A Fair Trade

By Laylah Abrams

Raised by his fur trapper father and uncles, Jack Briggs makes do with little more than a knife and flask. Alone now, he searches for a place to call home. And refined and beautiful Penelope Findley may be the person who can help him find it as he leads the Findleys’ wagon to Oregon. Honor-bound by her marriage vows, Penelope snubs the handsome wagon leader whenever he shows an interest in her. When she is widowed following a river crossing accident, Jack tempts her with the means to remain independent: protection in a temporary marriage and payment in exchange for helping him obtain the free acreage allotted to married settlers in Oregon. What Penelope doesn’t realize is that Jack wants more than the land. He wants her. But can he overlook her disreputable past? And will she be able to give up the freedom he promised?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jul 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781509220854

Book preview

it.

Prologue

Jack stayed toward the edges of the wide street to keep from being carried away in the surge. A man carrying a canvas bag over his shoulder hurried through the crowd; a cart filled with market goods jostled past. The clang and clamor of civilization hurt his ears. His eyes darted from blank face to blank face. People in the city were all like beavers, scurrying about, making their dens, or maybe more like the animals he had seen in the market, in cages and pens.

He turned and walked down a narrow alley. His boots sank in the spring mud, raising to his nostrils the stink of too many bodies living on top of each other. He had been in St. Louis since winter began—the longest he had ever stayed—and the city seemed thicker and louder than ever before.

He ambled past a general store with a sign that read:

All Provisions Necessary for Emigrating West

It was almost too late to leave now if they meant to reach their destination before winter, but still men and women were making purchases for the journey to California in search of gold or to Oregon, where land was given away to whomever could settle it. They gave him fearful glances, and he glared back.

At the end of the alley, an old trapper like Pa—or himself in a few more decades—squatted on the ground outside the tavern. He wore an impressive string of bear claws around his neck, but the fur on his beaver skin cap was wearing through, and the seams were falling apart on his buckskins. He looked thin and worn himself. Jack’s hand strayed to his pouch, and then stopped. He only had a few dollars…and several hunks of gold he still needed to exchange. Every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost. He had heard the proverb often enough. Any man with experience should be able to get along on his own. Jack certainly had.

He walked past the man and entered the tavern, scanning the dim room for his uncle. Grandpa had passed on long ago; Uncle Meriwether had been killed in a misunderstanding over a borrowed horse—or so they said—and Pa had succumbed a few years back. Uncle William was the only person he had left in the world. He had tried all his uncle’s common haunts with no luck, but this was the kind of hole he might be drawn to.

Jack, is that you? called a burly man from a table in the corner. He had traded his deerskins for cotton and wool, but with his weather-beaten face, he still held the hardened air of a frontiersman. As Jack approached, Uncle William added, By Christ, Jacky! Haven’t seen you in years! Got any money on you, by chance?

Same as always.

Enough for a few drinks, Jack answered.

Excellent! His uncle smiled, gapped, yellow teeth appearing below his bushy mustache. Have a seat an’ tell me how you been. You’re lookin’ more grizzled than I am.

Jack ran a hand over his long, dark beard. He could certainly afford a haircut now, yet he hadn’t bothered. He took the seat his uncle offered him. I was out in Oregon for a while, and then in California. Headed here before the snows started.

California, eh? William’s eyes brightened. Did you try a bit of mining?

No, it ain’t worth the trouble. You hear stories of gold, but that’s all they are. His uncle didn’t need to know about his find. Not that he had plans for it yet.

Oh, William answered with a shrug. But Oregon…Last time I was at Fort Vancouver, you were still a little fella, and your grandpa was doin’ his best to keep you from turnin’ out like his sons. He laughed. Then the smile faded. I was sorry not to see your pa at the end. He was as much a brother to me as Merry was.

Jack nodded and raised his glass. To Pa and Grandpa, he said.

His uncle raised his own. So you finally thinkin’ of settlin’ down?

Thinkin’, anyway, he answered. Not sure how. Maybe I’ll have a house outside the city.

William nodded. It’s what your pa would have said. ‘Set up a lodge and buy a wife.’

Jack grimaced. I don’t need someone I have to take care of.

Damn right. No man needs that kind of hassle. Your pa—

William stopped mid-sentence as his eyes roved behind Jack. He turned. Two men, a few tables over, one wearing a bowler hat and the other with impressive sideburns like squirrel tails, were playing a game of cards. William stood up and motioned Jack over with him.

Mind if we join you? he asked the men.

Heck, not at all, Bowler Hat answered. Don’t get to play cards with wild men every day.

Both of them laughed. Jack’s eyes narrowed. They had probably never slept anywhere but in stodgy apartments, never awakened on a mountaintop to the scent of wildflowers and the sound of an eagle’s cry, never peeled back a frozen horse blanket to a dawn as bright and hard as a steel blade, yet they presumed to measure them. William ignored the insult and sat down. Gambling was among his many weaknesses.

Jack played cautiously, winning a few more hands than he lost. But hand after hand, his uncle had nothing or a pair at most.

Aw, lost again, the old gambler said, throwing down his cards. You’ll give me a chance to get my money back, won’t you? he asked their new acquaintances. Just one more try?

Sideburns sneered. Oh, sure. Why not?

Wonderful, exclaimed William. Everything in? He had slowly been increasing the stakes, and there was a lot of money on the table.

Fine, agreed Bowler Hat, rolling his eyes.

Jack sat out, pocketing his money. He had witnessed his uncle in action many times before. When William finally lay down his cards—an ace, king, queen, jack, and ten, all spades—Jack seemed to be the only one to see a couple of them come from up his sleeve. Still, the two men eyed them with wrinkled brows.

I think we’ve been taken in, said Sideburns as William reached for his winnings.

Bowler Hat was a little bigger, but not as round as Sideburns. He’d be the faster one. Jack’s right hand instinctively moved to his knife. With his other hand, he raised his glass as if to take a sip.

I’m not going to stand for these cheating sons of bitches, Bowler Hat answered.

He pushed his chair from the table and rose to take a swing, but before his fist even left his side, Jack smashed his glass on the man’s head. Bowler Hat had not even crumpled to the table before the point of Jack’s knife was two inches from Sideburns’s right eye. Turning pale, the man raised his hands and took a step back.

We’re in a city, for God’s sake, chided William. Put that away before they have you arrested.

As Sideburns was now walking stiffly to the door, leaving his friend bleeding on the table, Jack complied. The tavern owner suddenly appeared beside them with his largest bartender and a hickory cudgel. Jack landed in the sodden street with a squishy splash. His uncle followed soon after. Just like old times.

As William turned to yell curses back at the owner and patrons, Jack caught sight of a petite, dark-haired woman standing with an armful of packages in front of the store on the other side of the street. She was young—no more than twenty—and wore a flowing white dress and a hat decked with cascading ribbons. With a sweet, heart-shaped face and large eyes, she was like a piece of delicate lace not meant for his rough hands. She glanced about her as though waiting for someone, and not finding him, she put all but one box down on the stoop. Her face lit up in anticipation as she carefully opened her prize. Jack couldn’t see what it was, but it didn’t matter. There was no way he could draw his eyes from the absolute delight on her face. Suddenly, she looked to her right and frowned. A man in a dirty, rumpled coat had advanced on a girl, possibly a beggar or a prostitute, and she was trying to pull away from his hand on her arm.

I suggest you let go of her, the dark-haired woman’s voice rang out in a firm, spirited tone. As proud as a kestrel.

The man laughed and made a bawdy comment involving both women.

Well! the woman in white exclaimed. More loudly, she yelled, Mr. Parsons, help! I’m being robbed!

A large man with a shotgun soon appeared in the doorway of the shop, and a chuckle bubbled to Jack’s throat. She wasn’t as innocent as she looked.

I’m not trying to rob her!

Seeing her packages on the stoop, between the grubby-looking man and his customer, Mr. Parsons aimed his gun at the man’s knees.

No, the likes of you would just be helping this fine lady with her boxes? Now, get out of here!

The man stopped arguing and made his retreat.

And you, too, Mr. Parsons said to the girl nearby. Then he turned to the dark-haired woman. I’m very sorry about that, ma’am. Having to put up with riffraff comes with being a frontier town.

No, it’s all right. Thank you, she said, looking beyond him at the girl, who was walking away. She suddenly hurried toward her and handed her the box she held in her hands, the one she had opened with excitement. Here. Take this, she told her.

Jack felt an odd hitch in his chest as the woman gave her prize away. He was still watching her when he was startled by William’s voice at his side.

Yup, that’s about the look Dan Briggs had on his face the first time he saw my sister, he said, grinning. Your pa fell for her at first sight.

When Jack turned back, the dark-haired woman was disappearing down the street. A gangly man in a fine suit was at her side, carrying her remaining purchases.

Part 1

Wandering

Chapter 1

He was a jolly man, but now he’s dead. Throw him in the river and let’s keep moving.

~Daniel Briggs

Jack squinted, furrowing his dark brows as bright sunlight reflected in his eyes. He looked out over the waving grass, fawn and green, covering the plain the group had just crossed, and past it to the threads of the Platte River. The last of the four covered wagons was just beginning to ford the muddy stream. The water only came halfway up the wagon wheels, and it hadn’t been difficult for the others, but this one sagged under its own weight, creaking with more possessions than Jack had ever owned.

You wanna maybe reconsider that piano now, Mrs. Findley? he called to the young woman standing a few yards away from his horse, watching the wagon’s progress.

She turned her heart-shaped face up to him and frowned. Full, rosy lips on a dainty mouth.

"It’s a melodeon. It packs up into a trunk. It’s portable," she insisted. Her words were always clipped, neat, and proper.

Jack smiled. Only a woman like Penelope Findley would think it was all right to drag a big musical instrument across the western territories. It wasn’t even much to look at, the wood aged and worn. Oliver Findley was a lawyer; the couple could afford better.

Whatever it’s called, I think you’d be better off without it, Jack told her. It’s almost July. We’re going to go through some dry, hot days pretty soon. An’ there are gonna be a lot of river crossings, the way the Platte winds back and forth. Your oxen are gonna tire, especially now that you’ve lost one. You don’t wanna get to The Dalles after the pass over Mount Hood closes for the winter.

I thank you for your sage advice, Mr. Briggs. You have an uncanny ability to make do with little more than a knife and a flask of spirits. However, you can continue to make decisions regarding the best routes and places to camp, and my husband and I will make decisions as to our belongings.

She walked back toward the river where Oliver Findley was still helping to drive the oxen pulling their wagon. Jack’s gaze fell to where the lower half of her dress, wet from the river crossing, clung to her willowy frame. She wasn’t a typical beauty—a bit too thin—but her skin was still pale, despite months of travel, because of the beribboned, flowered hat she wore, instead of the plain bonnets of the other women. The thing made her look like she was on a pleasure drive. Combined with her dark hair, she looked how a Spanish princess might—and generally acted like one, too.

Her Highness, spat Tim Reaves, one of the hired teamsters, as he pulled his old gelding up beside Jack’s younger, finer mount.

Mrs. Findley glared in their direction.

More quietly, Reaves added, ’Course if I got to spend every night in a wagon with her, I’d consider carryin’ it to Oregon myself. How I’d love to get under her skirts.

Reaves might be a friend—or whatever it was you called someone who drank and played cards with you by the campfire—but Jack wasn’t about to discuss Penelope Findley’s charms with him. We’ll be standin’ here all damn day. I’d better go and help Findley with his damn cattle, he said.

Mind your language, please, Mr. Briggs, squawked the reverend’s wife.

Yes, Mrs. Long, he answered and swore some more under his breath.

Two of the other men were already over there, but as the guide on this trip, he would doubtless be blamed if the contents of a wagon ended up soaked or floating slowly down the Platte. He had made the trip from California with just his Palouse, Ulysses, a mule, and his pack in less than three months. Bringing this wagon train back West was going to take nearly six. The group, desperate for a guide, was paying him twice the standard rate. Of course, money wasn’t the reason he had agreed to do it.

He rode down the gentle slope toward the river. As he passed Mrs. Findley, he nodded toward her with a smile. "Princesa."

Mr. Briggs was her icy, and entirely expected, reply.

At the edge of the river, Jack dismounted and waded in, the soft bottom sucking on the soles of his moccasins as cool water soaked his buckskin pants. Findley’s hired man, Seth Cooper, along with Reverend Long’s oldest boy, Ben, were carefully driving the three-yoke team through the silty river. It would be easy for one of the animals to get stuck.

You go on behind the wagon. I’ll lead them from here, Jack told Findley.

It was best to get the man out of the way, or he might get under hoof or wheel. Two months on the trail and he had yet to make any progress handling the animals.

Jack, Cooper, and Ben finished guiding the team across the river, and the oxen hauled themselves out of the water. As the wagon was rolling over the bank, one of the animals stumbled, causing a hitch. The wagon creaked unsteadily. Luckily, the momentum of the rest of the team kept him moving, and the wagon cleared the river in one piece. That ox probably wouldn’t last much longer, though.

Every man, woman, child, and animal had now made it across. Except Findley. Jack watched as he climbed over the low bank. He slipped on the ground made slick by the animals, and his lanky form slid forward into the mud. He heard Tim Reaves guffaw as he watched with the rest of the group. Jack snickered himself, until he saw Penelope hurrying down to help her husband. He walked back and gave Findley his hand.

Thank you, Briggs, he said as he righted himself.

Jack wiped the mud off his hands and onto his pants, but Findley was still coated in the stuff. Some was even smeared on his face. Mrs. Findley came forward to wipe her husband’s brow with her handkerchief. She may have been haughty and reserved with the other men, but she was the picture of a dutiful wife. She even looked at her husband with something resembling awe. It galled Jack. When he was on watch over the livestock one night, when the day had not been too rough and tiring, he had heard them in their wagon. It was only once, but he still felt his insides heave as he remembered the sounds of regular thumping and a man’s low grunts.

Jack led Ulysses back to where the group had assembled, a low hill a few hundred yards from the river crossing, where a castle of large rocks provided some shelter from the penetrating sun. A slight breeze abated the ever-present buzzing of horseflies and mosquitoes.

We might as well noon now, though it’s a little earlier than usual, Jack announced.

Can we go hunting? Ben Long asked excitedly.

We’d have to take the horses a-ways off the trail for game in this area. I don’t think we’ll be stopped that long.

Maybe tomorrow, then? I want to practice more before we get to grizzly country.

You’re not going to hunt grizzlies, reprimanded his mother, much like a clucking hen.

Jack was five years younger than me when he killed his first bear. Right, Jack?

At twelve? That’s impossible!

I’m afraid it’s true, Mrs. Long. He came upon us in our camp. My father and uncles were uh…indisposed… Dead drunk would be the more accurate term. And I stayed quiet under my blankets until he moved off far enough that I could shoot him.

Well, Ben certainly appreciates you letting him go along, she said, but you will be careful with him on these expeditions?

Of course, ma’am. Well, as much as possible. I so thoroughly enjoy killing things. I forget myself sometimes. Just like that old griz, I guess.

She looked at him askance. Her husband, standing behind her, gave Jack a knowing wink.

Soon, the group broke up to complete midday chores. The men worked on axle and tongue repairs and minded the stock. Jack didn’t offer to help. Sam and Stephen, the younger Long boys, collected buffalo chips for fires while Mrs. Cooper, Mrs. Findley, Mrs. Long, and the Long girls washed clothes and cooked. They formed three groups to eat dinner: the brood of eight Longs, with Tim Reaves and Isaac Flint, single men who were earning their way by driving animals; the Findleys, together with the Coopers; and Jack, alone. Unlike Reaves or Flint, Jack was paid in money, not in board. For his dinner, he sat on a boulder with his folding knife, cutting pieces of a prairie chicken he had caught that morning. The rest of the group was having another meal of sourdough, beans, and bacon. He breathed in. Baked bread was something he didn’t need to survive…though it did have a pleasing smell.

As he sat on his rock, Ann, the eldest Long girl, a pretty, blonde-haired, blue-eyed thing like the rest of her family, walked over to him.

"I