When the sun rode high overhead Michael breezed through, grabbing a chunk of cornbread. “Can’t stop,” he said and was off again, his boots raising dust. “Go see Martha,” he flung over his shoulder. “Ben’s poorly.”
For once it was Pace who stopped to talk. He tore off a piece of buffalo and ate it standing up, punctuating the meal with gulps of coffee. “Miz O’Leary, you got any nursing skills?” he asked around a bite.
Too many. The sight of Daniel’s wasted body flashed across her mind. She stood up, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’ve done a bit of nursing in my time. Enough.”
Pace wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “We need help. Some folks is down, and not just Harkness. Ain’t even enough in shape to drive. Don’t look like we’re goin’ anywhere today.”
Ben’s pallor, Ben’s trembling limbs. No, if enough people had what he had, they wouldn’t be going far. “What shall I bring?”
“Basins, cloths, soap. And as much clean water as you can spare. I’ll carry it for you.”
She threw supplies into a basket while Pace stomped out her fire. And as they headed out across the camp, he explained the fine points of dealing with cholera.
Martha. She had to get to Martha.
But Pace steered her in the opposite direction. “No time for that, Mrs. O’Leary, they got kids. There’s others who need us more.”
“We’ll see to the Princes first,” he said as he handed her up into their wagon. “They got no one but themselves. Iffen there’s time later, we’ll look in on the ones with families.”
In the Princes’ wagon, day had turned to night. Furniture, towering pieces of oak, cherry, maple, blocked the midday sun that usually seeped through the canvas. She tripped over a needlepoint footstool and bumped her shin on the corner of a small dresser. Wooden crates, piled on top of the furniture, blocked even the light from above.
Wherever had they put all these things? It would have filled hers and Daniel’s cabin to bursting. And there was more, back in Maine.
And barely enough room for the Princes, stretched out side by side on a single pallet. Ina had managed to get herself into a nightgown, while Henry’s scrawny frame was wrapped in a sheet. Ina was awake, with a fixed stare. Henry slept, his chest barely rising and falling. And the stench wafting from their pallet almost drove her back out again.
Well, it wouldn’t get done by looking. She maneuvered her way to Ina’s side and worked to get the gown off. She sponged the woman clean and wrestled a clean nightgown onto her rigid form. She looked away from where Pace did the same for Henry.
She picked up the soiled gown. The smell of feces was strong, its color seeping through the sturdy cotton. It would never come out.
Bile rose in her own stomach and she choked it back, clinging to a bedpost until the wave of nausea passed. A bedpost. A rock maple headboard with a carved pineapple at either end. “Whatever will they do with all these things?”
Pace bent over Henry, trying to force some liquid through his lips. “Toss it all out when we get to the mountains,” he said without turning. When Henry opened his mouth in a shallow breath, Pace slipped a spoonful of the liquid inside.
“Try it with Miz Prince.” Pace handed her the spoon and tin cup.
“What is it?” Caroline knelt beside Ina again.
Ina couldn’t speak but she opened her mouth, her wide eyes begging for relief.
“It’s a tea, a blend of different herbs. Works sometimes.”
Ina’s lips closed around the spoon. It must have been foul; Ina gagged and clenched her teeth on the teaspoon. But Ina seemed to know that whatever it was, it was what she needed. She took one more spoonful before her face contorted and she waved Caroline away.
“Did Mrs. Taylor brew this?”
“Nope. I did. Miz Taylor can’t lift her head from the pillow. Used her plants, though.”
“Where did you—”
“This is what they give me when I had the cholera ten years ago. I wrote it down.”
They made the Princes as comfortable as they could and clambered down from the wagon. Caroline held the soiled gown at arm’s length. “What should I do with this?”
“Wait ‘til you have a bunch of ‘em, and build a big fire. Boil them in the largest washtub you can find, and never use the tub for anything else. Ever. And if they don’t come clean, leave ‘em.”
At Dr. and Miss Jenkins’s wagon, they found the minister weak, but lucid. He cooperated as Pace sponged him and changed his nightshirt. “Is Margaret—”
“She’ll be fine,” Pace said. “You get yourself well first, else you can’t take care of her.”
Miss Jenkins still wore her black brocade traveling dress. She took the dress off once a week to wash it, and donned a faded housedress for that one afternoon. But she had soiled the black gown.
With difficulty, Caroline got it off her and pulled a nightgown over the limp arms and legs.
As Miss Jenkins stared at the canvas roof, her voice was light and girlish. “Now, Homer, you know Mother doesn’t want me to go to the spring house. Why, I’d have to sneak out!” She giggled.
Caroline froze in the act of pushing the woman’s hand through a sleeve. No question about it, Miss Jenkins was hallucinating. Who was “Homer”? So Miss Jenkins had a past, and a boy who wanted to go to the spring house with her. But whoever he was, he’d passed into memory. As she drew a blanket over the woman, a bone-deep sorrow filled her. Did Miss Jenkins have regrets? What a way to die.
At least she had had Dan.
Unlike the Princes, the Jenkins had brought the barest minimum of supplies and no furniture. Most of the space in their wagon was taken up with crates, neatly stacked from floor to canvas roof, all uniform in size.
“What are those?” Caroline asked as she sponged Miss Jenkins’ face one more time.
“Bibles,” Pace grunted. “They’ll be converting the heathen.”
“But they—” She remembered how the pair had kept themselves aloof from their fellow travelers.
Pace gave her one of his rare smiles. “Mrs. O’Leary, I don’t pretend to understand religion.”
Pace helped her down from the wagon. As she put the soiled black dress on the ground to be collected later, she tried to ignore her own roiling stomach. She turned and vomited on the short blades of grass. The prairie swirled around her like a tornado with her at the heart.
Pace held her head.
When she was done she looked up at him, and read the truth in his eyes.
22
Michael knelt by the pallet in Caroline’s wagon. It was just him and Caroline. The way he liked it. The way it should be.
Jenny had appeared briefly, shooed him out while she’d bathed Caroline, changed her and scooped up the soiled garments. Then she’d disappeared without a word. Jenny knew now, but she knew enough to keep quiet. It was one more thing he’d never have expected of her.
He guessed the whole company, those who had survived, knew that their scout had spent most of the week by Caroline O’Leary’s bedside. He had no excuses left, no answers for them. Whatever they thought, they thought. He had bathed her forehead, watched her shallow breathing, slept fitfully in a corner.
And faced the fact that he might lose her.
And understood, for the first time, what had driven Daniel.
He wanted her to live, more than he’d ever wanted anything. Didn’t matter if she wasn’t his. As long as Caroline walked this earth, he could walk it too. If she were happy with someone else, so be it.
But he couldn’t lose her now, couldn’t lose her this way. Never to hear her cheery “Good morning!” see her toss her head in laughter, the tilt of that head as she listened to an older person or child?
Nobody else could be Caroline. His Caroline, for good or ill, whatever happened to her.
He didn’t like her harsh, labored breathing or the burning forehead. He knelt by her pallet and pressed the soft cloth, soaked in boiled water, to her brow. “Bad dream?” he croon
ed. “Sure and I’m right here, love.”
But it would take more than his presence to bring her around.
For the first time in ten years he knew who to ask. “God, I can’t say I don’t believe in you. I do believe, and that’s the problem. I don’t know why You allow things to happen—things like Oona, and young Mrs. Potter losing her baby, and…and…Caroline losing…our son…and this.” His voice cracked and he had to breathe deep to go on. “But I’m beggin’ you now. Please spare her. Sir, if you let her live I’ll–I’ll serve you. I promise.”
God had never spoken to Michael, even to chastise him. He wouldn’t have expected it. Nor did he believe in angels or visions. But he felt rather than heard the answer. “Son, it doesn’t work that way.”
That was that. Why should the God of the universe listen to Michael Moriarty? Why should Michael deserve it? He bowed his head. God would do what He wanted.
But her breathing slowed and he looked up. He counted the breaths. Deep and even. He touched her forehead. It was cool. He whistled softly, under his breath, and drew back.
A Presence filled the tiny space. Like a gust of wind it was there and gone.
And Caroline opened her eyes.
~*~
She was walking with Daniel in a garden somewhere, though no garden on earth bloomed in these jewel tones, like stained glass windows on fire with the sun behind them. Dan wore white pants and a loose white shirt. He was barefoot and his glasses were gone. Somehow she knew he wouldn’t need them here.
She felt a connection with him, even stronger than when they’d been married, as if a single heart beat between them. It jolted her when he said, “You need to go back.”
“I don’t want to. I want to stay here with you.” At least in the dream, she had never wanted anything more.
He gave a smile rich with both sorrow and joy. “It isn’t time yet. It isn’t your time.”
His blond hair was a little mussed. She reached out to tidy the cowlick that would never stay down, and her hand went through him as if through water. She grasped at nothing.
“Stay with me.”
Michael’s baritone, not Dan’s tenor.
“Caroline, stay with me.”
Don’t make me go back there.
But she opened her eyes to the white canvas roof of her covered wagon, and Michael bending over her, a dry, sandy look to his eyes, a week’s worth of beard.
“You’re awake, then.” Relief flooded his voice, and he pressed one of her limp hands to his lips.
“How long was I sick?” It hurt to talk, like speaking through rust.
Michael crouched beside her pallet as he held a dipper of water to her lips. “Almost a week. Sure and we thought we’d lost you. It was that close.”
Dan and the garden. Oh, closer than even he knew. She struggled to get up, but her legs trembled like jelly and she fell back on the pallet.
“The others?”
Michael busied himself with something, his back to her. “Ben’s failing,” he said. “‘Tis doubtful he’ll last the day. Martha—she just turned the corner yesterday, she is starting to mend, and Pace had to tell her. Hannah managed to escape it. The four older kids got it, but not as bad.”
No room for this new sorrow, she’d deal with it later. “Who else?”
“About a third of our company. Dr. Jenkins died. Hiram and Lily’s oldest boy. The blacksmith’s wife. And Jane Saddler’s husband. Mrs. Saddler and the children are going back East as soon as we can find an escort.”
“Jenny?” Please, God, not Jenny.
“Jenny didn’t get it. She must have been exposed to it in the—somewhere else. She’s been nursing everyone. She’s been a rock. And Mrs. Potter didn’t get it, don’t know why, so as soon as Tom started to mend, she went around and helped other people. Between the two of them, she and Jenny, they took care of Hannah. Kept her away from folks so she’d be safe. Pace didn’t get it either, so he took care of all the stock.”
Someone had changed her into a clean white nightgown. Her cheeks burned, and not from fever this time. “You didn’t—”
“No, I didn’t. Jenny and Mrs. Potter took turns bathing you, changing you. But I was here every other waking minute.”
“The Smiths?”
“The kids all got it, but not too bad. Lyman was useless, of course, but I’m thinking that’s just as well. He got out of the way and let the women take care of them. And Loretta took over soon as she felt better. They’ll be all right.” Michael turned from where he had been working. Propping her up, he placed a tin bowl under her nose. “We need to get you built back up. ‘Tis not safe to eat too much at first, so I’ve made you a soup. It’s the broth from a prairie chicken, plus some of Mrs. Taylor’s herbs. A real chicken would have been better, but ‘twill do.”
She inhaled deeply. Had anything ever smelled this good? The rich warmth of the soup coursed through her. It was a fine first meal. It would have been a good last meal. She looked up at him. “You can cook. You never told me.”
“I’m the second child in a large family,” Michael said with a shrug. “I had to learn to do a lot of things. I can plait hair, sew a button, and change a nappy—but don’t tell anyone.”
It was all too much, too soon. Martha and Jenny safe, but Ben at death’s door. But she would not cry in front of Michael. “I’m so tired,” she choked out.
And Michael came to her. “Acushla, of course you are. You rest now.” He tucked the rough blanket around her as though he were wrapping china. “This afternoon we’ll get you some solid food, and take you outside for a while. But rest now.”
She prayed first, staring up at the canvas ceiling. Why, God, why?
How much sorrow could Martha’s heart hold?
“My ways are not your ways.”
As much as a heart needed to hold.
She slept for three hours, waking when the sun was beginning its slow descent. Someone—Jenny?—had left a bowl of lukewarm water. She splashed her face and then struggled into a shirtwaist and skirt.
Michael peered through the canvas curtain as she fastened her skirt, now too large. Her skin warmed, and she looked everywhere but at him.
“‘Tis glad I am to see you up and around,” he said. “Would you like to come out for a while?”
“Yes. Yes, I would.”
Before she had a chance to move he scooped her into his arms, carrying her from the wagon, again as though she were porcelain. She leaned against his shoulder, leaned against his broad chest. What would it be like to lean on someone again? She blinked in the golden sunlight as Michael set her on her feet.
“I’ve made a place for you,” he said a little gruffly. He gestured to a pile of blankets set against one of the wagon wheels, with another blanket rigged as a canopy. “You can sit out here like a queen and watch the world go by. Such as it is.” He helped her into the bower and tucked one of the blankets around her legs.
She blinked back sudden tears at his tenderness. “Thank you, Michael.”
Though the day was warm, she felt chilly and pulled one of the blankets up to her chin.
Michael perched on a barrel a few feet away. He was whittling, his sharp, swift strokes forming a pennywhistle out a sliver of wood that had escaped the campfires. His ears glowed scarlet. He was trying too hard not to look at her.
The entire prairie, the entire wagon train had boiled down to the two of them. Something had shifted between them in the past week, through the crucible of her illness, and there was a new intimacy between them, much more so than after their kiss, much more than back when he had slept with her. Nothing would be the same between them.
Oh, what was she supposed to do with him now?
She roused at the sound of agitated voices and looked up.
Lily Taylor and Ina Prince dragged young Amelia Carver across the oval clearing between wagons. Caroline barely recognized Lily, the ample flesh now hanging like turkey wattles, her skin the color of parchment. Ina had had less flesh to spar
e, and the disease had taken most of it. Her skin now stretched tight across her cheekbones, the patrician New England nose like a beak.
Amelia mewled like a kitten. “It wasn’t me,” she whined.
Lily gave the girl a shove, and Amelia, frail from her own bout with the cholera, stumbled.
“You wicked girl,” Ina hissed. “Making up to that Injun, and getting everybody else sick. It’s all your fault. It’s your fault people died.”
Lily took the girl’s arm, with a grip that belied her own weakness. “You killed my boy,” she said. “You little harlot. You killed my son, my Matthew. Why shouldn’t you be punished? Why shouldn’t you suffer?”
“I–I didn’t mean it,” the girl wailed.
Lily gave her another shove and Amelia fell onto the packed dirt. She didn’t get up. Lily, the more robust of the pair, knelt beside her and ripped at the faded fabric of her housedress. “We’re going to strip you naked, like the whore you are. See how you like it. See how you like losin’ something.”
The girl’s white shoulder, the top of one small breast lay exposed to the sun.
Caroline sucked in a breath. No. She looked at Michael, imploring him with her glance.
But Michael was already on his feet. “This has gone on long enough,” she heard him mutter. His long legs took him to the women in three strides.
Lily and Ina were breathing heavily.
Michael helped Amelia to her feet and draped the ripped fabric over her. “Ladies.” His voice boomed across the camp. “From the little we know, the cholera doesn’t come from touching—or kissing. It comes from impure water, near as we can tell. The water we’ve been tellin’ you to boil ever since we left St. Joe. Miss Amelia had nothing to do with anyone’s death. If she did anything improper with the Indian boy, she’ll answer to her parents and not to you. Now get along back to your wagons, all of you.” When Amelia hesitated he said, “Go on, Miss Amelia, and help your mother. Do something useful.”
Amelia scurried off, shoulders slumped, tears washing her cheeks.
The women, Ina with her hand on Lily’s shoulder, made their way back to their wagons.
Westward Hope Page 15
