The Passionate and the Proud by Vanessa Royall

on a bright spring morning. The dowdy buildings of clapboard and stucco and brick had been washed clean by an overnight shower, settling the dust in the streets and giving St. Joe a bright, snappy look. A white cloud of steam from the engine drifted into a peerless prairie sky; daffodils, violets, and sunflowers blossomed in the tall, wind-bent grass across the Missouri.
    “Where you bound for, ma’am?” asked the old conductor as he helped Emmalee down from the train. St. Joe was a place where, it was assumed, one would not be staying long.
    “Olympia,” she replied proudly.
    He did not tell her how difficult the trip would be, or discourage her at all.
    “Good luck,” he said, with a smile that made her feel happy and gave her an extra jot of confidence. Good weather and good wishes: Emmalee felt blessed.
    Studying the advertisement she had clipped from the Cairo newspaper, Emmalee made her way to the Schuyler Hotel on Market Street and inquired at the desk as to the whereabouts of Mr. Burt Pennington, wagonmaster.
    “That’s him over there at the table in the corner of the lobby,” said a bored, young clerk who was trying without conspicuous success to raise a mustache. “He’s busy now. Better wait your turn.”
    Emmalee walked across the lobby and took up a position beside a marble column, from which she could discreetly overhear what was going on. Burt Pennington, seated at the table, was a bald, bullet-headed, vigorous-looking man. Next to him was a very pretty redhaired young woman, who wore a frilly lavender frock that Emmalee envied on sight. The girl was sighing and yawning, obviously bored. Pennington was in conversation with a rangy fellow standing in front of the table. He had the look of a renegade about him.
    “…full up and nigh on ready to roll out, Mr. Pennington,” the renegade was saying.
    “Good work, Otis. Damn good work. Ever’ day counts. We got to get a head start on Horace Torquist and his party. Damn farmers. If they get to Olympia ’fore we do, they’ll get the best land.”
    “Don’t think there’s any need to worry, Mr. Pennington. From what I hear downtown and around, Torquist won’t be ready to roll for a while yet.”
    Emmalee’s ears perked up. Damn farmers? What was going on here? Why were these people going to Olympia, if not to farm?
    “Otis, did that new scout we hired show up yet?”
    “Landar? No, sir. Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him.”
    Landar? thought Emmalee, startled. Garn Landar? Perhaps. He had said that he was headed for St. Joe.
    “Hell,” said Pennington, “if he can’t even make it here on time, we can sure get along without him. I didn’t care for the idea of hiring him sight unseen anyway. I like to look a man in the eye.”
    Otis shrugged. “Too had he ain’t showed. Had good recommendations on him, and he’s crossed the Rockies eight times with wagon trains.”
    Eight times across the Rocky Mountains? Emmalee reflected. If they were indeed talking about Garn, her estimation of him increased. Slightly.
    “Well, he should have been here by now and he’s not,” Pennington pronounced. “It was in his contract. If he shows up, fire him.”
    “Pay him travel expenses?” Otis wanted to know.
    “Hell, no. It wasn’t in his contract.”
    Poor Garn, thought Emmalee. He was already broke. Well, it was his own fault. He ought to have been here on time, not off on the Mississippi causing trouble and…
    Suddenly she was aware of eyes on her and looked to find the redhaired girl staring her up and down. It was an arrogant, measuring look.
    “You want something?” the girl asked, as if Emmalee could not possibly be important enough to bother with.
    “I’d like to see Mr. Pennington.”
    “About what?” the girl snapped.
    Burt Pennington looked over and saw Emmalee. “Lottie, I’ll handle this,” he said. “Otis, that’ll be all.”
    Otis tipped his hat to Emmalee, looking her over too, a glance of cool male appraisal, then strode