by Ward, Marsha
Raindrops began to pelt her—needles on her flesh—but she kept running. Was George under the wagon? Her head seemed to reel as the storm grew in ferocity. Someone was screaming, “George!” over and over. She finally recognized her own voice.
The sky closed in, black and threatening. Sunlight had gone, fleeing from the violent flashes of lightning. A dark figure rose from the prairie floor and caught at her as she passed it.
“Heppie!”
She whirled around, screaming her husband’s name, clutching at his arm.
Blood slid down George’s cheek from a gash above his eye. It mixed with the rain to become a pink flow. He moved cautiously, as though he were checking his body for injury. His arms wrapped around Heppie, and she nuzzled against him, drawing in great panting breaths of air.
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
Heppie sensed George shaking his head. His body trembled, and she burrowed into his chest, trying to buoy him up.
“I have to see to the horses,” he said in a tight voice. “And the wagon.”
The tremors of his body frightened her. “Hold me a minute, then you can go,” she said, still panting, willing him to stop shaking. After a moment, she turned him loose and watched him limp toward the overturned wagon. He bent to retrieve his hat, but the bending was slow and awkward. Oh George, she thought, are you hurt in your innards?
Lightning struck, much closer this time. A great roll of thunder followed.
Heppie jumped, stifling a shriek, wiping rain out of her eyes so she could see. She pressed her lips together, trying to settle her nerves. Hepzibah Heizer, you stop that, she told herself, making her inner voice as firm as she could manage. George needs you. She began to walk toward the group of men gathered around the horses. This storm will pass. Sooner or later, they’ll fix that wheel and set the wagon upright. After that, George will expect you to put our things to rights inside.
~~~
Favoring his right leg, George trudged along the water-filled ruts toward the wagon. The leg didn’t seem broken. Probably got bruised when he landed so hard. His side burned something fierce, though, so he sent his fingers to explore. Maybe he’d busted a rib or two. Holy Nellie! he swore, at the thought of going through that botheration and discomfort again.
Ahead, the wagon wheel on the rear axle still spun. Just like his head. The cut on his forehead smarted, but he figured the rain would wash it clean. He shut his eyes briefly, still walking, and tripped on an upturned ridge of earth. He didn’t go down, catching his balance, knowing that Heppie was following behind, probably wide-eyed and breathless with fear for him.
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. Heppie. She was certainly grabbing hold of the spirit of being married. The previous evening she’d teased the tiredness out of him. His smile widened. It had been a good night.
Ahead of him, Robert and Ned had succeeded in quieting the team, despite continuous flashes of lightning that made the air sizzle and cracks of thunder that seemed to rip the sky from stem to stern. Luke knelt on one knee, bending forward. He got to his feet and stepped aside.
Three of George’s horses were on their feet, but one lay on the ground, struggling weakly, flailing a leg that was clearly broken.
His mouth went slack and he began to run, his feet splashing into pools of water standing on the prairie.
Robert heard him coming and looked up. He rubbed his jaw and shook his head.
George uttered a curse. They’d barely started their journey across the Great Plains, and here he had a horse down. If that leg was busted, there was no hope. He’d have to shoot the animal.
When he reached the back of the wagon, he stopped running and walked the last few feet with lead in his chest. Heppie was depending on him to get her safely to Albuquerque. How was he going to do that with three horses in a four-horse harness? Maybe they’d have to limp to the next settlement and plant themselves there.
No, that would never do. Heppie set a lot of store by her family. She was determined to get to New Mexico Territory. It’s my job to see that she does, he thought. Come hell or high water. He set his jaw. We’ve been through hell just getting out of Virginia. I reckon we can survive high water too. Just so long as them three other horses stay sound.
Ned looked at George and said, “The leg’s broke. Do you want to shoot the horse, or shall I?”
“Hold on. I want to see what’s what first.”
“The rifle’s yonder, when you’re ready.” Ned nodded at his horse.
George looked over his team. Someone, probably Luke, had cut the harness from the wounded horse. He wondered if he could repair it. I’ll probably have to realign it, put the odd horse between the other two. Or maybe in front, in the center of the rigging. That’ll be a job of work. We’re going to be here for a while.
“Well, let’s unhitch them other horses from the wagon. I reckon we should move them off a piece so they don’t take fright again when I shoot this one.” Bitter regret washed over George. He hated to see a good animal lose its life, especially because of an accident like this one, right out of the blue. Rain drummed on his hat, matching his bleak mood.
Ned went for the rifle while the others took the sound horses away. Ned gave the gun to George.
George looked over Ned’s shoulder. Heppie stood at the rear of the wagon, one hand resting on the wheel that had been whirling. He wondered if she had stopped it. She looked down at her shoes.
Behind him, the injured horse breathed with a whistle.
George shut his eyes. When he opened them again, Heppie was looking at him. He couldn’t tell if the water coursing down her cheeks was from the rain or from her tears.
“Cover your ears,” he said, his words sounding thick.
She nodded and whirled, bringing her hands up to do so.
George turned to the horse. Ned moved away and George took a breath, bringing the rifle to his shoulder. “Damnation,” he said into a lightning flash, and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the shot was swallowed in the next thunderclap.
~~~
Heppie sat under Hannah’s wagon, out of the storm, watching George and the other men as they struggled with the smashed wheel, trying to get it loose from the axle. George didn’t want anyone to climb on the sides of the wagon lest they snap the bows with their weight. This left the wheel up in the air, the pin almost unreachable, making their task more difficult than it had to be. Robert and Ned had both argued with him about it, but he couldn’t be persuaded.
Although it was only about five o’clock, the clouds were so dark and the rain so fierce that they’d had to light a lamp to continue working.
Why don’t they wait until tomorrow? she wondered, shivering in the cold wind. They’re going to be struck by lightning if they don’t stop.
Luke held a broken spoke of the wheel to steady it. George sat on Ned’s and Robert’s shoulders, a mallet in his hand, banging on the end of the pin.
Heppie let out an exasperated sigh. Is he daring the lightning to hit him? Luke weighs less. He should be up there, if anybody has to do this foolish job tonight.
Lightning ripped through the clouds, hitting the ground a hundred yards away. George was swinging the mallet when it struck. The men below him must have shifted, or jumped at the sudden explosion of energy released so close at hand, for he tumbled to the ground, landing with a splash in a rivulet of storm water. Robert leaned over to help him up.
“We’re done for tonight,” Ned said, grabbing the lantern and moving toward the Bingham’s wagon. Luke followed him, and Robert came toward his own vehicle.
George threw the mallet to the ground beside the wagon and stalked away, stamping his feet on the wet ground.
“George!” Heppie called to him. “Come here!” More lightning banged into the ground. The roar of thunder followed almost instantly, the concussion in the air hurting her ears. George winced, then turned and hurried toward her. When he arrived, he bent down and slid under the wagon, grumbling to himself.
“You can’t do more until the storm lets up,” she said, laying her hand on his mud-caked arm.
“I wanted to get that wheel changed.”
“Not tonight.”
“I know,” he said, and added a curse word.
“George!”
“I’m sorry, Heppie. I’m tired and sore and wet and muddy, and my wagon is tipped over with who knows how much damage besides the wheel.” He slapped mud off his hat. “And I had to kill a perfectly good horse.” His voice had dropped to a rough whisper.
“A horse with a broken leg,” she said, wondering at how clearly her mind was working amidst the chaos.
“Yeah,” George said, releasing a gusty sigh. “Yeah, broken.”
“We’ll be all right,” she said, patting his arm. “I know you’ll get us to Albuquerque, somehow.”
George turned his head. Heppie met his gaze.
“Somehow,” he repeated.
Chapter 15
Several days later, the Bingham party got underway again. In the meantime, George had butchered the dead horse, saying it was a shame to leave the meat to rot when they could use the flesh in their diet. Heppie balked at first, but finally helped salt the meat and pack it into a barrel. At last the men had changed the wheel and put the wagon upright, Heppie had straightened up the goods and gear inside it, and George had mended the harness. The rain clouds, along with the lightning and thunder, had moved east across the prairie, leaving sunshine and a mild breeze.
On the morning they left their forced camp, Mrs. Bingham chose to walk. She and her daughters set off in a group, but soon Heppie and Jessie lagged behind, gathering wild flowers. Hannah stared straight ahead, answering Mrs. Bingham’s attempts at conversation in single syllables.
Mrs. Bingham pointed to the sky. “Look at that hawk, Hannah. Did you ever see such a wide wingspan?”
Hannah glanced up, then down again. “No.”
“These plains birds are so much bigger than the ones at home.”
Hannah shook her head slightly. “Home?”
“Well, I mean the Valley. You know that.”
“Yes.” Hannah’s word came out sharp and breathy.
Mrs. Bingham said, “I reckon home is the wagon while we’re traveling.”
Hannah didn’t reply.
Mrs. Bingham was looking at Hannah when a strong gust of air cooled her face and tightened Hannah’s skirt against her abdomen. Mrs. Bingham took in a quick breath. Oh lordy, lordy! she thought. There’s a baby in that belly! She’d worried ever since they’d left Mount Jackson that the Yankee had planted a seed. She closed her eyes against the proof while waves of nausea roiled in her stomach. Oh my dear Hannah. She wanted to weep. They hadn’t left all their troubles behind, as she had hoped. Hannah was carrying trouble with them in her body.
What will Mr. Fletcher do? she asked herself. Surely he knows. Oh, what can I do? I can’t let Hannah carry this burden alone.
When Mrs. Bingham opened her eyes, Hannah was staring at her, hostility clear in her face. Mrs. Bingham looked away, clamping her lips against crying out. Hannah had read her expression.
“Ma!” Hannah barked. She had her hands splayed out on the top of the small lump, as though she would push it out of her.
Mrs. Bingham turned her head, feeling like she was twisting a stubborn stopper on a crock of sauerkraut. “Yes, daughter?” Her voice sounded strained, shaky, as though she’d been down in bed for a week with a fever.
“Don’t say a word!”
The intensity in Hannah’s voice made Mrs. Bingham take a step away from her.
Hannah spoke again. “I won’t discuss it.”
“No?”
“No! Now leave me be.”
Mrs. Bingham stopped walking, and Hannah strode on, her head down and arms wrapped around herself.
Mrs. Bingham let out a ragged sigh. I’ve got to speak with Robert Fletcher.
~~~
Ned tethered his horse to the back of the Bingham wagon and strode in Jessie’s direction. She was alone for the moment, walking along with a free stride, carrying a bunch of wild flowers in one hand. Her yellow hair hung loose, blowing a bit in the breeze. He wished he could twirl a tendril of it around his fingers. He snorted to himself. Forget it, Ned. She ain’t given you an answer yet. He took two more steps. Maybe today she will.
He caught up. “Hi,” he said, grinning down at her.
“Hi, yourself.” Jessie smiled, bringing the flowers in front of her. She raised them to her nose and sniffed.
“Smell good?” he asked.
“Very good. Want a try?” Jessie thrust the bouquet at Ned.
He inhaled. “Pretty nice. Prairie smells. Like rain and fresh breezes.”
Jessie made a face. “I’ve had enough rain for now.” She ran her free hand along her neck under her hair, then tossed it. “I’m glad I can dry out.”
“Me too.” Ned grinned. “Your hair is pretty today. Kind of shiny. Bright too.”
Jessie laughed and ducked her head. “Well, it’s yellow. That’s a bright color.”
Ned chuckled. Good. She’s in a happy mood. He matched his stride to hers. How could he bring the conversation from bright colors to marriage? He walked along, thinking.
“What’s on your mind, Ned?”
Her question caught him off guard. “What do you mean?” he countered, stalling until his thoughts made sense.
Jessie laughed. “I can almost see your thoughts floating out behind your head, silly.”
Silly? Uh-oh. “I was admiring the picture you made with your hair blowing,” he said, choosing the honest approach.
“You were?” Jessie had dropped her smile, but seemed willing to let him talk.
“Actually, I was wondering if you have an answer for me.”
Jessie’s face went guarded, and Ned mentally kicked himself.
“No, Ned.” Joy in the day had gone from her countenance. “I don’t. I haven’t decided yet.”
“But you’re giving it thought?” He hoped a little pressure wouldn’t send her skittering off toward her sister.
She nodded. And swallowed. “I’m sorry it’s taking me such a long time.” Her voice came out muffled.
Ned’s chest squeezed, tight bands choking off his air. He didn’t want that unhappy look on her face. Not when she was contemplating marriage to him. That wasn’t how he wanted her to feel. Thinking on marriage should bring her pleasure.
“Well, you take all the time you need.” He stopped walking and Jessie passed by him. Then she stopped and looked at him, hesitating like she was going to speak. She faced forward, glanced back momentarily, then walked away.
Ned took in a breath. He let it out slowly. His thoughts ran rampant. By now Jessie should welcome the chance to wed. She knows she’ll never see James Owen again. I’m twice the man he is, even stove up like I am. A bitter fluid rose through his throat and into his mouth. He spit it out and trudged toward his horse. I’d never run off and leave her.
~~~
Robert hobbled his mules to graze and bent to pick up the harness he’d stripped off them. He looked toward the wagons, wondering why Mrs. Bingham was walking out to him. She usually left Hannah and him to their own devices, but she approached, calling his name.
“Mr. Fletcher, I must talk to you.”
“Ma’am?”
“Tonight, after supper.”
“In private?”
“Yes, please.” She twisted her apron in her hands. “I don’t want Hannah to know.”
“To know what, ma’am?”
“That we’re talking together.”
Robert tilted his head. “That might be difficult to arrange.”
“Perhaps after she’s gone to bed?”
Robert winced. How many others had noticed that he and Hannah shared the same place at night, but not the same schedule? These days he almost always gave her time to go to sleep before he went to lie beside her, yearning to reach over and touch her. Knowing she would reject his
touch.
He nodded and agreed. “After she’s gone to bed.”
The camp was quiet when Mrs. Bingham sat down by Robert beside the fire, puffing a bit as she bent over.
Robert was grateful that the firelight had died down as the wood went from embers to ashes. He twirled a stick in his hands, waiting for Hannah’s mother to speak, wondering if she blamed him for the harm that had come to her daughter.
When Mrs. Bingham began, it was in a voice so low that Robert had to lean toward her to hear. He shifted in his seat so that he was closer.
“Hannah,” she said.
“Yes?” He could hear her breathing, sucking in gulps of air as though to fortify her body against a lack of it.
“Do you know … are you aware?” She stopped, raised her shoulders, and let them drop. “Hannah.”
He waited.
“She’s going to have a baby.”
He waited again, time stretching thin between them. When she didn’t go on, he said, “I know.” The air seemed thin too, and he caught himself breathing as Mrs. Bingham had. He said, “I know,” again, and lapsed into silence. Mrs. Bingham would talk when she was ready.
“Do you reckon it’s the Yankee’s?”
“I do not!” His denial felt forced, a little too strong, but he had to make it. For Hannah’s sake.
Mrs. Bingham examined her hands, spreading her fingers and staring at them. She rubbed her palms together as though they were covered in glue. “How do you know?” she whispered.
“The baby’s mine. No matter what Hannah bears, the child is mine.”
“You will claim …” She paused. “Anything?”
“Hannah is my wife. Whatever happens, the child is mine,” he repeated. “I will give it the love of a father.”
“You’re a decent man, Robert Fletcher.”
“I love Hannah. She suffered much at that man’s hands.” He felt tears filling his eyes, but resisted swiping at them. Perhaps Mrs. Bingham couldn’t see the tears in the fading light. “She fought him hard,” he said, envisioning the terrible scratches on the man’s face. He raked his nails down his own cheek. “She tore at his hair.” He put a hand to his head, imagining the pain. “It must have hurt, but he deserved all she did to him,” he added, and knew his mother-in-law would perceive the husky note in his voice.
