Baby On The Oregon Trail

New Year, new family!

Heading West, pregnant widow Jenna Borland’s life surely can’t get any more complicated—until fate throws Lee Carver across her path. She resents his help, but she needs him to drive her wagon over the Great Plains.

Lee can’t fathom why this prickly woman gets under his skin. But as the journey brings these two outsiders together, he wonders if Jenna and her baby could be just what he needs to begin a new life with a brand-new family!

Lee pulled her close, holding her as if she were made of flower petals.

Jenna didn’t want this dance to end. She wanted to keep her eyes closed and keep moving in Lee’s arms.

But of course it had to end. She was acting like a silly addlepated girl, and she would never be that young again. She was wiser now. She knew better than to let herself become involved with a man. It never turned out the way you thought it would.

The musicians began to pack up their instruments and the crowd thinned and then began to disperse.

Lee kept her hand in his and they started back to the wagons. They had not spoken to each other all evening—had not needed to. But there were things that had to be said out loud, and it was going to be tonight.

Author Note

My great-grandparents came to Oregon in a covered wagon along the Oregon Trail from Independence, Missouri, to Oregon City and the Willamette Valley. Great-grandfather Edgar Boessen was an immigrant from Germany; Great-grandmother Maia Bruhn came from Denmark. Their descendants now number in the thousands.

There is an old, very romantic family story about how Edgar and Maia met and fell in love; I’m sure it’s probably little different from hundreds of other treasured family tales. I hope you will find Jenna’s story, told here, is one that touches your heart.

Typical of those intrepid travellers who came west on the Oregon Trail is the following diary entry:

Friday, October 27. Arrived at Oregon City at the falls of the Willamette.

Saturday, October 28. Went to work.

—James W. Nesmith, 1843

Baby on the Oregon Trail

Lynna Banning

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LYNNA BANNING combines her lifelong love of history and literature in a satisfying career as a writer. Born in Oregon, she graduated from Scripps College and embarked on a career as an editor and technical writer, and later as a high school English teacher. She enjoys hearing from her readers. You may write to her directly at PO Box 324, Felton, CA 95018, USA, email her at carowoolston@att.net or visit Lynna’s website at lynnabanning.net.

Books by Lynna Banning

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The Scout

High Country Hero

Smoke River Bride

Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride

The Lone Sheriff

Wild West Christmas

‘Christmas in Smoke River’

Dreaming of a Western Christmas

‘His Christmas Belle’

Smoke River Family

Western Spring Weddings

‘The City Girl and the Rancher’

Printer in Petticoats

Her Sheriff Bodyguard

Baby on the Oregon Trail

Visit the Author Profile page

at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

To those from the many countries that make up America who have had the courage to forge new paths and start new lives.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Oregon Trail, 1867

“Miz Borland?”

Jenna smoothed the threadbare apron over her swelling belly and turned to see Sam Lincoln, the wagon train leader. The big man removed his stained leather hat and stood uncertainly beside the wagon.

“Hello, Sam. Would you join us for supper?”

“No, thanks. I—” His sunburned face looked strained, and suddenly Jenna’s breath jerked inward.

“Sam? What is it?”

He turned the hat brim around and around in his hands. “Don’t rightly know how to say it.”

Oh, God. Something had happened. “Is it about one of the girls? Ruthie?”

The leader took a step closer. “Not the girls, no.”

“Mathias?” she whispered.

“’Fraid so. He’s...well, he’s been shot.”

“Shot!” Jenna closed her eyes. Surely she was dreaming.

Sam stepped forward and laid both his weathered hands on her forearms. “He’s dead, Jenna.”

She felt suddenly cold, as if all the blood in her body was draining away. “What?”

“He was caught stealing a horse. The owner killed him.”

She pulled away from Sam’s steadying grip and abruptly sat down on the bare ground. Dead? It wasn’t possible. And stealing a horse? It made no sense.

“Where is he?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

“In our wagon. My Emma’s, uh, laying him out. I expect you’ll want to see him.”

“Not yet. I have to tell the... His daughters.”

“Ruthie’s over visiting with the Langley girl,” Sam volunteered. “The two older ones are down wading in the creek.”

She nodded. Dead. Mathias was dead. Dear God, what would they do now?

“I’ll tell ’em about their pa if you want, Jenna.”

Jenna fought waves of blackness at the edge of her vision. “No. I’ll tell them, Sam. Just...just give me a minute.”

Ten minutes passed before she could stand and make her way to the Lincolns’ camp. She hesitated before the large canvas-covered wagon and clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. She couldn’t look at him. Then she resolutely mounted the step, drew back the curtain and stepped inside.

Round-faced Emma Lincoln rose and without a word laid her freckled hand on Jenna’s arm. The older woman tipped her head to indicate the still form stretched out on the bedroll, and Jenna forced herself to look.

She hadn’t remembered Mathias being so tall. Or so pale. In death his features had relaxed from the perpetual scowl he had worn; now he looked almost peaceful. She scanned his body for signs of blood but saw no stains. At her questioning look, Emma took her hand.

“The bullet entered his temple, Jenna. Killed him instantly. I cleaned up the... I cleaned him up.”

“Thank God,” Jenna murmured. Oh, yes, thank You, God. There would be no messy remains for his daughters to see. An unnatural feeling of calm flowed over her, along with an inexplicable sense of...what? Relief? Dear God, how could she feel this, as if a huge weight had suddenly lifted from her shoulders? It made no sense.

Or maybe it did. Mathias had not been pleased with her of late. Maybe he had never been pleased with her.

She drew in several deep breaths before she risked speaking. “Emma, thank you for doing this for Mathias. I must find the girls and tell... They will want to see their father.”

“Sam says if it’s all right with you, they’ll bury your husband at dawn, before we pull out. And tonight Sam and I will sleep under our wagon.”

Jenna nodded and climbed down from the wagon to do what she must. She’d gone only a few yards when Ruthie danced up. “What’s wrong, Jenna? You look all white and funny.”

She knelt before her stepdaughter and struggled to compose herself. “Ruthie, I want you to find your sisters. I have something important to tell you all.”

* * *

“Dead?” Tess screeched. “What do you mean Papa is dead?”

Eleven-year-old Mary Grace began to sob.

“I mean...” Jenna began. She glimpsed Ruthie’s stricken face and the words froze on her tongue. She swallowed hard and knelt before them.

“Your father has been killed. Accidentally shot by...well, it doesn’t matter who.”

Tess swayed forward and Jenna reached up to support her. Mary Grace wrapped her thin arms around her middle, but Ruthie just stared at her with horrified blue eyes.

“You...” Jenna’s voice broke. “You girls can see him if you wish. He’s laid out in the Lincolns’ wagon.”

“I don’t want to see him,” Mary Grace sobbed.

Jenna folded her into her arms. “You might want to, honey. You will want to have seen him after we leave in the morning.” She pressed her lips shut and walked them over to the wagon, where she stood with them beside their father’s body in the fading light.

“Papa don’t look dead,” Ruthie said after a time.

“Doesn’t,” Tess snapped.

“Well, he do—doesn’t. He looks like he’s sleeping.”

Jenna patted Ruthie’s thin shoulder. “Let’s remember him that way, as if he is just...asleep.”

At her side, Mary Grace jerked. “How come there’s no blood or anything?”

Jenna drew in an unsteady breath. “Well, Mrs. Lincoln said the...the bullet hit his temple, so there wasn’t very much bl—” Her voice choked off. What could she say to them?

“Come on,” Tess said, her voice tight. “Let’s go back to camp.” Without waiting for Jenna, she herded her younger sisters outside and started across the compound.

Dear God in heaven, what should she do? The girls had resented her from the moment she had married their father, and now she was solely responsible for them. By the time they reached Oregon they would hate her.

A cold chill snaked into her belly. And they would hate her baby.

Chapter Two

The following morning, Sam Lincoln and four other men dug a grave and laid Mathias to rest. Jenna watched them, her hands curved around Ruthie’s narrow shoulders, while Mary Grace and Tess looked on in stony silence.

Reverend Fredericks read some verses from the Bible, something about there being a time for everything under the sun. Then clods of earth thudded onto the blanket-wrapped corpse of her husband. It was an awful sound, terrible and final. Jenna clamped her jaw shut and pressed her palms over Ruthie’s ears.

Finally the last shovelful of fresh earth was heaped onto the mound and her fellow travelers drifted back to their wagons. Ruthie stepped forward and laid a ragged handful of scarlet Indian paintbrush on her father’s grave. Jenna’s heart lurched as if cracking into two jagged pieces.

“Come, girls,” she managed. “We must pack up our things.”

Ruthie turned her face into Jenna’s blue homespun skirt. “I don’t want to leave Papa here all alone.”

Tess leveled a venomous look at her sister. “Then you’re nothing but a big baby.”

Jenna fought an urge to sharply reprimand the girl, but concentrated on wrapping her hands around Ruthie’s quivering frame. She had never disciplined Mathias’s daughters, and besides, what good would it do now?

“Tess.” She addressed the girl over Ruthie’s blond curls. “That is unkind. Your sister, all of us, are hurting. You know how hard it is to leave your father here.”

Tess bowed her head. “Sorry, Ruthie. You’re not a baby, I guess. Come on, Mary Grace.” The two older girls walked off, leaving Jenna standing by the grave with her youngest stepdaughter.

She stared at the wildflowers, wishing she had thought to gather some as well, but she’d been so busy frying the breakfast bacon and rolling up the bedding inside the wagon there had been no time. And anyway, Mathias would not care. The flowers were really for Ruthie, a way to say goodbye.

Jenna closed her eyes briefly, then turned toward their camp. She felt numb, unreal, as if this were happening to someone else.

Emma Lincoln stopped her. “Jenna, at the meeting this morning, Sam asked the men for a volunteer to drive your wagon. In about half an hour the man will come to hitch up your oxen. If you’d like to be alone for a while I could take the girls in our wagon.”

Jenna studied the woman. What a kind soul the trail master’s wife had been, right from the very beginning. How she wished some of that generosity of spirit would rub off on Tess!

“No, thank you, Emma. I am quite all right.” She wasn’t, really. She dreaded the days ahead, but she could not admit this to anyone. How would she manage without Mathias?

A blade of anger sliced into her belly. Mathias had talked and cajoled and pushed until she finally agreed to join the wagon train and come west. And now here she was, embarked on an unwanted journey she had no choice but to continue; once a wagon train started out across the prairie, there was no way to get off. No way to go back to Ohio.

Another woman, Sophia Zaberskie, thrust a loaf of fresh-baked bread into her hands. “You eat,” she grated in her perpetually hoarse voice. “Keeping belly full makes to heal.”

Jenna pressed Sophia’s meaty arm. Sophia should know; she had lost one child to cholera before the emigrant train was even under way, and another child, a boy, died two weeks later when a wagon wheel rolled over him and crushed his chest. If Sophia could survive, so could she.

She took Ruthie by the hand and walked to their camp. Tess and Mary Grace looked up but did not speak, both keeping their faces resolutely turned away from her while she moved about packing the skillet and the Dutch oven inside the wagon. Tess grumbled at her request to fill two buckets with springwater and dump them into the water barrel strapped to the wagon box; Mary Grace walked listlessly at her sister’s side, kicking at stones.

When the last of their belongings were stowed away, Jenna surveyed the tangle of ropes and harnesses and wood oxen yokes stashed under the wagon and her heart sank as if weighted with lead. She had no idea how to hitch up the team. Mathias might have taught her. Why hadn’t he?

It was hard to accept that he was gone, that he would never again snap at her for forgetting to fold a blanket in his particular way or serving him dumplings with his stew when he preferred biscuits. She knew she had been a disappointment to him; she often felt small, as if she didn’t matter.

Ruthie’s small hand patted her skirt. “Jenna, are you crying?”

“N-no, honey. I’m not crying, just feeling a bit sad.”

“Me, too. Tessie won’t talk to me and Mary Grace is too busy. And I’m scared.”

Jenna went down on her knees before the girl. “I’m a little scared, too. But we will be all right, just you wait and see.”

A shadow fell over her. “Mrs. Borland?”

She jerked to her feet. The man was tall, with overlong dark hair and steady eyes that were a soft gray. He held his broad-brimmed hat down by his thigh.

“Sorry to startle you, ma’am. My name’s Carver.”

“I know who you are, Mr. Carver.”

He’d joined the wagon train at Fort Kearney. A former Confederate soldier, Emma had confided. A Virginian. From a slave-holding plantation, no doubt. Jenna’s father had fought for the Union; he’d been killed at Antietam.

“I’ve come to yoke up your team.”

Her stomach clenched, and it must have shown on her face.

“Ma’am? Are you unwell?”

“Mr. Carver, surely someone other than you volunteered?”

His gaze flicked to the back of the wagon, where Tess’s face was peeking out from the curtain. “Mrs. Borland, is there someplace we can talk in private?”

“Why?”

Gently he grasped her elbow and moved her away from camp. “I want to tell you why I volunteered.”

“I don’t really care why, Mr. Carver.”

“I think you may when you hear what I have to say,” he said quietly. “You see, it was my horse your husband was stealing. I was the one who shot him.”

Jenna stared at him until her eyes began to burn. “Dear God in heaven, why would I want anything, anything at all, to do with the man who killed my husband?”

A flash of pain crossed his tanned face. “You probably don’t, Mrs. Borland. And I can’t blame you. But I’d sure appreciate it if you’d hear me out.”

Shaking with fury, Jenna propped her fists at her waist and waited. She could scarcely stand to look at him.

“I didn’t know who was taking my horse,” he said after a moment. “Didn’t recognize the man. But I knew my horse. The rider was heading hell-for-leather—Excuse me, ma’am. He was riding toward the trading post we passed yesterday morning. I fired my rifle and he went down.”

“You killed him.”

“Yes, I did. I’m sorry he turned out to be your husband, and the father of your girls there.” He inclined his head toward the wagon where three heads now poked out from the rear bonnet.

“‘Sorry,’ Mr. Carver, is not enough,” she snapped.

“I realize that. I know nothing can ever replace your husband, but I’d like the chance to do what I can to make it up to you. That’s why I volunteered to drive your rig.”

“You cannot ‘make it up’ to me, Mr. Carver. Ever. Don’t you understand that?” She clamped her lips together, afraid she would cry.

“I mean to try, Mrs. Borland. Where’s your yoke and the harnesses for the oxen?”

“Did you not hear me?” Her voice went out of control, rising to a shout. She hated him! He was a cold-blooded killer. “I do not want your help!”

He turned his back on her and peered under the wagon. Mary Grace stuck her tongue out at him, but he paid no attention. Instead, he snaked an arm out to capture the tack and moved off to where the oxen grazed inside the circle of wagons. He moved with such assurance she wanted to toss the hot coals from her morning cook fire into his face.

The instant he was out of sight, Tess scrambled down and planted herself in front of Jenna. “You can’t let him do this!” she screamed. “He was my father, and that man killed him. He has no right to be here, touching Papa’s animals.”

Jenna sucked in an uneven breath and wrapped both arms across her waist. “Perhaps not, Tess. But neither of us can yoke up the oxen, and he has volunteered. I will speak to Mr. Lincoln tonight and ask for someone else.”

The girl’s face flushed, but Jenna was suddenly too weary to care. Her shoulders ached. Her head felt as if it were stuffed with sharp-pointed rocks.

“Take Ruthie down to the latrine, then get in the wagon.”

She paced around and around their small campsite until Tess and Ruthie returned and Mr. Carver appeared, tugging the oxen, Sue and Sunflower, by their lead ropes. He said nothing, just moved past her, positioned the two animals in front of the wagon and went about jockeying the yoke into place and adjusting the harnesses, his motions unhurried.

Jenna stepped closer to watch what he did.

He paused and his gray eyes sought hers. “Want me to teach you and your oldest girl how to do this?”

“I—No. I mean, yes. But not my oldest girl. Tess would find such a task beneath her.”

His dark eyebrows went up, and then he nodded. “My little sister never wanted to curry her own horse. Same reason.” He went back to adjusting Sue’s harness.

“How did your sister turn out?” she blurted out. “Was she spoiled?”

He straightened, a look of such naked anguish on his face that Jenna winced.

“My sister was killed when Sherman’s men reached Danville and marched through our plantation. Some Yankee soldier bashed her head with his rifle butt. She was eleven years old.”

Stunned, Jenna stared at him, a choking sadness knotting her chest.

Mr. Carver shuttered his features and bent over the hitch again. “Watch now, Mrs. Borland. You have to pull this ring tight, or it’ll work loose.”

“Mr. Carver, I—I am sorry about your sister.”

“War is ugly, ma’am. We did some awful things to you Yankees, too.”

“But a child! Dear God, what is the world coming to?”

“Wondered that a lot when I was in the field. And later, fighting the Sioux.” He finished tightening the jangling metal, patted the heads of both animals and turned to her. “What are their names?”

“Tess, Mary Grace and—”

He smiled, and she was struck by how white his teeth were against the tanned skin. “I meant your oxen, Mrs. Borland. Helps to know how to address them.”

“Address them? Mathias never talked to the oxen.”

“Lots of folks don’t. I do.”

“Sue and Sunflower. Sue is the one on the left.”

He nodded and scratched Sunflower behind one ear. “If you’re ready to pull out, I’ll go get my horse.”

A horse! She was terrified of horses. One had bucked her off when she was eight; she’d never forgotten it.

“Aren’t you going to...? Mr. Lincoln said the volunteer would drive our wagon.”

“I will do that, ma’am. I’ll just bring my horse and tie it beside the wagon.”

Jenna checked on the girls. “You two can walk alongside the wagon if you wish. Or you can ride inside, but it will be hot when the sun is high.”

“I’ll walk,” Mary Grace said.

“Me, too,” Ruthie chimed.

“I’d rather die than see that man driving Papa’s wagon,” Tess muttered. “I’ll stay inside.”

Jenna found her sunbonnet and a blue knitted shawl, then climbed up onto the driver’s box. She supposed she could learn to drive the oxen. She’d never liked the two animals. She’d never liked horses, either. But she supposed she could stand Mr. Carver until they stopped for supper tonight and she could speak to Sam Lincoln about a replacement.

Within ten minutes he returned, mounted on a huge, gleaming black horse. He tied it to the wagon, climbed up beside her and lifted the reins. Then without a word he lowered them again and eyed Ruthie, who stood clutching Mary Grace’s hand.

“You want your little one to ride up here?”

“Why?”

“It’s safer,” he said.

“Very well.” She dropped onto the ground and handed Ruthie up onto the box beside Mr. Carver. She didn’t really want her sitting next to that man, but he was right; it was safer. She wondered why Mathias had never thought of that.