The Courageous Brides Collection

by Johnnie Alexander, Michelle Griep, Eileen Key, Debby Lee, Rose Allen McCauley, Donita Kathleen Paul, Jennifer Uhlarik, Jenness Walker, Renee Yancy

  His lower lip was swollen, and a purple bruise distorted his cheek and jaw. She had cleaned his stab wounds as best she could and fashioned a sling out of a discarded shirt. But he needed more care than she could provide in this deserted place.

  “There’s nowhere else to look,” she said.

  “You tried, Marcy.” He sounded weary, and she knew he was in pain. He needed to be home, to have the knife wounds properly cleaned and bandaged. She lowered herself to the floor beside him and held her hands to the low-burning fire.

  “I was so sure I’d find it. That God had led me here.”

  “Maybe he did. But for another purpose.”

  “What purpose?”

  “You tell me.”

  The words from Isaiah, the words she’d been praying all day, echoed in her thoughts. “I asked God to increase my strength. To give me courage.”

  “I’d say he answered that prayer.”

  “I don’t feel very courageous.”

  Joel put his uninjured arm around her shoulder and drew her close. “You did what you needed to do. Despite the weather. Despite being told no.” He paused to take several deep breaths. “That kind of strength comes from your heart.”

  Drained by talking, he closed his eyes. She wished she could let him sleep, but it was more important for them to get back to town. If they stayed here and he became feverish in the night, she’d have no way to ease his discomfort.

  She had no idea how to get him home. She’d been surprised to find Buttermilk tied to the railing, but Benjamin had disappeared and so had Toby. And as much as she’d like to, they couldn’t leave Cade here alone. He sat on the other side of the fire, bootless, with hands and ankles tied in secure knots.

  Lord, I need You to increase my strength again. How are we ever going to get home?

  Marcy raised her eyes to Cade’s. “You have to help us.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because if you don’t, we’ll leave you here.”

  “Heartless thing to do.”

  She resisted the urge to point out his heartlessness in stabbing Joel. “Benjamin ran off one of our horses, and now he’s gone. You need our help as much as we need yours.”

  “Making a deal?”

  “If Joel dies, you’ll be wanted for murder. It’s in your best interest to keep him alive.”

  He worked his jaw, as if chewing tobacco, then spat and looked at her expectantly.

  “Get us to the other side of the river, along with our horse.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll let you have your boots.”

  “Need my boots to cross the river.”

  “Not really.” She gestured meaningfully toward Joel. “At least you’re not bleeding to death.”

  “Once we cross?”

  “We go our separate ways.”

  “What if my horse ain’t where I left her?”

  “That’s between you and Benjamin.”

  He chewed on his imaginary tobacco, his stare never wavering. Marcy stared back. “Won’t be easy getting your horse across.”

  “But you’ll try?”

  “More than try.” He snorted. “I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you, Cade.” She picked up his boots and headed for the door.

  “Where you taking those?”

  “I’m hiding them.”

  “You ain’t serious.”

  She smiled sweetly then left the lodge. Once outside, she paused a moment to take a deep breath and settle her nerves. Her hope of finding comfort for Moon Hawk had endangered Joel’s life, and now she had no choice but to trust Zachariah Cade to keep his word. It didn’t help that she’d be going home empty-handed.

  She carried the boots to a house on the edge of the village and tossed them inside the door. On her way back to the lodge, a spot of color by the upturned wagon caught her attention. A small clump of yellow daisies clung to life amid the mud and the debris.

  Beauty among ashes.

  Marcy couldn’t remember where she’d heard the phrase before, but it gave her an idea. Using a stick as a makeshift trowel, she dug around the daisies and placed the root ball and flowers in an abandoned wooden bowl.

  White Buffalo Girl’s doll seemed lost forever, but Moon Hawk could travel south with a little bit of beauty from her home.

  Joel dreamed he was floating downriver in a canoe covered with buffalo skins. Water lapped the boat, and sometimes it fell on his skin. Refreshing, cool water that soothed his parched throat and eased the burning of the sun. He drifted in and out of the dream until an angel called his name.

  He recognized the angel’s voice. He listened for it every Sunday when they sang the hymns, and her clear soprano tugged at his heartstrings.

  Marcy’s voice.

  Marcy’s healing touch.

  His eyes flickered open, but he didn’t want to wake up. He didn’t want to leave the dream.

  “Joel,” her voice whispered. “Can you hear me?”

  He moved his hand and felt her fingers clasp his. She was with him. He could sleep.

  The sun neared the horizon to Marcy’s right as they followed the broad rutted path the army and Ponca had created on their journey south. Mercifully, the rain had ceased shortly after they crossed the river.

  Cade found his horse where he’d left her, though Benjamin’s was gone. Apparently Cade could only hold a grudge against one person at a time. With his anger directed toward Benjamin for leaving him, he couldn’t do enough for Marcy. They got Joel on Buttermilk with Marcy riding behind him. Even though he was bootless, Cade wouldn’t leave her to ride across the prairie with an unconscious man.

  When they were within a couple of miles of the army camp, Cade halted.

  “Guess you won’t be seein’ me in town no more.”

  “Where will you go?”

  He gave an elaborate shrug, chewed nothing, and spat. “Thinking about Mexico.”

  “Long way.”

  “First I gotta get my boots.”

  “I’m sorry I hid them.”

  “Sorry I fought Ellison.” His jaw worked, and he opened and closed his mouth.

  Tired as she was, and as much as she wanted to be home, Marcy patiently waited for him to say what was on his mind. Finally he cleared his throat.

  “Never liked him much.”

  “Why not?”

  He stared at her, but the coldness was gone from his eyes. “He works too hard.”

  Unexpected laughter bubbled inside Marcy. “That’s a bad thing?”

  Again, he took his time answering. “Not my philosophy.”

  Zachariah Cade had a philosophy? True, the cowboy appeared more at ease astride his horse than he did on his own two legs. That’s where he belonged. Not working a steady job and definitely not doing Benjamin’s bidding.

  “I think I understand,” Marcy said.

  “You’re fine now?”

  “We are. Thank you, Zachariah.”

  He tipped his hat, wheeled his horse, and trotted north to the Niobrara.

  Joel awoke to the sound of voices, but he cared about only one. He didn’t open his eyes, waiting, waiting to hear her speak.

  “I’m ashamed of him.” The deep voice was familiar, but Joel couldn’t place it at first. “That a son of mine would behave in such a way.”

  Mr. Hollingsworth. Benjamin’s father.

  “I think the gunshot scared him.”

  Marcy.

  Joel smiled, but his lips hurt too much. A damp cloth caressed his mouth, and his eyes flickered open.

  “You’re awake.”

  His angel.

  “Where are we?”

  “At the camp.”

  His head spun as he tried to fit together puzzle pieces that didn’t match. They’d been in the lodge. Cade tied up by the fire. Marcy wrapping a cloth around his arm.

  Blood, his blood, oozing from his wounds.

  He forced his eyes to stay open, to gaze at Marcy’s lovely smile while she dabbed his face with the cool
cloth.

  “How did we …?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it later. For now, you need to sleep. To get well.”

  “Cade?”

  “He’s gone.”

  Mr. Whitt appeared in Joel’s line of vision. “No need to worry about him, son. He’d be a fool to show his face around here again.”

  Marcy bent over him and whispered, “We’re home.”

  Once Joel’s even breathing assured Marcy he was sleeping peacefully, she joined her father outside the tent. The full moon cast its pale light, and a handful of stars twinkled in the cloudy sky. Pa stood with Mr. Jarrett, the Indian agent, and Black Elk.

  “How is he?” Pa asked as he wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.

  “Sleeping. Finally.”

  “We’ll take him to his place in the morning. Get him settled.”

  “There’s no one there to look after him. Only Sadie, and she’s too young for that much responsibility.”

  “If it’ll ease your mind, we’ll take him to our place then.”

  “Thank you, Pa.” She kissed his cheek and breathed in the familiar fragrance of sawdust and varnish.

  “I do not understand,” Black Elk said. “Why you rode to my village.”

  “I tried to explain,” Mr. Jarrett said with a shrug. “But I have to say I don’t quite understand it myself.”

  Marcy wasn’t sure she did, either. At least not in a way that would make sense. “How is Moon Hawk?” she asked instead.

  “She is not well.”

  “May I see her?”

  “She has seen no one.” Black Elk hesitated then bowed his head. “But I will take you to her. I do not know what she will say.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  She returned to the tent where Joel was sleeping and retrieved the wooden bowl from Buttermilk’s saddlebag. Cade had wrapped it in his bandanna. Another unexpected kindness from the strange cowboy.

  Black Elk accompanied her to his tent then held up his hand. “Wait here.”

  “Of course.”

  He disappeared for a moment then opened the flap and motioned for Marcy to enter. Moon Hawk sat near the fire, her head bent in sorrow. Marcy knelt beside her and removed the bandanna. The clump of daisies, only a little ragged from being in a jostling saddlebag, seemed to glow in the light of the burning flame.

  Perhaps her tired eyes were playing tricks. But Marcy didn’t really think so.

  She handed the bowl to Moon Hawk. “This is for you. From your home.”

  Black Elk translated, and Moon Hawk looked at Marcy with her tear-reddened eyes. She accepted the gift and cradled it in her lap. Her fingers traced the delicate leaves and petals. When she spoke, her words sounded almost musical.

  “She says she will always remember you, especially in the spring when the yellow flowers bloom.”

  “I’ll remember her, too.” Tears slipped down Marcy’s cheeks. “And your Beloved Child. Always.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Marcy said a little prayer then laid the bouquet of wildflowers on White Buffalo Girl’s grave. A month had passed since the Ponca camped near Neligh, since she spent a long, rain-drenched night desperately trying to save the life of the eighteen-month-old child.

  The spring rains had finally ended, and today’s June sun lit up a blue sky graced with white fluffy clouds.

  Joel approached from the cemetery gate, carrying a bouquet of his own. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

  “You’re not.”

  He placed his flowers beside hers then squeezed her hand. “We’ll keep our promise to Black Elk.”

  “As long as we live.”

  They stood in silence for a few moments. Finally they followed the path to the gate. When they reached the wooden bridge, they paused and gazed at the flowing stream.

  “I saw Mr. Hollingsworth in town a little while ago,” Joel said. “He got a letter from Benjamin.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Didn’t say. But he’s not coming back to Neligh.”

  “I guess that means I won’t be marrying him.”

  Joel took both her hands in his. “Then perhaps you’d consider marrying me.”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  She gently touched his cheek then shivered with expectation as his mouth hovered above hers.

  Within his arms, she was home.

  Johnnie Alexander writes stories of heritage and hope while raccoons and foxes occasionally pass her window. Where Treasure Hides, her debut novel, has been translated into Dutch and Norwegian. Her Misty Willow contemporary romance series includes Where She Belongs and When Love Arrives. Johnnie treasures family memories, classic movies, road trips, and stacks of books. She lives near Memphis with a herd of alpacas and Rugby, the princely papillon who trees those pesky raccoons whenever he gets the chance.

  The Doctor’s Woman

  by Michelle Griep

  Dedication:

  As always and forever, to the lover of my soul.

  Acknowledgments:

  Mark Griep ~ for putting up with me for thirty-two years

  Ane Mulligan & Elizabeth Ludwig ~ for your sweet slash-and-burn skills

  Shannon McNear ~ for sharing your horse expertise and encouragement

  Annie Tipton ~ for believing in me and my writing

  Joe Whitson & Matthew Cassady ~ for your wealth of historical information

  Chapter One

  Mendota, Minnesota 1862

  Emmy Nelson had lived with death for as long as she could remember. She’d watched it happen. Witnessed the devastating effects. Wept with and embraced those howling in grief. Even lost her betrothed—a man she respected, maybe even loved.

  But she’d never tasted the true bitterness of it until now—and the acrid flavor drove her to her knees. Early-November leaves crackled like broken bones beneath her weight, but alone at last, she gave in.

  “Oh, Papa.”

  Did that ragged voice really belong to her?

  Her tears washed onto his grave like a benediction. How long she lay there, crying, she couldn’t say; long enough, though, to warrant Aunt Rosamund’s manservant, Jubal Warren, to put an end to it.

  “Miss Emmaline.” Jubal’s footsteps padded across the backyard of the home she’d shared with her father, stopping well behind her. “Time we leave, child.”

  Swallowing back anguish, she forced sorrow deep and waited until it lodged behind her heart. She’d pull it out later, when there were no eyes to watch her grieve.

  She flattened her palm on the freshly dug earth and whispered, “Neither of us wanted to say good-bye, did we, Papa?”

  Overhead, tree branches groaned in the wind. Fitting, really. The death of a dream and a loved one ought to be blessed with a dirge.

  “Miss Emmaline?” Jubal insisted.

  This was it, then. Slowly, she rose, wiping the dirt from her hands and the pain from her soul. For now, anyway. She’d put off moving to Aunt Rosamund’s in Minneapolis far too long. But walking away from a lifelong hope of settling in Mendota took more than courage.

  It took time.

  “Doc Nelson? Doctor!” Men’s shouts carried from the front of the house. Clearly the news of her father’s death hadn’t spread as far as she’d imagined.

  With a last sniffle, Emmy turned her back on her past and walked away, Jubal at her heels.

  In front of the cottage, two lathered horses snorted on the road, distressing her own mare, hitched to a packed cart in front of them. Their riders—dressed in military blue—pounded on the office door. “Doc, open up! There’s been an accident.”

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but you’ll find no help here.”

  They pivoted at her voice. Sweat dotted the brow of the shorter man, confusion the other. “Excuse us, miss, but …” The taller of the two squinted. “Hey, yer the doc’s daughter. Sorry to bother you, Miss Nelson, but where’s he at? We need him.”

  “The doctor…my father …” She glanced at Jubal f
or help. How to explain when her chest cinched so tightly, she could hardly breathe?

  Jubal stepped forward. “Doc Nelson passed away, going on two weeks ago, now.”

  One fellow slapped his hat against his leg with a curse. A curious reaction, one that pasted a scowl on Jubal’s weathered face.

  “What of the fort’s doctor?” she asked. “Why didn’t you seek him?”

  “Doc Brandley left for the front at Antietam back in September. We been expectin’ a replacement ever since, but he hasn’t arrived yet.”

  The tall soldier stalked forward, jaw tight, shoulders stiff, torment clearly trapped inside his skin. He stopped in front of her, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Whatever had happened at the fort couldn’t be good.

  “We need a doctor. Now. It’s Sarge’s leg. We tied it off as best we could, but the blood was still comin’ when we left. It’s beyond what any of us can fix. Next to your father—God rest him—yer the best we got.” He peered at her, his voice frayed at the edges. “Will you come?”

  Jubal stepped in front of her. “Miss Nelson is expected in Minneapolis.”

  Shoving his cap back onto his head, the shorter man darted around Jubal. “It’ll take us too long to get help from the city, miss. Our sergeant could be dead by then.” He stepped closer, smelling of horses and desperation. “Surely your father taught you some about healing.”

  Her throat closed. There was no way the solider could know how his words brought her papa back to life

  “You have a healing gift, daughter. It’s not for man to chide what God’s given. Never be ashamed of what you are.”

  She nibbled her lip, turning over the memories and examining them in the weak November sunlight. Should she go? Papa would not only understand her wanting to help, he’d ordain it. Aunt Rosamund, however, would have the vapors.

  “Please, miss. It was my bullet what tore him up. I never shoulda—” The tall man’s voice cracked, and he wheeled about, head hanging like a whipped hound.

  How could she refuse that?

  “Very well.” She tightened her bonnet strings as she walked to the back of the cart. Jubal protested her every step. Ignoring him, she snatched her father’s worn leather bag then faced the men. “If one of you wouldn’t mind riding along with Jubal here, I believe it will be faster if I take one of your mounts.”