Cinch Your Saddle (The Widow Wagon Book 3)

by Megan Michaels

  He’d done his best to save them, and the doctor had told him so too. He’d bathed them, sat up all night putting cold compresses on their heads, serving them broth. He’d even gone to town to get them the latest remedies. Rose had been afraid that he’d catch it, and told him repeatedly to put a handkerchief over his face.

  “Angus, just worry about the girls. I’m fine. I don’t need you fussin’ over me like a mother hen.” She’d scowl at him, but was so weak near the end that she couldn’t so much as lift her head from her pillow.

  “Don’t you bark out orders at me, girl. I do what I want and you know that. You need to get well.” Then he’d put a compress on her head, gently kissing her lips. “What would I do without you? Promise me you’ll get better.”

  “I’m doin’ my best, Angus. How’s Kat and Prissy?” At that thought, she’d tried to rise up to see them across the room.

  Angus had pulled the mattresses into the main room of the house so that he could take care of all of them and watch them closely at the same time. He’d slept — when he could — in the rocking chair by the fire.

  “They’re doin’ fine. You go back to sleep. You don’t wanna disturb them, do ya?” He’d gently pushed her back onto her pillow then, tucking the warm quilt around her neck to keep away the chill of the Missouri January.

  “No, I don’t want to wake them. Keep them cool. Did you get any medicine from the Doc?” Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks pink with the fever he couldn’t keep down.

  “Yes. Doc gave me medicine for both you and the kids. Don’t you remember takin’ it?” He tried not to alarm her, but if she’d forgotten, it meant her fever and the influenza had taken hold harder than he’d anticipated.

  Her eyebrows had knit in confusion. “No. You gave me medicine?”

  He tried to sound casual, seeing concern in her eyes. “Just a couple times in the middle of the night,” he lied. “That’s probably why you don’t remember. Just go to sleep. I’ll give you more when it’s time. I need to check on the girls.” He kissed her forehead, then rose wearily from the bed to go see his girls.

  His wife would never wake again.

  She’d been the first to go. After discovering she’d died, he’d crawled into bed with her and wept over her lifeless body. He’d covered her with the blue and yellow patchwork quilt her mother had made them for their wedding. It was funny the things one thought at moments like those. Her mother had no idea years ago that the very quilt she made for their wedding bed would also be the quilt used to cover her lifeless, cold daughter before she’d been buried under the brown Missouri dirt. He stayed with Rose until he had to check on the girls, replacing cloths, giving medicine, and feeding them both broth.

  He slept on the end of the girls’ bed, taking turns caring for each of them. Kat and Prissy had hair so blonde it was white, their piercing blue eyes as glassy as the marbles they played with at night. Their lips were cherry red with fever, and he did his best to keep them drinking water. But it had been difficult when they were so listless that the water dribbled out of the corner of their mouths. He’d finally taken to serving water to them with a spoon.

  He knew the night that Prissy died that he’d lost the battle for both of his daughters. They hardly coughed anymore. But their lungs, full of infection, rattled and wheezed, their little bodies struggling for air, even as they appeared calm and almost... peaceful. He’d given them more broth, hoping to clear up their lungs. The Doc had said it would help. But when Prissy started to have the fits, tremors ravaging her for minutes on end, he knew the fever had won.

  He’d be losing his daughter that night.

  Exhaustion had taken over and he’d collapsed at some point at the end of the bed, waking much later, startled to see sunlight shining through the little kitchen window in the main room. He had leapt out of bed, touching Prissy’s face. Cold and gray. She was gone.

  He’d slept, and his baby girl had died.

  Common sense told him that it had nothing to do with him falling asleep, but he worried that she’d died alone. Did she cry out for him? No. He would’ve woken up if she had. Right? Did she reach out looking for his arms to hold her as she left this world? No, he would have felt the movement in the bed. She had been listless all day. She more than likely just drifted off, carried quietly by the angels out of this world.

  He’d scooped up his baby girl, her arms falling, dangling over his own. Tucking her nightie over her legs, he’d sat by the fire — to keep her warm. It didn’t make sense. He knew she wasn’t cold — but she felt cold. His paternal instincts were impossible to fight; part of him still yearned to keep her warm, comfortable, and safe. Then he’d dropped his face against her clammy neck and wept. He’d miss cuddling with his baby Prissy. She’d been the one that sat on his lap or tucked herself under his arm in bed on those cold, lazy Sunday mornings. She loved laying on his chest, hugging his neck. Those little arms wouldn’t wrap around him ever again. He didn’t know how long he’d sat there holding her. But when the time came to give Kat her medicine, he’d gently placed Prissy in the bed, tucking the quilt around her just as he had for her mother.

  When he’d rounded the bed, his lively and full of mischief Kat seemed as listless as her sister had been the day before. With a low whine from deep within, he dropped his head to her small, slight chest and just wept. He’d never understood why God didn’t hear his wails and cries. He remembered the preacher saying that God saved his tears in Heaven. If He would go to the trouble to save them, why couldn’t He just prevent the tears? It seemed like Angus had been abandoned.

  He had wiped the tears away, giving Kat her medicine, wiping her brow, and ladling her the same broth he’d given Prissy. Surely God would let Kat live. He wouldn’t let Angus be totally alone — lost. Angus diligently cared for Kat, doing everything he knew to make her well.

  But when nightfall came around and Kat had started to have the fits too, he knew he’d lost this battle as well. He’d held her body, waiting for the fits to end and wailed loudly, begging God to take his life instead. But his prayers obviously didn’t reach Heaven.

  Kat had died a few hours later.

  Angus had held her in his arms in front of the fire, remembering the antics and fun he’d had with his Kat. From the time she could walk, she climbed and ran almost nonstop. She wasn’t dainty or delicate as Prissy had been. His Kat had been a tomboy. She loved to fish and catch frogs at the pond. She’d been the boy he hadn’t been graced with. He’d find her climbing trees and sitting in the loft of the barn. If mischief didn’t find her, she found it. She’d been on the receiving end of her parents’ discipline many a day, and although he wouldn’t let her know it, he loved that about her. She had a zest and zeal for life. He always believed she’d do something important some day. It looked like he’d been wrong. He’d laid his lifeless daughter onto the bed next to her sister, covering her too.

  Sitting in his chair by the fireplace, he stared at what used to be his family. He would need to call the doctor and let him know and receive death certificates for all of them. Writing to Rose’s family would be a very difficult task--one he dreaded. How would he tell them that their daughter—their only daughter had died in Missouri. Then burying them would be the next task. He’d bury them under the willow tree by the pond, putting a fence around it. He rocked, and stared, and thought. Rose died on a Sunday, Prissy on Monday, and Kat on Tuesday — the same day his own life had ended.

  When he’d finally gotten up and saddled his horse for town, he’d headed for Doc’s office first. Upon his arrival, he’d been told that it was Saturday. Saturday! He had sat on the chair in his house for four days. Doc said he’d gone into shock, and he’d given him some medicine to combat it before insisting he come to Mabel’s for some dinner.

  The town had rallied around him after his tragic loss. Friends had coordinated making the caskets. They had dug the graves and helped him bury his family. The mason in town made him some simple stones with their names, dates of birth,
and dates of death. He visited that little cemetery by the pond almost every day. He’d fish and remember the days of laughing with Kat and walking home with a line full of five-inch fish. His girls had bragged about those fish as if they were whales.

  The women in town had cooked meals for him. He didn’t have to ask or beg either. Rather, he’d come home and find a meal sitting by the fire, all ready for him. He’d helped out as a marshal in Independence for years, and when Charles had mentioned to him he’d be starting a mail order Widow Wagon service for the Oregon Trail, Angus knew it would be the right job for him. It would keep him away from home — which wasn’t a home anymore. It was a house, nothing more. He’d get to help lonely, needy women to start over again. And in the process, he’d get to enjoy the country. It had been a perfect fit.

  Starting over again after losing them was hard, a daunting task he didn’t even know how to start. But a friend had said to him one day, “Angus, you gotta cinch your saddle and start over. You can’t mope in that house every day. It’s time.” He’d been right.

  Today, driving the wagon to Independence Rock, Wyoming, he looked at the landscape around him, and decided that he might not be as happy as he had been. Life had turned out pretty well for him, all things considered. He liked being the wagon master for the Widow Wagon. And except for the occasional woman like Daisy — who did nothing but rile up the other women — he really enjoyed the job.

  He hated having to discipline the women, but he knew from hard experience that they could cause quite a ruckus if he didn’t keep them in line. This particular Widow Wagon had been a challenge; the women were an interesting mix and every single one of them was independent, strong-willed, and sassy as hell. He still felt bad about having to switch Clara the week before, but she and Daisy hadn’t given him any choice. He’d found the grown women rolling around on the ground, pulling each other’s hair — and then Clara had decided to switch Daisy after he’d specifically warned her not to.

  He’d miss Clara and her girls though. He played with them every night and it reminded him of his own girls. They were good girls and fun. But his job was to deliver women to their future husbands at designated stops on the Oregon Trail. Today, he’d be delivering Clara, and her adorable daughters Rose, and Nelly.

  The wagon pulled up in front of the station stop in Independence Rock, Wyoming. Twisting in the wind, the sign for the station dangled by one corner from the single remaining chain suspending it. In the distance, a small creek could be seen, which would make a good stop for the wagon for the night. Angus looked at the station stop, the weather worn clapboards had faded into a drab gray from the harsh Wyoming elements. “Clara, girls! C’mon out. It’s time to meet your new husband and pa.”

  He jumped down from the wagon bench and Clara came from the back of the wagon with the girls. He wrapped his large hands around each girls’ slight shoulders, walking them up to the station window. “Hey Dusty, we’re here to meet a gentleman by the name of Eugene Wilson, for a Clara Pickett.”

  Dusty grabbed his book and flipped through the pages. “I thought so. The name was familiar to me when ya said it.” He closed the book with a finality that Angus didn’t like. “Eugene came here yesterday and a mail-order bride had been left standing here, stranded. He said he’d take her. They done got married at the chapel up the road, then they left town.”

  “He left with another woman?” Angus couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice.

  “Yep, that’s what I said. He told her that he’d take her and said something about ‘not wanting young’uns anyway’ and he left to marry her.” Dusty shrugged at them. “Sorry. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No. What you did has been fine. Good day.”

  Angus turned to Clara, who had tears streaming down her face as she peered up at him. “Now, I’m alone. What am I going to do?”

  “You ain’t going to do anything. You’ll stay with the Widow Wagon, and I’ll take care of you. We’ll figure something out. You’ve lost one husband and now this — but it doesn’t mean you give up. You just take a deep breath, cinch your saddle, and move forward. One foot in front of the other. It’s all ya can do some days. One step at a time.”

  He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, wiping her eyes probably a little too roughly. And then, turning to the girls, said, “Who wants a few candy sticks from the mercantile? And maybe we’ll get some ice cream after dinner too.”

  “Angus!” Clara shouted. “It’s too much. You’ll spoil them.”

  “There’s no such thing, girl. Women are made for spoilin’. When given the chance, you let people know you care for them. If you behave, I may just spoil you too.” He chucked her under the chin, winking at her. “C’mon Clara, let’s get you a grape candy stick too!”

  She laughed even as she wiped at her tears, then linked her hand into the crook of his waiting elbow.

  Chapter Two

  Clara plodded behind the wagon with the other women, the dust floating through the air as they traveled past several wooden-framed stores and saloons in the center of town. Off in the distance, she saw all the other covered wagons in the area, campfires dotting the landscape among the children running and playing, the women cooking the dinner meals. The women of the Widow Wagon had been kind to her and said things that would comfort her. “He wasn’t any good if he could just leave you.” Or they said, “What kind of man does that? You wouldn’t want him if he could leave a woman with two girls alone.” And they were right, of course. But it made no sense. She still felt jilted, the sting of rejection. He’d never even met her! He just decided to take on a new woman, no waiting to see, no pause to think it over first. He simply walked up to this woman and said he’d take her — marry her — versus the completely different stranger he’d ordered be brought to him via the Widow Wagon. Well, if he didn’t want any young’uns, she’d be better off without him anyway.

  Or would she?

  She’d have to go all the way to the Oregon Territory now, and then return alone with Angus to Independence, Missouri. The thought of it made her feel sick to her stomach. Thousands of miles of walking, not to mention the risk of losing her girls to illness or the elements.

  At the station, when Eugene had never shown up, Angus had said, “I’ll take care of you. We’ll figure something out.” What had he meant by that? He’d been kind and taken care of her and the girls — well, in reality, he took care of all the women on the Widow Wagon. But he did seem to take particular interest in her and the girls. And they enjoyed him too.

  They pulled up to the other wagons in a haphazard jumble spread across the countryside, and Angus brought the oxen and horses to the creek to drink. Clara and Lizzie pulled out the cooking supplies and utensils from the wagon, setting up the fire and cooking pot. Sam took over at that point, starting the evening meal, while the women kept the kids occupied with some games.

  Angus walked up to her and the girls. “You ready to go to dinner, girl?”

  “Angus, we can have dinner with the rest of the women. There isn’t any need to spend money on a dinner.” It seemed frivolous and silly, and the last thing she needed was one of the women from the wagon deciding he favored her and the girls.

  “It ain’t up for discussion, girl. I told ya that I was bringing you and the girls to eat, and I keep my promises. I’m not going to hear another argument from you. You hear?” He leveled her with a steely gaze, his jaw clenched. It seemed important to him, and Lord knew she didn’t want to tangle with him again.

  “I hear. Thank you, Angus.” She turned to the girls. “Thank Mister Angus for bringing us to eat — and both of you better mind your manners in there.”

  By that point, both of the girls were skipping instead of walking, unable to contain their excitement. They’d never eaten in a restaurant before. “Thank you, Mister Angus,” they shouted in unison.

  Nelly, the oldest of Clara’s girls, smiled at both of them. “We’ll be on our best behavior, Ma. Promise.” />
  “See Miss Clara, they’re good girls. They wouldn’t think of misbehavin’. I reckon they don’t even know how to misbehave.”

  He winked her way, chuckling. But when she looked at her girls they were beaming. He made them feel so grown up, and just his belief that they’d behave made their little chests puff in pride.

  And to her delight, they acted like little ladies, each of them eating quietly, with their mouths closed, napkins on their laps. But when Angus asked the server to bring everyone a bowl of ice cream, they both shrieked, clapping their hands until they looked her way and saw the warning glare she shot them. Immediately, they stopped and folded their hands in their laps.

  “Now, why did you have to go and do that, Miss Clara? They were just excited about ice cream. As adults, if we got that excited about ice cream, we’d find ourselves a much happier lot.”

  “That doesn’t mean you lose your manners in the process, Mr. Angus.” She glared at him too. Who did he think he was telling her how to raise her girls?

  He raised his eyebrows at her, turning in his chair to look at her straight on. “I didn’t say nothing about losing your manners. They were excited. People have no problem with children being happy — except their ma, apparently. And don’t you decide to give me attitude, Missy.”

  “I wouldn’t think of giving you attitude.” She smiled at him coquettishly. She had been watching him closely during the journey, and had concluded he was more bark than bite. Even so, if pushed, his bite was serious indeed. The still-fading marks on her own backside could attest to that.

  He tried to hide a smirk, but Clara saw it. He was a good man, and probably had been a good husband. He’d mentioned one night that he’d lost his wife and two little girls to influenza. It’d been hard enough to lose her own husband to dropsy. The doc said his heart had never been good, and after enduring weakness and illness for a couple years, her husband had finally succumbed. But she didn’t even want to think about losing her girls too. How did he get up and start his life again? How did he move forward?