Andy hurries forward to wrap his arms around Jefferson’s legs, and Jeff reaches down to give him a pat. Then the boy extricates himself to corral Coney. “Bye, Lee! Bye, Tom! Bye, Jefferson!” he calls out with a giant grin. He just lost his first tooth, and I suspect it will be days before he stops showing off the gap in his smile.
With a final wave, we turn our mounts away. We skirt the pond and follow the creek down the slope leading to the American River.
Chapter Ten
“Stop fidgeting, silly girl,” I say to Peony. She’s been dancing all morning as we traveled, head tossing, nostrils flaring. Maybe it’s because she got so used to wearing a saddle.
“Sorry’s been fretting, too,” Jefferson says at my back. He rides just a few lengths behind me. I twist so I can see her. The sorrel mare’s eyes roll about, and her tail twitches like her flanks are covered in flies.
Behind them, Tom and his gray gelding, Apollo, take up the rear. Apollo is as calm as a babe.
“We haven’t been exercising them enough,” I say to Jefferson. “And now they’re as giddy as Andy with a candy jar. They’ll settle.”
“Hope so, or this is going to be a long trip.”
But as I straighten, my neck prickles. I’ve known Peony her whole life, ever since she came slipping out of her mama, a bundle of wet legs. She’s a good horse. The best horse. I trust her as much as I trust anyone, and right now, she thinks something is wrong.
We reach the river and head west. “Look for a ford,” Tom calls to us. “It would be best to avoid those claim jumpers who attacked us. Let’s go around them if we can.”
“Agreed,” says Jefferson.
“I want to be well past them before we make camp,” I add.
A path meanders along the river now, which makes for easy riding. The prickly scent of burning pine from a nearby campfire fills the air. We pass a blackberry bramble that hugs the water’s edge; a mess of fishing line is all tangled up in the branches.
Plenty of prospectors will be passing winter in this area, for sure and certain. We can’t see them, but you don’t have to be a dab at tracking to find marks of their passage.
We come to a flat stretch of land, where the river seems to widen and slow. We pause at the edge, sizing things up.
“We’d have to swim the horses,” Jefferson says.
“At least the current doesn’t look too bad,” I say. “Tom, is that gelding of yours a good water horse?”
“The best,” Tom says proudly.
“All right, then. Let’s do this,” I say, leaning down toward my boots.
We all tie the laces of our boot pairs together and hang them around our necks. Jefferson and Tom remove their saddlebags and flip them over their shoulders.
I urge Peony forward, and she splashes happily into the river, her tail whipping up as much water as possible onto her back, giving no thought to her rider’s preference to stay dry.
The water is icy cold on my bare feet. I wince as it reaches my thighs, then suddenly we’re swimming, bobbing downstream as much as across it, the water soaking me past my waist.
“Dear Lord in heaven, that’s cold!” Tom calls out.
I hold my guns high and cluck at Peony to swim faster as the chill works its way through my whole body.
Finally we reach the opposite bank, at least a hundred yards downriver from where we entered. The horses clamber ashore over a small lip of grass and rock. Then Sorry explodes into a sudden shake that showers us all with river water.
“Blasted horse,” Jefferson mumbles, wiping water from his eyes and forehead.
I’m shivering fit to burst. “We need to find a campsite and get a fire started,” I say, teeth chattering.
We’ve hobbled the horses and laid out our blankets beside a roaring fire. I didn’t bring a change of trousers, so I’ll have to wear them as they dry. Our rifles are laid out and ready, all loaded, which makes me a little nervous. Daddy had a “no loaded guns in the house” rule on account of potential backfires, and it’s strange to have mine heavy and full beside me, even though I’m not hunting. But this is California Territory, and we have to be prepared for anything.
“I don’t like the way Sorry and Peony took to the trail,” Jefferson says, poking at the fire with a stick. “They’re a bundle of nerves.”
“Apollo seems fine,” Tom says.
We’re across the river and far enough from the claim jumpers that we should be safe. But my neck is still prickling.
“I trust my horse,” I tell them. “If Peony says something isn’t right, I believe her.”
“I’ll keep first watch,” Jefferson says.
“I can do it,” Tom says. One of his law books lies open across his lap, and he’s trying to read by the meager firelight. “I need to study up on property law before we reach Sacramento.”
He’ll be looking at his book more than he’ll be looking out for danger. “Jeff, you do it,” I say. “If I were to guess, I’d say someone has eyes on us. Horses don’t like it when they can sense a critter but not see it.”
“You think we’re being followed?” Jefferson asks.
“I think you’d better stay extra alert tonight.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious, Jeff. Someone snuck up on both Hampton and Martin, and neither of them are shirkers.”
He grins. “You’re worried for me, aren’t you?”
“Course I am.”
“Know what I think?”
I scowl at him, which only widens his grin.
He steps closer, puts a hand to my chin, and lifts it so I can’t avoid his gaze. “I think you’re in love with me,” he says.
I stare at his lips. What comes out of my mouth is: “Jefferson McCauley Kingfisher, you have the swagger of a rooster and the swelled head of a melon.” But what I’m thinking is how much I’d like to try that kissing thing again.
On the other side of the campfire, Tom is trying awfully hard to pretend to be invisible. Heat fills my cheeks, but Jefferson doesn’t seem to care one whit that we’re overheard. “You’ll admit it soon enough,” he says. “I told you I’d change your mind about . . . things. And I will.” His thumb caresses the line of my jaw. He bends forward until his lips are so close to mine I can feel the warmth of his breath.