Prologue

Independence, Missouri

April 1857

Kerry closed her eyes as the scissors sliced through her long black hair. “Do it quick, Paddy, before I change my mind.”

“I wish you would change your mind,” her brother grumbled. “And stop calling me Paddy.” The shears clicked ruthlessly as shimmery cascades of hair fell to the ground around them.

“It’s the name our father called you. Out of respect for his memory, if nothing more, you should use it.”

Patrick Gallivan sighed. “Kerry, you were twelve when we came here—you remember the Old Country almost as well as Papa did. But I was only six. I’m American—I don’t want an Irish name.”

“You’re Irish, too.” Kerry’s eyes were still shut. “Is it too horrible to look at?”

Patrick stepped back and reviewed his handiwork. “Well, you don’t look like a man, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t know how you expect to fool anyone.”

Kerry opened her eyes and slowly bent over the silver filigree mirror that had been her mother’s back in Duncannon. “Oh dear” was all she could say.

Patrick put down the scissors with a snort of disgust. “I knew you’d be sorry, Kerry. What a dumb idea.”

Kerry glared at her thirteen-year-old brother. “I suppose you’d rather go back to New York and stack boxes of fish for the rest of your life.”

Patrick shuddered. “I never even want to see another fish.”

“Then you’d better help me with this. Because otherwise there’s no way the association will let us stay with the wagon train. Single females are not allowed.”

Patrick’s face softened. “You’re not a single female, Kerry. You have a male protector—me.”

Kerry swallowed the lump that had lodged in her throat the minute she had seen her shorn head, and reached for her brother’s hand. “You are my protector, Pad…Patrick, but I don’t think the association leaders will see it that way.”

“The lawyer in St. Louis said that the contract Papa signed was”—he stopped and screwed up his mouth as he tried to remember the legal terms—“transferable in perpetuity to his heirs.”

“Yes, but he also said the members can vote to remove any wagon considered undesirable for the welfare of the group.”

For a moment neither said anything. They’d had enough of feeling undesirable since leaving Ireland. Instead of the golden land of promise they’d expected, New York City had proved remarkably hostile toward the small band of immigrants who had arrived in the fall of 1853 with little money and fewer prospects. It was no wonder that in the squalor of the overcrowded immigrant neighborhood Sean Gallivan had been immediately homesick for the green hills of his homeland. No wonder that he’d dreamed of reaching California, where a man could still live and support his family from the fruits of the land.

Finally Patrick grinned. “Well, if they do have the right to kick us off the wagon train, I guess we’ll just have to be sure they don’t want to. We’ll have to show them what a fine couple of lads we are.” His voice held the same brave determination that had helped Kerry keep going over the past horrible month. Her little brother was growing up, she’d thought more than once as they dealt together with her father’s sudden death. He was growing up just in time to face a world that sometimes seemed too harsh for even the strongest spirit.

Kerry smiled back at him. “So…do I look like a fine lad?” she asked with an exaggerated brogue that made the word sound like “foine.” Standing up from the table in the tiny boardinghouse room they’d shared since arriving in Independence two days ago, she put her hands on her hips and stalked across the room with giant steps. She was wearing a pair of Patrick’s trousers, which came well above her ankles, and a jacket of her father’s that hung on her narrow shoulders like a potato sack.

Her brother watched her thoughtfully. “You don’t have to walk like a rooster. Just move normally…only don’t, you know, sway your hips.”

Kerry’s eyes widened. “I never sway my hips.”

“Yes, you do.” He grinned mischievously. “When the Flanagan brothers used to come around, you would sway them even more.”

Kerry tugged at the hem of her father’s coat to cover more of the tight pants. “That shows how much you know, little brother. I hated the Flanagan brothers.”

“Not Mickey…” Patrick teased in a singsong tone.

Kerry gave a huff. “I don’t have time to listen to your nonsense. Tomorrow we face the head of the association, and if we can’t convince him that we’re capable of driving a rig to California, we’re in big trouble. So, truly now, how do I look?”

“You’ll have to wear boots to cover those bare ankles.”

“I’m going to wear yours. You can almost fit into Papa’s by now, the way your feet are growing.”

“Mine are too big for you,” he protested.

“I’ll make do.”

Patrick shook his head, still studying her. “I don’t know, sis. We’ll have to hope that this Captain Hunter is half-blind.”

“I don’t think we want our trail guide to be half-blind,” Kerry observed dryly, flopping down on the narrow cot that was the room’s only bed. Their funds were growing distressingly low, so they had taken the poorest room they could find, and Patrick had slept on the floor for the past two nights. Today they would hire a temporary wagon to take them, along with their father’s tools, which they had brought from New York, to Westport Landing. There they would join the encampment gathering along the banks of the Missouri River. The fully outfitted Conestoga their father had arranged through painstaking correspondence over the past few months should be waiting there for them.

Patrick laughed. “Well, not blind, maybe, just a little near-sighted. And you’ll have to try to keep out of his way as much as possible.”

Impatiently she tore off the oversize coat, revealing curves that would instantly give the lie to her deception. She threw the coat on the bed, then ran her hands threw her newly shorn hair. “All I want is to get to California.” With a last look in the mirror, she sighed. “I plan to stay out of everyone’s way—especially Captain Hunter’s. I hope the man never even knows I’m alive.”

Chapter One

Westport Landing, Kansas

April 1857

Jeb Hunter rode along the double row of wagons, nodding an occasional greeting to his newest band of pilgrims. The wagons always looked so fresh and pretty at this stage—their hickory-stretched covers flapping proudly in the gentle Kansas breeze. It was the largest group he had taken yet. From a trickle of daring pioneers a decade ago, the western flow had grown to a mighty river, so that by now at midseason the trail outposts—Fort Kearney, Fort Laramie and the like—were bustling cities with thousands of wagons passing through. But the numbers hadn’t lessened the danger, nor lowered the toll. Each time Jeb went across, the crosses marking trail deaths had multiplied like seeds scattered in the wind.

“Afternoon, Mr. Todd, Miz Todd,” Jeb called, flicking his finger against the brim of his leather hat. The Todds were exactly the kind of people he liked to have in his party. Frank Todd was coolheaded, strong and a good shot. And he only had a wife to watch out for—no children, no mother or sister-in-law to lessen the odds. One man protecting one woman, the way things were meant to be. Every time Jeb took on a big family with helpless females and children he felt the familiar knot in his stomach. It wasn’t as bad as it used to be. There had been times after he’d lost Melanie that the knot had gotten so big and tough, it would actually make him sick. He’d have to stop along the trail and puke out whatever had gone into his stomach over the past few hours. But nowadays he could usually swallow down the knot and get his mind back to other matters.