For mickeym: "TrickC, historical a/u. Chris and JC are part of the wagon trains heading west."

JC squinted at the sky, right past the sunset where the clouds were gathering, and then licked his thumb and held it out. "What do you think?" Chris asked, coming up behind him.

"Rain tomorrow," JC said. "Maybe as soon as the morning. We'll have to make sure that the ladies and the children stay under cover; we wouldn't want any of them to catch a chill. I'd rather not deal with any more sickness than we're going to have anyway."

"I'll pass on the word," Chris said, and nodded. They were used to fatalities in the trains that they guided west, but that didn't mean that they liked them. They were paid to guide, yes, but season after season they made new friends among the wagons, and arriving in Oregon was always a delight to see which children had been born and which families had been thriving. They both had godchildren a-plenty, born to the families they'd shepherded across rivers and through forests and plains, and they both counted some of their dearest friends in the world people they'd made the crossing with in the past decade. "How are all of yours holding up?"

"Well enough," JC said. "We might want to keep the two parties a little closer for the next few days, at least until after we ford the river."

"Good point," Chris said, and nodded. "And maybe we should take a day, sometime soon, and just camp and rest. We're a few days ahead of schedule, and Mrs. Timberlake isn't holding up as well as she says she is. I'm concerned that she might be falling ill already."

"Your judgement call," JC said, and then looked around. No one was watching, at least not closely enough, so he could slip his fingers into Chris's and squeeze. They'd taken up guiding because out where there was nothing but trail and sky, there were fewer people to disapprove. "Under the wagon, after full dark?"

"Yes," was all Chris said, simply, and the press of his fingers lingered against JC's as they parted and went to haul water up from the river.

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