Wed On The Wagon Train. Tracy Blalock

night out in the open. But the oilskin cloth on the outside of Josiah’s bedroll kept the worst of the dampness from soaking into his clothes. At least until he got up to check on his horses.

      The storm suddenly seemed to gain intensity, as the rain blew sideways, pelting him with fat drops. He regretted his lack of forethought, that he hadn’t retrieved his rain slicker from the covered wagon earlier.

      But he was nowhere near as wet and miserable as the horses standing huddled together. Rainwater sluiced off their coats, and the wind blew their sodden tails out behind them like streamers. The drenching wasn’t likely to cause any lasting harm to such hardy stock, but they looked pitiful all the same.

      Near dawn, the deluge let up at last—leaving behind a soggy quagmire even hours later. While the group enjoyed a welcome respite from the dust, the mud added a new hindrance. Over the course of the morning, several wagons became mired along the trail. It slowed their progress, and tempers were short.

      Especially when Hardwick’s overloaded wagon got stuck tight, and he simply stood back, expecting others to assist his servants in doing the physical labor required to free it.

      Josiah, along with Matt and half a dozen other men, put a shoulder against the tailgate, while the oxen strained at the front. But whereas lighter wagons had been freed with relative ease, it was no use this time. The wheels had sunk deep and refused to budge.

      “This isn’t working,” the man to Josiah’s right grunted in frustration. In his early forties, Thomas Malone was tall and thin with pale blond hair—traits he’d passed down to all four of his children.

      “Stop pushing for a minute,” Miles instructed. “We need to come up with a different plan.”

      Glad for the opportunity to take a breather, Josiah relaxed his muscles and propped an arm against the wagon box.

      Jed Smith rubbed his jaw as he studied the covered wagon, then turned toward the wagon master. “If we unload some of the heavier items, then we might be able to push it forward.”

      Several heads nodded in accord.

      But Hardwick took exception. “You dare to suggest that priceless antiques be placed in the muck?” Pinching a tiny dot of mud from his trousers, he cleaned his fingertips on a monogrammed handkerchief. “I will not hear of it!”

      His words were greeted by angry retorts from many of the others, all of whom were mud-splattered from head to toe.

      A piercing whistle cut through the ruckus, halting the grumbles of discontent. “Does anyone have any other ideas?” Miles inserted into the silence.