Westward Hope

by Bailey, Kathleen D. ;

  “I was up. Sure and haven’t I been up most of the night,” he stage-whispered back. “Mrs. Saddler had her child. I stayed with Mr. Saddler, though I’m not sure which of us held the other up.”

  Caroline measured the coffee and poured the last of yesterday’s boiled water into the battered tin pot. Another baby. She prayed her voice back to normalcy. “What did she have?”

  “A lusty, angry, baby boy. In the event you hadn’t heard him. Mrs. Taylor attended her, and said he’s a good eleven pounds.”

  “Where did she put it?” she gasped, remembering tiny Mrs. Saddler, who hadn’t even looked pregnant until the last month or so. She felt the heat of a blush on her cheeks. Women and men didn’t discuss these things. But she’d had a baby by Michael, if not with him. Had to count for something. The hot beverage coursed through her and she found she could think again, as well as she ever did with Michael around.

  A bird chirped its morning song, and in the nearby wagons, rustling and grunting people were beginning to stir.

  They perched on barrels as they sipped the scalding coffee. The sky was still dark, with a band of gray at the bottom. Though Michael sat well to the other side of the fire, she felt warm from the blaze and the hushed intimacy. Intimacy. The newest revelation—that Dan had always loved her—had left her reeling. She looked at Michael across the campfire. How could he? Because he was Michael. That was how. The rules didn’t apply to him.

  It wasn’t hard to see how she could have fallen for him. Could tumble still, if they hadn’t had such a past. Even now, with his eyes reddened from a sleepless night, he dwarfed all the other men in the camp. In looks and personality. But she, of everyone on the trail, was the only person who knew what else he was.

  And she’d leave it that way.

  Michael drained his cup. “‘Tis good,” he proclaimed. “I don’t miss the cream and sugar. Why—”

  “Why spoil a good cup of coffee,” she repeated in a singsong tone. It was a refrain from their Ohio days. And despite her best intentions, she felt the drawbridge between them clang to the ground. Whatever he was, he was her only connection to Dan left on this earth.

  “So,” Michael said after a pause. “Did ye see anything when we pulled in last night?”

  “No. It was too dark and I was tired.”

  “Then I’ve something to show you. Will you come?” Michael held out his hands.

  She ignored them. But she remembered the spectacle of the buffalo. What marvel did he have for her now? Might as well make the most of it. She would never make this trip again. No, not at gunpoint. “I could,” she said at last. “Just for a minute. Jenny was exhausted last night, and the coffee’s on for Mr. Williams.”

  “Sure and they’ll be in no hurry. We’ll be layin’ over for a day because of the new mother. And this is worth it. Will ye be coming?”

  Her curiosity won out, as he’d probably known it would. She would regret it. But whatever it was, it would be minor compared to everything else she regretted. “Yes,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

  The sun was out in full as they walked across the plain, together but apart. Dew glittered in the short grass.

  She threw back her shawl, and her braid swung at her back. The sky was a cloudless block of blue. It would be another hot day.

  “Look, Caroline.”

  When Michael stopped, she almost ran into him. She gasped as his big arms steadied her, as she felt the pounding of his heart. As the dark blue eyes looked down at her, as he started to say something. The physical pull between them, it was still there. But now, more than ever, it wasn’t enough.

  She lurched away and stared up at a smooth mound of stone, bigger than any glacial boulder she’d seen back in New England. Bigger than the humpbacked whale she’d once glimpsed on a day cruise off the coast of Salem. “Oh, my.” It came out as a squeak.

  Michael watched her reaction. “‘Tis called Independence Rock,” he said. “Christened because most of the wagon trains reach it on or near Independence Day. Which is today.”

  She’d forgotten. One day blended into another out here, and she hadn’t kept a journal. But she remembered. Back home on this holiday—strange to think of Ohio as “home”—she’d be frying chicken and boiling eggs for the picnic.

  The town held its celebration at its raggedy excuse for a park, down at the riverbank. The mayor would speak, an eighth-grade boy would recite the Declaration, the town band would wheeze its way through several patriotic tunes while matrons fanned themselves with their programs. Children would scatter, tearing across the grass, while parents set out food and visited. She remembered Dan’s head in her lap, her back straight against a tree trunk, and a feeling of fullness and contentment.

  Now Michael touched the stone, already warmed by the sun. “Ye’ll never know how lucky you are,” he murmured.

  She? Lucky? “I’m a penniless widow with no idea how to get to where I’m going or what I’ll do when I’m there.” And him to get her there.

  “Still. Because you were born into freedom. I’m not talkin’ about your fancy home back East, though that’s part of it. But even on that poor excuse for a farm, you and Dan were freer than I’d ever been in Ireland.”

  She too touched the stone, and it burned under her fingers. “When I was a little girl, there was a man down our street. Grandpa Richardson. I thought he was old then, but he must have been even older. He fought in the Revolution, lost a hand, lost a brother too, but he said he’d do it again if he had to. I loved his stories. Used them in my teaching.”

  Richardson had fought for their baby country, and seen it birthed, as a lad of twenty. How young this nation was. And people were already wanting to leave.

  She looked up at Michael. His chin was rough with morning stubble and his black curls were an uncombed riot. What would it be like to push his hair back, to feel that black stubble against her own cheeks once again? No. Michael wasn’t safe. And she’d already risked enough on him.

  But his face was stripped of its usual blarney, the teasing grin, the waterfall of words. She broke her rule of not touching him, placed a hand on his arm. “Michael, you’re free too. You live here now.” Whatever he’d done, to her or others, he deserved that. The little she knew about his homeland was enough.

  He shook his head. “No, lass. Do I not wish it true. But I’ll never be free. Not from Ireland.”

  The moment hung between them, like a glittering spider web at dawn. Did she dare ask?

  What would happen if she did? And did she really want to know?

  He turned from her, covered his vulnerability with a laugh. “Look, Caroline. The travelers carve their names in the rock, to show they’ve come this far. Or they leave messages for those coming behind.”

  She moved closer to read the carvings. “T.K., we almost made it.” “Love to Mary and children.” “P.W., see you in Oregon.”

  “You could leave a message,” Michael said, his breath warm on her neck.

  “There’s no one coming behind me.” Hadn’t he remembered? She had no one. It was why she’d left Summer Pasture in the first place.

  “Why don’t you write something?” she challenged back. “Surely one of your brothers or sisters will want to follow you West.”

  Michael shook his head. “Whoever follows me, I’m not sure I want to be found by.”

  There it was again, the mystery of Michael—and Jenny, too, now. What had they done? Or not done? Who were they running from?

  She’d never met anyone who talked so much and said so little. She turned from him and her questions. “I’d better get on with breakfast.”

  ~*~

  Would it be so hard to tell her? Michael kicked at a rock as they walked back to camp, with six feet between them. More apart than they’d ever been. He wanted to tell her everything, not just the “who” of his being followed but the “why.” Jenny knew some of it, but he didn’t love Jenny. And even Jenny didn’t know the “why” of his leaving Ireland.

&
nbsp; Ireland. On this most American of days, he wondered if these people even realized what they had. Of course they did. Why else would they be pushing West to grab another slice of this glorious continent?

  If only he could share it with his people. Help set Tom up on a farm of his own. Rescue Orla from drudgery. See the youngest Moriartys tearing over the plains like these wild American kids. If only he could have given them hope. No, no one would come after him except for the two people he wanted least to see. And he wouldn’t tell Caroline. Just being associated with him was enough danger for her.

  ~*~

  She worked through the morning, catching up on last night’s dishes and a dozen neglected chores. The sun rode high when she began her dinner preparations. Might as well make something decent, rather than the cold, rushed “nooning” they’d settled for most days. Besides, it was a holiday.

  Bridget, her late mother-in-law, had done a wonderful lunch with cheese and toast. It was easy but filling. But the Harknesses’ cow didn’t produce enough milk for luxuries like cheese. Already the milk was thinner, as the grass became shorter and sparser.

  But she’d dressed two prairie chickens Pace had shot the day before. She dusted them in flour and a little salt and pepper, and then set them to sizzling in a skillet. She boiled some water and started coffee—no meal out here was complete without it—and found enough dried fruit, of various species, for a pie. She rolled a pie crust on the wagon seat, and placed the pie in the embers to bake. She began to mix the dough for her biscuits, just water and flour and a bit of fat, but so good. No meal was complete without them, either.

  Her head shot up, by instinct when she heard his voice.

  Michael’s voice was a genial murmur that soon sorted itself into words. But he wasn’t alone. He came into the circle of wagons escorting a group of Indians.

  They were gaunt and dirty, their black hair matted against their skulls, and some looked thin. One stumbled, and a companion looped an arm around his neck. The oldest member of the group rode in a three-sided travois. He had silver hair mixed into his black braids and a seamed face. He lay still against a pile of blankets, his black eyes the only alive thing about him.

  Caroline knew the look in those eyes. She’d seen it in other people, those with a foot already in the next world. Her in-laws. Daniel.

  Two young braves pulled the travois as though it held a child. Fine lines of worry creased the forehead of the taller one. But it was the other one who snagged Caroline’s attention, grabbed it and wouldn’t let go. Instinctively she reached for Michael, and he put a trembling hand over hers.

  The second young man was shorter, not yet a man but definitely not a boy. His dark brown hair was too short to braid, and dark blue eyes beamed out from a deeply-tanned face. “Hey, Miz O’Leary. Mr. Moriarty.”

  “Samuel.” She barely whispered his name, the breath leaving her body. Caroline stared at the boy who had grown several inches since they’d lost him, who wore a set of Indian buckskins, and moved with a new confidence.

  Michael broke the spell and clapped him on the back. “Where have you been, lad?”

  “Current carried me downstream. Couldn’t fight it. I passed out an’ washed up ashore at their camp. They done nursed me back to health. They wanted to keep me, offered me a pony. But I said, ‘I got to get back to my folks.’” Samuel’s gaze swept the campfire area. “Miz O’Leary, you got anything to eat?”

  Wistful, hopeful, polite. Still Sam. She broke off a chunk of cold cornbread. “Sam, I’m so glad to see you. But you’ve got to find your parents. Now.”

  He went, jogging through the village of wagons with the grace of an antelope, waving to people who looked up from their own meal preparations to stare at him in astonishment.

  Sam Harkness, back from the dead, and with a story to tell.

  Caroline’s heart soared in praise to her Lord. What was happening at Martha’s wagon? But she knew. The heavens declared the glory of God yet another time.

  “Mrs. O’Leary.” Michael’s voice pulled her back to the present. “We have dinner guests.”

  At a word from the patriarch, the tall brave started to help him out of the travois, until Michael gestured to the older man to remain seated.

  She wiped her hands on her apron. “Yes, that will be fine. I can stretch a few things. Who are they?”

  “We don’t know yet.” Michael half-carried one of the men to the fireside. “I don’t speak their language, even as well as I speak yours. Would you be fetching Pace?”

  “No need to.” The gravelly voice preceded its owner. “What do we have here?”

  “Found them just outside camp.” Michael lowered the man he was supporting to an overturned crate. “I’m guessin’ there was a sickness. They brought Samuel back.”

  Pace stared at Michael as if he’d gone loco. “What?”

  “Samuel Harkness washed up at their camp, they nursed him back to health, and here they are.”

  Pace stared for a few stunned seconds and then rattled off a few words, in a rich but incomprehensible language. The men deferred to the patriarch on the travois, whose head was sunk to his chest. His features, the nose, the chin, the high cheekbones, stood out in relief. He raised his head and answered Pace in the same tongue.

  “They’re Pawnee, and they were at their summer buffalo camp,” Pace translated. “Everybody took sick of somethin’, and they’re all that’s left. They’re pullin’ out. Old man says he wants to go home to die.”

  “Well, we don’t aim to let him die,” Michael said, but his heartiness sounded forced. “Mrs. O’Leary’s food will build ‘em back up.”

  Caroline gauged her meal’s progress. “I could have something in a half hour.” She’d made something out of nothing before, a hundred times at the farm.

  “‘Twill be fine. We’ll visit until then, and have some coffee.”

  Michael and Pace, who had given up their seats to the newcomers, leaned against the side of the wagon. Michael studied their guests, while Pace made what she assumed was small talk—or big talk—in their dialect. He occasionally fumbled for a word, and the patriarch helped him with gestures.

  Caroline sliced sweet potatoes paper-thin and put them in with the prairie chickens. That ought to pad out the meal. She stirred up a batch of cornmeal mush. Better than nothing. And she’d slice the pie thin. They would have a little bit of everything she had to give. This prairie was no place for selfishness.

  “My ma said I should help.” The voice was young, Southern, half-sullen, half-hopeful.

  Caroline looked up and brushed a stray hair out of her face. Amelia Carver, Alice’s eldest, stood by the fire. She had donned her least-faded dress, the one she wore for Sunday meetings, and held back her long, white-blonde hair with a ribbon. She was sixteen and as man-crazy as Mariah Taylor, with a lot less sense. Even as Caroline watched, Amelia’s glance wandered to the husky brave, whose obsidian eyes regarded her steadily.

  Amelia’s parents loathed Indians, as much as any couple in the company. Alice Carver had not dispatched her daughter to help with the surprise guests.

  Caroline did not have time for this. But the girl was capable enough, and she wasn’t Caroline’s problem. “You may finish the biscuits for me, Amelia,” she said in her schoolteacher’s voice.

  The girl fell to turning the little breads with a practiced hand until they were golden.

  Caroline flipped the sweet potatoes.

  Pace spoke, translating their story. “It came upon them sudden-like. They started their hunt with twenty men, and this here’s all they got left.”

  Caroline’s hands stilled. An epidemic, such as the one that had claimed Dan and his people. Who was waiting for these men at home? Which ones would never come back?

  “Here it is,” she said, a little too brightly.

  The middle-aged men ate without speaking, but made occasional grunts of what she thought was pleasure. The patriarch picked at his food as he conversed with Pace in his dialect.

/>   Amelia settled in next to the teenaged brave, so close her skirts spilled over onto his leggings. The young people had their own language, a universal one beyond words. The boy grinned at Amelia. She grinned back. She fed him a piece of biscuit, pantomiming that she had made them, and his eyes widened in approval. Then she snatched a piece of prairie chicken from his plate, he pretended to grab it back, but instead touched her fingers briefly to his lips. Amelia’s laughter spilled out over the clearing. Amelia tried to show the boy how to use a knife and fork. When he couldn’t master the utensils, she hand-fed him chunks of prairie chicken.

  Caroline had never flirted like that. She’d never been allowed, in a girlhood that had been heavily and relentlessly chaperoned. It hadn’t mattered at the time, since none of the young men of Salem held any interest for her. But what if she’d had more freedom, been allowed to mix with boys on her own? Or at least had a brother, so she’d understood men better? Maybe she wouldn’t have fallen under the spell of Michael Moriarty.

  Jenny sat on the ground a good distance away, her plate in her lap, and said nothing. But the raw pain in her face spoke volumes. Was she remembering White Bear?

  The Indians left after dinner. The older men moved slowly, one pulling the travois where the eldest had fallen into a wheezing sleep. The young brave wiped pie crumbs from his lips. With one last, long look at Amelia, he ran to catch up with his elders. Amelia watched them go until they were mere dots in the distance. She did not offer to help with the dishes.

  In the afternoon Caroline, caught up on her work, wandered back to Independence Rock. The emigrants swarmed over the rock, reading the inscriptions and carving their own. Ina Prince stood over Henry, telling him exactly what to write. The Harknesses did theirs as a family, a solemn Ben handing each member the chisel in turn. Even Hannah, who laughed freely in the Western sunshine. Martha still looked at Sam as though he would evaporate, and tucked his arm into hers when he’d put down the chisel.

  We were here.

  Would it make up for the unmarked graves, or the marked ones whose wooden crosses would rot before anyone who cared passed by again?