Trail of Longing (Hot on the Trail Book 3)

by Merry Farmer

  “Emma!” he shouted to her from the bottom of his heart.

  Sadie screamed and squeezed her arms around his neck, nearly choking him. The twister bore down on them, dark and furious. Emma turned, but she didn’t see him and he couldn’t run to her without making sure Sadie was safe first.

  He swallowed a curse and tore off across the battered grass to where Mrs. Pickett had crouched low to the ground near a cluster of bushes. Mr. Pickett was speeding toward her, their boy half a step behind. The bushes wouldn’t provide much shelter, but they were better than nothing. Dean sank to his knees when he reached the bushes, handing Sadie over to her father.

  “It’s not going to hit us,” Mr. Pickett said, shouting to be heard. “Too far that way.”

  Dean twisted to peer over his shoulder. The tornado was so close he could feel the air being sucked from his lungs. The pressure pounded at his temples. Mr. Pickett was right, though. As wide as the funnel had grown, it would miss them by half a mile at least.

  He had only just begun to feel relief when he spotted Emma leaning halfway out of the back of her family’s wagon, reaching for a shred of canvas. The wind whipped her hair across her determined face. A heartbeat later, the wagon tipped, rocked, then keeled over with a crash.

  “Emma!” Dean leapt to his feet and sprinted for the wagon. The huge twister passing so close before him vanished as far as he was concerned. He hardly heard the muffled shouts and screams of the other frightened pioneers. Nothing in the world mattered but the smashed wagon in front of him.

  “Emma,” he shouted as he reached the wreck. The wind was still fierce and stinging rain now added to nature’s wrath. It beat at his back as he grabbed a fist full of canvas and tugged it aside. He had to reach Emma.

  “Dean?” Her voice was strained and distant, laced with pain.

  He dropped to his knees to find Emma lying on her stomach with what seemed like half the contents of the wagon strewn across her legs. A smudge of dirt marred her otherwise beautiful face. She moved, struggling and grabbing handfuls of grass to try to pull away from the wreckage.

  “I’ve got you,” Dean said. He scooped her under her arms and pulled.

  He stopped when Emma cried out. “My ankle. Something’s crushing my ankle.”

  Dean skittered around to the pile of boxes covering her and started moving them. If they were heavy, he didn’t notice. He tossed them aside like pillows until he reached the bottom and a squat metal box, a safe. It was harder to lift than the other crates, but he pushed it aside without thought.

  Emma sighed and wriggled away from the pile of scattered belongings even before Dean crawled to take her in his arms. He shook with relief as he clasped her close, smoothing her hair back from her face even as the rain soaked them.

  “I’ve got you,” he panted. “You’re going to be fine.”

  She clutched his coat the way Sadie had, snuggling just as close for a moment. “Thank God you came.”

  In that moment, with the tornado raging away from them and the rain picking up as the wind died down, already soaked through with nothing but wet grass under him and carnage around him, Dean was perfectly happy. Emma was warm and soft in his arms. The swift rise and fall of her chest as she let go of her panic, let him comfort her, made him feel like the bravest man in the world. For her, he would brave a hundred storms.

  “Alice,” she said at length, still trying to catch her breath. “Mother and Father. They’re still in the wagon. Help them.”

  She pushed herself out of his arms with an effort he could feel and turned to the wagon. At first she tried to maneuver herself to her knees and stand so that she could rescue her family, but a sharp cry ended that. She sank to sit in the wet grass.

  “Sit still,” Dean told her, jumping into action where she couldn’t. “Try not to move until we can ascertain what’s wrong.”

  She nodded. He left her to scramble to the overturned wagon.

  Dean tugged at the canvas covering, pulling it up to reveal the chaotic scene inside. Alice and Mrs. Sutton huddled together in the center of a nest of trunks, smashed crates, and bedding. Mr. Sutton was attempting to push luggage and crushed furniture out of the way with one arm while comforting his wife with other. He glanced up with a gasp that turned into a relieved sigh when he saw Dean.

  “Is it over?” he asked. “Are we safe?”

  “The tornado has passed, but the storm is still fierce,” Dean said. He held his arms out to Alice. “Come. You’ll be less cramped outside, even though it’s raining now.”

  It was slow work coaxing Alice and Mrs. Sutton out of the wagon. Alice in particular was disoriented. She shook with terror as Dean climbed halfway into the wagon to take hold of her and pull her to safety. She and Mrs. Sutton had both been bruised and battered by the contents of the wagon, but neither of them were trapped, as Emma had been. With a few kind words spoken in a soft voice, Dean was able to convince Alice to lean her weight on him and let him draw her out through the ruin of their possessions. Once she was free, Mrs. Sutton was able to crawl out on her own.

  Dean brought Alice to sit beside Emma, but Emma was already restless. She had crawled to the pile of scattered crates and belongings tossed by the storm and was sorting them, stacking things into piles.

  “You should rest,” Dean told her.

  She shook her head. “I’m fine. There is too much to do for me to sit still.”

  He raised his brow in surprise, slicking wet hair back across his head. Emma had a stubborn streak after all. The idea delighted him. If only there were time to enjoy it.

  “How does your ankle feel?” he asked, then added, “Be honest.”

  She twisted to peer over her shoulder at him as she set the heavy metal safe on top of a small trunk she had set upright. Drenched in rain, hair plastered to her head, dirt and bruises on her face, she was still the most amazing sight he had ever seen.

  “It hurts,” she answered with a reluctant sigh. “But not so much that I can’t work with it.”

  Dean had a hunch she was making light of what could be more serious, but he had to trust her. “Good.” He nodded and turned his attention to Alice.

  Mrs. Sutton had her arm around her older daughter, comforting her. As Dean approached, she let out a squeal of fear mingled with gratitude and stood.

  “Oh Dr. Meyers, what a hero you are,” she exclaimed, throwing herself into his arms. She clung to him as tightly as Emma had for a moment. Dean was so surprised, he let her. When she pushed back she had tears in her eyes. “I don’t know what we would have done without you. The storm…. I… I don’t know…. We would have….”

  For half a moment, a grin touched Dean’s lips. It seemed Emma wasn’t the only one in the family who was speechless now and then.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Sutton,” he told her, using the same comforting voice as he had with Alice. “No harm was done. Although I’m worried about Emma’s ankle.” He glanced over his shoulder to where Emma was now standing and leaning heavily on the stack of boxes she’d made.

  “Emma’s ankle?” Mrs. Sutton drew in a breath and recovered her strength. “Oh, my dear Emma, what’s wrong?”

  She rushed to help Emma. Mr. Sutton came over to check on Alice.

  “It’s a mess,” he said, shaking his head. “But at least it’s not a total loss. As soon as this storm passes, we’ll know more.”

  Dean nodded. He was about to reply when a sharp scream only a few yards away drew his attention. A few wagons down, one of the farming families was huddled around someone lying on the ground.

  “I have to go.” He nodded to Mr. Sutton, who nodded back. As much as he wanted to stay by Emma’s side to be sure she was unhurt, he was a doctor. His place was where there were sick or injured people. But as soon as he could, he would be back. He had half a mind to never let Emma out of his sight again.

  Chapter Five

  The pain was enough to leave Emma sweating. Every time she put weight on her ankle, sharp fingers of agony stret
ched from her heel to her knee. She’d checked when no one was looking, loosening her boot and rolling down her stocking to see if the skin had been broken. She had no cuts, but huge, ugly bruises covered her entire ankle and calf. It was harder to lace her boot up again than she could have imagined. But she could walk on it—barely—and as long as she could walk, she needed to help.

  The prairie around the spot where the wagons had been caught was a sea of flattened grass and scattered belongings. Even after the rain stopped and the sun came out to bathe the grassland in humidity, a mood of dread pressed down on the wagon train. Mr. Evans declared that they would stay where they were until everyone had pulled themselves together and wagons were repaired. Campfires had already been set up, the animals that had bolted at the height of the storm were rounded up, and those who were injured and the few who were killed were tended to.

  Emma watched Dean treating one of the miners, who had been hit in the head by flying debris. As harsh as her pain was, she smiled. Just when she thought all was lost and she was doomed, Dean had been there, his arms around her. The feeling of being held close, the thump of his chest against her shoulder as she buried her face against his neck, was heaven. Even with the rain and wind and chaos, she had still been able to breathe in his scent. It had settled her, prepared her for the work that needed to be done.

  “Oh, dear,” her mother wailed from the back of the wagon. A few of the men had come along and set their wagon upright before the rain had ended. One of the wheels needed to be repaired or replaced, but the wagon itself stood sturdily enough. Her mother was busy making sense of the jumble of their belongings that lay, helter-skelter, in the bed.

  “What is it?” Emma asked.

  “Your grandmother’s wine goblets,” her mother sighed, wiping a tear from her eye. “They’ve been crushed.”

  Emma’s heart sagged. She left the line of trunks where she and Alice had been sorting what could be salvaged from what was ruined to limp her way to her mother.

  “You shouldn’t be walking on that,” Alice called after her.

  “I’m fine,” Emma replied. “Mother needs me.”

  Her mother held up the stem of a goblet with nothing but shattered glass on the end. “They were imported from France.”

  Emma could see the tears waiting to flow behind her mother’s eyes. She put on a brave show of being eager to start a new life in Oregon, but at heart Emma knew she would have been just as happy to stay in the world she’d known her whole life. She carefully plucked the ruined goblet from her mother’s hand, set it on the pile of debris past repair, and hugged her mother for all she was worth.

  “Everything will be all right,” she said.

  “Oh, my darling,” her mother sighed as they hugged. “You are too good, you know. Entirely too good.” She took a deep breath and stood straighter, holding Emma at arm’s length. “We do what must be done. In everything. Just you remember that.” Her eyes flickered past Emma to where Dean was bandaging the miner’s head. “What must be done.”

  A flash of embarrassment sped through Emma, but she ignored it. Her mother meant well. She glanced from Dean out into the prairie where people were gathering belongings that had been more scattered than others. Mrs. Weingarten sat beside her damaged wagon nearby, crying over a crushed, painted chest. Far off in the grass, Lynne Tremaine stood staring at the horizon, something clutched to her chest. Callie wandered, picking up belongings, not far from her.

  “I think someone else needs me right now,” she said.

  “All right, then.” Her mother patted her hand, then turned back to the jumble in the wagon.

  It took more effort than Emma was willing to admit to march across the prairie to her friend. Lynne kept moving farther away, picking things up and studying them in between stretches of standing still and staring. Callie had moved on, but Emma wasn’t sure Lynne should be alone. Her ankle burned with pain as she limped over uneven ground. She paused at one point to pick up a bundle of fabric that turned out to be a ripped tablecloth. The motion of bending sent shots of agony through her leg and up her back. By the time she reached Lynne, she was red-faced and panting and her ankle throbbed.

  “Do you need help?” she asked, a little too breathlessly.

  “Emma.” Lynne turned to her with a smile. It was a smile that hid fear. Lynne had been afraid of the killer that was supposedly hunting her since they set out from Independence, but she did a good job of hiding it. “I’m just trying to find things that blew away for the people who don’t have time to look.”

  “Let’s walk together, then.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Every step she took as she and Lynne roamed the battered grassland hurt more and made her limp more pronounced. She wasn’t ready to admit that she was an invalid, though, so she kept going. The pleasant smile she forced to her lips did as much to cover her pain as Lynne’s smile did to cover her fear. They were both in bad shape, and Emma had a feeling they both knew it.

  “Did something happen to your ankle?” Lynne finally asked.

  Sweat dotted Emma’s brow and dampened her hair. “It’s nothing,” Emma insisted. “My father’s safe fell on my leg when our wagon was blown over.”

  Lynne’s face lit in surprise. “Emma, sweetheart, you shouldn’t be out here with me. Go back and rest.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “No, no. I insist. This is dull work anyhow.”

  If it weren’t for the niggling suspicion that Lynne wanted to be alone for some reason, Emma never would have left her. Instead she said, “Well, if you insist. I could use a glass of water. Could I bring you something?”

  “No.” Lynne laid a hand on Emma’s back and all but pushed her toward the wagons. “Now go. Get off your feet.”

  Emma’s smile disappeared as soon as she had gone a few yards. Her back itched as she imagined what would happen if she should she take everyone’s advice and sit still. Her ankle would heal, yes, but she would be forgotten, ignored. She would be the wallflower at the dance once more. And Dean? He would never think to visit the injured girl who couldn’t put together a full sentence in his presence, she told herself. Helen and Kathleen would swoop.

  Her limp was horrible and her ankle throbbed by the time she reached her family’s wagon, but she pretended nothing at all was out of place and marched straight to the back of the wagon to fetch a box of broken things. Her father was stacking everything in piles in the space beside the wagon, so he joined her.

  “Dear God, Emma, you really are hurt,” he exclaimed when he saw her limp. “Sit down at once. I’m fetching Dr. Meyers.”

  A bittersweet thrill passed through Emma’s heart. “No, Father, he has better things to do.”

  “Better things than seeing to my daughter?” her father asked with false bravado and a snort designed to cheer her.

  It almost worked. “He has injured people to treat.”

  “Precisely,” he said. “And you’re one of them.”

  She couldn’t stop it. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to. Within minutes, Dean had been pulled away from treating injured miners. He knelt in front of where she sat on a barrel and lifted her foot.

  “I’ll need to remove your boot to see if there is any swelling,” he warned her, asking permission with his eyes.

  Lips pressed tight to fight the pain, Emma nodded. Dean proceeded to pick at the laces of her boot and remove it as carefully as possible. Still, Emma flinched and swallowed a cry as he slid the boot off.

  “Hmm,” Dean hummed with concern, wrapping his hand around her ankle. “It is swollen.” He glanced earnestly into her eyes. “Would you feel comfortable removing your stocking?”

  She gave him another tight nod and bent forward to remove her stocking as modestly as she could. If she hadn’t been in so much pain, she would have been deliciously scandalized.

  “Well, isn’t this a sight,” her mother exclaimed as she joined the scene.

  Emma cringed and looked up, expecting to find disapproval i
n her mother’s eyes. Instead, they shone with mischief and delight.

  “He’s down on one knee,” she whispered, overloud, to her father. “Almost like he has a particular question to ask.”

  Emma thanked her lucky stars that she was already bent double as she tugged off her stocking, and that Dean couldn’t see her cringe. If there was any kind of justice in the world, he would take her twisted expression as a sign of pain.

  “There we go,” he said in a tender voice once her stocking was off. He took her ankle in his hand as though he hadn’t heard her mother’s comment.

  A new sensation joined Emma’s pain and awkwardness as Dean slowly examined her foot. She knew that his touch was purely medical, that with her mother and father standing right beside them, watching, there was no way the caress of his fingertips could mean anything more. Her body heated like a furnace all the same, and tickles of pleasure sped up her leg to her core. If a simple touch of a woman’s ankle could provoke such heat and longing, it was no wonder proper ladies wore skirts that hid temptation.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” Dean said at length. “Well, I do like the look, in a way.”

  He peeked up at her with a hint of a roguish grin and winked. Emma’s insides turned to liquid fire. Her mouth twitched into a matching grin. She found herself wondering what it would feel like if his fingers kept traveling up her bare leg, all the way to her—

  “Emma, are you feeling quite all right?” her mother asked, dousing Emma’s scandalous thoughts.

  “It could be the pain.” Dean made the excuse on her behalf.

  Dear God, he knows, she thought. He knows where my thoughts just went. What must he think of me?

  She cleared her throat and said, “It’s just a little pain. It doesn’t bother me over-much. I’ll be fine.”