Ana Seymour Page 3

  “Good morning,” she said as the two identically clad youngsters ran up to her, stopping abruptly a safe five feet away. “Who are you two ladies?”

  The little girls giggled and the one on the right said, “I’m Polly, she’s Molly.”

  Kerry masked a wince at the thought of a mother who would name her daughters like two rhyming parrots. “Pleased to meet you. I’m…Kerr…Kiernan. Kiernan Gallivan.” She’d entirely forgotten to lower her voice, but the girls didn’t appear to question her masculinity.

  “We’re Burnetts,” Polly added. “We’re gonna be your neighbors, Ma says, and we have to be nice to you, ‘cause you and your brother lost your pa.”

  After too much false sympathy from strangers, Kerry found the girl’s directness disarming. Once again the unshed tears stung her throat. “Yes, we did,” she said softly. “How old are you two?”

  “I’m older.” Polly continued to be the spokesperson for the duo. “Five minutes. But we’re both ten.”

  Kerry turned her eyes to Molly, whose smile was just a little more tentative than her sister’s. “Well now, ten’s a wonderful age, isn’t it, just starting to be grown-up.”

  Molly looked down at her scuffed shoes. “Pa says we get to drive the wagon,” she contributed in a voice Kerry could hardly hear.

  “That sounds about right. My brother’s thirteen and he’s been driving for at least three years.” “But he’s a boy,” Polly pointed out. “That’s different.”

  “Not always. It doesn’t have to be different.”

  “You talk kind of funny.”

  Kerry didn’t know if the girl was referring to her high pitch or her slight accent, but decided to stay with the safer topic. “That’s because I grew up in another country. Have you ever heard of Ireland?”

  Both girls nodded and Polly said, “In school. On the train we won’t have any school and maybe not for a long time, but my Ma will teach us.”

  “That’s good, Polly. Learning’s important.”

  “That’s what Ma says.”

  “It sounds as if your mother’s a smart lady,” Kerry replied with a smile.

  “I told you girls not to bother the neighbors till we all get started.” A pretty blonde who didn’t look old enough to be anyone’s mother was walking toward them from the next wagon. The smile on her face diluted the reproachful tone of her words.

  “She talked to us first, Ma.”

  “They’re not a bother, ma’am.” Now Kerry made an effort to keep her voice low.

  The woman came up behind her daughters and draped an arm lightly around each. “I’m Dorothy Burnett. And you must be one of the Gallivan boys.”

  “I’m Kiernan, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.” Kerry took a step back toward her own wagon, hoping the woman would not offer a hand to shake. Her slender hands were the one part of her that was impossible to disguise.

  “And I see you’ve already met Polly and Molly.” With a little laugh and the air of someone who’d made the explanation many times in the past, she continued, “Their real names are Priscilla Jo and Margaret Mary, but their father put the nicknames on when they were just babes and somehow they’ve stuck.”

  Kerry grinned. “Polly and Molly it is, then. You girls will have to help me out on which is which for a while.”

  “They’ve been known to trick people in the past,” Dorothy said, laughing, “so be careful.”

  Kerry was drawn to the woman’s warmth. It was nice to have another young woman along as a companion, and for a moment she felt a pang knowing that, thanks to her masquerade, she and Dorothy would not be able to become confidantes. It would be comforting to confide her secret to someone. “That’s all right, girls,” she said a touch wistfully, smiling down at the twins. “I’ve been known to trick people myself on occasion.”

  Chapter Two

  Jeb Hunter had been right about the dust. It didn’t take even the hour or two he had predicted for Kerry and Patrick to realize that moving along in the middle of a train of nearly fifty wagons was a grimy business. The first part of the trail out from Westport was level, easy going—the “sea of grass” her father had told them about during those long evenings of planning back in New York. But the endless procession of wagons had worn the actual trail down to bare ground, and each wagon churned up its own little dirt cyclone as they rolled along. Following the example of some of the more experienced travelers, Kerry and Patrick tied bandannas over their faces to keep out the worst of it.

  “I guess I won’t have to rub dirt on my cheeks any more,” Kerry joked to her brother as they sat side by side on the wagon seat. “There’s enough natural accumulation of the stuff to disguise the President of the United States.”

  “I wish papa had bought us horses instead of these stupid beasts,” her brother grumbled. “Then I could ride out into the fresh air like Captain Hunter.”

  All morning they’d watched their wagon master riding from one wagon to the next, checking equipment, giving advice and generally elevating spirits as his flock took their scary first step beyond civilization.

  “Horses don’t stand up well enough pulling a heavy load. Papa said it had to be mules or oxen, and oxen were cheaper.”

  “If he’d bought mules, I could at least have ridden some of the time.”

  Jeb Hunter was riding toward them. “I’ll not have you criticize Papa’s decisions, Patrick,” Kerry said absently, her eyes on their guide. It was his extraordinary, almost golden eyes that drew her frequent glances, she’d decided, but she had to admit that the face that went along with the eyes was ruggedly handsome. He had creases along each cheek that made his expression look severe except when he smiled. He didn’t seem to be a man who smiled often.

  “Are you listening to me, sis?” her brother asked.

  “What?”

  “I asked if you thought we might switch the oxen for mules when we reach the changing station.”

  Jeb pulled up to them, and at the very last minute Kerry remembered to tug down the brim of her big felt hat. “How are you boys getting along?” he called.

  “Fine,” Kerry mumbled. What was wrong with her? She must be even more tired than she thought. Captain Hunter had asked them a simple question, and she’d felt it inside her like a jolt. He was a fine figure of a man, that was for sure, but she had no business getting jittery around him like a maid at her first dance.

  “I wish my papa had bought mules,” Patrick complained, drawing the captain’s eyes away from her. Kerry let out a long breath.

  “You’ve got good animals there, Patrick. You might be thankful to have oxen when your arms start aching from those reins. They’re much easier to handle.”

  “My arms don’t ache, and I’d give anything to be able to ride out like you do.”

  Jeb smiled. “One of these days after everyone’s settled you can ride the rounds with me on the back of my horse. Or, even better, you can ride Storm by yourself for a spell and I’ll climb on up there with your brother.”

  Patrick darted a glance at his sister, whose eyes had widened in dismay. “Ah…that’s all right,” he answered. “I don’t mind it so very much.”

  Jeb seemed a little puzzled at the boy’s quick refusal. “Well, the offer’s open. And, of course, you can always get out and walk along out in the grass. You and your brother can take turns driving and walking to get a little time out of the dust.”

  Kerry found her eyes wandering to the way Captain Hunter’s strong thighs gripped the side of his horse. With a puff of irritation, she forced her thoughts back to the trip. “Do you really think the oxen are a better choice, Captain Hunter?” She was hoping that the captain’s opinion would validate her father’s careful preparations.

  “There’re folk who take both sides,” Jeb answered, “but I might go for the oxen for just one reason.”

  “What’s that?” Patrick asked.

  Jeb hesitated a moment, then said. “It’s a long way to California, and things don’t always go as we plan. If we fin
d ourselves up against it, an ox makes a sight tastier meal than a mule.”

  Patrick and Kerry looked down in dismay at the four black hulks that plodded along in front of them. As Captain Hunter tipped his hat and started back to the Burnetts’ wagon, Patrick turned to his sister and said with a weak grin, “At least it’s not fish.”

  They stopped for nooning early in deference to the first-time nerves and muscle aches of the new pioneers. Kerry was relieved to climb down from the wagon and stretch her back. She felt as if she had spent the morning inside a butter churn. Patrick so far seemed unaffected by the jolting. He’d been up and down from the wagon a dozen times already, sometimes walking alongside, sometimes running out into the long grass to get a look at the line of wagons stretching out as far as the eye could see.

  As Kerry took out two apples and some jerky for their lunch, her brother came walking sedately back to the wagon with a visitor. Kerry recognized the man as their neighbor to the front—the argonaut, Captain Hunter had called him. She tugged on her hat and tensed her shoulders. She’d be glad when she’d met everyone on the train and had been generally accepted as a male.

  In spite of her nervousness, the introductions went smoothly once again. Kerry let out a breath of relief and allowed herself to study Scott Haskell from underneath her hat. He was not as handsome as their trail guide, but his face was pleasant, instantly likable.

  “I wanted to come back and meet you boys last night,” he was saying, “but I didn’t get in until late.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered how late you came,” Patrick replied cheerfully. “We were up all night trying to get the wagon packed up.”

  Haskell’s bushy blond eyebrows shot up. “All night! You boys must be even more tired than I am after working all day yesterday at Iron Joe’s.”

  “Iron Joe’s?” Patrick asked.

  “The blacksmith, lad. I was a blacksmith up in Pittsburgh, and I earned my team of mules by shoeing just about every other blamed mule on this train.”

  “Are you going to be a blacksmith in California, Mr. Haskell?”

  “Call me Scott, lad. And you too, Kiernan.” He gave Kerry what started out to be a quick glance, then seemed to catch himself and let his eyes rest on her face.

  “So are you?” Patrick persisted.

  “What was that, boy?”

  “Are you going to be a blacksmith out West?”

  Finally he shifted his gaze back to Patrick. “No, sirree. No more smoky bellows for me. No more iron filings itching my hide like a swarm of marsh flies. I’m planning to be rich, Patrick, my lad. The only kind of metal I’m going to be dealing with anymore is gold—pure, yellow gold.”

  “Golly.” Patrick was looking up at Scott Haskell as if he had just crossed the Missouri River on his bare feet.

  Kerry felt a twinge of impatience. All she needed was for Patrick to get fancy ideas about gold prospecting instead of working with her to set up the ranch. Once they reached California she would need her brother’s help more than ever. “We wish you luck, Mr. Haskell, I’m sure,” she said briskly. “But first of all we have to get there. And we should probably be tending to our lunch before Captain Hunter calls for us to get moving again.”

  He turned that disconcerting gaze on her once more, and this time a secret little smile played around his lips. “You’re absolutely right, young man. I’m going to head back to my wagon this minute. But I’ll be looking forward to getting to know you boys better at the meeting tonight.”

  Kerry remembered that Captain Hunter had told them that there would be a formal meeting that evening to discuss any problems that might have arisen during their first day. “We’ll be there,” she said wearily. And after the meeting, she would finally get some sleep.

  This was the sixth spring that Jeb had set out with a new band of travelers. Every year there were two or three outfits that headed back by the time they reached Fort Kearney. He usually could predict which ones they would be after the first day on the trail.

  This trip it would definitely be the Wagners. The man’s wife had not stopped complaining the entire day. And perhaps the Pendletons. They had come all the way from England, but both looked as if the journey was beginning to be too much for them. He wasn’t sure about the Irish boys. They certainly had the spirit for it, but it was a tough thing to leave behind a father barely cold in his grave and head out across a continent. He’d found himself thinking about them frequently during this first long day.

  He had to spread his attention around—there were always adjustments to be made at the beginning and these people had paid equally for his help. But he’d swung back to the Gallivan wagon as often as he could. Young Patrick was refreshingly enthusiastic and observant. He’d even exclaimed over the different clouds of dust tossed up by the mule teams versus the oxen. The older boy had less to say, but there was a determined expression on his handsome face that intrigued Jeb. When he’d tried to engage the young Irishman in conversation, the lad’s answers had been curt and uncommunicative. But somehow Jeb sensed a great vitality behind those vivid blue eyes.

  He watched the two brothers as they made their way to the edge of the circle of settlers who had gathered by the big fire Jeb had built a short ways out in the prairie. He had not circled the wagons this first day. That could wait until they were into Indian country.

  In the early-spring twilight he could see the faces of his charges. Good folk, generally—steady and determined. He scanned the crowd, but his eyes kept turning back to the striking faces of the two Irish lads.

  “Patrick, Kiernan! Come on up front,” he called to them finally. “We never got a chance to introduce you to everyone.”

  Patrick looked at his sister, then gave her elbow a comforting squeeze. Kerry closed her eyes briefly. She was exhausted. But she had wanted to get through with introductions. It might as well be now. With her hat tugged down and concentrating on not swaying her hips, she stalked around the circle to the front. “These are the Gallivan brothers,” Jeb was saying, “and I hope all you folks will do your best to make them feel welcome.”

  Jeb didn’t dwell on the presentation. There were a lot of issues to cover, and everyone was tired, so he nodded to Kerry and Patrick to take a seat and started in on the meeting.

  Kerry sank heavily to the ground. The few minutes of standing in front of the crowd had used up the last bit of strength she had. She had fully expected that any minute someone—a sharp-eyed child, probably—would point to her and cry out, “Why, that’s a girl.” But no one had raised a voice. She was now officially Kiernan, one of the “Gallivan brothers.” And she could sleep a little easier tonight.

  After the meeting, Scott Haskell stepped into place beside her as she made her way back up the line to their wagon. Patrick, not yet out of energy, had run ahead of her. The sky had darkened and was slowly becoming spangled with stars. Her father had said that they would have spectacular nights out on the prairie, but the real thing was far beyond his descriptions.

  “It looks like our good weather is going to hold,” Haskell observed, matching his pace to hers.

  Kerry’s face was hidden by the darkness, so she relaxed as she answered sleepily, “The sky’s unbelievable. I never knew stars could be so bright.”

  “We’re lucky. Some trains start out in spring rains that don’t stop for days. They end up eating mud the rest of the trip.”

  “My brother and I are prepared to eat anything we have to as long as we get to California.”

  Haskell chuckled. “You are two mighty determined lads. How old are you, anyway, Kiernan?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Haskell nodded. “You’re not too big a fellow, are you?” he asked casually.

  “Ah…no. Folks aren’t so tall where I come from.”

  “Patrick looks as if he’ll be a strapping gent someday. He’s already almost as tall as you are.” Haskell’s blond hair glinted in the starlight, and he had that same secret smile on his face that had made Kerry uneasy when
they’d met earlier in the day.

  “I guess he’ll be bigger than I. Our father was a tall man.” She was finding the conversation a little odd. Scott Haskell had barely met them. What did he care about her brother’s height—or hers?

  He looked at her steadily in the darkness for a long moment Then he gave a little nod and switched subjects. “I understand you’re headed for the Sonoma valley.”

  Kerry shrugged her shoulders to ease out the tension. “Yes. Where are you headed, Mr. Haskell?”

  “Scott, please,” he said with a smile.

  “Scott.”

  “I reckon I’ll look around a bit—see where the veins are running richest. Probably south of San Francisco somewheres.”

  Kerry started to reply when suddenly her foot, clumsy in Patrick’s oversize boot, hit a large rock that had been camouflaged by the darkness. She fell off balance directly toward her companion. Scott turned quickly and caught her with strong, sure hands at each shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Kerry faltered, embarrassed. She righted herself, grimacing as her ankle gave a nasty twinge.

  “Are you all right?” Scott asked.

  “Yes, just…I’m sorry.” She took a step away from his grasp, giving a little gasp as her foot hit the ground. The twinge was turning into a definite throb. “I seem to have twisted an ankle.”

  Scott reached out and took her slender hands. He pulled them toward him and turned them over slowly studying them in the starlight. Then he looked into her eyes. “Perhaps those heavy boots are too much for what must be delicate little feet…Miss Gallivan.”

  Under the smears of dirt on her face, Kerry blanched. “I…what do you mean?”

  Scott smiled. “Don’t worry, lass. Your secret is safe with me, though I can’t imagine how anyone on this train can actually believe that you’re a male.”

  Kerry pulled her hands away from him. “When did you know?” she asked dully.

  “The minute I saw those beautiful blue eyes,” Scott answered cheerfully. “I couldn’t believe that God would be so cruel as to waste them on a man.” As her features became more dejected he added gently, “Your face is well disguised by the dirt and floppy hat, lass, but I saw your hands. Those slender wrists couldn’t belong to a man.”