Robbie and Taron

by Abagail Eldan

  Robbie

  and

  Taron

  Three Brides

  Texas Triad, Book 1

  ABAGAIL ELDAN

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  This ebook is not for resale.

  Texas Triad takes place in fictionalized towns, although several towns and cities that actually exist might be mentioned. The descriptions of the towns are flavored with artistic license. This is not a history or geography book, although I attempted to remain true to the times and places whenever possible. Instead, it is a work of fiction that tells a story.

  Copyright © 2017 Abagail Eldan

  All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  The cold wind stung Roberta’s cheeks. She readjusted her scarf and pulled it to the tip of her nose with numb fingers. Papa slumped forward, his forearms lying on his knees, the reins loose in his hands. The horses arched their necks, nostrils down, snorting as they struggled against the wind.

  The darkening sky threatened to drop its contents at any moment. She crossed her arms, not only to hold in a bit more warmth, but also in a fit of sulkiness. Her father alone was responsible for this. Although they had been warned repeatedly not to travel this time of year, especially without companions, he’d insisted. A snowstorm wasn’t beyond reason, and although there had been no snow yet, the cold was numbing.

  Papa hadn’t spoken in over an hour, unusual for him. Normally, he barked out questions and commands as his spine remained rigid as an iron rod. Mama, lying in the bed of the covered wagon, had also been strangely quiet — not that she wasn’t normally quiet, timid some would say.

  Her father coughed hoarsely, and she ventured a closer sideways glance. Bright blotches of red stung his cheeks, and his normally bright blue eyes were clouded.

  Papa was sixty-eight, had been forty-eight when she was born, yet was still a strong, vibrant man — at least physically. She wondered, not for the first time, if senility was creeping in. Mama, twenty years his junior, never questioned him and was kept completely under his thumb, as was Roberta. Papa’s irritability increased with age as did his lack of judgment.

  She was their only child, and Papa, of course, had wanted a boy, a son named Robert Sinclair Rutherford, Junior who would inherit his medical practice. After adjusting to the realization a girl would be the only child he’d ever have, he set to work on a plan. Roberta would become a doctor even if she was born the weaker sex.

  She clucked her tongue softly, chastising herself. Papa never said she was the weaker sex or in any way indicated she was. As a matter of fact, he had put his plan into action, teaching her all he knew and keeping a watch on all her activities. The focus on medicine was single, and any and all distractions immediately swatted away like an annoying housefly.

  Even during their previous weeks of travel, he’d peppered her with constant questions, not that she minded. She enjoyed the study of medicine, the learning of Latin, even the reading of heavy tomes from, it seemed, the dawn of time.

  Her father thought friends would distract her from her studies, lead her astray, and keep her from fulfilling his dreams. And to tell the truth, she’d kept her nose stuck in books voluntarily, preferring them to the company of others. Her own inclination was as much to blame for her loneliness as her father’s strictness.

  And that was the reason they traveled alone. Papa especially feared she might meet a young man who would sweep her off her feet and make her forget all their sacrifices. She chuckled softly to herself. Papa would never phrase it that way, but, yes, that was what he feared.

  Also traveling with a wagon train would have interfered with his drilling on diseases and their cures, on the correct way to perform surgical procedures, or on the science of post mortems. As the horses plodded along, he relished asking obscure questions. To his pride, he rarely tripped her up.

  But today was different. He coughed again, a wracking cough that shook the entire wagon. A moment later, Mama groaned from behind and weakly called to her. Papa pulled the horses to a halt, setting the brake. She scurried from her seat to kneel by her mother’s side on the sloping bed of the wagon.

  “Robbie, I’m so thirsty.” Her mother’s skin was pale and clammy as she coughed hoarsely, croup-like. Roberta laid the back of her hand across her mother’s forehead. Her mother burned hot with fever.

  Roberta crawled past Mama and reached out the back to the water bucket. She scooped out a dipperful of water and held the dipper to her mother’s lips. Mama drank thirstily. When Mama finished and relaxed back into the down pillow, Roberta folded a wet rag and laid it across her forehead.

  Roberta leaned back on her heels before remembering her father was sick, too, and might need her.

  “Papa?” She peered out front but Papa had vanished. “Papa?” she repeated.

  A fit of coughing answered her inquiry. She jumped from the wagon to follow the sound. Papa was holding to the side, bent at the waist, but raised his head, bleary eyes searching hers as she approached. Flecks of bright red blood stained his chin.

  He spoke hoarsely. “Where’s my bag?”

  She turned back to the wagon seat, where the large, black leather bag was stored. She rummaged through and pulled out a bottle of liquid labeled: For Respiratory Illness.

  Papa’s hand shook as he took it from her and uncorked it. He lifted it to his lips and managed to drink a bit before another coughing fit took hold. Roberta hastily brought him a dipper of water, and he sipped it until his coughing faded away. When her father started back to the front of the wagon, his steps unsteady, she put her hand out to stop him.

  “Papa, you can’t drive the wagon. You’re too sick. And, besides, Mama’s too sick to travel.”

  “We have to keep going.” His voice was a croak, not the booming bass that so well went with his girth and height. As he spoke, the wind swirled a flurry of snowflakes around them.

  The dark gray skies made fear constrict her heart. “We’re not going anywhere,” she said firmly. As frightening as it was to linger here, it was more frightening to venture farther.

  Papa’s face hardened for a second before another coughing spell shook him. At last, he nodded solemnly. “I guess you’re in charge.”

  Papa climbed through to the bed of the wagon, refusing her offer of help with a wave of his hand.

  The horses stamped their feet restlessly as if they sensed the bad weather coming. She went to them and spoke softly, rubbing their muzzle as her gaze swept the area. Her father had been traveling parallel to the river but the trees and the lay of the land hid it from sight.

  She’d drive the horses in the direction of the river and perhaps find a clump of trees under which to wait out the storm. The wind was growing stronger, and she had to get them to a safer place. She hesitated a moment before climbing onto the wagon and settling in her father’s seat. She struggled with the brake lever before it released. With grim determination, she turned the horses’ heads toward the river and urged them forward.

  In the end, she decided to camp away from the trees for fear of limbs falling on the wagon. She managed to get the harness traces loose and then led the horses down to the river. Thankfully, although large and strong, they we
re docile. After they got their fill, they followed her back up the gentle slope of the embankment. Praying she was doing the right thing, she hobbled them close to the river so it would be easy for them to go the short distance for a drink.

  Dead branches were scattered around. Pulling her coat closely around her, she gathered them for firewood, stopping at intervals to rub warmth back into her fingers, and then made her way back to the wagon.

  She set up camp with the wagon as a buffer once she hung quilts around the bottom. With it blocking the worst of the wind, she got a fire going and cooked a thin gruel. She climbed into the wagon to give her parents water and a little gruel, as much as they would take. She then rubbed their chests with an ointment that smelled strongly of eucalyptus. Afterwards, she used warm flannel to cover their chests, and then tucked them in with several warm quilts. Her father made no protest during her ministrations. This was as sick as she’d ever seen him.

  Wearily, she climbed from the wagon to make her own preparations for bed. She made a pallet under the wagon to easily hear if one of her parents called out and then covered herself with another quilt.

  If her mama had taught her anything, it was to count her blessings each night, no matter how difficult her studies had been, how many storm clouds gathered, how much loneliness she endured.

  And she tried. It was true things could be worse. The wagon had not broken down. The horses had not run off. Her heart leapt to her throat. What if she’d failed to hobble them correctly? No, they were docile and tame. They’d be fine.

  Her quick breathing slowed as she continued to think of her blessings. Her parents were resting. Mama wasn’t as feverish the last she’d checked. And they had plenty of food and water. But the what-ifs kept flitting in and out of her mind as she tried dutifully to count her blessings. What if they... What if she couldn’t... What if...What if!

  She bit her lip. She’d get through this some way. How far were they from the nearest town? Could she double back? She sighed. Although she had no sense of direction, if she traveled east she’d get back to civilization. And at least she knew the sun rose in the east, so she’d know she’d be heading the right way. Her sigh deepened. Why hadn’t Mama stopped Papa from leaving at such a dangerous time and traveling alone? For that matter, why hadn’t she? Well, she was in charge now, and she would be the one making the decisions. All she could do was hope and pray she’d make the right ones.

  She said her prayers, snuggled deeper into the quilts, and slept.

  Chapter Two

  Roberta awoke with a start. Her father’s coughing rattled the entire wagon above her. She crawled from her snug, warm bed, and encountered the cold, dark night. It was pitch black. Patches of freezing cold on her arms told her the snow still fell. She fumbled for the lantern, got it lit, and climbed into the wagon. Thankfully, she’d left Papa’s medicine bag where she could easily find it.

  Papa was too weak to hold his head up. She cradled him and held the bottle of medicine to his lips, getting a little down, but doing little good. Another spasm of coughing had him spewing forth the medicine. Mama had awakened, but her cough was much weaker. Roberta feared it was not because she was better than Papa but because she was much worse.

  It was a long night as she tried helplessly to control Papa’s cough. Exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she curled into a corner of the wagon and slept in fits and starts. Eventually she fully woke, disoriented, with no concept of the time. It was light enough she could see both her parents slept, but their faces were contorted as if in pain. At least Papa’s cough had ceased.

  She pulled on her coat and climbed from the wagon to tend to the horses. Snow crunched underfoot. The morning was shrouded in grayness. Although the air was heavy with anticipation of more, the snow had quit falling for now. She led the horses to water, and they drank and then she fed them some of the grain Papa had brought along.

  She gathered wood again, more this time for a bigger fire. She resolved to keep it going, even if it meant venturing farther from the campsite to find wood to feed it, or chopping some of the smaller trees down.

  She built the fire and cooked a pot of dried beans and then fried cornbread in the iron skillet. When she finished, she tried to get her mother and father to take a little of the bean soup, but it was useless. Neither one would eat. She had to support her mother when she gave her water to drink and then later support her over the bedpan. Poppa was able to sit up for a bit and his cough was better.

  She got a clean quilt for Papa and took the one covered, not only in cough medicine, but in blood. She went down to the river where she scrubbed it clean in the cold stream, her hands tingling with pain before she finished. Despite her tingling hands, she sat back on her heels to gaze at the meandering river. It was peaceful here, soothing.

  The river was narrow at this point, no more than fifteen or so feet from bank to bank. There were mainly pine trees with a few deciduous trees scattered throughout, their branches almost bare. She shivered and headed back to the warmth of the campsite.

  And three days passed with the same exactness, except the weather. It grew warmer, and the sun melted away some of the snow, leaving mud and slush in its wake. Caring for her parents and doing the strenuous work of chopping trees while slogging through the mud took a toll on her. She started going through the motions, barely aware of what she was doing.

  The days were long and the nights longer. She tried not to dwell on the morrows. Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, she quoted to herself daily.

  On the fourth day, she walked down to the river to fill up the buckets. It was a beautiful area, would be more beautiful when spring arrived and the plants bloomed along the banks of the river. Today was very spring-like, the warmest day yet. The sun was high in the cloudless sky, and her image was reflected back to her. It had been a couple of days since she’d brushed her hair. And she didn’t remember the last time she’d washed it.

  She glanced down at her dress. It was splashed with mud and stained with her father’s blood. It wouldn’t hurt to clean up, even if no one else was within a hundred miles.

  She carried the water buckets back to the campfire and fetched the large, iron pot from the wagon. After she placed it over the fire, she filled it with water to heat. She opened her trunk and pulled out a muslin dress. Although not finely spun, it was perfectly suited for rough traveling. She had not brought many clothes with her — only four dresses in total. Papa had assured her he had enough money to outfit her when they reached their destination.

  She tested the water in the iron pot and found it warm enough for her purposes. She scrubbed her body clean with lye soap and washed her hair. She emptied out the pot, donned her clean dress, and headed for the river with her brush, to enjoy the sunshine on the splashing water. She sat down on a large boulder that jutted out over the river and began untangling the knots in her hair with dexterous fingers.

  “Good day, miss.” The deep voice echoed from across the river.

  It startled her so badly she cried out and the brush slipped from her fingers. Immediately, a cowboy on horseback was splashing into the river and had scooped up the brush almost before she realized its loss.

  “Here you go.” He held out the brush, and she retrieved it from him.

  She glanced down and mumbled, “Thank you.” She tried desperately to regain her composure.

  “My pleasure. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She dared a glance at him, and he flashed a set of even white teeth while bringing up a hand to tip his hat.

  Raking back her wet hair from her face, she tilted her chin up, to get a better look at the good-looking stranger. “You didn’t scare me,” she lied. “I was only startled.”

  “Are you alone?” he asked.

  Her heartbeat tapped at the base of her throat. “Of course not. We have been traveling west and stopped to camp for the night.” She tried to ma
ke it sound as if she traveled with a wagon train instead of only her parents. But surely this friendly faced man on a pinto meant no harm.

  “Oh?” His eyes twinkled.

  Had he been watching her? Did he know she was lying? She scooted off the rock, smoothing down her dress. “I’d best be getting back to camp.”

  “Maybe we’ll meet again?” He wore a lopsided grin on his face.

  She hesitated a moment. Did he want to be invited to the campsite? She didn’t want him to think her rude. “We have some sickness and can’t entertain visitors.”

  He nodded. “I understand. ’Bye, miss.” He pulled the horse’s reins and rode away, beyond the trees that lined the shore.

  Roberta realized she’d not brushed her hair. It was still a tangled mess! Heat rose to her cheeks, and then she shrugged. It didn’t matter. She’d probably never see him again. She finished her hair and hurried back to the camp.

  Her parents were no better. They slept but were feverish and restless.

  She sat down on a log by the fire to think. What if the man came across the river again? That might be a good thing. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought.

  But what if he was a gunslinger? She’d noticed the holster strapped around his waist with the pearl handle of a pistol visible.

  He had probably been watching her this whole time! Planning to rob them — or worse. Heat rose to her cheeks. But she remembered his face, so friendly and open. Surely he meant no harm.

  Still, it was better to be safe than sorry. She ran to the wagon and rummaged until she found her father’s pistol and bullets. Her hands shook as she loaded the chamber. She’d be ready next time.

  The problem was that she couldn’t decide if she feared or desired a next time.

  Chapter Three

  The day after she’d seen the man at the river, the snow returned with a vengeance, this time leaving deep snow drifts, making it more difficult to do the necessary chores. Roberta stayed in the wagon with her parents, using all the quilts and clothes they owned to keep them, and her, from freezing. The gun stayed with her at all times.