“Of course we have coffee to spare.” Dylan was already reaching for the pot. He sloshed the container as though judging how much was left, and then he picked up a discarded tin mug from the grass, tipped out the black sludge, and poured from the pot.
The mixture going into the mug looked thick enough to be mud and thankfully tapered to a trickle before it reached halfway. He handed her the cup. “Here you go, darlin’.”
She tried not to think about the mouths that had already touched the mug, or the decidedly cold tin against her hands. Before she lost courage, she lifted the cup, took a mouthful, and swallowed—all in one motion.
It was just as cold and bitter and awful as she’d anticipated, but she suppressed a shudder. “Thank you. You’re so very kind.”
Dylan’s grin spread. “If you’re hungry, we got some fish all fried up too. Caught it myself.”
She didn’t dare glance at the pan lest this time her shudder broke loose. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll start with the coffee for now.”
The group they were traveling with consisted of a dozen wagons and usually stopped later in the morning for a break. That’s when they ate their first meal of the day since at dawn they were too busy packing up and readying to leave. She’d heard most caravans followed that pattern and often rested for a couple of hours at midday to avoid exerting themselves during the hottest part of the day, allowing the livestock a chance to graze.
Even now, their caravan was due for a break. As the final wagon rolled up the bank, she guessed their guide would lead the group to a spot of shade in the river valley somewhere close by. Nonetheless, her grandfather was winding past the other camps and drawing near.
“Grandfather.” She waved as enthusiastically as she could muster. “I’m just fine.”
Attired in a crisp morning coat, bow tie, and his tall stovepipe hat, he had a distinguished air about him. His monocle hung from a chain attached to his vest and swung like a pendulum with each of his long strides. His hair—once a bright crimson like hers—was now a soft reddish blond, slowly turning gray.
“Linnea!” A deep frown creased his face. “Are you alright?”
“Just a little wet.” She straightened her shoulders, thankful she’d stopped shaking from the cold even if her feet were still numb.
Unfortunately she’d inherited her father’s distractibility, often getting too focused on one thing to pay attention to what was going on around her. Grandfather worried she’d suffer an accident and meet her end the same way her father had.
It didn’t help that Grandfather also considered her more fragile simply because she was a woman. At five foot five inches, she had her mother’s thin, delicate features, making her appear dainty even though she was strong and robust—something she’d mentioned continually when she pleaded her case for taking part in the expedition. Even so, since Linnea was the first woman to be part of an exploratory trip like this, Grandfather assumed she wouldn’t have the same stamina and strength as the men.
By now she hoped she was beginning to prove that her contribution to the expedition was valuable enough to outweigh the risks, especially because she was working harder than all the other scientists to catalog the flora on their journey.
Grandfather drew her into an embrace. He held her tightly, long enough that she could feel the quavering in his limbs. “I was so distressed.”
She couldn’t tell him she’d been distressed too. She needed to remain strong. Such was the curse of a woman, having to project an image of strength she didn’t always feel. But she’d learned the hard way that showing weakness only made men question her abilities even more.
When Grandfather pulled back, he fitted his monocle into his eye socket, took hold of both her arms, and scrutinized her as he did his plant specimens.
She laughed and tugged away. “You needn’t worry, Grandfather. I’m not a flower petal. I won’t wilt.”
“I know that, dear. But you could have drowned—”
“I didn’t. And I’m perfectly fine.”
Her grandfather studied her a moment longer, then sighed before holding out a hand toward Flynn. “Young man, thank you for saving my granddaughter. I cannot begin to express my gratitude.”
Flynn shook his hand. “No thanks necessary, sir.”
Linnea hadn’t been properly introduced to these people herself, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t make introductions. “Grandfather, this is Flynn . . .” Except she didn’t know his last name.
At her pause, he spoke. “McQuaid. The name’s Flynn McQuaid.”
Grandfather tilted his head and examined Flynn through his monocle. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. McQuaid. I’m Dr. Howell. And you’ve met my granddaughter, Mrs. Asa Newberry.”
Ivy, who had been staring at Linnea during the entire reunion with her grandfather, released a low whistle. “Holy Saint Peter. You’re awfully young to be married.”
Flynn’s shoulders stiffened at Ivy’s bold statement. Before he could rebuke the precocious girl, Linnea waved off the comment. “I’m twenty-one years old. So I’m not terribly young, am I?”
“Where’s your husband?” Ivy glanced around. “Why didn’t he rescue you? Reckon as sweet as you are, he woulda jumped in right after you.”
A strange heaviness settled on her chest. “I imagine he would have jumped in after me if he’d been along. But he’s not here . . . because he’s dead.”
CHAPTER 2
Flynn’s ready rebuke for Ivy got lost in an onslaught of questions. He hadn’t expected Linnea to be married. How had she lost her husband? Perhaps during one of the recent bloody battles of the war? Maybe at Fredericksburg in December? Or the fight at Stone’s River?
He prayed to the Lord Almighty that Brody hadn’t been in either battle. After reading the newspaper accounts, Flynn had nightmares for nigh to a week. Even if Brody’s name hadn’t appeared on any of the casualty lists, Flynn hadn’t been able to dislodge the image of his younger brother lying somewhere on a battlefield alone, suffering torments worse than those found in hell.
A shadow flashed across Linnea’s pale face, and he had no doubt all this talk was rousing a whole passel of sad feelings for her.
“Did he die in the war?” Ivy’s question popped out before Flynn could tell her to run off and mind her own business.
Even if he agreed with Ivy that Linnea looked mighty young to be hitched, he’d learned enough manners from Ma to know better than to pry into someone’s private life.
Trouble was, Ivy hadn’t had the same kind of womanly training, not since Ma married Rusty. When Ma hadn’t been laid up being pregnant or recovering from a failed birthing, she’d been too tired and worried to pay Ivy much attention. Mostly, Ivy’s training had fallen squarely on his shoulders, and he was about as good at parenting Ivy as a hen was at mothering a porcupine.
“Come on now, Ivy.” He tried to keep his voice calm, but lately she’d been more belligerent and harder for him to handle. “Stop prying into the lady’s affairs.”
“I ain’t prying.” She tilted up her chin, and her eyes flashed with defiance. “Just asking a question. Nothin’ wrong with that, is there?”