Free Takoda by T. M. Hobbs

Takoda
    I sat in the buckboard wagon and looked around the place I had called home for the last three years. As I did, I remembered the day I came to live here. It was just after my father and mother were both killed in an Indian raid on our farm. That day, I hid in the cellar, inside a trunk for an entire day, before I had my wits about me.
    When I climbed out, I found my parents dead. I felt alone, terrified, and like my life was over.
    My aunt and uncle, having received word of what had happened, arrived a week later and brought me back here to live with them and their children. Montana was beautiful, and I hated to leave it behind, but my uncle had received word he could claim a large spread in Wyoming. We headed south in search of bigger and better dreams.
    The wagon moved, and the slow and steady jostling had me drifting into thoughts of what adventures we would encounter. After all, I was eighteen and hadn’t been anywhere but North Dakota and Montana.
    Our first day, travel was long and tedious. By the time we stopped for the night to make camp, I was ready to help cook and get things prepared for the evening.
    â€œAunt Helen, have you ever been to Wyoming?” I asked, as she and I peeled potatoes for a stew we were cooking over the open fire.
    â€œNo, my dear. I have lived in Montana my whole life.”
    â€œAre you going to miss it? Montana, I mean.” I asked, placing the potatoes in the pot.
    â€œOh, I suppose, but I told myself long ago that home was the people around you, not necessarily the place in which you dwell. So, I am home now, and tomorrow, and the next day, because I have you, Charles, and the boys,” she said, smiling and wiping her hands on her apron.
    I knew she was right, and I loved her for sharing her thoughts with me. She was a strong woman, and I have always wanted to be like her. She took me into her home and raised me like I was—her daughter. She only has boys of her own.
    I looked over at the boys helping their dad get things ready for the night. There was John, who was my age, and Ren and Mark, who were both twelve. I was close to my cousins I suppose.
    We all had jobs to do in the family, and we all worked hard. That was the way things were living on the farm. We pulled together and did our part, which made things easier on everyone.
    After super that night, I took the pot and dishes down to the creek to wash them out. John went with me to help.
    â€œAre you excited to be moving?” he asked, as he scooped water up into the stewpot to wash the other dishes in it.
    â€œYes. I’ve always dreamed of traveling,” I replied, laughing at the irony of what I was saying.
    â€œYou know, you’re pretty when you laugh,” John said quietly, looking at me in the moonlight.
    â€œThank you,” I said thoughtfully.
    John was a handsome young man, with broad shoulders, brown wavy hair, and a stocky build. We never really had neighbors or had been around many people, except when we would occasionally go into town with Uncle Charles for supplies, once every month or so. I knew the young ladies always turned their heads to look at him, but he never seemed to pay them any mind.
    I finished washing the dishes and scrubbed out the pot, then John and I carried the dishes back to the camp, but he carefully wrapped his strong hand around mine, as we carried the large pot together. I liked John, simply because he always looked out for me, but I wasn’t sure I liked his new affection toward me. His hand was warm, however, and mine was cold, making it difficult to resist the innocent gesture.
    When John and I returned, we settled down for the night. The stories of Indian raids had accompanied us on our journey, and we didn’t want to let our guard down, even when we rested.
    Ren kept the first watch, sitting with a shotgun across his lap. Uncle Charles would relieve him around midnight, John would take the next watch, around three in the morning where he