Taylor's Crossing, Idaho Territory, July 28, 1866
Dirt. Declan Mitchell's lips curled in disgust at the four-letter word, then he muttered a stream of his favorite expletives while staring at the dried clumps of dark brown soil caking his battered tall boots and splattered all over his trousers.
Oh, how he despised it, in all its forms and smells, of which, over the past few months and almost two-thousand miles on their journey west, he now knew there were more varieties than would ever be deemed necessary.
It didn't matter if it was the ever loathsome wet and sticky mud—which clung to wagon wheels and clothing with fevered tenacity and made everything ten thousand pounds heavier and inevitably more challenging to maneuver when crossing rugged terrain—or if it was the dryer, choking clouds of powder-fine dust kicked up by the lead oxen and wagon teams that settled into every nook and cranny of his skin and filled his nose and lungs—despite his best attempts to prevent it.
As far as he was concerned, he thought with a grumble of mounting hostility directed at a large clump giving off the unmistakable foul odor of manure and refusing his attempts at dislodging it from the toe of his left boot—only muskrats and toads enjoyed dirt, which, to his knowledge, he was neither.
"Tolls are paid. We're up next," Emerson said, settling a gloved hand on Declan's dusty left shoulder to get his attention before jogging ahead to the family's primary conestoga. "GET READY TO MOVE."
"'Bout damn time," Declan muttered, removing his hat to wipe sweat from his brow before settling it back on his head and adjusting it against the glare of the morning sunshine.
A slight breeze caressed his skin, teasing him with the promise of relief from the morning heat but just like the days and weeks before, it proved no more capable of fulfilling it than Luella was of reciting Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg address.
Ignoring the sweat rolling down the sides of his neck, soaking his shirt and under his arms, he gritted his teeth and climbed into their second wagon, favoring his achy right leg.
Luella, his ever-faithful six-year-old red bloodhound, poked her head through the split in the soiled canvas behind the bench, her droopy eyebrows twitching as she watched him in concern, and he couldn't help but smile and give her an affectionate scratch behind her ears before sitting to the right of his younger brother Wolstan.
"How's Mae?"
Wolstan cast a worried glance into the back of the wagon, "Sleeping now."
"She manage to eat anything yet?"
Wolstan shook his head, "Not much—a little water and a bite of a hotcake. Hopefully, she'll feel better when we've stopped moving longer than a few hours... seems to always make it worse."
Declan grunted, watching the last of the oncoming stream of wagons and horses depart the sturdy-looking bridge spanning the Snake River, allowing Uncle Emerson to maneuver his wagon into place. Then, nudging his brother in his right thigh, he murmured, "We're up."
"Ready to cross one last river?" Wolstan asked as he slapped the reins against the oxen's rumps and carefully drove across the bridge.
"Better be the last one, 'cause if it isn't, I may throw a fit."
"I appreciate the warning," Wolstan quietly teased, sitting up straight and casting a worried glance at the raging waters to his left.
Declan frowned, "Why're you acting nervous? The bridge looks sturdier than you did when you returned from Andersonville."
Wolstan scowled, then resumed watching the river as they slowly crossed the river. "Do you see those rapids?"
"Yes—"
"If this wagon ends up down there—"
"That isn't gonna happen if you keep your eyes focused on the road—"
"Don't tell me how to drive," Wolstan grumbled, his annoyed gaze snapping to Declan's. "I've been driving wagon teams since—"
"Then act like it, Wooly," Declan hissed, folding his arms across his chest and facing forward, his eyes clenched firmly shut. "'Cause your nervousness is making me anxious."
Luella softly whined as she poked her head between them, then licked Declan's neck before resting her head on his right shoulder, bringing a reluctant smile to his face just as the wagon crossed the final few feet of the bridge.
They drove on in silence for several minutes, soothed by the dull rumble of wheels against the firm dirt road and the creak and groan of the wagon, interrupted occasionally by birdsong in nearby pine trees.
Dust was, thankfully, nonexistent due to the lingering effects of the previous day's rainstorm. Meadows bursting with wildflowers stretched as far as the eye could see, broken by creeks, a random homestead, herds of livestock, and the beginnings of plots of farmland.
Mountains rose along the east, running north to south, some low, almost modest rolling hills dotted with pine trees, while others, appearing a faint steely blue from a distance, climbed higher with soaring jagged peaks.
Declan had never seen such a majestic, breathtaking sight.
"It sure is pretty here," Wolstan murmured, leaning forward to glance toward the river behind them and then straightening to scan the area to the east and west.
Declan nodded.
"The sky feels so big—"
"And blue—"
Wolstan laughed.
"What?"
"It's always been blue."
Declan scowled at his brother from the corner of his eye, "Not this shade. There's something different about it out here."
Wolstan squinted and looked to the sky, studying it a moment before grunting, "You're right."
"I know I'm right," Declan muttered, his mood somewhat lightened, wincing when they drove over a deep rut in the road that rattled his teeth.
Then after adjusting his position on the hard bench, he sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and dangling his hands between his knees. "What's the first thing that goes through your mind when you look at those mountains?"
Wolstan glanced at him, and his lips quirked in a lopsided grin, "Which ones?"
Declan snickered and shook his head, "My point exactly. The soul-stirring ones in the distance."
Wolstan stared at him, his left eyebrow arched.
"What?"
"I'm pretty sure you've never described anything, ever, as 'soul-stirring' before—"
"Of course, I have—"
"I didn't think you even knew the word," Wolstan continued with a teasing grin and shake of his head.
Declan rolled his eyes, "You gonna answer my question?"
"My first thought?"
"Yup."
"That I've never been more glad this is where we're settling because I'd sure hate to have to get a wagon across anything scary as them."
Declan nodded, "Mine too... how long do you think it'll be before we can look at a mountain range or a river again and simply enjoy its beauty?"
Wolstan shook his head and returned his attention to the road. "Hopefully, soon... 'cause until then, I can't help but scan the banks of rivers for the best place to ford—"
"Or search for a flatter route over rough terrain," Declan laughed, "ever mindful of prairie dog holes on the trail—"
"Damn those evil vermin," Wolstan chuckled.
They fell into a companionable silence until Declan murmured a few minutes later, "What do you think Mama and Uncle Em have talked about this whole time? How much they hate prairie dogs? Or something more serious?"
Wolstan scoffed and glanced into the wagon bed to check on Mae, briefly met his brothers questioning gaze, and mouthed, "Still sleeping," then sighed and stared at the conestoga ahead of them before shrugging. "How ugly we all thought Kansas was?"
"It was ugly, wasn't it?" Declan chuckled. "The parts we saw, at least."
"The worst."
"And brown."
"But it was flat," Wolstan added with a nod as he snickered, then fell silent before saying, "Maybe they're talking about how Falcon Ridge meets all their expectations of what Duke wrote about—"
"Mountains, trees, and a river, Wooly," Declan interrupted with a wry grin. "He didn't have to promise much. Not to mention we saw several other places along the way that boasted the same three magical words before reaching Idaho territory."
"Not all together," Wolstan laughed, "and were they really mountains—compared to those?" Wolstan motioned to the rugged peeks over his shoulder, looming closer and more impressive. Then, he shook his head, "You said it yourself, and I agree... they're soul-stirring. I've never seen anything like 'em before."
Declan studied Wolstan, "So you have no regrets or harsh feelings about selling the farm and leaving behind everything you've ever known to cross almost two-thousand miles to come to a place you've never laid eyes on and could very well hate come winter?"
"Nope, none," he said without hesitation, then paused before asking, "Do you?"
Deep down inside, Declan wanted to echo his brother's reply—the words crawled up his throat and perched on the tip of his tongue, seconds away from leaping off.
However, whether it be caution or his innate stubbornness, Declan's stomach clenched, uncomfortable prickles danced along his spine, and he found himself averting his gaze as he whispered, "It's too soon to tell."
About a mile later, they passed several tents and the beginnings of other timber-framed structures in various stages of construction before encountering the four main buildings that comprised the town center of Falcon Ridge.
The first was a frame barn, the second a wooden shack proclaiming to be Hunniford's Blacksmith, and the third and fourth were made of adobe, with the slightly larger one sporting a painted sign declaring it to be Johnson's General Store and Bank.
Declan couldn't help but turn to Wolstan and dryly ask, "Care to change your answer?"
"You really want to turn back and leave this view just 'cause town's a little smaller than Chattanooga?"
"A little smaller? You need to have your eyes checked."
"Look around you; it's growing," Wolstan grinned, "I thought you enjoyed privacy and being removed from all the hustle and bustle of a large city."
"I do—"
"Well, then this should be perfect for you—"
Declan snorted a laugh.
"Making noises like that," Wolstan chuckled, "you'll fit in fine with the wildlife."
Declan threw a soft punch at Wolstan's arm, silently admitting to himself it was good they were finally back to teasing like old times after months of treating each other little better than strangers.
He'd never realized how much he loved and appreciated his brother—or Wolstan's ability to tame his waspish ways—until Wolstan was taken from him. First, while fighting on opposite sides during the war when he had no choice but to send an unconscious Wolstan to Andersonville to keep him alive. And second, when Declan revealed the truth of what he'd done and feared he'd lost his brother forever.
It still amazed Declan that Wolstan had found it in his heart to forgive him for such a bitter betrayal. Because, for the longest time, he'd believed heaven and its legion of angels knew that Declan Corbett Mitchell was created for one purpose alone—to prove that he was a miserable, lost soul wholly undeserving of forgiveness.
He'd done too much wrong, been the cause of too much heartache and destruction in the six and a half years after his daddy died fighting for the Federal Army in Mexico—which was the foremost reason he'd found himself enlisting in the Confederacy instead of fighting beside Wolstan where he should have—
"You've gone awful quiet," Wolstan said, interrupting Declan's deep pondering. "And you've got that funny look on your face again."
"I was thinking."
"Penny for your thoughts?"
Declan snickered and shook his head, "Every time you open your mouth, you sound more and more like Uncle Em."
"Don't deflect," Wolstan grinned. "I know you're just annoyed you never actually get paid for speaking your mind."
"Maybe I am," Declan chuckled, then heaved a sigh and shrugged, unwilling to burden his brother with the minor troubles he harbored when he knew Wolstan struggled with lingering horrors after living nine months as a prisoner of war. "Wasn't thinking anything important."
Wolstan studied him before leaning close and saying with a conspiratorial smile, "You were listing all the many aspects you loathe about dirt again, weren't you?"
"No, I was—"
"I HATE DIRT," Wolstan shouted in feigned whiny indignation, his strident voice a hilariously poor imitation of Declan in his fit of irritation from three days ago when they got caught in a nightmarish deluge that made everything a boggy mess to pass through. "This foul gobby goo is either too wet or too dry—never the right consistency for moving anything across, be it wagon or beast. It positively REEKS like a cesspool, no doubt because—"
A deep, rumbling belly laugh escaped Declan before he could call it back; it caught both men by surprise but built into a contagious fit that soon had them doubled over.
"Foul gobby goo," Declan wheezingly laughed several moments later as tears poured down his face, "I forgot about that."
"I don't know what was funnier," Wolstan nodded, struggling to contain his giggles as he wiped his cheeks, "your face when you went off on your tirade or hearing you say those three words."
Not even the slightest bit mortified for his behavior, Declan grinned while clutching his aching ribs and adjusted his position on the bench as his mirth subsided, leaving a pleasant weak-limbed feeling permeating his body—until he noticed his mama and Uncle Em's wagon turning onto the drive toward a sprawling two-story log home and massive barn ahead, surrounded by split rail fencing along the main perimeter.
Wide-open pastures, a pond, modest vegetable gardens, several outbuildings at the back, and pens neatly fenced for chickens, pigs, and other farm animals flanked the home before opening up to the driveway leading to the corral and barn.
"Guess we've finally arrived," Declan murmured, surprised by the sudden rush of unexpected nervousness that flooded his veins.
Wolstan nodded as he drove the wagon behind their mama and Uncle Em's through the fence entrance and slowed to a stop in front of the barn. "It's more stately than I imagined a home on a ranch would look," he whispered, catching his brother's eye before setting the brake.
"Uncle Em might only be asking for directions."
"Doubtful," Wolstan chuckled, "considering the highly detailed specifications on the supplies we'd need and which routes to take that Duke gave in his letters."
Noticing a woman at the pond near the rear of the house, Declan grunted his reply as he climbed from the wagon and walked to release the hatch, granting Luella her freedom, then turned and studied his surroundings.
"Stay close, girl," he murmured, his hands perched on his hips and brow puckering in a frown. "Who knows what kind of mischief you'll find roaming out here if you go too far."
Wolstan scrambled over the bench into the back. "Mae... we're here, love."
"Well?" Emerson asked, walking to Declan with Emmaline's arm looped through his left, "What do you think of the place?"
"Do you see those wondrous mountains, Declan?" Emmaline said before he could answer his uncle, shielding her gaze from the morning sunlight, "I was telling Emerson I believe having a view like that for the rest of our lives makes all the pain and misery we suffered on the trail well worth every mile."
"I'd have to be blind not to see 'em."
Emmaline waited a moment, then when Declan didn't continue, she quirked a brow, "But that's all you're gonna say on the matter, is it?"
"Mama, I stink like I haven't washed in a month of Sundays and am covered in an inch of filth—"
"I fail to see how the inability to take a bath prohibits someone from enjoying the scenery," she frowned.
"It's difficult to concentrate on anything when I have dirt in places even the sunshine has ever seen," Declan murmured with a wink. "However, once I've had a thorough washing and am free of—"
"That foul gobby goo you so detest?" Emerson interjected with a grin.
Declan bit back a smile, rolled his eyes at him, and heaved a sigh, "I was going to say a literal month's worth of dirt and grime, but that does have a more poetic ring to it, yes—anyway, once I am back to my clean, normal self—"
"Heaven help us," Emerson quietly teased.
"Then," Declan doggedly continued, "I might feel more inclined to admit whether looking at 'em makes every miserable mile we crossed worth it."
"Don't let him fool you, Mama; he called them 'soul-stirring' earlier," Wolstan said, jumping from the back of the wagon and then turning to help Mae down.
"How are you feeling, honey?" Emmaline asked just as Emerson hurried forward and took her pulse, watching her with a concerned eye.
"Better now that we've stopped moving," Mae shakily replied.
Declan studied her, his brow puckering in a frown as he couldn't help but state the obvious, "You're still looking green as that pasture over there."
"And you're still just as much of a jackass now," Wolstan grumbled, smacking the back of his hand against Declan's dusty left arm, "as you were when we left." Then turning to Mae, he kissed her forehead and smiled at her with the kind of love and adoration in his eyes that caused a peculiar ache in Declan's heart every time he witnessed it for the simple fact he would never experience such a moment—which was the way it needed to be, he reminded himself for the millionth time.
Because if there was one thing he'd learned nineteen years ago from watching his mama almost die from the heartbreak of losing their daddy, it was that a great and powerful love delivered an equally devastating heartbreak and suffering—the kind he had every intention of avoiding like the bubonic plague, and which he'd been more than successful at thus far.
"Well," Emerson murmured, keeping a watchful eye on Mae as they walked toward the front door, "until we know more of what ails you, I want you to rest and take it—"
"YOU THE MITCHELLS?" A young woman hollered, walking toward them from the pond with the sun at her back and glinting through a large jar filled with water tucked under her left elbow.
Auburn hair with sun-bleached strawberry blonde wisps framing her pretty, freckled face fell past her shoulders in loose waves as she stepped close, revealing she bore thick smears of mud across her forehead, left cheek, and the tip of her nose while thick gobs of the dark brown muck also caked the last several inches of her green and yellow floral gown.
Declan's lips twitched, though he wasn't sure whether it was from the desire to laugh or in sympathy for seeing an attractive woman covered in the detestable sludge.
"We are," Emerson and Emmaline said in unison, greeting her with a warm smile; then Emerson continued, "Dr. Emerson Mitchell at your service, miss, and this is my wife, Emmaline... her sons and my nephews Declan and Wolstan, and his wife, Mae."
"Wren McCrawdon," she said, gathering her filthy skirts in her right hand, displaying glimpses of muddy bare feet and ankles as she motioned for them to follow her around to the covered porch surrounded by a waist-high railing and thick supporting beams save for the entrance.
It spanned the entire length of the back of the house and had a sturdy porch swing that hung suspended from thick ropes several feet away from the back door, creating an inviting space despite its simplicity.
"Well, Wrenly, actually," Wren continued, "but only Mama or Papa call me that when I've displeased 'em. I was hopin' you'd arrive today, what with you bein' a doctor and all—you are a real doctor, aren't you? Not a snake oil peddler or one of 'em that hacks off limbs?"
"He's a real doctor," Declan chuckled, drawing Wren's eye, and he could've sworn, the moment their gazes locked, either a jolt of lightning struck him or an invisible assailant planted a powerful fist square in his gut, knocking the air from his lungs.
Either way, it had the same discombobulating effect. He stared at her in a daze, unable to breathe as tingles of awareness danced across his skin from his head to his toes and his heart thundered against his ribs.
He was in trouble, and not even his deep abhorrence of dirt was enough to deter his soul from whispering to his heart, 'Her; she's the one we've been waiting for all along.'
"What's happened?" Emerson asked, gaining Wren's attention and breaking her strange hold on Declan, allowing him to breathe.
"He was shot early this mornin'—"
"Heavens," Emmaline gasped, covering her mouth.
Wren nodded, "By one of our ranch hands. Mama dug out the bullet and did her best patchin' him up, but I reckon they'd feel much relieved if you'd take a look."
"Of course, allow me to fetch my medical bag," Emerson said before jogging back to their conestoga.
"You all right?" Wolstan whispered, nudging Declan in his ribs with his elbow. "You look like you're gonna be sick."
Biting back a curse, Declan dragged his gaze from Wren and forced a swallow down his parched throat as he quietly lied, "Never been better."