This Calder Range (Calder Saga 1)

Her chin was quivering when Mary finally lifted her head to look at her. “Oh, Lorna …” her voice wavered. “My pa’s chickens back home have a better life than I do.”

It was a combination of heat, thirst, frayed nerves, and exhaustion that worked on Lorna. Mary’s remark first made her smile, then chuckle; then she started laughing and couldn’t stop. It was so true. Any farm animal had it better than they did. Soon Mary was laughing with her, until both of them were laughing and crying at the same time in mutual misery, collapsing against the wagon wheel’s spokes when they could no longer support themselves.

Rusty eyed them anxiously, certain they had gone mad from thirst and not knowing what to do. But it was an emotional release that gradually ended. Lorna rested against the spokes and stared at her friend.

“Mary, I wish you weren’t leaving us when we reach Dodge City,” she murmured soberly. “I would never have made it this far without you. When I think how far we have to travel yet to get to Montana, I don’t know if I can make it without you along to make everything bearable.”

“You can,” Mary insisted, but there was a longing in her eyes, too.

“Why don’t you and Ely come with us to Montana?” Lorna suggested eagerly. “It’s new country. You and Ely could homestead some land near Benteen and me. Then we could see each other once in a while.”

“We planned to go to Ioway.” But Lorna could see Mary was wavering.

“Would you think about it?” Lorna urged.

“I’ll think about it.” But Mary added a warning to her agreement. “But I’m not promising anything.”

“Let’s drink to that.” Lorna lifted the cup in a toast, took a sip of the water, and offered it to Mary.

Mary’s sip turned into a swallow. Remorse twisted through her face. “I’ve drank nearly all of your water. I’ll give you some of mine.”

“No.” Lorna refused with a small shake of her head. “I’ve had enough anyway.” She glanced at the amount of water remaining in the cup Mary returned to her. “There’s enough here for my rose cuttings. I can’t let them die now.”

She used the wagon wheel to help pull herself upright. Even though she was still hot, tired, thirsty, and a little weak, she felt a little better inside. It was a constant surprise to discover how much strength she possessed—the strength to endure, the strength to go on when she thought she couldn’t, the will to survive and still be able to find something to laugh about. Lorna walked to the far side of the wagon, where she’d tucked the cuttings under the seat.

When Benteen rode into camp, he noticed Mary sitting in the shade of her wagon, but there wasn’t any sign of Lorna. He dismounted, tying the reins of his sweating horse to the wheel of the chuck wagon. After he’d poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee he looked around camp again for her, then wandered over to Mary.

“How are you holding up?” he asked with a gentle look of concern.

“

Much better, thanks to your wife.” Mary smiled wanly. “I was wrong about her.”

“What do you mean?” Benteen didn’t recall the comment Mary had made on her first meeting with Lorna.

“I thought because she was used to soft things she wouldn’t be able to take it out here, but you said she was strong. And she is. Stronger than me.”

His brow lifted in skepticism as he studied the sturdy woman. “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

“She just gave me most of her water,” Mary said. “When I offered her my share in exchange, she refused it. Can you imagine?” Worry flickered through her eyes. “You’d better see that she drinks some. She’s saving what’s left for her mother’s roses.”

“What!” It was a quick, low retort as his gaze swung sharply to the wagon. Benteen could just barely see the top of her head on the far side, the bulk of the wagon hiding her from his view. “Take this.” Benteen pushed the cup at Mary. It would have dropped if she hadn’t caught it.

He crossed to the wagon and step-vaulted over the tongue and crosstree. When he rounded the high box seat, Lorna was carefully moistening the cuttings to use every precious drop of the water. A rage shook him when she looked up. The ordeal of the last ninety miles had sunken hollows under her eyes, parched and dried her lips raw, and put exhaustion in her face.

“You stupid little fool!” Benteen rumbled and grabbed the rose cuttings from her hand before she could react. His gloved hand tightened into a fist around them. “What do you think you’re doing?” He silently cursed the bewilderment in her eyes.

“I was just giving my roses some water,” Lorna admitted. “It wasn’t very much, Benteen.”

“All around you, there’s thirsty men and animals—and you’re watering plants! Have you lost your mind?” The forbidding set of his features was emphasized by the gritted teeth and the dirt and four-day-old beard darkening his jaw. His dark eyes were burning black. Lorna had seen him angry before, but never like this—never at the point of losing control.

“I couldn’t let the roses die,” she argued lamely.

“And that little bit of water might be the difference between you living and dying. And you wasted it on these!” His doubled fist had a stranglehold on the plants as it made an angry upraised gesture.

“I didn’t think,” Lorna murmured.

“I swear you never think,” he growled, and turned, heaving the rose cuttings as far as he could throw them.