garment, “I just bet I could find me a man real easy.”
“It seems you do have that virtue,” replied Emmalee sweetly.
Lottie looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Finding things easy. I understand it is a virtue in some women.”
Burt Pennington could not restrain a snort of laughter. “Lottie,” he said, shaking his head, “I think you met your match for once.”
The redhead fumed and glared at Emmalee.
“Good luck, Miss Alden,” Pennington said, “and if anyone else ever asks you, a dogie is a stray calf.”
A stray calf! Emmalee thought, back outside the hotel on Market Street. Well, how was I to know? Would Pennington know what a harrow was? Or when to plant the corn? She thought not. Anyway, it was probably just as well that he’d rejected her outright. They hadn’t even gotten around to discussing the price of the fare! In the long run, it didn’t pay to go where you weren’t wanted.
But it was absolutely essential to get where you wanted to go, and for Emmalee that place was Olympia. She stood outside the Schuyler Hotel for a moment, watching the horses and wagons roll by, enjoying the swarm of women and children, men and cattle and dogs. Then she set out to find this Torquist fellow. Pennington had implied that he was organizing a wagon train composed of farmers.
She found that train on a green plain outside St. Joe, although few observing the chaotic swirl of random activity would have called it a train. There were many Conestoga wagons, true: high-wheeled, canvas-covered vessels built to sail a sea of grass. There were scores of tethered horses, oxen grazing beyond the wagons, and piles of bedrolls, foodstuffs, and other supplies. Children ran all around, shrieking at their play. Harried men and women dashed this way and that, to no particular purpose that Emmalee could discern.
She put her bedroll and bulging portmanteau down on the grass and looked about, trying to catch the eye of someone who might tell her where to locate Horace Torquist. But everyone rushed past her without paying the slightest bit of attention. The Torquist people, she decided, were very energetic, if not entirely observant.
Picking up her gear, she began to walk toward a group of women who were folding and stowing blankets in one of the wagons. In order to reach them she had to cut between a smithy’s forge—she could see the burly, sweating blacksmith hammering a glowing chunk of metal—and a wheel less wagon undergoing repairs. She heard hoofbeats close by, but thought nothing of them until, coming out from behind the wagon, she caught a glimpse of horse and rider bearing down on her.
“ Whoooaaa !” the rider called sharply, jerking frantically at the reins of a big dapple-gray, which reared and veered sideways, just missing Emmalee. She dropped her gear and leaped backwards, tripped and sprawled in the dirt beneath the wagon. Her head struck one of the blocks supporting the wagon, and for a few moments all she felt was pain and all she saw were stars.
Then, slowly, her world recomposed itself, her vision cleared, and Emmalee found herself gazing into a pair of worried blue eyes. As her consciousness returned, the expression of concern in those eyes lessened, and she was aware of their startling beauty. They were shining, cornflower blue, with glints of golden light, conveying an effect that was at once intelligent and gentle. Then, with her mind beginning to function normally again, Emmalee saw that those wonderful eyes belonged to a strong, square, open face, ringed with damp blond curls that pushed out from beneath the brim of a battered felt hat. She watched as a sparkling smile of relief appeared on the face, and Emmalee knew she had almost been run over by an archangel riding a dapple-gray.
“You all right?” the young man asked. “You seem to be all right, but don’t get up too quickly. You want some water or something?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Really.” Emmalee sat up. She did feel all
“It seems you do have that virtue,” replied Emmalee sweetly.
Lottie looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Finding things easy. I understand it is a virtue in some women.”
Burt Pennington could not restrain a snort of laughter. “Lottie,” he said, shaking his head, “I think you met your match for once.”
The redhead fumed and glared at Emmalee.
“Good luck, Miss Alden,” Pennington said, “and if anyone else ever asks you, a dogie is a stray calf.”
A stray calf! Emmalee thought, back outside the hotel on Market Street. Well, how was I to know? Would Pennington know what a harrow was? Or when to plant the corn? She thought not. Anyway, it was probably just as well that he’d rejected her outright. They hadn’t even gotten around to discussing the price of the fare! In the long run, it didn’t pay to go where you weren’t wanted.
But it was absolutely essential to get where you wanted to go, and for Emmalee that place was Olympia. She stood outside the Schuyler Hotel for a moment, watching the horses and wagons roll by, enjoying the swarm of women and children, men and cattle and dogs. Then she set out to find this Torquist fellow. Pennington had implied that he was organizing a wagon train composed of farmers.
She found that train on a green plain outside St. Joe, although few observing the chaotic swirl of random activity would have called it a train. There were many Conestoga wagons, true: high-wheeled, canvas-covered vessels built to sail a sea of grass. There were scores of tethered horses, oxen grazing beyond the wagons, and piles of bedrolls, foodstuffs, and other supplies. Children ran all around, shrieking at their play. Harried men and women dashed this way and that, to no particular purpose that Emmalee could discern.
She put her bedroll and bulging portmanteau down on the grass and looked about, trying to catch the eye of someone who might tell her where to locate Horace Torquist. But everyone rushed past her without paying the slightest bit of attention. The Torquist people, she decided, were very energetic, if not entirely observant.
Picking up her gear, she began to walk toward a group of women who were folding and stowing blankets in one of the wagons. In order to reach them she had to cut between a smithy’s forge—she could see the burly, sweating blacksmith hammering a glowing chunk of metal—and a wheel less wagon undergoing repairs. She heard hoofbeats close by, but thought nothing of them until, coming out from behind the wagon, she caught a glimpse of horse and rider bearing down on her.
“ Whoooaaa !” the rider called sharply, jerking frantically at the reins of a big dapple-gray, which reared and veered sideways, just missing Emmalee. She dropped her gear and leaped backwards, tripped and sprawled in the dirt beneath the wagon. Her head struck one of the blocks supporting the wagon, and for a few moments all she felt was pain and all she saw were stars.
Then, slowly, her world recomposed itself, her vision cleared, and Emmalee found herself gazing into a pair of worried blue eyes. As her consciousness returned, the expression of concern in those eyes lessened, and she was aware of their startling beauty. They were shining, cornflower blue, with glints of golden light, conveying an effect that was at once intelligent and gentle. Then, with her mind beginning to function normally again, Emmalee saw that those wonderful eyes belonged to a strong, square, open face, ringed with damp blond curls that pushed out from beneath the brim of a battered felt hat. She watched as a sparkling smile of relief appeared on the face, and Emmalee knew she had almost been run over by an archangel riding a dapple-gray.
“You all right?” the young man asked. “You seem to be all right, but don’t get up too quickly. You want some water or something?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Really.” Emmalee sat up. She did feel all
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