Prairie Courtship

by Dorothy Clark

  A smile tugged at her trembling lips. She closed the desk and uncorked the inkwell that had been sealed with wax, then closed her eyes and thought about what she would write. Should she tell them of her aching loneliness for them? Yes. But nothing that would cause them worry or fear for her safety.

  The coyote howled again. Another answered. She lifted her head, listened to the plaintive calls tremble on the air before the sad notes faded away, then dipped the pen and began to write.

  My dearest William, Mother and Papa Doc,

  How I miss you all. The coyotes are howling tonight, their sad, lonely song echoing what is in my heart as I take up my pen. Your pen, William. For I have found your lap desk in the chest of linens. A wonderful, precious treasure for it allows me to write you all, and thus, feel a bit closer to you.

  Every day, every step carries me farther from you and my heart is burdened with sadness at day’s end. It would be less so if Anne were improved, but she is much the same. She keeps always to herself. And the effort of riding Lady, or the constant jolting of the wagon delays her healing. I confess, Papa Doc, I do not know what more to do for her. She disobeys my instruction and refuses my medicines. I wish I had your forbearance, Mother. But alas, I do not. And at times I find myself quite out of patience with her. But I persevere. For I am determined to find that which will bring our Annie back to life. Back to us.

  I am well. But though I ravenously partake of the meals Mrs. Lundquist prepares for us, the miles I travel each day have made me quite thin, though stronger. My gowns hang loosely upon my frame.

  William, my dear brother, I know you are longing for news of our journey. I am told we shall reach the Big Blue River tomorrow or the day following. The river must be forded, for, as the dictatorial Mr. Thatcher says, there are no ferries here in the wilderness. As you will know, I am dreading that.

  How I wish I could receive a letter from you. I have read your note over and over, William. It is a comfort to me. Thank you from my heart for the medical supplies, though I fear I will have little use for them. Still, your faith in my doctoring skills warms my heart.

  My dearest love to you all, always,

  Your Emma

  She blotted the ink, blew on it to hasten its drying, then folded it to the inside, inscribed William’s name and directed the letter to the Twiggs Manor Orphanage in Philadelphia. He would be back there teaching by now. Tears flowed. She swiped them from her cheeks, lifted the desk lid and took out the small candle of sealing wax and the little metal stamp. William’s stamp, with its capital A for Allen.

  The tears came again, faster. She placed the lap desk on the floor, lifted the chimney of the lantern, lit the candle and tilted it downward over the letter. The melting red wax dropped in a tiny puddle securing the loose edge to the letter body. She blew out the candle and pressed the stamp against the cooling wax, stared down at the A it imprinted. Would there be a way to send the letter home? Would they ever receive it and know how much she loved and missed them?

  A sob broke free from her constricted throat. Another. And another. She grabbed a pillow, hugged it to her chest and threw herself on the bed to cry out her loneliness and fear.

  “Follow us! Stay on our path!”

  Emma turned her face from the river. Zachary Thatcher and Josiah Blake were leading the first wagon into the water and she could not bear to watch. She looked at the low hills in the distance, drew her gaze back to Garth Lundquist, thought of how odd it was to have him sitting beside her, and concentrated on the rumble of the wheels bumping down the sloping bank and the sound of the swiftly flowing water of the Big Blue.

  “Gee! Gee!” Garth Lundquist cracked his whip in the air over the broad backs of the oxen. The teams plunged into the water, turned right, following the wagons ahead. The front wheels rolled into water, turned brown with mud churned up by hoofs, that splashed against the rims and rose quickly to cover the hubs.

  Emma gripped the edge of the seat and stared down at the toes of her boots poking out from under the long, ruffled skirt of her watered-silk gown. An incongruous sight. But one to be preferred over watching the water rushing by beneath the floorboards. She stole a quick glance at the opposite bank. They were halfway there. Please let us cross safely.

  The wagon dropped sharply to the right, jolted to a stop. Her grip broke. She slid along the canted seat.

  “Haw! Haw!” The whip cracked. The oxen lunged. The wagon slipped farther right, sank deeper.

  Emma threw herself toward the center of the seat, groped for a handhold to stop her slide, found only the smooth surface of the seat top, the protruding lip too small for her searching fingers to grasp. Fear squeezed her throat, froze her thoughts on the silky whisper of her gown against the smooth boards as she slipped toward the water waiting to embrace her.

  “Hold those oxen, Lundquist!” An arm slid beneath her abdomen, plucked her from the seat, dragged her onto a saddle. The horn dug into her leg, water swirled around her feet, wet her skirts and boots. She twisted her torso, clutched hold of fabric and buried her face against a wool shirt that smelled faintly of horse, leather and man. The horse beneath her lunged. Water sloshed higher. She shuddered.

  “Blake, get a rope around that front axle and hold her fast so she can’t slip to the right! I’ll get the back.” Zachary Thatcher’s deep voice fell on her ears, vibrated in his chest beneath her hands. “Let go of my shirt, Miss Allen. I have to tie my rope to the back axle.” He loosed his arm from around her, withdrew the circle of safety.

  Panic pounced. She pressed closer, held tighter. His muscles rippled. His strong hands gripped hers, tugged them from his shirt front, lowered them. “Hold to my holster belt.” She seized the leather strap her fingers touched, felt him lean sideways and reach down. The saddle creaked. Cool air replaced the warmth of his body—emptiness stole her security. Panic gnawed at her nerves. She kept her eyes closed tight, fought the scream filling her throat, surging into her mouth.

  Zachary Thatcher straightened, snagged her around the waist with his left arm, lifted her and held her tight against his chest. “Sorry, I have to snub the rope.” He shoved aside her skirt, wrapped the rope around the horn and settled her back in place. “Lundquist, move those teams forward! And don’t stop!”

  Garth Lundquist’s whip cracked. The wagon lurched.

  “Back, Comanche!” The horse backed up, the wagon slid left, leveled out and rolled forward. “That’s got it!” Zachary Thatcher urged his horse forward, leaned down and unhooked his rope, rode behind the moving wagon and up the other side. He spanned her waist with his hands, lifted her onto the wagon seat and rode away.

  She sat gripping the sideboard and looking after him, fighting back tears and an unreasonable, overwhelming feeling of being abandoned.

  “Now hold very still.” Emma put fresh padding on Jenny’s arm, added the splints and bound them in place, grateful for the need to think of something other than the terror of the fording—and the comforting strength of Zachary Thatcher’s arms. “All done. You were a very good girl.” She smiled at the toddler who promptly turned and buried her face against her mother’s chest. Emma patted the child’s back and looked up at Lorna. “Jenny’s arm is healing fine.”

  The woman nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Emma. I watch her careful. An’…well, I been thinkin’ whilst you was checkin’ her arm. Like I told you afore, Mr. Lewis and I haven’t got the cash money, but I can wash your clothes—an’ your sister’s—to pay for you takin’ care of Jenny an’ all. I got my water heatin’ by the river. So if you’ll fetch the clothes for me, I’ll get Jenny settled and get to the washin’.”

  There was unyielding pride in Lorna Lewis’s voice. Emma looked at her set face and nodded. “That is a very generous and welcome offer, Lorna. I will bring our clothes to you.” She rose and started away, turned back. “Would you care to continue to take on that task while we journey? My sister and I will be happy to pay you.” She gave a helpless little shrug. “I am afraid neither of us are t
rained in such skills.”

  Lorna studied her face for a moment then nodded.

  “Wonderful! I shall tell Anne our laundry problem has been solved.” Emma smiled and hurried to her wagon. She climbed onto the step attached to the tailgate and tossed back the flaps. If Lorna cleaned her riding outfit she would be able to—

  “Pardon me, Miss.”

  Emma turned. A worried-appearing young woman holding a crying baby was looking up at her.

  “Are you the doctor lady?”

  The woman was close to tears. Emma nodded, gave her a reassuring smile. “Yes, I am a doctor.”

  Relief spread across the woman’s face. “I need help, Doctor. It’s Isaac. He won’t eat nothing. And he won’t stop crying. And he’s such a good baby… It’s been two days.” Tears spilled down the woman’s cheeks. “I’ve tried all I know, and what others have said…” She caught her breath. “My husband didn’t want me to come, but I think Issac’s fevered. And if he’s sick…”

  “Perhaps I should look at him.” Emma stepped down and took the baby into her arms. “How old is Isaac?”

  “A bit over a year.” The woman wiped away the tears, stared at her child with fear-filled eyes.

  Emma sat on the step, laid the baby on her lap, held his tiny, too-hot hands and swung her knees side to side, humming softly to calm him. There was a red flush on his chubby little cheeks, his eyes were squeezed shut. She let go of his hands, felt his forehead…fevered—gently probed the glands in his neck…swollen. She slipped her hands up and checked behind his ears…nothing.

  “Is he…sick?”

  Emma lifted the baby off her lap, held him in front of her and peered into his mouth when he opened it to squall his protest. The telltale spots were there on the inside of his cheeks. She snuggled the baby against her shoulder, rubbed his tense back, wishing with all her heart she had been wrong. She fixed a calm expression on her face and looked up at his mother. “Isaac is coming down with the measles.”

  The young woman’s face blanched. “Measles?”

  Every tale of every death caused by the disease was in the whispered word. “Yes. But Isaac looks to be a healthy, robust baby. And we will do everything we can to keep him that way.” Please, God, grant that it may be so. She rose and gave the baby back to his mother.

  The woman cuddled her son close, pressed her cheek against his soft curls, then looked up and squared her shoulders. “Tell me what I must do.”

  Emma looked into the determined face. The fear was there in the young woman’s eyes, but the firm line of her mouth said she would not let it defeat her. And she had already defied her husband for her child’s sake when she brought him to her. Isaac would be well cared for. “You must keep Isaac as calm and comfortable as possible. And keep him warm at all times—a chill will be very bad for him. And keep him inside the wagon. The bright sunlight will hurt his eyes.” She had a momentary flash of Papa Doc closing the curtains on the window above her bed in the orphanage. “Encourage him to nurse as often as he will, and feed him only a thin gruel that is easy to swallow, for his throat is sore.”

  She looked up and met the mother’s gaze. “What is your name?”

  “Mrs. James Applegate…Ruth Applegate.”

  Emma dipped her head in acknowledgment. “And have you other children, Mrs. Applegate?”

  “No…only Isaac.”

  Relief spread through her. Perhaps it was not too late to contain the spread of the disease. “If your husband will permit it, Mrs. Applegate, I will come to your wagon and check on Isaac every day. If he will not—” she reached out and touched the soft hair curling behind the baby’s ear “—check here often. In the next day or two the rash will begin and it usually starts here, or on the forehead, then spreads. An oatmeal paste will help soothe the itching.” She gave her another encouraging smile. “The disease will run its course in a week or so. But you must keep Isaac warm and quiet for several weeks after. Meanwhile, if he shows signs of distress, or develops a deep cough, send for me immediately.”

  The woman nodded, bit down on her lip. “Doctor, I…” A flush crept across the woman’s cheeks. She lifted her head a notch. “My husband will give me no money to pay you. Have you any sewing or—”

  “Sewing?” The pile of fabric tucked away in the trunk in the wagon flashed into her head.

  “Yes. I was a dressmaker back home, before my marriage.”

  Zach stood beside Comanche and watched the emigrants herding the stock, settling them down for the night. Only a few animals had wandered into deep water and been forced to swim to the other side during the fording. He and Comanche had only had to save one milk cow. Everything considered, the greenhorns had done a good job today. Hopefully, they would do as well when they faced the whirlpools, swift water and quicksand in the rough river fords ahead.

  He lifted his hat, ran his fingers through his hair then settled his hat back in place and tugged the brim low over his forehead. “Well, boy, there’s no reason for us to be standing here. Let’s get to camp so you can start grazing.” Comanche twitched his ears, tossed his head. Zach gathered the reins, glanced in the direction of the wagons and frowned. Who was he fooling? He wasn’t ready to turn in. There was a restlessness in him that wouldn’t let sleep come easily tonight. And the reason was in that fourth wagon.

  He turned away, yanked his hat down lower. What he needed was a hard run with Comanche’s hoofs thundering against the ground. Or some combat with an Indian brave determined to have his scalp as a trophy. That would take his mind off the way Emma Allen had felt in his arms this afternoon. The way his heart had pounded when she grabbed his shirt and hid her face against his chest. He sure hadn’t wanted to let her go when he put her back in her wagon. He’d wanted to pull her tight and kiss her. And now there was this sense of something unfinished inside him. He scowled, whipped around toward his saddle. “Let’s make a final scout of the area before we go to camp, boy.”

  There was a whisper of sound behind him. He clasped the haft of his knife and pivoted, stared as Emma Allen stepped out of the shade of a tree into the soft, rosy glow of the setting sun. She glanced around and headed his way, a picture of beauty and grace. His heart kicked. He frowned at the involuntary reaction, grabbed Comanche’s reins and strode to meet her. He had no idea why the woman would be seeking him out. But whatever the reason, he had already learned, if Dr. Emma Allen was involved, it spelled trouble for him. Whether it was as a doctor or as a woman, she was trouble for him.

  Chapter Seven

  “Measles.” Zachary Thatcher removed his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, settled his hat back in place and frowned down at her. “You’re certain?”

  Emma stiffened at the implied doubt of her competency. “Yes, Mr. Thatcher, I am certain.”

  “But you say there’s no rash…”

  “The preceding signs are all there. The rash will appear sometime in the next two days.”

  He nodded, rubbed the back of his neck, stared off into the distance for a moment then blew out a long breath and again fastened his gaze on her. He looked as if he would like to shoot the messenger. “How likely is it to spread?”

  Emma squared her shoulders. “Beyond doubt. All those who have been in contact with the Applegates are in danger of coming down with the disease. How far it spreads depends on you. Mr. Applegate has little faith in my doctoring skill—” she let her tone tell him she was aware that he shared Mr. Applegate’s opinion “—and, as he will not listen to me, you must tell him he and his family will be quarantined until—”

  “Quarantined!” The frown on Zachary Thatcher’s face deepened to a scowl. “This is a wagon train, Miss Allen.”

  “Yes.” She fought down her impatience, held her voice calm and reasonable. “And unless you want this disease to run rampant through its members, you must quarantine the Applegates.”

  “And how do you suggest I do that?”

  Emma clenched her hands, took a breath and forced herself to stand her gr
ound instead of whirling about and walking away as she wanted to do. She was sick of fighting these battles with men who dismissed her doctoring ability simply because she was a woman. “You must have Mr. Applegate move his wagon a safe distance from the others and then stay with his wagon. And you must inform everyone they are not to go near the Applegates, nor their wagon, until they are able to rejoin the train and we travel on. Those who come down with the disease meantime, will be treated in the same fashion.”

  “Until we ‘travel on.’” He fixed a withering gaze on her. “And when will that be?”

  His voice had gone hard as stone. Emma put steel into hers. “When I pronounce the wagon train free of the disease.”

  His eyes darkened. “Now look here, Miss—”

  “Doctor.”

  He stared at her.

  She stared back.

  He sucked in air, let it out. “These wagons roll west at dawn tomorrow, Doctor. All of them.”

  The words were final. The tone implacable. Emma opened her mouth, then pressed her lips together to hold back her retort. The bright blue eyes staring down at her had gone as flinty as the voice. Obviously, Mr. Thatcher would not be moved by her challenging him. She would have to take another path. “Mister Thatcher, I understand that, as captain and guide, it is your duty to get these wagons to Oregon country in a timely manner. But to travel when the Applegate baby is ill may well cause his death. If he is to have a chance to live, he needs to be kept calm and comfortable. He needs to sleep as much as possible and with the jolting of the wagon continually disturbing him—” She caught her breath, taken by the glimmer of an idea that could prove the resolution to their stalemate. “Have you had the measles, Mr. Thatcher?”