Walk on Earth a Stranger
Page 37
Mr. Joyner leaves my side, and the distant rider approaches. Two dogs dash forward to greet me, tails wagging. One is the Joyners’ floppy-eared hound dog, my old friend Coney.
The other is Nugget.
I snap the reins, and Peony surges forward. “Jefferson!” I shout.
“Hello!” he shouts back, pulling up on the sorrel mare. “You must be the new fellow. . . . Lee?”
I rein in Peony so that we’re sitting in our saddles face-to-face. Tears brim in my eyes, but I don’t care. If we weren’t mounted up, I’d throw my arms around him right in front of everybody.
He’s taller now. Even leaner than before, with sun-darkened skin and a hard line to his jaw that makes him seem years older. He’s staring at my face, not smiling, not talking. His near-black eyes are wide with something I don’t understand.
His gloved hand comes up and cups my chin. His thumb is so near my lips I could almost kiss it. “Leah,” he whispers at last.
“Hello, Jeff,” I whisper back.
He peers closer, his hand dropping away. “What happened to your hair?”
“I cut it.”
“Why on earth would . . . Oh.”
“I’d appreciate it if you kept my secret.”
He frowns. “I don’t see how anyone with half a mind would mistake you for a boy.”
“It’s worked so far. I’m strong and I work hard and I ride well.”
“Also, you can spit farther than any boy I know.”
“And shoot straighter!”
He nods solemnly. “And opine louder.”
I’m grinning big enough to burst. “Sure is good to see you, Jeff. I was afraid you’d left Independence already. Worse afraid you didn’t make it here at all.”
Nugget nuzzles my boot in its stirrup. Jefferson is wearing boots too, now. They’re years old if they’re a day, but they’re probably brand-new to him. “Good to see you too, girl,” I tell Nugget, still staring at Jeff’s boots.
My skin buzzes as he looks me over, from head to toe and back again. In a dropped voice, he says, “I have a secret too.”
“Oh?” I lean closer.
“Been going by my mother’s name—Kingfisher—since I crossed the river.”
“Oh.” It makes me sad, though I’m not sure why. “Jefferson Kingfisher,” I say, trying it out. “How come?”
A shadow passes over his face. “I don’t want anything to do with my old man.”
“Can’t say I blame you.”
By silent agreement, we’ve drifted to the edge of camp, away from prying ears. He says, “My mother’s people came out this way, you know. The Cherokee crossed the border here, went up to St. Louis to trade. Figure if someone hears my name, and they know her, word might get back.”
I open my mouth to remind him that it was more than ten years ago, but the look on his face makes me say, “Good thinking. Any luck?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m riding under a different name too. I put this on”—I indicate my clothes with a gesture of my hand—“and when people asked my name, I didn’t want to say Westfall. So . . . I said McCauley.”
“You gave them my name!”
“I remember someone saying we ought to get married.” I say it like it’s a joke, but I watch him carefully for his response.
His cheek twitches. “I . . . Well . . .”
I blurt, “My uncle killed my folks.”
His mouth drops open, and there’s something gratifying about the horror on his face. He collects himself quickly and says, “You’re sure it was him?”
“Sure as the sunrise in the east.” I can’t stop staring at him. He’s so comforting, so familiar. But he’s different too, in ways that give my chest an ache. “Hiram showed up right after you left,” I tell him. “He was covered in gold dust. Couldn’t stop talking about how the place was all his now. How I was all his now.”
“That’s . . . I’m so sorry, Lee. Why’d he do such a thing?” He scans the horizon, as if expecting him to appear. “Where is he now? And where’s your rifle? You ought to keep it handy. I’ll keep mine loaded as we ride—”
“Jeff, can we talk about that a little later, maybe?”
He gives me a dark look. “Sure. Whatever you want.”
I feel his gaze on me as we aim our mounts back into camp and weave them through the cluster of wagons. Come departure day, they’ll leave one by one, forming a neat and lovely line. I’ve seen it happen a dozen times.
“Anyway, I had to get away,” I whisper. “Become someone else. Yours was the first name that came to mind.”
“Well, you can have it, Lee McCauley. I don’t need it anymore.”
“No, you don’t, Jefferson Kingfisher.” He aims the sorrel mare toward a huge flock of sheep, and I turn Peony to follow him. “You give that horse a name yet?”
“What’s wrong with ‘the sorrel mare’?”
“‘Sore old mare’ is more like it.”
“Don’t listen to her, girl,” he says, reaching down to pat her neck.
But he keeps staring at me, the same way I’m staring at him, like I can’t believe he’s really here. After a long silence, we suddenly crack grins at the exact same time.
“Sure is good to see you, Lee,” he says in an abashed voice.
To distract from the warmth in my face, I gesture toward the wagons. “Which of these did you come with? Mr. Joyner said you were with a German family from Ohio.”
“The Hoffmans. They’re good people.”
“How’d you end up with them?”
“Not a lot to tell,” he says. “After I crossed the Ohio River, I joined some folks headed north along the Mississippi. Families, mostly. The Hoffmans were with them. When it was time to cross, everyone hired passage on a steamboat, but I hardly had any money left.”
I can sympathize.
“So I kept going upstream a few days until I found an old raft, lodged on shore after high water, and I wrangled it into the river. I drifted across—mostly downriver with the current—pulling the sorrel mare behind. Didn’t know if she’d make it, but she’s a dab at swimming, that girl. Landed near St. Louis, where I met the Hoffmans again. We decided it must be providence.”
We’re still meandering aimlessly, and I’m not taking everything in the way Mr. Joyner wanted. “So you and the Hoffmans decided to travel together?” I ask.
“I helped out a little in exchange for meals. It’s a big family; father, mother, six kids, and the oldest only fifteen. The little ones are hard to keep track of sometimes. We’ve been trying to join a company since we got here, but no one would have us.”
He pauses, frowning. Then he adds, “The Hoffmans’ English is a little funny, and apparently I look too much like my mother’s people. Finally, Major Craven let the Hoffmans join his outfit. Then Mr. Joyner offered me a job, and the Major didn’t object, so I stayed on. How about you? How’d you get here?”
For months I imagined telling Jefferson everything that happened to me, imagined the sympathy on his face, maybe the quick hug that would ensue. Now, though, I just want it all behind me, so it comes out in a rush: “I left a few days after you did. Sold Chestnut and Hemlock to pay my way here, but I got robbed along the way. In Chattanooga, I found work on a flatboat, which brought me all the way to Missouri, but I got sick for a bit, and that slowed me down. I arrived weeks ago.”
The other is Nugget.
I snap the reins, and Peony surges forward. “Jefferson!” I shout.
“Hello!” he shouts back, pulling up on the sorrel mare. “You must be the new fellow. . . . Lee?”
I rein in Peony so that we’re sitting in our saddles face-to-face. Tears brim in my eyes, but I don’t care. If we weren’t mounted up, I’d throw my arms around him right in front of everybody.
He’s taller now. Even leaner than before, with sun-darkened skin and a hard line to his jaw that makes him seem years older. He’s staring at my face, not smiling, not talking. His near-black eyes are wide with something I don’t understand.
His gloved hand comes up and cups my chin. His thumb is so near my lips I could almost kiss it. “Leah,” he whispers at last.
“Hello, Jeff,” I whisper back.
He peers closer, his hand dropping away. “What happened to your hair?”
“I cut it.”
“Why on earth would . . . Oh.”
“I’d appreciate it if you kept my secret.”
He frowns. “I don’t see how anyone with half a mind would mistake you for a boy.”
“It’s worked so far. I’m strong and I work hard and I ride well.”
“Also, you can spit farther than any boy I know.”
“And shoot straighter!”
He nods solemnly. “And opine louder.”
I’m grinning big enough to burst. “Sure is good to see you, Jeff. I was afraid you’d left Independence already. Worse afraid you didn’t make it here at all.”
Nugget nuzzles my boot in its stirrup. Jefferson is wearing boots too, now. They’re years old if they’re a day, but they’re probably brand-new to him. “Good to see you too, girl,” I tell Nugget, still staring at Jeff’s boots.
My skin buzzes as he looks me over, from head to toe and back again. In a dropped voice, he says, “I have a secret too.”
“Oh?” I lean closer.
“Been going by my mother’s name—Kingfisher—since I crossed the river.”
“Oh.” It makes me sad, though I’m not sure why. “Jefferson Kingfisher,” I say, trying it out. “How come?”
A shadow passes over his face. “I don’t want anything to do with my old man.”
“Can’t say I blame you.”
By silent agreement, we’ve drifted to the edge of camp, away from prying ears. He says, “My mother’s people came out this way, you know. The Cherokee crossed the border here, went up to St. Louis to trade. Figure if someone hears my name, and they know her, word might get back.”
I open my mouth to remind him that it was more than ten years ago, but the look on his face makes me say, “Good thinking. Any luck?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m riding under a different name too. I put this on”—I indicate my clothes with a gesture of my hand—“and when people asked my name, I didn’t want to say Westfall. So . . . I said McCauley.”
“You gave them my name!”
“I remember someone saying we ought to get married.” I say it like it’s a joke, but I watch him carefully for his response.
His cheek twitches. “I . . . Well . . .”
I blurt, “My uncle killed my folks.”
His mouth drops open, and there’s something gratifying about the horror on his face. He collects himself quickly and says, “You’re sure it was him?”
“Sure as the sunrise in the east.” I can’t stop staring at him. He’s so comforting, so familiar. But he’s different too, in ways that give my chest an ache. “Hiram showed up right after you left,” I tell him. “He was covered in gold dust. Couldn’t stop talking about how the place was all his now. How I was all his now.”
“That’s . . . I’m so sorry, Lee. Why’d he do such a thing?” He scans the horizon, as if expecting him to appear. “Where is he now? And where’s your rifle? You ought to keep it handy. I’ll keep mine loaded as we ride—”
“Jeff, can we talk about that a little later, maybe?”
He gives me a dark look. “Sure. Whatever you want.”
I feel his gaze on me as we aim our mounts back into camp and weave them through the cluster of wagons. Come departure day, they’ll leave one by one, forming a neat and lovely line. I’ve seen it happen a dozen times.
“Anyway, I had to get away,” I whisper. “Become someone else. Yours was the first name that came to mind.”
“Well, you can have it, Lee McCauley. I don’t need it anymore.”
“No, you don’t, Jefferson Kingfisher.” He aims the sorrel mare toward a huge flock of sheep, and I turn Peony to follow him. “You give that horse a name yet?”
“What’s wrong with ‘the sorrel mare’?”
“‘Sore old mare’ is more like it.”
“Don’t listen to her, girl,” he says, reaching down to pat her neck.
But he keeps staring at me, the same way I’m staring at him, like I can’t believe he’s really here. After a long silence, we suddenly crack grins at the exact same time.
“Sure is good to see you, Lee,” he says in an abashed voice.
To distract from the warmth in my face, I gesture toward the wagons. “Which of these did you come with? Mr. Joyner said you were with a German family from Ohio.”
“The Hoffmans. They’re good people.”
“How’d you end up with them?”
“Not a lot to tell,” he says. “After I crossed the Ohio River, I joined some folks headed north along the Mississippi. Families, mostly. The Hoffmans were with them. When it was time to cross, everyone hired passage on a steamboat, but I hardly had any money left.”
I can sympathize.
“So I kept going upstream a few days until I found an old raft, lodged on shore after high water, and I wrangled it into the river. I drifted across—mostly downriver with the current—pulling the sorrel mare behind. Didn’t know if she’d make it, but she’s a dab at swimming, that girl. Landed near St. Louis, where I met the Hoffmans again. We decided it must be providence.”
We’re still meandering aimlessly, and I’m not taking everything in the way Mr. Joyner wanted. “So you and the Hoffmans decided to travel together?” I ask.
“I helped out a little in exchange for meals. It’s a big family; father, mother, six kids, and the oldest only fifteen. The little ones are hard to keep track of sometimes. We’ve been trying to join a company since we got here, but no one would have us.”
He pauses, frowning. Then he adds, “The Hoffmans’ English is a little funny, and apparently I look too much like my mother’s people. Finally, Major Craven let the Hoffmans join his outfit. Then Mr. Joyner offered me a job, and the Major didn’t object, so I stayed on. How about you? How’d you get here?”
For months I imagined telling Jefferson everything that happened to me, imagined the sympathy on his face, maybe the quick hug that would ensue. Now, though, I just want it all behind me, so it comes out in a rush: “I left a few days after you did. Sold Chestnut and Hemlock to pay my way here, but I got robbed along the way. In Chattanooga, I found work on a flatboat, which brought me all the way to Missouri, but I got sick for a bit, and that slowed me down. I arrived weeks ago.”
