White Nights Read Free Page B

movements jerky. Finally, he stilled and met her teary gaze with determination and love. “Hell, lass. The lot of ya deserves ta be spoilt and I might as well be the one ta do it.”
    Without another word, Rook walked away, his short, stocky legs carrying him to his wagons and the long trench fires that sent waves of heat rolling along the ground. A moment later, his loud voice boomed over the area when he shouted for two of the hired hands to “git out of the stores.”
    Amused to see grown men scurrying away rather than face Rook’s displeasure, Eirica shook her head. No one dared to argue with or disobey Rook. The crusty old trapper ruled all within his domain with an iron fist. Yet beneath his rough demeanor lay a heart of gold and a sharp mind filled with the wisdom of his years. And as he’d so gently reminded her, she truly wasn’t alone. A second good had come of this trip. For the first time since marrying at the age of sixteen, she had friends—lots of them—something Birk had never allowed.
    But then, Birk Macauley had never loved her. She’d been nothing more than a slave to see to his every whim and a convenient vessel to slake his needs. For six long years, she’d worked his farm, borne him children he neither loved nor wanted, and endured his jealous nature, childish tantrums and violent rages.
    She shuddered, fighting nightmarish memories of protecting her young children by drawing her husband’s fury from them to herself. Placing one hand on her chest, in the hollow between her full breasts, she spread her fingers upward, feeling smooth, raised scars hidden from sight beneath her bodice.
    Her other hand absently rubbed her healing ribs, some of which had been broken, others badly bruised during Birk’s last beating. She’d shielded her son’s small body from her husband’s rage with her own body. That had been a month ago—the day before Birk died.
    She dropped her hands to her side. Scars. Pain. She wanted to shout with the joy of knowing he’d never take his fists to any of them again. If starting over was the price she had to pay for that freedom, she’d gladly do it. A gentle roll from within her womb brought a sigh to her lips. Her baby was safe, as were her other children. “No one will raise a hand to you in anger,” she vowed, easing the tight flesh with her fingers.
    She thought again of Mr. Thurston and the others who were turning back, disheartened by the loss of loved ones, lame oxen or dangerously low supplies. If she joined them, she could just as easily start over back east, maybe find a job as a seamstress or schoolmarm. Eirica paced, walking in a tight circle, careful to keep her skirts out of the fire. Three young boys ran past, shouting with youthful abandon, but she paid them little heed.
    Closing her eyes, she searched her soul for the right answer, feeling the pressure of knowing that only she could make this decision. It occurred to Eirica that most who turned back had one thing in common: they’d lost hope, lost their dreams. She straightened her spine. A few short months ago, there had been no hope for her. Now she had a future. There were choices, maybe even dreams.
    For the first time in her life, she was in control of her destiny. She’d be a fool not to grasp her chance for a better life with both hands. With nothing waiting for them behind her, somehow, she must find the courage and strength to make it to Oregon. Nothing mattered now except giving her babies a brighter future.
    As if sensing her mother’s troubled thoughts, three-year-old Lara crawled out from beneath the wagon and ran to her on matchstick legs, wearing only a simple, worn chemise and no shoes. Eirica picked her up and spun in a slow circle, hugging her daughter tightly. She smoothed the child’s wispy strawberry-blond curls from her face. “Mama loves you, Lara girl.”
    With solemn eyes the same shade of blue as her mother’s, Lara wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck and