A Bride's Agreement

by Elaine Bonner

  When darkness nearly enveloped him, he returned to the wagon. He’d stayed gone longer than he intended, but this way she would be ready for bed once they ate.

  The smell of frying fish assaulted his senses. His stomach growled. She’d gone fishing, and he knew without dwelling on it further that she’d done it for him. By this time, he realized a lot about Sarah Jane, and her giving heart didn’t seem to end. The realization made him feel like a snake—a rattler at best.

  “I have food ready,” she said when he entered the firelight.

  I have to enjoy this while I can. The days without Sarah Jane would be long.

  Another smell tugged at him—fresh biscuits and the scent of apples. How warm it felt to have a woman tending to him.

  “You didn’t have to go to this much trouble.” Painted Hands masked the feelings ready to burst through his crusty exterior.

  “I wanted to.” Her sweet voice reverberated over the night air. She heaped a tin plate full of fish, biscuits, and warm apples and handed it to him. Next she poured a steaming cup of hot coffee and set it beside him on the ground.

  They ate in the typical silence he’d demanded from the beginning, but it wasn’t what he truly wanted. He finished his food and asked for more.

  “Must we separate when we catch up to the wagon train?” she asked.

  The food suddenly caught in his throat. “We aren’t suited for each other.”

  “I don’t know you very well, but I want to. I can change if you tell me what makes you comfortable—”

  “Being alone. No one else around.” He dared not look at her for fear he’d forgo his willpower at the sight of her angelic face.

  “I would do whatever you ask.”

  “Why?” Painted Hands asked. “Is it your faith? Are you afraid of being alone for the rest of the journey? Is it the divorce?”

  Her thin shoulders lifted and fell. “I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t afraid or that I didn’t mind solitude. I’m not as strong as you. But I made a promise to God to submit as your wife. I’m asking for a chance to fulfill my vow.”

  Frustrated at her, frustrated at himself, he squeezed the handle on his mug. “Marriage will never work between us, Sarah Jane. There’s no point in discussing it any longer or ever again.” Gritting his teeth, he set the plate and mug down and stomped away in the dark.

  For the first time in years, tears trickled down his cheeks.

  Sarah Jane had seen the graves, more than she ever hoped to see again. Some held stones as markers, others crude crosses, and too many appeared to be mass burials. Always wheels had firmed the dirt heaped on top, and always she wondered who had fallen prey to the typhoid. A risk needled at her. By returning to the wagon train, she faced the possibility of getting the disease, too. With Painted Hands leaving, she had to endure whatever God saw fit.

  Up ahead, speckles of cattle moved across the prairie. They’d caught up with Mr. Greenham.

  “Painted Hands,” she said, for he’d ridden his spotted horse beside her. “Would you please stay three days with me? I know you’re set to go, but I’m begging.”

  He stared straight ahead. Long moments lingered in the quiet. No matter what he said, she’d not resort to tears.

  “I can do that,” he finally said.

  Thank You, God. A smile tugged at her mouth. “I’ll not be a burden to you. I need to talk to some folks about helping me on to Oregon, and the three days would give me time.”

  “You’ve never been trouble.” He rode ahead then, always running from her as if she were distasteful.

  You can’t run forever, Painted Hands. Someday God will turn your heart back to Him.

  As the wagon eased closer to the others, Painted Hands and Mr. Greenham rode to her. Their faces wore a grim expression. The news must not be good.

  “Good afternoon,” Mr. Greenham said, leaning on his saddle. “Sorry to hear about your parents.”

  Sarah Jane studied the lines on his face, more lines than she’d seen before. “How have you fared?”

  “We lost lots of folks to the typhoid. Still have many folks down with it. The sickness spread the very night the committee voted you out.”

  That’s why she and Painted Hands had caught up with the wagons so quickly. “Are the Robinsons all right?” She couldn’t bear to think of Martha and Amelia fretting with fever.

  “We lost all of ’em,” Mr. Greenham replied. “Buried them in a mass grave.”

  Sarah Jane shuddered. Several moments went by before she regained her composure. “The girls were my dearest friends, and my parents often visited Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. I do hope they didn’t suffer much.”

  Mr. Greenham nodded. “So many have passed on that I don’t remember all the particulars. No new cases yesterday or today,” he said. “Thank God, it must be over.”

  “I’ll pray for all of them.” Sarah Jane understood the bereavement of those families. “Perhaps I can help in the nursing.”

  “You’re a mighty kind woman to offer help. I won’t be refusing you and Painted Hands to join up with us again, although I wonder the good sense of it.”

  “Traveling alone is dangerous,” Painted Hands said. “I want my wife to have the protection you offer.”

  “You’re a wise man. This country hollows out enough graves without increasing the chances.” Mr. Greenham straightened in the saddle. “Go ahead and drive your cattle back into the herd and pull the wagon to the end of the line. As you can see, we haven’t been making good time with so many down sick.”

  “Fort Laramie isn’t far ahead,” Painted Hands said. “Will they let us in?”

  “Doubt it,” Mr. Greenham said. “That will disappoint a lot of folks. The healthy ones most likely can get us supplies, and we’ll rest up a few days.” He turned his horse back toward the wagons. “I’ve missed you, Painted Hands. Glad you’re back.”

  A few days ago, Sarah Jane would have fought the urge to encourage her husband to stay longer than the three days, but not now. An unexplainable peace wrapped around her insecurities with a message of comfort. God’s way was the best.

  That evening, Painted Hands left her without a word. She’d grown used to his disappearances. Would he give her a final good-bye at the end of the three days? She doubted he’d even considered a proper farewell. Avoidance best described her husband.

  A cook fire warmed apples from the previous evening along with fried bacon and a few precious potatoes. She hoped Painted Hands arrived soon, for the day had been particularly taxing, and she craved sleep. All day her head hurt, and no wonder with the burden bearing down on her. After straightening the inside of the wagon and filling the water keg, she opened the trunk to seek out the money Papa had set aside for Oregon. Resting the lantern on a sack of flour, she carefully pulled the bills from Mama’s dress. To her amazement, the money amounted to over twice what Sarah Jane believed was hidden. She could open a mercantile right away. A note wrapped another bundle of money. She opened it and recognized the handwriting.

  My beloved daughter,

  If you are reading this, no doubt your papa and I perished along the journey to Oregon. I am sorry for abandoning you. Your papa and I prayed that God in His infinite wisdom would send someone to help you in the event of our deaths. Do not turn back. I know I protested leaving Nebraska, but your papa’s dreams are far more important. Only you can fulfill his vision.

  The amount of money here is far more than we told you. We wanted to keep a good portion for you in the event you married. Praise God there is plenty here for you to establish yourself in a new home.

  My reason for this letter is to tell you how very much you are loved. The days and months ahead will be difficult, but I have no doubt you will see Oregon, the promised land, and it will be as beautiful as we dreamed.

  Select your husband wisely. You have the means to take care of yourself, so a marriage out of necessity should not befall you. First, let him be a man of God. Second, pray together every day of your life, and third, und
erstand that troubles will try to tear your love apart, but do not succumb to such evil. God is in His heaven all the days of your life, and He loves you dearly.

  I love you.

  Mama

  Tears streamed down Sarah Jane’s face. Oh, how she missed Mama and Papa. Sometimes she thought the ache would never go away. “Select your husband wisely.”

  Mama, I didn’t choose Painted Hands. Circumstances chose us. I pray I never disappoint you, and as long as we are husband and wife, I will honor him.

  With a deep breath, she replaced the money and thanked God for His provision. This blessing came at the right time in light of the upcoming departure of Painted Hands. But her husband had not left yet, and she would not give up until he rode away.

  “Mrs. Painted Hands.”

  Sarah Jane heard the familiar male voice but couldn’t quite place the name. “I’ll be right with you.” She quickly made certain the trunk was in order and climbed down from the wagon. Of all the people she wished to see, Preacher Sanders was at the bottom of the list. He’d escaped the typhoid. How sad. Immediately, she chastised herself.

  “Mr. Sanders, how are you?” She feigned cordiality.

  “I saw, uh, your husband earlier.”

  “Yes, you married us, remember?”

  He pressed his thin lips together. “Mr. Greenham said your parents died.”

  “Yes sir. I understand many other fine people have perished with the sickness.”

  “I spoke at more funerals than I care to recall.”

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Greenham said the epidemic is lessening,” she said.

  “That is my prayer.”

  Just speak your mind and be gone. “May I ask why you’ve paid me a visit? Or is this to express your condolences?” Why did peering into the man’s face make her irate?

  “I’ve called the committee to a meeting tonight, what’s left of them.”

  “Why do I need to know this?” Exhaustion swept over her. Then she remembered hearing Mr. Greenham say the committeemen might need to meet again if she and Painted Hands returned. If Mr. Sanders simply got on with his business, she’d rest until her husband returned.

  “Since your parents were the first to come down with typhoid, I believe you must be carrying it with you.”

  All thoughts of courtesy vanished. Respect for Mr. Sanders blew with the night breeze. “How dare you make such an accusation? I suggest you leave before I scream for help.”

  Mr. Sanders took a step back. He looked like the old tomcat that used to live in Papa’s sod barn. He hissed and spit until a person took a step in his direction. “Considering the reputation of your husband, I doubt if anyone would listen.”

  Sarah Jane held her breath while her mind raced with rage. “My husband is a far better man than you could ever be. He knows the meaning of integrity and honor, whereas you hide behind a God whom I doubt you’ve ever met!”

  “You will regret speaking to me in such a manner.” His squeaky voice inched higher. “I have my means.”

  Sarah Jane attempted to calm her nerves. Papa always said anger never solved anything. “Mr. Sanders, you are not welcome here. I’m asking you to leave. If you refuse, I’ll ask my husband to file a complaint with the committee.”

  “No need to ask me.” Painted Hands stepped into view. The lantern lit up his reddened features.

  “You two are a disgrace,” Mr. Sanders said. “As I said earlier, your wagon brought misfortune and death to this wagon train, and I intend to put an end to it.”

  “Go ahead,” Painted Hands said. “While you’re at it, you can include this.” He threw his fist alongside the man’s jaw, sending him sprawling in the dirt. “That’s for bullying my wife. When you get up, I’ll give you another one for what you said about her parents.”

  Sarah Jane grabbed Painted Hands’s arm. “He’s not worth the trouble. Let him crawl back to his committee.”

  Mr. Sanders did indeed crawl backward, then shifted to his feet and took off in a dead run. Some of the other wagons had seen and heard the ruckus, but Sarah Jane didn’t care. She still trembled.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she said, taking her breath in quick spurts.

  “I’ve met his kind before. A hypocrite.” A rare look of concern etched his brow. “Are you all right? Did he touch you?”

  Her breathing refused to slow down. Her legs felt as if they were weighted down with rocks. “I’m tired. So very tired.”

  Blackness inched over her mind and body, and she gave into the overwhelming urge to sleep.

  CHAPTER 9

  Painted Hands caught Sarah Jane before she collapsed onto the ground. This was the first time he’d ever touched her, and she was burning with fever. No, not Sarah Jane. He swept her into his arms, noting how light and frail—and incredibly hot—she was. Once she lay on the straw-filled mattress in the back of the wagon, he tried to wake her. She mumbled about needing sleep, but he could not get her to acknowledge him.

  You destroy everything you touch.

  He ground his teeth against the backdrop of the accusations swirling about in his head. Not this time. Not if he could do anything to stop it. Sarah Jane would not die because of him.

  Painted Hands buried his head in his hands. He should have left sooner. Selfishness over his growing feelings for her had ruled his better judgment.

  Brushing back a damp curl from her cheek, his callused fingers felt the smoothness of her skin. How he’d longed to be this close these past weeks, but not at the cost of Sarah Jane’s health. How could he cool down the fever? Helpless and disoriented, he bit back bitter tears.

  “I’ll get some water,” he said as if she comprehended every word.

  Painted Hands scooted back and out of the wagon. Snatching up a towel, he filled a basin. For the next hour, he continuously wiped her face and listened to her occasional delirium. He answered when he could, assuring her she needed rest and he was there for her. He said the things he should have said from the first day of their marriage. What good would it have done, since the ultimate outcome was her lying ill with typhoid?

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sarah Jane, I never intended for you to fall prey to my curse.”

  “Painted Hands,” she whispered and lifted her hand.

  He grasped it and brought the slender fingers to his lips. Anxiously, he searched her face for signs of consciousness or more of the fever-ravaged confusion.

  “Mama, Papa, don’t leave me,” she said. “He doesn’t want me.”

  Painted Hands sucked in a breath. Guilt attacked him on every side. He’d refused her desire to be his wife. He’d been cruel and heartless in everything he said and did, neglecting to comfort her when her parents died and insisting she not talk to him. He’d wanted to guard her against his curse, and even then his efforts failed.

  He remembered the tea she so diligently prepared and spoon-fed to her ma and pa. Lifting the trunk lid, he saw the small bag of dried ginger leaves. His experience with herbs told him ginger provided little aid for the fever, but it should help the stomach problem that often accompanied typhoid.

  The sound of voices outside the wagon seized his attention. He whirled around, recognizing Sanders’s high-pitched screech of excitement.

  “Right here—he tried to kill me,” Sanders said. “All I was doing was offering my sympathy and prayers in regard to his wife’s family. We’ve heard the tales. He’s a murderer, I say, and he’s dangerous.”

  Painted Hands took a deep breath to control the bubbling fury. He took a longing glance at Sarah Jane and left her for the storm brewing outside the wagon.

  “Sanders, when are you going to tell them the truth?” Painted Hands asked.

  Greenham stood with a half dozen other men, but Painted Hands spurned any thought of using his friendship with the wagon master as leverage. “I walked into the campsite to find you accusing my wife’s parents of carrying typhoid. You also claimed to have called a committee meeting to cut us out of the wagon train.”

>   “Is this true?” Greenham asked.

  Sanders rubbed his bony jaw. “He punched me before trying to kill me.”

  “I hit you, and I’d do it again, but I never threatened to kill you. Although I wish someone would do me the favor.”

  “Where’s your wife?” Greenham asked. “If she backs up Painted Hands, then I’m for ending this right now.”

  Painted Hands realized lying about Sarah Jane made no sense. “She’s inside the wagon. After I ran Sanders off, she took sick.”

  “Sick?” one of the men asked.

  Staring straight into the man’s eyes, Painted Hands saw the fear. “Yes, fever.”

  “Typhoid,” Greenham stated more than asked.

  “I think so.” Painted Hands hurled an angry glance at Sanders. “What do you have to say now?”

  “Cut ’em out,” Sanders said, tossing his words to the men beside him.

  Greenham stiffened. “After the Bensons, we didn’t cut the other families when they came down sick.”

  “He’s a wild man—can’t trust ‘im.” Sanders’s voice rose with each word.

  “I’d hit you if you insulted my wife,” another man said. “Sanders, you called me away from my family, saying this was an important meeting affecting the whole wagon train. This is nothing more than a personal vendetta.” The man stepped in front of Sanders. “I hear you asked John Benson for his daughter to marry up with your son. Benson told you no. You want a vote? Fine. Let’s do it now.” The man stuck out his hand to Painted Hands. “You’ve never done me wrong, and my vote is for you to stay. I hope some of us can give help in nursing your wife.”

  Painted Hands shook the man’s hand. He didn’t even know his name.

  “My name is Andrew. I’m feeling right bad about the way you’ve been treated.”

  “I appreciate what you’ve done here tonight,” Painted Hands said, and he meant every word.