What the Heart Wants (2 page)

“I’ve known him for years…traveled with him on this very trail. He’s the best scout money can buy, and you’re lucky to have him,” Captain Baker replied. Each family had been charged a fee to cover the services of the two men. Now, several more men in our group spoke up, saying they had heard that Captain Baker was dependable and trustworthy, and therefore whomever he picked as a scout was fine with them. If anyone had any further objections, they didn’t voice them, and the captain moved on to another topic.

Next he focused on what would be expected of the men regarding guard duty and hunting and such. Every able-bodied man was expected to stand guard at least one night a week. Papa, due to his somewhat delicate condition, offered to help with the livestock instead. Everyone seemed to think this was a fair arrangement, and several other older men volunteered to help him. Of course the women would do what they usually did—cook the meals, take care of the children, and nurse the sick and injured when necessary.

Mr. O’Hara sat quietly the whole time Captain Baker was explaining what our roles would be, and I wondered what he was thinking. I had the feeling that if the men had decided they didn’t want him as a scout, he would have ridden away without any complaint or compunction. He appeared to be a man who kept to himself and liked it that way, and although he was about as foreign-looking a person as I had ever seen, I couldn’t help but think how attractive and regal he was as he sat tall in the saddle. He sat his horse so well, in fact, that I could almost imagine that he’d been born up there on that roan gelding. With his nut-brown complexion, glossy, black hair, high cheekbones, and buckskin clothes, the man looked as wild and as foreign to me as the land we were about to cross. Curiosity about Mr. O’Hara nagged at me from the start, and I couldn’t stop wondering what sort of man he was and whether or not he had a place he called home. What did he do when he wasn’t working as a scout? What did he think of us white folks settling the land that had once belonged to the Indians? I wondered if it was resentment I saw in his stoic expression.

I had no doubt that, to have a job such as his, he had to be brave and adventurous, and he had to know his way across this vast land. And, although Captain Baker didn’t have to point out that Mr. O’Hara was skilled with the two rifles tied on either side of his saddle or the huge knife strapped to his hip, he did.

“Mr. O’Hara’s abilities with both the bowie knife and the Winchester are without comparison, have no doubt about that. That reminds me; if it comes to it, you are to heed Mr. O’Hara’s orders as though they were mine,” he said, and then he quoted a list of rules regarding what was safe behavior and what was not. “No man will leave the circle of wagons after dark, unless that man is on guard duty. No child should be out of sight of his parents, day or night, and all children under the age of sixteen are to sleep inside the wagons, even when it’s hot, which it will be soon enough. Men with hunting skills will be expected to help provide meat and fish for the entire group. There will be no hoarding when it comes to meat. Mr. O’Hara may bring us fresh meat from time t’ time; however, hunting is not his primary purpose here. Some of you have dairy cows, and though I won’t insist on it, it would be Christian of you to share what milk and butter you can.” To this suggestion, everyone murmured assent.

When the captain was finished reciting what was expected of us, several of our fellow travelers asked questions of both men. And, whereas the captain tended to be a little long-winded in his replies, Mr. O’Hara was frugal with his words. I wished he would say more so I could determine his character, and apparently I was not the only one who felt this way. The minister’s wife, who had been glancing out of the corner of her eyes at the scout the entire time Captain Baker addressed us, finally asked him a question.

“Mr. O’Hara, are we likely to encounter hostiles along the way?” Priscilla Sims was the wife of Reverend Bethel Sims, and even though we’d been together as a group for less than twenty-four hours, she’d already gained a reputation for having a sharp tongue and speaking her mind. She stared bravely at the mountain man, as though she were facing Beelzebub himself.

“Maybe,” Mr. O’Hara replied simply, and Prissy Sims pursed her lips and harrumphed, as if to say she wasn’t at all surprised by his brusque, uninformative answer. The group, agitated by Mrs. Sims’ distrustful attitude, began to whisper amongst themselves, and Captain Baker raised his hands and asked for quiet.

“Folks, in my twenty-odd years of leading wagon trains, I’ve never met a group of Indians who weren’t willing to sit down and talk. That will be Mr. O’Hara’s job, and he’s very good at it,” the captain answered, as though knowing Mr. O’Hara wasn’t going to elaborate.

I had heard about the reservations, federal lands where the Indians were made to live, but I’d also heard they weren’t all of a mind to live where they were told, and the idea that there could be some renegades out there, waiting for a chance to scalp us white folks, scared me some. But I held my tongue, not wanting to look frightened in the buckskin-clad man’s eyes. For some reason I couldn’t name, his opinion of me mattered.

“If we see any Indians, just you be sure to stay near the wagons and let me and Mister O’Hara handle ’em,” Baker reiterated. “Unless you have any more questions…We leave at sunrise, so you best get some sleep. Mister Cranmer and Mister Powell, you’re on guard duty tonight with me, so let’s mosey,” Baker added, and then he and the other two men picked up their rifles and left the campsite.

Our wagon, which was smaller than the others, some of which carried families of as many as eight people, necessitated only four oxen. I helped Papa unhitch the four stout beasts, and then we led them a slight distance away from the wagons, to a grassy field where they could eat their fill of the lush grasses. We would need to make sure they didn’t wander off or run away if coyotes came prowling during the night. Papa picked up his rifle and gave my cheek a quick peck. He had insisted on helping any way he could, and tonight he was going to act as shepherd, along with two other men. Since his recent illness, Papa had become a shadow of the handsome, robust man who had raised me. His brown hair was almost totally gray now, and it seemed like his eyes were less blue. I tried not to worry about him as I got ready for bed.

After washing my face and hands in a bowl of cold water ladled from the barrel strapped to the outside of our wagon, I climbed inside where I traded my old gingham dress, camisole, petticoats, and drawers for my nightgown. And, after brushing my waist-length, blonde hair fifty strokes with the silver brush that had been my mother’s, I crawled into my narrow bed. Near my head was the box where we kept our money and our guns. Above the box was the seat where my father and I took turns driving. Even though I hadn’t grown up on a farm, Papa had taught me to handle a team of horses or mules—the Army had had many of both—and oxen really weren’t much different in temperament than the latter. Papa had also taught me to ride and to shoot, “Two necessities for a girl living so far from civilization,” he had said, followed by, “Please forgive me, Ariana.” His apologies to my mother each time he handed me the reins or put a gun in my hand told me what she would have thought of her daughter behaving like a man. But Papa had raised me as he thought best under the circumstances, and now it looked as though my less than ladylike education was going to come in handy.

My last thoughts before falling asleep were about the man my father had in mind for me to marry. He was the nephew of Papa’s friend Colonel Hudson, and I’d never even seen a picture of him. All I really knew about Thomas Parker was what the Hudsons had told Papa, that he was at least twenty years older than me, a recent widower with two children, and the owner of a very lucrative dry-goods business. He and Papa had exchanged a letter of introduction, and though there was no agreement between the two, he seemed to have his heart set on me marrying the man. I was much less enthusiastic. What if Mr. Parker and I didn’t suit? What if his children didn’t like me? What if, by the time we reached him, he’d already found a new wife? Pushing these unsettling thoughts from my mind, I finally fell asleep.

Within days we had all fallen into a routine. At the communal campfire, the women cooked for the entire group while the men hunted, took care of the livestock, and maintained and repaired the wagons. When we stopped for the night, my father and the other men who’d been assigned to take care of the oxen often had to drive the big animals away from the beaten path to nearby meadows where food was still in plentiful supply. Then, after the great beasts fed for a few hours, the men would drive them back again. Even though I knew he was not out there alone and that he was a good marksman, I worried about Papa during these times.

Walter Drummond, who was a single man and a schoolteacher by trade, was one of the volunteer herdsmen. During the day he tutored some of the children, the ones whose parents thought book learning was important. They would gather in his wagon right after breakfast, perching on the bench seat next to him or inside the wagon, wherever there was space among the many boxes of books and other school supplies he had brought along to start his school in California. The eager children read aloud and recited their sums, and we could often hear their cherubic voices chiming in cadence, the pleasant, innocent sounds carried on the cool spring breezes.

It became clear that first month that Mr. Drummond saw me as a prospective wife. And, while I liked the man, and even found him attractive in a sort of ordinary way, I did not wish to lead him astray. Though I wasn’t actually promised to any man, I felt that I owed it to my father to remain faithful to Mr. Parker, the man he wished for me to marry.

* * * *

On the day marking our sixth week on the trail, my thoughts were on other matters. Our wagon train was circled up beside the river for which the nearby military post was named, and I was feeling lighthearted. Fort Laramie was one of several outposts we would be stopping at on our way to California, and to most of us who had never traveled so far from home before, it was like a sanctuary to our homesick souls. And tonight many of us were going there to attend a dance. As I was getting ready for the dance, it occurred to me that I could not imagine myself married to the schoolteacher or to any man I did not love. I might be an old maid, but I still wasn’t willing to settle for anything less than the romantic love my parents had shared. And since that was the case, what would happen when Mr. Parker and I finally met? If I disliked the man, would I be able to refuse him, knowing how disappointed my father would be? The idea that I might love Mr. Parker didn’t even occur to me.

Listening to the other young women talk and laugh about the men they were likely to meet at the fort that night, I kissed my father on the cheek before heading off with my friends. Rising from the prairie like some great ship on a frothy, green sea, the man-made edifice stood two stories tall and looked very out of place. Wild poppies, sweet broom, and marigolds bloomed unhindered as we traversed on foot the few hundred yards from our vagabond homes to the safety of the wooden enclosure. Constructed of rough-cut timber, the fort had only one opening, a set of huge wooden gates manned by two stalwart, blue-uniformed men with rifles held up to their chests. The two soldiers greeted us ladies, their faces breaking into grins as they bid us welcome to the fort, while up above us another soldier called down from his position in the lookout tower, assuring us that he’d be at the dance just as soon as he was relieved of guard duty.

Some of the younger girls giggled at his audacity, but the rest of us were suddenly silent, as music wafted out to us on the soft, late-afternoon breeze. “Listen, there’s a band!” Sarah Cranmer, the person I thought of as my best friend on the wagon train, remarked excitedly. And then we were walking through the big gates and into the fort.

Many locals were already there, whole families having come on foot or by wagon from neighboring farms and from the nearby town, which was also named after the river. The attendees were gathered here and there, chatting about life in this mostly unsettled land or drinking the free punch, standing in groups on the wooden-planked walkways that connected the various official buildings, mess hall, and barracks or on the parade ground, which took up over half of the fenced-in interior. At the far end of the space, a four-piece band struck up a lively tune, and people began to dance to the country reel, whirling about on a wooden platform that had been constructed especially for that purpose.

My mouth fell open. I hadn’t seen this many people in one place since Papa had taken me to St. Louis the year after Momma died. For a child of four, the noise and numbers of people had been frightening back then. Now I wasn’t frightened, just a bit overwhelmed. And nervously expectant. During our walk the women had been saying what a good opportunity this was to meet the man of their dreams. Several of the women remarked that they didn’t care if they ever reached California; they would be perfectly happy if they could settle down with one of the soldiers, right here at the fort.

Suddenly I had a worrying thought. What if I found my intended here, the man I was meant to marry? What would I say to Papa? I almost turned tail and ran as I contemplated having to disappoint Papa and the Hudsons. Thus I was standing practically frozen with anticipatory fright, aware that my companions had already deserted me, when a smooth male voice with an elegant Eastern accent managed to break through my troubled state. “Allow me to introduce myself,” the voice said, and I turned to look at its owner. A pale face with black, arched eyebrows and dark blue eyes under a blue officer’s hat, smiled at me. His teeth were even and white. “Captain Royce Vincent, at your service,” he announced, bowing from the waist, one hand on the hilt of his dress sword.

“Samantha Collins,” I responded, noting how well his uniform fit him and how important he looked in it. He seemed nice, and since the other girls were busy dancing, I decided to spend some time getting to know him, instead of looking like a wallflower. When he asked me to dance, I accepted. He seemed truly interested in getting to know me, and as we circled the room, I found myself telling him about my childhood. He clucked commiseratively when I mentioned that I’d been only three when my mother died. Not wanting to put a damper on the evening by dwelling on an unfortunate happening in my past, I asked him to tell me about himself, which he did, regaling me with humorous stories from his college days in Boston. After the waltz he said he was thirsty and went to the refreshment table to fetch us some punch.