by Merry Farmer
Chapter Two
Fort Bridger was one of the more well-organized forts Alice had stopped at on her journey west. It consisted of rows of whitewashed buildings, a warehouse for supplies, and a training yard. The militiamen that manned the fort seemed to her to be a step above some of the groups manning other outposts. They were quick to obey orders, and rushed to help the wagons and the pioneers.
“Someone here is bound to be able to find you a glass of water at the very least, Papa,” Alice told her father as they walked deeper into the hustle and bustle. “And someplace to sit down,” she added for herself.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure,” her father mumbled. His steps were short and shuffling, and he leaned more heavily on her with each one.
“Everything will be all right,” Alice said, but her voice was ghostly, with no reassurance in it at all.
Everything might not be all right. Isn’t that what life had taught her? Everything might not be all right ever again. The world was falling down around her, the people she loved were lost, hurt, or dead. Even the country that she loved so much was torn in two. Her steps as she walked beside her father were as short and stumbling as his, not for any illness, but because she didn’t have the energy to face the world as it was unfolding around her.
“My dear,” her father whispered, breathless, “I really do need to sit down.”
Alice nodded and searched the area. “I’ll find you a—”
It was too late. Her father’s weight sagged against her, so heavy that she couldn’t support him. She could only exclaim wordlessly as the two of them tumbled to the dusty ground together. She was able to break his fall, but not to prevent him from flopping to the side, unconscious.
“Help,” she called out, uncertain if anyone would even hear her pitiful voice. “Oh, dear, please help.”
There was a commotion around them as pioneers and busy militiamen gaped, startled, by what they were seeing. They were slow to react, with so much else going on, but as the initial shock of seeing a well-dressed gentleman collapse wore off, a few people jumped into action. The wives of two of the farmers that had been traveling with them—women Alice had been too listless to get to know—rushed to help.
“What’s his problem?” one of them asked.
The other burst out with, “Is he dead?”
Her words were harsher than the crack of a whip to Alice. Her Papa couldn’t die. He was all she had left. He couldn’t leave her too. She curled over his prone form and burst into tears.
“Oh dear, look what you’ve done now, Mabel,” one of the farmer’s wives said.
“I didn’t do anything,” Mabel balked.
“Well, let’s see if we can set things right,” the first woman said.
“I can help.”
A masculine voice joined them, and Alice looked up. She sniffled, wiped her face with a shaking hand, and met the eyes of the young man with long hair who had helped her out of her wagon. A sudden burst of relief—far stronger than anything she should be feeling—washed through her.
As soon as the young man saw that her father was unconscious, his expression shifted from curious to deeply concerned. He rushed forward and crouched by Alice’s side, scooping her father into his arms. Alice’s jaw dropped when he stood, lifting her father as though he weighed no more than a sack of flour.
“We need to get him inside, out of the sun and this heat,” the young man said.
Alice blinked herself to her senses and stood with the help of the two women. “Thank you,” she told them, her voice as thin as paper. The woman moved on, sparing her a few more worried glances.
Samson, Alice thought as she stared at the young militiaman. He was Samson with his long hair and incredible strength.
“Follow me, Mrs. Porter,” he said, and started walking toward one of the rows of buildings. “We have one empty barracks at the moment, since the regular army isn’t here. It’s kept in decent shape for when the wagon trains come through. I’ll get your father settled, then fetch the doctor.”
A few steps behind, his words caught up with Alice. “How do you know my name?” she asked. And why did that make her feel so exposed?
The militiaman twisted to smile at her. “Your trail boss told me. I’m sorry, I had to ask him when I saw you looking so….” He lowered his head in a bashful grin instead of finishing his sentence.
“Oh dear,” Alice muttered. She pressed her fingers to her face. How did she look?
She must look a fright, she answered herself. She hadn’t had a proper bath in days, and the trail had been so dry and dusty this last week. In the heat, she must be streaked with sweat. Her once-fine dress was stained under the arms and around the collar, not to mention the dirt stains on her skirt. This Samson before her must think she was a waif or a tumbleweed.
And why should that bother her?
The barracks that he carried her father to were simple but clean. They weren’t much cooler than the baking sun of the outdoors, but at least they were in shade. A few windows and both doors were open to let in a cross-breeze. The militiaman laid her father on one of the narrow cots that lined the two long walls of the room.
As soon as he was set down, her father stirred. All else was forgotten as Alice rushed to kneel by his bedside, taking his hot hand.
“Papa? Papa, are you well?” she asked.
“A-Alice,” he managed, breathing shallow now that he was awake. “Where are we?”
“We’re in the barracks at Ft. Bridger,” Alice explained, clutching his hand to her heart.
“How did we get here?”
“This kind man—”
“Jarvis Flint,” her Samson interrupted.
Alice blinked up at him. What an unusual name. It suited him. He was an unusual man.
She shook herself back to what was important, smoothing a hand across her father’s brow. “Mr. Flint here is in the militia manning the fort. You fainted and he brought you here.”
“Oh,” her father said. “Oh, yes, of course.” He pushed against the bed as though he would get up.
“No, Papa, you must rest. You’re ill. Mr. Flint here said he would go fetch the doctor to take a look at you.”
Mr. Flint shifted, as though remembering his purpose. “Right. Of course.”
He started back toward the door, but turned to Alice at the last moment.
“Can I get you anything, Mrs. Porter?”
His words filled her chest with warmth. When was the last time anyone had asked to get her something? When was the last time she had noticed?
“A glass of water?” she asked. “For me and for my father.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He raised his hand to his forehead in salute, then rushed out the door.
“He’s very kind,” she told her father. It was better to voice those thoughts than to let them sit inside of her, becoming something bigger than they should be.
“Yes,” her father managed. He closed his eyes.
For the next long stretch, Alice pushed everything else out of her mind but her father’s health and well-being. Ft. Bridger’s doctor was a gruff older man who held himself as though he’d seen some military service in his earlier life. He declared that her father had influenza, but that as long as he stayed still and clean and cool, he would probably make a full recovery. “Probably” wasn’t good enough for Alice.
“Mr. Evans.” She approached their trail boss early the next morning as he crossed from the front gate to the supply depot.
The fort was already up and humming. Alice’s neighbors from the wagon train busied themselves buying supplies from the depot and hauling them back to individual wagons. A few of the farmer’s wives were washing everything from clothes to small children around the pump off to one side of the fort’s yard. Any other day, the sight of a pack of naked children running and splashing around as their mothers tried to keep them in line would put a smile on Alice’s face, but today her father needed her.
“Mrs. Porter.” Mr. Evans stopped long enough
to give Alice a curt smile. He strode on, leaving Alice to scurry after him.
“Mr. Evans, I was wondering if I could speak to you,” she said.
Mr. Evans winced and slowed his steps. “Is it something that can wait? I need to get the train organized and on the move again before lunch time.”
“That’s what I had hoped to talk to you about,” Alice said.
A flash of movement caught her attention out of the corner of her eyes. At the far end of the central space of the fort, a group of militiamen, including Mr. Jarvis Flint, were doing their best to keep a pack of tipsy miners in line. Those miners had been nothing but trouble since they left Independence months ago. But it was the way Mr. Flint glanced up and smiled at her as Alice noticed him that made her lose her train of thought.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” Mr. Evans prompted her.
Alice sucked in a breath and forced herself to pay attention to what she was doing.
“My father is very sick, Mr. Evans,” she explained. “The doctor here says that he has influenza.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. Evans said, peeking ahead to where he’d been going before she stopped him. “I don’t know what I can do to help. I suppose I could ask someone to drive your wagon for you, if you don’t feel up to it.”
“That’s just the thing, Mr. Evans,” Alice picked up where he left off. “I don’t think my father and I should continue on with the wagon train.”
Mr. Evans gave her a hard look, swiping his hat off his head, slicking back his hair, then fitting his hat back on his head. “Usually I would encourage folks to continue on, no matter what the difficulties,” he began slowly. “If we don’t get over the mountains before the snow starts, we could be stuck.”
As hot as it was, it seemed as though it would never snow again, but even Alice knew how tricky weather could be.
“My father and I have to wait for my mother and sister at some point,” Alice said. “Why not now? Why not give my father time to recover while we’re at it?” She didn’t suppose Mr. Evans could force her to go on with the rest of the train, although maybe he could.
He blew out a breath. “I’ll check with Col. Connor here at the fort to see if he wouldn’t mind having guests for a while.”
For the first time in what felt like days, Alice smiled in gratitude. “Thank you, Mr. Evans. I know my father would thank you too. You might just be saving his life.”
Mr. Evan’s gruff look melted to sympathy. “He’ll get better, Mrs. Porter, you’ll see.”
All she could manage in reply over the lump of worry that came to her throat was, “Thank you.”
Mr. Evans nodded and started to walk off, but again, Alice stopped him with, “One other thing.”
He turned back to her. “Yeah?”
All at once, Alice felt self-conscious. She twisted her hands in the black fabric of her skirt. “The thing is, Mr. Evans, I need to have something to do. I’m afraid that if I stand around or even sit by my father’s bedside, I’ll… I’ll go mad.”
Another pinched look of sympathy crossed Mr. Evans’s face. It gave Alice the impression that the poor man didn’t deal well with excesses of emotion. Not many men did, in her experience.
“Well, why don’t you help the Weingartens over there with their things. I think the trip’s been weighing on old Mrs. Weingarten mighty hard since the other young ladies went their own ways.”
Alice smiled and nodded. “Yes, that would be perfect.”
Mr. Evans tipped his hat and continued on his way. Alice let go of her skirt and searched around the clearing for the Weingartens. She hadn’t been as friendly with Mrs. Weingarten as her sister had been, but she liked the woman. Helping them out, if only for a few hours, might be just the thing to keep her fragile spirits from unraveling entirely. After that, though, with her father so sick and the rest of her family lost, God only knew what would hold her together.
“I ain’t drunk, yer drunk,” one of the idiotic miners slurred at Jarvis as he and a few of his buddies tried to get them to settle down.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Jarvis replied, steering the man to a bench to sit.
He and the others had their hands full keeping the miners on their way to California from getting out of hand and tearing the whole fort down. It was a wonder Pete Evans had been able to get them this far. It was a wonder Mrs. Alice Porter had been able to put up with them.
At the thought of Alice, Jarvis stood straighter and searched for her in the crowded fort. He’d watched her come out of the barracks where her father was that morning, watched her speak to Mr. Evans, and then watched her go off to help an elderly couple carry supplies between the fort and their wagon. In all that watching, he hadn’t seen her sit still for more than a couple of seconds.
All that activity had its advantages. Alice’s cheeks were pink against her pale skin. Her hair looked as though it’d been washed, and she’d left her bonnet off while it dried. She had the most beautiful hair, like spun moonlight. Jarvis couldn’t keep his eyes off of her as she marched across the fort’s yard, a sack of flour in each arm.
“Hey, lover boy,” his buddy, Nick, shook him from his thoughts. “Who’s that sending your head into the clouds?”
Jarvis cleared his throat and focused on the swaying, surly miners. “Uh, nothing,” he lied.
Nick didn’t believe him for an instant. He nudged Jarvis’s shoulder with a good-natured laugh. “At least you picked a pretty one.”
“Mrs. Porter’s the prettiest of them all,” the drunk miner who’d snapped at him earlier said, then hiccupped. “You shoulda seen her sister too. What a pretty pair they made.”
“No good uppity women,” one of the other miners growled. “They landed Kyle in jail a ways back.”
“Pipe down, Cletus,” the first drunk miner said.
“I’ll pipe down when I wanna pipe down.”
Cletus jumped to his feet, balling his hand into a fist and threatening his friend. Just like that, the situation spun out of control. Too much alcohol and not enough sense had all five of the sloshed miners on their feet, throwing punches and trading insults.
Nick cursed, and Jarvis was inclined to agree with him as they did their best to grab the men and hold them back from each other. It was a jumble of chaos, exactly the kind of thing that Jarvis hated.
“You lot had better behave yourselves if you want to call yourselves men of honor,” he said.
“Who said nothin’ about honor?” Cletus barked.
He was on his way to saying something else when one of the others punched him in the face. The row pitched into all-out war as fists and kicks flew everywhere. Jarvis barely managed to dodge a punch himself. Nick was losing patience with the whole thing fast. He reached for the pistol in a holster at his side, pointed it to the sky, and fired.
In an instant, the fight stopped, but above the sudden silence, a woman screamed.
Jarvis whipped around, only to find Alice standing a few yards away. She continued to scream, her eyes shut tight. She’d dropped her sacks of flour—one of which had split open, forming a cloud around her skirt—and held her hands to her ears. Jarvis broke away from the miners and sprinted toward her.
“What is it?” he asked, reaching her and resting his hands on her arms. He wanted to pull her into an embrace, but thought better of it at the last second. “What’s happened?”
Slowly—painfully slowly—Alice’s screams shifted to whimpers. Her shallow breathing slowed and deepened, and the tension that Jarvis could feel through his hands on her arms lessened. Inch by inch, she came back from whatever had terrified her so much. As she did, the fear and tension that had enveloped her flattened to red-faced embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry,” she breathed, blinking fast. When Jarvis let go of her arms, she pressed a hand to her heart and wiped the few tears that had managed to escape with her other hand. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Whatever it is, it wasn’t your fault,” Jarvis
insisted. “Here. Come sit down and tell me what it is, how I can help.”
She shook her head, hard and tight. “No, no I can’t.”
She bent to pick up the sacks of flour. Jarvis rushed to get them before she could.
“We’ll take these to that nice old couple together,” he said. “Isn’t that where you were going?”
“Yes, but, you don’t have to help.” She sucked in a breath that sounded more like a sob wanting to escape. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“No need to be,” he said, starting slowly toward the fort’s gate and away from prying eyes. “I take it you don’t like guns?”
Again, she shook her head, lips pressed tight.
They walked on for several more paces in silence, rounding the corner of the gate. When wagon trains stopped at the fort as part of their journey, there was always a burst of energy and excitement, noise and people. Jarvis usually liked it, but this time he wished they could all just be quiet so that Alice could have a moment’s peace.
“I wish you’d tell me what I could do to help,” he said. “There’s not much I can do, seeing as you’re all about to move out, but—”
“I’m not leaving.” She interrupted him.
Jarvis paused, happiness blossoming through him. He cleared his throat and walked on. He had no business being happy about whatever decision Mrs. Porter made.
“Because of your father?” he guessed.
Alice nodded.
That was it. They continued on to the worn and weathered wagon belonging to the older couple.
“Ah, there you are, my dear.” The older woman came forward and took Alice’s hand to squeeze it. “I see you’ve found help.”
“Where would you like these, ma’am?”
The older woman smiled at Jarvis, then peeked at Alice with the kind of knowing look that only older women could manage.
“In the wagon, please,” she said. As Jarvis took the sacks to the back of the wagon, the older woman said, “So I hear we will be leaving you behind now too?”
“Yes, Mrs. Weingarten,” Alice answered. “Father and I will wait here for Mother and Emma.”
