The Bride Series (Omnibus Edition)

by Bittner, Rosanne

  Josh sighed deeply and returned to his horse, riding back across the river. Marybeth returned to Ella, and Mac and John were standing with her by then.

  “Why can’t you ever stay where you belong,” John asked Marybeth.

  “The poor woman needed to know someone cared,” Marybeth answered, taking Danny from his grandmother.

  “If she was my woman I’d knock some sense into her and tell her to quit making such a scene,” Mac grumbled. “Cedrick Sleiter must feel like a damn fool.”

  Marybeth stared at him in disbelief, never ceasing to be surprised by his callousness. She looked at Ella, who just turned away. “We’d better see what got wet inside the wagon,” she told Marybeth.

  Chapter Seven

  The wagon train moved deeper into Nebraska Territory, crossing the river twice more but at places so shallow people remained in their wagons. One man who was traveling with two other men developed a tooth ache that turned into an infection. His horrible screams of pain sent chills down peoples’ backs. Cap tried to remove the tooth, but the man wouldn’t let anyone touch him. Four days later he died. It was the first burial for the wagon train, and although the man had been a complete stranger to her, Marybeth could not help weeping over the memory of the man’s terrible suffering, and again she feared for Danny.

  Since crossing the river, Wilma Sleiter had spoken to no one, including her husband. No one knew quite what to do for the woman. Many tried to get her to talk, but no one succeeded, and every night the whole camp could hear her screaming at her husband not to come inside the wagon. “You wanted to make this hellish trip! You can sleep outside with the snakes and the ants!”

  Marybeth didn’t know who to feel the most sorry for, Wilma or Cedrick. Poor Cedrick was totally grief-stricken, and he had been seen crying more than once. The only benefit of the situation was that it helped ease Marybeth’s own agony. She told herself that no matter how bad things might seem, there was always someone else whose situation was worse. At least she had her Danny. Poor Wilma Sleiter had no one, and had been forced to give up the most precious gift her dead son had given her.

  Others began unloading other precious items along the way, furniture, clocks, even heavy china. Every night Cap had walked among the wagons preaching that the lighter they could make them, the better, before they reached the Rockies. People were beginning to understand just how long a journey this was going to be, and how precious were their mules and oxen. Never in their lives had any of them seen such wide open spaces, such an endless horizon. Something that looked a mile away ended up being ten miles away. At times there were no markers at all, just a nothingness that gave one the anxious feeling that this was all there would ever be, that there were no more trees, no mountains, no life of any kind ahead, that the mysterious Oregon would never be found. But the rutted trail left by those who had gone before was a sign that there was indeed something ahead, something that had induced thousands of others to go before them.

  For the two years preceeding their journey, tens of thousands had traveled this way in response to the cry of gold. John and Dan had considered heading west then, but Mac insisted they should stick to their jobs, something that was guaranteed. “Most of those fools will find nothing,” he had preached. “We will save our money and buy some farmland some day.”

  Now they would buy the farmland, but Marybeth wondered if Mac ever felt guilty for not letting Dan go early to California. If he had, Dan would still be alive. Did Mac ever think about it, ever feel sorry for anything, ever weep over losing Dan? She had never seen him show any kind of emotion, and his sons had been taught to behave the same way.

  They continued to pass graves. Not a day went by that they weren’t shown the cruel reminders of just how difficult this trip could be. The heat and humidity had become intense, and there was little talk among the travelers. Women opened the top buttons of their dresses and wore fewer petticoats. Marybeth tied her hair behind her neck with a ribbon to get it away from her face, and she wore her slat bonnet to keep the sun off her head and face. Children fussed, including Danny, who Marybeth had been forced to put inside the wagon in the afternoons. It was simply too hot to carry him. She walked behind the wagon to be near him, dodging dung from the oxen and fanning away dust.

  The MacKinder wagons had moved to the rear. By the time the rest of the wagons had passed over the trail, ruts already worn into the prairie grass by the thousands who had gone before were now only raw, dry dirt. Every night Marybeth relished going to the river and rinsing dust from her face and arms. She wondered if she would ever look or feel pretty again, and she worried about Danny, who fussed constantly because of a heat rash. Everyone began to wonder if there was such a thing as wind or cool rain in this land, and if the entire trip would be this miserable.

  Florence Gentry was in great pain from a turned ankle, which had swollen to the point she could not wear a shoe. She was forced to ride inside her wagon, which was actually more miserable than walking. The heat under the canvas was intense, and the constant bouncing and jolting had made her sick to her stomach. Marybeth missed Delores and Florence both, since their wagons were toward the front of the line. After several days they finally moved to take their turns at the rear, and Delores began walking with Marybeth again, both of them joking about the dust and dung. It seemed the only way to bear their misery without going mad was to find whatever humor they could in their situation.

  John and Mac both scowled at their banter and laughter. They had given up trying to tell Marybeth she could not visit with her new friends, but Mac still held the warning look that Marybeth read well. She said nothing to Delores about his threats, and she refused to talk about Josh Rivers, for fear John would hear. But she longed to tell Delores what he had told her at the river, how it had felt to have his strong arm around her. She wanted to ask Delores how it felt to truly love and want a man…Yet it all seemed so foolish, for she hardly knew Josh Rivers.

  Still, above all the hardships, Marybeth’s little island of peace came only when she thought about Josh. Not even talking with Delores could bring her the warm, happy feeling she got when she remembered how Josh had pressed her close, how his eyes had held her own. She actually found herself worrying about him, riding out alone every day in the awful heat to hunt. Cap had said they could run into Indians any time now, that they were deep into Pawnee and Cheyenne country. Marybeth could not help wondering if Josh would ride away some day and never come back. The thought of it brought a surprising panic and sorrow to her soul.

  But every night, to her secret relief, he returned to the camp. Lately game had been scarce, and he often came back empty-handed. The travelers reverted to beans and peas, dried apples and for those who had some left, jerked meat.

  After three weeks of sweltering misery and faces and arms dotted with red bumps from mosquito bites, relief from the heat came fast and furious when dark clouds loomed on the western horizon, spitting white lightening and rumbling a warning. A cold wind came up in an instant, stinging humans and animals with sharp sleet. In moments Josh and Devon were riding up and down the line of wagons, warning everyone to get out of their wagons and head back to a small dip in the ground they had passed just minutes earlier.

  Marybeth grabbed Danny and ran. Josh rode past her, carrying Tilly James, Bess Peters’ mother, on his horse. He stopped beside Marybeth. “Hand the baby to me,” he told her. Marybeth obeyed, not sure what was happening but realizing the orders wouldn’t have been given without good cause. Josh took Danny and told Marybeth to keep running.

  “What the hell is the hurry?” Mac grumbled. He caught up to Marybeth, dragging Ella with him. “It’s only a storm.”

  “Tornado…someone said,” Ella panted. “We’ve read…about them…remember? Terrible wind.”

  Devon rode by carrying Florence Gentry on his horse. Her ankle was still too painful for her to walk, let alone run. John ran up beside them and they all headed for the dip in the earth that was no more than twenty feet wide. O
ld Tillie James waited there with Danny, and Marybeth took the boy from her, obeying orders from Josh and Devon to kneel down and put heads down. Mothers and fathers covered their children. Marybeth wondered where the other scout, Trapper, was, but knew he was a man experienced in these things and could take care of himself. She wanted to thank Josh for taking the baby, and it seemed for a moment none of it was necessary after all.

  The chilly wind and sleet stopped, and everything grew suddenly so silent it almost hurt Marybeth’s ears. The air hung eerily heavy and the sky seemed almost green. Those unfamiliar with such weather thought perhaps the storm was over, but again the wind picked up, this time with more power. Marybeth ducked her head again when dirt stung her eyes, and she heard a great roaring sound like nothing she had ever heard in her life. Dirt swirled so fast she could feel it ripping across her back, felt it grinding against her neck and seeping its way under her bonnet. Danny remained quiet, as though realizing something was not quite right and he must not cry and cause a distraction. Marybeth held him against her breast protectively, shivering with fear.

  In the distance she heard a crashing sound. Oxen bellowed, cattle mooed and horses whinnied. Nearby she could hear a woman crying. It sounded like Wilma Sleiter. The woman had wept so often that everyone was familiar with the sound, and most had grown so used to it that they had managed to ignore it or else be brought down to Wilma Sleiter’s despair.

  A few children also cried, and for the next minute, which seemed more like an hour to the emigrants, a wind black with soil roared past them with a mighty force. Suddenly it was calm, and a light drizzle began to fall. People slowly raised their heads. Marybeth was almost afraid to look, but most of the wagons seemed to be intact. Clods of dirt and branches from distant cottonwood trees along the river lay strewn everywhere, along with debris from two partially destroyed wagons.

  “Oh, Sam, our wagon!” Marybeth heard Florence Gentry cry out.

  They all began to rise. Marybeth stepped away from Danny and shook dirt from her hair and dress, removing her bonnet to shake it out also. She picked up Danny and walked slowly back toward the MacKinder wagons, relieved to see the canvas was slightly ripped but there was no other damage.

  “The cattle will be scattered everywhere,” she heard Cap saying. “Some of you men who brought horses along go help round them up. But keep track of each other. We don’t want anybody gettin’ lost.”

  Sam helped a weeping Florence walk to their partially destroyed wagon, and another couple with two children were hurrying toward their wagon, which lay in splinters. Cap was shouting orders to those who had not suffered any loss to help those who had. Marybeth headed for the Gentry wagon.

  “Where are you going, girl,” Mac asked her.

  “I’m going to help Florence,” she answered.

  “She’ll get all the help she needs.”

  Marybeth glowered at him. “I’m going to help her,” she repeated. She turned and walked away. Josh rode up to her then, asking if she was all right.

  “Get the hell away from Marybeth!” John shouted so loudly that all heads turned. “The storm is over now, Rivers. You don’t need to be talking to her.”

  Marybeth wished she could dig a hole and climb into it. A deep anger rose in Joshua’s eyes, and he rode toward John, his whole body flexing with a desire to light into the man. “It’s my job to check on everyone, MacKinder!”

  “And I see who you checked on first,” John growled.

  The heat and filth had heightened tempers, and Josh started to dismount. “Josh!” Cap shouted from a few feet away. Josh looked at him and caught the warning look in the man’s eyes. “Let it be!” Josh moved back into his saddle. “Get on to your wagon, MacKinder,” Cap ordered.

  Marybeth, tears streaking her dirty face, walked quickly toward the Gentry wagon, her humiliation knowing no bounds.

  “Look out there,” Cap was saying to Josh.

  Josh followed the man’s gaze to see an odd black movement on the horizon. “Buffalo,” he muttered.

  “Badly needed meat. We’ll be held up here a while, Josh, picking up the mess, rounding up cattle, mending wagons. You and Devon go on out there and get us a good supply of meat. You have hunted buffalo before, haven’t you?”

  Josh realized the diversion could not have come at a better time. It would help keep his mind off John MacKinder; more important, it would help him stop thinking about Marybeth. “With a Comanche for a brother-in-law? Yeah, I’ve hunted buffalo. I was taught by the best.”

  “Then get going. I don’t doubt Trapper is already out there.”

  Josh looked down at the man. “We need to talk, Cap.”

  “Save it till you get back, after you’ve cooled down. Just get out there and bring down a couple of those shaggy bison.”

  Josh nodded and rode off, and Cap hurried to give aid to those who needed it. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for Marybeth MacKinder himself, but a man in his position had to stay neutral. His job was to get these people to Oregon, nothing more. How they conducted their lives on the way or after they got there was not his affair, and he wished Josh Rivers could stay out of it himself; but a pretty, red-headed Irish woman had got under the man’s skin. Cap hit his hat against his leg in frustration.

  Cleanup was a major project. Marybeth’s heart ached for Florence, whose job was made more difficult because of her ankle. Delores and several other women and their husbands came to help, picking up belongings that had been scattered so far that some of the men had to ride several miles back to find some of it. A good share of the Gentry clothing and utensils were recovered, but only three of their dozen chickens. Aaron Svensson helped little six-year-old Toby build a cage for them out of what could be found of the old cage. Little Toby cried over the lost chickens, his mop of curly hair hanging in damp ringlets about his face as the heat returned after only two days of cooler weather.

  “I didn’t mean to let them go on the boat, Pa,” Toby sniffled, sure he was being punished by God for the trick he had played on the riverboat.

  “It just happened, Toby,” Sam told his son. “It’s got nothing to do with you letting the chickens go. You just be a little man and help me and your ma get things back in order.”

  “But we ain’t got a wagon,” Toby said as he studied what was left of the chickens inside their new cage.

  Marybeth sat with Delores at the Gentry campfire, helping wash some of the dishes that had been retrieved caked with mud. She wished she could offer one of the MacKinder wagons, but she already knew what Mac would think of that.

  “Several others have offered to put us up until we get to Fort Laramie where we can get another wagon,” Sam told the boy. “We’ll just have to split up for the next few weeks, son. Nobody has enough room for all of us to share their wagon. But we’ll always be together at the night campfire, that I promise.”

  Marybeth envied the love within the Gentry family, the way Sam Gentry was constantly reassuring Florence and the children that everything would work out all right. Mac and John would be steaming around finding a way to blame what had happened on the women, ordering them to get things straightened up, complaining about the inconvenience.

  She looked out at the horizon. Josh was out there somewhere. She had watched in wonder and awe as the great herd of buffalo had passed the wagon train, Josh, Devon and Trapper riding very slowly beside the great shaggy beasts. Never had Marybeth or any of the others seen the monsters of the plains, and everyone stared with their hearts in their throats, realizing how easily they could destroy everything in their path if alarmed and stampeded. They had no doubt the destruction would have been worse than what the tornado had done. The closeness of the wagon train to the herd was the very reason Josh and the scouts had not shot at them when they first discovered them. They had very gently coaxed the buffalo to move farther east, causing them to amble slowly in the direction of the wagon train and past it, all of them moving in one continuous line.

  It seemed to take hours for th
e magnificent animals to move past the frightened and wary travelers. But all waited patiently, since Cap had explained that most buffalo could outrun a horse, and all knew that if the great animals were spooked, it could mean many deaths.

  Cap had told them that unless stampeded, buffalo nearly always travel in single file. When they had passed, the bison, some of which, Cap explained, could weigh more than two thousand pounds, had worn a ditch nearly a foot deep into the soft earth. Cap warned the travelers that between this place and the Rocky Mountains, they would have to watch for such ditches, which could break a wagon axle or an ox’s leg; and also watch for buffalo wallows, holes in the earth where fighting buffalo had pawed the ground until a hole as much as eight feet in diameter and eighteen inches deep was created.

  “The loser finds the wallow is his grave; the winner lays in it and soothes his wounds,” Cap told them. “Sometimes the holes are made when a buffalo decides to roll on the ground and scratch. These here prairies will be dotted with wallows all along the way now. Once that hole is made, grass don’t generally grow there any more. Sometimes they collect rain water, which can be helpful when we leave the river, but we’ll be followin’ the Platte most of the way.”

  Marybeth worried about Josh. He was out there somewhere now, chasing the dangerous buffalo. His horse could run into one of those buffalo wallows and stumble; Josh Rivers could be seriously hurt, maybe killed. Cap had told them many Indians had died hunting the beast, which was the mainstay of their existence. Someone had told her they heard Josh had a Comanche brother-in-law who had taught him how to hunt the beasts. The thought only enhanced her curiosity about the man. How she wished they could talk to each other, but she decided in her own heart she could never allow it even if the opportunity arose.

  After two days of repairs to the damaged wagons, Cap got the train rolling again. Florence and her family stored what was left of their belongings in the Svenssons’ wagon and the wagon of a family by the name of Rogers, and they began taking turns spreading the family out every night to sleep in or under other peoples’ wagons, something that upset Florence greatly. She took her predicament as humiliating, even though it could not have been helped. Her ankle was still not healed, and against Mac’s wishes, Marybeth often walked along behind whatever wagon Florence was riding in each day in order to keep the woman company, since poor Florence was almost constantly close to tears because she felt she was a burden to the others.