Clay by Ana Leigh

freedom’s interest above their own.”
    “Perhaps we need such men now more than ever,” he said sadly. “Those in Washington appear to be puppets whose strings are being pulled by the wealthy industrialists, whose purpose is to serve their own means.”
    She was surprised to see a sudden glint of amusement in his eyes. “But let me remind you, Rebecca, that there hasn’t been a Southern president in Washington for over fifteen years. So that may be the reason this country’s in the mess it’s in—and why Rebs and Yankees alike are climbing on wagon trains by the thousands and heading as far west of Washington as they can.”
    He closed his book, put it aside, and rolled over.
    Rebecca put the deck of cards away, then blew out the lantern and lay down.
    The splatter of rain on the canvas suddenly had a comforting sound to it, and the bed felt softer. She cuddled deeper into its furry folds and thought about the conversation with Clay.
    As delicate as the subject matter was, she’d learned a little more about this man whose name she carried. Maybe she’d been mistaken about him—mistaken pride in his heritage for arrogance. He indisputably was a man of honor.
    She grinned to herself. And at least he wasn’t pouting any more.
     
    Rebecca woke to daylight and a camp alive with activity. Peeking out the front flap, she saw that Scott had not waited until seven to move out. She quickly dressed and went outside.
    Already too deep to ford, the river was swollen to a treacherous-looking torrent by yesterday’s rain. Clay and Mike Scott were standing in ankle-deep mud on the bank watching the ferry bobbing in midstream, two wagons strapped to its deck.
    “Good morning,” she said.
    “Morning, Mrs. Fraser,” Scott said pleasantly.
    “Why didn’t you wake me, Clay?”
    “No need to. There’s still four wagons ahead of us that have to cross.”
    “What about breakfast? I imagine a hot meal would taste good right about now,” she said.
    “You’ll have plenty of time to prepare food on the other side.” Scott said. “This crossing will take most of the day.”
    “Then I’d better make sure everything is tied down tightly.” Rebecca slogged through the mud back to the wagon.
    Determined not to track the mud inside, she pulled off her boots before climbing into the wagon bed, and then glanced at the sodden, mud-stained bottom of her skirt.
    “Modesty be damned,” she murmured. Releasing the skirt, she let it drop to her ankles. Her chemise was not as muddied, but would need a washing, too, once they were across. She changed and had everything folded and packed down tightly when Clay followed the Garson wagon onto the ferry.
    “That’s a dollar and ten cents,” the ferry owner said when he strapped the wagon in place.
    “A dollar and ten cents! That’s outrageous!” Rebecca exclaimed.
    “Fifty cents a wagon, and ten cents apiece for any livestock ’ceptin’ dogs or cats, lady,” the man said.
    “Take it or swim across.”
    Rebecca doled out a precious dollar and ten cents to the ferryman. At the price he was charging, the man could become a millionaire in one season.
    Many on the train could not afford to pay the exorbitant fare and had removed the wheels on their wagons and were poling them across like rafts. Others had their teams swimming across the raging river pulling the wagons hitched to them.
    It was a choppy ride. Even with the heavy wagons and livestock, the ferry bobbed in the water like a cork. Nearing midstream, they watched Howard Garson as he attempted to drive his buggy across the river. The poor horse was barely managing to keep its head above water as it struggled against the strong current.
    To their horror, they saw a huge wooden crate, which had broken free from one of the wagons upstream, floating straight at the buggy. They shouted a warning to the unseeing Howard, but it was too late. The crate crashed into the lightweight buggy, tipping it over. Howard was tossed into the