I say. “It'll just remind me of you and make me sad every time I see it.” I kick my way out of it, yank it up off the ground, fold it messily, and shove it into her hands. “Sorry I don't have time to wash it.”

“It's fine,” Lucie says.

There are tears in her eyes, and then there are tears in mine. She throws her arms around me and gives me such a hug. Not like Mama. I was my mama's little girl, and she always held me gently, like I was precious and fragile. Lucie's hug is fierce, as if I can't be broken, and I hug her back just as tight.

She lets go, pushing the skirt into my hands. “Even if you never wear it again. Just so you remember me.”

“I . . . Merci,” I whisper, and hope she knows I'm not just saying it about the skirt.

Her husband stands, saying, “Guess we ought to be going.”

Everybody says good-bye and shakes hands and makes promises to visit one another when they make it Oregon or California, but nobody expects to keep those promises, and it's writ all over everyone's faces that we'll never see one another again.

When I roll out my blanket outside the wagon circle, I take Lucie's skirt and fold it up under my knapsack pillow. I lie on my back, and I don't acknowledge Jefferson when he settles down next to me. I stare at the clear sky and all the cold stars and think about how far away they are.

Jefferson says, “I'm sad to see them go.”

He sounds so lonesome that my impulse to tell him to shut his trap dribbles away. “Yeah.”

“Mr. Hoffman has forbidden me from talking to Therese.”

“What?” I flip over. “Why?”

Jefferson is lying on his back, his head toward the Joyner wagon. I glance over too, my shout echoing in my head as I brace for Mr. Joyner's thump—which, of course, doesn't come.

I lower my voice anyway. “Why?”

“Frank Dilley told them I'd been the one stealing. He said I was giving it all to my red-skinned brothers.”

“No one who knows you would believe that.”

“Mr. Hoffman said he couldn't ignore the accusation. He said he needed to think on it a bit.”

I roll onto my back to stare at the sky again, because my heart aches too much when I look at Jefferson's face, even in the dark. “I should have let you bust Frank Dilley's nose,” I say.

“That would have made things worse,” he says.

“But it would have been a pleasure to watch.”

Major Craven's tent is only about ten feet away. He coughs and rustles around inside. The wagon creaks beside us as Mrs. Joyner shifts her weight. Muted laughter comes from the bachelors' wagon.

Jefferson whispers, “Why've you been so mad, Lee?”

I sigh, not sure what to say. A cricket chirrups nearby. Such a cheerful sound, which makes me even grumpier. “Reverend Lowrey proposed marriage to me.”

“What?” It's his turn to shout.

“It was the most unromantic proposal a girl could have. Which was good. Because until it happened, I thought
yours
was the most unromantic.”

“I—”

“Hey, Lee, maybe we can pretend we're brother and sister,” I mock.

“Yes, but—”

“Is it wrong to want to be wanted?”

“No, but—”

“You wanted me to help you escape and go west. Uncle Hiram wanted me—
wants
me—because of . . . because he's greedy. Reverend Lowrey wanted to pat himself on the back for rescuing a soul. It's like I'm not really a person. Just a
thing to be tossed around to make men feel good about themselves.”

I hear him breathing softly beside me. Finally, he says, “That's not why I asked you.”

“Doesn't matter anymore, does it?” I say. “You're sweet on Therese now, even if you can't talk to her. I don't blame you one bit. She's wonderful.”

Jefferson shifts beneath his blanket. Suddenly, his warm fingers slip between my own, and it's like lightning zipping up my arm.

“I do like Therese,” he admits. “But she's not you. No one is you, Leah.”

My next words get lost trying to find their way from my head to my mouth.

Jefferson's thumb makes little circles on the back of my hand. My throat tightens, and all my limbs tingle, like I've just struck the purest, brightest vein of gold. Neither of us lets go.

The Major starts snoring in his tent. The dogs trot by, panting, as they return from whatever mischief they've been in.

I reach with my other hand for Lucie's skirt. I finger the fabric, telling myself that the family we find can still be family, even when they're far away. With one hand in Jefferson's, the other clinging to Lucie's skirt, I finally drift to sleep.

In the morning, when the wagon trains split and go their separate ways, I wait alongside the trail, so Lucie can see what I'm wearing.