Yellowstone Homecoming: Yellowstone Romance Series Novella Read online

  “Trappers heading back into the mountains with supplies?” Zach shot him an inquisitive look.

  Matthew frowned. “Why would they take wagons rather than pack animals?”

  “Well, whoever they are, they’re heading the same direction we are. Maybe we should join them for a while.”

  “Boston’s made you soft.” Matthew grinned at his brother. “I remember a time when nothing worried you and Sam on our trips to Fort Raymond or St. Louis.”

  Zach shrugged, and returned his grin. “Who says it’s my safety I’m worried about? Maybe I’m trying to look out for those folks up ahead.”

  Matthew’s brows raised in a mocking challenge. Zach waved him off, and nudged his horse forward. In no time, they’d reached the caravan of covered wagons, each one pulled by a team of six mules. It certainly didn’t look like a supply train for one of the fur companies, even if several of the riders wore buckskins and were outfitted for a season of trapping in the mountains.

  A few of the men who rode horses looked like they’d come fresh from the city. Matthew shook his head. What were a bunch of greenhorns doing out in the middle of nowhere, in hostile Indian territory? The Lakota and Cheyenne were friendly enough, but the Pawnee and Arikara had always made sport of trappers passing through the plains and heading into the mountains. A wagon train like this was easy pickings for those warriors. His frown deepened when a dark skirt fluttered from one of the wagon seats.

  “What the hell?” he mumbled under his breath. Zach looked his way, just as surprised.

  “I heard someone say at Fort Williams that there was a group of missionaries in the area, heading over the Rockies,” Zach said.

  “Missionaries?” Matthew couldn’t keep the condescension from his question.

  “Heading for the Washington Territory.”

  “Someone ought to have told them to turn around. They’re going to get killed before they even get to the mountains.” He shifted in the saddle, and glanced toward the wagon where he’d seen a woman’s skirt flapping in the breeze. “And they’re bringing women, too?”

  Two riders broke away from the group, and headed their way. One was dressed in furs and skins, while the other wore black trousers, a black jacket over a white shirt, and a black hat he held onto while guiding his horse toward them.

  “Might be wise to stick with them for a while, like I said,” Zach mumbled as they waited for the two to approach. “Make sure they don’t lose their scalps just yet.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” the one man dressed in buckskins shouted, and raised his hand. “If it ain’t the Osborne twins. Still can’t tell the two of you apart.”

  He brought his horse to a stop in a swirl of dust, and leaned forward in the saddle. His smile exposed several missing teeth. He adjusted his fur cap on his head, then extended his hand.

  “Fitzpatrick,” Matthew greeted, leaning over his own horse to reach for the man’s hand.

  “We ain’t got nothin’ to worry us over from these two,” the trapper Matthew recognized as Thomas Fitzpatrick said to the well-dressed man who’d pulled his horse up alongside. “Would sure like to have you join us if you’re heading west.” He shot eager eyes at Matthew, then at Zach.

  “Those don’t look like supply wagons,” Matthew said, gesturing with his chin toward the caravan.

  The woodsman rubbed at his grizzled chin. “Them’s not supply wagons. A few of us is taking Mr. Witmer here, his family, and a few others as far as rendezvous. They’s missionaries, heading across the mountains.”

  Matthew assessed the man Fitzpatrick had called Witmer. His clothes were too clean for the wilderness, his salt and pepper beard neatly trimmed. His gloved hands held the reins of his horse as if he’d just learned how to ride a short time ago. How had this man, and the rest of these folks, managed to get this far without getting killed already? They belonged in the wilderness about as much as his father belonged in a fancy Boston parlor.

  “Isaac Witmer.” The man raised his chin, and extended his hand to Zach, who shook it. “You are welcome to join us.”

  Matthew caught the quick glance his brother shot him. “You’re a very trusting man, Mr. Witmer.”

  The older man smiled. “I like to believe that all men are good,” he said.

  Matthew coughed to hide the smirk he couldn’t suppress. His initial assessment had been correct. This man wasn’t going to last long in the wilderness. And he’d brought his family?

  “Where’s rendezvous this year?” Matthew directed his question at Thomas Fitzpatrick. At least these people had chosen wisely when they picked him as their guide. Not all trappers and woodsmen were as trustworthy. If Fitzpatrick led this missionary group, it wouldn’t be a long stretch to assume that William Sublette and Jim Bridger were also among the men who accompanied them. They were all experienced mountain men, and Matthew would trust them with his life.

  “Rendezvous along the Bighorn, in the Wind River Basin. Figure we’re a couple weeks out from there.”

  “We’ll join you,” Zach said, before Matthew could say they’d go along at least that far. Obviously, his brother was of the same mind as he that these people needed all the help they could get.

  Fitzpatrick nodded in satisfied approval. “Straight shot up to the Yellerstone from there,” he said. “Assuming you’re headed home to your folks’ place.”

  “We are,” Matthew confirmed, and reined his horse in the direction of the caravan. He glanced up at the late-afternoon sky as he led the way toward the group of wagons that had stopped. It was nearly time to make camp for the night. The lack of trees in the area would make it difficult for such a large group to find any cover.

  “What do you plan to accomplish in the wilderness, Mr. Witmer?” Zach asked. Matthew turned his head slightly to listen.

  “We’re going to build a mission in the Washington Territory, and bring some civilization to the Indians.” The man’s voice was filled with enthusiasm.

  Matthew’s hands tightened around his reins. He’d seen and heard enough of men in Boston who were eager to reform the people who made this vast wilderness their home. No doubt as more men tried to sway the Indians to the European culture, it might only stir up trouble. The trappers had enough problems with hostile tribes.

  “Where did you say you make your home, Mr. Osborne?”

  “A remote area in the mountains along the Yellowstone,” Zach answered evasively. Matthew breathed in relief. No doubt his brother was thinking the same thing as he. He didn’t want these people coming to their valley. “Much further north than the direction you’re heading,” Zach added.

  They reached the seven wagons just as one of the trappers shouted, “Time to bed down for the night. This is as good a place as any.”

  Matthew’s lips twitched, when the tall man who had called out the order jumped from his horse. Jim Bridger. A good mountain man to camp with, but a teller of tall tales that would make anyone’s head spin. Bridger glanced at him at that moment, and a wide smile spread across the trapper’s clean-shaven face.

  “Well, I’ll be,” he called. He yanked his hat from his head, and slapped it against his buckskins. “The Osbornes. Ain’t no use worrying about Pawnee from hereon.” He rushed up to Matthew, and reached his arm up. Matthew leaned over his saddle, and shook his hand.

  “Bridger.” He nodded.

  “Yes, sirree.” Jim Bridger hopped from one foot to the other. He turned to face the rest of the group, and continued in a loud voice that matched his stature. “These two men here growed up in a place few men will ever see. Where the water runs so fast, the rivers boil, and fish can swim both sides of the Divide. Why, I once took a shot at an elk while I was there, but the critter didn’t fall over dead. I shot it again, and again, but he just kept right on grazin’.”

  Jim Bridger glanced around, to see if he had a captive audience. He held up his hands, mimicking shooting a rifle, and crouched as if he were stalking prey. Matthew rolled his eyes. He’d heard this story many times.


  “Well, now, as I got closer to the elk, I ran headlong into a mountain of glass. It was so clear, I could see right through it, and the elk on the other side.”

  “Obsidian may be smooth like glass, but you can’t see through it.” Zach leaned toward Matthew, and murmured. He’d dismounted his horse, and, thankfully, slapped Bridger on the back to divert his attention away from his tale.

  Matthew glanced at the wagons. Men climbed down from the seats, and started to unhitch their teams. Mr. Witmer rode to one of the rigs, and helped a woman from the seat. Matthew caught a glimpse of auburn hair from underneath the white cap that covered her head. The plain, charcoal dress she wore didn’t distract from her loveliness. She reached into the wagon, and helped another girl down from the tailgate. The two smiled at each other, then the first one’s head turned. Matthew’s breath caught in his throat.

  A strong nudge to his arm diverted his attention from staring at her.

  “She’d give Miss Halsey quite the competition.” Zach leaned toward him and whispered in his ear. He looked toward the young woman, and nodded. “Her dress may be a bit plain, but she’s definitely more attractive than Miss Halsey. Yup, might be an interesting journey to the Wind River.”

  Laughing, Zach led his horse to where the group of trappers set up their camp, leaving Matthew standing and swearing under his breath.

  Chapter Three

  “Can you get a fire started, Mary? Father will want his supper shortly.”

  Della Witmer forced a smile to appear cheerful in front of her little sister. The strain of this journey was taking its toll on Mary. She looked tired most of the time. Della was tired, too. Tired of her tense relationship with their father. She tried her best not to let it show in front of Mary, who didn’t need to be subject to that, even if she was aware of it.

  “Of course, Della.” Mary nodded, and scurried off to look for buffalo chips.

  A twinge of guilt nagged at Della for sending her sister to take care of this unpleasant task. Since there were few trees in the area, the trappers who were their guides had shown them how to build fires out of dried-out bison dung. Apparently, it’s what the Indians who lived in this desolate land utilized.

  “Adelle.”

  Della whipped her head around. She’d just reached into the back of the wagon to retrieve supplies for making biscuits, when her father’s sharp voice cut into her thoughts. She gritted her teeth, and inhaled a slow, calming breath. She pushed some wayward strands of hair under her day cap.

  “Yes, Father?” She faced the stout man.

  “I want you and your sister to remain close to the wagon from hereon.” The piercing stare her father shot at her might make men in his congregation go weak in the knees, but Della raised her chin.

  “We’ve always stayed close to the wagon,” she said. “It’s what you’ve commanded us to do since we started this journey. There are times, however, when we need to collect fire material, or have need for some privacy.”

  Isaac Witmer took a step toward her, his face turning red. “Don’t get insolent with me. I can still raise the switch to you.”

  “Yes, Father.” Della dropped eye contact, not because he’d intimidated her, but because she didn’t want to cause another scene like what had happened a few weeks ago when they’d left the trapper outpost of Fort Williams. None of the mountain men had dared come close to her or her sister after her father’s rant when she’d offered the men coffee.

  If he was so concerned for their virtue, why hadn’t he simply left her and Mary behind with their deceased mother’s family in New York? The mountain men had been nothing but polite and respectful. She’d strained her ears to listen to their tales of adventure and danger each night, and would give anything to sit at their fire to hear more of their stories. Jim Bridger’s accounts had been most entertaining, even if she didn’t believe any of them.

  Della’s father stepped up next to her, and wrapped his hand around her upper arm, forcing her to look at him.

  “Two more men have joined our caravan, and, although I trust that they are honorable, it won’t do to have you or your sister carousing with the likes of them.”

  Della gritted her teeth. Her father trusted strangers more than he did his own daughters. Neither she nor Mary had ever given him cause to mistrust them in any way. She’d been a devoted daughter, but the urge to pull free of her father’s tight hold on everything that she did had become stronger over the last few years.

  Isaac Witmer had always demanded complete obedience from his wife and daughters, and while her mother may have bowed to his every wish without question, Della’d had enough. She was of age to make her own way in life, yet with her mother’s passing, she’d stayed to take care of her sister, who was more like their mother – demure and obedient.

  She laughed silently. Not that she’d had the means to leave. Over the years, her father had scared away any potential suitor who might have shown an interest, even respected members of his church congregation.

  Her father released her arm. “Make sure you stay by the wagon, and your sister, too.” He turned to walk away, then paused. “And keep your hair under your cap. We’ve come here to civilize the indigenous people, not turn into them.”

  Della expelled the breath she’d been holding after her father walked away. “Yes, Father,” she mumbled, and continued to rummage through her food supplies.

  Mary returned with buffalo chips and lit a pile on fire several yards from the wagon. Solomon Allen had unhitched her father’s team of mules, and nodded curtly before leading the animals away from camp to find a grazing spot for the night. Della mixed together flour and lard with some water, and shaped the dough into biscuits that she placed into a dutch oven and set near the flames.

  Boisterous laughter came from one end of camp, where the trappers had set out their bedrolls. The five men whom her father had enlisted as guides sat around their fire, along with the two newcomers. Della had only caught a glimpse of them when they rode into camp.

  Dressed similarly to the trappers, the two men didn’t look quite as rough around the edges as Mr. Thomas Fitzpatrick, or Mr. Jim Bridger and the others. Their clothes, while consisting of leather britches and hunting jackets over homespun cotton shirts, weren’t as worn. Some of the mountain men’s shirts looked as if they had been sewn together and repeatedly patched, and she’d go so far as to say that none of the material of the original shirt remained.

  Della cast discreet glances toward the trappers while she prepared the evening meal for her father and sister. If only their wagon was closer, so she could hear their stories. No doubt new tales were being spun, now that their number had increased.

  “They are handsome, aren’t they?”

  Della nearly dropped her wooden spoon at her sister’s words. She straightened from leaning over the fire and stirring the beans in the pot.

  “Whatever makes you say that?” she whispered. “If Father heard you talk like that, he’d take the switch to your backside.”

  Della glanced at her sister, and her lips twitched. Mary dropped her gaze, and even in the dimming evening light, her cheeks visibly turned rosy. That her little sister had even noticed a man’s looks had come as a complete surprise.

  “I’m nearly sixteen, Della. Don’t tell me you haven’t taken notice of them yourself. And there are two of them.”

  Della couldn’t suppress her smile any longer. “You’re too young for wandering eyes,” she chided in a whisper. She cast a hasty glance over her shoulder toward the men. “But yes, you’re right. They are rather handsome.”

  Curious was the fact that these two men resembled each other almost as if they were mirror images. Their sandy-colored hair, while falling to their shoulders, didn’t appear to be as tangled and unkempt as the others. They’d obviously spent some time in civilized society.

  One of them sat cross-legged in the dirt by the fire. He bit off a chunk of something in his hand, and grinned broadly at whatever Mr. Bridger had said. As u
sual, he spoke in an animated fashion, holding everyone’s attention. The man’s companion, undoubtedly his twin brother, lay a little further away from the fire. His legs were stretched out in front of him, and he propped his torso on his upper arm. He wore a much more serious look than the other one.

  Della sucked in a hasty breath of air and quickly turned her attention on her spoon when the man’s eyes drifted her way. The split-second eye contact jolted her as if she’d burned her hand on a hot kettle. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She stuck the spoon back in the pot, and stirred its contents with exaggerated force, spilling some of the beans over the side. She willed her eyes to remain on the fire rather than look over her shoulder again to see if he was still looking her way.

  “Go and tell Father that supper is ready,” she said, and swiped a hand along her forehead. “And no more talk of handsome men,” she added as an afterthought.

  When her sister did as she’d asked, Della straightened, and turned her head again. Even with her back turned, the sensation that she was being watched overpowered her, sending tingles down her spine. It was as if the man’s stare beckoned her to look his way again. Sure enough, he still had his eye on her. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, and straightened fully. Raising her chin, she held his stare. The man’s lips widened slightly in a challenging smile, then he turned his attention to his companions.

  Della smirked. He’d tried to intimidate her. Hopefully she’d sent a clear message that she wasn’t so easily frightened. After wiping her hands on her apron, she spooned food onto a plate and handed it to her father when he walked up. He nodded curtly, and left again to sit with the men he’d brought along to help him build his mission. Thank the Lord he hadn’t told her that she had to cook for them. While none of the men had brought families, they were responsible for their own meals.

  She offered a plate to her sister, and joined her in a silent meal on the tailgate of their wagon. Della strained her ears to listen to what the mountain men were saying. A few of the missionaries had joined the trappers around their fire. Jim Bridger was boisterous as usual, and his voice carried through the camp, even drowning out the chirping of the crickets in the evening air.