“’Specially not you. So how much that set him back?”
“One hundred eighty-eight dollars. Eight is a lucky number because the word for eight, baht, sounds like the word for ‘prosper.’”
West whistles a thin note that falls off at the end.
Cay scratches his hat. “Ain’t that a mite risky, not sniffing the bottle before you drink?”
“Never stopped you,” comes West’s voice from behind me. Peety snickers.
“It wasn’t risky. The matchmaker used a formula based on time of birth and alignment of the heavens, since we believe our fates are written in the stars.” Cay cocks his head in consternation. I glance around. Andy frowns, probably saying a prayer for the preservation of my heathen soul. “It worked, too. Father said Mother was as lovely as the empress’s teacup, with a temperament as sweet as autumn pears. He loved her very much. Every night, he placed a cup of her favorite drink, fermented rice wine, on the mantel.”
“Sounds like he got his money’s worth,” says Peety. “But how was her cooking?”
“He was buying himself a wife, not a frying pan,” mutters Andy.
“I don’t know. He never talked about that.”
Franny’s step increases until West surpasses me, riding slightly ahead. The sound of the collective hoofbeats on the wet pebbles is as comforting as rain. His oolong-smooth voice pours out, “You want my take, there’s nothing wrong with matching people up according to the stars, because at least someone gave a thought to it. Lots of deuces leap the altar ’cause they like getting sacked, and lots of girls agree ’cause they think they got no choice. Ain’t fair to the human race, and that’s the short of it.” He crosses his arms, causing his shoulders to bunch under his flannel.
I lose my balance and grab the apple of Paloma’s saddle. Still waters may run deep, but trying to understand West is like trying to see through a muddy river.
Cay nudges his pinto up alongside Franny. “You mean a nice piece of calico sits in your lap and you’re gonna tell her to shoo?”
“She could sit as long as she wants,” says West in an offhand way that puts a bloom on my cheeks. “But I ain’t making promises I can’t keep.”
“I never made promises I couldn’t keep,” Cay protests.
“Don’t recall ever mentioning your name.” West clicks his tongue and Franny surges ahead, blond tail swishing fiercely.
? ? ?
By midday, our lick of stream runs into the Platte River forcing us back to the main trail. The Platte stretches over a mile wide, a coursing waterway cut with islands that give it a braided appearance. Along the banks, a line of tents extends out as far as I can see. Then we spy Old Glory, with her twenty-nine stars on a field of blue, rising out of a collection of timber-and-sod buildings. Fort Kearny.
Cay’s shoulders slump and he scratches his hat. “That’s not a fort.” He perks up again when a redheaded girl in a polka-dot dress looks over her shoulder at him.
“We’ll wait for you at the crossing,” I call after Cay, who is already following the girl.
Peety goes next. “Don’t get lost, chicos.”
West pauses in front of me. “You sure you don’t want to come? Probably got some good things to eat in there.”
“I’m sure.” I’m touched by his concern, but even if a barrel of custard tarts waited inside that fort, I would not be tempted.
He opens his mouth like he’s going to protest further but then closes it. “All right. We’ll try to be there by sundown.” He clicks his tongue and Franny takes him away.
Andy and I continue down the trail, which meanders along the Platte River. Along the banks, large cottonwoods stand ramrod straight like sentinels among minions of sagebrush.
“How much farther to the Parting?” asks Andy.
“Seven hundred miles—about thirty-four days at our present rate.”
“How long will it take for Mr. Trask to get there?”
“At least thirty days.” I peek at her, wondering if she’s changed her mind about coming with me. “I just hope we can make up some time crossing the Platte.” Unlike the pioneers, we will not have wagons to encumber us.
“How do you figure out those numbers so fast?”
“I could teach you.”
She flashes me a view of her crooked bottom teeth, holding up its straighter brethren. “I’d like that.”
We reach the Platte River Crossing when the sun sits low in the sky. Though this crossing is both the shallowest and narrowest point on the river, we still cannot even see the other side.
Wagons crowd the shoreline, some with their wheels removed. The pioneers must float them across while the animals ford. But no one attempts the crossing this late in the day with the water level so high. Sometimes the shoreline disappears altogether as the brackish waters ooze over into the high grass.
“Maybe we should go farther up where there’s less folks,” says Andy. “We can come back here later when the sun sets, and we don’t stick out so much.”
We take our mounts another two miles upriver, then leave them to dip their noses. Saddles in hand, and the Lady Tin-Yin strapped across my back, we settle under the only trees in sight for miles—a group of three cottonwoods set back several yards from the river where the ground is harder.
Andy plops down under the center tree, then carefully tugs off Peety’s riding gloves, finger by finger.
“I’d say someone’s taken you under his wing,” I say.
She twists her mouth to the side. “Peety do have some flake to his biscuit. He understands feelings. You can tell by the way he is with horses. Like he knows little things that bug ’em without them saying so.”
“Not to mention, he cares about their feet more than his own.”
She chuckles, then goes quiet, her eyes drifting to a spot on the river. Absently, she begins fanning herself with her gloves. The sun seems to have grown fiercer since we arrived, as if determined to go down in a blaze of glory. I take off my own hat and unbutton my shirts down to my camisole.
“You really believe all that stuff about choosing a husband by birthdays and stars?”
“It worked for my parents, though one case is not enough to prove a theory. By the way, Peety was born in the Year of the Rat.”
One eyebrow hooks up. “How do you know that? He only thought he was twenty-one. He wasn’t sure.”
“I’m sure. He likes to talk, but doesn’t share much about himself. He’s a perfectionist, a tireless worker, and—this cinches it—he loves elegance.” My eyes drop meaningfully to the lambskin gloves in her lap.
“Rat for certain, then. I feel like you’s makin’ a point, but I ain’t feeling a prick.”
“Of the twelve lunar signs, Rats are most well-suited with Dragons.”
I swear she blushes, though her dark skin makes it hard to tell.
She slumps back against the tree, causing her hat to lift off her forehead. “A man like Peety wouldn’t be interested in someone like me.”
“You mean someone good-looking, smart, and an expert cook to boot? No, you’re probably right. You’re his worst nightmare.”
She lightly slaps my arm with the gloves. “It ain’t as easy as that, and you know it.”