Lauraine Snelling - [Wild West Wind 01] Page 4

  She followed Chief’s instructions and brought up the rear. Her lack of endurance was quickly becoming evident when she tried to dismount and could barely swing her leg over the saddle. When her feet hit the dirt, she crumpled, her dignity saved by hanging on to the stirrup leathers.

  Micah came up behind her and, putting an arm around her waist, helped her over to sit on a rock.

  “Thank you.” She let out a puff. “I’ve never had that happen before.”

  “You never rode this long.”

  Chief sat on his horse, watching the cattle and buffalo drink from the stream and then set to serious grazing. “I watch. You rest.”

  “But . . .” Sometimes taking advice was the better part of wisdom. This time when she tried to stand, her feet came back to life and carried her over to the wagon and even climbed the steps. She collapsed on the lower bunk bed, with only her hat coming to a rest on the table.

  A knock on the door brought her out of a dead slumber. She stared at the wall across the narrow room where the horizontal door had been raised to let in fresh air. Not knowing where she was for a moment set her heart to racing, but with a deep breath, all the events of the night before came roaring back to her awareness. Her stomach grumbling sounded louder than the creek outside. What day was it? Had she slept through the day as well as the night? Throwing back the blanket, she tried to remember if she had covered herself, but nothing came to mind.

  She sat up, careful to keep from banging her head on the upper bunk. Bare feet. Either Micah or Chief had taken her boots off and covered her. Her hips and knees groaned when she stood up. Her mouth felt like George the Buffalo had tromped through. When she opened the door, the dew sparkling on grass and rocks told her the light meant morning, not evening. No wonder her stomach was complaining. She’d slept the clock around.

  Clamping her hat on her head, she sat down on the steps to pull on and lace up her boots. She knew exactly where her other boots were, her practical ones rather than these designed to go with her riding and shooting costume, but right now she didn’t have time to dig them out. Chief had meant for this to be a brief stop, not a twenty-four-hour one.

  The fragrance of coffee and bacon made her stomach rumble again. Following her nose, she found a campfire on the other side of a couple of boulders with Chief turning bacon in a skillet and the coffeepot steaming on one of the rocks set in a circle to hem the fire in.

  “You feel better?” he asked.

  “Thank you, I do. I thought we were moving on last night.”

  “Temperature is dropping.”

  “I can tell. Where’s Micah?”

  “Out with the stock. Eat and we saddle up.” He handed her a plate of bacon, two eggs, and a piece of toast. “Coffee’s ready.”

  “Where did we get eggs?”

  “Mess tent.”

  Cassie remembered the basket of eggs Micah had brought out. But she had a feeling Chief had managed to pack more things than she realized. At that point, she wasn’t prepared to argue, settling herself on a rock to inhale the plate’s contents. He handed her a cup of steaming coffee before fixing his own plate.

  “Good day for travel.”

  She nodded, her mouth too full to answer.

  Micah strode around a rock. “Othello has them bedding down. I could smell the coffee on the way in.” He picked up the third tin plate, dished bacon and eggs out of the frying pan, and leaned against a taller rock to eat.

  “Thanks to whoever tucked me in.” Cassie looked from one to the other. Micah stared at his plate, a flush of red climbing his neck.

  “I’ll get the team harnessed while you clean up.” Chief nodded to her. “Make sure the fire is out.”

  For a moment Cassie wondered who was in charge here but kept from responding. The one with the most experience needed to be in charge—at least for the moment. “Yes, sir.”

  Micah snorted and then coughed as food lodged in his throat. He bent over, but Cassie wasn’t sure if he was laughing or choking, especially when he straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Mischief danced in his eyes.

  “I’m glad someone can see the humor in this situation.” She stood, stretched, and then looked around for a pot of hot water to wash the dishes. Bacon grease in the frying pan—what to do with that? She set her plate and fork down on a rock and stared around. A wooden box sat off to the side. Checking that, she found kettles, the basket of eggs, and other supplies. Surely she shouldn’t put dirty dishes in with the clean. Did they have any soap for washing?

  “Ah . . .”

  Micah brought his plate and utensils to the fire. “I’ll saddle the horses.”

  She nodded, studying the contents of the box.

  “You wash things in the creek, scrub with sand,” Chief said as he walked up behind her.

  She tried to smile. “I do?”

  “Pour the grease into a mug or jar if there is one.”

  “How do you know this stuff?”

  “I grew up traveling, and I pay attention.”

  She did as he suggested, scouring the grease off the plates and frying pan with sand and small rocks from the creek, flinching at the grease on her fingers. Setting the frying pan filled with tin plates on a rock to dry, she hauled water in the cast-iron kettle to drown the fire. The steam made her step back, realizing she needed to make several trips. She should have grabbed one of the pails hanging under the wagon. The smoke and steam made her eyes run, her nose chasing the former.

  How to feel dumber than stupid in the space of minutes. They should have brought some soap along. Perhaps she had some in her toiletry bag, at least for a bath—if she ever got to a place that had a bathtub again. Scrubbing dishes and pans with sand. Had her mother ever been forced into such primitive behavior? Did it matter? Why did he tell her to save the bacon grease?

  It took another trip with water splashing out of the kettle and onto her pant legs before the coals and black pieces of wood lay in a soggy puddle. One thing accomplished. She pushed a lock of loosened hair back behind her ear and glared at the wooden box. It wouldn’t pack itself, that was for sure. The box wouldn’t close after she’d packed the utensils in, so she pulled them all out and tried again. Surely it didn’t take a genius to pack the box. The kettle waited beside the fire rocks.

  “Well . . .” She thought of several of the words she’d heard spoken around the back lot of the Wild West Show but refrained from using them, as her mother had convinced her, via a mouth full of soap, that ladies did not use such language. But then her mother had most likely not been caught without such basic survival necessities either. Not that a member of the royal house of Norway had been wilderness camping. At least not without an entourage. Her mother had left that life to become Mrs. Adam Lockwood. The thought of her mother brought on an ache for the father she had adored and depended on so fully after her beautiful mother had died. She tried to blink back the tears but, failing in that, rubbed her shirtsleeve across her face. It must have been the smoke from the fire.

  She repacked the box, including the frying pan, and succeeded this time. She dragged it back to the wagon. Once inside, she straightened her bed and dug out her comb and brush. Upon hearing the jangles of the harnessed team, she stuffed them back into the drawer, flipped her braid over her shoulder, and clapped her hat back on. So much for her feminine toilette. Glancing around to make sure everything was in its place, she stepped outside again and closed the door tightly behind her. After locking the hinged steps up and into place, she lowered the long hatch on the side of the wagon and slid the hasps in place for locks.

  Wind Dancer, fully saddled, studied her from where he was tied to the front wagon wheel.

  “I know. I’m coming.” But when she tried to put her foot in the stirrup, the ride of yesterday nicked her knee.

  “Stretching is a good idea.”

  She looked up to see Micah smiling down at her from the back of his horse. “Thanks.”

  “You want some help?”


  “No, I do not want help.” She concealed a yelp with the curt words. Cassandra Marie Lockwood, behave yourself. It’s not his fault you aged forty years in one night and a day. She bent over into a stretch, easing down until her legs screamed at her. But by the time she’d done that three times, she could tell it was helping. She stretched every day before her performances—why should today be any different? When she returned to Wind Dancer’s side, she stuck two fingers between cinch and horse to make sure he’d not blown up his belly when saddled and swung aboard, this time with only a minor flinch.

  She looked up from checking her scabbard to find both men watching her. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, am I detaining you?” She too heard the caustic tone to what had been a simple question. Of course she was detaining them, but at least they had the wisdom not to laugh at her.

  Chief hawked and spat over the wheel and pulled back on the reins to back the team and wagon. The horses snorted and shook their heads but did as he ordered. With enough space to turn around now, Chief flicked the reins and they started out. Within a couple of minutes they were back on the trail, or road, if one could call it that. She dropped back to help Micah with the stock, and they headed south.

  Sometime later when a wind kicked up, dropping the temperature instead of warming it, she glanced back to see black clouds piling up behind them. The sun was fighting a valiant battle, but the clouds soon won, turning the blue sky gray.

  The first snowflake on her face made her realize she’d been dozing in the saddle. Jerking awake, she saw Micah across the plodding herd, hunched over on his horse. Othello ranged ahead of her, the spring gone from his step. Nudging Wind Dancer, she trotted up even with the painted wagon. “Hadn’t we better find a place to camp?”

  Chief nodded. “Been watching.”

  “Isn’t it early for snow?”

  “Snow can come anytime in the Dakotas.”

  Cassie shivered at a fierce blast that seemed to slice right through her. If Jason Talbot had been riding with them, she would have given him more than a piece of her mind, that is, if she could break any off. “Cold clear through” now had a new meaning for her. She thanked God they had the wagon when they finally did stop. The snow swirled around them, dancing on the freezing wind.

  5

  Shrieking wind, driving snow, bitter cold.

  Blizzard was no longer just a word in a dictionary or a scene in a story to Cassie. In the past, the Wild West Show had always moved south to somewhere warm, both for wintering and for added shows. They would always leave before winter came to the northern Midwest.

  As soon as the herd huddled together and bedded down in the lee of large boulders, Chief told Micah to unhitch the team while he went searching for firewood.

  Cassie had no idea how he would find anything when she could barely see her hand in front of her face. When her fingers were too stiff with cold to undo the cinch, Micah told her to get in the wagon and let him take care of Wind Dancer. For a change Cassie didn’t argue.

  Chief managed to find a downed dried tree somewhere, so feeding the stove became her job. Cassie learned that chopping wood with a hatchet did a good job of keeping her warm. The knowledge that they had no idea how long the storm would last made her far more thrifty with the fire, especially after a reprimand from Chief over wasting wood by keeping the stove too hot. Hot enough to keep the pot of beans and chunks of bacon simmering but not bubbling was her new guide.

  Micah stumbled up the steps and let Othello enter ahead of him. When inside, he put his shoulder against the wall to pull the door shut against the howling wind. The dog shook, snow flying in every direction. Cassie pointed Micah at the woodbox for a chair and grabbed a rag to help dry her dog.

  “Where’s Chief?”

  “Checking the cattle. The buffalo are doing better than any of the others.” He held his hands over the top of the stove, and then rubbed his arms. “Bad out there.”

  Cassie lifted the lid on the kettle and gave the beans a stir with the wooden spoon. Then it was back to chopping wood by the door, being careful to sweep up the chips and dump them into a basket. Chief had already taught her the value of dry fire starter. She would never look at a chunk of firewood the same again.

  “How are the horses?”

  “Tied so that the wagon shields them from the wind.” Micah took off his hat and slapped it against his thigh to rid it of snow, then hung it on a peg on the wall. “Let me.” He held his hand out for the hatchet handle. “I need to get warm too.”

  Cassie handed it over. “Keep the pieces short enough to fit in the stove.” When he stared at her, she added, “Chief said that.”

  “Oh.”

  Why did she have a feeling that while she’d always understood that Micah was often slow to respond because he was so painfully shy, in this situation he was far more competent than she? Since she was no longer working to keep warm, she moved closer to the stove. As small as this wagon was, it had to be mighty cold outside to be this cold inside. She knelt by Othello, who had curled up in the corner right behind the stove, and stroked his head and back. His tail thumped but he stayed curled tight.

  “I don’t suppose you had time to grow a winter coat, traveling in warmer weather like we’ve been doing.”

  “Least he can grow one.” Micah stacked the wood he’d chopped in the box next to the stove, then swept up the chips for the basket. “When will the beans be done?”

  She shrugged. How did one tell when the beans were done? Obviously they couldn’t get up and talk. “Take a taste.” She pointed to a drawer. “Spoons are in there.”

  Othello’s ears went up and then his head when he heard Chief mutter something as he entered the house-wagon. The dog stuck his nose back under his tail and closed his eyes again.

  “Beans done?” Chief asked.

  “Some crunchy but taste good.” Micah reached for a bowl off the shelf, dipped it into the bean kettle, and licked the drippings off the side. He caught the astonished look from Cassie and shrugged, his face pure guilt. “Sorry. Don’t know where the scoop spoon is.”

  Chief did his half snort, half chuckle sound and then took a bowl and used the wooden spoon to scoop some beans into his bowl. “You want some?” He looked to Cassie.

  “Not yet. I’ll keep chopping while you two eat. The coffeepot is hot too.” She rose from beside her dog and jerked the hatchet out of the chopping block by the door. They certainly should have brought something better than this, but she grabbed the branch she’d been working on and started chopping again. At least she kept warm this way. Her stomach grumbled as she inhaled the fragrance coming from the cooking pot. The thought of crunchy beans did not sound appealing.

  Right about now she wished they were on the train heading east. At least there would be a dining car and plenty of hot food. Potbellied stoves warmed every car that held humans and kept a coffeepot hot. And the Gypsy Wagon would have been inside a railroad car, protected from the elements.

  If only Jason had been a better businessman.

  She knew it came down to that. Her father had been the brains behind the outfit, while Jason did the announcing and glad-handing to gain new venues. How she knew that she wasn’t sure, but most likely it came from listening to all the meetings around this table when she should have been asleep in her hammock. She paused her chopping as memories swirled through her mind. Her mother and father laughing together, her mother kissing her little girl good-night and sharing prayers—some in Norwegian, others in English—her parents discussing new additions to their act, plans for the future of the show, for their future as a family. The tales her father told about the valley he had found in the Black Hills of South Dakota.

  Blinking back tears, Cassie returned to her chopping. Keeping busy was far better than sniveling over the past. After all, the past was gone and would not come again—except in her dreams. Now she had to think about the future. And making sure they all made it to that valley. Somewhere there must still be a map showing the way to it. She r
emembered her father talking about Hill City, a town somewhere near Rapid City, South Dakota. Amazing what things came to her mind when she’d not realized they were part and parcel of her now, living in her head.

  She stopped and stood up straight. “The wind has stopped.”

  Chief nodded and then poured himself a cup of thick coffee.

  She glanced over to see Micah leaning against the wall, sound asleep. The night before, the men had slept outside under the wagon. Tonight that was impossible. “Chief, there used to be a couple of hammocks in that bag up on the top shelf. If you find one there, we can string it between those two hooks, and Micah can sleep there.”

  “I will use the floor by the stove.” Chief reached for the bundle and sneezed at the dust that flew when he brought it down. He did indeed pull out a hammock and held it up. “Short.”

  “Try the other one.” A pang thrust through her chest. That was her girl-sized hammock. Had Jason not thrown anything out of the wagon when he took it over? Sure enough, the second hammock was adult sized. Together they slipped the rings over the wall hooks.

  Cassie walked over and shook Micah. “We have a bed for you. Do you have a quilt or some blankets?”

  Micah stared up at her, as if unsure who she was or what she was asking.

  “Quilt or blankets?”

  He nodded slowly. “A box under the wagon bed.”

  “I’ll get it.” Without waiting Chief plunged back outside and returned with a blanket, a fur-lined elk hide, and something else furry. He thrust the blanket and a sort of blanket of fur-lined animal skins at Micah. “Roll in these.”

  “How do I get in that thing?” Micah stared at the canvas contraption hanging limply from the hooks in the opposite walls.

  “It is a hammock. Sailors sleep in them all the time on ships. They use up less space. You sit on the edge and roll into it.”

  The hammock dumped Micah back onto his feet, and he staggered almost into the stove.

  “The floor is fine.”