Sarah's Heart

by Ginger Simpson

  Knowing she’d done all she could for Molly for the time being, Sarah hurried across the camp, climbed up on one of her huge wheel spokes, precariously teetered over the wagon sideboard, and fished through the rubble. From appearances, the fire had been contained to the wagon box and bonnet. She shielded her eyes and gazed up at the charred bows that had held the canvas in place, still arcing steadfastly over the schooner’s bed. The smell of smoke radiated from the burned wood. At the front, the oak seat and tongue were almost as pristine as when she had purchased the wagon from a family who’d just arrived in Independence and needed money. Now, she wished she’d never met them—never had the insane idea to make this trip. She sighed, knowing she hadn’t had a choice. Either she left or married a man she abhorred. Filled with fear over what now lay ahead, she wondered if perhaps she should have reconsidered his offer.

  Her mood lightened, and a smile tugged at her lips upon seeing the valise containing her personal items. The case bore not even a singe to its carpetbag material. She kept little inside: her hair brush, pins, sewing notions, and a silly little bottle of toilet water she just had to have; but most importantly, the brooch. Not much else in the wagon was salvageable, but knowing the pin hadn’t been destroyed made the loss of the rest somewhat tolerable. She rolled her eyes at her female logic. A lot of good a piece of jewelry did her at the moment.

  Sarah stretched to reach the valise, her smile broadening in spite of her tenuous situation. Until this moment, she’d totally forgotten the one other thing she’d packed—her father’s handgun. She jerked open the bag, and breathed a sigh of relief to see it still there—and the box of bullets she’d thrown in just in case.

  In her wildest dreams she’d never pictured anything this horrible happening to her. Thank goodness for her ‘just in case’ mentality. The savages may have stolen her rifle, but thankfully, she still had a weapon. She just prayed she wouldn’t have to use it on another human. Taking another’s life wasn’t something she was sure she could do.

  Clutching her valise, Sarah crossed the campground, her gaze set skyward, preferring the beautiful pallet of oranges and reds left in the setting sun’s wake rather than the surrounding carnage. Back inside the Morgan wagon, her gaze immediately went to her patient, but in the absence of light, Sarah inched closer and gasped. Molly lay still and lifeless. With her own heart resounding in her head, Sarah knelt at her friend’s side and rested her hand over her heart. The rise and fall of Molly’s chest—shallow breaths, but breathing nonetheless, brought a sigh of relief from Sarah that sliced the stillness.

  Searching for a lamp and finding one, she pondered again the danger in lighting it. The Indians were most likely far away by now, relishing their bounty and thumping their chests with pride in having slaughtered and scalped innocent people. At the thought of such inhumanity, a bitter taste of bile rose in Sarah’s throat. She’d lost her parents to typhoid but this… this was just senseless killing.

  She crossed to the puckered opening of the bonnet and peered outside. Embers still smoldered from some of the wagons that had been completely engulfed. Surely one small flickering kerosene lamp wouldn’t draw attention. Molly needed care and Sarah couldn’t very well deliver it in the darkness. She decided to risk lighting it only when necessary. Better to minimize the chance of the attackers knowing that anyone still lived.

  Within minutes, the sun slipped beneath the horizon and darkness cloaked the camp. A partly clouded sky kept the moonlight at bay and Sarah on edge. Her thoughts kept turning to the bodies scattered around camp, and she fretted that they hadn’t received a proper burial. As a child, she’d often heard stories about restless souls roaming the earth on moonless nights. Now, along with worrying about the Indians returning, she had to fret over haunting spirits. She prayed for the night to pass quickly.

  Cowering in the dark, she leaned against the wagon sideboard and rubbed her arms. The slightest noise outside bristled the hair on them and set her heart to pounding. Besides monitoring her patient’s shallow breathing, she kept an ear trained for anything out of the ordinary. Her father’s loaded gun lay close at hand, and Sarah had pinned her mother’s cameo brooch to the bodice of her gingham dress.

  Earlier, the tedious ‘who, who, who’ of a vigilant barn owl had worn on her nerves, but now the eerie howls of coyotes came closer and closer, until finally, Sarah actually heard them scurrying around the wagons. Territorial growls conveyed one animal’s message to another, and the voracious noises caused Sarah to cover her ears to drown out the horrible sounds.

  The thought of predators tearing at the flesh of the deceased sickened her. She tried to focus on something else, and in almost a whisper, she crooned a tune she used to sing with her father.

  Oh I went down South for to see my Sal

  Singing Polly wolly doodle all the day.

  My Sal, she am a spunky gal

  Sing Polly wolly doodle all the day.

  Fare thee well, fare thee well,

  Fare thee well, my fairy Fay.

  For I’m off to Lou’siana for to see my Susyanna

  Singing Polly wolly doodle all the day.

  A growing lump in her throat made it hard to finish the last verse. Although the song brought back happy memories and images of those she loved, the lyrics also reminded her of her loss. What she wouldn’t give to step back in time—to be back in Missouri, safe in the cabin that Pa built for her and Ma. Such a silly wish, she thought, because there wasn’t a cabin anymore, and both parents were dead… as dead as those now fodder for the carnivores outside.

  The long emotional day had taken a toll on her. Limp as the rag she’d used to wash away Molly’s blood, Sarah curled into a ball, pulled a spare pillow beneath her head and prayed for sleep, but her pulse pounded in her wounded temple and her eyes refused to shut. Instead her blurry gaze remained fixed on the bonnet and the occasional shadow that played across it when the moon broke through its misty barrier. Most likely the eerie images were night birds in flight. She convinced herself they were.

  At the moment, she heard only the noisy grumbling of her stomach. Eating was the last thing on her mind, even if she had any food. Tomorrow, she’d have to find something edible. Molly needed sustenance to gain back her strength. Maybe at sun up, another sweep of the camp would turn up some provisions. Possibly, like her valise, some things had been overlooked.

  Overlooked? She muffled a cynical laugh. The word had more than one meaning. You could search for something and not find it because it wasn’t in plain sight, perhaps hidden behind an object you failed to move, or you could feel strongly about something, express your feelings, and have them totally disregarded—thrown aside like your opinion didn’t matter at all. She knew firsthand about having her wishes overlooked. Silas McCann, the bank president in Hannibal, had held the papers on her father’s land, and assumed that gave him access to her as well. How dare McCann dangle before her the deed to the home her father had built and the acreage he’d toiled, and tie them to a marriage proposal? No wedding meant foreclosure, but she wasn’t about to be compromised.

  From a physical standpoint, refusal had been an easy decision. The man looked disgusting. His hawk-like features, emaciated physique, and teeth discolored from snuff dipping repelled her. If that wasn’t enough, his absence of morals strengthened her loathing for him. Wielding power to try to garner admiration surely wasn’t the way to win a wife, or even a friend for that matter. He seemed nothing more than a high-handed tyrant who thought he could buy or bully his way through life. But those tactics didn’t work on her.

  With no family to turn to, and his bank being her only avenue of credit, she felt trapped. She had tried finding employment, but whoring at the local saloon turned out to be her only option, and not one she considered—although it did hold more appeal than surrendering herself to Silas.

  It wasn’t until she heard about the wagon trains leaving from Independence, forging their way west, that she decided to flee and try her luck elsewhere. Leav
ing wasn’t easy, but nothing remained for her in Missouri. Her parents were buried in a little plot behind the cabin. Her father had fenced off a small area for a family cemetery when her baby brother had died within two days of his birth. Five years later, Sarah had marked her parent’s graves with crosses identical to little Davey’s; simple wood, painted white and bearing only their names and years of their lives. She’d found solace in knowing that they were all together—her parents close in death as they had been in marriage.

  The cabin and the land may not have belonged to her, but the furnishings did. She sold all but a few things that held special meaning and used the money to buy the Conestoga and oxen team. Her thoughts flashed to what remained of her investment, and a tear trickled down her cheek. Nothing remained except for the little bit of cash she’d hidden in her valise. She planned on getting seed money from selling the wagon and team when she reached her destination, but…

  Now here she was, lost in the wilderness, alone except for a severely injured woman who depended on Sarah to keep her alive. Knowing this wagon train had been one of the last to leave Independence for California gave her little hope that help would come. Instead of praying the train made it through the maintain passes before the snowfall, she faced certain death now. The responsibility of survival fell to her… but what was she supposed to do?

  Wetness from her eyes pooled beneath her face, dampening her pillow, but she felt too tired to move. Feeling devoid of physical and emotional strength, her eyelids fluttered then drooped; in her drowsy state the darkness didn’t seem quite as menacing. She took a deep breath, slowly exhaled and surrendered to sleep.

  “Indians!”

  Sarah jumped at Molly’s scream and instinctively grabbed for her father’s pistol. With sleep-clouded vision, she struggled to see in the darkness while her heart tried to beat its way through her skin. Her trembling finger poised on the trigger, Sarah prepared to defend herself and Molly against intruding savages.

  Her eyes adjusted to the dimness, and she released a pent up breath, now able to see that she and Molly were the only ones inside the wagon, or even in the vicinity. Molly must have had a bad dream. She certainly had reason to. Sarah’s pulse gradually slowed, but turned to racing again when Molly moaned.

  Sarah put the gun down and inched the short distance to the bed. “Molly, it’s all right, the Indians are gone. Is the pain worse?” She couldn’t see Molly’s face.

  “Hurt…help me. Water…so thirsty….” Her voice sounded raspy.

  “Just a minute, Moll. I have a cup somewhere. Let me get some light in here.” Sarah patted the area around her until her fingers touched the kerosene lamp. She found the matches she’d placed right next to it, and striking one, she put the flame to the wick. A soft glow bathed the wagon’s interior and provided light enough to find the water. Sarah kept the lamp turned down, hoping to minimize the shadows and praying she wasn’t making a fatal mistake.

  She lifted Molly’s head and held the cup to her lips. “Easy does it.”

  Molly took small sips until the liquid was gone, then Sarah lowered her back on her pillow, plumping it around her. Although difficult to tell in the diffused light, she felt hopeful that Molly’s coloring had improved. At least her eyes were open; the lamp’s flicker danced in their emerald color.

  Sarah ran a hand over her friend’s forehead and breathed a sigh of relief at its coolness. She rose on her knees so Molly could see her smile. “I’m glad you’re awake. I’ve been so worried about you. Is the pain horrid? What can I do to help?”

  Molly’s tongue flicked across her lips, and the blank stare in her eyes expressed confusion. She turned her head to her bandaged shoulder, gave a gentle shrug, and then looked back to Sarah with a weak brow raised.

  Sarah smoothed Molly’s hair from her forehead. “We were attacked, and you were shot with an arrow. I removed it, cleaned and dressed the wound, but you’ve been unconscious for hours. I was so scared that I’d lost you.” Sarah shuddered, anticipating her friend’s first question.

  “Gil…?” Molly’s lips quivered as if she already knew the answer.

  “I’m so sorry, my dear. He and all the others….” Sarah’s throat choked off her words.

  Molly’s eyes closed, but a river of tears seeped from beneath her thick lashes. Sarah patted her friend’s hand. “I know nothing I can say is going to take away the pain, but rest assured, I won’t leave you. We’ll see this through together.”

  “Did… did he suffer?” Molly’s voice trembled just above whisper.

  Sarah’s mind repainted the awful picture of Gil’s tortured body, his missing scalp, his blood-covered face and the fatal gash in his neck. Molly didn’t need to know the gruesome details. Sarah shook her head in answer—and to clear the disturbing image. “No, he died very quickly.” She felt absolutely no guilt in telling a lie. Surely God understood.

  The temperature turned noticeably cooler with the setting of the sun, and a chill crept into the wagon. Sarah, feeling the cold, pulled a heavier blanket up over Molly. “I’m so sorry for your loss, but you rest now. We have plenty of water but unfortunately no food. The Indians took everything we had, but come sunup I’ll find something for us to eat. I used to be pretty good at snaring rabbits with my Pa. Maybe I’ll try my hand at that.”

  Clearly, Molly’s thoughts weren’t on food either. Her tears had turned to quiet sobs, leaving Sarah at a loss for words. There wasn’t anything she could say to dull the anguish. She knew that from personal experience. Just like the wound in Molly’s shoulder, only time would heal her aching heart.

  Sarah closed the canvas at the back of the wagon, turned out the lamp and went back to her sleeping space. Curling beneath the warmth of her cover, she heaved a huge sigh. Hopefully tomorrow would bring Molly strength and bolster Sarah’s sagging spirit. Her determination remained strong but she feared staying in the wagon much longer. She had to find a safe haven for her and her friend, at least until Molly could travel.

  Too tired to worry about anything, Sarah fell into a restless sleep.

  Chapter Three

  “Gil…” Molly’s yell brought Sarah out of a deep slumber. She sat bolt upright, realizing that daylight brightened the wagon. Her relief in getting through the night faded as the dismal details of yesterday unfolded in her mind, and she spied her injured friend thrashing about.

  She scooted to Molly’s side and took her hand. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

  Molly’s face looked flushed, her features pained. Sarah touched the young woman’s brow and gulped, panic clutching at her heart. Molly’s skin burned with fever. Sarah had feared an infection would take hold, but without medicine or healing herbs….

  She thumped her forehead. “Think, Sarah,” she mumbled. “There has to be something more you can do. Something you can find.”

  Molly flailed in feverish delirium, talking nonsense and staring through vacant eyes at Sarah, addressing her as Gil. Sopping the remaining water from the dishpan, Sarah spread the saturated cloth across Molly’s forehead, hoping to cool her heat-ravaged body and return her to sanity. Sarah sat back on her heels, waiting.

  Her mind wandered to yesterday’s scant search of the wagons. She had hunted mainly for survivors and provisions, and although all the food appeared to be gone, the Indians couldn’t possibly have carried everything with them. There had to be something with medicinal value left that Sarah could use to help Molly.

  What Sarah wouldn’t give for a piece of bread and cup of milk, but not to eat. She thought back to the time when her father had complained of a boil on his neck. Her mother had soaked a slice with the liquid, put the soggy lot in a piece of muslin and heated it until it was barely tolerable to the touch. Then she applied it to the festering sore repeatedly until it broke open and released the poisons.

  Sarah shook her head. There was no bread, and the cows that came with the families with children were long gone. She mentally listed other things her mother had used—tea, goose grease,
vinegar, raw onions—none available, most likely. Sarah chewed a ragged fingernail, determined to find something. Her fear of being all alone disturbed her more than venturing out to find something to save her friend.

  She patted Molly’s trembling hand. “I’m going to step out for just a few minutes, Molly. I won’t go far, I promise. I’m going to find something to make you feel better.”

  Chills shook the young woman so hard that the wagon swayed. Sarah pulled the blankets up to Molly’s chin and, after loosening the canvas, Sarah dropped to the ground.

  Resolute, but not yet ready to view the battle scene again, she stared at the dirt while her logic argued with her fear. Molly needed help and Sarah was the only one to give it. She’d think of the bodies simply as empty containers that no longer held souls. They couldn’t hurt her, other than causing a queasy stomach or making her question her own mortality again. Besides, she reminded herself, even if there were such things as ghosts, they didn’t walk about in broad daylight. She hated being such a frightened ninny.

  Squaring her shoulders, Sarah raised her gaze. She’d start with Mr. Simm’s wagon, one of the few the Indians hadn’t burned. As an experienced traveler and captain of the train, perhaps he thought to pack things that others forgot. She crossed her fingers and walked in that direction.

  Her nose crinkled at the unpleasant odors as she crossed the compound. She tried to keep her gaze from wandering, but the coyotes had strewn remains everywhere. It seemed with every step she passed a grisly reminder of what she had escaped. Raising her skirt, she tiptoed around a foot that had been gnawed from someone’s leg. It remained partially encased in a brown boot. She covered her mouth and nose, her stomach churning.