100% Pure Cowboy by Cathleen Galitz Page A

soon few men will be interested in me. The poor man looked positively stricken at the news that I have every intention of delivering the baby in Oregon—just as I promised John.

    Closing her eyes against the glaring sun, Danielle contemplated the courage of women such as Matty O’Shaw. Thirty years old, she had given birth to five children, two of which were stillborn, and assisted her husband through an agonizing death. Instead of succumbing to grief and self-pity, she bravely lifted her chin and pointed it westward, praying for the strength to fulfill the promise she made on her husband’s deathbed—to keep going, to give their children a new chance in the promised land.
    The woman had grit. The same kind of grit that Danielle supposed made Cody Walker such a good leader. She was amazed how he had been able to instill in a wide cross section of teenage girls trust not only in him, but also in each other and, perhaps most importantly, in their own innate abilities. Unwilling to risk his disapproval, each day they rose to meet the expectations he set for them. With his tight jeans, cowboy hat, mischievous smile, and a firm hand, Cody was proving himself a hero for the nineties. The kind of man that every little boy wanted to grow up to be and every little girl wanted to grow up to marry.
    Hearing the sound of childish laughter resounding over the foothills of the Wind River Mountain Range, Danielle was suddenly very glad that she and Lynn had embarked upon this historic trek. The endless blue sky overhead was truly medicine for weary hearts. Oregon Butte loomed in the distance, a great blue chunk of granite as solid as Matty O’Shaw’s resolve.
    Open spaces and a commonality of tasks were having an almost magical effect upon Danielle’s relationship with her daughter. Life without television, telephones, and music videos wasn’t all bad. Like the many wildflowers strewn along the trail, the art of conversation was experiencing a beautiful rebirth. A gentle breeze tugged at Danielle’s skirt, and she could almost hear the sound of a certain stubborn pioneer ghost whispering her approval.
    Although it was nice to be sheltered from the relentless prairie winds, the foothills of the Wind River Range presented their own unique challenges. Small creeks crisscrossed the countryside, and Danielle soon came to appreciate the wisdom of Cody’s directive that only skilled drivers be allowed on the wagons. There were a total of ten wagons, and not a man among them but their wagon master.
    If ever there was a study in female ingenuity and pluck, this was it. Mollie and a Native American girl by the name of Brook Warren were the youngest drivers. Seven other den mothers were in charge of driving their wagons: Kathy McCuen, Pat Curtis, Vicki Zoller, Brandi Winchester, Sandy Burke, Bev Marshall and June Matson’s mother, Barbara. Raised on ranches since birth, it never occurred to these determined individualists that handling a horse and wagon was the least bit unfeminine.
    The infirmary/supply wagon that followed up the rear was driven by an older woman of indiscriminate age who could have passed herself off as Methuselah had she wanted to. Rose’s name was tattooed on her right shoulder. She spoke little to anyone and spat chewing tobacco alongside her wagon with obvious relish.
    That left Danielle and Joy Lawton, the only other out-of-stater, walking alongside the wagon train. The two pedestrians took to one another immediately. Both divorced mothers had been coerced into sponsoring their troops with equal measures of guilt and false promises that certain luxuries would be afforded them.
    It amazed Danielle to see such cumbersome conveyances as these covered wagons coaxed up hillsides of sheer rock. The wheels fit neatly into existing groves, worn several inches deep by travelers well over a century ago. With each passing mile, Danielle not only gained respect for pioneers such as Matty, but