Prairie Courtship

by Dorothy Clark

  Emma nodded, placed her hand on Pamelia’s arm. “Do not fret, Pamelia. Edward is a strong little boy, and he may not get the measles. The disease is a chanceful thing. Now, let me help you to your wagon.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Emma. You are very kind, but you had best not. Thomas is—you’d best not.”

  Emma stood and watched Pamelia hobble off into the darkness. The poor woman was so worried about her little boy she had not thought of the possible danger to herself and her husband.

  Emma sighed. Sometimes it was difficult being a doctor. Still… Dr. Emma. It had a lovely sound. She smiled, picked up her lantern and headed for Anne’s wagon to check on her and tell her all that had happened at the meeting. She was halfway across the inner circle when it hit her. Tonight these people, well…some of these people had accepted her as a doctor. Even Mr. Thatcher. Was it possible her dream was not dead? That it could still come true?

  Commit thy way unto him; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.

  Could it be… She looked up at the star-strewn night sky, holding her breath, waiting for she knew not what—some sign? A sense of reassurance? There was nothing. Only the dark, and the sounds of the night. She raised the lantern and continued on her way. The truth was, she had a few patients because she was the only doctor on this wilderness journey, not because God had suddenly decided to answer her prayers. And Mr. Thatcher had acquiesced to her quarantine recommendation in order to keep the men healthy and able to work—not because he believed in her doctoring skills. Would she never learn to stop hoping for something that could not be?

  Chapter Eight

  Emma ladled water from the barrel lashed to the side of the wagon into the wash bowl she now placed on the shelf beside it whenever the wagon train stopped. She lathered and scrubbed her hands with lye soap as Papa Doc had taught her to do whenever she treated the ill. Wonderful Papa Doc, who for many years had been scorned by his fellow physicians at Pennsylvania Hospital for what they called his “foolishness,” his insistence on cleanliness during and after seeing patients or performing surgery. And for using alcohol to cleanse wounds and hands and instruments. That is, they had scorned him until they realized how many of his patients survived. Now most of them had adopted those same practices. But Papa Doc had been the first.

  Thoughts of her adopted father brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away, dumped the water on the ground then dipped her fingers into the small crock sitting beside the wash bowl and rubbed the balm he had formulated especially for her into her hands. She closed her eyes, wiped her hands over her cheeks then cupped her hands over her nose and inhaled. The fragrance of lavender tinged with a hint of soap transported her back to Papa Doc’s office—to their discussions over his experiments, and those of the other doctors he exchanged letters with across the country, even across the ocean.

  She sighed, tugged the long sleeves on her new, sensible dress of dark blue cotton back over her wrists and replaced the top on the crock. Would he write her of his findings about the medical use of sulfuric ether? She stared down at the crock, remembering his excitement when he had discovered the substance some of his pupils and their friends used to exhilarate themselves at parties rendered them insensitive to pain. He had pondered and mulled over possibilities for weeks. And then, two days before she left for St. Louis to visit Mary while William prepared for his journey to Oregon country, he had removed a tumor from Mr. Jefferson’s back while the man smelled the sulfuric ether she had mixed and placed on a towel. Excitement tingled through her at the memory. Mr. Jefferson had felt nothing. He had not even made objection to her presence during the surgery. In truth, he had been most amenable while smelling the ether. A smile tugged at her lips, turned into a grin. Perhaps she should administer some ether to Mr. Thatcher.

  Her amusement drowned in a wash of reality. She looked around the inner circle, then stared out at the wilderness surrounding the circled wagons. If Papa Doc wrote her, would she ever receive his letter? Would she ever again know of the new and exciting things he and his fellow doctors discovered?

  Boots rasped against the sandy soil. “Dr. Emma, Ma says supper is ready.”

  She turned and smiled. “Thank you, Matthew. I’ll be right there.”

  The tall, lanky young man nodded, stuffed the half a biscuit he held into his mouth and ambled off toward his wagon.

  Emma brushed the wayward wisps of hair off her temples and forehead, tugged the button-front bodice with its high collar into place and smoothed down the long skirt of her new dress. It was the first of the two gowns she had commissioned Ruth to make for her. The woman had sewn it while sitting in the wagon watching over baby Isaac.

  She looked down, ran her fingers over the rolled-ribbon trim at her narrow waist that was the dress’s one vanity. The dress fit well. Ruth truly was a gifted seam-stress. She was eager now for the other dress Ruth was making her to be finished. The dark red wool fabric would be welcome for the cooler weather of the mountains. She wiggled the toes of her shoes peeking out from under the hem of the long, full skirt and smiled. These gowns would not drag along the ground and snag on every little thing as she walked beside the wagon. And Mr. Thatcher would no longer look askance at those opulent silk gowns better suited for drawing rooms than rough trails and wilderness prairies. Not that she had seen much of Mr. Thatcher since the quarantine started. She seldom caught even a glimpse of him from here at the back of the train. He was always out front, scouting the trail for the best camping places, then leading the wagons to them. But he had kept his word and provided a tent for their drivers to sleep in.

  Emma shrugged off the thoughts and turned her mind toward supper. It would mean another battle to get Anne to eat. Well, so be it. She respected her sister’s grief, but she refused to allow it to kill her. She placed her foot on the step, leaned into the wagon and took tin plates and flatware from the trunk beside the tailgate, hopped down and walked forward to the Hargrove’s wagon.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hargrove.” The older man nodded and went on eating. He made no secret of his poor opinion of a woman doctor. Nor did he hide his displeasure with her for initiating the quarantine that kept everyone confined to their own wagons. But she did not expect he would change his mind about that. Mr. Hargrove liked to strut his importance as the organizer of the wagon train among its members and the quarantine made that impossible.

  Emma turned from his frowning face and smiled at his wife. “Hello, Lydia. What have you for us tonight?”

  The plump woman straightened from stirring the contents of one of the cast-iron pots sitting on the glowing coals of the cook fire, lifted the long skirt of her apron and wiped the perspiration from her face. “There’s side meat and gravy, beans and stewed apples. And biscuits.” She shot a pleased look at the pots. “Matthew found wood to make fire enough to cook us a satisfying meal. Those buffalo chips we’ve been using don’t make coals for baking, so I made biscuits enough for tomorrow, too.” Her lips lifted in a wry smile. “I never thought I would cook over such things! But when there’s no wood…” She shrugged and held out her hand.

  “You always make a good meal, Lydia.” Emma smiled, handed her one of the plates then bent and spooned food onto the other. “I may be a doctor, but Anne and I would have perished of starvation over these last few weeks had you not offered to cook for us.”

  Lydia Hargrove laughed. “I figured as much when I saw you coughing and choking on the smoke rising from those potatoes you were trying to cook that first night of the quarantine. I never saw anything as burnt as those potatoes. They weren’t good for anything but dumping into the fire for fuel.”

  Emma joined in her laughter. “I remember. I also remember how relieved and grateful I was when you came to my rescue.”

  Lydia Hargrove spooned food onto the plate she held and added a biscuit. “Truth be told, I enjoy cooking for you and your sister. It remembers me of before Sally and Ester married and left home.” A frown wrinkled her forehead. “But I do wish I
could manage something that would make your sister eat more. She looks mighty frail and peaked. But I suspect she will eat hearty again, once her grieving is done.” She shook her head, stared down at the plate she held. “It takes the heart out of a woman to lose her husband and her babe. Takes time to get over a thing like that.” The older woman lifted her head and Emma saw remembered sorrow in her eyes before Lydia smiled and held out the filled plate. “Listen to me, talking on and on, and keeping you here while the food gets cold. You’d best be on your way.”

  Emma nodded and hurried to Anne’s wagon. The end flaps of the canvas cover were down as always. She sighed and stepped close. “Anne, I have your supper. And it will do you no good to tell me you have no appetite for you know I will simply come inside and pester you until—”

  “Oh, Emma, why will you not let me be?” The flaps parted. Anne appeared against the dusky interior of the wagon, her black dressing gown hanging on her too-thin frame, her russet curls tumbling askew around her pale face. “Truly, I am weary and want only to sleep.”

  “After you have eaten, Annie.” Emma kept her voice firm and pleasant. “I promise I will go away when you have eaten half of what is on your plate. But if you do not, I will stay and recite—”

  “No, Emma. Truly I cannot eat any—”

  She squared her shoulders and cleared her throat. “The sun had clos’d the winter day—”

  Anne sighed. “Robert Burns, Emma? You know—”

  “—The curlers quat their roarin play—”

  “Enough, Emma! You know I cannot bear your atrocious Scottish accent.” For a tiny moment Anne’s voice seemed to lose its tone of grim bitterness, seemed to hold the merest ghost of her old humor. And then it was gone. She stepped back into the wagon. “Come inside. If it is the only way to silence you, I will try to eat.”

  Emma placed the cleaned dishes back in the trunk, turned on the tailgate step and looked out over the land. When they had reached the Platte River the prairies had given way to a wide valley. One with only occasional clumps of trees that rose like shadowed islands along the many ribbonlike streams that wound their way through it. They had crossed so many streams she had quite gotten over her fear of fording them. Now—

  “Come down from there, Miss Allen!”

  “Oh!” Emma whirled, lost her balance and fell forward.

  Zachary Thatcher caught her in midair, lowered her to the ground. His arms were as strong, felt as safe as she remembered. She looked up, straight into those bright blue eyes. They held her gaze, then darkened. His arms tightened around her. Or did she imagine that? Warmth crept into her cheeks, spread to every part of her. She bowed her head to hide her flushed cheeks from him, stepped back and pressed her hand over the wild thumping at the base of her throat. “Forgive my clumsiness, but I did not hear you approach, Mr. Thatcher.”

  He cleared his throat, gestured toward his feet. “Moccasins. They are quieter than boots—better for tracking.” A frown creased his forehead. “Come here, beside the wagon.”

  His voice held his normal, autocratic tone. For some reason it made her feel safer. She moved back to stand beside the water barrel, then glanced down at the leather moccasins that rose from his feet to cover his muscular calves. Leather thongs held them in place. “What are you tracking?”

  “Whatever is needed. How are your patients faring?”

  It was an evasive answer. She studied his face, could detect nothing from his expression. She formed a cautious answer. “Very well. Emily and Susan Fenton’s measles are gone. And they are the last ones to fall ill. Two more days and the quarantine will be over. There is only—”

  “The quarantine is over now.” He turned away.

  An owl hooted. Another answered.

  “Mr. Thatch—”

  His raised hand silenced her. Quick and quiet as a shadow, he slipped into the narrow space between the aligned wheels of hers and the Hargrove’s wagons and stood looking out into the distance. The soft light of dusk outlined his straight nose, his square jaw and strong chin. Something in the way he held his head sent a chill skittering along her spine—prickled her flesh. “What is it?” The sudden tautness of her throat turned the words into a whisper. She stepped close to him.

  He pivoted, grasped her elbow and in two steps had her back behind the wagon. “Stay out of sight. There are Cheyenne out there.”

  “Cheyenne? You mean Indians?” Her jaw dropped, her eyes widened with shock.

  He nodded, turned and strode to the Hargrove wagon. “John… Matthew… Get your rifles and assemble at the driver’s tent!”

  Before she could take a breath, he turned and headed for the Applegate wagons. What was he doing? These men were not yet recovered enough for…for battle? Emma made a valiant attempt to regain her composure, stepped away from the security of her wagon and ran after him, feeling the malevolent gazes of hundreds of savages fastened on her.

  “James… Seth… Get your weapons and assemble at the driver’s tent!”

  The Applegate men scrambled for their wagons at his order.

  “Mr. Thatcher! I must—”

  He wheeled, scowled. “I told you to stay out of sight.” He gripped her upper arms, stared down at her. “For once, will you do as you’re told? Go back to your wagon and—”

  “Not until I know—”

  The muscle along his jaw twitched. “As you will. I haven’t time to argue the matter.” He released her and pivoted.

  Hosea and Jasper Fenton were striding toward them, rifles in their hands. “We heard.” Hosea jerked his head backward. “Nathan’s gettin’ his rifle, he’ll be along.” They swerved toward the tent. Carrie Fenton stood by their wagon, her body tense, her face pale. Nathan hopped down and loped off after his father and brother.

  “Carrie, keep your girls calm and inside the wagon!”

  It was all she had time to say. Zachary Thatcher was headed for the Swinton wagons. Emma ran and stood in his path. Ezra Beason, Thomas Swinton’s hired driver, rushed by her, headed for the tent, rifle in hand. She took a breath to calm her racing heart. “Mr. Thatcher, I do not know what you want with these men. But whatever it is, you cannot involve Thomas Swinton. He was very ill and is not yet recovered. He could well die if he gets chilled or overtired.”

  Zachary Thatcher stared into her eyes, took a step toward her. She backed up. “Doctor Allen, I have yielded to you as the medical expert on this wagon train to the point of allowing almost half of the able-bodied fighting men to be quarantined. But I will not cede you one iota of power beyond that.”

  He closed the gap between them. She tipped her head back, stared up into eyes that had darkened to the color of blue slate.

  “The leadership and safety of the people on this train are my responsibility. One for which I am well qualified. Now do me the service of respecting my ability and get out of my way.”

  The last words were all but hissed. Emma caught her breath and shook her head. “I cannot. Not if it will mean Mr. Swinton’s death.”

  Those blue eyes flashed. Zachary Thatcher made that sound low in his throat—the sound he had made that day by the wagon. He clasped her upper arms, lifted her aside and strode to the Swinton wagon. “Tom, get your rifle and come to the tent.” He pivoted, and without so much as a glance in her direction, marched toward the crowd that had gathered. Thomas Swinton got his rifle and followed.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Emma looked at Ruth climbing from the wagon with baby Isaac clutched in her arms, and gestured toward the tent. “Mr. Thatcher is telling them now.” She hurried toward the people who had gathered, dimly aware that Ruth ran to walk beside her.

  “—so I need you all to stay calm. Especially you men.” Zachary Thatcher’s gaze swept over the people, touched hers and moved on. “Things can get touchy when you are dealing with a war party.”

  War party! Emma heard a gasp, glanced at Ruth’s stricken face and laid a comforting hand on her arm.

  “—I don’t thin
k they intend us harm. I think they were out hunting Pawnee or other enemies, spotted our wagons and decided to come see what we are doing. That does not mean they will not attack if they feel the booty taken will be worth the battle. That is why we must appear strong. The main body has stopped some distance away, but their scouts are looking us over.”

  “How do you know?”

  “They’re talking to one another. That quail whistle you heard a minute ago was a scout giving his position. The owl you heard was another scout answering.”

  An image of Zachary Thatcher’s intent expression as he listened to the owls earlier flashed into her head. Emma shivered, felt those savage gazes upon her again. How could he be so calm? There was such quiet strength in his face….

  “—Indians are not troubled by the morals of white men. To them stealing is a virtue…especially horses. All ours are to be brought inside and tethered to the wagon tongues.” His gaze pinioned two of the men in front of him. “Ezra and Matthew, you’ll help with that. Saddle up and report to Blake.”

  Traveler and Lady! She had not thought—

  “The river will protect our left, the stock is to be herded in close to the wagons on our right. They will serve as a barrier between the Cheyenne and the women and children and our supplies. They won’t be able to rush the wagons. Ernst, Josh, Seth, you’ll help herd them in.”

  The men named ran for their horses.

  “The rest of you—”

  Emma swallowed hard, looked at the people standing quiet and tense waiting to find out what their role would be.

  “I’m setting a double guard around the camp and the stock tonight. I don’t have to tell you what will happen to us if they get stampeded and run off.”

  Emma’s heart thudded. She closed her eyes. Please, God—

  “All of you men will be assigned a time and place of duty. Stay alert. Indians are the best fighters you will ever encounter. They can hide behind a blade of grass, appear and disappear at will, move without sound. But they seldom attack a superior force, or one in a good defensive position. But bear in mind, when they do attack, they kill without compunction. For them, to kill an enemy is an honor.” His gaze swept over them again. “You are their enemy. Don’t forget it. Defend yourself. But I don’t want any wild shots fired at something you hear or think you see. Be sure of your target. And remember, they yell like inhuman devils, but it’s only noise to unnerve you and keep you from shooting straight and steady—ignore the yells. A bullet will kill them same as any other living creature. Now all you women go to your wagons and stay there. Should there be a battle, those of you who know how can load weapons or use them.”