Ignoring her paperwork, Grainger looked past her. “Where’s Doc?”
“I’m sure he’ll be along shortly. And I’m also sure you ought to address him as Doctor Clark, whether he’s present or not.”
“That so?” His gaze returned to her, touching her in places that ought not be touched. “Why don’t you wait here? Not safe for a lone white woman in there.”
Hah! As if remaining with the private was any safer. She bit the inside of her cheek, reminding herself to be charitable. “I’ve tended these people the past three weeks, Private Grainger. I know my way around by now.”
“Snakes, the lot of ’em. Just waitin’ for a chance to strike.” Tobacco juice shot from his mouth and hit the ground. Swiping a hand across his mouth, he winked at her. “And yer mighty fine quarry.”
She stiffened, taking courage in rigid posture. “Open the gate, or I shall report you.”
“Your word against mine.”
Heat crept up her neck. He’d never speak this way if the doctor were with her, and she couldn’t decide what irked her more—that the presence of another man would stave off his remarks, or the way his tongue ran over his lips.
She gripped her father’s bag so tightly, the strain might rip a seam in her gloves. “Who do you think the colonel will believe, Private? A lecherous good-for-nothing hiding behind a uniform, or a lady?”
His face darkened, and he lunged.
But she refused to budge. If he touched her, a court-martial would get him out of here faster than a scream.
A breath away, he pulled up short, a vulgar laugh rumbling in his chest. “Just playin’ with ya, missy. Soldier’s gotta have a little fun, don’t he?”
He raised a fist and pounded on the gate. “Open up!”
She darted inside as soon as it opened far enough for her to pass through sideways.
Makawee’s tent—the woman she’d saved from a whipping that first day—was the second on the right. The sound of retching broke Emmy’s heart. She never should have waited so long to come.
Emmy tossed up the flap and stepped inside. This late in the morning, the rest of the tent’s occupants were on their way to line up for roll. In front of her, a woman bent over a bucket, emptying her stomach.
“Oh, Makawee, I’m so sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” Emmy opened her father’s bag and produced a small pouch, the scent of lemon balm and peppermint a welcome fragrance.
Makawee straightened, a weak smile belying the strain on her face. “It will pass, Miss Emmy. It is the way of nature.”
“Even so, I’ve brought you some different herbs to try instead of ginger.” She held out the pouch. “It’s best for you and the babe if you can keep down food.”
Across the tent, a little boy crawled out from a buffalo hide and launched himself at her.
Emmy grinned and swung the lad up in her arms. “Good morning, little Jack. How is this fine fellow today?”
“Growing as strong as his father.” Makawee’s eyes rested on her son; then she lifted her face to Emmy, pain tightening her jaw. “Have you any news?”
“Not yet. I’m sure your husband is doing all he can to get here.”
Makawee’s chest heaved, and then the moment passed like a fall tempest, her brown eyes clear and unblinking. “You speak truth, and I thank you.”
Emmy reached out her free arm and rested it on the woman’s shoulder. “I admire your strength, my friend.”
She stifled a gasp. Had that sentiment really come from her lips? What was happening to her emotions? First missing a man she’d hardly known three weeks, and now such respect for a Sioux woman?
Makawee averted her gaze. “It is God’s grace. Nothing other.”
Emmy’s admiration grew, for the woman had not only left behind tradition by marrying an Irishman, but her religion as well, turning to the “White Christ,” as she called it. Both actions required strength.
Setting down the boy, Emmy patted his head. “I should check on Old Betts, poor thing. I’ll stop in tomorrow to see how the new herbs work for you.”
“Thank you, Miss Emmy. God smile on you.”
“And you.”
Outside, natives filtered back to their shelters, clogging the small roads between tents. Apparently roll was finished. She’d have to let the lieutenant know Makawee and her little boy were fine, but first, she ought to get laudanum to Old Betts.
Veering left, she squeezed onto the tight trail sometimes used by the doctor. The dirt path ran along the wall, skirting the teepees.
She raced ahead but then slowed when a warrior stepped into her path, arms folded, face hardened to flint. There’d be no easy way to pass him. Maybe this shortcut wasn’t the best route after all. She turned.
And one tent down, another native blocked her route.
The first ember of fear flared to life in her chest. Surely they didn’t mean to trap her. Perhaps they’d simply had a prearranged meeting here, that’s all—one best not hindered.
Darting ahead, she veered left, onto the path between two teepees—and nearly collided with the chest of another man.
Panic burned the back of her throat. Even so, she lifted her chin. “Let me pass.”
He advanced, forcing her back, until the wall clipped into her shoulder blades. A hare couldn’t have been more cornered.
Stony faces searched hers. The man to her left pushed back her bonnet and reached for her hair. A flash of morning sun glinted off a knife at his side. These are friendlies, she reminded herself. Still…how had he gotten a knife in the first place? Worse—her mouth dried to ashes—had that blade taken any scalps?
A tear slid down her cheek. She never should have come here alone. And what would a scream accomplish? Private Grainger would only join in the game.
“Please.” She trembled, and the tear dripped off her chin. “Let me go.”
“You let her go—alone?” James grabbed Grainger by the throat and shoved him against the timber wall, the smack of the private’s head satisfying. “You were issued the same warning as I!”
The private’s lips moved like a fish out of water. Just a little more pressure, and the esophagus would collapse, taking the trachea with it. James closed his eyes, praying for his anger to pass. Was this weasel of a man even worth this much passion? Stifling a growl, he threw Grainger to the ground and pounded on the gate. “Open up! Dr. Clark here!”
Grainger coughed and choked.
In the eternity it took for the gate to swing open, James flexed and released his fists, several times over, trying to calm the rage churning in his gut. Blast the colonel for wasting his time on a simple case of food poisoning. Double-blast sentries foolish enough to let a woman walk headlong into danger. And—God, help her—blast Miss Emmaline Nelson for her independent streak. Confidence would surely be the woman’s undoing.
Clearing the gate, he sprinted to Makawee’s tent first, dodging elders and children. She and Miss Nelson had developed quite a friendship, and hopefully the women yet chattered or played with little Jack.
He ducked through the tent flap. “Miss Nelson?”
Inside, the boy played with two sticks and some beads on a nearby fur. Makawee looked up from a pot she stirred over a small fire at the center. But no blond-haired, blue-eyed vixen—or anyone else—was inside.
Makawee stopped her stirring. “Miss Emmy is gone to Old Betts. Is there a problem, Doctor?”
“There’d better not be.” He shot back outside, trying to erase the colonel’s warning of unrest in the camp, that recent attacks against native women by imbecile soldiers like Grainger had angered the men.
That rumblings of revenge ran hot and thick.
With roll finished and nowhere else to go, women and children filled the camp roads—and Old Betts resided on the opposite side. It would take twice as long to navigate the main route, so he wove his way through tepees and dodged into the thin space between tents and wall.
Ahead, a few native men blocked the way, but that was the leas
t of his worries. He dashed forward, sure that his heartbeat wouldn’t resume a normal cadence until he found Miss Nelson. But as he drew closer, blond hair flashed at the center of the trio. His heart missed a beat. Emmaline stood ramrod straight, tears dripping off her jaw, her father’s bag spilled open on the ground. To her left, a man held a handful of her hair to his nose. On her right, a tall warrior bent, burying his face against her neck. And in front, a shirtless brave reached out and trailed his fingers along her collarbone.
James dropped his bag and pulled out a gun.
“Touch her again, and you’re dead where you stand.” He fingered the trigger.
Three pairs of dark eyes locked onto his.
Only one spoke. “This woman yours?”
“She is.” The words sank low in his gut. How dare he claim such a thing? Promising the colonel he’d look out for her was one thing, but this? The flare of the warriors’ nostrils, the flash of white in their eyes, told him he’d just announced something far more.
Yet it accomplished his purpose. They filed away, one by one, disappearing between the tents.
Emmaline neither turned his way nor collapsed to the ground. She stood, face washed in tears, staring straight ahead.
Everything in him wanted to race to her side, cradle her close and never let go. But he forced one foot in front of the other, slowly, fluidly, until he stood a few breaths in front of her. “Miss Nelson?”
She didn’t move. She hovered somewhere beyond his reach, trapped in the terror of the experience. He’d seen patients succumb to shock, and it was never pretty.
“Emmaline!”
Her chest fluttered with a shallow breath—then heaved. Great sobs poured out her mouth, and James wrapped his arms around her, praying God would use his embrace to bring peace.
“Shh. It’s all over. I’m here. I’ve got you.” He rubbed circles on her back, waiting for her weeping to subside. He’d let her go, then.
But as her tears soaked through his shirt and warmed his skin, he realized that was a lie. He might release her, but he’d never let her go.
And God help the man who tried to take her from him.
Chapter Five
Wind lashed like a bullwhip through the few inches of open window, slicing into Emmy’s back. Setting down her pestle, she pivoted and crossed the few steps of the dispensary to wrench the glass closed. Despite the barrier, she shivered. The morning had dawned sunny and carefree, but now pewter clouds hung low, smothering the fort with a threat. They’d been fortunate thus far with no snow, but with December half spent, that blessing was stretched tight and ready to snap.
Behind her, the front door blew open, smacking into the wall with a crack. She couldn’t help but jump, for since the awful encounter at the encampment, her nerves balanced on a fine wire.
She whirled, and her jaw dropped. A woman entered, her dark eyes burning like embers. Her face twisted by fear.
“Makawee?” Emmy ran to her. How strange it was to see the woman inside wooden walls instead of buffalo hide. “What are you doing here? How did you—”
“Little Jack is missing.” Her voice was as raw as the chapped skin on her cheeks.
Emmy stiffened. “What do you mean, missing? How could he possibly get out of camp?”
“With snow coming, the soldiers led a group to collect wood. I brought Jack. When we were to leave, he was gone. The men would not search, nor let me. I slipped away but could not find him. Please.” Makawee’s fingers dug into Emmy’s sleeve. “Will you and Dr. Clark come?”
Images of the blue-eyed rascal, alone in the woods, maybe crying—maybe hurt—horrified her. Emmy’s hand shot to her chest A two-year-old wouldn’t survive long out there.
“I’ll find the doctor.” She dashed to the sick ward’s door. It was doubtful he’d be there, though, for only one private occupied a bed, having imbibed too much and fallen down some stairs. Served him right to break a leg. The man slept openmouthed on his cot, his snores filling the empty room.
Emmy darted past Makawee, who stood wringing her hands where she’d left her. Opposite the sick ward was a supply room, but that led to a door kept shut, one she beat with her fist. “Doctor Clark?”
She listened, willing herself to hear his strong steps on the other side. Nothing but panes of glass chattering like teeth answered her.
“Doctor!” She tried again.
Nothing.
Resting her fingers on the latch, she hesitated. Dare she? What would Aunt think of her entering a man’s chambers?
She sucked in a breath and pushed open the door. “Dr. Clark, please …” Her words fell to the floor. No doctor sat at the tidy desk against the wall, or closed his eyes on the made bed, or sat lacing his shoes on the chair in the corner. The orderliness didn’t surprise her. That he’d left the building without a word of his whereabouts did.
Retracing her steps, she grabbed her coat off the hook, ignoring Makawee’s haunted look. “Maybe the doctor was called by the colonel. Wait here.”
She flew out the door. If she couldn’t find him, then what? No way would she venture out alone, not after what happened last time. She set her jaw. He had to be there, that’s all.
A few soldiers scurried across the parade ground, all eager for the warmth of a fire instead of the wicked air. No one paid her any mind. Since word of the doctor’s rage last month when he’d come to her aid, most men left her alone.
As she ascended the steps to the colonel’s office, a soldier strode out the front door.
“Excuse me, but is Dr. Clark about?” She craned her neck, hoping to glimpse the doctor beyond his shoulder. “He is needed.”
“No, ma’am. Haven’t seen him.”
The fellow whisked past her, and for a moment, she tried not to give in to panic. Where in the world had he gone? Ought she take a horse and try to find Jack on her own? The question hit her like a boulder fallen into still waters, jarring, disturbing, sending out ripples of fear and trepidation. Her throat closed. No. That was not an option.
The next gust of wind slapped her cheek with icy pellets, and she raced back to the dispensary, where Makawee greeted her with hopeful eyes.
Emmy shook her head. “It appears Dr. Clark is missing as well.”
Makawee reached for the door. “Then you and I will go.”
“No, Makawee.” She tugged the woman back. “It’s no more safe for you to be outside the camp walls than it is for me to be inside. Not to mention that you are with child.”
Makawee spun, an angry slant on her lips. “I will not sit here—”
“But that’s exactly what we must do. As soon as Dr. Clark returns, he will help. I am sure of it.”
“No!” The woman flung out her hands, her voice rising like a fever. “My husband is gone, I will not lose my son, too. I will go. I will find him.”
“Listen!” Emmy grabbed her friend’s shoulders and shook, praying the action would jolt her to her senses. “Either God is in control or He is not. What do you believe?”
The question slammed into her own heart. If she really believed God was in control, would she not sacrifice her safety for the rescue of one of His little ones?
“You are right,” Makawee finally breathed out. “The Creator governs all.”
“Then let us hope and trust in Him with full confidence, hmm?” She spoke loudly, boldly, forcing the words to fill the frightened cracks in her soul.
Makawee’s mouth wavered, not into a smile, not when her son was somewhere out in a land as cruel as the wind beating against the door. But Emmy took it as a smile, anyway.
“You are a gift, Miss Emmy.”
She frowned and tightened her bonnet strings. “I doubt Dr. Clark will think so when he discovers I’ve gone ahead without him.”
Twice! Twice in the space of a month. James kicked his horse into a gallop, following the flattened path of grass that led to a stand of woods. Fool-headed, strong-willed woman. He’d excused the first time she’d ventured out alone, chalking it
up to naivete, but after his stern warning to never leave the dispensary without him?
Sleet stung his face, as goading as Miss Nelson’s disregard for his rule. This time he ought to take her over his knee when he found her. A cold worry lodged behind his heart as the sleet changed to snow. If he found her.
He reined the horse to a walk and entered the trees, leaning forward to study the ground. He should’ve thought to ask a scout to accompany him. What did he know of tracking anything other than the course of a disease? Already snow gathered in a thin but growing layer, covering leaves that might’ve been kicked up by hooves. And here in the wood, the last of day’s light faded to a color as dark as his hope. Which way would she have gone?
Dismounting, he scanned the area for a better clue. Wind rattled the branches overhead, mocking his rash decision to search for her alone—and then it hit him. He lifted his face to the iron sky.
“I am as culpable as Miss Nelson, eh, Lord? Letting emotion get the better of me, running ahead of You time and again, wanting to help others but not waiting for Your lead. Oh, God”— he drew in a ragged breath—“forgive me, even as I forgive her.”
The next gust of wind did more than shake tree limbs—it waved a small snatch of cloth tied to the end of a low-hanging branch. His breath eased. He knew that bit of calico, for he’d often admired the way it followed Miss Nelson’s curves.
Launching himself into the saddle, he trotted the horse over to it then squinted in the whiteness to catch another glimpse of bright fabric. There. Not far off. He fought a rogue smile, wondering just how much of her skirt might be missing when he caught up to her.
He didn’t wonder long. Ahead, a dark shape walked, a bedraggled swath of blond hair hanging down at the back.
“Emmaline!” He dug in his heels.
“Doctor?” She turned. “Thank God!”
He slid from the horse before it stopped and ran to her. The way she cradled her left arm, the sag of her shoulders, the stream-clear eyes now clouded to muddy waters—all of it screamed agony, and not just from want of a missing boy.
The Courageous Brides Collection Page 10
