thoughts.
"This yours?" He handed her the tapestry bag she had dropped behind Brown's shop.
"Yes. Oh, Jacob. You took a big risk going back there. Did you find out anything?"
"Only that there's a posse formin' ta look for the two of you."
"A posse," Kierin breathed.
"Me an' Clay planned to pull out with the wagons this mornin'. I reckon as how we ain't got no choice but to stick with that."
"This morning?" A new kind of fear sliced through her. "I'm not sure Holt can take the jolting of a ride like that. It could kill him."
Jacob stirred the fire with a stick. "It be risky. But Clay's a strong man. I don't see how we can wait."
"His fever is down a bit this morning," she said, hoping to convince herself that Jacob's words were true.
"I know, I checked him when I got back from town."
"Oh, yes... of course," she murmured dumbly. "I guess I'd better go back and look in on him." Kierin rose, picked up her bag, and started to walk toward the wagon. Jacob's worried voice stopped her.
"Uh-oh."
"What is it?" she asked, turning back to him.
"Pull that blanket around you an' let me do the talkin'." He discarded his cigarette and crunched it beneath his boot. Jacob turned to the small weasel-faced man who had stepped up to their campfire.
"Reverend Beaker." Jacob's greeting was cool and blunt.
The man nodded curtly, but refused to actually acknowledge the black man with words.
Kierin could almost feel the thickness in the air between the two men. Jacob's face was a study in control. The weasel—dressed entirely in black, save his white clerical collar—peered at Kierin through narrowed eyes, his mouth set in a sour expression. She flushed deeply under his scrutiny and she looked back at Jacob.
"Somethin' I can do for you this mornin', Reverend?" Jacob asked in a tight voice.
Beaker gestured at Kierin several times with his bony finger as if he were pointing at a piece of dust that had been missed in a cleaning.
"You and Holt know the rules on my train about... camp followers." The words slid out of his mouth with distaste. "This is a family train, boy. We don't tolerate... single women."
A muscle twitched in Jacob's jaw, though he managed to keep an even expression on his face.
"I don't reckon Mr. Holt would take too kindly to you callin' his new bride a camp-follower, Reverend Beaker," Jacob said with quiet control.
Kierin's eyes flew to Jacob in disbelief. Did he say bride? She tried to breathe normally, knowing Beaker was watching her reaction.
Beaker pursed his thin lips. "Are you telling me that Holt has taken a wife since I saw him yesterday?"
A smile curved Jacob's lips. "Love works in strange ways, Reverend. You ought'a know that. Besides, I reckon he couldn't face my cookin' all the way to Oregon. Mrs. Clay Holt, meet the Reverend Josiah Beaker, the spiritual leader of this here wagon train."
Kierin clutched the blankets more tightly around her and nodded to Beaker, who stood looking down his thin nose at her. Lifting her chin, she tried her best to look self-assured.
"Mrs. Holt," he said finally, touching the brim of his fat-crowned black hat. "I beg your pardon for the misunderstanding, ma'am." The apology came grudgingly. "Where is your husband this morning, by the way? I have yet to see him. I should offer him my congratulations."
"He's sleepin', Reverend," Jacob said. "You know how it is with newlyweds. A little too much celebratin' last night." Jacob winked at Kierin.
"I see.... Well, I'll be on my way then," Beaker said. "We'll be pulling out within the hour. Perhaps Mr. Holt will see his way clear to join us by then. Good day, ma'am." Beaker turned and strode out of the campsite.
* * *
The sound of voices penetrated Holt's senses slowly, as if the darkness that surrounded him was wrapped in thick cotton, unwinding layer by layer until the muffled sound became the familiar deep voice he recognized as Jacob's. The other voice had a higher pitch to it and he knew it was a woman's, but for the
"This yours?" He handed her the tapestry bag she had dropped behind Brown's shop.
"Yes. Oh, Jacob. You took a big risk going back there. Did you find out anything?"
"Only that there's a posse formin' ta look for the two of you."
"A posse," Kierin breathed.
"Me an' Clay planned to pull out with the wagons this mornin'. I reckon as how we ain't got no choice but to stick with that."
"This morning?" A new kind of fear sliced through her. "I'm not sure Holt can take the jolting of a ride like that. It could kill him."
Jacob stirred the fire with a stick. "It be risky. But Clay's a strong man. I don't see how we can wait."
"His fever is down a bit this morning," she said, hoping to convince herself that Jacob's words were true.
"I know, I checked him when I got back from town."
"Oh, yes... of course," she murmured dumbly. "I guess I'd better go back and look in on him." Kierin rose, picked up her bag, and started to walk toward the wagon. Jacob's worried voice stopped her.
"Uh-oh."
"What is it?" she asked, turning back to him.
"Pull that blanket around you an' let me do the talkin'." He discarded his cigarette and crunched it beneath his boot. Jacob turned to the small weasel-faced man who had stepped up to their campfire.
"Reverend Beaker." Jacob's greeting was cool and blunt.
The man nodded curtly, but refused to actually acknowledge the black man with words.
Kierin could almost feel the thickness in the air between the two men. Jacob's face was a study in control. The weasel—dressed entirely in black, save his white clerical collar—peered at Kierin through narrowed eyes, his mouth set in a sour expression. She flushed deeply under his scrutiny and she looked back at Jacob.
"Somethin' I can do for you this mornin', Reverend?" Jacob asked in a tight voice.
Beaker gestured at Kierin several times with his bony finger as if he were pointing at a piece of dust that had been missed in a cleaning.
"You and Holt know the rules on my train about... camp followers." The words slid out of his mouth with distaste. "This is a family train, boy. We don't tolerate... single women."
A muscle twitched in Jacob's jaw, though he managed to keep an even expression on his face.
"I don't reckon Mr. Holt would take too kindly to you callin' his new bride a camp-follower, Reverend Beaker," Jacob said with quiet control.
Kierin's eyes flew to Jacob in disbelief. Did he say bride? She tried to breathe normally, knowing Beaker was watching her reaction.
Beaker pursed his thin lips. "Are you telling me that Holt has taken a wife since I saw him yesterday?"
A smile curved Jacob's lips. "Love works in strange ways, Reverend. You ought'a know that. Besides, I reckon he couldn't face my cookin' all the way to Oregon. Mrs. Clay Holt, meet the Reverend Josiah Beaker, the spiritual leader of this here wagon train."
Kierin clutched the blankets more tightly around her and nodded to Beaker, who stood looking down his thin nose at her. Lifting her chin, she tried her best to look self-assured.
"Mrs. Holt," he said finally, touching the brim of his fat-crowned black hat. "I beg your pardon for the misunderstanding, ma'am." The apology came grudgingly. "Where is your husband this morning, by the way? I have yet to see him. I should offer him my congratulations."
"He's sleepin', Reverend," Jacob said. "You know how it is with newlyweds. A little too much celebratin' last night." Jacob winked at Kierin.
"I see.... Well, I'll be on my way then," Beaker said. "We'll be pulling out within the hour. Perhaps Mr. Holt will see his way clear to join us by then. Good day, ma'am." Beaker turned and strode out of the campsite.
* * *
The sound of voices penetrated Holt's senses slowly, as if the darkness that surrounded him was wrapped in thick cotton, unwinding layer by layer until the muffled sound became the familiar deep voice he recognized as Jacob's. The other voice had a higher pitch to it and he knew it was a woman's, but for the
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