by Merry Farmer
“Will she?” her mother asked Dean.
Dean let Emma’s ankle go and rocked back to sit on his haunches, then to rise. Emma missed his touch immediately.
“I don’t believe it’s broken,” he said. “Which is fortunate. I do think it’s sprained, however. The bruising worries me.” He turned to Emma, looking down at her now. “I think you should ride in the wagon for the next few days and avoid putting any weight on it.”
“Yes, I....” She stopped as worrisome thoughts took hold in her mind. If she rode in the wagon, she would be isolated from the rest of the wagon train. If she didn’t walk, she wouldn’t be able to see Dean. “Oh, I’m certain it’s not as bad as all that,” she said.
To prove it, she tried to stand. Pain, worse than before, sliced up her leg as she put weight on her foot. She cried out and tipped to the side. Dean caught her, holding the length of her body against his. He was warm and strong. She was in heaven and hell at once.
“That settles it,” her mother said, incongruous smile growing. She clapped her hands together and held them over her heart as if she’d just witnessed a declaration of love.
“I couldn’t stay cooped up in the wagon all day while everyone else walked, Mother,” Emma appealed, hoping her mother would catch on to the dilemma.
“Nonsense. You’ll do as the doctor orders, young lady. Such a heroic doctor too.”
Emma sighed. She wasn’t going to win this battle. She gave Dean a sheepish smile and let him help her to sit on the barrel. Perhaps if she was smart, she could still find a way to win the war.
By the next afternoon—once the wagons were repaired and as much of the scattered belongings as could be recovered were tucked away—when the wagons were on the move once more, Emma’s mother finally understood the heart of the predicament.
“He hasn’t been to check on you since this morning,” she lamented, walking at the back of the wagon while Emma sat just inside the bed, her ankle propped on a pillow. Alice lay in the center of the wagon, lost in her thoughts. “I don’t understand it. I thought he was interested. If you could just heal, you could walk beside him again and everything would be right on schedule.”
Emma arched an eyebrow at her mother. Her temper was close to the surface, matching the throb in her ankle. The intensity of the pain had lessoned by a hair, but the jostling of the wagon wasn’t helping her healing process.
“Please let me get down and walk, Mother. I’m of no use to anyone here,” she begged.
“Oh.” Her mother wrung her hands, darted glances over her shoulder at the back of the train. Dean was there somewhere, seeing to the others who had been hurt in the storm or, if he was lucky, taking a moment to himself. Her mother sighed and gave in. “All right. But you must be careful, walk slowly.”
“This whole journey has been walking slowly.” Emma sounded glum, but her heart filled with hope.
She scooted her legs around so that they dangled off the back of the wagon. With a deep breath, she hopped down the way she had every time before. As her feet hit the ground, pain shot through her leg, so strong that she cried out and stumbled. Her foot couldn’t support her weight at all.
Her mother screamed as Emma crumbled to the ground. That scream was echoed by the shout of “Whoa, whoa,” from the man driving the wagon behind them. He brought his oxen to as sudden a stop as could be managed, which was only a few yards from where Emma lay in the grass.
Another shout sounded behind that wagon, then another and another as all down the line, wagons were forced to stop. Cringing, Emma stood. She had to lean on her mother for support. Her face was bright red with sweat and shame.
“I’m sorry,” she said to the driver of the wagon behind her, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
You ninny, she told herself. You know this is a terrible idea.
She pushed herself to limp fast enough to catch up to her family’s wagon, now several yards ahead. Hope burned in her chest that each step would be easier than the last, that once she worked the stiffness out of her ankle, she would be back to running and skipping, good as new.
If only it were that easy. She only managed to go for about twenty minutes, leaning heavily on her mother—who had the good grace to be genuinely concerned for Emma’s health—before she stumbled once more. A rock she didn’t see, which was probably the size of a nut, felt like a mountain and brought her down. Her mother could do nothing to stop her fall.
“Whoa! Stop there,” the driver behind them pulled his oxen to a halt again to avoid flattening Emma. Once again, the entire train of wagons behind them stopped in ragged chaos. “Get back in your wagon and ride, miss,” the driver shouted at them.
“How dare you speak to my daughter that way?” her mother defended as Emma battled her way to stand and walk on.
“It’s all right, Mother,” she insisted, keeping her eyes forward. “Perhaps we should walk to the side of the wagons so that if it happens again….”
If it happens again, she thought, they probably should just leave me where I fall and trample over me to save me the shame.
As soon as Emma limped her way several feet wide of the wagon train, she saw the confusion that spread out behind her. The driver behind them may have avoided hitting her, but half a dozen wagons down the line, there had been a collision. Men were shouting and Mr. Evans was storming up from the back of the wagon to see to things. He sent a rider to the front to tell the lead wagon to stop.
“Oh dear,” her mother murmured, holding a hand to her chest.
The wagon train stopped. All up and down the line, people began chattering and complaining to each other.
“What’s going on?” Emma heard one person ask.
“We don’t have time for this. Oregon’s still months away,” another answered.
With each comment, Emma’s cheeks burned hotter, and her ankle throbbed harder. The only bright spot in the disaster was that her antics ended up accomplishing their purpose.
“Emma, are you all right?” Dean asked as he strode up from the back of the wagon train to check on her. His handsome face was lined with concern. “You should be riding in your wagon.”
Emma’s heart soared for half a second before the driver of the wagon behind theirs butted in with, “That’s what I told her. But she keeps walking. She fell over twice and caused this whole mess.”
The questioning look that Dean gave her was enough to make her wish she could sink into the ground and disappear. It was too much like the scolding looks her teachers had given her throughout school when she had been too afraid to give an answer or read aloud in class. Sniggering from her peers had always followed.
“Emma,” he said as he reached her side, equal parts tenderness and scolding. “You fell?”
“Just a s-stumble,” she lied.
He wasn’t fooled. She could see it in the spark in his eyes. Maybe he’ll offer to carry you to Oregon, her rebellious thoughts suggested. That only made her blush deeper.
To her surprise, he said, “Here. Let me carry you up to your wagon.” He checked with her mother, who nodded, before sweeping her into his arms.
The sudden shift left her light-headed and put an inappropriate smile on her face. She definitely should not be smiling when she’d caused so much trouble and forced Dean to go out of his way. But he carried her as if she weighed nothing, and he smelled of sunlight and goodness. She had to put her arms around his neck for steadiness, and a large part of her was tempted to rest her head on his shoulder and close her eyes.
And then he smiled at her, and nothing else in the whole world seemed to matter… for all of three seconds.
As soon as he sat her down on the back edge of her family’s wagon, it all came back. Her whole leg throbbed with pain, and the shame she’d felt over her folly doubled. Particularly when Alice said, “Whatever made you decide to do something as silly as walking on a broken ankle?”
Before Emma could defend herself—or disappear in a cloud of shame—her father darte
d around the back of the wagon to join them. “Emma, dear, are you all right?”
“It would be better if you didn’t wear your boot,” Dean told her, every inch the skilled doctor. “There’s so much swelling that it would be less painful to leave it off.”
“Oh, then by all means, doctor,” her mother fluttered over his shoulder, “by all means, remove it for her.”
Emma wanted to cover her face with her hands. She wished herself a thousand miles away. She could practically hear her mother giggling with delight at the prospect of Dean handling her ankle again. It wasn’t half as romantic as the first time, though. The pain was worse than right after her accident. Not even Dean’s hands could help. And when Mr. Evans came marching up to the cluster of concerned family at the back of their wagon, Emma was ready to be struck dead by another tornado.
“I hear tell that this hold-up was caused by Miss Emma tripping on her injured ankle,” he cut straight to the point.
“Well, Mr. Evans,” her mother began with a laugh as if to brush it off. “You can’t expect a lively, sunny girl, like my Emma, to be contained in a wagon for—”
“I can expect her to be locked in a trunk and shipped to Oregon, if she’s going to hold up my train,” Mr. Evans cut her off.
Her mother’s face fell to ashen embarrassment. “Mr. Evans, I’m sure there’s some way we can—”
“Do you have a crate big enough for two?” her father asked. “That way we can ship the both of them off.”
A heavy pause followed. Emma’s mother’s eyes flew wide and she gaped at her husband. A twitch pulled at the corner of Mr. Evans’s mouth. For half a heartbeat, his eyes flashed with mirth. Then he frowned and cleared his throat.
“I can’t have you holding up my wagon,” he addressed Emma with a shade more kindness than he had used with her mother. “It might not seem like much now, but if we’re too far behind schedule once we get to the mountains, we risk getting caught in the snow or worse. I’m sure you’ve all heard of what happened to the Donner party when they got delayed through the Sierra Nevada.”
Emma’s mother pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh my,” she whispered.
“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Dean rushed to comfort her. Or rather, rushed to comfort Emma. Her boot had been removed and he slid closer to her, ostensibly to help her shift in the wagon bed so she could put her foot up on the pillow.
“One way or another,” Mr. Evans continued, “we have to keep moving.” He paused, eying Emma’s ankle as her skirt pulled up. Even with her stocking on, anyone could see how swollen it was. Mr. Evans’s frown softened. “It’s not too comfortable riding in the wagon either, is it?”
“No,” Emma confessed, failing to hide her wince.
Mr. Evans shifted his weight and rubbed his chin. “I twisted an ankle like that myself once. It was years ago, but I still remember how daggum hard the wagon rocked when I was trying to rest it. Near drove me crazy.”
“Is there anything we can do about it?” her father asked both Mr. Evans and Dean.
“Emma really should rest somewhere still and solid for at least a few days to let the tendons heal properly,” Dean said. “But we can’t ask the train to stop for that long.”
Mr. Evans rubbed his face harder. “I tell you what. We’re not too far from a way station. Back ten years ago, you could almost count on someone to be manning those stations, ready to assist pioneers on the trail. I’m pretty sure there’s no one there now, not since the war. The stations themselves are still standing. Some even have a few odd supplies stored up.”
“Do you think there’s something in one of these stations that could help our Emma?” her mother asked, all pretense abandoned in favor of genuine concern.
Mr. Evans dropped his hands to his belt. “Not something in the station, the station itself. I propose that you folks stay behind at that station so Miss Emma can heal up.”
“Stay behind?” Her mother’s shock at the suggestion quickly melted to fear.
Emma’s heart sank like a rock in her stomach as well. She glanced from her father to her mother to Dean. “Oh no,” she forced herself to speak up while she could. “I… I couldn’t possibly stay behind. I….” I just started talking to Dean and I would as soon cut off my foot and ankle and leave it on the prairie than be parted from him, she finished in her mind.
“I suppose it wouldn’t be too much of a hardship to stay behind,” her father said, though disappointment was plain on his face.
“No,” her mother protested. “No, no, no, Arthur, we couldn’t possible leave this train.”
“If there’s a way station and if Dr. Meyers thinks it’s best for Emma to stop,” her father began.
Her mother dashed around Mr. Evans to press herself to his side. “No, Arthur, we must stay with this wagon train. We must.”
As much as she agreed with her mother’s assessment of things, she still felt guilty when she caught the flash of silent communication between Dean and Mr. Evans. Mr. Evans seemed to be telling Dean that the whole thing was his fault by the sharpness in his look. Dean seemed as distressed by the situation as Emma was, though.
“I would hate to see the entire family stranded in the middle of nowhere without help,” he said.
Emma’s heart skipped a beat. She didn’t dare hope, but maybe….
“There’s wagon trains that leave Independence, St. Joseph, you name it, coming through here all through the summer. There’s bound to be one coming by in about a week,” Mr. Evans said.
“Is there a danger of Indians?” Dean asked.
Mr. Evans shrugged. “There’s always a danger, but they’ve been pretty quiet along this stretch of the trail. Wyoming, now, that’s another matter altogether.”
“What about supplies?” Dean asked on. “Would they have enough until the next train came through?”
“That all depends on how much they kept with them.” One of Mr. Evans’s eyebrows inched higher and higher, as if he began to suspect Dean was asking questions out of more than neighborly curiosity. Emma dearly hoped so.
Her hopes seemed real when Dean fixed her with a calculating look and said, “I wouldn’t feel right letting a patient stay behind in the vast prairie with no sort of medical attention.”
Her heart felt light, and unfortunately, so did her head. It was too good to be true. Dean didn’t want to be parted from her. She thought she might just faint.
“I’m sure we would be right as rain if you stayed with us, Dr. Meyers,” her mother said, bright as a spring day once more. “In fact, I do believe Emma would feel perfectly comfortable with a physician by her side.”
Judging by the rose that tinted her mother’s cheeks, she meant for more than just a week while Emma’s ankle healed.
Mr. Evans’s mouth twitched again. “It’s up to you, Dean,” he said and slapped Dean on the back. “I’ll let you folks figure it out amongst yourselves. Think you’re all right for the train to start moving again, Miss Emma?”
“Yes,” Emma said. Her heart beat so hard she was certain she sounded breathless and ill, when in fact she couldn’t have been happier.
“I’ll just go get us all moving again then.” Mr. Evans touched the brim of his hat then walked away.
“Oh, Dr. Meyers,” her mother burst as soon as he was gone. “You are such a hero.”
“It’s the least I could do, Mrs. Sutton,” he answered her with a modest smile. He peeked at Emma and smiled wider.
Her ankle throbbed—made worse when her father hopped back into the wagon’s seat—her mother was back to her meddling ways, and she’d embarrassed herself as the center of attention once more, but Emma couldn’t remember a time when she had been so happy. She wasn’t about to lose Dean after all.
Chapter Six
The way station Pete Evans had told them about wasn’t at all what Dean was expecting. After stopping at Ft. Kearny weeks earlier, he thought perhaps there was another fort waiting for them in the middle of the flat grasslands. What they f
ound was a single, worn timber shack with its shingles falling off.
“You’re in luck,” Pete said, coming out the front door after inspecting it. “Looks like someone was here not that long ago. They left a fair amount of firewood and some buffalo chips, not much, and the furniture is still there.”
The rest of the wagon train rolled slowly past, farmers and miners alike giving the shack and Dean and the Sutton family curious stares. He would have been staring too, if the roles were reversed. He stepped up onto the creaking front porch, not even big enough for three people to stand on at once, and peeked inside the door.
The way station was a single room. A narrow bed took up one corner and a squat iron stove took up another. There were two chairs and a table, a chest, and not much else. He didn’t know why the place made Pete smile and think they were lucky. Still, it was better than most of the barracks he’d been billeted in while serving for the Union, and at least here there were no dying men screaming. Emma would be able to rest, and as long as he was with her, his soul might rest too.
He stepped out onto the porch and shrugged at Emma. She sat in the back of her family’s wagon, Alice crouched by her side, her father and mother standing with their heads together, arguing in whispers behind the wagon.
“It’ll do nicely.” Dean smiled to put the best face on things.
“Oh no,” Mrs. Sutton spoke up. She peeled away from her husband, who watched her with a disapproving frown. That frown was all the warning Dean had of what she said next. “No, it’s entirely too small. We couldn’t possibly all stay behind and occupy this… this garden shed.” She laughed at her own comparison and crossed to lay a hand on Pete’s arm. “No, there isn’t enough room. So Emma and Dr. Meyers will stay here to wait for the next wagon train and Mr. Sutton and Alice will journey on with you, Mr. Evans.”
Suspicion worked its way down Dean’s spine, but with it a thrill of satisfaction. How many days would that give him alone with Emma? How many hours to talk to her, to draw her out of her shell, and maybe, just maybe, make her laugh. Even though the notion was ridiculously inappropriate, he kept his lips pressed firmly together in a smile as Pete sighed and rubbed his face and stared Mrs. Sutton down.
