Remember Me

By Del Robertson

Sarah Lindley followed her brother into the untamed Wild West in search of adventure. She found it – in the form of a woman unlike any she’d ever met before.
Buckshot Bailey Bowen thought she had settled down as a ranch hand. That was until a chance encounter with a feisty, Irish redhead turned her world upside down.
Sarah and Bailey meet again in San Antonio in an old, crumbling mission. As the infamous thirteen-day siege rages about them, they fall hopelessly in love. Surrounded by enemy forces, their future looks uncertain. Will they – and their love – survive against such insurmountable odds?
The cry “Remember The Alamo” has long echoed throughout history. Now, the women that were at the Battle of The Alamo ask you to Remember Me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Affinity Ebook Press NZ Ltd
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781991040176

Book preview

Her fanny hurt beyond measure.

Those were the words that she longed to write in her journal. After all, it was her journal, her thoughts, and most importantly in her mind, her maltreated fanny. She knew her turn of phrase was inappropriate and such language would be frowned upon. Even if no one else’s eyes were ever privy to her private musings.

Sarah tapped the feathered end of her quill against her chin as she thought of more suitable prose befitting a proper lady.

Oct 7, 1835

If I never ride in another wagon, it will suit me fine. I cannot emphasize enough the contrast between the plush cushioned seats of the horse and carriage buggies in St. Louis and the haphazardly constructed ox-drawn wagon that I precariously cling to for dear life. Every dip, every rut, every rough patch of trail jostles the hard wooden seat beneath me to the point that my knuckles ache from gripping the edges of the board so tight. My entire body protests the torture it now endures at the incessant, repetitive bouncing accompanied by every turn of the wagon’s wheels.

A particularly rough bump caused Sarah’s quill to scratch across the sheet, leaving a jagged diagonal line along the bottom of the page. She blew to dry the ink before closing the soft leather-bound journal, wrapping both book and quill in one of her monogrammed linens, and placed the entire bundle in a canvas bag she had designated for its protection.

Tommy had both surprised and delighted her when he had gifted the set for her birthday. She did not know how he found the means to make such a frivolous purchase. She thought he had invested his last remaining funds into this excursion. Of course, he might very well have purchased it long ago and set it aside for a future occasion. He sometimes found bargains too good to pass up whilst on his travels.

It seemed as if there was no place Tommy hadn’t seen. She often envied him the freedom of traveling the country as he did. He was gone for long stretches at a time and his trips to St. Louis seemed few and far between. Every time he came home for a spell, there would be a celebratory dinner party. She’d serve drinks and sit on the edge of a chair in the parlor, listening attentively as he regaled them with tales of his travels.

It was hardly socially permissible for a woman to sip brandy with the men while they smoked cigars and imbibed in after-dinner libations. As soon as her older brother, Daniel, noticed her presence, he would admonish her behavior and chase her from the room. She’d pretend to be suitably chastised and retreat to the kitchen, where she would pull up a stool, press her ear to the adjoining wall, and listen raptly to Tommy’s traveling tales.

Through Tommy, she’d learned that it was the details that were important. Like how the train conductors kept their buttons, buckles, and whistles polished at all times. That the Indians aimed their arrows at the coaches’ panels and curtains as those parts of the stage were the most flammable. How the drivers and passengers would disembark a stage chased down by bandits, standing by the side of the dusty trail as the outlaws robbed them at gunpoint and stole the strong box before riding off. As soon as the bandits were gone, the drivers would calmly assist their fares in reclaiming their seats. They would then resume their journey, as if nothing amiss had happened.

He described in such vivid detail that she could imagine what it was like to travel on a steamboat where cargo and livestock were loaded before deck passengers. On a steamboat, every one and everything else was given precedence over the passengers that could only afford deck tickets. The rich passengers had luxurious rooms on the upper levels and ate grand meals for dinner. The crew had modest, interior rooms and ate a simple stew made from the food scraps left on the plates of the rich; the mixture left simmering in a giant pot all day and into the night. The deck passengers had simply that for a room, the deck. Men and women mingled together with the livestock on deck no matter blistering sun or pouring rain, summer or winter. They ate what provisions they had brought themselves, usually dried meat, heavily salted so as not to spoil. They slept where they could find a place to curl up on the deck, one eye open lest they be robbed and murdered in the night.

Tommy’s tales about gunfighters that would kill a man for looking at him sideways and showgirls that would kiss him for the same reason were entertaining, but lacked any real substance. She could not fathom the notion of gunslingers standing in the center of the street at high noon, determined to shoot each other down. Nor did she believe that three women would go to bed with one man while his friends awaited his return downstairs for a card game. She decided those stories were just fillers to capture the imagination of the audience.

As well as their pocketbooks, thought Sarah, recalling that oftentimes after Tommy told his stories, several benefactors paid him for the evening’s entertainment.

Daniel was never one of Tommy’s supporters. Indeed, he seemed irritated by the attention and notoriety bestowed upon Tommy whenever he was home. It was as if he were a long-lost relative that everyone flocked to see and dote on. She recalled many a time that Daniel put a damper on the evening, citing that their guests must leave because he had business to attend to first thing next morning.

There was no doubt that Daniel did have important business and that he quite often rose early. However, she did not think it was important to the extent he made it seem whenever their brother was in residence. She often wondered if Daniel was so rigid because he was eldest born and took his responsibilities accordingly. Which, of course, he could not be faulted for since he provided for his wife as well as his sister and their aging mother. Observing him, though, she also wondered if he wasn’t more than a little resentful that, as the second born son, such expectations and burdens were never placed on Tommy’s shoulders.

She glanced at her brother walking beside the wagon. Misting rain ran off the brim of the hat pulled down low about his face. The collar of his long coat was up and his shoulders were hunched. Each step taken caused clumps of clinging brown mud to cake his boots and make a squelching sound every time he pulled a foot free.

As if sensing her eyes on him, Tommy turned, blue eyes blinking against the rain as he looked up at his sister. His gaze was usually sharp and alert, always on the lookout for a deer or rabbit or even a plump bird. He had to be, for small game was the source of their meals. Not that Tommy was a particularly good provider. As a shot, more often than not, he missed a moving target.

It seemed to her that being a fair shot was not the only skill Tommy was lacking. He wasn’t proficient at chopping wood. He certainly didn’t know how to throw a rope. Even his cooking skills were pitiful. He wasn’t even an early riser. It seemed she constantly had to rouse him from slumber and rush him to pack up camp each morning so they would not be left behind. She wondered how he had ever managed all the travels he claimed when he seemed so out of step with everyone else on the wagon train.

Their single ox traveled at a much slower pace than the others’ teams of horses and oxen. The families just starting out, usually newly wedded couples of Dutch descent, traveled with lighter wagonloads pulled by pairs of sturdy Gelderland horses. Well-established families with a husband, wife, and the requisite three or more children, traveled in bigger wagons nicknamed prairie schooners for their long length and canvas tarp-like sails that were drawn by two or four teams of oxen, depending on the weight of the load.

It seemed that Tommy had severely underestimated when they needed to purchase pack animals for the trip, as well as the demand of such animals. They had ended up at the edge of the last civilized trading outpost in need of a horse that had not gone lame and were hampered for both currency and supplies. Even the little wagon they’d traveled in thus far was no longer sufficient for the job. It would not hold a fraction of the supplies they would need going forward and he’d had to sell it for a loss.

In hindsight, it would have been wiser to purchase what they had needed earlier on the route and deal with the inconvenience of transport than to put it off and pay a more exorbitant amount for less.

I’m a gentleman accustomed to traveling alone, and as such, have little requirements beyond purchasing tickets for transport by stage, train, or riverboat. It’s hardly my fault that I am unfamiliar with the nuances necessary for traveling burdened down with a woman in tow, he said.

And, really, what defense could she make for her gender?

There were many times in her life thus far that Sarah cursed her value, or lack thereof, on being a woman. That Tommy often reminded her that she was like a great rope looped about his neck, weighing him down, made her feel less significant than the ox that pulled their wagon.

She stared at the hindquarters of the great beast plodding along ahead of them. Not for the first time, she was envious that it didn’t seem to have the common sense to be miserable in its labors. She secretly rued the day that ox had lumbered into their lives.

†

Now, Sarah, you just stay out of the way and let me handle all the negotiations. Tommy opened the rickety wooden corral gate surrounding the livery stable and ushered her inside.

At least let me help with the supply list, she said.

Wagon outfitting is man’s work.

A man wearing a leather apron and brandishing a set of tongs, the tips still bright red from the fire, waved his hand, indicating that he would be with them shortly. Tommy nodded his head in acknowledgment and proceeded to look over the leather goods, tacks, and harnesses on display.

As Sarah reached out to finger the leather of a fine looking sidesaddle, Tommy slapped her hand away.

You can look about, he pointed a finger at her, but don’t touch anything.

Thomas, you needn’t speak to me as though I were a rambunctious child in a china shop.

You heard Daniel. The price of you being allowed to come with me is that you mind me and do as I say.

That and the cost of half my dowry, she thought.

If I don’t, Thomas? What are you going to do, abandon me somewhere along the side of the wagon trail?

Of course not. What would be the sense in that when I could at least make a few dollars selling you off?

Selling me off?

She, of course, had heard of such things, but that was something that happened to those unfortunate enough to be born into a poorer station, like the baker woman or the chambermaid. It didn’t happen to nice, proper society ladies.

Men out here are always looking for wives to keep their house and raise their children. Pretty thing like you would fetch a fair price. Unless you open your mouth. Then, I’d probably have to pay to get them to take you off my hands.

There was laughter in his voice and mirth danced in his eyes. Still, she didn’t appreciate his sense of humor. She wondered if times were hard enough, was it something he might actually consider.

The shop proprietor approached them. He tipped his head in her direction then promptly turned his attention to her brother. They exchanged pleasantries and entered into negotiations for a converted farm wagon and what appeared to be the last set of available oxen. While Sarah kept her hands clutched in front of her and her mouth shut.

In truth, she was less than intrigued with her brother’s haggling and wandered off to the back of the stables. There, she found not a single horse in sight, only a lone, little brown mule with darker tufts of fur stretched out in a cross shape on its upper back and shoulders. It nuzzled her, looking up at her with the biggest brown eyes she’d ever seen. Before she fully realized what she was doing, she was petting it and speaking to it in a low, soothing voice. As if it understood her language, its little ears twitched with each word her lips imparted.

Sarah? Sarah.

Impatience rang clearly in Tommy’s voice and she rushed to join him.

I’ve managed to purchase a wagon and an ox, he said.

And, the other? She dubiously eyed the least attractive of the sway-backed beasts of burden.

We have one wagon and one ox. Oh, and you’ve got yourself a mule. He tossed a knotted rope at her and jerked his thumb toward the rear of the stables.

As she looked beyond the ugly beast of an ox, she noticed the state of the wagon. It wasn’t the model she thought he’d been negotiating for. It appeared to be much shorter in length than the other wagons that were in their party. As she looked it over, she noted there really wasn’t much of anything about it that was like the other wagons. It certainly didn’t seem as sturdy, lacking considerably less iron plating than she’d seen on the other models. The box frame built to mount the canopy appeared to have been hastily constructed, some of the nails hammered in crookedly. Looking at the height of the frame, she doubted if either she or Tommy would be able to fully stand up beneath the canopy. That would mean crawling in and out daily. That wasn’t the worst of it, though.

It’s pink, she said, her voice as flat as the wagon’s coat of paint.

It’s not. It’s red, faded from the sun. The owner hadn’t gotten around to repainting it. Tommy began stowing their gear into the back of the wagon.

Why ever would he have painted it pi…red?

The original owner was some old farmer. He thought someone was sneaking on his land at night, stealing his lumber. He’d supposedly lost a plow, a tool shed, and an outhouse.

Are you certain he didn’t simply move his outhouse and forgot the new location? She snickered behind her hand.

I think he must have been a little touched in the head. He painted every bit of wood on his land bright red. Figured that way he could find it if anyone stole it again.

It’s still pink.

She pursed her lips when he paused in loading their wagon to glare at her. He let out a long sigh of what sounded like pure exasperation.

I’m sure it’ll be the prettiest colored wagon on the entire trail, she said.

That didn’t seem to make her brother any happier as he lifted her trunk of clothes from the ground and into the back of the wagon. It had been the only significant piece of luggage she had brought from home. His spare clothes were packed in a smaller traveling case. They’d brought a few meager pots and pans, a family quilt, and provisions their mother insisted they pack. Everything else that was needed, such as medical supplies, tools, additional food, and any other essentials Tommy deemed necessary would need to be purchased prior to leaving this so-called last outpost.

He made a lot of exaggerated groaning and puffing sounds as he loaded their wagon. For her part, she carried the piece of rope Tommy had given her and went in search of the man who owned the livery stable. With a little luck and perhaps a minimal amount of eyelash batting, he could be persuaded to prepare her little mule for travel.

Soon, they were on the trail, following behind the rest of the wagon train; a big ox pulling their ramshackle, creaking, painted wagon, and a tiny mule tied to the rear slat, straggling along behind them, all bound for Texas.

†

It was a rough day and she spent many hours vacillating between sitting on the hardwood seat and walking beside the wagon. By the time they came to a halt that night, her posterior was aching, her feet were numb, and she didn’t think she could either ride or walk another mile.

When they joined the other settlers, most of the folk ahead of them had already unhitched their animals, set their camps for the night, and had eaten their meals. As Tommy tended to the ox and the mule, she went through the process of unpacking their wares. Everything was jumbled and disorganized and it seemed to her that Tommy had been in such a hurry that he’d just thrown everything into the back of the wagon all willy-nilly.

She had just sat back on a log, looking about in desolation and frustration at not being able to locate a skillet, and lamenting in general the lack of wits she’d had to ever come on this trek, when a set of boots came into her vision. She looked up to see a man standing over her, felt hat pushed back on his head revealing oil-slicked hair. As he looked down at her, he wiped a grimy hand against the leg of his woolen trousers.

Ma’am. My name’s Matthew. We saw you struggling a bit and well, me and the missus, we fixed a sight more grub than we need for the night. He extended a tin plate that held a biscuit, beans, and a few scraps of meat.

Thank you, but won’t you need that for your morning meal? She looked around Matthew’s frame and spied his female companion and two tow-headed children staring back at her.

Ma’am, take the grub. He thrust the plate toward her.

She reached up and took the offering and drew it down onto her lap. She felt embarrassed and ducked her head, steadfastly avoiding looking at him. There were several moments of silence before she heard him shuffle away.

What was that about? Tommy squatted on the ground beside her.

He was just offering us some of their fare, she said, looking up.

Yeah? His gaze followed the man as he retreated to his campsite.

He reached over, taking a slab of meat off the plate with his fingers and popping it in his mouth.

You just be careful that’s all he’s offering. He turned to look at her. I’ve seen the way some of the men have been eyeing you.

For goodness sake, Tommy. He was only being neighborly. He has a wife and children.

Yeah, well, not everyone is from fine Irish descent like we are, dear Sister. You don’t know what sort of unsavory lot might be on the same trail with us.

"I think you’re just angry at them for laughing at your not-pink wagon."

Chapter Two

As days stretched into weeks, their apparent novelty as unlikely settlers seemed to wear off. The good-natured ribbing as well as the benevolence of their wagon train companions seemed to wear thin about the same time. No one sniggered about their wagon anymore. No one thought it funny any longer when Tommy aimed his rifle and somehow managed to miss an entire family of quail. When they straggled into camp after dark now, no one offered to help Tommy unhitch Ox.

You are not going to name him, said Tommy.

He needs a proper name. Every creature, either human or animal, deserves a name.

What about that rabbit we had for dinner last night? I didn’t hear you calling him Joe with every bite you took. He raised his voice to a high pitch, no doubt mimicking what he believed she would sound like. Oh, Tommy. Joe tastes so good. The iron skillet really brings out the flavor of Joe’s juices. Joe tastes gamier than the rabbits back home.

That’s different. You don’t name animals that are for food. We’re not eating Henry.

Agreed. His hide is probably tougher than shoe leather. Besides, you are not naming the ox Henry.

Sarah looked over at the big animal. He looked back at her and blinked dumbly, his large tongue lolling out of his mouth and his tail flicking to swat at his own behind.

You’re right. Henry is the name of the tailor’s son back home. He has a good head for fabric and measurements. This ox is no Henry.

Saints preserve us.

Tommy’s Irish brogue was very pronounced, the way it always was when he was irritated with her. Which seemed to be a lot as of late. She supposed it might be because they were pretty much in each other’s company day in and day out now with no respite. Because, Lord knew, there were days she had little patience for him as well. He made the sign of the cross and gazed toward the heavens before turning back to her with an annoyed look.

For the last time, you are not naming the ox. I forbid it. It’s bad enough you named the mule Nancy.

You said she was mine. As such, it’s my right to name her. Besides, if we are all traveling to Texas together, we must call them something.

She had known a Nancy in St. Louis; stubborn and hardheaded and unwilling to do anything that did not suit her. Yes, their mule was definitely a Nancy.

You’re right, Sarah. I did say the mule was yours. You can name her whatever you want. You can call her the bleedin‘ Emerald Princess, for all I care. So long as you do not name my ox.

Agreed.

She had every intention of pushing the matter further. They still had a long trail ahead of them. Plenty of time for her to change Tommy’s mind. Perhaps he would consider a good, Irish name like Hurley or Doyle.

She soon acquiesced, however, on naming the big, sway-backed ox. She had no desire to pet him or speak to him or anything else, especially after seeing him turn about into an awkward position to lick at himself with his big, slathering tongue. She grimaced when a short while later, Tommy went to unhitch him and he licked the hat off Tommy’s head and through his hair. No, she would simply refer to him as Ox, thank you very much.

†

Not only did their traveling neighbors no longer offer assistance, but when some of them saw her and Tommy’s approach, they actually turned their backs on them, pretending to either not notice them or to be engrossed in private conversation. The most hurtful was when some of the women saw Sarah toting her small wash bucket filled with clothing down to the bank of a river they had stopped by.

Upstream, Tommy and the men were refilling the stores of water kept in barrels on the sides of each of the wagons. At a point past their designated refilling station, the livestock were permitted to drink their fill. Below where the horses, oxen, and mules drank, at the farthest point downstream, the women laundered their clothes with stones and lye soap.

As Sarah knelt at the bank and plunged Tommy’s shirt into the chilly water up to her elbows, she noticed the other women move away. They inched their baskets and wet clothing farther upstream, at a point between her and the livestock. She kept her head down, trying to focus all her attention on her task at hand. However, they spoke in exaggerated whispers and some of their barbed words managed to prick her ears and her skin.

I hear they aren’t husband and wife at all, but brother and sister, said one.

I heard she was involved in an illicit affair with a Baptist preacher, said another.

Sarah kept her head down and furiously scrubbed at Tommy’s clothes. It would do no good to confront the gossipers and would only add gunpowder to the fire of their rumors if she protested.

Well, I heard she was one of the working girls at a local brothel and got in a family way. The brother brought her out here in hopes of finding a place to settle her down, maybe get her a decent man.

All I can say is she better not set her sights on my Clement or I’ll set the sights of my rifle on her pretty face.

Sarah looked up at that. Her eyes met and locked with a woman’s gaze that was trained on her. She wore a plain brown blouse, skirt, and apron. Strands of mousy brown hair poked out from beneath her sunbonnet. When she saw Sarah looking at her, she made hand gestures resembling a gun. She made the sounds of a gun firing and jerked her fingers as though she had fired her weapon.

Sarah averted her gaze. Apparently, when they thought Tommy and she were husband and wife, she hadn’t been considered a threat. Now that they realized they were brother and sister, many of them appeared to fear that she would be after their men.

As if there were any of them that I would have.

Sarah gave an all-over body shiver at the thought. So far, every man she had seen since leaving St. Louis was grizzly looking with oily, greasy hair, and beards encrusted with scraps of food. Oh, and the smell. She doubted some of them knew what a bar of lye soap was for, much less ever had occasion to use one.

She wanted to point out to these women that it wasn’t enough to simply wash the smell out of clothing. Sometimes, it needed to be scrubbed from the skin. She bit her lip and kept her peace, concentrating on the task at hand. She couldn’t make a scene and risk alienating everyone in camp. She and Tommy were not yet knowledgeable enough to make the entire trek to Texas on their own.

Not that she expected anyone else to provide for her and Tommy. They had been on the trail long enough now that they should be able to take care of themselves. If they couldn’t, then they had no right coming on such a trek. Yet at the same time, no one could make the journey all on their own. After all, that’s why there were wagon trains in the first place. Good folk were supposed to pull together and help each other out through difficult times.

She couldn’t fault anyone else for no longer helping them, for they all had their own families to tend after. She just wished they weren’t so…mean…about it.

I’ve never been anything less than kind to any of the womenfolk and yet they talk about me as if I were some…some…She recalled what one of them had accused her of being…a common saloon girl. No, worse than a saloon girl, a useless city girl.

In their eyes, Sarah supposed she was just that. She’d been raised a proper young lady, wearing fancy dresses with lace up boots, white gloves on her fingers and a monogrammed lace handkerchief fastened to one sleeve. She had pretty, red ringlet curls that bounced when she walked and a crushed-velvet feathered hat to match her dress. She was taught to read and write and had a head for finances.

These women were brought up on farms, dressed in handmade, hand-me-down dresses that they wore to pick snap peas from the fields, slop the pigs, and attend church services; sometimes without a good wash in between. Their hands were hard and calloused, with dirt beneath their nails. Their unkempt, greasy, tangled hair was kept out of their eyes with bits of mismatched ribbons, or handkerchiefs cut into squares and folded into triangles from old worn-out shirts no longer fit to wear. For most of them, the only book they’d ever seen was the family bible. Few of them knew how to read the words within. Scriptures were recited from memory of years and years of repetition. Fewer still could write their own names, much less add figures or tally their sums for the bill of goods owed at the general store.

At home, Sarah thrived on the hustle and bustle of the privileges of civilization. She doubted any of these women could survive planning and hosting a dinner party for a congressman and his closest advisors. Here, these very same women were not afraid to hunt, farm, or chop wood right alongside their men. These women could knock most gentlemen flat on their backsides if they had the notion.

It was a far cry between their two worlds of city and country. The difference was, Sarah was willing to learn and adapt. Like Nancy the mule, the women on their wagon train were stubborn and hardheaded. They were unwilling to be friendly with her because she was strange to their ways. By their reckoning, anything – or anyone – unfamiliar was a threat. As such, they made certain she knew she was not welcome in their tight-knit circle.

It hurt, for Sarah genuinely liked most people and enjoyed interacting with them. She could ignore the comments, pretend she didn’t hear the harsh words and see the harsher looks of the women, or the lingering gazes of the men. She could survive without interacting with anyone else save Tommy and Nancy. She just wished that turning the other cheek, so to speak, didn’t make her seem…so alone.

†

Sarah brought along a few books for company. She took solace in reading from one every day at what the other travelers called the nooning. Each day, the wagons rolled to a stop at midday. Beside a stream, if one was available. If not, in an open clearing. Ox was released, but not unyoked, and she and Tommy settled down for an hour of rest. Tommy ate cornmeal Johnnycakes and drank boiled coffee. Sarah picked at her food and read aloud to him from a book. Every time, he acted as though he wasn’t interested in the story, closing his eyes and pretending to rest, but always flashed a perturbed look when she had to pause in the telling so they could break camp and get back on the trail.

At night, after Tommy had set up camp and supper was done, she might sit around the fire and write in the beautiful journal he had gifted her. She would often look up to see him watching her with curiosity, but he never asked her what she was writing about. It was an understanding between them. That little leather-bound book was for her private thoughts and observations. If Tommy had any private thoughts of his own, he apparently never felt the need to write them down as she did.

She still felt lonely, but there was ample work on the trail to keep her occupied.

Have you gotten those ready yet, Sarah?

Almost.

I swear, Mathair could have sewed three pairs of britches in the amount of time it’s taking you to mend a little rip, he said.

Our dear mother never had to patch up a pair of trousers after you went stumbling into a bramble bush. You ripped them from one end to the other.

I was chasing a rabbit. I nearly caught him, too.

She made a pretense of looking toward their fire.

I don’t see any rabbit in the stew pot. All I see is you standing there shivering in your long, red underwear.

She wanted to tease him more, to tell him he looked ridiculous, trying to shield his private area by cupping his hands in front of his…she felt heat rise in her cheeks and averted her gaze.

She held his trousers up and examined her work with a critical eye. He reached out, snatching them out of her grasp. He turned his back to her as he hastily donned his outerwear. She congratulated her efforts. Mending clothes didn’t seem too unlike the embroidery work that her mother had taught her when she was little. She thought it was a good first try, although her stitches were too big and flashes of Tommy’s long underwear could be seen beneath his trousers whenever he bent over.

Not that she would ever make mention of that to him.

†

She learned how to tie and untie Nancy’s rope from about the wagon so that she did not bolt. Brushing her down was not unlike the brushing she used to give her horse at the riding stable in St. Louis. After all, a horse and a mule were closely related cousins. They ate the same oats, drank the same water, and their bowels both moved as they walked. She’d just never been in the odorous position of walking behind one as it relieved itself. She quickly learned to cover her nose and look away whenever nature took its course.

She spent hours walking with Nancy behind the wagon, petting her as she searched the ground for edibles. She didn’t mind, for it gave her a respite from the repetitive jostling that accompanied riding inside. She grew adept at finding pecans, acorns, and walnuts along the trail. At first, she was fearful that the women that traveled ahead of them had picked the ground clean, but she soon learned how to spot the areas less traveled. She concentrated her efforts on the blades of grass that hadn’t been trampled underfoot. Sometimes, she even found good roots and berries.

It was a blessing that she became so adept at foraging. If left to Tommy’s surefire aim, they would surely starve. On the rare occasions he actually managed to kill something, they took turns with the skinning and cleaning. Cooking was a long, slow process made even more difficult on rainy days when wet wood prevented starting a decent fire. She had memories of picking fur out from between her teeth and retching up her insides after ingesting a mostly raw rabbit that did not settle well with her.

Give me nuts and berries over raw rabbit any day, thought Sarah.

She looked over at Tommy. His head was down, watching the ground as he walked. His shoulders were slumped, his rifle slung over his shoulder. She doubted even if he saw an animal, that he could raise his gun in time to take the shot. He more shuffled and plowed his feet through the mud than walked. Mud spatters caked his trousers up past his knees.

It’ll be a wonder if those ever come clean.

Sarah was already imagining having to take a knife’s blade to dislodge the dried mud from the fabric. She doubted if beating them against stones at a stream’s edge would work, either.

Probably wear a hole clear through them. Mercy, he looks tired.

He was younger than her, but today, he looked at least ten years older. There had been a terrible thunder storm last night and he’d spent the better part of the evening trying to calm Ox for fear that he might panic and run away. By the time the storm abated, it had been time to hit the trail again.

Tommy, come up here and sit beside me. She switched the reins to one hand so that she could pat the seat beside her with the other.

He looked at her as if not comprehending what she was saying for a few moments. Then, he ambled toward the wagon at an angle as the wheels rolled through the mud. He gripped the side and put one boot up on the edge. He pulled himself up and into the seat, Ox plodding along without ever missing a step. As soon as he was settled on the seat beside her, he took the reins.

Cover yourself. She reached about beneath the seat, pulling out an oilskin poncho and passing it to him.

It’s only drizzling, Sarah.

You’re shivering and it’ll do neither of us any good if you come down with a coughing sickness. She removed his hat from his head and stretched the opening of the poncho to go over his face and drape about both his shoulders, tucking it about him as best she could.

He gave her a disgruntled look, but didn’t protest. He readjusted the poncho about his shoulders, replaced his hat, and hunkered down.

What about you?

Don’t fret over me.

They had only the one poncho between them, and the fancy umbrella she’d brought from home to ward off the incessant sun had been battered apart by the last strong storm.

For once, she was grateful for the plain gingham dress and petticoats she wore. If nothing else, they seemed to be weather resistant, blocking out the midday heat and drying out quickly when wet. When she’d first seen it in the general store where they’d purchased their provisions, she thought a flour sack would be more flattering. Despite her protestations, Tommy had purchased two, one for her to wear and a spare.

The first day on the trail, she’d stubbornly worn one of her usual dresses. She wore it quite often when she went about her business in St. Louis. It was comfortable and practical and she looked quite fetching in it.

For a wagon trail, it was disastrous. She caught it on a protruding nail climbing into the wagon and ripped her sleeve. By the first hour out, it was so full of trail dust that she thought beating it for a solid month wouldn’t get all the dirt out. The second day, they were too slow in preparing their breakfast and had to eat as they traveled. The front of her dress suffered the dangers of eating cold stew while riding in a moving wagon.

Her fancy dress was suffocating. When the blistering heat gave way to raindrops, she rejoiced in the cooler temperatures. Until the rain fell harder and faster and seemed as if it would never stop. The fabric greedily soaked up every drop of water until it felt as though it weighed three times heavier than it had before. They were forced to walk beside the wagon and push when the wheels wouldn’t turn in the thickening mud. Her shiny, black lace-up boots became so mired down that she’d been forced to unlace them and step out of them, abandoning them where they stuck upright in the mud. Mud squished beneath her feet and coated her dress from hem to knees. The green feather in her hat, the one that she’d so often been told perfectly matched the shade of her eyes and stood so proud, straight, and full, was a sodden, drooping mess that she couldn’t keep out of her eyes or away from her mouth. By the end of the day, she was cursing every fashionable button, bow, and tassel on that damn proper dress.

She’d eventually resigned that dress to a bonfire. She had two more packed away in the back of their wagon, where she vowed they’d stay safely tucked away until they reached civilization. They didn’t have room to pack a lot of material possessions, but she’d be damned if she sacrificed another good dress to Tommy’s cause.

Why don’t you climb in back and rest a bit? She tilted her head toward the wagon’s interior.

A flash of lightning streaked across the darkening sky, illuminating the horizon so they could barely make out the other wagons in the distance. A clap of thunder resounded and their mule screamed in protest. Ox never broke stride. Another clap of thunder, a flash of lightning, the rain began falling faster, and Nancy brayed louder.

You go, Sarah. I’ll keep a tight rein on the ox. Tell that damn mule of yours to shut up before you bed down.

Nancy. Her name’s Nancy. She listens better if you call her by her name.

About as well as you do, Sarah. You’re both equally stubborn. Now, get back there. No sense in both of us getting drenched. He tightened his grip on the reins and jerked his head toward the back of the wagon.

She started to argue, but decided against it as he would no doubt use her protestations as further proof of her stubbornness. Bracing one hand on his shoulder and the other on the seat, she stood up. On legs trembling from too long sitting, she made her way into the interior of the wagon. Her estimation about the height of the canopy had proven accurate, as she had to walk about hunched over. She rearranged a few items to give her more room, unfolded her mother’s quilt, and settled down amongst burlap bags filled with beans, corn, and grain. She tucked one of the softer bags containing their extra traveling clothes beneath her head to use as a pillow. Once she was settled, she looked up to see Tommy looking back over his shoulder at her.

Get whatever shuteye you can, Sarah. Rain’s coming down harder. If there’s any creeks or rivers ahead, they’ll be swelling. Might make for a rough time.

Sarah was beginning to take a serious dislike to the rain. It seemed any little bit would make the waters rise. Even the smallest river would become impassable until the water receded. Each time, their little wagon train had to make the decision of whether to try to find passage around or to wait it out a few days.

Wake me if you want to switch, she said, pulling the quilt up higher, snuggling beneath it to keep out the damp air. Or if you see Texas.

He laughed. An actual, bellyful laugh; the sort she hadn’t heard from him in weeks.

I don’t know how far away it is, but even at a good eight miles per day, Texas is a long ways off, Sarah.

Still, wake me if something happens. I wouldn’t want to miss anything.

Chapter Three

Dec 24, 1835

Paradise.

If ever there were a more ironic name for a town, I’ve never known it. I wonder, are there a certain number of buildings required to qualify for a township? Our eldest brother, Daniel, would know. He is well versed in all matters dealing with buildings and land. After all, it was he that secured our familial home and land in St. Louis.

Grandfather had been the one that had the foresight and vision to book passage from Kenmare, Ireland, to the colonies for the promise of a brighter future for his family. It was through father’s hard work and a particularly lucky streak at cards that he was able to open his own business. But, it had been Daniel’s knack for finances that had secured him the position at the bank and the insight to purchase several properties as they came up for foreclosure. Through careful investing and then reselling, he was able to parlay several small purchases into a grander investment.

It had been two days before Christmas when he’d urged all of us to bundle up against the winter weather. I still remember how the snow was falling fast and how quickly it turned all of our red hairs white before we’d had a chance to secure our fancy hats.

Daniel hailed a carriage and we had ridden nearly to the center of town. At first, we’d thought he’d meant to show us the big tree that had been decorated and the carolers singing beneath its broad branches. Then, as he ushered us out of the carriage, he insisted we cover our eyes with our hands so we might not peek. I felt him turn us in the opposite direction of the tree, his hand clutched firmly about my upper arm as he guided us across the street.

When we stopped, he stood between mother and myself. I felt his warm breath at my ear, urging me to open my eyes. We were standing in front of the biggest three-story house I had ever seen. Eyes wide, I turned to look at Mother. Daniel was presenting her with a key tied up in a big, burlap bow, explaining with such pride in his voice that this was our new home, the home that she deserved that our father could never have bought her, no matter how many years he worked and saved.

There were tears in her eyes as she kissed Daniel on the cheek. Tommy was on her other side and she turned to kiss him with as much adoration as she had bestowed on our eldest brother. Daniel had gritted his teeth. Back then, I thought it had been against the biting cold. As I recall his words of protest now, about how his brother hadn’t had anything to do with this gift, I also clearly remember the bitterness in his tone. Mother had only answered in that way she always did, No matter; for when it came to her youngest, Mother always doted on Tommy.

Christmas in Paradise is about as far away from home as one can be.

Sarah stood beneath the awning of the only building in town that appeared to have one: Jamison’s General Store. The rest of the structures were little more than clapboard-fronted buildings that offered little protection from the elements. Just as well that it wasn’t a white Christmas, although the soggy, muddy streets gave testament to the thunderstorm that had rolled through the night before. She looked down at her boots, lamenting the mud caking the heels and toes, but grateful that her best shoes were still tucked away in the wagon.

Not only was Paradise sparse on awnings, it also lacked for sidewalks. An effort had been made, in the form of planks laid across the street from the hotel to the general store. These were clearly used boards, already weathered and having seen better days, perhaps wrested off the doctor’s office that seemed both in need of a doctor and some mending of its own.

The doctor’s office appeared the worst off, but not by much. Shingles were peeling from the roof, and in some cases, the crossbeams were showing through thin patchwork. She didn’t think a single home had seen the touch of a paintbrush, except for the enigmatic message GTT that had been scrawled on planks and hammered across doorways. The general store, the hotel, and the blacksmith’s shop were the only buildings that seemed to have any real upkeep to them. Although not pristine, they stood out like diamonds compared to the rest of Paradise. Many of the other buildings listed to the side, no doubt their foundations having settled unevenly due to the soft ground.

She thought about their little wagon. After it had turned over twice after sliding off the trail, she thought it might also obtain a permanent list to the side. They had lost a good many of their supplies as they came tumbling out of the wagon and rolled into the river below, to be swept away by the current. Ox had not survived the fall. She didn’t know how Nancy had without so much as a scratch. The little mule was just stubborn, she supposed. She thanked God neither she nor Tommy were in the wagon when it went over the edge. She didn’t think either of them would have been as blessed as Nancy was. Her rope had remained tied, despite the tumble she’d taken along with the wagon, and despite her best efforts to tug herself free.

Somehow, the wagon had come to rest mostly on three