rider. He had seen that fierce expression on his hero's face too. "You could be right, Luke," he agreed. "You could be right."
* * *
". . . and in the evenin's, after everybody had eaten supper, they'd stroll around the camp, aholdin' hands, stoppin' to chat with folks like they was out on a picnic instead of on a wagon train."
Lydia lay on the sleeping mat and listened to the cadence of Anabeths chatter. The girl was lifting Victoria Coleman's personal belongings out of a chest of drawers and folding them into a trunk. Ma had suggested that she do that to make more room for Lydia and the baby in the wagon. Ross had grudgingly consented.
He did and said everything grudgingly, Lydia thought with a weary sigh. For the past three days she had Iain in the wagon recuperating from her ordeal and nursing Lee. Anabeth stayed with her during the day. Ma checked her every morning and brought food each evening. Ross hunted for the Langstons in return for Ma's cooking for them.
He never ate inside with Lydia. She rarely saw him. He made work for himself along the train, often scouting or taking care of ailing horses for others who respected his knowledge of animals. Bubba drove the Coleman wagon. Should Ross come into the wagon, he would avoid looking at her. If he did glance in her direction, he glowered at her malevolently.
She credited most of his ill temper to grief. He was taking his wife's death hard. She must have been something, that Victoria Coleman. A real lady by Anabeths detailed description.
"Sometimes when the sun was shining real bright, she'd sit with this lacy parasol on her shoulder as she rode on the wagon seat." Anabeth popped open the pink confection of lace and silk. Lydia had never seen anything so pretty in her life. She regretted when Anabeth closed it and placed it inside the trunk. "And they'd talk in whispers to each other, like everything they said was a big secret from the rest of the world." The girl sighed deeply. "I only wish Mr. Coleman would look at me the way he did her. I'd melt right on the spot."
Lydia couldn't imagine anything pleasant coming from the looks he cast in her direction. She couldn't imagine anything pleasant happening between men and women at all. But then every once in a while she could remember how it had been when her real papa had been alive.
They had lived in town in a big house with wide windows and crocheted curtains. Mama and Papa laughed together often. On Sundays when they visited neighbors, Papa would hold Mama's hand. She remembered that because she would break them apart and take their hands in hers. They would make a game of lifting her off the ground. Lydia guessed it was possible that men didn't always do bad, hurtful things to women.
Anabeth spoke again. "Mrs. Coleman's skin was as smooth and white as fresh cream. She was right pretty with them big brown eyes. Her hair was the color of corn silk and looked just as soft; nary a hair was ever out of place."
Lydia reached up to touch her own hair. The morning after she had come to Mr. Colemans wagon, Ma and Anabeth had given her a bed bath. They had scrubbed her until her skin was raw and tingling. It had taken some time and effort to brush the debris out of her hair. The next day, with Anabeth fetching and carrying buckets of water, they had managed to wash it. But it wasn't ever going to resemble corn silk.
Mr. Coleman had seemed surprised to see her brushed and washed when he reached into the wagon for a fresh shirt that night, but he didn't comment on it. He had only made a grunting sound.
If he was used to hair the texture of corn silk, then Lydia knew hers must have been a shock to him. Unreasonably, that bothered her very much.
"You gettin' tired?" Anabeth asked when she noticed that her audience's attention had wandered. "Ma said if you got tired and sleepy for me to keep my trap shut and let you rest."
Lydia laughed. She had come to enjoy all the Lang-stons, but particularly this girl who was so
* * *
". . . and in the evenin's, after everybody had eaten supper, they'd stroll around the camp, aholdin' hands, stoppin' to chat with folks like they was out on a picnic instead of on a wagon train."
Lydia lay on the sleeping mat and listened to the cadence of Anabeths chatter. The girl was lifting Victoria Coleman's personal belongings out of a chest of drawers and folding them into a trunk. Ma had suggested that she do that to make more room for Lydia and the baby in the wagon. Ross had grudgingly consented.
He did and said everything grudgingly, Lydia thought with a weary sigh. For the past three days she had Iain in the wagon recuperating from her ordeal and nursing Lee. Anabeth stayed with her during the day. Ma checked her every morning and brought food each evening. Ross hunted for the Langstons in return for Ma's cooking for them.
He never ate inside with Lydia. She rarely saw him. He made work for himself along the train, often scouting or taking care of ailing horses for others who respected his knowledge of animals. Bubba drove the Coleman wagon. Should Ross come into the wagon, he would avoid looking at her. If he did glance in her direction, he glowered at her malevolently.
She credited most of his ill temper to grief. He was taking his wife's death hard. She must have been something, that Victoria Coleman. A real lady by Anabeths detailed description.
"Sometimes when the sun was shining real bright, she'd sit with this lacy parasol on her shoulder as she rode on the wagon seat." Anabeth popped open the pink confection of lace and silk. Lydia had never seen anything so pretty in her life. She regretted when Anabeth closed it and placed it inside the trunk. "And they'd talk in whispers to each other, like everything they said was a big secret from the rest of the world." The girl sighed deeply. "I only wish Mr. Coleman would look at me the way he did her. I'd melt right on the spot."
Lydia couldn't imagine anything pleasant coming from the looks he cast in her direction. She couldn't imagine anything pleasant happening between men and women at all. But then every once in a while she could remember how it had been when her real papa had been alive.
They had lived in town in a big house with wide windows and crocheted curtains. Mama and Papa laughed together often. On Sundays when they visited neighbors, Papa would hold Mama's hand. She remembered that because she would break them apart and take their hands in hers. They would make a game of lifting her off the ground. Lydia guessed it was possible that men didn't always do bad, hurtful things to women.
Anabeth spoke again. "Mrs. Coleman's skin was as smooth and white as fresh cream. She was right pretty with them big brown eyes. Her hair was the color of corn silk and looked just as soft; nary a hair was ever out of place."
Lydia reached up to touch her own hair. The morning after she had come to Mr. Colemans wagon, Ma and Anabeth had given her a bed bath. They had scrubbed her until her skin was raw and tingling. It had taken some time and effort to brush the debris out of her hair. The next day, with Anabeth fetching and carrying buckets of water, they had managed to wash it. But it wasn't ever going to resemble corn silk.
Mr. Coleman had seemed surprised to see her brushed and washed when he reached into the wagon for a fresh shirt that night, but he didn't comment on it. He had only made a grunting sound.
If he was used to hair the texture of corn silk, then Lydia knew hers must have been a shock to him. Unreasonably, that bothered her very much.
"You gettin' tired?" Anabeth asked when she noticed that her audience's attention had wandered. "Ma said if you got tired and sleepy for me to keep my trap shut and let you rest."
Lydia laughed. She had come to enjoy all the Lang-stons, but particularly this girl who was so
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