Trail of Longing (Hot on the Trail Book 3) Read online

  “Miss Emma,” she exclaimed and wiggled as though she wanted to jump down.

  “How are you this fine morning, Miss Sadie?” Dean asked.

  Sadie’s smile fell to a mope. “It’s not a fine morning. It’s cloudy and I have to sit here and do nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing at all,” Dean said. “You’re doing the important work of healing.”

  Sadie’s mother scooted forward from where she had been sitting in the wagon to greet them. “Morning Dr. Meyers, Miss Emma.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Pickett.” Dean broke away from Emma, patting her hand, tucked in his elbow, for a moment before letting her go. Emma strode up to the wagon by his side, making sure Alice was keeping up with them. The wagon was moving slow enough for her to kiss Sadie’s forehead while she walked.

  “Let’s take a look at your cut today, shall we?” Dean asked, bringing a smile to the girl’s face again.

  Emma watched with fascinated admiration as he unwound the simple bandage from Sadie’s foot and examined it. His every touch was gentle. Not once did Sadie flinch or complain. Dean asked Mrs. Pickett if she had any more water or comfrey salve with her. There was a short flurry in the wagon as those things were brought forward, then Dean cleaned and redressed Sadie’s foot.

  “You’re well on your way to being hale and whole again,” he announced at last. “Then you’ll be free to bring more bugs and snakes to Miss Emma.”

  The smile Emma had been wearing through the whole operation faltered and she swallowed.

  “Land sakes, Sadie, have you been pestering Miss Emma with your creatures again?” Mrs. Pickett scolded.

  “It’s quite all right,” Emma lied.

  The clouds above had grown thicker and rain began to spit down at them. Dean glanced up with a calculating frown.

  “I’d better get Emma and Alice back to their wagon so they can stay out of this rain,” he said to Mrs. Pickett.

  Emma’s heart sagged. She would have walked through a monsoon if it meant she could stay with Dean. At least he offered his arm again for the trip back. With the wagons moving forward, it took far less time to reach her family’s wagon than she wanted it to.

  “You’re very good with children as well,” she told him, hoping to slow them down.

  “I’ve always liked children,” he replied. “Maybe it comes from being an only child and always wishing there were more of them around.”

  He would make a wonderful father. To more than just one child too. She would give him a whole army of children… if she had the chance.

  “Oh?” was all she could manage to say aloud. Like a curse that took effect at midnight, her shyness was back.

  “Yes,” he half-laughed, “but all of that is a story for another day. Here we are.”

  Emma pulled her focus away from Dean to see that they’d come to walk alongside her family’s wagon. Her father led the oxen, walking beside them with his long-handled whip as though they were white stallions instead of plodding beasts. Alice had gone to the back of the wagon to join their mother, who whispered furiously. Her eyes never left Dean.

  “I’ll leave you ladies to take shelter in your wagon,” Dean said, letting go of Emma’s arm. “I’d better check on the miners anyhow.”

  “Thank you so much, Dr. Meyers,” Mrs. Sutton skipped forward to make her goodbyes. “I haven’t met a truer gentleman in this entire wagon train. I do hope we’ll be seeing more of you.”

  Emma’s heart caught in her throat at her mother’s audacity. Her embarrassment was only relieved a tad by Dean’s smile.

  “I’m sure we’ll see much more of each other.” He nodded to Mrs. Sutton and Alice, then turned his smile to Emma. “Until next time, Miss Emma.”

  “I….” Anything Emma could have said froze on her tongue. She pressed her lips into a tight smile and nodded.

  As Dean turned to go, frustration poured in on her. When she was certain he was out of earshot, she huffed out a breath and hid her face in her hands. What was she thinking? How could it be so difficult to talk to such an agreeable man?

  “Very well done,” her mother congratulated her. She scurried to Emma’s side as they walked on, raindrops beating down harder now. “You have him good and hooked.”

  “Mother,” Emma sighed. “I don’t want to ‘hook’ anyone. Dean—I mean, Dr. Meyers, is a good, noble man.”

  “Exactly.” Her mother smiled as if the sun had come out. “He’ll make a perfect husband for you.”

  “Shh!” Emma would have slapped her hand over her mother’s mouth if she could. “Please.”

  “Oh come now,” her mother scolded, waving Emma’s protests aside as if they were fluff. “You and I both know the importance of nabbing a good husband.”

  “Husbands should not be ‘nabbed.’”

  “All men need to be nabbed, dear,” her mother argued. “Otherwise they would wander the earth not knowing which way was up or what was good for them.”

  Emma scoffed and crossed her arms to ward off the chill that the rain was bringing her.

  Her mother turned serious, sliding closer to her. “I know you think I’m laying it on too thick, but we’ve both seen what happens when a girl makes an inappropriate match.”

  They both glanced to the back of the wagon, where Alice had hoisted herself into the bed and was busy rolling down the canvas coverings. Emma’s heart squeezed with sadness for her sister.

  “Alice loved Harry,” she murmured to her mother so Alice wouldn’t hear.

  “That is precisely the problem,” her mother replied.

  Emma frowned, confused. “Harry was a good man.”

  “He was a clerk and we never should have agreed to the match.” Before Emma could protest, her mother went on. “Dr. Meyers, on the other hand, is just the sort of man I have always wished to see you with. Now that he’s hooked, I know just how to reel him in.”

  Dread filled Emma’s stomach. She knew what her mother was capable of. Her journey west had just taken a perilous turn.

  Chapter Three

  Dean would have been happy to spend the rest of his time on the trail by Emma’s side. There weren’t many sick or injured people in their train. Pete Evans was a careful and conscientious trail boss. There were, however, an astounding amount of single women and, worse still, their mothers.

  “Dr. Meyers, I’ve made this raisin tart just for you,” Helen Costner, the blacksmith’s daughter, sidled up to him as he ate his lunch with Pete.

  It was a few days after his pleasant morning with Emma, and the best he could offer Helen was a fleeting smile. That didn’t deter Helen, though.

  “It should be cherry pie, but no one has any fresh fruit left,” she went on.

  “Thank you, Miss Helen.” He accepted the tart with as much grace as he could without encouraging her.

  Before he could raise it to his mouth to take a bite, Kathleen Brannon, one of the farmers’ daughters, rushed up and nudged Helen aside. “I’ve got some delicious lemonade for you to wash that down with, Dr. Meyers. Raisin tart must be so dry.” She tossed Helen a look to insult the baker and not the tart.

  “How considerate.” Dean took the jug of lemonade in his free hand, hoping to stem the feud about to break out. He bit into the tart and drank from the jug, smiling and nodding at both girls. Pete covered his face to hide his laughter.

  “What do you think?” Helen asked, eyes aglow.

  “I squeezed the lemons myself,” Kathleen added, not to be outdone.

  “It’s a special recipe,” Helen nudged her out of the way.

  “So’s mine,” Kathleen growled.

  Dean finished chewing and swallowed, working out how to answer without encouraging or offending either girl. His attention drifted right past them to the Suttons’ wagon. Emma had just climbed down from the back. He’d watched her navigate her family’s wagon a hundred times, but this time his eyes flew wide.

  Instead of wearing her usual prairie cottons, she was dressed to the nines. Her gown was
pale green silk with a skirt full enough for a New York City ball. The neckline was cut low to show a sharp line between her tanned neck and the porcelain white of her shoulders. Her sunny hair was caught up in a green ribbon. She looked like a goddess. She looked utterly out of place. She looked mortified.

  “I can make you a cake,” Helen was saying, or at least he thought it was Helen talking. His attention was firmly with Emma.

  Mrs. Sutton stood from the fire, where she was cooking, and exclaimed at the sight of Emma. They were too far away for Dean to make out the words, but he could see that Mrs. Sutton was pleased. Part of her words had to have been an order, though, because Emma held her arms to the side and spun so that her mother could have a look. It seemed as though Mrs. Sutton approved as much as Dean did. As Emma completed her last turn, Mrs. Sutton took her arm and drew her to their campfire. She leaned closer and whispered something to Emma, pointing at the pot hanging on a trivet over the fire and then to Dean.

  “What’s the matter?” Kathleen’s sharp question forced Dean to drag his eyes away from the curiosity of Emma and her mother. “Don’t you like lemonade?”

  Dean had completely forgotten he was holding the jug and tart. “Oh, yes, of course.” He took another long draught and another bite of the tart.

  “Then why aren’t you eating more?” Helen asked.

  Across from where Dean sat, Pete was shaking with laughter. “Now ladies, you can’t expect poor Dr. Meyers to devour a feast when so many lovely ladies are serving it up.”

  Dean nearly choked on tart. At least he had the lemonade to keep him from coughing. “You’re too kind,” he croaked to Helen and Kathleen.

  Across the wagons, Mrs. Sutton thrust a long spoon into Emma’s hand. Emma was still trying to argue, but Mrs. Sutton was having none of it. She turned and pointed directly to Dean… and the girls standing on either side of him. Then she gestured to the simmering pot.

  Emma’s shoulders heaved in a sigh as she went to work stirring whatever was cooking in the pot. She peeked at him. Their eyes met. Dean couldn’t help but smile, mouth full of raisins and pastry. Emma turned bright pink and snapped away.

  “Kathleen, why are you bothering the doctor?” The voice of an older woman interrupted the already ludicrous scene. Dean twisted to see Kathleen’s mother striding toward his camp. “Can’t you see he’s busy with Mr. Evans?”

  “Oh, don’t mind me, ma’am,” Pete chuckled. “I’m just enjoying the show.”

  Dean sent him a short scowl. He was enjoying it a little too much.

  “Oh mother. I couldn’t help myself. I saw Dr. Meyers sitting here looking so parched. I just had to bring him some of our lovely, sweet, homemade lemonade.” The way Kathleen delivered the line was practiced in every way.

  So was her mother’s reply. “How kind of you, dear. But that’s my Kathleen for you. She is the soul of kindness, and so thoughtful too. Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Meyers?”

  “I’m kind,” Helen growled. “And thoughtful, and I’m a good cook.”

  “Yes, and I can sew and keep house.” Kathleen stepped behind Dean’s back to stand toe-to-toe with Helen.

  “I can keep house and I make quilts,” Helen said.

  Kathleen’s mother’s proud smile slipped at the unexpected contest. “Oh, well, girls, perhaps we really should leave Dr. Meyers to his lunch.”

  “Yes, well you might quilt, but my strawberry jam won the Allegheny County blue ribbon every Fourth of July for the last three years,” Kathleen argued.

  “Kathleen.” Her mother laughed and grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Maybe now isn’t such a good time to—”

  “I believe you,” Helen cut her off, eyes narrowed at Kathleen. “I can tell by your figure that you enjoy a lot of that strawberry jam.”

  Kathleen yelped. Her mother yanked her away. Pete roared outright with laughter.

  Dean hardly heard a word of it. What did Emma think she was doing? She couldn’t possibly cook over an open flame in a skirt like that. Every time she attempted to lean closer to the steaming pot, the silk of her dress brushed too close to the embers. She caught it and held it back, but that left her standing at an awkward angle as she stirred whatever was in the pot. Steam curled up into her face, causing the tendrils of hair at her neck to go limp and slip out of their elaborate style almost before his eyes. He couldn’t let her go on like that.

  “Excuse me, ladies.” He stood and handed the jug of lemonade to Helen—who had a fist raised and aimed at Kathleen—and the rest of the raisin tart to Kathleen as her mother yanked her away from Helen.

  He left the turmoil behind him to stride down the line of wagons to where he was truly needed.

  “But where are you—” one of the girls started behind him as he left. He heard several female voices murmur in protest, but whatever they had to say, it could wait.

  Emma glanced up from her work with a start as he approached. A smile touched her lips for the briefest moment before it dropped entirely. Her eyes grew wide in dread. “D-Dr. Meyers.”

  She straightened, which caused her voluminous skirt to break free of the hold she had on it and stray into the fire.

  “Whoa!” Dean jumped toward her, scooping her around the waist and lifting her away from the flames before they could ignite her dress. “Careful there.”

  For a moment, she was in his arms. His hands spread around the delicate circumference of her waist. She was tiny and light as a feather. He could close his arms fully around her if he wanted to. He could pull her close and tilt her head back and kiss her. He could see in her large, sparkling eyes that she would welcome a kiss. She would taste like spun sugar and everything fine.

  “Dr. Meyers!” Mrs. Sutton’s squealed greeting shook him out of his thoughts. He let Emma go with an apologetic grin and took a step back. It wasn’t like him to get so carried away, but Emma wasn’t like any woman he had ever known.

  What did it feel like when your heart stopped and the world tilted off its axis? Emma was certain she now knew as she fought to balance herself when Dean let her go. He had held her. He had actually held her. His eyes had been so full of fire for just that one second, even though they were bright with sheepishness now. He had rescued her. He’d come all the way across the line of wagons, leaving the company of two very pretty young ladies, to rescue her from the cooking fire.

  Of course, it’s your own fault that you needed rescuing in the first place, a niggling voice at the back of her head told her.

  “Dr. Meyers, it’s so good to see you back again.” Her mother swept around the campfire, avoiding Emma’s ridiculously large skirts, to stand between Emma and Dean. She clapped her hands together and darted a glance between the two of them. “Doesn’t Emma look beautiful today? Doesn’t she look just grand?”

  “Mother,” Emma whispered in a futile attempt to dissuade her mother’s plotting. She looked like an overdressed ninny is what she looked like. It might have been appropriate to dress in finery in New York society, but this was the Nebraska Territory.

  “You look stunning, Miss Emma,” Dean took the bait with a graciousness that left Emma writhing with shame and guilt.

  “Thank you.” Without thinking, she curtsied the way she would if she was being introduced to an officer at a ball. And she still held the long-handled cooking spoon. She cringed as she straightened.

  “I saw you struggling with the campfire and I thought I’d come over and help,” Dean went on. “What can I do?”

  “Emma is quite an accomplished cook,” her mother lied, laying a hand on Emma’s arm. “She doesn’t have much to work with here on the prairie, but her beef stew is surprisingly good, isn’t it dear?”

  Her mother twisted to appeal to her father. Father sat on the chair he’d deliberately taken from his office back home, which was brought out of the wagon at every stop, reading a book. He peeked up when the silence told him his input was required.

  “Yes,” he said with a smile. “Whatever you said, yes.” With that, he went ba
ck to his book.

  Emma would have squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples if it wouldn’t have given away how embarrassing the situation was. There was no use resisting her mother when she had a plot to hatch, so she forced herself to smile and keep her eyes lowered.

  “Let me take that at least.” Dean stepped forward and took the spoon from Emma’s hand. “I’m afraid you’re dripping gravy on your fine gown.”

  “Oh dear.” She gasped as she noticed the greasy, brown spot marring her dress. She should never have let mother talk her into this. Dean was bound to laugh and leave her, and she would ruin a dress too.

  It was small consolation that Dean’s fingers brushed hers as he took the spoon from her, and that the smile he gave her was downright conspiratorial. Maybe he wouldn’t fall apart laughing at her after all. He crossed to the fire and peered into the pot of stew on its trivet.

  “It smells delicious,” he said. “Should I stir it?”

  Well, you can’t very well stand there like the wallflower you are while he does your chores for you, she told herself. “Yes,” she said aloud. “But stir it slowly.”

  She took a half step closer to him, careful to keep her stained skirt away from the fire.

  Her mother heaved a happy sigh. “Why don’t you two young people mind the stew and I’ll finish getting out the tea things.”

  “I can help you carry anything heavy,” Dean offered.

  “Oh no,” her mother protested. “Emma needs you far more than I do.”

  Emma needs to be a thousand miles away from here in a room by herself where she can’t be embarrassed, she thought. Aloud, she managed to whisper, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” Dean answered so that only she could hear.

  “For… for my mother.”

  Dean chuckled. Her heart came close to melting. “I’ve spent a good deal of my life dealing with overeager mothers,” he confided, “starting with my own. I was contending with another just a moment ago.”