Joe’s empty stomach rumble. There wasn’t much variety in trail food. But at least the old man was good at his job.
The clanging of a metal spoon on a skillet shattered the peace of the morning. “Come and git it,” Rusty yelled. “Git a move on, or I’ll feed it to the coyotes!”
Joe sat up and hurried to pull his clothes and boots over his long underwear. Around him, the other men were doing the same, some groaning and cursing. The two who’d ridden night watch over the herd had barely managed three hours of sleep. But that didn’t matter. It was time to start the long day.
Joe splashed his hands and face with a trickle of water from the barrel mounted on the chuckwagon, then hurried to get his breakfast. He knew better than to tell any of the crew about this being his birthday. The men would rib him unmercifully, and probably even play a few tricks, like throwing him in the Red River, which they’d be crossing with the herd this morning.
As he sat on the ground, wolfing down his beans, bacon, and biscuits, and gulping thick, black coffee from a tin mug, it struck him that he’d neglected to murmur a word of grace, something he’d promised his mother he would do before every meal. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d forgotten. But it was too late now. He would remind himself at noon and again at suppertime.
On the far side of the fire, through the rising smoke, he could see the boss, Mr. Benteen Calder, drinking his coffee on his feet. Soon he’d be riding out ahead of the herd to plot out the best route for the cattle, horses, and wagons and choose a spot for the chuckwagon to stop and prepare the noon meal.
Benteen Calder was a tall man, broad in the shoulders with a rugged face and a trail-hardened body. Joe admired him to the point of hero worship. He was bold but prudent, tough but fair—the kind of man Joe aimed to become with time and experience.
“Joe, come here.” Calder’s gaze pierced the smoke. “I want to talk to you.”
Joe had finished his plate and wiped it clean with the last bite of biscuit. As he rose, he slipped it into the wreck pan and strode around the fire. “Yes, Mr. Calder? What can I do for you?”
Calder finished his coffee. “This morning we’ll be crossing the Red River. With wagons and animals in moving water, anything can go wrong.”
“Yes, sir, I know. How can I help?” Joe could tell from the boss’s slight nod that he’d said the right thing.
“We’ll be taking the wagons across first,” Calder said. “My wife’s been driving our wagon and doing fine. But I’m not sure she’s up to handling it in the river. I want you to drive her across, trailing your horse. When you get the wagon to the other side, you can ride back and help with the remuda and the herd. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” It was a big responsibility, but Joe was thrilled to have been asked. “I’ll do my best.”
“I don’t have to tell you how important my wife’s safety is to me.”
“Don’t worry, sir. I won’t let anything happen to her.” Calder’s new bride, Lorna, was the prettiest woman Joe had ever seen. The job he’d been given would be like protecting a priceless porcelain doll.
He was still thinking about Lorna as he saddled his pony and rode out to help Yates, the bowlegged wrangler, round up the horses and herd them into the makeshift rope corral for the men to saddle and ride.
Lorna Calder was a true lady with sparkling brown eyes and a tumble of rich, dark mahogany hair. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen—barely older than Joe. But she was already a woman and a wife. Truth be told, Joe was more than a little sweet on her. She’d been friendly, letting him hitch her wagon team and saddle the buttermilk buckskin he’d chosen for her to ride; but he knew better than to act on his feelings. Benteen Calder was capable of killing any man who touched his bride.
After the first night on the trail, he’d made sure to lay his bedroll well away from their wagon. The faint sounds coming from under the canvas had roused forbidden images that would have shocked his God-fearing mother. As a farm boy, Joe was well acquainted with the basics of sex. But he was