Oregon Trail, 1867
“Miz Borland?”
Jenna smoothed the threadbare apron over her swelling belly and turned to see Sam Lincoln, the wagon train leader. The big man removed his stained leather hat and stood uncertainly beside the wagon.
“Hello, Sam. Would you join us for supper?”
“No, thanks. I—” His sunburned face looked strained, and suddenly Jenna’s breath jerked inward.
“Sam? What is it?”
He turned the hat brim around and around in his hands. “Don’t rightly know how to say it.”
Oh, God. Something had happened. “Is it about one of the girls? Ruthie?”
The leader took a step closer. “Not the girls, no.”
“Mathias?” she whispered.
“’Fraid so. He’s...well, he’s been shot.”
“Shot!” Jenna closed her eyes. Surely she was dreaming.
Sam stepped forward and laid both his weathered hands on her forearms. “He’s dead, Jenna.”
She felt suddenly cold, as if all the blood in her body was draining away. “What?”
“He was caught stealing a horse. The owner killed him.”
She pulled away from Sam’s steadying grip and abruptly sat down on the bare ground. Dead? It wasn’t possible. And stealing a horse? It made no sense.
“Where is he?” she asked, her voice unsteady.
“In our wagon. My Emma’s, uh, laying him out. I expect you’ll want to see him.”
“Not yet. I have to tell the... His daughters.”
“Ruthie’s over visiting with the Langley girl,” Sam volunteered. “The two older ones are down wading in the creek.”
She nodded. Dead. Mathias was dead. Dear God, what would they do now?
“I’ll tell ’em about their pa if you want, Jenna.”
Jenna fought waves of blackness at the edge of her vision. “No. I’ll tell them, Sam. Just...just give me a minute.”
Ten minutes passed before she could stand and make her way to the Lincolns’ camp. She hesitated before the large canvas-covered wagon and clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. She couldn’t look at him. Then she resolutely mounted the step, drew back the curtain and stepped inside.
Round-faced Emma Lincoln rose and without a word laid her freckled hand on Jenna’s arm. The older woman tipped her head to indicate the still form stretched out on the bedroll, and Jenna forced herself to look.
She hadn’t remembered Mathias being so tall. Or so pale. In death his features had relaxed from the perpetual scowl he had worn; now he looked almost peaceful. She scanned his body for signs of blood but saw no stains. At her questioning look, Emma took her hand.
“The bullet entered his temple, Jenna. Killed him instantly. I cleaned up the... I cleaned him up.”
“Thank God,” Jenna murmured. Oh, yes, thank You, God. There would be no messy remains for his daughters to see. An unnatural feeling of calm flowed over her, along with an inexplicable sense of...what? Relief? Dear God, how could she feel this, as if a huge weight had suddenly lifted from her shoulders? It made no sense.
Or maybe it did. Mathias had not been pleased with her of late. Maybe he had never been pleased with her.
She drew in several deep breaths before she risked speaking. “Emma, thank you for doing this for Mathias. I must find the girls and tell... They will want to see their father.”
“Sam says if it’s all right with you, they’ll bury your husband at dawn, before we pull out. And tonight Sam and I will sleep under our wagon.”
Jenna nodded and climbed down from the wagon to do what she must. She’d gone only a few yards when Ruthie danced up. “What’s wrong, Jenna? You look all white and funny.”
She knelt before her stepdaughter and struggled to compose herself. “Ruthie, I want you to find your sisters. I have something important to tell you all.”
* * *
“Dead?” Tess screeched. “What do you mean Papa is dead?”
Eleven-year-old Mary Grace began to sob.
“I mean...” Jenna began. She glimpsed Ruthie’s stricken face and the words froze on her tongue. She swallowed hard and knelt before them.
“Your father has been killed. Accidentally shot by...well, it doesn’t matter who.”
Tess swayed forward and Jenna reached up to support her. Mary Grace wrapped her thin arms around her middle, but Ruthie just stared at her with horrified blue eyes.
“You...”