Undeniable - Book One: The Oregon Trail Series Page 2

  As his brother led the man away while discussing a future for him in Indian negotiations, Nick went to Mrs. Bartlett. She stood still, arms crossed, and seemed to not even breathe. From the lack of color in her face, he worried she might faint. “Are you well, ma’am?’

  She glanced up at him and back to her husband. “Yes, thank you, and you?”

  “That’s not important right now.” He saw the spots Dag’s poking finger left, red already turning purple. Nick caught his brother’s gaze. He considered Sam to be better able to chat with someone they’d both like to leave for dead. Mrs. Bartlett’s face remained pale, her eyes large. He watched as her expressions betrayed her emotions. Clearly, her family’s farm meant everything to her and she wasn’t consulted in the sale. He considered his place to be anywhere else in the world but between a husband and wife. And yet, Mrs. Bartlett seemed like an injured bird needing care. Nick sighed when tears began rolling down her cheeks. He could tolerate a crying woman, but not one trying so hard to be brave like her. In an effort to distract her, he asked, “Didn’t we see you sewing outside the dance hall today?”

  “Yes, in a way.” She lifted her chin, blinking. “It’s more knitting than sewing.”

  She didn’t meet his gaze, so he thought of how else to start a friendly conversation. Nick did a quick search of their surroundings. Mention the weather, he wondered, maybe people in town? Thanks to the women in his life, he knew more than he wanted about needle arts. If asking inane questions kept her talking instead of crying, he was willing to ask them. “There’s a difference between the two, am I correct?”

  Mrs. Bartlett gave him a wavering smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Yes, there’s a bit of a difference.” Digging around in a little cloth bag, she held up a stocking. “Only the toe will be sewn closed. Everything else of this is knitting.” He took the small garment, careful with the pins holding the stitches. As he felt the softness of the wool, she added, “I’m getting an early start on winter.”

  Nick grinned, handing her the sock. “April is very early. I assume your Sunday summer dress has been finished for a while?”

  Mrs. Bartlett’s expression clouded as she put away her knitting. She didn’t look him in the eye while replying, “No, I’m lucky enough to wear my Sunday best year around. It’s enough for me.”

  Her admission stopped him cold. No wonder she’d spent her time in the General Store pouring over the fabric. He’d never met a woman who didn’t love a new dress, and hers looked as if it’d seen better days. Nick wished for just an ounce of his brother’s charm. Thinking of what Sam would say, he worked to reassure her. “Then, it’s no wonder you look so fine, dressed up as you are.”

  The attempt to be sociable sounded feeble even to his ears. Nick saw the wry disbelief in her expression, but his effort gained him a slight smile from Mrs. Bartlett. Encouraged, he grinned back at her.

  “You’re an extremely generous man and almost as charming as well, Mr. Granville. Thank you for the compliment.” She turned away from him a little, appearing to listen in on Sam and Dag’s conversation.

  He suppressed a sigh, knowing he’d been dismissed in her mind. Thing was, Nick wasn’t sure he wanted to be finished so soon with her. His brain felt mushy, like when she’d smiled at him after he topped the steps to the saloon. Mrs. Bartlett’s eyes, dark green like moss in the shade, framed by long, black lashes, lured him to stare if only to see what expression they next displayed. Also darker than her hair, Mrs. Bartlett’s eyebrows arched or furrowed, depending on her thoughts. Nick liked how her feelings showed on her face. She’d make a horrible gambler, almost as bad as her husband. At the moment, though, Mrs. Bartlett looked pale and afraid, rousing every protective instinct in him. He shifted, blocking the other men from her view. “I gather your husband has surprised you with everything today?”

  Beth sighed and shook her head. “Not really. If I were honest, I’d admit selling the farm for his dreams of gold has been Dag’s goal for years.”

  “Not yours?”

  “Not mine at all.” She gave him a fleeting look, seeming embarrassed. “But then, it’s the husband’s job to dream and the wife’s to make those dreams reality, correct?”

  “I suppose so.”

  With a sly glance, she added, “Besides, what my husband doesn’t get through force, he gets through brute force. Mules seem easy going compared to him.”

  Nick looked at Dag, standing taller and broader than Sam. Anyone would have a tough time finding a man big enough to bully Daggart Bartlett. Neither brother sat short in a saddle, nor would either pick a fight with a man like Bartlett. His size, compared to his wife’s, irritated Nick yet again. In an effort to stay calm, Nick told himself he didn’t know the whole story. Like maybe how Mrs. Bartlett henpecked her husband every second at home. Or possibly, she placed every chore at the farm in his overworked hands.

  He glanced down at the woman next to him. Nick would bet his own farm she was the condemned one of the two. Here her husband stood, swapping stories with Sam, while his missus patiently waited. Nick’s own wife would have made her excuses to visit the dressmaker’s shop.

  Shifting his stance, he fought fidgeting with impatience. Memories of losing Sally lured him to the nearest bottle. He had no time for that. A hot bath at the hotel and a visit to the barber still needed doing today. “Sam,” Nick interrupted a story he’d heard many times before now. “They need their oxen, wagon, and supplies before dark.”

  Sam laughed. “Of course they do. Sir, ma’am, I’ll see you at Becker’s Camp next.”

  Shaking hands with the men, Bartlett responded, “See you there.”

  Nick watched the Bartletts walk across the dirt street, not wanting to see her go so soon. To Sam, he said sotto voice, “She told me this trip is Bartlett’s dream, not hers. Makes a man wonder what the woman does dream of.”

  “Don’t even think of asking, Nick.” Sam mock punched him on the arm to get his attention. “She’s his wife, and I’d kill you myself before letting him kill you over her.”

  Lifting his chin, Nick refused to admit his brother read his mind. “I’m thinking nothing of the sort about the woman. She’s just another client to me. Anyway, who says you’d be in the fight?”

  “You know me better than that.”

  Sam always had his back, even when they fought each other. If Nick attempted courting Mrs. Bartlett, he’d deserve a beating from her husband. He nodded before turning to the hotel across the way. “I’ve never needed to poach before now, and it’s a habit I’m not starting.”

  “She’s a little thing,” Sam said before stopping them both so a wagon could pass. “A man has a right to do whatever he wants to his wife, but I’d have a hard time letting him hurt her.”

  He sighed, frustrated with a bad situation before it began. “Mrs. Bartlett has already been bruised, and you know I couldn’t let him do worse to her.”

  “You might have to.”

  Angry, Nick glared at him. “I don’t have to do anything. Doesn’t matter if it’s a mountain lion, bear, or spouse, I’m not letting anything kill a member of the wagon party.”

  “I know, but don’t beg for trouble.” Sam went first through the hotel door. “I agree with your argument. Let’s hope it’s never tested.”

  Hours later, in one of the establishment’s feather beds, Nick felt far more human than animal. His body tingled from the scrubbing, while his face felt naked without a beard. He might grow his mustache, but for now, Nick liked his bare upper lip. He had to get new clothes tomorrow, his prior garments too worn. While borrowing from Sam worked well for today, he found it tough to be his own man in another’s undergarments.

  Nick smiled, wondering how many people who’d seen him in town would recognize him bare faced. He might have robbed a bank and gotten away with it. Until the barber spoke up, that is. He lay there, pondering how he’d plan the perfect bank heist.

  Somewhere between him eluding an imaginary sheriff and catching a train back to
the east coast, Nick must have drifted off. He woke with a start, pulled into consciousness by his usual nightmare. As he worked on catching his breath, Nick swung his legs to the side of the bed. The cold floor chilled his bare soles. He shrugged into Sam’s clothes, hoping for anything but biscuits and bacon for breakfast. There would be enough of that meal in the months ahead.

  After a slice of strawberry pie and coffee, he settled up for the food and room. He enjoyed the night of luxury, but too much made a person soft for the trail. Nick put his hat on as the general store caught his attention. Mrs. Bartlett and her dress came to mind, and he paused. Yesterday as the Bartletts walked away from them, he saw how her dress had been gathered in the back. A different fabric from the rest of the garment made up a ruffle at the bottom hem. He’d learned enough from Sally to know the woman’s dress was handed down from someone shorter and rounder. Nick also saw the skill in the modifications. Even so, Sally would never have considered such clothes to be her Sunday best, nor would Nick have allowed her to do so. He’d had too much pride in his wife. He also would have demanded she have adequate clothing for a journey west.

  Not wanting to question why he cared and pushing away his conscience, Nick strode across the street and into the shop. Henry greeted him with a nod, which he returned. He went to the fabrics near the back, examining the placement of each to find Mrs. Bartlett’s preference. Light, with spots of color, he mused. Nick pulled what he remembered from his mother’s sewing to be a light, delicate calico from the others.

  Henry walked up behind him. “That bolt has enough for a lady’s dress and bonnet, not much more.”

  He held up the fabric. “How tall a woman would this fit?”

  The storekeeper rubbed his stubbled chin. “You were in here yesterday with your brother, right?”

  Nick laughed, scrapping plans for ever robbing a bank near this man. “Sure was. You’ve got a good eye for faces.”

  He shrugged. “It’s something I’ve learned over the years. May I?” Henry held out his hands for the cloth in question.

  Nick complied and watched as Henry went around and measured it all against a yardstick fastened to the counter. Already, Henry had reached the end of the fabric. Would there be enough? He forced himself to wait patiently while the man measured the cloth a second time. Mrs. Bartlett was taller than Sally had been.

  Henry frowned, shaking his head as he folded the fabric. “This isn’t going to make Mrs. Bartlett happy.”

  Nick’s heart gave a guilty jump at her name. “How so?”

  He took out his sales pad. “It’s enough for her a dress and sunbonnet. She looks at this every time they come in here.” Henry patted the calico. “There’d even be enough left over for a pretty ruffle.”

  Nick had been correct and fought the urge to grin. She loved this pattern, and he wanted her to have it. “Are you sure there’s plenty for a nice sized dress?” At Henry’s frown, he grew nervous and felt transparent. He knew Henry saw the beads of sweat grow to the size of buckets on his upper lip. He stammered a little, “I wouldn’t want it to be my fault if my wife, who happens to be Mrs. Bartlett’s size, runs short.”

  “Since my cousin is the tailor down the street and my sister makes dresses, I pick up on these things.” Henry went around and headed toward the back of the store. “Could be wrong about the ruffle, but there’s enough for everything else.” Stopping in front of the sundries, he asked, “Did your wife say she needed anything else for her dress?”

  Nick’s mind raced. What would Mrs. Bartlett say? How could he give the fabric alone to her, never mind the sundries she’d need? He shrugged, tapping the counter, stalling. Didn’t women need thread, needles, and scissors? Hadn’t he heard Sally mention whale bones and ribbons, too? He tried to laugh. “I never know what that woman has for making our clothes.”

  Henry looked at him suspiciously. “If your wife made your shirt, she has more than everything to sew a dress.”

  “She probably does.” Nick remembered the last time his nerves felt like this, when his first oxen and wagon hit quicksand. He doubted Mrs. Bartlett had everything she needed. “To keep me in her good graces, though, I’d better get whatever she wants for an entire dress.” He smiled, hoping some of Sam’s ability to charm showed through the bloodline. “I want to surprise her, and she’d be disappointed if something was missing.”

  Henry shrugged. “All right, mister. It’s your penny.”

  Nick left the store, more than several cents lighter with a package in his hands. He had boots waiting for him at the cobbler’s and a new set of clothes at the tailor’s. After picking up his things, Nick put his boots in one saddlebag and his clothes and Mrs. Bartlett’s package in another.

  He reached the camp in a short time, spotting Sam on the far west side. “Hey there, you got room for another straggler?”

  “Look at you in my duds! You’re almost as much a lady-killer as yours truly.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Want your work clothes back?” Nick dismounted his horse, throwing the reins over the animal’s head so he’d stay put.

  His brother replied while walking to the private side of their wagon, “Yes, next washday is fine since you’ll probably need them ‘till then.” Both checked for bystanders before undressing.

  Sam put on his older clothes as Nick removed them. Nick went to get a set of his own new clothes. He opened the saddlebag, taking out both pairs of pants and shirts.

  “Nick?”

  “What?” He kept buttoning his shirt.

  Sam held up a corner of the calico. “Since when do you need such lovely clothes?”

  “It’s not for me.” Nick turned away, tucking in his shirttail.

  “I figured,” his brother retorted.

  Slipping a belt out of the opposite saddlebag, he pulled on his old boots, acting too busy to talk. Nick then latched shut the incriminating bag, glaring at Sam.

  “You’re not going to tell me who’s the lucky lady?”

  He mounted his horse. “No, and you don’t want to know.”

  Sam grabbed the bridle and hissed, “Damn it, Nicholas, you can’t give that woman anything like this. It’s too personal, and Bartlett will kill you. If you’re lucky, he’ll do it with his bare hands.”

  “Or worse, he’ll hurt her.”

  “You have clearly gone mad.” He let go of the horse and sighed. “Fine. Promise me you’ll wait until Bartlett wouldn’t mind a gift from you to his wife. Do it for her sake, if not your own.”

  Taken aback, he admitted, “Good argument. All right, I’ll wait for a good time.” Compelled to explain himself, Nick went on, “She only has one dress. Just the one. Sally had a dress for every day of the week and two for Sunday. I needed to get something for Mrs. Bartlett.”

  “You needed to get something for her?” Sam shook his head and mounted his horse.

  “Yes, because how much do you want to bet, the woman won’t have another set of warmer clothes for this trip?” Before Sam could interject, he continued, “You and I both know Bartlett was warned of the cold in the mountains we’ll cross. He’ll have everything he needs to get to the gold, but not everything she needs to survive.”

  “I’m not taking that bet.” He moved his horse between Nick and the rest of the camp. “Before you see her again, you should know something. She’s his, for better or worse. Right now, it’s worse but has probably been better, else they’d not be married.”

  His brother’s speech reminded Nick love might have been in the Bartlett’s marriage at one time. Maybe she loved the man no matter his bad manners or lack of kindness for her. “At the moment, it’s more concern for her well-being than anything else. I’m not smitten with the woman or anything.”

  “Smitten, is it?” Sam continued, his tone sharp, “Once she agrees to travel to California with him, you’ll feel foolish for this infatuation.”

  Realizing she’d most likely stay with her husband reminded him how much she wasn’t any of his business. “Infatuation is
a strong word for wanting to keep a member of our group alive until Oregon.” Catching his brother’s scoffing expression, Nick added, “Or California. She is pretty, though. You’re right about me thinking so, somewhat.”

  Sam sat up taller in the saddle and smirked. “Of course I am. I may be younger, but I’m far wiser.” Leading the way into the camp, he continued, “I can’t blame you for liking the girl. She’s the first to catch your eye since Sally died, and the woman’s a princess needing rescue. What able-bodied man could resist? When I first met her, I almost kissed her hand.” Sam shook his head. “But out here isn’t like home. Here, fine manners like mine can be considered a declaration of intent.”

  Nick shifted in his seat. “Before I say you talk too much, do you know her name by chance?”

  After shooting over a dirty look, Sam replied, “You don’t need to know and I shouldn’t answer, but I heard him call her Lizzy Lou once in camp. She responded, so I assume it’s her name. Not that you can call her by that, of course.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” As they wound around, edging closer to the center of camp, Nick saw her. She sat in the shadow of a wagon, unraveling a tube of knitting. “Go ahead,” he told Sam, “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

  “Damn it!” Sam growled. “You’re going to deserve the beating Bartlett gives your sorry hide.”

  Nick shrugged off the warning and rode up to the Bartlett’s campsite. He saw Bartlett’s wife sitting with her back against a wagon wheel and dismounted to talk with her. “Hello, ma’am. How are you today?”

  Mrs. Bartlett took the tail of squiggly yarn and put loops back on one of her little sticks. “Hello, Mr. Granville. I’m well. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you.” After several moments, she didn’t look up at him and he sat on his heels. He paused for her to say something, and when she didn’t, he broke the silence. “What is it you’re making?”

  He saw her smile, the only part of her face visible under her hat. “A stocking.”

  “Another?” He nodded at a passerby then added, “You’re either very fast, or the recipient is very short.”