Ma and all the others. Perhaps another caravan had left the main trail and camped near them last night, and this morning, the strangers had walked over to introduce themselves. The Brothers in Christ seldom mingled with outsiders, but when people did make friendly overtures, they felt it their Christian duty to reciprocate.
Rebecca nuzzled her cheek against the coarse linen pillowcase, luxuriating in the wonderful softness of the down-filled ticking. The lure of sleep seemed irresistible, and she drifted in the hazy mists between dreams and awareness, too exhausted to force herself totally awake. She had no idea how long she lay there, blanketed in dimness. She was simply too weary to care. But then, from just outside the wagon, a loud clanking noise startled her back into renewed awareness.
“Damn it, Blue!” a male voice barked. “Keep your nosy self outta my cookin’ fire, you no-account, addlepated hound!”
That definitely was not a voice Rebecca knew. With supreme effort, she managed to crack open her eyes. Through the spikes of her lashes, she stared blearily at what appeared to be the interior wall of their wagon, which meant she must be lying on the floor. How she had come to be there, she had no inkling. With little or no surplus space inside the cram-packed wagon, she and her parents slept on top of the cargo, three to four feet above the floor.
She ached all over, she realized, as if her whole body had been pummeled with a club. Even the strands of hair that hung free from her braid seemed to hurt. Had she been ill? She batted her lashes, struggling to keep her eyes open and clear away the fogginess inside her head. Yes, she must have been ill, possibly even delirious with a fever. That would explain why she felt so awful and had no recollection of making her pallet on the floor. Little wonder she ached and felt too weak to move.
It was past sunup. A brisk morning breeze buffeted thewagon canvas, carrying with it the scent of a plains grassland, a not unpleasant mix of sage, saltbush, and dust. Straining under the bucking tarp, the hickory support beams creaked above her.
As her awareness sharpened, the clucking noise she’d heard earlier resumed, and with a growing sense of alarm, she realized it wasn’t chickens, after all, but men talking softly and cackling with laughter. She tried to make out what they were saying, but the words were so indistinct they were nearly drowned out by the snoring sound, which seemed to be coming from somewhere near her ear. So near, in fact, that the sputtering huffs of breath were stirring a lock of hair at her temple.
What man, besides her papa, would be sleeping in their wagon? The question wove in and out of her thoughts like a strand of yarn through the warp of a loom. In some distant part of her mind, she sensed that she should feel alarmed, but she was too befuddled and dizzy to grab hold of the feeling.
Instead she studied the vertical wooden stud only inches from her nose, struggling to impose clarity of thought over the haze of vague and disturbing impressions. Was she having a dream? An especially vivid one?
She felt as if she were drifting on a cloud. No. She was definitely inside the wagon. Only where had all their trunks gotten off to? Since their departure from Philadelphia, Papa had never once completely unloaded their cargo. The closest he’d come was to rearrange some of the trunks to distribute the weight more evenly. Yet now the wagon was empty.
The gauzy pink of early morning shone through the canvas, lending a rosy glow to the shadowy interior of the wagon. Through the tatters in the heavy cloth, shafts of sunlight formed pearlescent motes that caressed her face with warmth. She smelled eggs and bacon frying, which made her stomach pang with hunger. Lands, she felt as if she hadn’t eaten in days or had a drink of water either, for that matter. Thick and cottony, her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth.
She tried to push up on an elbow,
Rebecca nuzzled her cheek against the coarse linen pillowcase, luxuriating in the wonderful softness of the down-filled ticking. The lure of sleep seemed irresistible, and she drifted in the hazy mists between dreams and awareness, too exhausted to force herself totally awake. She had no idea how long she lay there, blanketed in dimness. She was simply too weary to care. But then, from just outside the wagon, a loud clanking noise startled her back into renewed awareness.
“Damn it, Blue!” a male voice barked. “Keep your nosy self outta my cookin’ fire, you no-account, addlepated hound!”
That definitely was not a voice Rebecca knew. With supreme effort, she managed to crack open her eyes. Through the spikes of her lashes, she stared blearily at what appeared to be the interior wall of their wagon, which meant she must be lying on the floor. How she had come to be there, she had no inkling. With little or no surplus space inside the cram-packed wagon, she and her parents slept on top of the cargo, three to four feet above the floor.
She ached all over, she realized, as if her whole body had been pummeled with a club. Even the strands of hair that hung free from her braid seemed to hurt. Had she been ill? She batted her lashes, struggling to keep her eyes open and clear away the fogginess inside her head. Yes, she must have been ill, possibly even delirious with a fever. That would explain why she felt so awful and had no recollection of making her pallet on the floor. Little wonder she ached and felt too weak to move.
It was past sunup. A brisk morning breeze buffeted thewagon canvas, carrying with it the scent of a plains grassland, a not unpleasant mix of sage, saltbush, and dust. Straining under the bucking tarp, the hickory support beams creaked above her.
As her awareness sharpened, the clucking noise she’d heard earlier resumed, and with a growing sense of alarm, she realized it wasn’t chickens, after all, but men talking softly and cackling with laughter. She tried to make out what they were saying, but the words were so indistinct they were nearly drowned out by the snoring sound, which seemed to be coming from somewhere near her ear. So near, in fact, that the sputtering huffs of breath were stirring a lock of hair at her temple.
What man, besides her papa, would be sleeping in their wagon? The question wove in and out of her thoughts like a strand of yarn through the warp of a loom. In some distant part of her mind, she sensed that she should feel alarmed, but she was too befuddled and dizzy to grab hold of the feeling.
Instead she studied the vertical wooden stud only inches from her nose, struggling to impose clarity of thought over the haze of vague and disturbing impressions. Was she having a dream? An especially vivid one?
She felt as if she were drifting on a cloud. No. She was definitely inside the wagon. Only where had all their trunks gotten off to? Since their departure from Philadelphia, Papa had never once completely unloaded their cargo. The closest he’d come was to rearrange some of the trunks to distribute the weight more evenly. Yet now the wagon was empty.
The gauzy pink of early morning shone through the canvas, lending a rosy glow to the shadowy interior of the wagon. Through the tatters in the heavy cloth, shafts of sunlight formed pearlescent motes that caressed her face with warmth. She smelled eggs and bacon frying, which made her stomach pang with hunger. Lands, she felt as if she hadn’t eaten in days or had a drink of water either, for that matter. Thick and cottony, her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth.
She tried to push up on an elbow,
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