July 1856

Independence Rock. It rose from the sage-covered desert like some massive turtle or giant whaleback. Covered with names and inscriptions of all sizes, the oval landmark served as lookout, campsite, trail register and bulletin board to the thousands of westward-bound emigrants.

Some climbed the one-hundred-twenty-eight-foot-high granite rock to add their names to the very top, while others were content to view the next major landmark in their journey west: Devil’s Gate. The high ridge of hills made of trap rock, sandstone and granite rose to a height of four hundred feet and pointed the way to the halfway mark from Westport to Oregon: South Pass.

Camped a short distance from Independence Rock and the swarm of humanity, Eirica Macauley coaxed a small flame to life by slowly adding dried grass. When the flames caught and eagerly licked at the precious sage wood laid over several fist-size rocks, she sat back on her heels, swiping damp strands of hair from her forehead. To one side of her, a canvas sack filled with dried droppings from all manner of beasts roaming the trail and surrounding land lay open, ready for use once the wood burned out. Though the droppings burned hot and ferocious, they left a great deal of ash that required removal before adding more of the dried fuel.

Taking a deep breath, she struggled to her feet—no small task when one was heavy with child. The sultry afternoon wind whipped the worn, homespun material of her faded, indigo-dyed wrapper dress around her legs and into the smoking fire. Eirica jumped back with a muffled exclamation.

Shaking out her skirts, she noted a couple of new burn holes in the fabric and grimaced. The hem was already tattered and ragged from being snagged on rocks, brush and all other matter of thorny plants, not to mention dragged through mud during the rains. After walking more than eight hundred miles during the last three months, it was no surprise that her clothing and shoes were wearing out.

Grabbing hold of a fistful of skirt to keep the breeze from billowing it up over her head, Eirica stepped well away from the fire and turned her face into the capricious wind. Her bonnet blew off and hung down her back, held by the knotted ribbons around her throat. The strong breeze played with loosened strands of long golden-red hair as she massaged her lower back. A slight tightening of her abdomen followed. Unconsciously, she smoothed her palms down over the swell of her unborn child and ignored the spasms. At twenty-two, she was eight months pregnant with her fourth child and knew these contractions were nothing more than her body’s preparations for the labor that would follow in a few short weeks.

Shielding her eyes from the glare off the white canvas-topped wagons of nearby campers, Eirica turned her attention to the landmark so many emigrants held in awe. She stared at the monstrosity in the distance with pensive eyes. What lay ahead? What did the future hold for her and her children? They’d made it this far, would they survive to see their new home?

Survival. The word sent chills through her. Gooseflesh popped out on her arms. How would she manage once she reached Oregon? Fear, worry and uncertainty rolled through her like tumbleweeds racing across wide-open plains. She felt lost and alone in a strange and unfriendly world. The hundreds of graves along the trail bore testimony to the harshness of the journey west.

Her throat tightened. In the last week alone, she’d recorded more than forty graves in her diary. Lives of all ages, snuffed out by cholera, measles, mountain fever and so many other hazards that struck the innocent and unwary emigrants. Each new grave site, some off-trail, others smack in the middle of it to keep coyotes and wolves from digging up the bodies, ate away at her confidence. Was she doing the right thing by continuing onward to Oregon?

How could she, a widow with three, soon-to-be four, children make it across this wild, hostile land? And if she made it to Oregon, she’d be faced with starting over, alone. She wrapped her arms protectively around her swollen abdomen. Feeling the movement of the baby nestled safely inside her brought forth another worry, but she refused to even think about giving birth out here so far from home. It was just another fear to keep her awake at night.

“Ian! Come back!”

At the sound of the high-pitched shout, Eirica whirled around to see her youngest child running away from his older sister. Giggling with delight in the chase, Ian, barely two, dodged Lara, unaware that he’d run into the path of several oxen being driven away from the crowded wagons camped along each side of the trail to find better forage.

Eirica’s heart jumped into her throat. She picked up her skirts and ran awkwardly. “Ian, stop! Come back!”

Intent on dodging three-year-old Lara, Ian kept going; his little legs, brown and sturdy from nearly three months of living outdoors, flew over the uneven ground.

Hearing Eirica’s panicked shouts, a short, plump woman wearing baggy men’s woolen trousers and an even baggier shirt, darted in front of the oxen and scooped Ian into her arms, safely out of the path of the bellowing beasts.

Sofia De Santis carried Ian toward Eirica, holding him upside down, much to the little boy’s delight. Lara skipped alongside her, her thumb in her mouth and a small square of blanket clutched in her curled fingers. Her baby-blue eyes were wide with worry.

“The bambino is full of energy.” Sofia chuckled, tickling Ian’s belly, eliciting more giggles before righting him in her plump arms and handing him over to Eirica.

Eirica hugged her squirming son, her heart still beating a wild tattoo against her breast. She smiled weakly at the newest member to join her small wagon train. “Thank you, Mrs. De Santis. I swear, Ian is such a handful. I can’t seem to make him understand he can’t just run off.”

Ian wiggled and protested. “Down, Mama, down.”

Eirica lowered him to the ground. He tried to take off again, but she held tightly to his wrist. “Ian, you cannot run off. There are far too many people and animals around. You’re going to get hurt.” Seeing his tiny features screwing up to protest, she pulled several carved wooden animals from a pocket in her dress. “Here, take these and go play quietly beneath the wagon while Mama tends to supper.”

Rebellion forgotten for the moment, the little boy eagerly grabbed the prized wooden figures made for him and his sisters by another member traveling in their wagon party. Content for the time being, he followed Lara to the shade beneath their wagon and settled on his stomach with the toys spread out before him. Lara sat cross-legged beside him.

Eirica sighed ruefully as she watched Ian use one figure to attack another, then set both to pouncing on Lara’s knee. Her daughter giggled around her thumb. At the sight of her children playing happily, a sunburst of love warmed Eirica from the inside out. Please, she prayed, keep them safe and healthy. She didn’t know what she’d do if she lost one of them to the indiscriminating hand of death.

“Ah, to be so young.” Sofia’s long, graying black hair, piled haphazardly on top of her head, had loosened during her mad dash after Ian. She deftly removed two thin, tapered sticks and rewound her hair on top of her head, then jabbed the makeshift pins through the loose bun.

“Sure wish I had some of his energy. He’s going to be the death of me yet.” Eirica bit back a yawn. Her day was a long way from being over.

Sofia beamed. “Ah, but he is strong and healthy. It’s normal for him to be curious. He’s a very bright child. This is good, no?”

“Ian is smart,” Eirica agreed, her gaze softening on her two youngest children. “But he has no fear. He’s not afraid of anything, and that scares me something fierce.”

Sofia’s smile faded. “My Gino was just like your little boy, always getting into mischief and running his poor mama to exhaustion when he was a wee ragazzo. Nothing stopped that boy; always ready to learn new things, eager to explore new places. When he left our village to travel, I used to pray for his safe return.”

Her deep, husky voice broke, and a tear fell from her soft, brown eyes. The single drop of moisture spread along the lines age had brought to her face. “I worried for nothing. It wasn’t his wild running about that killed him,” she whispered in a broken voice.

Eirica felt sorry for this woman who’d lost so much. Two sons, a daughter-in-law, two grandchildren and her husband had succumbed to cholera within days of one another. All the poor woman had left of her once-large family was a seventeen-year-old granddaughter and two grandsons, aged twenty-two and ten. Like Eirica, she too faced starting over without the support of her family. It wasn’t fair, yet Eirica knew many more women would lose members of their families before reaching Oregon. She reached out and squeezed the woman’s fisted hand. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. De Santis.”

Sofia squared her shoulders. “Life is not always kind, Mrs. Macauley. I thank the good Lord daily that I still have Dante, Catarina and Marco. They are Gino’s children and carry his blood in their veins. All I have to do is look upon them to see my son, or with Dante, my husband, Luigi.” She fell silent, lost in thought.

Eirica rubbed her arms and hugged herself. The enormity of what lay ahead made her want to drop to the ground and weep with the unfairness of it all. The daily passing of mounds of dirt, hastily formed crosses and piles of stones haunted her, kept her awake at night. What if she lost Ian, Lara or Alison? She’d already lost her husband, but unlike Sofia, Eirica suffered no grief over Birk’s death—a source of guilt that continued to eat at her. But no matter how hard she tried to grieve and feel sad over his death, she only felt a welcome release from a six-year marriage that had been her own personal hell.

“My Luigi, he had so many dreams,” Sofia whispered.

“They all do,” Eirica responded sadly, thinking about the vast number of men who’d forced their women and children to make this horrendous journey. Like so many others, Eirica hadn’t wanted to leave all she’d known to journey across this wild, untamed land—but she’d had no choice. When she’d refused to go to Oregon, Birk had threatened to take their children and leave without her. Eirica pressed her lips together. Becoming a widow was the only good thing to come from this perilous trip.

Her lips twisted with bitterness. Her husband had known full well she’d never allow him to take her babies from her. Now she held their lives in her hands; she was pitted against an unpredictable land that both fascinated her with wondrous sights and frightened her with the sheer magnitude of what lay ahead. Her palms grew damp. She wiped them on her apron, her eyes filling with tears of frustration.

How she wished her mother were still alive. But Mary Newell had died two years ago, helped into her grave by a cold, indifferent husband who wouldn’t even allow an old sick woman to spend the day abed, gathering her strength after falling ill during the harsh winter. Memories of the woman who’d spent her life waiting hand and foot on her husband and eight sons brought tears to Eirica’s eyes.

Old resentments welled up inside Eirica. Birk had refused to allow her to go care for her mother during the day, even though they were neighbors. She’d defied him once, sneaked out to take her ma some fresh bread and honey. He’d found out, though, and that act of disobedience had earned her a broken arm and bruised ribs. It was the last day she’d seen her mother alive. A month later, Mary had just given up, laid down and died, a broken woman.

Eirica fought back tears of regret. If only she’d stood up to Birk, done something to help her mother, maybe her ma would be alive today.

The need to talk to someone who understood what she was going through overwhelmed Eirica. She glanced at Sofia. Though the woman was more than twice her age, Eirica felt a closeness to her that was missing from the other women traveling with her. Jessie and Coralie were younger, childless and newlyweds. Anne was older, but she was happily married.

“What are you going to do, Mrs. De Santis? Are you going to continue or head back? Barnaby Thurston and his sons are turning back. Can’t bear to go on after losing his wife. Heard several other families are considering joining them.”

Sofia straightened and met Eirica’s worried gaze, her own fraught with determination. “I shall go to Oregon. It’s what Luigi wanted. I’ll claim the land he dreamed of and make a new life for my grandchildren.” She considered Eirica through narrowed eyes. “You aren’t thinking of turning back?”

“I wish I could.” Though Eirica spoke the words aloud for the first time, she knew it was fruitless. Thanks to Birk’s laziness and drinking, she had no home to return to. He’d lost their farm and their small, crude cabin, leaving them no choice but to move into her father’s home before they’d taken to the trail.

“You have no other family? No madre or padre?”

Eirica brushed her tears away, furious with herself for wishing for things that could never be again. “No one who cares,” she said, leaving it at that. She’d spent her whole life trying to please her father and brothers, but it was never enough, never appreciated. All her long hours of work and devotion to ensure their comfort had been met with more demands, contempt and indifference toward her own wants and desires.

As she’d quickly discovered after she and Birk had been forced to move in with her family, nothing had changed in the five years she’d been gone. Though her three older brothers had married and lived in homes a short distance away, five of her younger brothers still shared space in the cramped three-room farmhouse along with her pa. And with her ma gone, they and her pa had expected her to step in and wait on them. She wasn’t a daughter or sister to them. She was a slave, someone they ordered around. They’d even started making demands of Alison who’d only been four, having her fetch and carry for them as they were too lazy to get up and do it themselves.

Sofia nodded as if she understood what Eirica left unsaid. “Then you and I must be strong and help each other.” A shout from one of her grandsons made Sofia smile. “I have much to live for.” With that, she excused herself to go finish her supper preparations.

Eirica did likewise. Moving to the back of her wagon, she pulled off the tailgate and struggled to move her wooden box of cooking utensils.

“’Ere, lass, let me lift that down for ya.”

Eirica turned to Rook, the cook for the men hired to drive west the wagon master’s cattle. “Thanks, Rook,” she said, stepping back, hiding her smile when he continued to frown at Sofia’s retreating back. Why those two didn’t get along puzzled her. They both seemed so friendly and at ease with everyone else.

Rook muttered something beneath his breath then lifted her box down. “Point out what else ya needs.”

She pointed to a large sack and another box. He lifted those from the back of the wagon as well. Wiping his hands down the front of his buckskin breeches, he studied her, his bright blue eyes intent as he pulled at his bushy white beard. “You’s frettin’ again, lass. Ain’t good for you or that babe you’s carryin’.”

Rook’s fatherly concern touched her. As with Sofia, she felt as though she could talk to Rook and he’d understand. With sudden insight, she realized these two special people had taken the place of her parents. Rook was much more a father than her own had ever been. The feeling warmed her, allowed her to open up to him.

“I try not to think of tomorrow or of what it will bring, but I just can’t help it.” Despite the heat of the afternoon, she shivered.

Rook pulled her into his burly arms and hugged her awkwardly. His deep rumbling voice drifted over the top of her head. “Now, lass, ya has ta trust yerself. Ya come from good, hearty Scottish stock, like me, and we Scots is survivors.” He put her from him and gave her a stern look. “’Sides, we’s yer family now and not a one of us is gonna allow anythin’ to happen to ya or them young’uns of yers. So no more frettin’.”

Touched by his concern and the emotion he tried to hide beneath a gruff exterior, Eirica hugged him back. “You’re a wonderful man, Rook. I wish you’d been my father,” she said impulsively.

Rook turned beet-red. With shaking hands, he pulled three small wooden objects from his shirt pocket and awkwardly handed them to Eirica. “’Ere. For them young’uns.”

In her palm lay three carved puppies, each in a different position. Sleeping, sitting and standing, all had incredibly realistic features. She would add these to the other wooden carvings he’d made for the children. “Rook, these are lovely. The children will love them.” Her second hug embarrassed him even more. “You’re spoiling them, you know.”

Rook stepped back, blinking rapidly. He stuck his pipe between his lips, then shoved it back into his shirt pocket, his movements jerky. Finally, he stilled and met her teary gaze with determination and love. “Hell, lass. The lot of ya deserves ta be spoilt and I might as well be the one ta do it.”

Without another word, Rook walked away, his short, stocky legs carrying him to his wagons and the long trench fires that sent waves of heat rolling along the ground. A moment later, his loud voice boomed over the area when he shouted for two of the hired hands to “git out of the stores.”

Amused to see grown men scurrying away rather than face Rook’s displeasure, Eirica shook her head. No one dared to argue with or disobey Rook. The crusty old trapper ruled all within his domain with an iron fist. Yet beneath his rough demeanor lay a heart of gold and a sharp mind filled with the wisdom of his years. And as he’d so gently reminded her, she truly wasn’t alone. A second good had come of this trip. For the first time since marrying at the age of sixteen, she had friends—lots of them—something Birk had never allowed.

But then, Birk Macauley had never loved her. She’d been nothing more than a slave to see to his every whim and a convenient vessel to slake his needs. For six long years, she’d worked his farm, borne him children he neither loved nor wanted, and endured his jealous nature, childish tantrums and violent rages.

She shuddered, fighting nightmarish memories of protecting her young children by drawing her husband’s fury from them to herself. Placing one hand on her chest, in the hollow between her full breasts, she spread her fingers upward, feeling smooth, raised scars hidden from sight beneath her bodice.

Her other hand absently rubbed her healing ribs, some of which had been broken, others badly bruised during Birk’s last beating. She’d shielded her son’s small body from her husband’s rage with her own body. That had been a month ago—the day before Birk died.

She dropped her hands to her side. Scars. Pain. She wanted to shout with the joy of knowing he’d never take his fists to any of them again. If starting over was the price she had to pay for that freedom, she’d gladly do it. A gentle roll from within her womb brought a sigh to her lips. Her baby was safe, as were her other children. “No one will raise a hand to you in anger,” she vowed, easing the tight flesh with her fingers.

She thought again of Mr. Thurston and the others who were turning back, disheartened by the loss of loved ones, lame oxen or dangerously low supplies. If she joined them, she could just as easily start over back east, maybe find a job as a seamstress or schoolmarm. Eirica paced, walking in a tight circle, careful to keep her skirts out of the fire. Three young boys ran past, shouting with youthful abandon, but she paid them little heed.

Closing her eyes, she searched her soul for the right answer, feeling the pressure of knowing that only she could make this decision. It occurred to Eirica that most who turned back had one thing in common: they’d lost hope, lost their dreams. She straightened her spine. A few short months ago, there had been no hope for her. Now she had a future. There were choices, maybe even dreams.

For the first time in her life, she was in control of her destiny. She’d be a fool not to grasp her chance for a better life with both hands. With nothing waiting for them behind her, somehow, she must find the courage and strength to make it to Oregon. Nothing mattered now except giving her babies a brighter future.

As if sensing her mother’s troubled thoughts, three-year-old Lara crawled out from beneath the wagon and ran to her on matchstick legs, wearing only a simple, worn chemise and no shoes. Eirica picked her up and spun in a slow circle, hugging her daughter tightly. She smoothed the child’s wispy strawberry-blond curls from her face. “Mama loves you, Lara girl.”

With solemn eyes the same shade of blue as her mother’s, Lara wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck and whispered, “I wuv you, too, Mama.”

From the corner of her eye, Eirica noted the coals in the fire glowed white-hot. She lowered Lara to the ground, picked up a Dutch oven containing the bread dough she’d mixed that morning, and set it among the burning embers glowing in the fire pit. With two forks, she covered the lid with coals—for even baking—then stood back, pleased her “light” bread, made with saleratus instead of yeast, had risen nicely during the warm day. It would be wonderfully tasty served with warm milk from the milch cow they’d purchased in Westport, the place they’d spent the winter preparing for this trip.

Lara followed her mother to the back of the wagon, her hand fisted tightly around Eirica’s skirts, her blanket held in the other. “Where’s Ali?” She stuck her thumb into her mouth and stared at her mother, worry clouding her baby-blue eyes.

Eirica pointed toward Independence Rock. “Your sister went to see the names on the rock with Mr. Jones and his sister, sweetheart. She’ll be back soon. Now go watch over your brother while Mama finishes supper.” For the moment, Ian seemed content to dig in the sandy soil with a spoon, but his attention never stayed on any task long.

Lara walked back slowly, sat on the ground beside Ian and stared at the rock where her sister had gone. Eirica’s heart twisted. This child was a worrier by nature and Eirica couldn’t blame her for fretting whenever her big sister was out of sight. Alison’s harrowing experience of being kidnapped three weeks earlier wasn’t something Eirica would soon forget.

Eirica still had nightmares borne of those long days and even longer nights when she hadn’t known if she would ever see or hug her firstborn again. She closed her eyes, grateful for the happy ending to that episode. With a sigh, she tossed a slab of bacon into a frying pan and set it over the coals. With any luck, the second half of the trail would be downright dull. Between the kidnapping, Birk’s drowning, storms, difficult crossings and stampedes, she’d had enough excitement to last a lifetime.

A tug to her skirts drew her gaze downward. Ian yawned and lifted his little arms up to her. “Is my boy ready for bed?” She smiled and picked him up, loving the feel of his soft, cuddly body next to hers. With a sleepy sigh, he slumped against her. Eirica ran her hand up and down his back. Contentment washed over her as Ian imitated his sister and stuck his thumb in his mouth. With a heart measurably lighter, Eirica hummed softly and swayed side to side in front of the fire.

Lifting her gaze to a sapphire-blue sky marbled with wisps of white clouds just turning gold and pink from the sun’s descent, Eirica forced herself to relax and put the past behind her, to enjoy the beauty of the approaching sunset and the feel of her son snuggled close. For the first time in her life, she had a future of her own making. She’d been given a second chance for a better life and she planned to reach out and take it.

“All I want is to reach Oregon, find a piece of land to call my own and settle down to raise my children in peace.” Over and over, she repeated those words, trying to draw courage from them.