Jodi Thomas
Page 4
Sarah looked over at the mound of blankets taking up most of the wagon bed. Was she alone, or could some small part of Sam Gatlin still be alive and with her? The sheriff had told him to take good care of her or Sam would have him to answer to. She hated criticizing the man after one day of marriage, but so far he was falling down on the job.
“Hello.” She leaned closer. “You still there, Sam Gatlin?”
She wasn’t sure he even breathed.
“Are you alive?” She poked his arm.
No answer.
Sarah brushed her finger along the line of his shoulders to his throat. There the skin was warm to her touch.
“You’re alive,” she whispered more to herself than him. She wasn’t alone. “Wouldn’t happen to have a match?” As she said the words, hope crept into her voice.
She moved closer. “You might have a few. My guess is they’d be in your pocket. Most men carry them, I think.” Her knowledge of men consisted of one husband who never said more than a few words to her and the few men she’d met on the wagon train.
Hesitantly she slid her hand along Sam Gatlin’s side until she reached his waist. “You wouldn’t mind if I take a look would you?” If she hadn’t been so cold, she never would have been so brave.
As the blanket slipped away, she saw a dark spot below his shoulder blades. Blood soaked through the towel bandage Denver had tied around him. He might not be doing anything else, but the man was still bleeding.
“The wound needs to be cleaned,” she whispered as she felt for his pocket. “But first we have to have a fire.”
She couldn’t reach inside the pocket and she doubted she had the strength to roll him over, but giving up didn’t seem to be an option.
Bracing her back against the side wall of the wagon bed, she offered, “How about I give you a hand to move over?” Not waiting for an answer, Sarah pushed with both her hands and feet until he shifted with a groan.
It was too dark to see his face, but she felt his breathing as she brushed her hand down his chest to the leather of his gun belt. Slowly she pushed her fingers into his pocket. Nothing but a short comb and some coins, which she kept. Sarah leaned over him so she could reach the other pocket.
His hand moved so suddenly she didn’t have time to retreat. His powerful fingers gripped her wrist with bruising force.
“I’m not dead yet, lady. It’s a little early to pick the bones.”
Sarah tried to pull away. His hold tightened.
“I ... I was only looking for matches.”
He didn’t move or show any sign of understanding her words.
“I need to light a fire. I can take care of your wound, but first I have to see it.”
Slowly his grip lessened. “In my vest.”
The iron in his voice slipped, and she wondered if he’d used the last of his reserves defending himself.
She rubbed her wrist. “You didn’t have to grab me so hard. I told you I was fragile. It’s a wonder you didn’t snap my bones right in two. Then who do you think will clean the wound and bandage you?”
She pulled the small tin of matches from his vest pocket and climbed from the wagon. Anger made her march around the wagon. “Serve you right to freeze to death, Sam Gatlin. I’ve seen wounded snakes that were friendlier. You haven’t even bothered to thank me for pulling that blade out of your back.” Frustration flavored her words as she worked. “You’d probably still be sitting in that bar bleeding on that dirty floor if I hadn’t helped you.”
Even after she got the fire going, she still couldn’t stop shivering. What kind of monster had she married? What kind of man, even near death, thought only of protecting himself?
As she added wood, Sarah tried to piece together all she knew about her new husband. The sheriff called him by name when he’d married them. Had he known Sam as a friend? No, she decided. The greeting was too formal to be friendly and held enough respect to discount the two as enemies. Apparently, according to Denver, several people in the town wanted to kill him, or at least watch him die. Gatlin had money, he’d bought supplies, rented a buggy, paid her way out of jail.
She glanced toward the wagon. She owed him for that. No matter how mean a man he was or how many people hated him, Sam Gatlin saved her from a life in prison. Clubbing Zeb Whitaker seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but she’d met nothing but trouble for her effort when she had been honest enough to confess to the crime.
“By the way”—she poked at the fire—“thanks for getting me out of jail. I’ll be your wife, just like I said I would, but don’t forget you owe me one. You said so in the bar.” She wanted to add that being a complete wife wasn’t the “way” she had in mind, but there was no use wasting time explaining anything to a man who was busy pounding on death’s door.
As the fire warmed the little clearing, Sarah collected all she needed to help Sam. Whiskey, if he woke up. Boiled water for cleaning the wound. Enough wood to keep the fire blazing so she could see. And the pouch of herbs Granny Vee had given her over a year ago. She’d said to use it only if the wound was a matter of life or death, and Sarah decided Sam’s wound would qualify.
Bandages would also be needed. The only clothing packed in the boxes was two cotton shirts. They’d been wrapped separately and mailed in brown paper with a note scribbled on the package, “For Sam. Hope they last you through the winter.”
Sarah ran her hand over one of the shirts. Unlike her dress, the shirt was well made with extra care taken to add strength. It wasn’t a farmer’s shirt, or any other kind of working man’s garment. Sarah decided it was the kind a gentleman would wear.
It would be a crime to destroy something someone had spent so much care to make. Sarah lifted the knife. There was no time to hesitate, she needed bandages. With a determined slice, she cut into the scratchy material just below her waist and sliced her skirt all the way to the hem.
She hadn’t felt so good about doing something since she clubbed Zeb Whitaker. Cutting the skirt of her dress into bandages was as much fun as opening presents. She didn’t even mind that her mended petticoat showed. As soon as she had time, she’d wash her old ragged dress and wear it. Sam could keep his fine shirts, but she had no plan to keep the dress he’d bought her.
Supplies in hand, Sarah climbed back into the wagon and rolled Sam Gatlin onto his stomach.
A complaint slipped from between his clenched teeth. He didn’t answer when she asked what he’d said, but she guessed the comment was one she would be better off not understanding.
Working in the firelight, she removed the blood-soaked towel, then his vest. As she cut away his old shirt, Sarah couldn’t help but notice the solid wall of muscles running across his shoulders. He was well built, this no-good husband of hers.
He reminded her of a rock-hard statue. Broad shoulders, trim waist, powerful arms. Only this statue, so perfect in form, had weathered many storms. Scars marred the excellence.
She cleaned the wound with a mixture of whiskey and warm water, letting her fingers brush across his back. The warm skin seemed to welcome her caress. She touched his hair and was surprised at its softness. He’d taken her as wife without question; maybe she should try to do the same.
She forced herself to concentrate on the wound. Before Sarah made up her mind if she liked the man or not, she had to keep him alive. Burying two husbands in less than a year seemed a grim prospect.
Blood still oozed in tiny trails from the opening in his back. “A fresh bandage wrapped tightly over the wound might help,” she mumbled as she braced herself once more against the side of the wagon. Rocking him in one direction, then the other, she wrapped a strip of her dress around his chest and tied it over the bandage.
“There, Mr. Gatlin, that’s the best I can do for now.” She leaned forward and listened for his breathing.
It came in a slow steady rhythm.
“You are more than welcome,” she said in answer to his silence as she covered him with a blanket. “Would you like a b
it of supper now that you’re all cleaned up?”
She knew he wouldn’t answer, but she needed to hear a voice, even if only her own. The stillness of the clearing wore on her nerves.
Sarah reached for the rifle beneath the wagon’s seat as she looked around. The water shimmered silver in the river, mirroring the firelight in places. The trees beyond the clearing were black with night. Fear made her want to look away, but curiosity forced her to study the shadows searching for someone, or something looking back.
If his cabin lay beyond the trees, it was well hidden. If she could get him there tomorrow, they might be safe until he recovered enough to take care of himself. Until that time she’d offer him care, doing all she could. Granny Vee would have told her it was a rule to take care of one’s own husband. And Sarah believed in following the rules. Only this time Sam Gatlin had told her he owed her one, and as soon as he came to, she planned to ask for her favor. One slight change in the rules between man and wife.
Sarah grinned to herself. If he didn’t honor his agreement, she’d offer to put the knife back.
A few leaves stirred to her right. Sarah pulled the rifle closer. It was only the wind, she told herself. Or a rabbit or a squirrel.
Somehow Sam’s warm body comforted her even though she knew he would be no help if trouble rushed in.
“I might just heat up a can of those beans,” she said, hoping to convince whatever waited in the shadows that Sam was with her and could help if needed. “There’s plenty if you decide you want some.”
Something moved in the blackness again, stirring leaves, snapping a branch.
They were not alone.
“What did you say, Sam?” She leaned closer to him without taking her eyes off the darkness just beyond the fire. “You think you’ll just rest here in the wagon for a while? All right, but keep those guns handy. I put your Colts within easy reach just like that bartender did back in town.”
She slipped from the wagon and tied her shawl around her waist. “If there’s anyone out there, he’d be more than welcome to share the fire and supper!” she yelled. “Provided you come in unarmed.”
Turning slowly, she set the rifle down on a box and pulled a can from their stash of food. With an easy skill, she hit the handle of the knife and slid the blade around the top of the can.
She paused a moment, listening. Maybe she was being foolish. No one would be near. Even if someone had been beyond the wall of cottonwoods, they would have had to stumble and fight their way into the clearing. It couldn’t have been accomplished with only the slight rustling of leaves.
Pouring the beans into a tin plate, Sarah turned back to the campfire. As she set the food to warm, she looked up, across the flames into the shadows that had taken on shapes.
Three pair of frightened eyes stared back.
FIVE
ON INSTINCT, SARAH REACHED FOR THE RIFLE. AS her fingers wrapped around the cold metal, her brain registered what sat across from her. Not wild animals, but children. Wild children.
Slowly she turned back toward them without letting go of the barrel of the gun. Of course she would never shoot a child, Sarah reasoned, but she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to be unarmed in front of them.
They sat perfectly still on the ground, their clothes and bodies the same shade of brown as the dirt. The firelight danced across their dirty faces and reflected in three pairs of deep blue eyes.
“Hello.” Sarah tried to keep her voice calm. If she frightened them, they might disappear as silently as they’d arrived. “Have you come to dinner?”
The oldest, a girl of no more than six or seven, nodded without blinking.
A hundred questions came to Sarah’s mind. Where had they come from? Where were their parents? How had they moved so quietly across the rooted, leaf-packed spaces between the trees? The amount of dirt on them ended any possibility that they might have come from the water. Their presence gave her hope that something did lie beyond the trees.
Sarah returned the rifle to the wagon and opened another can of beans. While it heated in the plate close to the fire, she rummaged through the supplies until she found another plate and two tin cups. Carefully she divided the beans and handed each of the two smaller children a cup filled with beans and a spoon. Sarah gave a plate and fork to the oldest child. Then, watching out of the comer of her eye, she carefully took the hot plate filled with her share of the beans and began eating.
The children watched her for several bites. Finally the oldest one lifted her fork. The two younger children tossed their spoons aside and scooped the beans out with their fingers. They all ate as though they hadn’t tasted food in days, maybe even weeks.
Sarah studied the two little ones. She couldn’t tell if they were boys or girls or one of each. One was slightly larger, maybe four. The other smaller, younger. Both were so thin, they reminded her of string puppets. At one time their clothes had been well-made. She noticed the outline of where a pocket had once been, and only every other button remained on one child’s garment.
“My name is Sarah.” She focused on the older child. “What’s your name?”
Not one of them answered. They watched her as if they didn’t trust her.
When Sarah reached behind her for a can of fruit they could have as dessert, the children vanished as quickly as they’d appeared. Standing at the edge of the campfire’s light, Sarah listened for them. She didn’t hear a sound. Somehow they’d crossed through the trees once more without crushing leaves or breaking branches.
The thought occurred to her that she might have dreamed them, for she had long ago grown too tired to think straight. While ill on the wagon train, she used to think her husband and child were still alive. She’d talked to Mitchell, asking him simple questions like what he wanted for dinner and would he be in before dark. For days she rocked a baby that turned out to be nothing more than a pillow. Sometimes, when the world of reality and dreams mixed, her arms still ached to hold her newborn.
The reality of losing her family, of watching her wagon burn, or being told she’d have to leave the train; all seemed the nightmare. If Bailee and Lacy hadn’t been there to help her, Sarah wasn’t sure what would have happened. She drifted so much between dreams and wakefulness, she had trouble telling the difference.
They had cared about her just because she needed someone to care. Sarah would never forget their kindness. They would forever be her friends.
A moan from Sam drew her back to the moment. She climbed in beside him and tried to see his face in the shadows. But he turned from the light, mumbling words about walking over too many graves.
She felt a kinship with him, for she’d spent many hours in the place he now resided.
She touched his forehead, planning to let him know she was near. His skin felt afire.
“Fever,” she whispered, remembering Denver telling her Sam would be all right if fever didn’t set in.
Forgetting the wild children and her fears, Sarah hurried off the wagon. She grabbed a pot and ran to the water’s edge. She had to do something and fast or the fever would take Sam.
Before climbing back into the wagon, she tore another strip from her skirt to use as a rag.
Over and over she returned to the river for cold water, then bathed Sam’s hot skin with the damp rag. By the time he’d cooled a little, she had touched him enough to know every curve of his torso.
He was so much bigger than Mitchell, she found it a little frightening, for Mitchell could be cruel and rough. How much rougher could this huge man be when he regained his strength?
But when Sam moved, even in his pain, he never swung at her, or grabbed her. It was almost as if he knew she was trying to help him.
When his fever eased more, he mumbled, “Don’t leave, Angel. Don’t leave.”
Sarah smiled and touched her hand to his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere, Sam. I’m your wife.”
He drifted into sleep.
When she checked on him, the fever had cooled.
Dark eyes, as black as the night, stared up at her.
“You’re awake.” Sarah smiled because he looked at her as if he’d never seen her before.
“Whiskey,” Sam said. “Is there more whiskey.”
While Sarah found the bottle, he mumbled on about how someone had to tell Ruthie if he died. “I promised I’d have someone get word to her,” he said, as though talking to some invisible person in the shadows of the night.
“Ruthie?” Sarah asked as she handed him the bottle. Could Sam have a love somewhere? “Who is Ruthie?” she whispered.
His eyes met hers and she almost thought he understood that he had been talking out of his head. But then he took the bottle from her as if he hadn’t heard her question.
“Ruthie?” she asked again.
“There is no Ruthie anymore,” he said as he managed to prop himself up enough to down almost half a bottle. “Ruthie cut her hair.”
He didn’t bother to thank her for the whiskey, only collapsed mumbling about rattlers gnawing on his back and how he wished the summer would end.
Sarah scooted farther into the wagon, resting her back against the bench. She was so close to Sam she could feel his nonsense words brush along her hand. She pushed her cold feet just beneath the edge of the blankets he used and pulled her knees against her chest. With the rifle within easy reach, she tried to sleep. But thoughts of the children, cold and somewhere in the darkness, kept her awake. Why hadn’t she offered them a blanket? Why had they disappeared?
She leaned her head against the wood of the wagon’s bench and tried to stop shivering.
Without warning, Sam’s big hand circled her waist and pulled her down beneath the buffalo robe.