Ana Seymour

by Jeb Hunters Bride

  This time he was exquisitely slow. He kissed her, starting from gentle pressure, then his tongue made a smooth tour of her lips, seeking entrance, and then entering her with a careful, persistent rhythm that made her hips rise from the grass to meet the hard barrier of his thigh.

  He groaned again, then pulled his mouth away from hers and shifted downward to let his head fall heavily on her chest. “This is totally against my rules,” he said in a voice tight with frustration.

  Kerry felt as if he’d splashed cold water on her face. There were rules about things like this? “Am I supposed to apologize?” she asked when she could get her breath to speak.

  He gave her shoulders a squeeze, then sat up. “No,” he said briskly. “I am. I’ve taken six trains across country and have never once let this happen to me.”

  The unfulfilled feelings in her center still raged, making her voice sound angry. “I’m the lucky one.”

  He pushed back his tousled hair and gave a harsh laugh. “The unlucky one, you might better say.”

  The self-condemnation was so evident in his tone that her anger began to dissipate. She sat up slowly. “It wasn’t that bad,” she said softly with a touch of humor.

  His laugh was more genuine this time. “Well, thank you for that, anyway. It’s still not something I intended to allow to happen.”

  “Perhaps I was the one allowing it.”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I have no business kissing you or any other woman under my protection.”

  Kerry’s body was finally returning to normal. She stretched her legs and smoothed out her shirt. “You’re just our wagon master, Jeb, not our father.”

  “A wagon master is a father, husband and policeman all in one.”

  “What about friend?” It was beginning to get quite dark, but Kerry could still see the hard lines of tension that had taken over his face as he remembered his duty.

  “No,” he answered after a minute. “Not friend. And certainly not lover. It doesn’t pay to get your feelings involved with people you have to control.”

  Kerry gave an exasperated click of her tongue. “Haven’t you ever considered that developing some of these feelings you’re talking about just might help you get the cooperation you’re looking for on a train?”

  He gave a firm shake of his head. “No, ma’am. You can’t be a leader one moment and one of the bunch the next. It doesn’t work.”

  “And you can’t be a wagon train leader and also enjoy a few kisses on a hillside.”

  “That’s right.” He stood and held his hand out to her. “C’mon. We’re going to have to make our way back in the darkness. I don’t like doing that over this rough prairie. We could hit a prairie dog hole that would break Storm’s leg.”

  His tone was all back to business, effectively shutting off all further conversation about anything more personal. But she wasn’t about to let Jeb Hunter turn back into his comfortable role of authoritarian wagon master. Not after what they’d just shared.

  She took his hand and let him pull her up. Then she dusted off the seat of her pants. “Well, Captain, I bet this is the first time you’ve kissed someone wearing trousers. At least that kind of kiss.”

  He was already throwing the reins over Storm’s head and getting ready to boost himself up on his back, but her words made him turn back to her. He hesitated a minute, then his face relaxed into a smile. “Not that kind of kiss,” he agreed.

  “It was…a nice kind of kiss,” she said, remembering with a flush of heat exactly how nice it had been.

  Jeb looked as if he was struggling not to let her words soften his resolve. He gave a quick puff of air, then swung himself into the saddle. “Yes,” he said curtly. “It was nice. But it’ll be better for us both if it doesn’t happen again.”

  His voice was so distant that Kerry gave up trying to make it go soft again as it had been just moments before when he had called her sweetheart. The trip back was mostly silent.

  The breeze had picked up, causing Jeb to comment, “Maybe this wind will bring some rain. We could sure use it.”

  And since the weather was not the topic that was occupying Kerry’s mind, she made no reply.

  They rode more slowly than they had on the way there, letting Storm pick a careful trail through the dark grass. The gentle rocking motion of the horse was soothing, and by the time Jeb pulled Storm up next to her wagon, she was almost drifting off to sleep.

  “What took you so long?” Patrick came running up to them from the direction of the Burnetts’ wagon.

  “Nothing in particular, sprout,” Jeb answered breezily, then took a closer look at the boy’s face. “Is something the matter?”

  Patrick’s eyes were worried. “Dorothy’s been looking for you. Little Molly’s awful sick.”

  “Sick?” Kerry asked in alarm, jumping from Storm’s back without bothering to take the hand Jeb held out to her.

  “Polly says she was holding her stomach and moaning all afternoon, but now she’s just lying there. She looks so tiny.”

  There was a bit of a crack to Patrick’s voice at the end of his statement. Kerry put an arm around his shoulder. “Children get sick fast, Patrick,” she said reassuringly. “They usually get well fast, too.”

  But when she and Jeb climbed up into the Burnetts’ wagon and saw Molly lying on the bed they’d cleared for her, Kerry felt her throat constrict. Molly did look suddenly tiny. Her skin was stark white and her breathing heavy. “Good Lord,” Kerry said under her breath, then mentally berated herself for her words as she saw Dorothy’s stricken face.

  “She’s had…you know…the ‘relax’ for a couple days now, Captain,” Dorothy explained. “She was too embarrassed to tell anyone, but now it’s as if all the life has just drained out of her.”

  Jeb’s face was set in a hard mask that Kerry could hardly recognize. Though everyone’s fears were always of the Indians, dysentery was by far the deadliest of killers on the vast plains. “She needs to drink something.” He sat down beside Molly’s slight form and lifted her limp wrist, feeling the weak pulse.

  “I can’t get her to take anything anymore,” Dorothy said.

  “She has to. Even if we have to dribble it down her throat little by little.” Jeb turned to John, who sat in one corner of the wagon looking hollow-eyed and frightened. “How much cider do you have—not the hard stuff?” When the girl’s father shook his head, Jeb continued, “Find some. Go up and down the wagons.”

  “I’ve been trying to give her water—” Dorothy began.

  “Not water,” Jeb interrupted. “This is what I was afraid of with the water so low. The river’s gotten brackish, infested. We’ll have to ride up into the hills and find some smaller streams where the water will still be fresh.”

  He leaned toward the opening of the wagon to speak with Patrick. “I want you to go to every wagon and tell them not to drink the water they’ve taken from the river. They’ll have to drink cider or milk or whatever else they can find tonight. We’ll find a fresh supply tomorrow.”

  Patrick looked relieved to have something to occupy him, to have an excuse to move away from the tense faces of the adults at the Burnett wagon. “I’ll go talk to all of them, Jeb.”

  He turned to leave, but then stopped as Jeb called one further instruction. “Ask at every wagon if anyone else has taken sick.”

  Patrick looked around once more at his sister and the two older Burnetts. Then his gaze went to Polly, huddled on top of a flour bag, her eyes swollen from tears. “I reckon I’ll need help,” he said to her. “Will you come with me?”

  The usually lively child gave a solemn nod and slid from her perch. Kerry sent Patrick a grateful smile. Then the two children headed off into the darkness.

  * * *

  Kerry had always thought that the night she had spent with her anguished father as her mother lay dying would be forever after remembered as the longest night of her life. But the hours she watched Molly Burnett fight for her life eclipsed th
at childhood memory. The seconds echoed as Dorothy’s pretty face stretched tight with anxiety and John’s bright eyes dulled. They seemed to be aging overnight.

  It was Jeb’s presence that held them all together. He never left his post by the child’s side. Without wasting time on commiserations, he ministered to the fragile body, forcing swallows of liquid between the inert lips and wiping down the fever that flared in the early hours of the morning.

  He told the Burnetts in calm, strong tones that it was not uncommon for children to be hit this suddenly and this hard by dysentery. His guess was that it was from the brackish water they’d been drinking, and not something that would be transmitted from Molly to the rest of the family or the rest of the train. There was no particular reason to think that Polly would be similarly afflicted.

  He did not say, though Kerry heard an implication behind his words, that at least they would still have one daughter left if the worst should happen.

  And for long hours of the night, it appeared as if that was exactly what might happen. It was hard to believe that a human could change so quickly. In just a few hours Molly’s skin had become lifeless, grayish almost. She’d been passing blood, they’d told Jeb. And it looked as if she’d passed so much that there was no longer any left inside her to provide the warmth to keep her alive.

  The Todds came by and the Wilkses, and many of the other wagon train members, sober and frightened. It appeared no one was sleeping that night. Patrick and Polly were assiduously visiting every single wagon, making frequent trips back to the Burnett wagon to see if there had been any change in Molly’s condition. So far they had brought no reports of other people being stricken.

  Kerry could hardly believe that an evening that had started out with a golden sunset and the exhilarating discovery of a passion she hadn’t even known she possessed could end in such agony. Once she caught Jeb’s eye and had the fleeting impression that he, too, was remembering their kiss up on the hill. He gave her a smile that was half reassurance and half something with a deeper sort of warmth.

  By dawn they all had the feeling that the illness had reached a crisis stage. The soul that was fighting inside that tiny, ravaged body was either going to give up the battle or start to win it.

  Jeb was dribbling liquid down her throat again, this time some clear soup that Eulalie had brought Kerry sat next to Dorothy on the food sacks, an arm around her back. John was crammed up against the other side of the wagon, leaning back against the cover, his eyes closed. But everyone knew that he was not asleep.

  “She moved her lips,” Jeb said, a low excitement in his voice.

  Dorothy and John both sat up straight.

  Jeb turned to Dorothy with a cautious smile. “She just swallowed that mouthful of soup. On her own.”

  There was a soft moan from the bed. Jeb turned back and spooned in more soup. This time all of them could see that, though her eyes were still closed, she was definitely responding to the food in her mouth.

  “Thank the Lord,” Dorothy whispered, tears streaming down her face.

  Kerry swallowed the lump in her own throat and nodded agreement with her friend’s prayer.

  When Frank and Eulalie appeared for the third time shortly after dawn, they informed Eulalie that her soup seemed to be performing miracles.

  With a broad smile of relief, the older woman said briskly, “I could have told you that. Everyone’s always said that my turnip soup could raise the dead.”

  By midmorning, Molly was intermittently opening her eyes and seemed to be enough aware to be shy about the fact that the wagon master was sitting by her bed. She even responded with a little smile when Patrick climbed up into the wagon and said to her, “You gave us all a scare, Molly. You’d better get all better quick.”

  The hours without sleep and the tension had Kerry feeling numb, which at least left her with no more energy to think about Jeb’s kisses. She wouldn’t think about them until after she’d had some sleep, she decided, but found the resolution wavering when Scott came around to check on Molly’s progress. The mere sight of the kind young man who had offered to save her dream by marrying her, made her feel a little sick to her stomach.

  Jeb stayed in the Burnett wagon until noon. He told John and Dorothy to come and find him if there was any change for the worse, then climbed down, stretching the muscles of his back. There was no question about moving the train that day, but if Molly was out of danger, he had other tasks he could see to. He was just starting to enumerate them in his mind, trying to decide if he should try to get a couple of hours of sleep first, when the prospect of a productive afternoon was abruptly shattered. Frank Todd had come back to the Burnett wagon to find him.

  “We’ve got two more cases,” he told the wagon leader with a grim face. “And one of them is Hester Hamilton.”

  Hester was the oldest settler on the train. She was too much a lady to tell her age, but she and her husband Samuel made no secret about the fact that she was older than he was by several years. And Samuel had several years over Frank Todd. Jeb had been a little skeptical about their ability to undertake such an arduous journey, but he’d been convinced by their evident good health and, more than anything, by the strong bond the two had with each other.

  “She snatched me out of the cradle,” Samuel had said with a twinkle in his eyes, “and we’ve been rocking along together ever since.”

  It was a special sight to see a couple so in love after all these years. The Todds seemed to have had similar fortune. It shouldn’t be that much to ask of life, Jeb had thought with a twinge of bitterness, yet it seemed to be as rare as a blossom in the snow.

  Jeb was cursing himself now as he strode grimly toward the Hamilton wagon. Perhaps he should have flatly refused to let them join the train, he told himself. He’d known the dangers, the strain. He hadn’t figured on dysentery, that grim reaper of the young and the elderly, but then, something unexpected always arose—every trip. It was his job to be ready for all contingencies and to ensure that his people were up to handling them.

  Mrs. Hamilton’s illness had come on as swiftly as Molly’s. By the time Jeb got to their wagon, she could no longer sit up, could not even lift her head. Samuel was seated next to her, holding her hand and talking to her semiconscious form in low, soothing tones. Remarkably, though his face was pale and grave, he conveyed no sense of despair. The anguish that had been almost palpable in the Burnett wagon was missing.

  When Jeb climbed into the wagon, Samuel looked up at him and gave a sad smile. “We’ve said goodbye,” he said softly. “Just in case.”

  “We need to get liquids into her. We’ll try some of Mrs. Todd’s soup that seemed to work well for Molly.” The desperation in Jeb’s voice sounded out of place in the face of Samuel’s serenity.

  “I’ll do it,” Samuel said. “If you would just be so kind as to fetch it for me.” Obviously he was not going to relinquish his place by his wife’s side to anyone.

  Jeb spent the afternoon and evening traveling from the Hamilton wagon to the wagon of the other victim, the Crandalls’ sixteen-year-old son, Homer, whose case fortunately turned out to be mild, and finally back again to the Burnetts to check on the progress of Molly. The little girl was now drinking on her own and smiling a little at her sister’s sallies. Kerry was still there with Dorothy and John, so the child had plenty of nurses.

  In between visits to the sick, Jeb consulted with Frank, Scott, Henry Kirby and several of the other men about the water supply. All barrels that had been filled from the river were to be dumped and rinsed with vinegar. To fill the train’s immediate needs, a group of five men was dispatched with a team of mules to head into the hills and bring down water from the cleanest spring they could find.

  Hester Hamilton died just before midnight. The goodbye Samuel had mentioned to Jeb had, indeed, been their last. Jeb asked him if he wanted some of the women to come tend to her. But Samuel had said simply, once again, “Thank you, Captain, but I’ll do it.” Jeb had left him still
holding her hand.

  He hadn’t slept in two days, and as he walked away from the Hamilton wagon he swayed a little on his feet. He should make one more check on Molly and the Crandall boy, but he was afraid that he’d keel over if he didn’t sleep for a spell. That is, if he could get himself to sleep. The death of Mrs. Hamilton sat like a stone in the middle of his chest. It didn’t help that she’d been old, that perhaps it had been her time. It didn’t even help that her husband seemed to be accepting the loss without casting blame. Jeb would cast enough blame to satisfy anyone. And the blame would be squarely on his own shoulders.

  Most of the wagons were dark. No one had slept much the previous night, and the fires had been put out early. But down across the circle from the Todds’ wagon he could see Kerry sitting up by her campfire. He crossed over to her. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  “I just left the Burnetts. I need to settle my thoughts a moment before I try to lie down. How’s Mr. Hamilton doing?”

  “Far better that I would be in his place. How’s Molly?”

  Kerry gave him a tired smile. “She’s become shy about having Patrick see her in her nightgown, which I think means that she’s close to recovery.”

  “Is Patrick still there?” He looked around the camp.

  “He’s sound asleep inside the wagon. He’s had a rough day, like we all have. I think he’s fonder of Molly than he’d like to admit.”

  “Young love. It’s so simple, isn’t it?” Jeb moved closer to her. She’d washed up and changed clothes sometime during the day and was wearing the green dress he liked.

  Kerry shook her head. “No, I don’t think love’s particularly simple at any age.”

  “Since you’re such an expert,” Jeb couldn’t resist saying.

  Kerry didn’t try to refute his sarcasm. “It’s not simple, but I don’t think you have to be an expert, either. You do what feels natural.”