Chapter 2

Grant Allen eyed the horse preparing to race the flat stretch of land in front of him. Trappers and Natives had gathered in a line along the raceway, calling wagers up and down the row.

There weren't as many men now as there had been a couple weeks ago, during the busiest part of the rendezvous. But he still had to move his gaze slowly as he studied each fellow, taking in his profile. His height. The width of his shoulders.

If only Grant had a better idea of what his brother looked like now that Will had grown to manhood. He'd finally found the Sheldon family who'd taken Will in as a boy, after their parents died. But talking with Sam Sheldon hadn't helped as much as Grant had hoped.

He'd only said that Will was about the same height as Grant, maybe an inch or two shorter. Same color hair ... nay, a bit lighter. Not quite as filled out, though now that Will had come west and lived a year in these mountains, he might be more so.

And now that Grant had spent a month in this western territory and seen the horde of trappers, he had a feeling there might be more changes to his brother's appearance. Did he wear an overgrown beard like nearly every other white man at the rendezvous? Or, at twenty years old, would Will be able to grow much more than scruff? Grant had shaved every day by that age, but more because his wife, Gloria, liked a smooth chin than any other reason.

"Hiya, Smiles."

The voice barely penetrated his thoughts, especially with that ridiculous nickname. Only when the young trapper nudged Grant's arm did he pull completely out of his ponderings to glance at the man.

Grant spared a nod, then turned back toward the raceway. This fellow had been one of the first in line to trade when Grant rode in with the supply wagons. Unfortunately, the young man's furs had been poor quality, so he'd not received as many supplies in return as he'd expected. Since then, they'd passed each other several times, and the man had somehow dubbed him with the absurd handle of Smiles, which made Grant want to not smile all the more.

The young trapper gestured toward the horses. "Already placed your bet?"

Grant shook his head. "Not much of a gambler."

"Suit yourself." The kid shrugged. "Got my eye on that buckskin." He paused. "Reckon he could help me earn the difference of what I didn't get on those sorry furs. What d'ya think?"

Grant eyed the animal. The dusky coloring with that black mane and tail was striking enough to catch any man's eye, but it was the animal's eyes that concerned him. The lack of excitement there. And you could just see the flash of white at the corners.

Growing up in St. Louis—the Gateway to the West—he'd had plenty of chances to sit on a street bench and listen to the old men talk about horseflesh. He'd once heard a gray-haired man say you could never trust a horse that showed the whites of his eyes.

Grant hadn't spent as much time around horses as a lot of fellows here, but he'd paid attention from that day on. More often than not, the man's words proved true.

Even so, he'd rather stay out of this youngster's business. The fellow had asked Grant's opinion, though. And if he bet on the buckskin against that leggy bay with the itch to move out, he'd lose even more of the supplies he needed to survive the winter.

Grant glanced sideways at him. He was about the age Will would be—twenty years. He couldn't actually be Will, though, not with that shock of blond hair.

But if Will were about to make such a poor decision, Grant would want someone to knock sense into him. He turned his focus forward again. "Save your trade goods."

The trapper spit a stream of tobacco juice onto a rock in front of him. "Nah, I need to win enough powder to fill my cartridges through the winter. You think the buckskin's the way to go?"

Grant shook his head. If the fellow was going to be bullheaded about it ... "Saw the bay run yesterday. I'd put my money on him." Except he wouldn't. He knew far better than to waste his funds on a wager.

"Alrighty then." The man trotted off to place his bet, and Grant shifted his focus to those lining the far side of the raceway. He'd already questioned many of them, but none had heard of Will Sheldon. Nor Will Allen. He couldn't be sure whether his brother had used the surname of the family who took him in or kept their real name.

As he finished studying the figures on the far side, the horses moved into position for the riders to mount. It would be a few minutes before they shot the starting gun.

And there came that young trapper, trotting back toward him, a grin as wide as the Mississippi River spread across his face. They should call him Smiles.

Grant couldn't help a surge of sympathy. He'd been a boy once, desperate to make sure he'd have enough to eat, willing to take a chance. He'd thought his choices had paid off, once upon a time. He'd managed to secure a wife far above his position in St. Louis society. And he'd become son-in-law and assistant to one of the leading solicitors in the city.

He should have known it wouldn't last.

The trapper settled in beside him to watch the race. "Thanks for the tip. That bay is a real beauty."

Grant nodded. Was it too much to hope the fellow would catch on and learn to appreciate silence?

"I heard somethin' that might help you. A tip in return, you might say."

He spared the annoying man a look but still held his tongue. Just raised his brows and waited.

"Didn't you say your brother's name was Will ... Shelton or somethin'?"

Grant's pulse quickened. "Sheldon."

The trapper nodded. "That's it. I was standin' at Parson's campfire, sharin' a cup of coffee and talkin' about the best places to trap this winter. I heared a couple fellows on t'other side of the flame say the name Will. Got nosy, I did. An' when I asked about this Will fellow, they said it was a friend of their'n who was livin' in a cabin somewhere up on the Shaheela River. Said they thought they might find themselves there come the first snow an' see if they could bed down outta the weather."

Grant worked to keep his breathing even and not grab the man's shoulders to shake more details out of him. "Where's the Shaheela River? Who is Parson?" He'd not heard of a trapper by that name. Was that a surname or a profession? The men in these parts seemed to have a penchant for labeling each other with strange handles.

The boy turned and lifted an arm to point toward the lodges scattered around the valley. Before he could speak, a surge from the crowd lining the raceway spun him back toward the horses. "They're about to start."

With the blast of the gunshot, the voices around them surged almost as fast as the racing horses. Beside him, the trapper jumped and fisted the air, cheering on the bay with a colorful assortment of encouragements. "Come on, you mangy piece o' hide. Stretch those toothpicks. Move on past that dog-nosed blighter. Move on, I tell ya."

Grant didn't worry about tracking the animals down the raceway. His mind could only focus on what this overly friendly lad had revealed. The Shaheela River. It wasn't on the map he'd purchased before coming west, a sketch created from the details William Clark had drawn during the expedition he and Meriwether Lewis led to the Pacific Ocean.

As soon as the bay crossed the finish line two lengths in front of the buckskin, the young trapper started to run toward the crowd gathering around the winner. Grant grabbed his arm just in time and held him back. He couldn't let this first lead slip out of his hands.

The fellow tried to pull away. "I have to collect my winnings."

Grant gripped him harder. "Tell me where to find those men. The ones who know my brother."

The boy pointed again toward the lodges. "That bigger teepee with the square tent pitched beside it. Tell 'em Riggs sent you."

Finally, Grant could fulfill the promise he'd made all those years ago. He'd find Will. Make sure his brother was all right and help him in any way he could. Then he'd figure out what he intended to do with his own life.

Maybe he'd stay with Will and be a trapper in these Rocky Mountains. Two brothers, finally reunited after being torn apart so many years ago.

Maybe.

The roar of water crashing against massive rocks filled Faith's ears as she stepped closer to the waterfall. Mist rose from the cascading flow, creating a rainbow of colors in the pale morning light.

She squinted into the icy spray. Was there a cave behind? White Horse said some waterfalls in this area covered hidden tunnels, and he suspected his mother had taken refuge in one of them. Wouldn't it be wonderful if Faith located her on this very first search?

She couldn't tell if there was a cave here or not. She'd have to move closer to investigate, to see if there was a path leading behind. Steps Right wouldn't stay at a place where she had to drench herself—and maybe even be injured by the heavy flow—every time she came into or out of her home.

Faith moved to the edge of the falls where a path would be located. The mist sprayed a fine layer of wet over her face and hair, even her clothing—her favorite green cotton work dress. This was the only skirt that allowed her to move freely without tangling in her legs if she lengthened her stride. She'd taken to wearing trousers most days, but this had been one of Rosemary's requirements for her to accompany the missionary party. She had to wear a skirt at all times so the people they met would be able to distinguish her from the eldest boy in the family, fifteen-year-old Walking Bird.

Faith couldn't help if she was less filled out than her sisters. She'd always thought it was her youth that made her look more like a sapling than a woman, but at nineteen, she'd more than reached the age she should have grown more curves. It didn't matter to her if people confused her with a half-grown boy. But wearing a dress was a small price to pay for finally getting the chance to find Steps Right and fulfill her responsibility to Papa.

Her heart gave a skitter of anticipation. She was so close to finding the woman, she could feel it.

But there was no path leading behind this curtain of water, only slick, wet rocks.

Maybe the thick mist concealed a ledge, and a person had to simply step out in faith. She moved forward and crouched, feeling through the edge of the water's spray. Liquid pounded on her arm, drenching her sleeve.

Her hand met only a solid rock wall.

Maybe on the other side of the river? She stepped back to study the far bank, but her boot slipped on wet stone.

She stumbled, reaching out to catch herself. Her left foot slid out from under her and over the edge of the rock toward the river below, spreading her legs wide. She landed hard on the boulder, sitting spraddle-legged.

But too much of her weight was tipped toward the water, and the stone beneath her was slippery from so many years under the spray of the falls.

She slid sideways, crying out as she scrambled to grab something solid. Her hand caught a jutting rock just as she was about to tumble into the rushing water. Heart pounding, she clung to the stone with all her strength, both feet dangling over the edge.