Chapter Six
The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the landscape as James guided the wagon over the uneven trail.
The prairie stretched endlessly on either side, the tall grasses bending in waves under the light breeze, and the rhythmic creak of the wagon wheels filled the silence.
It was the kind of morning he usually enjoyed—the kind that reminded him of why he’d taken to this life in the first place.
But this morning, he wasn’t alone. Angela sat beside him on the wagon’s bench, her nose buried in her Bible. But he knew it was only a matter of time before she began casting him tentative glances, as if searching for some sign that he might welcome conversation.
James was used to solitude, used to the quiet that accompanied him across the plains.
Out here, he was his own company, his own confidant.
He’d come to cherish the silence, to need it, even.
Out here, he didn’t have to pretend, didn’t have to deal with questions or prying glances.
He had long learned that solitude was safer—solitude didn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer, and it didn’t press him to open up wounds he’d long since locked away.
As he glanced her way, Angela leaned over the delicate pages, her brow furrowed in concentration as her lips moved softly, following the words.
Something in her expression—a quiet reverence, a sort of peace that seemed untouched by the roughness of the trail—stirred something uncomfortable in him, something he’d spent years trying to bury.
Angela must have sensed his gaze because she looked up, her eyes meeting his with a soft, searching expression. She hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Would you like me to read you something?”
James straightened, his mouth setting in a hard line. “No,” he replied flatly.
A flicker of surprise crossed her face, and she looked down at the Bible, her fingers tracing one of the well-worn edges.
“Oh,” she murmured, her voice uncertain. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“I am not offended,” James said. “I just don’t want to hear it.”
Angela pressed her lips together for a moment, her brow furrowing.
“I must admit I am surprised,” she said. “I would have expected, well, with your job out here and all, I would have thought you’d be a man of faith. You’d need faith to see you through all the hardships the trail brings.”
James gritted his teeth, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the trail ahead. “I don’t need faith,” he said, his tone cool and hard. “Just experience and common sense. That’s all a man needs out here.”
Angela closed her Bible gently, resting it on her lap as she considered his words.
“But… it’s dangerous, isn’t it? All this… the uncertainty, the risks? I would think—” She broke off, searching his face. “Well, I’d think a man like you would find comfort in trusting God to guide you.”
James gave a bitter chuckle, a sound as harsh as gravel underfoot.
“Comfort?” He shook his head, his jaw tight.
“Comfort doesn’t keep you safe out here.
God doesn’t keep you safe. Not when the storms come, or the rivers rise, or sickness hits without warning.
” His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “The only thing that matters is what you can control, what you can see right in front of you.”
Angela looked at him, her eyes wide, as if she were glimpsing a piece of him he hadn’t meant to reveal.
“You really don’t believe that God’s looking out for us?” she asked, her voice gentle but probing.
He felt the question like a thorn in his side, pricking an old wound he didn’t care to reopen. Memories he’d tried to bury—of prayers unanswered, of losses that faith had done nothing to prevent—hovered at the edges of his mind, but he pushed them back.
As a boy, he’d loved God with pure, steady trust. He believed wholeheartedly in the good things his father taught him.
Every Sunday morning, he’d sit in the little chapel at the edge of town, his voice rising among the others as they sang hymns that filled him with a joy he couldn’t explain.
Back then, he’d felt as though God was a steady presence, as constant as the sun rising over the fields each morning, as close as his own shadow.
But that had all changed now.
“What I believe,” he said, his tone steely, “is that people who spend too much time waiting on miracles are usually the first ones left behind. Out here, you take care of yourself, or you don’t make it. It’s as simple as that.”
Angela looked down, her hand resting protectively over her Bible. Her expression softened, as if she sensed his pain without fully understanding it.
“Well,” she murmured quietly, “I guess… I see things differently. I think God is out here, guiding us—even in the quiet ways, the ways we might not see right away.”
James clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to respond. Instead, he tightened his grip on the reins, his knuckles white, as he steeled himself against the words she’d spoken. He didn’t need faith, didn’t want it—it had betrayed him long ago.
And as the wagon creaked on down the endless stretch of trail, he kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead, trying to ignore the small, persistent voice in the back of his mind that dared to wonder if she might be right.
***
That evening, James sat by the fire, his gaze drawn to Angela as she kneeled beside the other women, sleeves rolled up as she helped scrub the remnants of dinner from tin plates and iron pans.
The firelight cast a warm, flickering glow over her face, softening her features, highlighting the faint lines of worry and determination etched into her expression.
She listened intently to Rosie’s instructions, nodding, her hands working steadily as though every task were a small act of purpose.
It was clear she was trying to prove herself, to fit in.
But why had she needed to stow away in the first place?
What could have been desperate enough to send her across hundreds of miles without a penny to her name?
James leaned back against his saddle, the embers crackling as he watched her, questions pricking at the edges of his thoughts.
She didn’t carry herself like a runaway or a grifter trying to slip past his watchful eye.
No, she worked hard and kept to herself—almost too much, really, as if she were afraid to draw attention to the shadows that lingered behind her eyes.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone on the trail running from something, carrying a past that made them flee westward, but there was something different about Angela.
A sort of quiet defiance beneath her gentle manner, a resolve that didn’t seem broken despite whatever she had left behind.
The fire popped, snapping him from his thoughts. James took a sip from his cup, and as he did, a coyote’s howl pierced the night, long and mournful, echoing across the open prairie. Instinctively, he set his cup down and rose, his eyes scanning the darkness as he moved toward the horses.
The animals shifted uneasily, snorting and stamping in response to the distant call, their breath visible in the cool night air.
He strode past the wagons, running a hand along the horses’ necks to soothe them, murmuring low words of comfort. The animals calmed under his steady touch, their movements settling, though their ears remained pricked toward the sound.
Satisfied they’d quieted, he turned to walk back, but something stopped him in his tracks. Footsteps—quick, hurried, fading into the night.
James spun around, eyes narrowing as he scanned the shadows between the wagons, but there was no one in sight.
The camp was still, the only sounds the low murmur of conversation and the crackling of fire.
He took a step forward, listening intently, but the footsteps were gone, vanished into the silent vastness around them.
His brow furrowed. It could have been any of the travelers out for a late walk, maybe one of the children dashing back to their tent. But something about it unsettled him, the way the steps had sounded rushed, almost panicked.
He stood for a moment longer, scanning the darkened shapes of the wagons and tents, but the prairie remained quiet.
Just then, Toby Carter rounded the corner of the wagon, rifle in hand, his expression alert as his sharp eyes scanned the open prairie.
Toby was the kind of man who seemed built for the frontier, with a lean, wiry frame that made him quick on his feet and a quiet confidence that came from years spent living close to the land.
He was in his early forties, the streaks of gray in his dark hair visible under his worn hat, and his face was tanned and weathered from years of sun and dust. Though he was a man of few words, he was always the first to volunteer when trouble called, his instincts quick and dependable.
“Any sign of them?” Toby asked, his voice low but steady, as if he were discussing nothing more unusual than the weather.
James shook his head, casting a glance back toward the dark horizon. “None. Just the howl. Horses are a bit on edge, but they’ll settle.”
Toby nodded, letting his rifle rest over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on James. “Figured I’d check, just in case.” He paused, then gave James a knowing look. “So, how’s that new passenger of yours settling in?”
James frowned, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “I’m tired, Toby. Don’t feel like talkin’ about it.”
A faint smirk crossed Toby’s face, but he didn’t press, sensing James’s reluctance. Toby was no stranger to stowaways and wanderers on the trail; he’d seen his fair share, and he knew well enough not to pry.
“Fair enough,” he replied, glancing toward the campfire where Angela was still helping Rosie with the dishes. “Just figured it’d be an adjustment, that’s all.”
James let out a low sigh, crossing his arms. “It’s an adjustment, all right,” he muttered.
Toby chuckled softly, a sound barely more than a rumble as he shook his head. “Well, I will say goodnight.”
With a nod, Toby tipped his hat and moved back toward his own wagon, rifle still at the ready. James watched him go.
Despite the years they’d known each other, Toby had a way of knowing when to leave things well enough alone. He didn’t question James’s choices, didn’t push when it wasn’t necessary.
As James settled back by the fire, he tried to shake off the uneasy feeling from earlier, the faint echo of those hurried footsteps lingering in his mind. The camp had quieted now, with most travelers turning in for the night, their tents and wagons shadowed against the fire’s fading glow.
He stared into the embers, lost in thought, when the sharp snap of a twig broke the silence behind him. In a flash, he was on his feet, his hand instinctively going to the knife at his belt. He turned quickly, eyes narrowed, but relaxed only slightly when he saw who it was.
“Sorry,” Angela said, stepping back, her eyes wide with surprise. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
James let out a slow breath, lowering his hand but not quite dropping his guard. He studied her for a moment, the firelight casting a soft glow on her face, highlighting the uncertainty in her expression.
“It’s late,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You should be in bed. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
Angela hesitated, glancing back at the line of wagons before turning her gaze back to him. “Are you going to sleep?” she asked.
“No,” James said. “I’ll be here, sitting up for a while. Coyotes have been circling, and I’d rather keep an eye out.”
Angela’s brow furrowed, and she stepped a little closer, her voice softer now. “You’re staying up alone? Don’t you need sleep too?”
“I’m used to it,” he replied with a shrug. “Been doing this a long time.”
“I could keep you company?” she offered.
“No,” James said. “But thanks.”
She hesitated, shifting her weight as though she wanted to say something more. Her eyes flicked to the fire, then back to him, and for a moment, it seemed like she was searching for the right words. But whatever it was, she decided against it.
“All right then,” she murmured. “Goodnight, Mr. Whitaker.”
He nodded once. “Goodnight.”
She turned to go, her figure slipping back into the darkness, the light from the fire casting her in silhouette for a moment before she disappeared among the wagons. James watched her go, a strange brew of emotions swirling in his chest—curiosity, caution, and something else he couldn’t quite name.
As she vanished from sight, he shook his head, running a hand through his hair, letting out a low, frustrated sigh. He didn’t want to care about her, didn’t want to feel anything at all.