Threads of Change

by Jodi Barrows

  I was upset when I learned we had angled too far south and now would have to go north to our location in Texas. We have lost time by our troubles and losing our direction. The lieutenant assured me that the storm had disrupted the path we were to be on and we would have had to come south anyway. Truth? I’m not sure of it, but it made me feel better. I also decided that Thomas and Chet are fine and that they must be worried sick over us and wondering where we are. I hope they have not gone back to Grandpa Lucas as I would hate for him to worry so over us when we are well.

  It was a good thing also that we cleaned up yesterday. We would have died for the fort ladies and soldiers to see us in such disarray as we were. Captain Sewell was concerned over my injuries and had the doctor take a look at my head. He scolded me and said a lady had no business taking such risks out on the trail. I didn’t tell him how much I enjoyed taking part in leading our group.

  He said to keep putting the salve that we made for the horses on my face, even though it turns one’s skin purple. Captain Sewell also advised us on the route to take north after we cross over the line, and he said he would put word out to Thomas and Chet as to our whereabouts. He said the Indians have been quiet lately, but that we will go through a certain territory where we should stay most alerted.

  Mrs. Sewell had a new baby girl that we all fell in love with. I think all of us were thinking about our own mothering feelings and wondering if we would have our own children in the future. I don’t know why Caleb and I never had more. Luke came so quickly that I assumed I would have plenty. Abby and Megan certainly are old enough to have a houseful of their own by now. It is, in fact, quite unusual for all of us to be single and Luke the only child. I never thought of it in such a way until just recently.

  We made the Texas line by dark and the army made camp with us. They drew us a map and gave us the landmarks for which we should stand watch as we move farther west.

  DAY 8:

  This morning it was rather difficult to see the troop ride away. I slept well in light of my not having one of John’s special coffee mixtures. My body feels stronger and my injuries are all but healed.

  Megan always has admirers, and our visit at the fort was no exception. She certainly is pleasant to them in general, but she never seems to have an interest in anyone specific.

  As we continue, we are to go along the Angelina River and through the forest. As I saw all of the lumber from the trees, I began to wonder if Grandpa ought to leave the lumbering business. Timber is plentiful in this land.

  It seems like ages since we were back home. Captain Sewell’s wife showed us a number of her patterns, and I have just now realized that I forgot to write them down. She had many beautiful quilts that we all loved, my favorite being a star with a blue center and points. It had a small burst of triangles around it. It will be the first one I attempt after I settle in my new home. As always, we traded some cloth with her. She had some of the blue from the star and, being the lady that she is, simply gave it to me. I promised to inform her on my progress.

  She had more quilts than I had ever before seen, almost all of which were stacked and neatly folded. She rarely uses many of them. I suppose that she has a lot of empty time on her hands while residing there. Another one I liked a great deal had a wreath with points. It was very unusual in its design. Each circle had a bluish hue to it. It appears to be an organized scrap quilt. It seems difficult to fashion, however. Upon curiosity, I counted over seventy pieces in each block. It had many curved pieces. One day, perhaps I can work up the courage to make it.

  DAY 9:

  Today, while searching Thomas’s wagon for some supplies that John and Blue required, I came upon a large wooden box with a lovely log cabin quilt inside. I took it out to admire its wonderful construction. The blocks were unique: four log cabin blocks sewn together with fire red triangles around the outside edges. When I spread it out for closer inspection, a letter fell open at my feet. I saw it was from his mother before I realized how intrusive I’d been, and I quickly folded it back into the quilt.

  Thomas had spent nine days searching for Elizabeth Bromont and the others, perplexed as to how they could have disappeared. He talked to many folks along the trail after the storm and no one had heard of this group of women and six wagons. If they’d met with trouble or harm’s way, such news would have certainly traveled fast. He didn’t want Lucas to get wind of this—or more importantly, any outlaws—so he maintained caution in his investigations, mostly listening for conversation that might lead him to his cluster of females.

  He sat in a tipped-back chair outside the saloon as two men in military uniform started up the steps.

  “And you’re certain that the wagon train was all single women?” the light-haired man with fuzzy eyebrows asked.

  “Yes,” the tall one said, stooping his head to enter the door of the saloon. “I was there when they stopped at Fort Polk with Captain Sewell and his wife.”

  Finally, word of the women! Thomas nearly knocked his chair over as he popped up from it, his glances darting around for Chet. When he didn’t find him, Thomas entered the saloon and walked straight over to the men in blue and ordered three drinks.

  “Gentlemen, did I hear right that you saw a wagon train of women?”

  The two soldiers cautiously looked at Thomas, Chet now standing next to them. Thomas noticed the hesitation in the light-haired man’s countenance.

  “Let me introduce myself,” he said warmly. “I am Thomas Bratcher. My friend and I are employed by Lucas Mailly to lead his wagon train and freight to Fort Worth. In the storm last week,” Thomas paused, feeling the embarrassment of losing his group, “we lost track of our charges.”

  “As I remember,” the man said cautiously, “it seems they had come across some trouble. They appeared to be managing just fine.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” Thomas asked.

  “The lady that was leading them, but only a few scrapes. One nasty one to the head.”

  “The others,” his companion stated, “seemed just fine. But they’re headed right for Indian country now.” He reached for his whiskey. “What’s wrong with that pa of theirs?”

  “How badly was she hurt?” Thomas asked.

  “She was banged up all right. Captain Sewell sent her to the doc.”

  “Tell me. Please, where was she hurt?”

  “Her eye was purple and she had a gash down her check. As well as her lip, it was cut.”

  Thomas poured himself another whiskey, “And what direction were they headed?”

  “The captain gave them a map and some men of ours rode with them to the edge of Texas.”

  “Please. Can you tell me where they left them and where they told them to go?” Thomas implored.

  “Our men left Fort Polk and were going west to the Sabine Forest. I suppose that’s where they camped, but that’s all I know.”

  “Well then, men, thank you for your help.”

  Thomas stood to shake their hands.

  “Good luck,” the blond man said, “and thanks for the drink.”

  Thomas and Chet both gulped down their whiskey and headed out the door.

  Once outside, Chet turned to Thomas. “I think we should cut across to the north of the Sabine. I know a place we can cross the river and find a spot to meet them, close to where the Rangers should be. There’s a stage station close to the Crockett Forest and Nacogdoches. Maybe if we push it, we can do it in a five-day ride.”

  “How long do you think it will take them?” Thomas asked.

  “I’d say at least six,” Chet replied.

  Liz shook the reins of her team and looked out from beneath her bonnet, searching for a place to make camp. She watched Bear as he playfully ran along with the wagons. Bear had quickly learned the routine of each day, and no one had to worry about his whereabouts as he galloped into the thicket of trees and happily reappeared a mile or so later. When he didn’t return soon enough for Luke, Liz’s son whistled and the dog came running.

&
nbsp; One night when camp was made and everyone had settled, Bear flew out from the thick trees with an angry raccoon chasing him. “Blue, do you see him? Hurry! Over there,” Liz called.

  Bear barked and tormented the masked creature as it hissed at the dog and rose to its back legs.

  “Luke, stay back,” his mother commanded from the wagon seat. “Let John scare him off!”

  John stalked around the wagon with his gun, firing two shots into the air. The raccoon hurried off with Bear at his heels. Luke whistled for a good minute or two before the dog finally turned for home base.

  “That was funny seeing that raccoon chasing Bear like that,” John said.

  “I guess so,” Liz replied. “I was afraid it would be a crazy one and cause us harm. And that is all we need, another sack of trouble.”

  The day turned out to be sun-filled, only a few clouds overhead. The heavy green branches on the trees insisted upon shading them, and the picturesque deep, thick grass rippled in the breeze. The rain of the past few days had painted the area with such rich color that Liz felt a deep sense of happiness as the sun warmed her face, penetrating her brain like a mild drug.

  Megan jumped from her wagon seat and twirled in a circle around the prairie of lush grass. “It is beautiful here!” she exclaimed. “What a gorgeous day.”

  Abby approached the thicket of trees. “I have never seen a place like this. I wonder if we’re still in the Sabine Forest.”

  The meadow at the edge of the forest looked like a fairyland to Liz, and she smiled at her cousin.

  “Our Mississippi home was pretty,” Abby told her, “but not like Riverton, and not anything like this place called the Sabine.”

  They had traveled along the bottom of the Sabine Forest after the soldiers left them, and they now turned north to the Angelina River and Crockett Forest.

  Liz soaked it all in. “Well, do you think our new home will continue this beauty?

  “Oh, I hope so,” Abby cooed.

  Liz freed her chickens and let them scratch and bob around the camp while she and Emma dug out their quilting supplies. After they settled, each of the women sat in relative silence, engrossed in her own world of fabric, needle, and thread.

  Emma pulled out the nine-patch squares that she had recently completed and inspected them carefully, pulling one block to the side.

  “This one needs to be ripped out and restitched,” she said, and she went to work on the repair to the lovely block of browns and blues.

  Abby had a few dark colors in her basket and decided to work on her appliqué. Liz knew it was Abby’s favorite. She cut out the small flowers and leaves, and then turned under the edges as she stitched it to the background piece. The quilt Megan had made for Granny Claire had been her inspiration. A myriad of red and brown triangle units came from Megan’s quilt box, all of them precut and stacked neatly together inside a pecan box lined with velvet. A gentleman caller had given the wooden box to Megan as a gift, and she’d later lined it with the fabric and turned it into a project box. Megan had never been too keen on any of her gentleman callers. The box, however, was a keeper with its rich, pecan coloring, pewter hinges, and carved trim. Megan had created a small needle cushion inside. “Megan,” Liz said, “would you like some help with all of those triangles you have in that Feathered Star? It will be a masterpiece once you’ve finished it.”

  Megan passed the box of triangles to her sister with a warm smile and, as it passed Emma, she reached out to hold it.

  “Tell me about this box?” she asked as her fingers passed over the carvings.

  Liz jumped in. “It’s from one of Megan’s callers. She received it as a gift from Mr. Matthew Coldwell. He was a buyer who came to the mill often, a master craftsman of furniture back in North Carolina, and quite handsome and wealthy. He was very intrigued with our Megan, and he carved the box himself.”

  Megan gave her sister a disapproving glance before she returned to her needle and thread.

  “Well, what happened?” Emma asked, wanting to know more.

  “He is gone and the box is here. That’s all there is to it,” Liz remarked.

  Megan worked to move the topic along. “Sometimes it is best for a relationship to come to an end … even when … they care about each other and all appears to be well.”

  Liz took the box and picked out the pieces she would sew together for Megan. She smiled at her sister and asked, “Will each star be the same?”

  “Well, yes and no. The center of the stars are all different eight-inch stars, and the larger feathered star will be blue, red, or green, and with black tips. I think I will make it large, with twelve feathered stars.”

  Megan became herself again as she spoke of her design. She accepted the box when Liz passed it back to her. As her fingers passed over the engraving on the inside of the lid, Liz sensed Megan’s reminiscence of Matthew.

  “I can still hear his deep voice sometimes,” Megan had confided once during a late-night quilting session back at the timber mill. “I’ll tell you, Lizzie, his voice could melt you all the way to your toes. I loved to hear him sing hymns in church when he was last in Lecompte. I could recognize that voice anywhere.”

  Megan never said so, but Liz suspected she might have just married Matthew if he’d have asked. But he never did. Not after Matthew’s mother, the real first lady in his life, had accompanied him on one of his business trips. Liz didn’t know the details, and Megan never wanted to talk about them. All she knew for sure was that Megan had gone for a walk with Matthew, and they met with Mrs. Coldwell on their return. The next morning, Matthew and his mother were gone, and Megan had never truly been the same. Little snatches of conversation here and there had revealed Megan’s hidden—but broken—heart, and Liz didn’t press. She could only pray for her sister that God would heal her heart again—and that she’d one day find true love.

  The sun began to fade for the day and as the light dissipated, it became too hard to sew. Megan placed her needle in the special box and Liz caught a glimpse of her sister as she ran her finger along the engraving on the inside.

  To my special Megan. All my love, always. Matthew

  “I’m tired,” Megan said, and she stood up and withdrew to her wagon.

  Three cowboys sat around the campfire, just a short distance from the Angelina River. They’d gathered several thick logs and other kindling and arranged them at the base of the fire pit, forming a teepee around some tall, dried branches, creating an intense furnace inside them that no wind or cold could pierce.

  The remains of a trail supper surrounded them. The coffeepot bubbled over the fire. Each man wore traditional trail attire. A cowboy hat made of straw for shade and air circulation was deemed most necessary, and the only time it left a man’s head was when it swatted the owner’s leg in anger or frustration. Even with a lady present, the hat was only tipped slightly, just enough to signify polite courtesy. In such occurrences, the cowboy’s hand went toward the brim to tip it in acknowledgment, usually in accord with a “Ma’am.” The removal of a cowboy’s hat signified the utmost sign of respect, and such a privilege was not often bestowed.

  The cowboys sitting around this fire poked at its mesmerizing flame. They wore bandannas around their necks with long-sleeved shirts tucked into denim jeans. They wore ratty cowboy boots made from animal hide, and leather belts with heavy, serious buckles. All three donned leather vests with the metal star of a Texas Ranger planted firmly over their hearts.

  The oldest cowboy, Tex, though not as old as Lucas Mailly, was old enough to be the father of the women for whom he searched. He wasn’t a large man in stature, but in attitude and accomplishments, you couldn’t find much bigger. He was a legend with the Texas Rangers and respected across the territory. Tex couldn’t be sure why Lucas Mailly sent his family alone across the land; then again, why would a man leave his family at all if he had the choice. Tex’s duties didn’t allow him to agonize over such things. He intended to locate their wagon train and then bring th
em safely to the fort, accordingly. He had never met Lucas before, but he liked him. Through their correspondence, Lucas spoke of his granddaughters as a man would his sons. Tex considered it gutsy, no less, to send the women with such sizable amounts of gold. He certainly wouldn’t have done it.

  Tex looked over to the two Rangers with whom he had been riding all day. He had ridden with both before and he liked the way they handled themselves—professional, with integrity, like most all Rangers he’d ever known. Jackson, in his midthirties, was tall and broad with a long handlebar mustache. Jackson won most of his battles by sheer intimidation. He rode a large black stallion named Zeus that carried a lofty attitude and listened only to his commands. Even if his enemies knew Zeus as simply a gentle giant, they would certainly not want to chance it, and they rarely did.

  Tex often teased Colt about his age, “still wet behind the ears.” Colt was actually twenty-one, but never told anyone. He was eighteen when he started riding with the Rangers and had only ever ridden with Tex and Jackson.

  The two eldest cowboys met Colt when they came upon a group of Comanches raiding a traveling group. Wagons burned and bodies lay everywhere, killed by the deadly arrows of the Plains Indians. The Comanche were fierce and superb warriors. They could release six arrows to one shot of the white man’s gun.

  Colt had come running out with a Colt revolver and he had an aim many could never master, a natural shot. Tex took him in and started calling him Colt, after the gun that saved them all that day, and Colt’s reputation had grown bigger than life over the years. Tex was the only one who dared tease him about his age. Colt still had a bone to pick with the world, and he would not be intimidated after that wagon raid. His soft brown locks were long down his back and he kept them tied back with a leather strip. Tex couldn’t miss the fact that the boy looked very similar to the Indians he stalked. Tex and Jackson never asked Colt his real name, and Colt never gave it. They also never learned where he got the Colt revolver, or how he discovered that he could shoot so well.