"If I were going to get sick, Mr. Lachlan, I'd have done it long since." Hattie had listened to more than one pregnant woman telling of her morning sickness and knew it usually struck early on. In fact.... "I think I already have been," she said aloud. "The smell of sagebrush was making me queasy, oh, ever since Karl...." She counted back. "And he took sick just before Fort Bridger." She'd had her last monthly when they were at Independence Rock. She remembered, because her cramps had been bad that day and she'd been grateful the train had halted early.

"It will be April," she told him. "My baby will be born in April." Tears flowed then, streaming down her cheeks. Tears of joy, tears of sorrow. She'd wanted a child of her own, had given up after waiting for so long.

She would have her child now, but she had nothing else. Even Emmet would leave her, once she reached her long-delayed destination.

She had not minded being Karl's wife because she knew that he would always provide well for her, for any family they might have. He'd not been rich, but comfortable. A frugal man, but not a stingy one. A responsible man, if not an affectionate one.

He would never have left a bag full of gold coins lying beside the trail, just so he could bring barrels of seed and rootstocks.

She recognized Emmet's tentative attempts at comfort, but paid them no mind. "Go away," she told him, choking out the words between wracking sobs. "Just go away for a while." It felt good to weep, to let all the pain and loss and loneliness flow out with the tears she'd held inside for so long.

The slam of the door shook the entire cabin.

Fortunately one of her few possessions that had been saved was her sewing kit.

The round wooden box was warped and its lid no longer fit, testimony to its immersion in the Snake River, but someone had seen to it that her precious needles and scissors had been taken out and dried. As soon as she'd cleaned up after breakfast the next morning, Hattie set about cutting a pair of Karl's britches down to fit her.

When Emmet came in at noon, he found cold corned venison sandwiches and baked beans left from the day before. Hattie hadn't felt quite right about neglecting him so, but if she was to get her alterations done, she had to stick right with them.

He sat and began eating without a word, just as he had at breakfast.

She continued sewing, not trusting herself to speak. This morning she'd realized just what the loss of Karl's gold really meant--and it was worse than simply that she would lack luxuries at the end of her journey.

It could mean the defeat of all her dreams.

She was angry, so angry she feared driving him away if she spoke her mind. Not with Emmet, exactly--he had not known about the gold. No, she was grateful to him for doing what he had done, for living up to his unwanted responsibilities.

After all, he'd agreed to see a healthy woman to the Willamette Valley, not to be nurse to a desperately injured one.

Her anger was at the same unkind fate that had plagued her all her life. She pricked a finger and sucked at the drop of blood that welled up, welcoming the tiny pain. There was nothing she could do but what she'd always done. Once she was through complaining, she'd do the best she could with what she had.

After dinner Emmet disappeared again. She wasn't sure what he did all day long, but was just as glad he did it somewhere else. Sometimes she would hear a shot and later he'd bring in a haunch of venison, having traded the rest to the Indians down the valley for dried berries or the strange, shriveled starchy roots he called camas--they cooked up into delicious vegetables. Once a week or so, he'd come home with fish, more of the salmon she still found dry and tasteless, or silver trout.

Hattie finished the britches before the light failed. She tried them on and was wishing she had a mirror when Emmet entered.

His eyes went immediately to her breasts, covered only by her thin, almost threadbare, chemise. Then they traveled down, over her hips where Karl's britches clung like no skirt ever had, and on to her legs, covered, but still feeling more exposed than ever they'd seemed when she was naked.

"Well, well," he said, smiling, "what's all this." She liked neither the heat of his gaze nor the hunger in his voice.

"I'll be too cold riding in a skirt," she told him, suddenly not certain she had the courage to do what she'd decided she must.

He leaned his rifle beside the door. "And who says you'll be ridin' anywhere?"

"We're going back to the crossing," she told him, forcing her voice to be strong and steady. "We're going back to look for Karl's gold."

"The hell you say!"

"Don't swear." Clenching her fists, she stood as straight and tall as she could on one leg. "We have to. It's all I have, and I'll need it, for the baby."

He loomed over her, face half lit by the fire, eyes sparking from under lowered brows. "You're not goin' anywhere." As if there was no more to be said, he turned to the fire and held his hands out. "That snow'll be comin' tonight. It's warmer, and the clouds are gettin' lower."

She ignored him, dishing up the dodgers she'd prepared out of chopped venison and cornmeal. She went to the corner at the foot of the bunks, where firelight never reached, and slipped out of the britches and back into her dress. Tomorrow she'd take in a couple of Karl's shirts, but not too much, because she'd be needing plenty of fullness in a month or two. Already the britches buttoned snug across her belly.

They ate in silence. While he was out doing his nightly reconnaissance, she prepared for bed, but didn't climb in. Instead she waited on the chair, ignoring the fact that her feet didn't reach the ground, that her bottom would bear the marks of its woven rawhide seat for hours. Her feet were cold, but her body, wrapped in her Aunt Nettie's quilt, was warm despite the dying fire.

It seemed like hours before he returned. When he did, he frowned at seeing her waiting. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"Because we are going to have to decide whether to take the wagon with us, or leave it and rig pack saddles for the oxen."

"We're not goin' anywhere."

"Mr. Lachlan," she said, putting all her considerable determination into her voice, "I'm beholden to you, and I need you to get me to Oregon...."

"We're already in Oregon."

"Yes. To the Willamette Valley, I meant to say. But I also need to have something to live on when I get there. Now you said you'd take me there in the spring, and that's all right. I know I'm not able to cross the Blue Mountains yet." She swung her leg, feeling the tightness and the ache. She'd tried to work without the crutch today, just to see if she could, and now she was paying the price of her experiment.

"Couldn't get across anyhow. The passes are likely closed by now."

"I understand that. But there are no passes between here and the crossing. You said yourself it took the train seven days to get here, and we could surely do that well."

"Will you listen to me, damn it! You. Are. Not. Going. Anywhere."

"And I say I am." She glared up at him. "I need that gold and I'm going after it. If you won't go with me, I'll just have to go alone."

"No you won't." His voice was hard, threatening. Inflexible.

Hattie turned her back. Argument with someone whose mind was made up never accomplished anything.

She knew what she had to do, and she would simply do it.

Damfool women.Emmet slung the packsaddle on the mule's back.Never happy. Always after a man to do what they wanted and never mind what made sense. He tied on the shovel, the pickaxe.Ground's not frozen here yet, but it might be by the time I get there, if this cold doesn't let up.

The mule was fractious this morning, sidling away each time he tried to attach anything to the saddle.Hold still, you son of a bitch, before I kick the daylights out of you. It was cold this morning, and damp. Gray clouds sat low, pregnant with snow.Pregnant. How the hell could she not have known? But in all fairness, he had to admit Hattie had had plenty else to think about, what with her leg and all. Maybe a woman wasn't supposed to notice until she started throwing up. Or swelling up.Hell! He didn't know about such things.

Sure hope she wasn't lyin' when she said she could shoot.He was pretty sure none of the Indians would bother her. Just before Silas had left, Emmet had met with the band that frequented this upper end of the Boise Valley, giving them tobacco and assuring them that he was only here because his woman--if shewere really my woman, I wouldn't be sleeping cold and lonely--was injured and unable to travel.

He gave his word they would be gone before summer. He and Buff had gotten along just fine with Goat Runner and his band before, minding their own business and letting the Indians mind theirs.

But there were the occasional renegades, red and white. He'd run into a bunch of them last spring, up on the Gallatin. They'd thought to take his furs, until he showed 'em the error of their ways.A little thing like Hattie wouldn't have a chance against a gang like that, no matter how good she could shoot. His imagination considered what could happen to her while he was gone.

He still had half a pound of that trade tobacco in his pack. He'd been saving it for an emergency.Aw, hell, I've given up everything else for her. Might as well give my tobacco too.

The creak of the cabin door warned him. By the time she'd reached the corral, he was mounted. "I'll be back in a week or less," he said. "Carry the shotgun whenever you're outdoors and bar the door when you're not. Don't let anybody come closer than fifty feet, and kill 'em if they try."

"You're leaving me alone?"

"You're in no shape to ride a hundred miles. I'll get one of Goat Runner's people to keep an eye on the place." He prodded the gelding's flank. "There's meat aplenty and enough flour to last you. I'll stop by the fort before I come back from the crossing, to pick up the supplies Silas traded for."

"Wait. Mr. Lachlan, please! Wait!"

She was hobbling along behind him, fast as she could. He stopped. Looked down at her.

"I didn't mean for you to go back there alone. It's my gold. I was planning to go after it. With your help, of course."

"You were figurin' to take the livestock?"

"No. But why...?"

"Woman, there's not an Indian west of the Rockies who'd leave those oxen alive for ten minutes if we weren't here to guard them. They don't see any difference between a good ox and a fat buffalo." He thought a moment. "Except buffalo tastes better."

"Oh." She sort of shrunk within herself. Looking up at him, she seemed to be searching his face for something. Reassurance? Probably, because she said, "You'll be back in a week?"

"More or less. Depends on the weather. Ten days, outside."

Her brow wrinkled, as if she was thinking hard. "I guess I can't stop you from going, Mr. Lachlan. And I do appreciate your willingness to do so. But please try not to be longer than ten days. If you are...." She did her best to smile.

"Well, if you're not back by then, I'll just have to come after you, won't I?"

"If I'm not back in two weeks," he said, realizing she was frightened and doing her best to hide it, "you get yourself and the oxen downriver to the fort.

Shouldn't take you more'n three, four days. You've a credit there, from the oxen Silas traded, and Craigie will see you get to the Willamette."

With each word, she had gone whiter. Damn it, what did she expect him to do? He couldn't go after her gold and stay here to take care of her at the same time.

He wouldn't be going at all if he didn't know as well as he knew his own name she'd take off on her own, bad leg and all, if he didn't.

Either the gold was there or it wasn't. And if it was where he'd left it, it wasn't going anywhere before spring.

Try convincing her.

"If I follow the river, will I come to Fort Boise?"

I'll be damned!His respect for Hattie's courage went up several notches. "Yeah, but you won't need to. I'll be back. You can bet your bottom dollar on it."

Nodding, Hattie stared at him for a long moment. "Be careful, Mr. Lachlan. God be with you." She turned around and hobbled back to the cabin and went inside.

Seconds later she reappeared, carrying the shotgun. Standing in the doorway, looking small and helpless, she waved.

Emmet lifted his hand in farewell. He'd never wanted so bad to stay in one place in his life as he did at this minute.

She'll be fine.It was as close to a prayer as he'd made since the day his mother died.

The bray of a mule woke Hattie. She had her hand on the door when she stopped and thought. Emmet had been gone only five days. He wasn't likely to have returned yet.

And if he had, he'd be here soon enough, calling to her through the barred door.

She dressed quickly, waiting for the sound of his voice.

Instead, someone tried the latch, pushed against the door, cursed in unfamiliar, querulous tones. She stood to one side of the door, holding the shotgun in her hand. This wasn't the first time she'd wished there were windows in the cabin.

Almost she asked who was knocking, but it would be stupid to let her unwelcome caller know she was a woman, alone.

The cursing degenerated into a mutter. She caught an occasional word, many of them unfamiliar. After a while, the voice faded, as if its owner had moved away.

She waited, no longer trembling, but still frightened.

The fire burned low. Hattie realized she had made a potentially fatal mistake.

It had been raining yesterday when she was done with her afternoon chores, a cold, hurtful rain, half water, half ice. She had hurried inside, confident she had enough wood within to last her through the night, hoping the morning would be warmer.

Now she had none. Soon it would be dark, and shortly after that, it would be cold.

She put her ear to the door. There wasn't a sound. Perhaps he'd gone away.

With extreme caution, she lifted the bar, leaning it against the wall just beside the door. She eased the wooden latch up, pulling the door open a bare inch at a time. Fortunately she'd grown tired of its constant squeaks, and had greased it with butter just the day before yesterday. One of the chores she'd set herself to help the lonely hours pass more quickly.

When the door was scarcely six inches ajar, she held it still while she let her eyes adjust to the waning November sunlight. Her heart was pounding in her ears, all but drowning out the soft whisper of wind in empty branches. Soon she was able to see across to the corner of the corral. Jupiter was standing under the biggest cottonwood, contentedly chewing his cud. None of the other cattle were in view, but then they generally went into the brush of an evening. It was warmer there.

She pulled the door open a little farther. Now she could see the trail to the outhouse and the bathtub, but not far along it, because the leafless willows were so dense that their yellow osiers were as good as a wall. The little black-capped birds that reminded her of autumn leaves were searching among the weeds, a sure sign that no intruder was present.

Shotgun in hand, she stepped forth. And screamed as an arm went around her waist, a knife appeared at her throat.

"Wal, lookee hyar what we've got ourselves. As purty a leetle gal as we've ever seen." The words might be unthreatening and the tone might be gentle and friendly, but the arm was iron hard and the knife never wavered. "Now you jest drop that there gun and stop your wigglin, gal."

She did both, not resisting when he pushed her inside and kicked the door shut behind him.

He walked her across the floor, kicking her crutch aside. When she was before the bunk, he released her, pushing her so she fell on her face across her blankets. She lay still, dry-mouthed and shaking, hoping he wouldn't stab her in the back.

"Where's your man?" he demanded.

"I... he's out hunting. He'll be back anytime."

"Turn over."

She did, looking up at him. He was wide, that was her first impression. Old. And hairy. A cloud of white hair encircled his head, only two bright eyes and a big nose showing from behind it. His buckskins were almost black, their fringe straggly. They were cinched at his waist by a wide belt hung with numerous pouches. Another knife, almost as long as the heavy one he held carelessly in one hand, was stuck behind it.

She could smell him, a combination of sweat and smoke and something strong and musky.

"Where's your man?" he said again, "and don't tell me he's about somewheres. I saw his tracks and they're three, four days old."

"He really is out hunting," she said, doing her best to keep her voice from shaking. "He was supposed to be back yesterday." Oh, dear God! She hoped he believed her.