five minutes calling him names and maligning his horse, and he let her get it all out of her system. But no tears. She was tougher than she looked.
When she began to run down, he got to his feet and stuck his face in front of hers. “You finished?”
She stared at him in mutinous silence. She had eyes that were an odd shade of green, like moss. And her mouth, when she shut it, looked soft and as rosy as ripe raspberries. He hadn’t been this close to a pretty woman in over a year, and funny things were happening in his belly.
“That horse,” he said quietly, “stays where I can see him, and that means he goes where I go. He stays tied up to the wagon until we get to Oregon.”
“I won’t allow it.”
“If you want me to drive your wagon, you don’t have a choice. I’ll talk to your daughters about staying safe around him.”
She glared at him. Ruthie sidled toward him, and then he became aware of two wide-eyed faces peeking out from the back of the wagon.
“Come on down, you two,” he ordered. “I need to talk to you.” While they climbed down, he knelt before Ruthie.
“Honey, listen. A horse doesn’t understand little girls. When you get close to his hind legs, he thinks you’re going to hurt him and he’ll kick you.”
Ruthie nodded, but she wouldn’t look at him. Tess and Mary Grace moved to stand on either side of their sister. He noted that they gave Jenna a wide berth.
“Now,” he continued with a glance to include the older girls, “if you want to pet a horse, you first look him in the eye and talk to him. Keep your voice low and don’t make any sudden moves. Then you can lay your hand on his neck. But you don’t do any of this unless I’m around.”
“What do you say to him?” Ruthie whispered.
Tess gave an unladylike snort. “You say ‘how do you do,’ I suppose. The whole idea is preposterous.”
“No, it’s not ’posterous,” Ruthie protested. “I want to know.”
Tess sniffed. “That just shows how stupid you are.”
“She’s not stupid,” Mary Grace interjected. “She’s...well, she’s not stupid.”
“Huh! That’s all you know.”
“Girls!” Jenna snapped out the word in a tone Lee had never heard her use. “Hush up and listen to Mr. Carver. Since he insists on keeping that animal, you should know how to act around it.” Then she shot him a look that would ignite kindling.
Lee stood up. “That includes you, Mrs. Borland. Don’t startle the horse by shouting or screaming when you’re near him.”
She propped both hands on her hips. “I plan never to be near him, Mr. Carver. I dislike horses. And I dislike—” She snapped her jaw shut. “But since I seem to be stuck with your services, I will do as you say.”
Her voice was pure frost. He’d guess Sam Lincoln had refused to replace him, and for the first time since he joined the emigrant train he felt a small amount of acceptance. By Sam maybe, but not by Mary Grace or Tess.
And not by Jenna. Jenna was the only one he really cared about, besides Ruthie. Strange, that the little girl accepted him with an almost adult understanding; she didn’t care that he was a Virginian or a Confederate soldier.
“Mrs. Borland, would you have any coffee?”
She twitched her skirt. “Of course. I don’t drink it at night as it keeps me awake.”
“Mind if I brew some up?” He ran two fingers over a lump swelling above one temple. “I have the beginnings of a headache.”
She whirled away to the wagon, rummaged around for a moment, then emerged with a small canvas bag of coffee beans and a small wooden coffee mill. “Tess, poke up the fire and fetch the coffeepot, please. I’ll go for water.” She snatched up one of the buckets and marched off toward the creek.
While she was gone, Lee ground a handful of coffee beans, and Tess unceremoniously clunked the coffeepot onto the fire. He saw Jenna stagger across the field with the heavy bucket and went to lift it out of her hand. Her grudging “thank you” came out cold as an ice chip.
Lee drew in a long breath. Looked like he was in an enemy camp with just one ally, a little girl less than three feet tall. Well, hell, he’d lived through Gettysburg and Appomattox, and he’d lived through the grinding emptiness of his life after Laurie died; he guessed he’d live through this.
Suddenly everyone disappeared into the wagon, even Ruthie. He brewed up his own coffee and sat alone by the fire gulping it down as hot as he could stand it. Anything to remind him that he was alive, even if he wasn’t liked or wanted.
The soft murmur of a woman’s voice drifted from the wagon. From the measured cadence of the sounds, he guessed Jenna was reading aloud. Poetry, maybe. That must be why Tess knew a word like preposterous. Jenna was obviously well-lettered, and apparently she was educating the girls.
After a time her voice stopped, and she climbed out of the wagon and moved into the firelight. She ignored the coffeepot and perched on a wooden crate across the fire pit from him.
“I heard you reading to the girls,” he said. “Poetry?”
“Yes. Idylls of the King.”
“I admire your sharing your knowledge, even though they resent you.”
“I don’t want them to grow up ignorant, Mr. Carver. They will also know how to cook and sew and keep house. An ignorant girl in a wild new country like Oregon is asking for trouble.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Borland, but an ignorant girl anywhere is asking for trouble.” He watched her back stiffen and waited a good ten heartbeats before he opened his mouth again.
“On another subject,” he began, “is it all right with you if I spread out my bedroll under your wagon?”
She didn’t answer.
“I sleep with my rifle next to me. Thought you’d like to know you’ll be protected at night.”
“Yes, I appreciate that.”
“You sleep inside the wagon?”
She waited so long to answer he thought maybe she hadn’t heard; then he realized where she’d been sleeping up until last night.
“There is not enough room inside for me,” she said at last. “I have been sleeping under the wagon.”
That stopped his breath. He’d bet a month’s pay she didn’t know what to do now. He could make it easy for her, volunteer to sleep outside, next to his horse. But something inside rebelled at that. Maybe it wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do, but he wanted to sleep near her. Couldn’t say exactly why except that she was damn pretty and she had a nice voice. When she wasn’t yelling at him, that was.
Anyway, she was so mad at him she probably wouldn’t speak three words to him.
“Suits me,” he said quietly. He noticed she wouldn’t look at him.
* * *
The situation was awkward. Embarrassing. Never in a month of Sundays would Jenna have imagined lying next to a man who was not her husband. Her mother would have apoplexy if she knew.
She decided to sleep in her dress and petticoat, even though with Mathias she had stripped to her chemise and drawers. She arranged her pallet opposite to what she thought his would be, putting her head where she supposed his feet would be.
She did not like Lee Carver. But for some reason she did not fear him. She lay back on her quilt and closed her eyes until his voice startled her.
“Jenna.”
Just her name, spoken so low she might have imagined it.
“Yes?”