The Queen of Cherry Vale Read online

  What was she going to do?

  Hattie forced herself to prepare supper, to plan tomorrow's noon meal. She skimmed the milk and poured the cream into the churn for tomorrow's travel to shake into butter. After washing the bucket and the skimmer, she sat on the tongue of her wagon, needing time alone. Most evenings there was a neighborly gathering at the Whiteheads' wagon, one she'd seldom attended since Karl took sick.

  It was happening again--the dictating of her life as if she had no right to a say in it. And this time, she might not be so fortunate as she had been when Uncle James had sold her to Karl. There wasn't a man in the train she would trust to have a care for her, aside from her wagons and livestock and Karl's precious hoard.

  She would not--could not--go back, but was she willing to pay the price of going forward?

  * * * *

  Emmet told himself he was going to Fort Hall to replenish his supply of coffee and bacon. It had nothing to do with the memory of white shoulders against black water. Riding overland, not burdened with the problems of a wagon or a team, he would be there and gone again before the train arrived. And he would never see her again, the lilac-scented woman.

  Hell! He wouldn't know her if he saw her. He had glimpsed the curve of a cheek, an angle of chin, but had never seen her whole face. The only way he'd recognize her would be if he encountered her buck-naked.

  Nonetheless, when the train finally arrived at Fort Hall, he was still there. And he sniffed as each woman passed him where he sat at the entrance to the post.

  She wasn't among them, these women trading for more flour, more sugar, more coffee. Emmet felt a relief, and a disappointment.

  As the afternoon shadows lengthened, he followed the stream of women and men back to the meadow where this latest train was camped. Halfway there, he heard the brazen call of a bugle. The women he was following walked faster and two boys came running from behind him.

  Curious, Emmet followed to the grouped wagons, finding a place at the edge of the growing crowd. He watched as a portly man in black broadcloth and a blindingly white shirt climbed onto a wagon seat and lifted his arms for silence.

  "Since it's the Sabbath, there will be a short service at sundown," the speaker said. "Afterwards George Anderson and Bruce MacLeod will play some music for dancin'."

  A cheer, quickly tapering off, as the arms were raised again. "You all know that Karl Rommel died a few days back." There was widespread nodding, some long faces. "Now Mrs. Rommel has got herself a couple of good wagons and some nice cargo, and she's needin' a man to help her out. I want you single men to think about what kind of husbands you'd make. She don't need a lazy man, nor a drinkin' man. She wants a home out there in Oregon and she needs someone who'll help her build one. If you think you're able, come see me."

  Emmet looked around the crowd curiously, trying to find the needful widow-woman. She must be a mean old bat, not to be able to catch herself a husband. Like most trains he'd encountered, this one seemed to run about five men to every woman of marrying age, and most of the men were young and apt to be horny as hell.

  He decided to attend the dancing tonight. Maybe he'd catch a sniff of his lilac-woman.

  * * * *

  On dragging feet Hattie walked across the squared circle of wagons to where George Anderson and Bruce MacLeod were tuning up, standing on two wooden chests. The wail of Bruce's fiddle sounded as lonely as she felt. Silently she entered the firelit circle and found a place between Martha Stone and Tillie Whitehead. She looked around the crowd, seeking Elizabeth Wright--no Elizabeth Coonrad, now. The frail young woman was even more pregnant, even more frail than the last time Hattie had noticed her. And there were new lines in her face.

  The music began, light, happy music, but to Hattie it was ominous, dark, mournful. Couples swung into the circle formed by their neighbors, faces bright with laughter, eyes sparkling. The last time they had rested an entire day had been at Fort Laramie, nearly six weeks ago. Tomorrow they would again face the unrelenting trail, the merciless sun, and the unknown future. Tonight they set care aside.

  Bert Lytle took her hand and swung her among dancers without a single word. His dark face, with its twisted upper lip and dirt-lined creases, always seemed to be the evil visage of her childish nightmares. Karl had not trusted him, either, having suspected him of petty pilferage ever since Missouri. Surely he wasn't a contender for her hand.

  After Bert, Matthew Clark led her through a round dance, patiently showing her the unfamiliar steps. He at least attempted conversation, although she found little to say to him. He was nice enough, but always stank of the tobacco that seemed permanently lodged in his upper lip. Jeremiah Thomas was next, his wooden leg making him awkward and clumsy. Then Bruce MacLeod danced with her to the haunting melody of George's flute. He was really a nice man, fatherly and gentle. Breathless, she let Bruce escort her back to the colonel's side. She wondered about the family he was supposed to be joining in Oregon. Why had Bruce stayed behind, when his sons and a daughter braved the trail last year?

  When other men asked her to dance, Hattie refused, pleading exhaustion. She had washed all of Karl's bedding today. The hours of bending over the steaming kettle, of squeezing the heavy linen sheets and wool comforts, and of draping them across willows and wagon tongues to dry had indeed worn her out.

  "You should dance, Mrs. Rommel," the colonel told her after she'd refused the second man. "You'll never find a husband by being shy."

  "I'm not...." She took a deep breath. The last thing she wanted to do was offend this man who held her future in his hands. "I'm really tired, Colonel. I think I'll go to bed."

  "You've made up your mind then?" Whitehead said.

  Tillie interrupted him. "Joseph, leave the child alone tonight. Can't you see she's about dead on her feet?"

  "This is your only chance to get to know the candidates, Mrs. Rommel. I'll wait until Rock Creek Crossing. No longer."

  "You can't force me to marry!"

  "I can and I will. There'll be no women on my train distracting the single men, causing trouble."

  Before she could say more, a masculine voice broke the tense silence. "Could I have a word with you, Colonel?" Hattie looked up. And up. The man standing at her elbow was tall as the sky, his voice deep and rich. A faint odor of exotic spice wafted across her nostrils. Surely it couldn't come from him.

  Colonel Whitehead answered impatiently. "Yes? What is it?"

  "I heard tell you're lookin' for a pilot."

  The colonel inspected the stranger. So did everyone else nearby, for he was indeed a sight to behold.

  He wore buckskins, as many men did on the trail. But his were stained dark, supple and clinging, as if they were a second skin only slightly looser than the one he'd been born with. His hair was fair, gleaming golden in the firelight. Pale eyes stared back at the colonel, unblinking, unflinching. The tall rifle at his side seemed a part of him, an extension of his arm, and the heavy knife looked as natural on his belt as her apron did at her waist.

  "We might be," the colonel admitted.

  "I'm headed that way."

  Hattie slipped back into the shadows, taking advantage of the distraction to escape any further attention from the colonel. She stopped, still near enough to watch and listen. Searching the stranger's face for signs of dissipation, of evil living, of cruelty.

  There were none. His eyes met the colonel's straight. His mouth didn't smile ingratiatingly nor did it sneer in contempt. His stance was easy, as if he saw no threat from any man or beast present. Firelight glinted on his face, golden brown and weathered, but breathtakingly handsome.

  "Is there anyone who can speak for you?" the colonel said.

  The stranger's mouth tightened. "I need no man to speak for me. I've nothing to sell, nor have I anything to gain, beyond ordinary neighborliness, offering to guide you to the Columbia."

  It did Hattie's heart good to see the colonel buffaloed. "I'll think on it," he said, clearly grudging the concession.

>   "Don't think on it too long," the stranger told him. "I'll be riding out in the morning, and I'll make better time than your wagons." He turned and walked into the night.

  * * * *

  Emmet didn't know why he trailed along behind the wagon train. In the time it took them to reach Rock Creek, he could have been halfway to Grande Ronde.

  He watched from a nearby promontory as nine wagons left the main train at the Raft River. The word was more and more emigrants were choosing to head for California. He didn't blame them. If he had to winter in the Willamette Valley, he'd be ready to wrestle a cougar barehanded, just for excitement. It was one thing to spend months inside a snowbound cabin in the high country, another entirely to listen to the never-ending drip, drip, drip of Oregon's winter rains.

  Seeking silence and solitude, he went up into the hills. For three days he camped in a high valley, walking the bare ridges by day, counting the distant stars by night.

  Lonely, yet wanting no man's company, Emmet was restless, but no destination called to him. Eventually he'd reach Fort Vancouver and take ship for somewhere--there were fortunes to be made in the China trade. The life of a sailor was one he could follow again, but he thought instead of being a trader, with solid ground on which to set his feet. Three seasons of trapping had given him a stake; it was time to move on. He'd been halfway around the world, and he'd a hankering to see the other half.

  When he came down from the hills, he again followed in the wagon tracks. His mule carried a bundle of freshly dried venison and Emmet wondered in passing if one of the women would trade for warm bread and fresh-churned butter. It had been a long time since he'd eaten such vittles and he had his mouth set for them.

  As so many had before them, the train halted at Rock Creek Crossing. Emmet set up camp on the far side of the shallow, steep-walled canyon, not wanting to be too close. He'd go over after supper, see about making a trade.

  * * * *

  Hattie saw her salvation coming over a hill. Dropping the Dutch oven carelessly into the coals, she ran to meet him.

  He halted as she came up to him. She thought his nose twitched, and she wished she'd known he was coming. She could have washed her face with her precious lilac soap.

  She stood before him and looked up into those far-seeing blue eyes and wondered if she had the courage to do what she must.

  "Evening, ma'am," he said, and his voice was the same deep rumble she remembered.

  "Good evening," she said, hearing her own voice high and trembly. "It's Mr. Lachlan, is it not?" The colonel had spoken to the factor at Fort Hall and learned that Emmet Lachlan was a man to trust. If he couldn't get them safely to the Columbia, Captain Grant had said, no man could.

  He inclined his head, and his lips moved into that mocking smile again. "It is indeed. And how may I be of service to you?"

  From the gleam in his eye, she had a feeling she knew exactly how he'd like to be of service to her, but he made no threatening move, nor was there disrespect in his voice.

  Hattie bit her lip, wondering if she was mad. She'd been ready to go to the colonel, to plead with him for a few more days to decide. Of all the possible candidates for her husband, only Bruce MacLeod came close to someone she could imagine in her bed. The others made her cringe with disgust or shiver with loathing. And while Bruce was hale and hearty, he was still nearly sixty and set in his ways.

  "Ma'am?" He was watching her, until Hattie felt like a mouse under a cat's scrutiny.

  "I'll tell you what you can do to help me, Mr. Lachlan. You can marry me."

  Chapter Two

  The ruddy firelight showed Emmet enormous eyes, a tip-tilted nose, and a mouth made for kissing. He smelled her fear and something more.

  A faint echo of lilacs.

  There was no fear in her face, though, only resolution, as she lifted a proud chin. "Why?" he demanded. Any notion this crazy had to have a pretty good reason and he wanted to know what it was.

  She nibbled her lower lip with white teeth. He waited. Finally she looked up at him. "Because I need a husband and you look like a good man."

  A man's voice raised in anger, a woman's shrill reply, came from the wagons circled not fifty yards away. "Come on," Emmet said, grabbing her wrist and leading her back the way he'd come, down the narrow trail to the creek and up the other side. He had no idea what she was up to, but he'd have no eavesdroppers while he found out. She followed, unresisting. When she stumbled he slowed, reminded that she was a woman, and small. And weak.

  The bonfires between the wagons were mere sparks in the darkness and her face was only a paler shape floating in the night when they reached his camp. "I don't need a wife," he said, "but I'm willin' to listen." His hands itched to touch more than her wrist. He settled on one of the angular black rocks that littered the canyon's edge. "Talk."

  He sensed, rather than saw, her rubbing the wrist he'd pulled her along by. "I said it all," she told him. "I need a husband." This time her voice trembled slightly. "As far as Oregon, anyway." The last was spoken over her shoulder as she turned away from him, to face into the night.

  "Why? Are you breeding?"

  His eyes, once more adapted to the night, were held by her fragile nape as she shook her head. Thus he saw, rather than heard, the deep sigh that lifted, then lowered her shoulders. He saw how worry or exhaustion weighed them down. And again he caught the faintest odor of lilacs, more like a memory than a scent.

  Her bowed shoulders drew his hands. For an instant he wanted to pull her to him, to feel the soft length of her against his awakening body. Instead he turned her to face him, lifted her chin with one finger. "Ma'am?"

  She stared at him, her eyes dark smudges in her pale face. Eventually she shook her head. "Never mind," she said, defeat deadening her voice. "It was a crazy notion."

  Perversely Emmet found he wanted to argue with her. "Like I said, I don't need a wife," he told her, tracing his finger across her cheek, "but I sure could use a woman."

  She jerked her head aside, tried to step back from him, but he caught her by the shoulders again and pulled her forward. He wasn't going to harm her, but he wanted a taste of this lilac-woman before he sent her back to the safety of her wagon train.

  And he wanted to scare her good, so she wouldn't be asking any more drifters to marry her. A woman could get hurt doing that.

  Hungrily he kissed her, tasting her sweetness, easing his tongue between her lips. He lifted her against him, so that his hard sex was cradled against her soft woman's belly.

  For a moment it seemed like she was going to respond, and then she went dead still. He held her, showing with his tongue what he wanted, how he would bury himself in her welcoming heat.

  She struggled, her cry a muffled protest against his mouth.

  Reluctantly he released her, for Emmet Lachlan took no woman against her will. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she hauled off and swung at him, her flailing fist catching him a good clip along the jaw. He caught her arm on the backswing, twisting it behind her back only far enough to protect himself.

  "Let me go, you big oaf! Let me go or I'll scream fit to wake the dead!" She swung at him with the other arm and this one connected with his ear, sending waves of pain down the side of his neck.

  Angry now, Emmet flung himself on her, carrying her down onto the grassy slope. Holding her, covering her mouth with his hand, he waited while she threshed and bucked beneath him. "Stop it!" He kept his voice low, knowing what would happen if she did scream.

  Her teeth sank into his finger. "Owww! Damn you!"

  Eventually he had her pinned, legs held in the vise of his thighs, hands stretched above her head. Still she struggled, but he held her securely, one hand again across her mouth, for she had let go with several healthy yells before he could muzzle her.

  Panting, for despite his greater strength she'd given him a run for his money, he glowered down at her. "What'd you do that for? I turned you loose!"

  She squealed against his hand.

/>   "Look, I can sit here all night if I need to. Tell me why you need a husband and I'll let you go. But if you yell, or try to run away, I'll have you hog-tied so quick you won't know what happened. Understand?"

  Her eyes were still enormous, now with a glare that like to took the hide off him, but she nodded. Cautiously he released her mouth, but held tight to her hands. She had a wicked swing. "Talk."

  "Get off me!"

  "Not on your life." He didn't trust her far as he could throw her. Besides, she felt good. Soft and womanly.

  She struggled again, but with less energy. He hoped she was getting the idea he meant what he'd said about staying here all night long.

  Finally she quit, but he didn't relax.

  "There's a rule in the train," she said, her voice tight and bitter-sounding, "that there's no single women allowed. If I don't choose my own husband tonight, the colonel will choose one for me. I don't like any of his candidates, so I chose you."

  "How'd you manage to stay unmarried this long?" he said, thinking that the men in the Whitehead train must be curiously blind not to have seen her beauty, her fire.

  "Two weeks?" She grimaced. "Back where I come from, a widow gets a year to mourn."

  Emmet hadn't had much schooling, but he could add two and two. "You're the widow?"

  She nodded, and he thought he saw the sheen of moisture in her eyes. "My husband--Karl--had camp fever. He died the day before we got to Soda Springs."

  Aw, hell! Emmet released her hands and swung himself off her legs. She was a grieving widow and he'd treated her like a tart.

  This was the first time he'd heard of a rule like that, although he knew some of the trains were like petty dictatorships. Pegleg Smith had been yarning one night they'd camped together. He'd told of a train where the captain decreed all dogs were to be shot. Most had, before some of the members stood up for themselves. And there was the one in which each family had to have a testimonial from a pastor, that its members practiced humane and Christian principles. "Why didn't you go back," he asked, "when your husband passed on?"