American Dreams

by Janet Dailey

  "Don't talk like that, Victoria," he murmured irritably. "You are not going to die."

  "Promise me." She tried to sit up, a frantic look leaping into her eyes.

  Almost immediately she started coughing, her body convulsing with the terrible, racking force of it. He held her, waiting for the spasm to pass, all the while regretting he hadn't simply agreed.

  At last the coughing subsided, but it was as if it had drained every bit of her strength. She lay there, paler and more hollow-eyed than before. She looked at him, appealing silently as her lips formed the words promise me, although he could hear no sound from them.

  "I promise."

  She closed her eyes, her lips curving in a faint smile of contentment. He sat with her for a long time, then quietly left the wagon.

  Victoria died quietly in her sleep that night. When Will said he wanted her to be buried in the same grave with Xandra, Temple instantly protested. "No. It isn't right."

  "It is what your mother wanted, and I promised her I would."

  "When? Last night?" She stared at him, stunned by the implication. "Then she knew ... she knew she was going to die."

  He shook his head, a vagueness in his expression. "I think she couldn't stand being separated from her children any longer. Not only Johnny and Xandra, but your other little brothers and sisters who died so very long ago."

  "But why? I don't understand."

  "You are a mother, Temple. You should know. The children come first. They always did with Victoria . . . always." His voice trailed off to a mere whisper of pain and regret.

  Slowly, Temple realized what he was saying—that her mother loved her children more than she loved him, that she put their needs and considerations before his. He had been hurt by that, deeply hurt.

  A brilliant blue sky and bright sun made the day look warm, but the air was frigidly cold. Temple huddled close to the fire, holding her croupy son on her lap. Keeping warm seemed to be their single occupation, the dominant thought that ruled every waking moment, taking precedence over even food and water. The cold had a way of numbing everything, including grief and hope, locking it inside with all the other misery. Three days ago they had buried her mother, then returned to the fire to mourn her.

  The fire was all-important.

  Temple tried to recall those languid summer afternoons at Gordon Glen when the sun blazed overhead and a hot breeze stirred the sticky air. But it no longer seemed real. There was only the cold, the never-ending cold and the collection of graves outside the camp and all along that awful trail they had traveled. Maybe they would all die. She hugged her ailing son closer. Lije squirmed and protested crankily, pushing his head back against her chest. Reluctantly, she relaxed her hold and murmured to him.

  The crunching sound of hooves breaking through the snow's icy crust echoed loudly in the still air. Uninterestedly, Temple looked over as Jed Parmelee rode up, dismounted, and looped the reins over a wagon, then crossed to the fire. He squatted on his heels and held out his hands to the flames, his steamy breath rising from his mouth like thin white smoke. A wool muffler covered the point of his chin. His light blue glance went from her to the boy on her lap.

  "How's Lije?"

  "The same." No worse and no better, but Temple could find little comfort in that, not with three members of her family already dead, along with their blacksmith, Ike.

  "Good. The doctor told me whooping cough runs its course in a couple of weeks. He'll be fine." As long as no new complications set in, like pneumonia; but Jed didn't tell her that. There had been enough tragedy in her life recently without raising the specter of another. "I rode out to the river. The ice seems to be breaking up. If it continues a few more days, the ferry should be able to make it across."

  "Miss Temple!" Phoebe came hurrying across the snow to the fire. "Miss Temple, you better come."

  "Why? What's wrong?" She rose to her feet.

  "It's Master Blade. He's real sick. He won't let Deu fetch the doctor and he's got an awful rattle in his chest. I don't know what to do." The words tumbled from her in a puffy white rush. "You've got to help him, Miss Temple. He's in the tent. Deu's with him, but..."

  When Jed saw the alarm and fear in Temple's eyes, he bit down hard on the jealousy that rose up in him. She cared. He had known all along that The Blade had wanted her to come back to him, but he thought Temple .. . but it didn't matter what he had thought. Her reaction was telling him something entirely different.

  "Look after Lije for me." She handed the child over to Eliza, then turned to him. "Will you bring the doctor?"

  "But Master Blade said—" Phoebe began.

  "I don't care what he said!" Impatience, irritation, and concern were all mixed together in her sharp retort. "Bring the doctor."

  "Right away," Jed promised, but she didn't wait for his assurance as she set off in the direction of The Blade's tent. He watched her go.

  Nearby, Eliza whispered faintly, "She still loves him."

  He shot her a savage glance. Eliza's face mirrored the thoughtful wonder that had been in her voice. A hint of a smile touched her lips. Jed turned from it and strode briskly to his horse. "I'll get the doctor." But he didn't want to, and knowing that didn't make him feel any better.

  When Temple plunged inside the small tent, she was greeted by a thick, congested cough. She stared at the long figure swathed in blankets lying on the cold wet ground, his head and shoulders cradled in Deu's lap and arms.

  Deu looked up. "You came. I wasn't sure you would."

  "How is he?" Temple knelt down to examine The Blade for herself.

  "He's bad. I tried to take care of him. I tried."

  For an instant, Temple met the gaze of his black eyes. Deu loved The Blade as much as she did. She had always known The Blade never went anywhere without him. Yet she had never once suspected that the bond between them was any more than a master's regard for a faithful servant and a servant's loyalty to his master. It went deeper than that. Deu held him in his arms as he would a brother. Briefly, she was shocked by the discovery, then just as suddenly it didn't seem important.

  "The doctor's on his way." When she felt The Blade's forehead, his skin was like fire to the touch.

  He stirred, partially opening his eyes to look at her, their color a feverish blue. "Temple?" His voice was a mere rasp.

  "I am here." She tried to smile, but she was too alarmed by his weakness and the awful sound of his breathing. Fresh in her mind was the image of him helping to dig Ike's grave, then digging Xandra's all by himself, and only three days ago helping to bury her mother. She didn't want him to die too.

  His frown deepened, irritation flickering in his eyes. "Deu, I told you not to—" He started coughing again.

  Shutting her ears to the sound, Temple refused to give in to the helpless feeling that assailed her. "Go heat some stones, Deu. We need to keep him warm. I will stay with him until the doctor comes."

  Deu hesitated. "You have to keep him propped up, Miss Temple. It's too hard for him to breathe when he lays flat."

  "I'll hold him." It was what she wanted, what she needed. Too many months had passed since she had last had her arms around him.

  As soon as his coughing subsided, she changed places with Deu and supported The Blade on her lap, cradling his head in the crook of her arm.

  He made a protesting movement. "Lije ..."

  "Eliza is taking care of him."

  Her answer seemed to satisfy him. Either that or he hadn't the strength to object further. Temple didn't know or care. Their son didn't need her as much as he did.

  Pneumonia was the doctor's diagnosis. For two days and nights, Temple remained at The Blade's side, spooning warm broth down him, changing the smelly poultice on his chest, and holding him, only rarely allowing Deu to take over her vigil, and then never for long. She was afraid to sleep, afraid he would need her, afraid he would die if she didn't stay with him.

  It didn't seem to matter that for three years she had known he was marked fo
r death for what he had done. Now that he hovered so near it, she was terrified at the thought of losing him forever. Her fear made no sense to her, any more than her reasons for leaving him two and a half years ago did. All the well-thought-out logic of her actions now seemed flawed.

  When Deu entered the tent near the end of the third day, she was numb with exhaustion and cold. Swaying unsteadily, Temple reached for the mug of warm broth in his hand.

  "No. I'll feed it to him." Deu refused to give it to her, and she was too tired to insist. He lifted The Blade's pinning weight off her legs and Temple half fell and half crawled out of the way, her stiff, cramped muscles balking at the movement. "It'd be a good idea if you rested a little while," Deu suggested gently.

  She nodded in agreement, yet she couldn't seem to make herself lie down. She sat with her legs partially curled beneath her and stared at The Blade's face, feeling lost without the sensation of his body pressing on her.

  His eyelids fluttered as Deu held the mug to his lips. The Blade tried to avoid it, turning his head slightly and mumbling something. "Now you take a little sip of this broth, Master Blade," Deu crooned to him. "Phoebe fixed it specially for you. She'll be upset if you don't take a taste of it. Come on now, try a little bit."

  Frowning deeply, The Blade pushed his head back, forcing the mug away from his mouth with his chin. "Temple. I thought... I thought Temple ... was here," he murmured weakly.

  "I am." She ignored the tingling protest of her limbs and crawled to his side, leaning forward so he could see her. "I am right here."

  He focused his eyes on her with an obvious effort. "Don't leave ... don't leave me again." His voice was little more than a faint moan, his lips barely moving to form the words.

  "I won't. I will be here right beside you." The instant she made the promise, a strange calm took possession of her. She wasn't going to leave him, not while he was so ill, and not even after he recovered. She knew that as surely as she knew the sun would always rise in the east. If she could have taken back the months they had spent apart, she would have. She had hurt him by leaving him. She had hurt both of them.

  At the time, she had been convinced it was best for their son that she left him. Now she remembered all the times she had watched The Blade with Lije in the recent months, playing some baby game with him or simply letting Lije crawl around on him. Wasn't it best that a child should know his father's love? Wasn't it better that he should grow up with that, even if he heard all the hateful things others might say about his father, whether true or not? Yes, The Blade was wrong in what he had done, but she was equally wrong in leaving him. She could see that now, and prayed that it wasn't too late.

  "You drink that broth," she urged, hearing the tremor in her voice. "You have to get well. Please. Please get well." She lay across him, resting her head on his stomach and crying softly, letting his blanket muffle her quiet sobs.

  After a time, Temple closed her eyes—just for a little while. But it was pitch-black inside the tent when she woke up. Instantly, she had the sense that something wasn't right. Levering herself onto her knees, Temple leaned forward to check on him. He was lying completely flat.

  "No," she gasped in alarm and scrambled forward to pick him up. A pair of hands pulled her away, resisting her attempts to struggle free of their grip.

  "Let him sleep, Miss Temple," Deu's voice whispered near her ear.

  "But—"

  "Shhh. Listen. He's breathing easier now. You can't hear that rattle in his lungs anymore."

  She stopped fighting Deu's hold to listen. "He's getting better, isn't he?" She was almost afraid to believe it.

  "In another week or two, he'll be walking around here as good as new. Go back to sleep now, or he'll be takin' care of you next." She began to weep softly in relief. Gently, Deu laid her down next to The Blade and tacked the blanket tightly around both of them. "Don't you worry about anything. I'll be right here all night."

  The ferry, loaded with the first of the cavalcade's wagons, pulled away from the bank and plowed its way through the river's floating islands of ice. Jed Parmelee watched from the Mississippi's east bank. They were on the move once again.

  In his journal that night, he meticulously recorded the resumption of the journey after a month's delay. Observe and report, those were his orders. But many of his observations went unreported, like when he watched Temple, aided by her husband's colored servant, lift The Blade onto his horse and tie him to the saddle. In the dark recesses of his mind, Jed had secretly hoped the man would die. He despised himself for wishing it, but it was true just the same. Just as it was true that The Blade was still a very sick man, and the winter journey was far from over.

  Once the caravan had regrouped on the other side of the Mississippi, north of Cape Girardeau, it was learned that the game and winter fodder along the more direct southern route through Arkansas Territory had been severely depleted. They were forced to travel the more northerly route across Missouri.

  A frigid wind out of the arctic north swept across the rolling prairie, blasting the beleaguered travelers and sending the temperature plummeting. Weary and ill-clad, weakened by the hardship and disease they had already suffered, the exiled band now faced the ravages of exposure.

  There were times when Jed's legs were so numb with cold, he could barely stay in the saddle. He lingered long in front of each fire built by outriders in advance of the caravan, then rode on, passing the plodding, stumbling, laboring Cherokees, to reach the next.

  Every day, he rode past more graves, some in the process of being hacked out of the frozen ground and others with the sod freshly turned. After each bitter night, there seemed to be another body to be buried in the morning. Yet every morning, there was The Blade tied on his horse and swaddled in blankets, often with Temple behind him, holding him on.

  It was rare for the caravan to cover fifteen miles in a day. Ten miles was average, and anything in between was considered a good day's travel. For days it was the same—an ice blue sky, a bitter wind. Jed was never sure whether it was the wind's moans he heard or those of the sick, the dying, or the mourners. But the sound haunted the trail from Cape Girardeau through Jackson, Farmington, Potosi, Rolla, and Lebanon to Springfield, Missouri. There, the trail turned southwest and the rains started falling, sometimes changing to sleet, but always very cold.

  Few offers of food or a night's dry shelter came from the white inhabitants of the towns and isolated farmhouses along their route. Not that Jed entirely blamed them. By now, the Cherokees were a ragged, sorry-looking lot, riddled with contagious diseases and without funds to pay for a night's lodging or food.

  And Missouri was the frontier, newly wrested from the grasp of the warring Plains Indians. The word Indians conjured up images of savages. Few could believe the Cherokees knew little of war. They were farmers—some, like the Gordons, owned large plantations, and others worked small plots of corn, cotton, or tobacco, eking out a living from the soil, as many of the Missouri farmers did.

  Ignorance bred mistrust. And there wasn't anything Jed could do about it.

  With her clothes and blanket completely saturated by the falling rain, Temple wrapped her arms tightly around The Blade and tried to absorb the shivers that continuously shook him. Every time she thought he was getting better, he would have a setback. She wasn't sure he could endure another night sleeping in wet clothes on wet ground.

  A croupy cough punctuated the steady drum of the rain. Temple glanced at Eliza, plodding through the mud alongside the horse, a blanket draped over her head and body. That large hump on Eliza's back was their son. Lije, too, desperately needed dry clothes and a warm place to sleep. With this rain, there wasn't much chance of either.

  Leading the horse, Deu glanced back at her. "They're making camp for the night just ahead, Miss Temple. I can see a couple tents."

  When Temple looked for herself, she spied a curl of white smoke rising from the chimney of a farmhouse ahead of them. Near it stood a sturdy barn. Without hesi
tation, she slipped off the horse's back into the mud and hurried forward to take the reins from Deu. Clicking to the horse, she pulled it after her and left the trail, heading straight for the farmhouse.

  "Temple, where are you going?" Eliza called.

  "All of you, come with me," she shouted back and ignored the bewildered looks from her family. She hadn't the energy to expend in explanations. She was too cold, too tired, and too wet.

  When she reached the front porch of the farmhouse, she dropped the reins and moved quickly to the saddle. She fumbled briefly in her initial attempt to untie the small bundle hanging off the left side. Then it was free. A dog bounded out from under the porch, barking furiously in warning, when she approached the steps. Forced to stop, Temple glared in frustration at the door, wondering if she dared approach it. The dog's barking grew more ferocious when her father and Eliza came up behind her.

  "Temple, it's no use," her father began.

  "You don't know that," she accused angrily.

  Just then a man stepped out of the house and swore at the dog. The barking immediately dissolved into a whine of submission as the animal turned and wagged its tail at its master. The instant Temple took a step forward, the dog blocked her way again, a menacing growl rumbling from its throat.

  "You're part of that bunch of Indians on the road, aren't you?" The man glowered at them from beneath thick bushy eyebrows. Gray hair, peppered with black, framed a worn and deeply lined face, weathered to a leathery brown from years of exposure to the elements. Temple tried not to look at the rifle cradled in his arms. "If you come lookin' fer a handout, you best just keep movin' on down the road 'cause you ain't gettin' one here. Now, go on. Get outta here before I sic my dog on you."

  "Please . . . my husband and my son are sick. They need a place out of the rain to sleep tonight. Could you let them stay in your barn?" She tugged frantically at the wet knot tying the small bundle together. "I can pay you." At last she worked it loose and plunged her numb fingers inside, feeling of the bundle's meager contents and finally finding the silver pin. She pulled it out and clutched it tightly for an instant, then held out her hand, opening her palm to show it to him. "See."