Emerald Fire

By June Marie Saxton

Kelly ORourke has every reason to grieveand he almost wants to hate the sun for shining, but it challenges him to live and breathe. Hes never cowered from a challenge in his life! With jingling spurs and a loaded gun, Kelly rides toward his destiny, blazing trails into the unknown. What begins as a cowboys lonesome ride becomes an epic tale of self-discovery, inspiration, compassion, forgiveness, personal change, and sweeping societal reformation.
Emerald Fire is a precious glimpse into the early Twentieth Century west, an era torn between old-fashioned traditions of frontier America, and the exploding technologies of the new age.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477280744

June Marie Saxton

June Marie Saxton is chiefly a wife, mother, and grandmother, but she truly enjoys her career as a nutritional consultant as well. June Marie owns Bear Necessities of Montpelier, a nutritional clinic and day spa, where she provides creative concepts for healthy living. She loves and serves easily, being forever fascinated by other people’s traits, culture, and talents. June Marie plans on writing until the fun wears off. “If it’s not fun I won’t budget the energy for it,” she says, “Although I don’t see my writing passion fading any time soon.” June Marie has authored eight books: Dancing with the Moon, Beckon, Into the Second Springtime, Pirate Moon, Emerald Fire, Ball Baby, Veil of Azure Sequins, and Mach 16. She was instrumental in getting her father’s manuscript published, Whirlwind on the Outlaw Trail, by Dale B. Weston. June Marie is currently writing Confessions of a Redneck Witchdoctor, which is slated for a 2016 release.

Book preview

EF%20Title%20Page.jpgUS%26UKLogoB%26Wnew.ai

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2012 by June Marie Saxton. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/15/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8073-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8072-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8074-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012919203

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

About the Artist

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Shannyn Saxton Davis of Culture Photography for the cover design and photography. Thanks to Tahnee and Casey Saxton for technical support. I appreciate the encouragement of friends and fans, especially Janalee Saxton, Diane Bethers, Kevin & Stephanie Weston, Pam Weston, MaryAnn Barker, and Ione Bush. Most of all, thanks to my husband, Mike, for his patience with my pursuits.

About the Artist

Carolyn W. Davidson spent her childhood years on a cattle ranch in the Bear Lake Valley of northern Utah. She loved horses and riding. She now rides herd on grandchildren, a beautiful posterity ranging in all ages. She is best known for her quiet service and gentle words of wisdom.

Carolyn’s background in western artwork comes from a lifetime of living in the valleys of the Rocky Mountains, and a reverence for her western heritage. She captures the spirit of cowboys and horses, the innocence of children, majestic beauty of landscapes, animals, and nature, painting them all with respect for the diversities of creation. Carolyn is skilled in different mediums of artwork; oil, acrylic, pencil, ink, pastels, and watercolor.

Davidson’s artwork is showcased on her artist’s webpage at www.sageweststudios.com. She is a master calligrapher and she sells cards, prints, and original paintings. Carolyn W. Davidson has provided cover art and illustrations for Beckon, Into the Second Springtime, Emerald Fire, and also Whirlwind on the Outlaw Trail by Dale B. Weston.

Titles by June Marie Saxton

Dancing with the Moon

Beckon

Into the Second Springtime

Pirate Moon

Emerald Fire

Whirlwind on the Outlaw Trail, written by Dale B. Weston

Specially signed copies available at:

www.junemariesaxton.com

For My Grandmothers

June Wilde Porter

Caring, Compassionate, Warm, Friendly,

Always Serving Others with a Happy Heart

&

Marie Pope Weston

Determined, Spirited, Capable, Honest,

Driven to Succeed, Patient in Perfection

I will honor your names.

Thank you for honoring them first.

Chapter One

My bones rattled with chill as I shoveled dirt into the grave. I too was ill, and I flung my coat from my shoulders, bidding the fever to wrestle my spirit away from my body—tempting heaven to blessedly unite me with my wife and daughter.

Put yer coat on, lad. I spun, completely caught unaware. My footing wasn’t solid and I nearly toppled backward into the grave. My dad caught my arm, steadying me.

They’re gone.

Tears glistened against his eyes. I’m the sorry one to bear this tragic site, Kelly. I mourn for you lad—I ache and I bleed, and be it a sorrowful day for yer mam when I tell her. Did yer bride die o’ the fever?

It stole Awinita from me—and my golden Fawn just minutes later. How can I bear it? I can’t! I shook a fistful of dirt toward the frozen sky. I couldn’t feel the sun. I doubted if it still existed, gauging by the bleak, grey horizon.

Dad put his arm around my shoulders, doing his best to consol the shattering ache in my heart. His rough hands reached around my neck. "No lad! For yer burning o’ fever yerself and shall die, and then how shall I bear it any better? Three deaths do not bode better than two." He lifted me, and I marveled at the strength of his arms—to carry me as if I were still a boy into the snug little cabin where I had happily lived since I was seventeen.

He laid me beneath heavy quilts and stoked the fire in the stove. A match licked life into a lantern and soon soft light glowed from the table. My eyes cast about, thinking of the things before my view; Awinita’s rocking chair, golden Fawn’s cradle where her brother Kell had slept before her. Now Awinita and Fawn both slept with him—joining little Kell’s lonely grave behind the cabin.

Dad set to brewing tea. His hands were trembling and I knew he was afraid for my life. He was wishing he’d have known before now the shape of things for us, but the sickness had struck suddenly, giving no warning—no sign or symptom to act as messenger. We lived in Washakie Fork. A high ridge separated the fork from town and we had only cottonwood trees and chokecherry brambles for neighbors.

Soon I was sipping tea, wincing at the strength of it. Dad had brewed a wicked concoction. What it lacked in comfort it made up for in bite. My tongue shriveled and I coughed. What have you given me?

The cure, I’m a hoping, lad. Blood root, aspen . . .

Tastes like turpentine—

"Well, that, and a wee bit o’ coal oil." He soaked a cloth in the remainder of the tea, then laid the thing across my forehead and bid me rest.

Secret ingredients indeed, but I complied, being too sick to do otherwise. Dad watched me from the rocking chair, saying nothing. After several minutes he stood, reaching for his hat. He left the cabin and I heard his boots tromping through dried grass and leaves. I listened as the shovel blade occasionally hit with gravel or stone, and could hear the bits falling against the lifeless bodies of my little family. I had failed them.

I awoke to the swirling shadows of pitch. The blackness felt heavy in the cabin. I looked toward the window, wanting to see light—but not even seeing the faintest glow. No sun, no moon, and no stars, the heavens were wrapped in sackcloth and ashes. I closed my eyes, for it mattered not; blackness is blackness.

Yer not alone, lad.

You’re still here? My voice sounded as a scratchy whisper.

Aye, glad to see you stir. In desperation I laid my hands on yer head and proclaimed a blessing awhile ago.

And what did you say? Did you bid me die or bid me stay?

Kelly, dying is too easy—and you must live and learn to laugh again, for that is the challenge o’ life.

I will never laugh again.

Aye, but you will. You will laugh and even love again, for it is your nature to do it. You have a zest for living and aren’t afraid to push the horizons. Only a strong lad would defy his own da’ to marry a Shoshone girl! Only a lad o’ the best imagination could fathom the boldness to try! Sitting near the Indian camp—gaining their respect and trust—only you Kelly. You’ve enough imagination to live like a mountain man from fifty—nay, a hundred years ago! Mark my words, you shall live to defy us all again, especially death and hell. Heaven loves you—has endowed you with uncommon courage and abilities. A whole posterity is waiting ahead o’ you, lad; a posterity full of strong and imaginative people—individuals that will celebrate the knowing o’ you—and you them.

My children are dead.

Kell and Fawn have gone, yes. But you are a young lad, Kell, and have not yet seen your twenty-fourth birthday. Christ would not allow the priesthood blessing to make a liar out o’ me.

Dear Dad! His faith was staunch—staunch enough to align himself with a whole community of converts when he was a young man himself. The community of Inis Pairc left the green fields and cobblestone streets of Ireland to sail towards America and its welcoming shores. They struggled across the daunting plains, uniting themselves with the saints in Salt Lake City, and from there to be sent to the rugged wilderness of the Three Lakes Valley. The group of proud Irish immigrants fractioned into thirds, settling the communities of Gallagher Springs, Kilkenny Point, and Lakeside, constructing the towns against Eisner Lake, Inish Lake, and Lake Washakie.

Pastor Calhoun and thirty other Protestant members traveled with them, fearing the Mormon religion had deluded them all to hell, For what is the difference ’tween the two? Is not heathen America and hell one and the same? But what shall we do without our friends? Pastor Calhoun asked his be-dwindled congregation. I fear we must shepherd them on their journey, for we are still bound to be our brothers’ keepers, are we not? They’ve long been our neighbors and friends. The thoughts of my father’s beginnings in America were a comfort to me and I resettled beneath the quilts, vaguely aware that calloused hands were laying freshly dipped cloths to my head.

An odd sight woke me next. Sunshine streamed through the window, forcing darkness from the cabin. It seemed so peculiar after the particular pitch of night. How dare the sun rise upon my grief, smiling at my sorrow? How dare the world spin in constant rotation, keeping schedules, drawing another day’s dawn like water to a bath?

Good morning.

It should not be.

But for me it is a rejoicing sight! Yer well enough to travel with me.

Where are you taking me?

Home—yer mam waits, as do Mary and Meaghan.

"I am home, Dad."

No. This lonesome place can no longer be yer home. It’s too sad to heal a wounded heart. You’d go mad after a time—as barking mad as a wolf. No, its home you’ll come. You can bathe the sweat from yerself in the healing waters of the hot springs. The steam will do you good, and I’ll camphor up the water as well. I’ll stick you in Emerald Fire for the hottest soak—and after the sweat and the steam purge the poisons from you, you can climb in Bonnie’s Pool for the minerals to soothe. Awe, the springs are the very heart of my land, lad. The pools are nearly magical—and the mystic beauty of them is wonderful to my soul.

Awinita’s grandfather thought so as well. Some friends and I had once hidden near the perimeter of the natural grouping of springs, watching as the Shoshones lifted an ancient man into the water. He proclaimed a blessing upon the water and the spectacle was strange and struck me with Shoshone fever, deluding me into boldly stepping into the water with them. I wanted to be a part of these nomadic people—wanted to get closer than ever before.

I had often sat at the edge of their camp in Washakie Fork—watching them dance by the fire at night. Dad would send me to the fork with peace offerings before they arrived from the Wind Rivers each year; sugar, cornmeal, and even sheep on occasion. He was frightened of them himself and impressed that I was willing—even eager. I listened to their strange talk, wishing to understand. The night I stepped into the pool with them, the old man’s eyes met with mine and he smiled. The other natives followed his lead, leaving me to my curiosity without harm.

The springs were located on Dad’s property—and the valley of Washakie Fork was his as well, for he was ambitious in his desire to farm both sheep and cattle. His father had claimed the ground, proved on mineral and water rights, had done much work with the help of his four sons. One by one Dad’s brothers died, leaving the lion’s share of land to him.

Leave the Shoshone alone, he often warned neighbors. They do us no harm, and protect us from other warring bands, keeping the treaty Brigham Young forged with Chief Washakie. The Blackfeet and Bear Hunters are afraid to make trouble. I am happy to donate sheep or beef on occasion—being that it saves trouble in general. All of these things had circled in my mind as I stood, staring at the exotic people while steamy mists rose in the darkness. Their culture was frightfully strange to the familiar ways of Irish-American settlers and I looked upon them, hypnotized by fascination.

Dad handed me a bowl of bread and milk. Eat up, then let’s get you wrapped and warm for a quick ride home. Yer fever has broken for a spell.

I locked the door of my cabin, securing the gate as well. My strength was already spent so Dad put a hand against my butt to heft me onto his horse. He was bringing my horse, and leading Awinita’s, and our milk cow. He would trail slower with the extra stock, but to Inishfree he clicked and said, Get home. Dad’s handsome bay gelding bounded without hesitation, trailing briskly up the steep ridge then down into Gallagher Canyon, taking me right to the front door of my parents’ two-story, white frame house.

I slid off the horse, thanking him as I went. To the barn Inishfree. The bay looked me over for a moment, considering his orders, and then trotted over to wait at the barn door for Dad.

As soon as I turned the doorknob Mam met me, eyes wild, suspecting trouble because Dad had not been home all night. One look at me and she scooped me to her, cradling my head against her neck. Yer da’? I shook my head and felt her shudder with relief. Then my poor Kelly, oh my poor, dear Kelly! She led me into a sitting room, easing me onto the settee, fearful I wouldn’t make the stairs to my old room. Tell me when you’re ready or leave it fer yer da’. I haven’t any wish to burden you with the telling. Her Irish brogue was softer by the years, the language of the American west polishing away the thickest parts of her accent. Her voice was lyrical and spoke comfort to me. She murmured something in the Irish tongue then called for Meaghan.

My little sister stopped short, freezing in the doorway, tears brimming instantly. What’s wrong with Kelly? I must have looked like a shipwreck.

My little family has died of the fever and I have nearly joined them.

Meaghan paled, leaving only freckles and a large set of frightened brown eyes for color on her face. Not Awinita! Not our precious baby Fawn!

Mam turned Meaghan around before she could protest any further, with a firm shake to her shoulders she ordered her to go into the kitchen and fix him tea—hearty and strong. And if I hear you break into hysterics I shall beat you until the sun goes down. Keep your composure, Meaghan! Shrieking fits cannot mend broken hearts.

Her stern words were belied by her own white lips and trembling hands. Of course the fierce declarations to my sister were simply a front for her own discomposure—a grip for tight nerves that wanted to fly to pieces. She straightway whirled like a dervish through the room, fussing, straightening, and clucking to herself about the best place to put me.

Let me catch my breath—than I shall make the stairs well enough.

Mam dashed up the stairs, heels clicking against the pine steps. I heard muffled sounds of linens being aired and even heard the popping sounds of quilts as she flung them again onto the mattress. Work was her tonic—her cure against the painful sting of trials. After my brother Sean died she took to the garden, pulling weeds and digging roots until the palms of her hands bled, refusing to quit until Dad physically carried her into the house. Yes, work would sustain Mam, and surely there was a lesson in her techniques for me.

It was past ten when I climbed in Emerald Fire. My dad’s mam had named the pools. She was a romantic, I suppose, or else she would not have had the time for it. Mary Shannon O’Rourke—what a woman! I remembered her often speaking the Irish-Gaelic language intermittently with English. She would start a story in one tongue and wind it around until it came out in another. We called her Me-ma, and how we dearly loved her. This be Bonnie’s Pool, she declared one day. Fer it’s as bonny blue as my baby’s eyes. I smiled, for bonny Aunt Bonnie’s eyes were bluer by far.

I caught myself smiling and wondered about it, but it was true—the water felt nourishing to my body, soothing the fever’s aching effects by a league. I closed my eyes, laying my head against the bank, remembering.

The night I stepped into the springs with the Shoshones, I had done it because of a girl. Not just any girl, but the most fantastic lass ever I’d seen! My best lads were with me, and I sent them home before slipping home myself, swiping my sister Mary’s hairbrush and some peaches. I wanted to give that girl a gift. Her hair hung past her waist, thick and wavy. Her brows were delicately arched above piercing eyes, and as I watched her move lithely through the rising curtains of steam, I stepped into the water. She was my reason, my draw.

I stood in the water, watching the elder for a good five minutes when I felt it, a small ripple behind me. Awinita smiled, bidding me to follow her several steps backward. The movement placed us behind the rising wall of mist, giving us privacy in the balmy, healing waters.

I am Awinita, she said, smiling and warm.

I was not expecting English! I’m Kelly Sheehan O’Rourke.

You the Big Irish.

Big Irish?

Awinita nodded, studying my face intently. Impatiently she motioned toward the old man and said, The Big Irish is good man! The Big Irish is always good for shoog. Then she thumped her chest the way any great chief would do. Was she mimicking the old man? These people knew me? They liked the sugar I brought them, obviously. I laughed out loud, startling the staring girl, but then she laughed with me, seeing that she’d caused me joy.

The Big Irish, she said again, is good man.

I was a boy! A mere boy of sixteen back then! But I was happy to have found favor with the exotic beauty now speaking to me. Tentatively I reached out a hand and touched her magnificent hair, magically producing my sister’s brush. I pulled it through the heavy, raven tresses. A sudden look of pleasure turned Awinita’s dark eyes into pools of fantastic depths! Her smile spread until I could see her teeth.

I brought this for you, Awinita.

Tears spilled from the dark pools, freely coursing down excellent cheekbones of a delicate face. Big Irish is good man, she whispered.

I heard myself laughing at the scene in my head. I opened my eyes and beheld glistening stars in a well lit sky. The water soothed my aching back and legs, and my head felt lighter by a pound. My pitiful laughter was like a fulfillment to my dad’s prophecy—oh yes, I would surely laugh again . . . if only in the cherished memories of my beloved Awinita.

Chapter Two

Meaghan begged me to take her to Washakie Fork. She had collected bits of dried flowers and any colorful sprigs of autumn foliage remaining in the canyon. I must take these to Kell, Fawn, and Awinita.

My little sister was almost fourteen, innocent, and impressionable. She had nearly been as smitten with Awinita as I had been. She stayed with us whenever Mam would allow it, and Awinita had enjoyed her company. It was Meaghan, even more than me, that taught Awinita how to read and write. She liked bringing her slate with her when school wasn’t in session. I suppose she felt like she was playing school, really, getting to be the teacher to a most appreciative, bright student. Awinita also let her play with the babies, first Kell, and then Fawn. Meaghan was just the right age to be good help.

As odd as it seemed they became best friends, even though Meaghan was only seven when I married the Shoshone beauty. It seemed to me that the two actually grew up together. Awinita’s innocence to the white men’s world was in some ways kid like, and who better to tutor her than a guileless, nonjudgmental little sister? To Meaghan, our marriage was the most practical thing in the world. She saw nothing wrong with it.

"Awinita is nice, she often prattled to Mary whenever our elder sister’s brows rose over the subject of our marriage. She is beautiful and one day I want to look just like her!"

"That will never be the day, Meaghan! You are an Irish girl."

I’m an American, Meaghan argued. "Awinita and I are both Americans!"

Yes, but yer of Irish descent so don’t be ridiculous.

Baby Kell is of Irish descent and he looks just like a Shoshone!

I smiled at the memories of Mary’s blustering and Meaghan’s maddening arguments.

Let’s go, Meaghan said, stepping into the stirrup with ease. She had snuck out of the house wearing a pair of my trousers and hand-me-down boots. Mam would scold her about it later.

I clicked to Jingo Jones and the pacer stepped forward, eager to travel. Meaghan rode Awinita’s horse, Petticoat. Petticoat is a silly name for a horse but Awinita loved the sound of that word, and never tired of writing it on Meaghan’s slate. Pet-ti-coat, she sounded again and again.

One year for Christmas Mam gave Awinita a dress with petticoats and everything civilized that went with it. Awinita prized the gift, often smelling the material and feeling along the dainty stitches.

Mam wants me to look good for dinner, she said when we visited. She was careful to dress in the clothes for those occasions but I noticed she was most comfortable in her native buckskin for every day. I didn’t care what she wore! She was beautiful, and if you asked me, the less layers of clothes the better. "I have lace petticoats," she would boast, then repeat the word, tasting it on her tongue like a strange confection.

Petticoat is a good horse, Meaghan called, trotting up the trail behind me. She’s just not as fast as Jingo Jones. She’s not a pacer.

We were quiet mostly. The fork extended condolences with shivering trees and willows weeping, bending sad and grey near the rushing water. The wind carried songs of mourning as it whispered through the grass and brambles. Leaves rattled with wearied strength, many fell to the ground, giving up hope until spring gave new life.

A lump tightened in my throat as I watched Meaghan’s chin quiver. Her mouth puckered and her eyes smarted with tears. There were so many fond memories haunting her! And I felt for her! We dismounted at the gate, and I carefully unfastened Meaghan’s offerings from the saddle, noticing she’d tied the bouquets with her prized blue hair ribbons. I tied our horses and then led Meaghan around the house, letting her see where her sister-in-law and niece now rested with little Kell.

Meaghan knelt down, running a finger along the gravestones.

It’s okay to cry, I whispered. I won’t tell Mam, and it won’t bother me.

Rolling sobs rocked small shoulders, and the sound of wailing blessedly drowned out my own. My little sister and I cried together for as long as we pleased, pitifully indulging in the sorrow of losing our dears.

Meaghan’s eyes were swollen and her voice was only a broken tune when she stood. Thanks for letting me cry, Kelly. It hurt holding it in.

I’m not sure I believe in holding everything in—to me bad news sort of sits like sour milk.

A smile crept onto Meaghan’s face. Yes, terrible sour.

And what do we do with sour milk, Meg?

Pour it out!

So it stands to reason that we shouldn’t go around swallowing our sorrows until every cell curdles.

Meaghan stepped toward me and laid her head against my arm. I slid my arm around her, pulling her tight. I kissed her head. You are as sweet a sister as ever I could find, Meaghan Mae O’Rourke!

And you are the best brother.

Don’t let Mam get you down. She comes from the old way of things, Meg.

She lives life with a stiff upper lip, she does. It’s so stiff she forgets to smile at times. She doesn’t take time for crying.

Mam can’t afford it. Mam’s tough, I know, but she loves you.

I don’t please her the same way Mary does.

She loves you still.

Mam doesn’t believe in having an imagination.

Reality is often a hard master. Meaghan, you just keep being you, and as you bloom, you’ll fit into Mam’s garden with the rest of her best, okay?

I led Meaghan into my little house. Tears resurfaced as she looked at Awinita’s things. I cleaned and straightened everything up tidy, leaving no trace of the fever and sickness which had swept into our lives. There, that will do.

Do for what, Kelly?

Do until the end of time—until I can bear coming back. I opened a can of peaches and handed them to Meg. She took a bite, listening as she chewed. I’m going to leave for awhile Meaghan.

Leave where? Please don’t—

I lifted a hand and Meaghan quieted. I am going to take off for awhile, drift around, get away. My heart feels dead, and my mind is full of mud. I guess I’m looking to go where I don’t have to think or feel anything for awhile. I will go make a nest egg.

Are you talking about going as far away as Salt Lake City?

No, California.

California? The look on Meaghan’s face told me I might as well have suggested the moon.

There’s a lot of work to be done, rebuilding San Francisco from the earthquake last year. There are roads to be built, bridges and buildings that need repaired. I heard wages are a premium there.

That sounds like a terrible place to go!

A terrible place might be just what I’m looking for.

A tiny smile lifted one side of Meaghan’s mouth. It will surely make Mary cluck, won’t it?

Perhaps.

And will you ride on the ocean while you are there?

I could—I have thought about the sea.

Catch me a swordfish and parcel it home.

We shared a pitiful laugh. I will write to you Meaghan.

If you don’t I will run away and come looking for you. Meaghan’s nose wrinkled into a defiant expression. Her freckles twisted comically into sheer stubbornness, and I knew she meant it.

Don’t ever do that, Meg. Mam’s skin is tough but her heart is tender. If you ran off it would be the end of her.

Then write to me Kelly!

I will, and shall send you presents every now and again.

Genuine San Francisco crumbled bricks? Such delights.

Meaghan, promise me you’ll take care of yourself, be a good girl, and help Mam and Dad.

I will if I must.

And I’m giving you Petticoat.

The brown eyes clouded again. Thank you, Kelly. Meaghan wiped her eyes with her sleeve. How will you get to California? Will you go to Eisner and ride the train?

I shook my head. No, it’s not in my mind to modern up just yet. I thought I’d just ride like some old-fashioned cowboy from a decade ago.

It’s 1907, for pity’s sakes, Kelly! You really are taking your horse?

Yes, by Jingo Jones, I’m going all right.

Chapter Three

Mam begged me not to go and the pain in her eyes as I turned my horse made me hurt too, but Dad’s sturdy arm was around her. I waved at Mary and Meaghan, for they had dashed down to Main Street to wave at me from there, wanting to delay my send-off.

Write to me, Kelly, Meaghan pleaded, racing along at my side. I slowed Jingo Jones, and reached down for Meaghan’s hand.

Dry your tears, Meaghan, I am not dying. I shall write and you must answer every letter.

I love you, Kelly!

I rode to the end of the street and looked back. My sisters still stood in the middle of the road, watching my departure. I waved enthusiastically, wanting to raise their spirits some, but Meaghan broke away from Mary’s side and ran towards me, screeching, Let me come with you, Kelly!

I groaned, sinking spur, Move out, old horse. The pacer’s head lowered and his gait broke into a hard run. I pictured Meaghan collapsing in a heap on the street, but Mary would shush and soothe her and Mam would work her half to pieces during the coming week so that she could not have time to think.

The winds howled cold as I crossed into Idaho. I pulled a scarf out of my pack and wrapped it around my ears and mouth. I jerked my beaver skin hat down low, leaving only my eyes and nose exposed to the weather. My trousers were tucked into high riding boots and I wore sheepskin chaps, adding another layer of protection. My overcoat was wool and scratchy, but beneath it I wore a soft linen shirt and a buckskin vest. Awinita had made my mittens from soft doeskin, and lined them with rabbit fur. My hands would never get cold in the mittens. My pistol was strapped around my middle, giving me easy access to my gun. I probably looked like an outlaw, but an unarmed man was an easy target, especially in these rugged western regions.

I rode many miles, and I don’t know what I thought about—a thousand different things, I guess. I saw a coyote on a ridge and several head of deer in a barren meadow. Snow had not yet come to this territory, but the grey skies and bitter chill alluded to the forthcoming blizzards of the season. I thought about seasons and times, and days gone by. The only thing I didn’t think of, I suppose, were days yet to come. My mind couldn’t conceive of anything beyond the hour at hand.

I lit a fire and drank strong tea—a hearty trail staple, even if it didn’t hold so well with my religion. I chewed a piece of jerky, not pining for anything more. My appetite wasn’t hale. I rolled hot rocks into a burlap sack, wrapping them several times before stuffing them at the bottom of my bedroll. My feet toasted through the night and dreams did not haunt me.

I rode through Soda Springs, Idaho, at a good time the next morning, rising well before the sun. The sleepy town was unconscious to my movements and aside from one man smoking on his front steps, I didn’t wave at a soul. The trek from Soda led me through large, empty barrens for awhile. There were occasional homesteads scattered through the desolate country and my heart went out to those people. It was the best and loneliest existence in the world, and immediately my thoughts spun to my snug, solitary cabin in Washakie Fork. There were no other houses in sight there, at least these folks could see smoke rising from distant chimneys.

Steam rose to meet the sky in Lava Hot Springs. A few Indians were wallowing in the warmth of the water and instantly my heart again shifted to home and the natural hot springs on Dad’s place. I had swam and bathed there during my childhood, and had spent much time there with my bride. Little Kell had died at the springs, catching his foot on a rock while jumping into my waiting arms. It had all happened so quickly. The memory twisted a sudden knife in my gut. I looked away from the Bannock’s curious stares, preferring to ride by without notice until the wall of steam concealed me from all view. I spent the night next to the Portneuf River and dreamt of catching fish.

I had been on