Carolyn Davidson - Colorado Courtship

Finn clenched his jaw. It couldn’t be helped. Blood had been shed, and Aaron’s death must not be in vain. Jessica was an innocent bystander, but that fact couldn’t be considered now. Of primary importance was possession of the piece of paper that had caused Aaron’s death. No matter the cost, he would possess the deed, and Aaron would be avenged.

The group assembled quietly in the darkness, whispering among themselves lest children sleeping in the wagons be disturbed. Finn walked beside Jessica, lifting her hand to rest on his bent arm as he led her toward the stream. Around them several couples walked, the women clinging to their menfolk, almost as if this were a celebration of sorts.

“I feel as if we’re going to a party,” Geraldine Littleman said in an undertone as she and Harv caught up with Jessica’s slower stroll. “I’m so tired of that wagon seat and walking in the dust, it’ll be almost fun to wash clothes tomorrow morning.”

“I hope you’ll be feeling the same way when I bring you my things,” Finn said in a low voice, his head bending until his mouth almost touched Jessica’s ear.

She smiled at his words, glancing up at him, her fingers squeezing his forearm. Words didn’t seem to be necessary, she thought, enjoying the darkness, the murmurs of the men and women who surrounded them. Just ahead was the stream, its banks lined by shrubbery, shaded by darkness that spread its cover beneath the low branches of willows that fought for space beside the water.

The men stayed at a distance while the women sought the shallow stream. “I’m glad Mr. Carson brought you along,” Geraldine said as she dropped her bundle on the stream bank. “You looked so tired today, Jessica. Not that it wasn’t expected, after all that happened yesterday.”

Besides Arlois, of all the other females on the train, she’d been drawn to the young mother. She’d watched during the evenings as Geraldine’s two young daughters wrote their sums and then begged for stories from the precious books that held a place of honor in their wagon.

“Mr. Carson was thinking of you, I’ll warrant, when he walked around to the campfires, recruiting the bunch of us to come along for bathing tonight,” Geraldine said with a chuckle as the women stripped quickly from their clothing. “I think he has eyes for you, Jessica.”

“You think so?” she asked, thankful for the darkness that hid her rosy cheeks. Her dress lay around her ankles and now her underwear followed. “I’m amazed that any man would be interested in a woman who’s carrying another man’s child,” she said quietly, catching her breath as she skimmed her stockings off. She bent to tuck them into the bundle she’d made of her dress and petticoat, and then straightened, glancing over her shoulder to where tall figures were shadows in the moonlight.

Naked but for her shift, Jessica felt the evening breeze flutter the soft cotton of her brief garment and she shivered. The women were vulnerable, almost nude as they shed their clothing. Another look eased her mind, for two of the men faced west, three looked toward the east, long guns in their hands as they guarded the place where their womenfolk enjoyed this rare treat. Finn was the farthest from her, Jessica realized, but if he should turn, he would be able to see her, would no doubt recognize her outlined form in the shadows, a shape heavy with pregnancy.

Her hands quickly removed the simple ribbon from her braid and as she untangled the three strands, running her fingers through her hair, she recalled Finn’s words. I like your hair that way, hanging loose down your back. She smiled, allowing the length of it to fall almost to her hips once it was free from its confinement.

It was her only concession to feminine pride, this heavy mass of waving hair that proclaimed her a woman in the most primitive fashion. Falling around her like a mantle, it hid much of her from view until she gathered it in one hand, pulling it over her shoulder as she entered the river.

Carefully she stepped from the bank into knee-deep water, her precious bar of soap in hand, and sank beneath the surface, settling on the sandy bottom. The current was slow, and in the shallows where she bathed, the water held but a trace of the day’s heat. Cooler than her body by a long shot, it was a welcome relief to her parched skin. After long moments, she rose to her knees and bent over, allowing her hair to float on the surface, then began working up suds in her hands. Even a sunbonnet couldn’t keep the dust of the trail from settling on her head, and she used her nails to scrub the soap into the surface of her scalp, and then squeezed the suds through the length of hair.

The women, almost as one, washed, soft murmurs of pleasure rising from their throats as they enjoyed the luxury of soap and water, then rising from the shallows to splash away the residue. Whispers floated above the surface of the moving stream as they laughed among themselves, and for those precious moments, Jessica delighted in the camaraderie of their kinship as women.

A call from one of the men broke the air, interrupting the soft chatter, and they hushed as a male voice bespoke impatience at keeping watch.

“That’s my David,” Arlois confided. “I think he’s getting anxious to crawl under the wagon with me. I told him last night he smelled like a warthog.”

Jessica joined in the wash of laughter, and with the others completed her ablutions in haste. Another such occasion might not present itself for several days, possibly not even before they arrived in Council Grove, and they would not ruin another opportunity by lingering overlong in the water.

Quickly they donned their nightwear and together they trooped up the rise to where two of the men waited. David Bates motioned them to walk ahead, ready to escort them back to the circle of wagons. The other men hastened to the water, and within seconds Jessica heard the splashing of bodies in the stream as the men sought the depths at the middle of the expanse in which to bathe.

David whispered a quick word in Arlois’s ear before he loped back to the stream, and she laughed aloud, leading the way between two wagons into the light of the campfires. Seeking their wagons, the women were the object of male eyes from every corner, the men obviously enjoying the sight of females in various styles of robes and wrappers, their hair falling damply down their backs.

Jessica sat on her chunk of wood beside her dying fire, toweling her hair, then drawing her comb through its length, a process that involved long moments of unsnarling the waves that resisted her attempts to curb their tendency to corkscrew. Her fingers tamed it finally, and she worked hastily to form a long braid, aware of watching eyes. Then, with awkward movements, she arose and began the process of climbing into her wagon bed.

Her knee became tangled in her gown and she teetered for a few seconds, almost falling before she managed to gain the inside. Her wrapper slid off and she folded it, then tugged her feather tick to the floor, where it covered almost half the available space. Four feet wide, the wagon held all she owned, most of her belongings stacked along the sides, only leaving enough room for her to make her way from one end to the other.

Even with the chairs Lyle had tied on the outside and the heavy objects dangling beneath, the contents would barely make enough furnishings for one room once she arrived in Colorado.

Her quilt sailed wide and settled on the feather tick, and once more she was thankful she’d dug in her heels and insisted on bringing it along, even over Lyle’s protests. It was her only luxury, comforting her body each night. From the river, she could still hear the men’s voices, raised in laughter. Perhaps another night one of them might make his way to her wagon, might climb in to join her on her bed.