Sarah’s Heart
A Western Historical Romance
By
Ginger Simpson
ISBN: 978-1-927476-16-1
PUBLISHED BY:
Books We Love Ltd.
192 Lakeside Greens Drive
Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2
Canada
Copyright 2012 by Ginger Simpson
Cover art by Michelle Lee 2012
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Chapter One
1850 – Somewhere on the Santa Fe Trail
Sarah Collins struggled to open her eyes against the glare, but the pounding pain in her head urged her to keep them closed. She swept the tip of her tongue across cracked lips, her mouth as dry as the feathers in her pillow—yet she felt no downy softness beneath her, only an uncomfortable jabbing in her back. Her palms groped along something gritty. Where was she?
Suddenly patchy memories flooded back. The taste of bile filled her throat. She struggled to sit, groaning as she pushed herself up from the dusty ground and the offending stone stabbing at her spine. Her eyes misted with tears, and fear clutched at her chest as she surveyed what remained of the wagon train.
Grasping her constricting throat, Sarah stood, scanning the eerie site. The bodies of her new friends lay scattered amongst the smoking ruins, some oddly contorted and others positioned just as they’d fallen. Her heart ached for the mother who sat propped against a wagon wheel, clutching her baby to her breast—both obviously dead. Sarah covered her mouth to stifle a scream. Oh sweet Jesus, why kill a defenseless infant?
Was she the only survivor? As evidenced by an attacker’s body lying a few feet from her, someone had interceded and saved her life. There had to be someone else alive. There had to be! The hair on the back of her neck bristled.
If not for the carnage, the day would be beautiful—wispy clouds floated in a powder blue sky, and an endless sea of waving prairie grass announced the arrival of spring. The only sound came from water bubbling in the nearby stream as it traveled over a rocky bed.
Sarah remembered everything now. They had just made camp when war cries sliced the air. A few hours of daylight remained, but one family’s illness prompted the wagon master to halt travel for the day. Supper fires hadn’t even been lit when a band of whooping Indians with painted faces stormed the group. There must have been twenty or more on horseback. The last thing Sarah recalled was running to fetch her rifle.
She dusted off and inspected her body for injury. Other than her throbbing head, she assumed she was all right until something warm trickled into her eye. Her fingertips reddened from touching a sticky substance on her temple, and she flashed back to the terror of looking into the scarred face of the brave whose tomahawk struck only a glancing blow. Recalling those hate-filled eyes sent a shudder through her.
Her bonnet dangled down her back, its ribbon annoyingly tight across her throat. She pulled at the ties, easing the choking feeling, and then inspected the stained head covering. After wiping her bloodied hand on the yellow gingham, she tossed it to the ground where her body’s partial outline still etched the dirt.
The sun hadn’t risen very high above the horizon. She must have been unconscious all night. Releasing a pent up breath, she lifted her dress and ripped a piece from her petticoat, folded the cloth and held it to her wound. Fear clutched at her core, and unbridled tears ran down her cheeks as she prayed to see another living soul. Surely she was no better than the rest of these simple folk who were trying to find a new start. Why would God spare only her?
“Hello, can anyone hear me?” She called out in a faltering voice, then scanned the campsite and listened, but no answer came. Nothing moved.
Sarah started toward her smoldering Conestoga, now barely recognizable. She’d used her last penny to buy the wagon to make this trip, hiring a driver and packing everything she owned into the beautifully crafted prairie schooner. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. Headed for California, she wanted to leave all her bad memories in Missouri and forge new and happier ones. Maybe any minute she would awaken and discover this was all just a horrible nightmare. The pain in her head dragged her back to reality.
The smaller wagon behind Sarah’s, unscathed except for the arrows jutting from the canvas covering, bore testament to the violent attack. In contrast, the delicate feathers decorating the shafts gently swayed in the breeze. Drifting smoke stung her eyes. She called out again, but still no response.
Gathering her wits, Sarah forced her reluctant legs to move. Unsteady at first, her determination gave her strength. She fought the urge to retch when passing the body of the wagon master, Mr. Simms. The top of his head had been slashed off, leaving a bloody pulp. She jerked her gaze away only to see three more male bodies, one clutching a lance stuck deep in his chest. All had been desecrated in the same manner.
She swallowed hard and forced herself to continue her search, circling the camp and finding more bodies as she went from wagon to wagon. Next to what remained of her own, she found Fred Tanner, her driver. His eyes stared lifelessly at the sky; an arrow protruded from a dried circle of blood in the middle of his shirt. He, too, had been scalped. Bending, and focusing only on his placid face, she gently closed his lids, fighting guilt. In their business arrangement, he had ended up paying far more dearly than she had.
The dead children sickened Sarah more than the deceased adults. Barely starting their lives, they came to a bitter end far too soon. She discovered most of them huddled with their mothers in the backs of the unburned wagons, fear still etched on their little faces.
The smell of charred flesh hung heavy in the air, making it difficult to breathe. Sarah crinkled her nose in disgust, her shoulders sagged. Each person deserved a proper burial, but she couldn’t do it all by herself. Her head pounded in rhythm with the panic in her heart as she realized the seriousness of her predicament. The Indians had taken all the animals, and from what she could tell, most of the food. She had no idea where she was or how she would survive.
Sarah collapsed to the ground and buried her face in her hands. Sobs wracked her as she mourned each person’s passing. She’d barely gotten to know them. Only fifteen days ago in Independence, Missouri, these twelve wagons had gathered, full of excited and happy faces, people ready to journey to a new life.
She cried until her tears ran dry, then finding composure, convinced herself that weeping wouldn’t help. At twenty-two-years old, she was determined to see twenty-three. But how? She could walk for help, but in which direction, and how far?She could fill her canteen with fresh water from the stream, but how long would the supply last before she reached another source. What if the Indians came back? Her search revealed they had taken all the weapons leaving her defenseless. She couldn’t just sit and wait. Besides, in the warm spring weather, the bodies would start to decay before long. Leaving appeared to be her only option. She pulled a ladle from a nearby water barrel and drank, quenching her thirst and easing her parched throat. Dropping the dipper back in place, she planned her trek.
She’d need a change of clothing, at least… and something to keep her warm at night. All her belongings had burned. She gazed at the Morgan wagon, one of the few still intact. Maybe she could find something there. Sarah loosened her long hair, running her fingers through it to comb all the escaped locks in with the rest. Pulling her blonde tresses back, she retied the ribbon at the nape of her neck. Her face puckered into a
scowl, preparing to view Molly Morgan’s remains for a second time. Sarah had thought it painful enough to see her during her earlier search for survivors. Such a waste of a young life. Approaching the wagon, she steeled herself and climbed up onto the back. Molly had died, but Sarah felt strangely remorseful for rummaging through another person’s belongings. It didn’t seem right. She lifted a foot to step over the tailgate, but paused with her leg midair.
Her head tilted inquisitively. Was that a sound? She sighed. Now she imagined things. Her supporting leg wobbled, and goose bumps peppered her skin—not from the cold, but from the feeling of death all around her. She lowered her suspended limb, and steadying herself, took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment.
Clearly, she heard the noise again—a moan from inside the wagon. She threw open the tarpaulin and peered in.
“Molly? Is that you?” Sarah held her breath.
“Help me.” The voice inside the wagon sounded weak and barely audible, but it belonged to a woman.
Sarah scrambled over the tailgate and knelt next to the bed. “Molly, it’s me, Sarah. I’m here.”
Molly moaned low in her throat. An arrow protruded from the front of her blood soaked dress, just below the shoulder. Earlier, she’d been on the floor, but somehow had managed to get to the pallet of blankets and pillows. Sarah had been sure the woman was dead. Perhaps, she should have checked for a pulse as she had with others, but after so many… God forgive her, had she wasted precious moments of this sweet life?
Sarah wiped her own dry lips with the back of her trembling hand. She wasn’t a doctor. What could she do to help? Before she could determine the extent of the injury, she’d have to remove the arrow, and there seemed only one way to do it—quickly and painfully.
She gazed at Molly’s ashen face. Her eyes were closed, and beads of perspiration dotted her brow; her copper hair cascaded over her head rest. Sarah caressed the young woman’s cheek. “Molly, this is going to hurt like the devil, but I have to get this arrow out of you.”
Her eyelids fluttered, and she gave weak nod of acknowledgement.
Before Sarah’s nerves failed, she rose, locked her fingers around the wooden shaft, and yanked with all her might. She expected a scream, but instead, Molly’s body flinched and went limp. Discomfort creased her forehead and made her appear much older than her nineteen years.
Sarah fell to her knees. “Please, don’t be dead, Molly, please, please, please.” She slapped Molly lightly on the cheek. “Wake up! You have to wake up.”
She received no response.
New blood dampened the stain on Molly’s dress. Sarah, chewing on her bottom lip, ripped open the bodice. The sodden chemise underneath bore bright red stains, and more fluid gushed from a wound below Molly’s shoulder.
Confusion clouded Sarah’s mind. Her heart pounded. How could she possibly tend to something so serious? She had to save Molly, she just had to. Sarah bit her knuckles, her mind spinning.
The first priority: stop the bleeding, but she needed cloth. With no time to spare, she ripped a piece from the hem of Molly’s dress. After folding it, Sarah applied the material directly to the wound, forcing her nervous fingers to stuff a corner directly into the puncture hole. She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Blood had always made her queasy, and she inhaled deeply through her nose to keep from vomiting. Fighting nausea had become a regular routine throughout the day.
Her eyes scanned the wagon’s interior for something to hold the dressing in place. Beyond the butter churn, her gaze rested on a wooden chest. She crawled to it, opened the lid, and rifled through the contents, finding a piece of muslin near the bottom. Inching the yardage beneath Molly, Sarah gently tugged until able to wrap the fabric around Molly’s slender form and tie the ends together, securing the dressing in place. Molly’s breathing sounded ragged and slow, but at least she lived.
Sarah fluffed Molly’s pillow and pulled a light blanket over her, praying she would soon awaken. She didn’t want to leave Molly’s side, but needed to go for water. The risk of infection threatened, and her patient’s shoulder needed to be cleaned.
With her energy waning, Sarah slid from the wagon to the ground. Taking a deep breath, she arched her back to ease the kink she’d earned from bending over the low featherbed. A strand of hair had come loose from her ribbon and dangled annoyingly close to her eye. She ran her fingers alongside her face, smoothing back the perspiration-dampened strays. Any moisture turned her natural curl into ringlets that defied restraint.
Shoulder’s tense yet squared, she searched the Morgan campsite for something to hold water; purposely avoiding having to stray farther and be forced to look once again upon the grisly remains of her traveling companions. Noticing an old dishpan hanging on Molly’s sideboard made Sarah smile, but eying the puddle beneath the punctured keg next to it stole her momentary pleasure. She had no choice but to go back to the barrel from which she had earlier quenched her thirst, or trek to the stream. Either meant she had to cross the campsite. With eyes focused straight ahead and that dreadful lump in her throat, Sarah walked to the large cask and filled the pan. Holding the receptacle out, she measured her steps carefully, and walked back, trying not to slosh the liquid onto herself.
“Molly, can you hear me? I’ve brought water,” Sarah called out, struggling to open the tailgate and get the dishpan inside.
Molly didn’t stir.
Sarah pulled the blanket back and found herself instantly repulsed by the smell of dried blood. Molly’s dress was already ruined, so Sarah took no care in ripping the material until it could easily be removed. The chemise needed to go, but how, without jarring Molly?Sarah turned again to the wooden chest for the shears she saw earlier, and with a few quick snips, severed the garment’s sides and straps and removed it. A stinging flush crept into her cheeks at seeing another woman’s bared breasts. She lowered her eyes, but peeked through her lashes to marvel at Molly’s perfectly budded nipples.
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Sarah mumbled, admonishing her silly reaction. It wasn’t like she didn’t have teats of her own. They just weren’t as…as full. Still, as she tucked a strand of Molly’s hair out of the way, Sarah found managing her modesty most awkward. A fine physician she’d make. She leaned back on her heels and focused on the gruesome task ahead.
Now, she needed something suitable for cleansing the wound. Another search through the chest produced a stack of flannel squares. Before dipping one piece into the pan, she filled a cup with water and set it aside for when Molly woke up—if she woke.
Sarah unknotted the binding muslin and removed the dressing to see if her attempts to stop the bleeding had worked. She grimaced. Although her ministrations had been effective, the jagged skin around the lesion looked red and angry. She searched for something with medicinal value, but in this wagon like the others, the food box had been stripped bare. She’d have to do the best she could with the piece of soap she found among the flannels.
Wringing the excess water from one of the soft squares, Sarah carefully washed Molly, first around the laceration, and then removing the clotted blood from her chest and neck. All feelings of diffidence disappeared, replaced with the urgent need to save Molly’s life.
The continued dipping of the flannel turned the once-clear water scarlet, causing Sarah to make another trip for a refill. Returning, she again kneeled at Molly’s side, re-dressed her injury, and then bathed her face with cool water. “Molly, can you hear me?” Sarah, her voice faltering, prayed for an answer. “Please say something… anything.”
Molly’s head lolled toward Sarah, her eyelids fluttered, then opened. She blinked a few times as if trying to focus, and moved her mouth in an effort to speak. “Sarah…Gil…”
Those two words were all she managed to croak out before her eyes closed and she drifted off again. Sarah sighed and re-covered her with the light blanket, reaching beneath to grasp her hand. “You have to get better, Molly. Do it for me.”
If she knew
Gil was dead she might lose the will to live. Her husband seemed to be the center of her world. During the past week of walking alongside the wagons all day and searching for firewood in the evenings, Sarah and Molly had grown close. Hungry for friendship, they shared secrets and laughter. Sarah gazed on Molly’s sleeping face and recalled how her green eyes sparkled when she talked of the babies she hoped to have. Sarah’s own eyes rimmed with tears, and a pang of reality stabbed at her. What gave her the will to live? She had no one either.
Chapter Two
The air inside the canopy grew warm and stuffy. Sarah pushed damp hair from her forehead and sighed. She needed a break and, reluctantly leaving Molly’s side, crawled out to the ground. The wagon’s shadow had shifted. In a few hours the sun would set. Sarah dreaded the darkness and wondered if lighting a lamp would be safe. She hadn’t been afraid of the night since she was a little girl, but all of a sudden, she wanted to cry like she did when she feared monsters lurked about. Now she knew they really did.
While taking a composing breath, her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten for hours. She gazed at the remains of her wagon and thought of all the food she’d stored for the trip that was now nothing but ashes. Even though the marauding savages had stripped the camp clean, she and Molly wouldn’t starve. They could eat the wild roots and grasses that grew in abundance if need be. Before her mother’s passing, Sarah’s favorite dish of hers had been mustard and turnip greens, picked right from the yard. Of course, there wouldn’t be the bacon fat for flavoring, but now staying alive mattered more than taste.
The memories brought new tears to Sarah’s eyes. She stared through a haze at her wagon, recalling the cameo brooch that was the only thing she had left of her mother. Maybe, just maybe, it had been spared. Worrying about a trinket others would consider insignificant seemed silly, but Sarah needed something familiar—something to draw her thoughts from the death surrounding her.
Sarah's Heart Page 1
