by Jenna Kernan
Where was the damn spring?
Streaks of color crept across the eastern sky, stalking him like a hunter. Dawn broke, painting the desert pink. As morning wore on, the harsh rays blinded him.
Duchess sensed it first. Her ears perked and she whinnied. He stopped and listened. There came the sound of running water. He allowed Duchess her head and she made straight for the spring.
Please God, let it be drinkable.
Water bubbled out of a fissure in the rocky ground and pooled into a greenish hollow no bigger than a washtub. There was nothing nearby to indicate it existed. For a heart-stopping moment he feared it did not.
He pulled Duchess up, despite her near frantic effort to reach water as he slid down and knelt beside the pool. Warm water filled his hand. He lifted it to his lips and drank.
His eyes fell shut in a silent prayer. Thank you, sweet Lord.
Duchess nudged him and he stepped aside to allow his horse access as he fell to his stomach on the scorching rock. The sound of his horse slurping drowned out his own. He gulped and gulped until his belly filled with the life-giving fluid.
He dragged down the water skins, filling all three to bursting. His horse finished. The spring now lay half-full. He watched the water trickle from the rock, slowly refilling the pool and realized a large party would easily exhaust such a small spring. He must find a better source for wagon trains.
He wished he had his gear to record the location of his discovery. Emma had it. She’d watch over his precious belongings until he reached her. The sun lay past its zenith as he tied the water on his horse and mounted up. He did not sleep last night and he would not sleep this night, either. Now that Duchess was watered, they could set a faster pace. If he hurried, he might reach her by sunup. But he had promised to return by dark. He glanced skyward and knew he would never make it.
Grasping the reins, he steered his horse the way they had come. As he journeyed east, he dwelled on Emma’s unrelenting suffering. As day ground into night, he knew he missed his promised rendezvous. What would she think? Possibilities filled his mind. She must know he was delayed. That was all. The horse’s hooves fell in steady rhythm, but too slowly.
Stars pierced the night sky, shining with cold indifference as he struggled to reach her.
Please, Emma, please be all right.
Chapter Eight
Emma watched Jake disappear in the strange waves of shimmering heat rising from the dry ground, then she sank to the sand still clutching the journal. The wretched horse meat revived her somewhat, though the pounding in her head did not abate and she continued to believe her skull might slit open at any moment.
Her mind dwelled on water. All the things she ever drank in her lifetime seemed to return to haunt her. Her most fixed memory was of dumping out a full mug of coffee because it had grown cold. How she mourned that folly now, as if her repentance might somehow bring the fluid back to her.
She lifted the last piece of horse flesh vowing that if she survived this ordeal, she would never eat such a vile meal again and never, ever throw away a cup of unfinished coffee. Her horse and the mule stood in silent desperation, resting first a front foot and then a hind one as the afternoon dragged toward evening. She occasionally peeked out from behind the curtain of leather he had rigged for her. It was possible that he might find water quite quickly. Certainly—it might be only just past that ridge before them.
Evening came and she kept the fire burning to help him find her. During the night she opened the pages of his journal and began to read, drawing comfort from the strong steady strokes of his pen.
She continued through the pages. Each day he recorded their latitude and longitude. He noted game sighted, the course of waterways and their direction. Through some geometric maneuvering he’d even calculated the breadth of the rivers.
The journal was an impersonal, succinct record. She reached the day of her arrival into his life and frowned in disappointment to see their meeting handled in the same analytical accounting.
Encountered a party of Mountain Crow warriors engaging a group of traders who had desecrated a gravesite. The Crow quickly dispatched them losing but one man. One of the traders’ party survived, a Miss Emma Lancing, daughter of Henry Lancing. At this point I intervened and secured Miss Lancing’s release. Departed with same following the Yellowstone River WSW having no time to backtrack and return her to her people on the Bighorn if I have hopes of clearing Union Pass before the snows.
Her heart sank. The words carried none of the emotion of the day and no indication about how he felt about her joining him. The pounding in her head made reading arduous. She set aside the proof he would return and lay upon the wooly sheepskin he had left.
A thought struck her. He meant to return. It did not mean he would succeed. What if he did not find water in time? He was not invincible, after all. This little hollow in the rock might be her final resting place.
This brought her out from beneath the ledge. Standing made her head throb ruthlessly and she knew her strength was spent. Tomorrow, he’d be here by sunset tomorrow. She crawled beneath the ledge and closed her pulsing eyes. Swallowing did no good. Never had her mouth felt so dry. Keep still; rest so when he returns he’ll find you alive.
She strained her ears to hear the fall of Duchess’s hooves, but heard nothing but the desperate pulsing of her own heart.
The night passed in torture. Emma dozed and dreamed of drinking only to rouse to find herself trapped in miserable heat and desperate unrelenting thirst. At last the morning came. This day, she welcomed the light, even knowing the sun brought more heat. It also brought Jake to her. She reached for his precious clock and carefully wound the knob.
An unfamiliar cry brought her crawling from her den. Dozens of huge black buzzards circled, marking the place where the horse carcass lay bloating in the sun. Scout and the mule flicked their ears nervously and glanced at the buzzards. Before long the bravest landed.
Emma’s stomach knotted as she watched the vile birds rip at the poor beast’s eyes and mouth. More landed and more. The birds tore away flesh and screeched and flapped as they warred over the bloody bits. Soon the carcass lay open and the vital organs strewn.
As the birds continued their rancid meal, Emma rocked herself slowly back and forth, watching. This would be her end, as well? Would they wait until she died?
She saw the answer when one of the birds landed on the mule who lashed out sending the creature flapping skyward. Emma set her teeth together. How long until they came for her?
As evening approached, Emma could no longer sit upright. She leaned against the rocks waiting. Beside her lay her pistol. If he did not come by sunup, she would use it to kill herself. It was the only way to ensure the dreadful birds did not take her alive.
Jake saw them at sunrise. Vultures wheeled about marking the place where he’d left her. He urged Duchess to greater speed, breaking into a trot. How far?
Three miles. The birds smelled death. He could not staunch the panic seizing his stomach. They were after the carcass. But which carcass? He’d been gone nearly two days.
He erupted into a cold sweat. Dread settled like a heavy mantle as he pushed toward his journey’s end. In his lifetime Jake had faced wolf packs, bears, Indians and Mexican raiders. None gripped his heart with the freezing, paralyzing terror that came when imagining those buzzards landing on his Emma.
His Emma—when had she become his?
The day you saved her life. Now hurry or you will have saved her only for the buzzards.
The echoing report of her pistol stopped him. Why did she discharge her gun? There were too many birds to kill with a pistol; a shotgun would have been better. Pistols were only good at close range, like for killing a man. His stomach dropped.
Had she given up hope?
He kicked Duchess into a full gallop, tearing across the blistering sand and rock like the hounds of hell. The birds rose into the air and he noted their numbers. There must be three dozen.
>
“Emma!”
He couldn’t hear her. Just a moment longer and he’d cleared the rock. He threw himself off the horse. Emma lay sprawled on her side clutching the pistol. On the ground before her lay the black-feathered carcass of the buzzard that had ventured too close.
Her horse and his mule stood anxious, eyeing the birds now flying above them in a dark curtain.
Jake rushed to Emma, drawing her into his arms. Her cheeks glowed pink and sand clung to her face. He brushed it away and her eyes fluttered.
“Jake?” The word croaked in a tortured whisper.
Relief and panic assaulted him in equal measure. She lived, but barely.
He lifted the water skin to her lips. She grasped it and drank. When at last she lowered the skin she smiled, her cracked lips open. He didn’t understand it. She’d been a burden, still was, but he could not bear to see her suffer, couldn’t abide the thought that some harm might befall her. Suddenly he realized that she was more than a burden, she was a liability, because he placed her above his duty.
“You came,” she whispered.
“I said I would.”
She nodded. “I know. But I didn’t think you’d return in time.”
The horse and mule now smelled the water and began to shriek. He filled his hat and watered them until they’d finished two skins, leaving him only a half-full one. Thirst is a funny thing. If a man goes without food, it will take his body weeks to recover from the ordeal. But with water it is not that way. Very quickly the horses perked up and Emma was on her feet. He breathed a sigh of relief and then remembered how far they had to go to reach water and how soon they would be thirsty again.
“The spring is a full day’s ride from here.” Farther really, but a full day and half the night seemed too much for her just now.
“Then we’d best be away.” She gathered up his equipment and extended his journal. “I think this kept me alive.”
He accepted the volume, staring a moment at the green leather cover. This record might make the difference. His words and his measurements could give the United States a viable route that linked east and west. With the mapping of an overland trail there would be no stopping America’s advances. At last he lifted his gaze to meet hers.
“You didn’t believe me when I said I’d come for you.”
She smiled. “When I held your journal, I believed you would return if you could.”
“I’ll always come,” he assured her, reaching out with one hand.
And then she was in his arms and he held her tight. Emma was safe. That seemed suddenly paramount. Oh no, the mission came first. He hardened his resolve against the feel of her, soft and warm against him. He knew this trail and would not tread it again. The information he obtained meant more than his own life. But not, he realized with a painful lump in his throat, more than hers.
He pushed her away and she went, gazing up at him with smoky eyes. She was his weakness, his Achilles’ heel. These emotions she stirred put them both at risk. He scowled at her.
“We best ride.”
Her confused expression pressed at his heart as he packed their gear. The two headed out, leading the mule and forsaking the denuded carcass of his packhorse to the vultures. Heat rose making the desert swim before his tired eyes. He’d rest tonight, as soon as they found the spring.
Through the hot afternoon, he stewed in his own juices. He stopped once to pass Emma the last of the water. She drank sparingly, as if not trusting they would find more.
Evening came and he found himself nodding off in his saddle. He shook his head again and again, but sleep seemed determined to take him.
“Emma,” he called.
She appeared beside him.
“I can’t stay awake any longer and the spring is still a few hours ahead.”
“Perhaps I can find it.”
Finding that spring would be like finding a flea on a dog. Locating the water would be difficult for him in the dark. For her, it would be nigh on impossible.
“You have to keep me awake. If I nod off, I might miss it.”
“Why don’t we rest awhile?”
“No. I need to get you and the horses to water tonight.”
“We could talk. That might help.”
He nodded, scratching the beard that felt like a fur pelt tied to his face. “You start.”
She hesitated for a moment, and then began. “What is your favorite color?”
He scowled. “Blue. Yours?”
“I like blue, as well. Favorite cake?”
“Oatmeal, you?”
“Lemon.”
As the moon rose over the desert, he discovered that Emma did not like carrots cooked, but tolerated them raw. His eyelids seemed heavy as iron skillets.
“Emma, you understand that if I fall asleep and miss the spring the horses will die first, then us, so for God’s sake stop talking about vegetables and tell me something interesting.”
He heard her intake of breath, then a pause. Finally she spoke. “I think my father drove my mother mad and now he’s doing the same to me.”
His head turned and he glanced at her. “What?”
“He is so cruel.”
Jake eyed her warily. Something changed in her voice. She sounded on the point of tears. But he knew this man. He was greedy, yes, but seemed to look after his men. Though he was apparently cold and demanding, his traders accepted his leadership unquestioningly.
“What do you mean, cruel?” Images of Lancing striking Emma rose in Jake’s mind. The picture disturbed him more than he cared to admit. “Does he beat you?”
“The injuries he inflicted were never so obvious. He constantly berated my mother until she wept. She could do nothing right. She begged to go East, but he refused. She lost weight and couldn’t sleep. Then she took to her bed. Father said it was the prairie winds, but I know better.”
Jake considered this, as impressions of the public and private lives of the man crashed against one another like boulders in the spring runoff.
“Now she’s in a hospital and Father says her mind is gone, that she has gotten worse. He says the doctors have no hope.” She turned to him, her eyes blazing with fury. “I don’t want to go back.”
“What do you mean?”
“He started on me when she left. Now I’m the prisoner.”
The denial sprang quick as he struggled against believing her accusations. “He’s trying to keep you safe from Indians and unscrupulous men and such.”
“He called me names I cannot repeat. Said no man would have me, because I carried the madness like her. I used to believe him. But I shot a mountain lion and survived the desert. Look at me, my mind didn’t snap. I’m not weak. I’m stronger than I ever dreamed possible.”
He smiled at the pride echoing in her voice. Then he considered her words more carefully and suspicion nibbled. “If you don’t aim to go back, what are your plans?”
“I don’t know, but I won’t go back, not ever. I’d like to visit my mother.” She shook herself as if rousing from some trance. “What about you, Jake? Will you go East?”
He didn’t think this an idle question. It was the kind of pointed question Helen asked when she steered him to places she wanted him to go. Perhaps she thought to stay with him. What other options were there for her? His stomach knotted as he cast a glance her way. He had nothing but respect for Emma Lancing, so much that he nearly forgot that a wedding ring was every woman’s plan in life.
“That’s none of your affair.”
Her head dropped and he knew he’d hurt her feelings. He set his jaw, refusing to allow the guilt to gnaw at him. Damn her for trying to manipulate him. Despite his resolve he found his next words coming softer than customary.
“I love the West. I plan to make it my home.”
She nodded her agreement and his scowl deepened. “I know why. I’ve never felt so free as when I’m out here.”
He glanced at the stars cast across the heavens. He understood about freedom. Bu
t it came at great cost. Life in this wilderness was uncertain. Perhaps that was why he never felt more alive. Her soft voice interrupted his reverie.
“Will you settle here, perhaps buy land?” she asked.
His hackles went up. He’d be damned if he’d stick his neck in the yoke to drag a plow for this woman or any other or closet himself in an office, measuring his life in the blue scrawl of his ink while she filled his house with howling babies.
“You mean do I plan to take a wife and raise a litter of kids.”
The smile dropped from her features and her eyes rounded. He had not meant to snap at her like a mud turtle.
Emma’s gaze turned speculative as her eyebrows lifted. She considered him in silence a moment as he scowled at her like a hound with a thorn in his paw.
“Helen again?”
The woman had a knack for hitting the nail directly on the head.
“What did she do exactly that had made you so prickly?” she asked.
He wouldn’t tell her.
“Don’t see how’s that your affair.”
“It isn’t. but I’d still like to know.”
He considered her for a minute, gazing across barren ground cast in moonlight. Emma had just told him something deeply personal about her family. He found the urge to do the same.
“Helen took up with the Kitson boy for a time. Then he joined the army and left Jessup’s Cut. Next thing I knew I was courting her. She started talking about marriage right off. I told her I wanted to sail the Pacific or see the West. Next thing I know she’s kissing me and…” Jake rubbed the back of his neck thinking of how Helen pressed his hand to her full breast and lifted her skirts. It all happened so fast. Thinking back on it he wondered how she knew so much about how such things were done. She wasn’t even wearing bloomers. “Well, afterward, she said I had to marry her after what we done. I didn’t want to. She told me she was going to have a baby, so I agreed.”
He glanced at Emma to see if she was shocked. She stared at him with a gaze that showed no disapproval.
“Go on,” she said.
