Read Crow Mountain for Free Online Page A

was customary for the driver to halt the coach before abridge, whilst one of the team jumped down and inspected it for soundness. Then we would proceed, with some caution. Many of the bridges on this remote trail were over a decade old, and were wanting repair. I tried to see out of the window, but Miss Adams’s look of reproach meant I sat back again in my seat and turned my eyes to my book. I listened though as the teamster returned and spoke to the driver in his American brogue.
    â€˜Looks fine. Few planks out further along, but doesn’t look like it’ll cause any trouble. It’s just a gulch. Run-off for the glacier.’
    The man retook his position next to the driver and the coach lumbered forward. I studied my book. Despite my vague longing for adventure, the bridges often frightened me. Crossing them was perilous; most of them were only just wide enough for the coach and took all the skill of the driver to keep them on the rails. Fortunately, our team had come out of Chicago, and had over twenty years’ experience – a Mr Pinkerton had recommended them to Papa personally.
    My thoughts returned to you, and the long moment we had seen each other at the hotel. Your image remained fixed in my mind. The day had turned somewhat warm. I found my fan and opened it, directing cooler air on to my face as I read and drew, trying to ignore my aching hip bones and my sore back.
    â€˜I do not know what you read that makes you so over-heated,’ Miss Adams said sarcastically.
    I looked at her, unable to keep the colour rising in my face. She knew well, after all, what I was reading. ‘It is somepoetry, of Mr Dryden’s.’
    â€˜Poetry is a waste of time, which no wife-to-be should meddle with.’
    I thought about that, as the coach hauled itself on to the bridge and began the slow crawl forwards. ‘Mr Stanton has written to me particularly kindly regarding my own interests, which he is keen I should keep up,’ I said at last.
    Miss Adams raised an eyebrow. ‘You will learn, soon enough, Miss Forsythe, that what men say and what they intend, are two different things.’
    â€˜What do you mean, please?’ I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
    Indiscretion, or passion, had clearly got the better of her: she was florid, her nose positively agitated. ‘Men are jades, Miss Forsythe. They will say and do anything to have their will satisfied. Liars and cheats all. You should no more expect to love than to hate your husband.’
    â€˜Have you ever been married?’ My voice was small, the fever in her voice was so hot.
    â€˜No, and no more would I marry than I would fly to the moon,’ she said, angry.
    The coach came to a halt, and the silence hung heavily between us. The men were having a discussion.
    â€˜Why not?’ I asked at last.
    â€˜Because I see no reason to put myself in harm’s way more than absolutely necessary. And I prefer to get my own bread, than to put myself under a man’s control. With their disgusting lechery and filthy habits.’
    Papa was not a man of filthy habits. He was always immaculately dressed with a boiled and starched collar; a man came to shave him and make his hands elegant each weekday. And I wasn’t sure what ‘lechery’ meant – I had a dictionary, but Mama had inked out many words.
    There was a huge bang. The coach lurched to one side, throwing us across the interior. The horses began to scream. I struggled into a sitting position on what had been the left-hand wall of the coach. Out of the window, I saw, far below us, the dry river bed. I could see the dusty boulders and stones there, in perfect detail. I could also see both teamsters lying broken amongst the rubble. From one of their heads, that of the younger one, spread a darkening pool.
    The driver was still on board, cradled in his sturdy seat. Mr Goldsmith too, it seemed, had managed to cling on to the roof rail.
    â€˜Ladies,