Chapter Thirteen
The morning sun rose slowly, burning away the lingering mist. The wagon train moved steadily across the prairie, the wheels crunching over the hardened ground as the horses plodded on.
Angela sat beside James again, her hands clasped in her lap as she watched the endless expanse of tall grass stretching out around them.
After their conversation the day before, Angela had hoped that James would be friendlier toward her, more conversations. However, James seemed quieter than usual, if that was at all possible, his gaze fixed on the trail ahead, his face drawn into a thoughtful frown.
He barely said a word all morning, responding to her occasional remarks with little more than a grunt or a nod.
It wasn’t like the silence between them after the storm, which had been awkward and cold.
This was different—charged with something heavier, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what.
After a while, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She turned to him, her voice tentative but firm.
“Mr. Whitaker, is something bothering you?”
He didn’t answer right away, his jaw tightening as he flicked the reins lightly to guide the horses. Finally, he sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly.
“Thomas thinks someone’s been stealing from his wagon,” he said, his voice low and strained.
Angela’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Stealing? What’s missing?”
“Some personal things,” James replied, his tone clipped. “A watch, some jewelry. Said they were keepsakes from his family.”
Angela’s heart sank. She knew how precious such items could be, especially out here, where reminders of home and loved ones were all people had to hold onto.
“That’s terrible,” she murmured.
“Out here, things can get misplaced,” James said, although it sounded to Angela as if he was trying to convince himself. “It’s easy to lose track of stuff when you’re packing and unpacking every day.”
“Perhaps they were lost during the storm?” Angela ventured.
James said nothing, a muscle in his jaw tightening.
“You don’t think someone would really steal from him?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.
“Maybe,” James admitted reluctantly. “I’ve seen it happen before, but not often. Most folks know better. Trust is everything out here. Lose that, and the whole train falls apart.”
Angela studied his face, noting the weariness in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. She could not imagine what it must be like to have the weight of every person in the train resting squarely on him, and she could see how it wore him down, how it hardened him.
“We should pray about it,” she said gently.
James’s mouth tightened, and he shook his head. “That’s not going to solve anything.”
Angela blinked, caught off guard by his quick dismissal. “But it might help,” she pressed. “At least it could give you some peace of mind.”
James snorted softly, the sound humorless. “Peace of mind doesn’t come from words whispered into the wind, Angela. It comes from action. From figuring out what’s wrong and fixing it.”
She bit her lip, unsure whether to argue. She wanted to tell him that prayer wasn’t just words, that it was a way to find strength and guidance, especially in moments like this. But the look on his face stopped her—the stubborn set of his jaw, the guardedness in his eyes.
Instead, she sighed softly, letting the matter drop. “All right,” she said quietly, turning her gaze back to the horizon.
But it bothered her. His refusal wasn’t just about the situation with Thomas—it was part of something deeper, something that went to the heart of who James was. She couldn’t understand how a man who carried so much, who faced danger and hardship every day, could do so without leaning on faith.
She stole a glance at him, taking in the hard lines of his profile, the way his hat shadowed his eyes.
He was strong—there was no denying that.
But it wasn’t the kind of strength she admired, the quiet resilience of someone who trusted in something greater.
James’s strength was born of necessity, of survival, and it seemed to leave no room for hope, for softness, for anything that might lighten the load he carried.
And yet, she couldn’t help but feel there was more to him than this stoic exterior.
She’d glimpsed it in moments—the way he’d apologized after the storm, the way he’d spoken about Toby teaching him the trail.
There was a man beneath the walls he’d built, a man who had once been different, perhaps even kind.
***
When the wagon train broke for lunch, Angela climbed down from the wagon, stretching her stiff legs and enjoying the brief lull in the journey.
The sun had climbed high, warming the prairie and softening the edge of the breeze. Around her, families set out simple meals of bread, salted pork, and pickled vegetables.
As she glanced around, Angela spotted Lucy a short distance away, sitting on a log near her father’s wagon. The usually exuberant little girl sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, poking halfheartedly at the dirt with a stick.
Concern tugged at Angela, and she made her way over, brushing stray blades of grass from her apron as she walked.
“Lucy?” she called softly.
The girl looked up, her big, round eyes meeting Angela’s with a faint flicker of relief.
“Hi, Miss Angela,” she said, her voice quieter than usual.
Angela kneeled down beside her, resting a hand gently on the log. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You don’t seem like yourself.”
Lucy hesitated, her stick pausing mid-scribble in the dirt. Her little brow furrowed as she glanced toward her father, who was busy hammering something into the side of the wagon, his face set in a deep frown.
“Papa’s upset,” she said at last, her voice trembling slightly. “Really upset.”
Angela’s heart softened, and she leaned in closer. “About the missing things?”
Lucy nodded.
“Those were very special things, weren’t they?” Angela said softly, brushing a stray curl from the little girl’s face.
Lucy nodded, her lip trembling. “The watch was my grandpa’s, and the necklace… it was Mama’s favorite. Papa says they’re all we have left of her.”
A lump rose in her throat as she reached out to squeeze Lucy’s small hand.
“I’m so sorry, Lucy. I know how much those things must mean to you and your papa. But we’ll figure out what happened, all right? You don’t need to worry about it.”
Lucy nodded slowly, but the sadness in her eyes lingered. “You promise?”
“I promise,” Angela said firmly, giving her hand another squeeze. “Now, why don’t you go and play with the others?”
“Okay,” Lucy said, her expression brightening.
As Lucy got up to chase after some of the other children, Angela remained by the log, her thoughts swirling. Who could have taken the watch and jewelry? It wasn’t just the theft that troubled her—it was the broken trust it represented.
***
That same night, the campfire crackled as Angela sat cross-legged on a blanket beside Rosie and Rachel.
Angela stirred the embers with a stick, hesitating for a moment before she spoke. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you both about,” she said softly, her voice low enough not to carry beyond their circle.
Rosie, who had been darning a sock, looked up, her sharp eyes immediately locking onto Angela’s. Rachel, leaning back on her elbows and watching the stars, turned her head as well.
“What is it?” Rosie asked.
Angela glanced around, ensuring no one else was within earshot. “Thomas said some things are missing from his wagon. A gold watch, a necklace, and a brooch. He thinks they’ve been stolen.”
Rosie’s brow furrowed, and she set the sock aside, her hands resting on her lap. “Stolen?” she repeated, her voice tinged with alarm.
Rachel sat up straighter, her playful demeanor giving way to seriousness.
“That’s a big accusation,” she said, her green eyes narrowing. “Are you sure they’re not just misplaced? Things can go missing easily out here.”
Angela shook her head. “Thomas is certain. He told Mr. Whitaker about it last night, and Lucy told me during lunch. Those items were valuable, but more than that, they were sentimental. He’s been holding onto them for years, and now they’re just… gone.”
Rosie sighed, her expression hardening.
“That’s not good. If someone’s stealing from their neighbors out here, it’s more than just a few trinkets we’ll lose. People will start pointing fingers, and that’s a recipe for disaster.”
Rachel nodded, brushing a strand of fiery hair behind her ear.
“Rosie’s right. A thief among us could tear the whole train apart. People need to feel like they can trust each other, especially out here where there’s nowhere to go.”
Angela poked the fire again, watching the sparks rise into the night sky. “It’s been bothering me all day,” she admitted. “Who could have done it? Why would they?”
Rosie pressed her mouth a thin line, her expression thoughtful.
“Sometimes desperation makes people do things they wouldn’t normally do. But we can’t start throwing accusations around without proof. If we’re wrong, we’ll only make things worse.”
Rachel folded her arms, her gaze flicking toward the camp.
“Whoever it is, they’d better think twice about trying it again. Because if they’re caught…”
She left the sentence unfinished, but the hard edge in her voice made the meaning clear.
Angela nodded, her thoughts heavy. As the firelight danced over their faces, she couldn’t shake the unease that had settled in her chest. Trust was fragile on the trail, and if it broke, the consequences could be far more dangerous than any storm.
***
Later that same night, Angela lay on her bedroll, staring up at the canopy of stars above the camp.
The cool night air carried the faint scent of smoke from the dying fire. But despite the peaceful sounds of the camp—soft snores, the distant whinny of a horse—her mind refused to quiet.
The missing supplies, the stolen valuables… It gnawed at her. Who could be stealing from their own group? How could someone betray the fragile trust they all relied on to survive this journey? She rolled onto her side, her thoughts restless and heavy.
I should do something, she thought.
Finally, unable to stand the feeling of helplessness, Angela sat up and reached for the blanket draped over her shoulders.
The campfire was burning low, the embers glowing faintly, and she crept over to it, adding a few pieces of wood.
Sparks shot up into the dark sky as the flames licked at the fresh fuel.
She settled herself near the fire, wrapping the blanket tightly around her. The warmth soothed her, but it didn’t banish her worries. Maybe if she stayed awake, if she kept watch, she could catch the thief in the act.
“I’ll keep an eye on things,” she whispered to herself, the words giving her a small surge of purpose.
Her eyes grew heavy as the minutes ticked by, the warmth of the fire and the stillness of the night making it hard to stay alert. She pinched the inside of her wrist, forcing herself to sit up straighter.
But then she heard it.
A faint rustling, like footsteps, coming from the far side of the camp.
Angela’s heart jumped into her throat. She scanned the darkness beyond the firelight, her breath hitching. The sound came again, softer this time, as if whoever—or whatever—it was didn’t want to be heard.
Clutching her blanket around her shoulders, she got to her feet and took a cautious step toward the sound. Her bare feet made no noise on the cool ground, but the pounding of her heart seemed deafening in her ears.
“Hello?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The rustling stopped.
She hesitated, her pulse racing. Then, gathering her courage, she moved forward again, her steps slow and deliberate.
But suddenly, her foot caught on a root, and she stumbled, the sharp cry of surprise escaping her lips before she could stop it.
She hit the ground hard, the impact jarring her. Pain shot through her ankle, and she bit back a groan as she tried to push herself up.
A shadow loomed over her, and Angela froze.
“Angela?” James’s voice was low but unmistakable, edged with concern.
She looked up, relief flooding her as she saw him crouch beside her. His face was partially lit by the faint glow of the fire, his brows drawn in a frown.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked, his tone firm as he reached for her arm to help her up.
Angela winced as she stood, putting her weight gingerly on her sore ankle. “I—” She hesitated, feeling foolish now under his scrutinizing gaze. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d keep watch.”
“Keep watch?” His brows rose, his voice tinged with disbelief.
She nodded, her cheeks flushing. “With everything that’s been going missing, I thought maybe I could catch whoever it is. I just wanted to help.”
James let out a low sigh, his hand still steadying her. His grip was warm and firm, grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected.
“That’s my job,” he said, his voice softening slightly.
Angela looked up at him, searching his face. “I know, but… I don’t want to just sit by and do nothing. I can’t.”
For a moment, his expression flickered, the hard edge softening into something warmer, more tender.
The firelight caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and Angela’s breath hitched. But just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, replaced by the steady, guarded look she had grown accustomed to.
“Come on,” he said, steering her back toward her bedroll. “You can’t help anyone if you hurt yourself wandering around in the dark.”
James guided her to sit down as they reached the fire, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary.
“Get some sleep, Angela,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle. “I’ll keep watch.”
Angela nodded, her heart still fluttering as she pulled the blanket around her shoulders. She wanted to say something more, to thank him or explain herself better, but the words wouldn’t come.
James turned back toward the edge of the camp, his hand resting on the pistol at his side as he scanned the shadows. Angela watched him for a moment, a strange mix of gratitude and unease swirling in her chest.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a faint movement—just beyond the firelight. A figure.
Her breath hitched, her pulse quickening. It was too dark to make out any features, but the way the shadow shifted, lingering for a moment before disappearing into the darkness, sent a chill down her spine.
Was it the thief? Or something worse?
She looked back at James, who hadn’t noticed the movement, his focus elsewhere. Angela swallowed hard, her hands tightening around the edges of her blanket.
She knew she should say something, but a wave of doubt stopped her. What if it was nothing? What if she was wrong?
But what if she wasn’t?