âAre you saying I donât have as much sense as a horse?â
Lily demanded, scrambling to her feet. âHow dare you! You have the gall to stand there andââ
âWe have to go back to the fort.â He reached for her arm.
Lily jerked away. âI have no intention of going anywhere with you.â
âItâs a longer walk back than you think. Itâll be dark soon.â
She squared her shoulders, a strength she hadnât felt before filling her. âIâll manage, thank you just the same.â Lily drew in a great breath. âIâll go back to the fort when I choose. And Iâll get there on my own.â
âYou wonât make it,â North said, anger creeping into his voice. âMost of the men at the fort will end up out here searching for you, risking their own lives.â
And she isnât worth it, his look seemed to sayâ¦.
The author wishes to thank the following people for their assistance with this book: Debra Brown, Candace Craven, Martha Cooper, Joan Fry, Jane LaMunyon, Jolene Smith, Bonnie Stone, Tanya Stowe, Gary Kodel, M.D., Greg Holt, National Parks Service.
Santa Fe Trail, 1844
Sheâd gone to hell.
Lily St. Claire pressed the damp cloth to her brow, desperate for a momentâs relief. Sheâd died. Yes, that must be it, she decided. Because right now, she had to be in hell.
The covered wagon lurched, a wheel finding another rut in what some overly optimistic guideâa man whom Lily believed truly deserved to be cast into the pit of eternal hellfireâhad referred to as a âtrail.â She braced her foot against a wooden trunk and grabbed the edge of the narrow bunk to keep from toppling to the floor.
A mournful groan reminded Lily that she was very much alive despite the heat, the suffocating wagon, the foul stench of sickness. The man lying on the damp sheets mumbled incoherently. Sweat trickled from his fevered brow, soaking his hair, his tangled gray beard and his thin white nightshirt.
Her father.
A stranger, really.
For weeksâLily wasnât sure how manyâAugustus St. Claire had burned with fever, flailed his arms, conversed with unseen people, even Lilyâs mother, dead twelve years now.
Lily dipped the cloth into the bucket of tepid water and laid it on her fatherâs forehead. Fear and guilt crept into her thoughts. Fear that he wasnât getting any better. Guilt that he was dying before her eyes, and she didnât know how to help him.
A wealthy businessman from Saint Louis, Augustus had stunned Lily when heâd told her of his plan to explore the West, to expand his business holdings in the wilds of Santa Fe. His plan to send her away.
Again.
Since her motherâs death when she was seven years old, Lily had lived in boarding schools. Fine institutes all, catering to the daughters of the wealthy. Sheâd just graduated from Saint Louisâs most prestigious academy for young women, prepared to do what was expected of her and take her place among polite society, when her father had revealed his intentions.
Heâd wanted her to move to her aunt Maribelâs home in Richmond, Virginia, where Lily could take up the sort of life sheâd been raised to lead. He told her harrowing accounts of Indian raids on the Trail, stories of disease and hardship. Yet for all his attempts to discourage her, Lily insisted that she accompany him. She had to take this chanceâperhaps her very last chanceâto get to know the man who was her father.
The trip had promised to be an adventure. Before leaving Saint Louis, Lily had been contacted by the editor of the newspaper and was asked to chronicle the trip in a series of articles. Sheâd packed her journal, her paints and brushes, intending to write poetry and sketch the scenery along the way.
Setting out, sheâd envisioned she and her father working side by side to start the new business, carve out a living together in the new land. Finally, they would truly be a family. Lilyâs heart had soared at the prospect. Perhaps, sheâd hoped, he might even tell her all the things sheâd longed to hear about her mother.
But barely two weeks into the journey, Augustus had sliced open his leg with a hatchet while attempting to split kindling. A deep, nasty cut; Lily had nearly fainted at the sight.