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Authors: Peggy L Henderson
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conversation.
“She’s also married,” Jake said, trying to keep his voice even.
Marcus scoffed. “Shore don’t seem like she sets her sights all that high. I seen that Parker fella drunk more than I seen him sober. Seems to like the bottle better’n his wife. Whadaya think, Owens? From what I heard tell, you’re good at gettin’ into a woman’s drawers. Prob’ly wouldn’t be too hard to get under her skirts.”
Jake didn’t stop to think. He merely reacted. His arm shot out and his hand fisted around Marcus’ shirt collar. He nearly pulled the startled man from his horse. “If I ever catch you within ten feet of Mrs. Parker, or hear you talk about her in a disrespectful manner again, I’ll kill you,” he growled between clenched teeth. His face was inches from the wide-eyed man’s, their horses stopped beneath them. He released his hold, shoving Marcus Powell backwards. The man lost his balance, and toppled from his horse. Jake took up his reins, and tightened his legs around his mare’s girth. She bolted forward, and Jake guided her toward the wagon train, cursing his fate with every stride.
****
Jake shook the water from his hair, and pulled his shirt on over his head. The creek was just as muddy as the Missouri River. Hopefully some of the grit would wash out of his itchy scalp. Some fifty yards upstream, the wagons sat parked along the creek bank. The smell of smoke from fifteen or more campfires filled the air, mingled with the delicious odor of bacon cooking. Jake’s stomach growled loudly.
He strapped his belt around his waist, and picked up his rifle, then walked slowly toward the wagons. He passed cattle and mules that eagerly cropped at the grasses after their hard day of work. The loud chirping of crickets and other night-time bugs, mingled with the soft melodies of someone playing the harmonica, reminded him of cattle drives back home. Jake ignored the odd tightening in his chest.
After the train had come to a stop along this tributary of the Missouri River and everyone had their animals unhitched, Frank Wilson had told the group that each family was responsible for providing a man to watch over the livestock during the night. He rattled off names of those who would have first, second, and third watch this first night.
Jake was silently glad that Thomas Parker’s name hadn’t come up this time. He’d returned to the train to collect his clothes and gear after his altercation with that scum Marcus Powell, and seen Rachel’s husband sway precariously in the jockey box of their wagon. The man was obviously still hung over from his binge in the saloon. Jake hoped that, for Rachel’s sake, Thomas would sober up over the next couple of days. Rachel had shot him a brief tight-lipped look when he approached, and then quickly scurried to the opposite side of the wagon. One of her kids handed him his clothes and rifle over the tailgate while the wagon kept moving. He’d have to retrieve his saddle once the train stopped for the night.
Jake smiled. Rachel was obviously still mad at him for his rude remarks that morning. He should really remember that this was a different time, and people had different social values. His behavior might just get him shot. Now that he thought about it, one thing that Powell had said that struck him as true, was that Thomas Parker sure didn’t show much interest in his wife. Jake had pulled her aside, and stood way too close to be considered proper in any century, almost right under Thomas’ nose, and the man hadn’t so much as blinked. He couldn’t have been that hung over not to take notice of a stranger getting so cozy with his wife. His stomach growled again. Maybe he should have accepted Elijah Edwards’ invitation. He might not be welcome at the Parker’s wagon. He combed his fingers through his hair. There was only one way to find out.
Jake made his way through camp. Families settled in around their campfires. Ben Holland nodded to him. His
“She’s also married,” Jake said, trying to keep his voice even.
Marcus scoffed. “Shore don’t seem like she sets her sights all that high. I seen that Parker fella drunk more than I seen him sober. Seems to like the bottle better’n his wife. Whadaya think, Owens? From what I heard tell, you’re good at gettin’ into a woman’s drawers. Prob’ly wouldn’t be too hard to get under her skirts.”
Jake didn’t stop to think. He merely reacted. His arm shot out and his hand fisted around Marcus’ shirt collar. He nearly pulled the startled man from his horse. “If I ever catch you within ten feet of Mrs. Parker, or hear you talk about her in a disrespectful manner again, I’ll kill you,” he growled between clenched teeth. His face was inches from the wide-eyed man’s, their horses stopped beneath them. He released his hold, shoving Marcus Powell backwards. The man lost his balance, and toppled from his horse. Jake took up his reins, and tightened his legs around his mare’s girth. She bolted forward, and Jake guided her toward the wagon train, cursing his fate with every stride.
****
Jake shook the water from his hair, and pulled his shirt on over his head. The creek was just as muddy as the Missouri River. Hopefully some of the grit would wash out of his itchy scalp. Some fifty yards upstream, the wagons sat parked along the creek bank. The smell of smoke from fifteen or more campfires filled the air, mingled with the delicious odor of bacon cooking. Jake’s stomach growled loudly.
He strapped his belt around his waist, and picked up his rifle, then walked slowly toward the wagons. He passed cattle and mules that eagerly cropped at the grasses after their hard day of work. The loud chirping of crickets and other night-time bugs, mingled with the soft melodies of someone playing the harmonica, reminded him of cattle drives back home. Jake ignored the odd tightening in his chest.
After the train had come to a stop along this tributary of the Missouri River and everyone had their animals unhitched, Frank Wilson had told the group that each family was responsible for providing a man to watch over the livestock during the night. He rattled off names of those who would have first, second, and third watch this first night.
Jake was silently glad that Thomas Parker’s name hadn’t come up this time. He’d returned to the train to collect his clothes and gear after his altercation with that scum Marcus Powell, and seen Rachel’s husband sway precariously in the jockey box of their wagon. The man was obviously still hung over from his binge in the saloon. Jake hoped that, for Rachel’s sake, Thomas would sober up over the next couple of days. Rachel had shot him a brief tight-lipped look when he approached, and then quickly scurried to the opposite side of the wagon. One of her kids handed him his clothes and rifle over the tailgate while the wagon kept moving. He’d have to retrieve his saddle once the train stopped for the night.
Jake smiled. Rachel was obviously still mad at him for his rude remarks that morning. He should really remember that this was a different time, and people had different social values. His behavior might just get him shot. Now that he thought about it, one thing that Powell had said that struck him as true, was that Thomas Parker sure didn’t show much interest in his wife. Jake had pulled her aside, and stood way too close to be considered proper in any century, almost right under Thomas’ nose, and the man hadn’t so much as blinked. He couldn’t have been that hung over not to take notice of a stranger getting so cozy with his wife. His stomach growled again. Maybe he should have accepted Elijah Edwards’ invitation. He might not be welcome at the Parker’s wagon. He combed his fingers through his hair. There was only one way to find out.
Jake made his way through camp. Families settled in around their campfires. Ben Holland nodded to him. His
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