What the Heart Wants Read Free

it, it would be Christian of you to share what milk and butter you can.” To this suggestion, everyone murmured assent.
    When the captain was finished reciting what was expected of us, several of our fellow travelers asked questions of both men. And, whereas the captain tended to be a little long-winded in his replies, Mr. O’Hara was frugal with his words. I wished he would say more so I could determine his character, and apparently I was not the only one who felt this way. The minister’s wife, who had been glancing out of the corner of her eyes at the scout the entire time Captain Baker addressed us, finally asked him a question.
    “Mr. O’Hara, are we likely to encounter hostiles along the way?” Priscilla Sims was the wife of Reverend Bethel Sims, and even though we’d been together as a group for less than twenty-four hours, she’d already gained a reputation for having a sharp tongue and speaking her mind. She stared bravely at the mountain man, as though she were facing Beelzebub himself.
    “Maybe,” Mr. O’Hara replied simply, and Prissy Sims pursed her lips and harrumphed, as if to say she wasn’t at all surprised by his brusque, uninformative answer. The group, agitated by Mrs. Sims’ distrustful attitude, began to whisper amongst themselves, and Captain Baker raised his hands and asked for quiet.
    “Folks, in my twenty-odd years of leading wagon trains, I’ve never met a group of Indians who weren’t willing to sit down and talk. That will be Mr. O’Hara’s job, and he’s very good at it,” the captain answered, as though knowing Mr. O’Hara wasn’t going to elaborate.
    I had heard about the reservations, federal lands where the Indians were made to live, but I’d also heard they weren’t all of a mind to live where they were told, and the idea that there could be some renegades out there, waiting for a chance to scalp us white folks, scared me some. But I held my tongue, not wanting to look frightened in the buckskin-clad man’s eyes. For some reason I couldn’t name, his opinion of me mattered.
    “If we see any Indians, just you be sure to stay near the wagons and let me and Mister O’Hara handle ’em,” Baker reiterated. “Unless you have any more questions…We leave at sunrise, so you best get some sleep. Mister Cranmer and Mister Powell, you’re on guard duty tonight with me, so let’s mosey,” Baker added, and then he and the other two men picked up their rifles and left the campsite.
    Our wagon, which was smaller than the others, some of which carried families of as many as eight people, necessitated only four oxen. I helped Papa unhitch the four stout beasts, and then we led them a slight distance away from the wagons, to a grassy field where they could eat their fill of the lush grasses. We would need to make sure they didn’t wander off or run away if coyotes came prowling during the night. Papa picked up his rifle and gave my cheek a quick peck. He had insisted on helping any way he could, and tonight he was going to act as shepherd, along with two other men. Since his recent illness, Papa had become a shadow of the handsome, robust man who had raised me. His brown hair was almost totally gray now, and it seemed like his eyes were less blue. I tried not to worry about him as I got ready for bed.
    After washing my face and hands in a bowl of cold water ladled from the barrel strapped to the outside of our wagon, I climbed inside where I traded my old gingham dress, camisole, petticoats, and drawers for my nightgown. And, after brushing my waist-length, blonde hair fifty strokes with the silver brush that had been my mother’s, I crawled into my narrow bed. Near my head was the box where we kept our money and our guns. Above the box was the seat where my father and I took turns driving. Even though I hadn’t grown up on a farm, Papa had taught me to handle a team of horses or mules—the Army had had many of both—and oxen really weren’t much different in