He waited until she was seated and then leveled his gaze at her. “I think we’ve finished with that subject. The children’s schooling is already taken care of.”
Sarah opened her mouth, ready to deliver the stinging words that would put this cowboy in his place, but as her eyes locked with his, the argument died in her throat. He smiled, nodded to Aunt Margaret and closed the door. He was gone.
“Why, Sarah.” Aunt Margaret began, straightening Sarah’s skirt as she took her seat. “Who is that man? You promised you would stay away from the bull train.”
Sarah rubbed at a splash of mud on the hem of her skirt, turning away from her aunt. She was certain her face held a telltale blush. “He was driving an immigrant wagon and has his nephew with him.”
And he had mentioned children, so more than only his nephew.
“But still, you haven’t been properly introduced. We don’t know anything about the man, and you’re letting him...”
“I allowed him to be a gentleman and open the door for me. It isn’t as if he is courting me.” She patted Margaret’s hand in assurance.
The driver called to the six-horse team and cracked his whip. She fell back in her seat as the coach started off with a jolt. The opposite door flew open, and Peder jumped in.
“Uff da, I made it!”
As Peder launched into his description of the stalled bull train for Aunt Margaret, Sarah turned in her seat and lifted the corner of the canvas window cover. Nate Colby stood in the center of the muddy trail, his feet planted far apart and his arms crossed over his chest, watching the stage. She let the curtain fall and braced herself against the rough road. He certainly wasn’t the kind of man she had expected to meet in the notorious Deadwood.
* * *
Nate shook himself. He had no time to stand watching a stagecoach wind its way along the muddy trail between the freight wagons, even if it did carry the most intriguing woman west of the Mississippi. He had a family to take care of.
He turned to the wagon, tilted on the bank between the road and the creek, and that stubborn mule still pulling on the halter rope with all her might as if she could keep the whole outfit from tumbling into the water.
Olivia appeared in the opening of the wagon cover. At nine years old she was the image of her ma, from her upturned nose to her golden hair. “Uncle Nate, are we almost there?”
“We should be in town this afternoon.” Nate tied down a corner of the canvas that had pulled loose in the rising wind. “You get back in the wagon and take care of Lucy. I’ve got to get us off the creek bank and back up on the trail. It’s going to be bumpy.”
Eight-year-old Charley popped his head up next to Olivia’s. “Who was that, Uncle Nate? I’ve never seen a prettier lady.”
Olivia gasped. “Charley, you can’t say that. No one was prettier than Mama.”
“Mama was a mama, not a lady.”
Nate tightened the end of the canvas. “Your mama was a lady, Charley,” he said, drawing the opening closed with a tug. “She was the prettiest lady who ever lived.”
“I told you so.”
Nate hardly heard Olivia’s words as he moved around the wagon, checking every bolt, tightening every rope. She was right; no one had been prettier than Jenny, and no one had been happier to have her as a sister-in-law than him. But if anyone came close to Jenny, it was that girl from the stage. Instead of Jenny’s golden light, she had the beauty of a rare, dark gem, with black curls framing her face. Her eyes had seemed nearly purple in the gray afternoon light, but no one really had purple eyes.
Olivia’s voice drifted through the canvas cover, singing Lucy’s favorite song. Nate pushed against the familiar worry. Lucy would get better soon. Once they were settled, she would get back to the bubbly and energetic five-year-old she had been before the fire. All she needed was a safe and secure home with her family, and she would be back to normal.
But how long would it take until they had a home again? He went through the steps in his head.
Find his land. Good land with plenty of meadow grass for the horses. That was first. Then file the homestead claim. Next would be to build a house, outbuildings, make sure water was accessible.
Nate worked a wet knot loose and pulled the canvas tight before tying it again. He moved on to the next knot.
Find more mares for his herd. Some of the mustangs he had seen here in the West had descended from quality stock, he could tell that. And with some work and gentling, they’d make fine broodmares. Their colts, with his Morgan as the sire, would make as fine a string of remounts as the US Cavalry could wish for.
Test the next tie-down. Loose. He pulled at the soaking knot. The plan had to work. What would become of the children if this chance didn’t pay out?
He retied the rope, tightening the wet cover against the rising wind. The plan would work if it killed him.
Nate pressed his left cheek against the damp, cold canvas, easing the burn of the scars that covered his neck and shoulder and traveled down both arms to the backs of his hands. The constant reminder of his failure to save Andrew and Jenny. The reminder of what his cowardice had cost the children. A chill ran through him. What if he failed again? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Olivia’s song filtered through the canvas, a song of God’s protection and care.
With a growl, Nate pushed away from the wagon and headed toward the horses. When had the Lord protected them? When he was nearly blown to pieces in Georgia during the war? When Ma and Pa died in ’64, leaving Mattie alone to fend for herself? When Jenny and Andrew were burning to death? When three children were left homeless and orphaned?
He could live without that kind of protection. God had His chance, and He hadn’t come through. They would just have to get along on their own.
And they’d get along without any busybody schoolteacher stepping in. As if he’d let some stranger take care of Andrew and Jenny’s children. It didn’t matter that the scent of violets curled like tendrils when he stepped close to her, pulling him deeper into those eyes.
He shook his head. The children were his responsibility, and he’d make sure they had everything they needed.
When he reached the team he checked the traces, and then each horse. Pete and Dan, the wheel horses, stood patiently. Ginger, his Morgan mare, tossed her head as he ran his hand over her legs. At just three years old and growing larger with her first foal, she had the lightest load of them all, but she’d have to throw her shoulders into the harness to get the wagon back on the trail. She could do it, though. Morgans were all heart.
Last was Scout. The stallion rested his nose on Nate’s shoulder, mouthing at his neckerchief as Nate scratched behind the horse’s left ear and smoothed the forelock back from his eyes. This horse had saved his life more times than he could count during the war and carried him all over the West as he had searched for Mattie the years since then. Nate owed him everything.
Scout nudged his shoulder.
“Sorry, boy. No carrots today. We’ve got work to do.” He stroked the dark cheek under the bridle strap, holding Scout’s gaze with his own. The horse understood. He would get the wagon back onto the trail.
With shouts from the bullwhackers and the crack of whips, the train started out. Nate called to his team, “Hi-yup, there!”
The horses strained, the wheels turned in the mud and the wagon lurched up and onto the road. But as it did, Nate heard a sickening crack. Halting the team, he stooped to look under the wagon, dreading to confirm his fears.
The front axle was splintered and twisted along a narrow crack from one end to the other. A stress fracture. But it was still in one piece. He’d have to try to drive the wagon