Where the Lost Wander(69)

Slipping the lead rope from the mare’s head, I back her out of the stall with a flat hand and a firm push on her chest, and she willingly goes. Bowles leads her away, already wondering out loud about the color of her offspring. Wyatt and I remove the boards on both sides of the fence, hammering the nails loose.

“When can your jack go again?” Vasquez asks, slinging his arms over the top rail of the fence. “I’ve never been in the breeding business. I realize there’s a lot I don’t know.” His son is no longer with him, but a man with a huge wagging mustache and hair that touches his shoulders stands beside him.

“Tomorrow. Maybe. I’m a little surprised he cooperated. He’s come almost a thousand miles, and he’s tired.”

“That right there is not work for a jack,” the mustached man says. “That’s play.”

I don’t argue with him. It’s work if it’s done right and cruel if it’s done wrong. I’ve always enjoyed the challenge of redirecting nature, but I’ve never pretended I can control it.

“John Lowry, this is Jefferson Jones. He’s the blacksmith here at the fort. He thinks he can help you with that wagon.”

I set the boards aside and shake his hand in greeting.

“There’s a ridge on the Mormon Trail, about ten miles west of here. Steep as all get-out. There’s a half dozen wagons at the bottom of that hill,” Jefferson says.

“A half a dozen wagons in pieces,” Vasquez interjects.

“Yep. But that’s how all wagons start. I got an outfit we can haul the parts in. It’ll take us a half a day to go after it, another half a day to bring it back, but the bones are all there. If an axle is bent, that’s easy enough to fix if I can get it back here.”

“I’m a mule man, not a wheelwright or a wagon builder. How long is it gonna take to put it all back together?” I ask.

“Another day. I worked on the Erie Canal when I was about his age.” The man points at Wyatt. “All I did was fix the wagons. I could build one in my sleep.”

“Two days?”

“A day to go get it. A day to assemble. And you’re on your way,” he says.

I shift my gaze to Vasquez, not sure whether I can trust his blacksmith. He shrugs. “You aren’t going to find a better option,” Vasquez says.

“And what do you get in exchange?” I ask, looking back at Jefferson.

“I want the jack.”

Wyatt curses beneath his breath.

“No.”

“You must not want that wagon very bad.” Jefferson chuckles. I don’t laugh with him. I want the wagon, and I don’t know what in the hell I’m going to do. But I would carry Naomi on my back all the way to California with Mr. Caldwell prodding me with a stick before I’d trade Kettle. I’ve already given one jack away to make this journey; I can’t afford to lose another.

“I think your price is too high. Make me another offer,” I say.

He sighs like I’m being unreasonable and folds his arms over his barrel chest. “All right. No jack? Then I want a mule. I want that big black one.” He points to where my animals are cordoned, but I don’t need to look. He wants Samson.

I can tell Wyatt wants to protest. He’s biting his lip and blinking rapidly, but he doesn’t say a word. The hardest thing about the mule business is trading the mules.

I nod slowly. Considering I will be leaving Fort Bridger with a wagon, supplies, and a wife, the loss of one mule isn’t that bad a bargain.

“Do we have a deal?” Jefferson presses.

“We have a deal. When I get my wagon, you’ll get a mule.”





NAOMI


You don’t realize how dirty you are and how worn until you stand in a stranger’s parlor. From the outside, the structure didn’t look like much, a two-story log house tacked onto the end of the trading post, but inside is a different story. A carpet covers the floor, velvet drapes frame the window, and patterned paper covers the walls. A tinkling chandelier hangs above our heads, two rows of fresh candles waiting to be lit.

“Isn’t that something?” Narcissa Vasquez crows, following my gaze. A bright smile colors her voice and creases her pink cheeks. “A train came through last year. And a gentleman traded it for two bottles of whiskey. I think he would have given me two bottles of whiskey just to take it off his hands. His wife passed on not long after they made Pacific Springs. He’d fought with her the whole way about that chandelier. But she wanted it and wouldn’t let it go.” She exhales. “We women want to make the world brighter, don’t we? Even if we have to fight our men every step of the way.”

“Thank you for inviting us into your home,” Ma says, her voice thin. I know she is trying not to cough, and her breaths wheeze in her chest. Neither of us dares move for fear we’ll soil something. When I take a step, dust billows from my skirts.

The moment we rolled in, circling our wagons about a half mile from the rough-hewn walls of the fort, I braced myself for bad news. We made camp and set the animals loose to graze, and all the while I watched for John, preparing myself for a postponement of our plans. But when he finally arrived, Wyatt beside him, his mules strung out behind them, he surprised me again. He confirmed with Deacon Clarke that he would conduct the service and told everyone in the train they were invited to attend.