“Good.” Emma picked up one of the rags, looked at Mrs. Fletcher. There was fear and skepticism in her eyes. “I shall need your help, Mrs. Fletcher. I am going to pour this ether on this rag and hold it under Daniel’s nose where he can breathe it. When he goes to sleep, I shall need you to hold the rag. If he starts to awaken before I finish stitching his wound, I want you to hold the rag back under his nose, until he again falls asleep. Can you do that?”
Mrs. Fletcher’s face tightened. She looked at the rag. “It won’t hurt him none?”
Emma shook her head and smiled. “I promise you it will not.”
The woman looked down at her son, took a deep breath and nodded.
“All right then. I shall begin.”
Emma poured the ether on the rag and held it under Daniel’s nose. He took a tentative sniff, looked up at her and grinned. “It smells—” he took another, deeper sniff “—smells…kinda…funnnn…” His eyes closed, his body went slack.
“Well, I never seen the like!”
Emma smiled and handed his mother the rag. “There’s no need to whisper, he cannot hear you. No!” She grabbed Mrs. Fletcher’s hand and pulled it away from her face. “Do not sniff it. You will go to sleep, and I need you to watch Daniel.” She reached for the alcohol, splashed some on her hands then poured some onto the cut, doused one of the rags and began to wipe the blood from his leg.
The day had slipped away. Emma frowned and placed her hand on her stomach. It still quivered with nerves. Not surprising as it was the first time she had used the ether on her own. Or on a child. She had thought it was safe. But she could not know for sure.
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly and blotted the notes she had made on Daniel’s treatment. Her stomach added hunger pangs to the quivering, reminding her she had not eaten supper. Though she had watched the boy carefully all day, had stayed with him while he ate his supper and could detect no sign of any ill effects from the ether, her own stomach had rebelled at the thought of the meal Mrs. Fletcher offered.
She shook her head and tucked her medical journal back in her doctor’s bag. In this instance, the patient had fared better than the doctor. Daniel had eagerly told his tale and showed off his bandage to all who had come around. Indeed, he felt so well, it had been difficult to make him stay quiet until he was settled for the night. She, however, had not enjoyed being the center of the excited furor that rose over her treatment of Daniel when the emigrants who had finished their work, or returned from the fort, gathered at the Fletchers’ wagon. Not all of them were favorably impressed. Especially Mr. Hargrove. And she had little to offer them by way of explanation. There had been moments when she had wished for Mr. Thatcher’s presence—when she would have welcomed his authoritative way. She latched the black bag, rested her hands on it and stared off into the distance. If anything should go wrong with Daniel’s healing…
No! She would not think such things. She would write Papa Doc a report on Daniel. He would understand she had done what she thought best for her patient, and he would be thrilled to know the ether worked so well.
If he ever received the letter.
Emma looked out at the fading light, then glanced at the pile of letters on the dresser. She did not have enough courage to cross that broad expanse of field to the fort in the growing darkness. Tears welled into her eyes. She so wanted to send her letters on their way to her family. It would ease some of her loneliness for them by sharing a small part of what she was experiencing on this journey—by letting them know they were always in her thoughts and in her heart. The disappointment brought a choking lump to her throat. Perhaps Mr. Thatcher would grant her time to go to the fort and inquire about someone carrying the letters back to St. Louis before they started out in the morning. If not…well, Papa Doc would be proud of her. He always said a good doctor puts his patients first, before his own wants or needs.
Neighing and snorting and pounding hoofs intruded on her thoughts. She glanced up, saw the tossing heads and flowing tails of the horses the men were herding into the wagon corral where they would be safe from theft by the Indians. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and opened the crock of dried apples she had found when she was searching among the stores in Anne’s wagon for something to feed Traveler and Lady. There was still light enough to visit the horses. She felt close to William when she was with his horse.
Emma climbed from her wagon and stood on the step looking over the corralled stock. Cold air touched her face and neck and hands. She shivered and started toward Traveler at a brisk pace. If the temperature dropped so quickly here along the river when the sun went down, how cold must it be in the mountains? She lifted her gaze to the massive wall of stone that barred their way west. The mountains looked cold, gray and impenetrable in the shadowed light of dusk. How would they ever get their wagons over them? It seemed an impossible task. But Mr. Thatcher had ridden off this morning to check the trail conditions for tomorrow’s journey. Pray God, he returned safe. Myriad possibilities for harm to him flooded her mind. Fear knotted her already unsettled stomach. Please, Almighty God, keep him safe.
Emma yanked her gaze from the mountains, strode to Lady and fed her two of the dried apple slices then moved on to Traveler. The horse accepted her offering, then lowered his head to graze. She stroked his neck and listened to him chomping on the rich, thick grass. A journey like ours is hard on the stock. Mules fare better than horses. Especially when the good grass gives out when they are climbing the mountains.
Emma clenched her hands and took a deep breath. Zachary Thatcher had been warning her. But she would not lose Traveler. She would not! There had to be—
“Miss Allen…”
Emma whirled. “Mr. Thatcher! You are returned safe.” The words burst out of their own volition. Heat spread across her cheeks as she looked up at him. She had not meant to sound so…joyous. “I mean—I was looking at the mountains, and they seem so formidable…”
“They are that, Miss.” A small, wiry-looking man, dressed in fringed leather, stepped out from behind Zachary Thatcher. “But Zach, here, is equal to ’em. He saved my bacon today! Them Blackfeet had me fer sure.” The words were accompanied by a hefty thump on Zachary Thatcher’s shoulder. “This the lady you was tellin’ me about, Zach?”
Emma stared at the man’s weathered and bearded face, looked into his alert, dark eyes. Why would Zachary Thatcher discuss her with him? She shifted her gaze back to Zachary Thatcher, let her eyes convey her puzzlement, but read reassurance in his.
“Miss Allen, this is Jim Broadman. One of the best mountain men in the country. He has business back East, and has agreed to carry your letters to St. Louis.” A slight frown puckered his brow. “If you haven’t made other arrangements, that is.”
He had remembered about her letters! Emma’s breath caught. “I have not. Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Mr. Thatcher.” She smiled at the mountain man, who promptly yanked his stained and battered hat off. “How kind of you, Mr. Broadman. Thank you for—”
“No need fer thanks yet, Miss.” The man frowned and clapped the dirty felt hat back on his head. “Them Blackfeet shot my horse plumb out from under me today. I can’t go east ’till I get me another mount.” He gave Zach a wry smile. “One that knows how to run. Not some sad excuse of a…er…of a horse like I had.” He glanced back at her. “I’ll get on over t’ the fort an’ see can I find—”
“No. Please wait, Mr. Broadman.” She swallowed hard, glanced at Zachary Thatcher then looked toward the west, toward those high, rugged mountains. A journey like ours is hard on the horses. She lifted her chin, placed her hand on William’s horse. Zachary Thatcher did not make a sound. He did not move a muscle. But, for some reason she could not define, she was certain he understood what she was about to do, and it gave her strength. She stroked the horse’s shoulder, fought to keep her voice even. “This is Traveler, Mr. Broadman. I—I want to return him to my brother. Traveler is a swift runner, and I will loan him to you for your journey.
In exchange, you must agree to deliver both Traveler and my letters to Mrs. Samuel Benton at Riverside, upon your arrival in St. Louis.” She squared her shoulders and turned. “Do you find that agreeable, Mr. Broadman?”
The man nodded, stepped forward and ran his hand over Traveler’s back. “He’s a fine horse, Miss.” His gaze locked on hers. “I’ll take good care of him. Y’ have my word on it.”
Emma nodded and turned away. Zachary Thatcher stepped up beside her.
“Broadman, you go on to the fort. I will get the letters and bring them to you.”
“And William’s saddle.” Her voice sounded odd, sort of tight and small, but she got the words out.
“As you wish. Now, come along, Miss Allen, there is no reason to delay.”
Zachary Thatcher gripped her elbow with his strong hand and propelled her toward her wagon. She did not object. For once, she was thankful for his autocratic ways. And for the strength and warmth of his hand that supported and guided her.
Chapter Twelve
Wind rippled the canvas. Rain hammered on it with deafening force. Emma shivered and closed the dresser drawer, caught her breath as the yellow light of lightning flickered over the watery surface of the cover and flashed its brightness through the wagon. Thunder crashed, its fury vibrating the boards beneath her feet.
That strike had been close! Emma snagged her lower lip with her teeth and glanced down at the garment dangling from her hands. Perhaps she should stay in the wagon. “And then who would get the fresh water you and Anne need, Miss Coward? Garth Lundquist? He must keep the oxen calmed. Put on the cape!” Her voice was all but drowned out by the pounding rain.
She frowned, swirled the India-rubber cape around her shoulders and fastened the ties. How long ago the comfort of her life in Philadelphia seemed. Now there was nothing but storms and mountains and walking, walking, walking. “And do not forget being reduced to talking to yourself, Emma Allen.”
She heaved a sigh, flipped the hood up to cover her head then pulled the empty water keg to the back of the wagon and slipped the knot that untied the flaps. The wind tore them from her grasp, sucked her skirt hems out into the rain with such force she grabbed hold of the canvas to keep from being pulled after them. She turned and backed down the steps, wrestled the keg to the ground.
Water blew off the fluttering canvas and spattered against her face. She turned away from the wind and hurried toward the rock cliff beside her wagon, dragging the keg after her. Rainwater flowing off the rim of a deep ledge jutting out from the cliff formed a waterfall in front of her. She ducked her head and dashed through the deluge, the water splashing on her back chilling the India-rubber of the cape and making her shiver. The beating of the rain on her hood ceased. She shot a grateful glance at the ledge of rock that now formed a roof over her, then shoved the keg beneath the stream of water gushing out of a fissure in the rock wall and shook the raindrops from her hands.
Lightning sizzled and snapped. Thunder clapped and rumbled. She flinched, stepped closer to the wall of stone and looked around. The curve of the cliff and the overhanging ledge made a shelter of sorts, protecting her from the rain and the worst of the wind. What of the others? The storm had struck so fast it had caught the wagons ahead of hers strung out in a line along the ridge they were crossing. What if lightning struck one of the them? Or stampeded the oxen? And what of those behind her? Was Anne all right? She closed her eyes, tried to will away the frightening thoughts but they slipped into her mind like the cold, damp air creeping beneath her cape. What if night fell before the storm stopped, and they could not reach a place where they could camp and circle the wagons? There had been Indians watching them from the hills yesterday. Blackfeet, Mr. Thatcher had called them. Did Indians attack during rainstorms?
A shiver raced down her spine. She wiped the moisture from her face and stared toward her wagon but could see nothing through the pouring rain, could hear nothing but its drumming against earth and stone. It was as if she were alone in the watery world.
She drew her hands in through the slits in the cape and rubbed them against her skirt to warm them. Since they had entered the mountains, every day had become more difficult. In the broken terrain of the foothills, the grass had given way to sage and greasewood. Then the streams had turned bitter with alkali, making it hard to find a camping area. The poor animals bawled, neighed and brayed their misery throughout the nights. And every day the way became steeper and more rugged. Today’s misery was the storm with its relentless, pouring rain. But, at least, she was able to catch the runoff gushing from the rocks. She would have sufficient good water for the oxen and Lady tomorrow if the alkali problem continued. Of course, tomorrow could hold a new trouble.
Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
Emma snorted, hugged herself against another chill. “I hear you, William, even if only in my memory. But I doubt you would quote that scripture so glibly, were you standing here with me.”
Lightning threw flickering light on the water flowing off the stone ledge above her. She gathered her courage, drew the hood of her cape farther forward and grabbed hold of the filled keg and tugged. Water sloshed out and wet her shoes. She scowled, tipped out some of the water, then took a tighter hold and dragged the keg out of the sheltered area to the other side of her wagon. Rain pelted her, stung her face. She yanked the slipping hood back in place and bent to lift the keg. It did not budge.
“Hold on there, Miss Allen!”
Zachary Thatcher appeared like an apparition out of the watery gray. He slid from his saddle, hoisted the keg and dumped it into the large water barrel lashed to the side of her wagon.
She held on to the hood and tipped her head back to look up at him. “Thank you, Mr. Thatcher.” The words were barely audible. She raised her voice to a shout. “I guess I overfilled the keg for my strength.”
He nodded and leaned closer. “Where did you get the water?”
“There is a stream spurting from that wall of rock. I think it is overflow from the rain. Thank you again.” She reached for the keg. He hefted it to his shoulder.
“Show me.”
She led the way, conscious of him moving up to walk beside her, blocking the wind. And of his horse trailing behind. Surely the horse would not— She ducked under the water sheeting off the rock and turned. He would. Comanche followed his master into the sheltered area. At least he came as far as possible. The water off the rock hit his broad rump and splashed every direction. Zachary Thatcher seemed not to notice. He carried the keg to the gushing fount.
“Here, boy.” Emma took hold of the horse’s bridle and turned him sideways, then stroked his wet, silky nose. “You are a very smart horse to come in out of the rain.” She laughed and crowded back to give him room, bumped into Zachary Thatcher and bounced off. She might as well have hit the mountain for all the give there was to the man. She looked up, and the apology on her lips died. He was staring down at her, an odd expression on his face. “Is something wrong?”
“No…” He shook his head, frowned and removed his hat, slapped the water off it and settled it back on his head. “Comanche has never let anyone but me touch him.”
“Oh.” She looked back at the horse. “Perhaps it is because of the storm. He wants to please me so I will share my shelter.” She smiled and ran her fingers through Comanche’s mane, stroked his hard, heavily-muscled shoulder. The horse did not seem to suffer from the lack of good grass. “Why is Comanche not growing gaunt like the other horses, Mr. Thatcher?”
“He’s a Western horse. And, as you said, a smart one. There are small patches of grass around little pockets of sweet water in these mountains. Enough for one or two animals. I set him free to roam at night and he finds his own grass and water.”
She glanced up at him. “You do not worry he will get lost?”
He shook his head. “He doesn’t range that far. He is always ba
ck before dawn.”
“Truly? My, you are smart, Comanche!” The horse flicked his ears and tossed his head. She laughed, then sobered and lowered her hands to her sides. Zachary Thatcher’s boots scraped against the stone. His bulk loomed beside her.
“Jim Broadman will take good care of Traveler, Miss Allen. His life depends on it.”
There was sympathy in his voice. Zachary Thatcher was a perceptive man. Too much so at times. Emma nodded and straightened her shoulders. “I do not regret my decision, Mr. Thatcher. I am glad Traveler is being returned to William. I did not want to see him suffer. But I cannot deny I miss him.”
“And your brother.”
If that was an attempt to change the subject to make her feel better, it failed miserably. “Yes… And Mother and Papa Doc, also.” Her throat thickened. She dipped her head, pointed. “The keg is full.”
Zachary Thatcher nodded, grabbed Comanche’s reins and dropped them to the ground, then turned and hoisted the filled keg to his shoulder.
She started for the wagon. His hand clamped on her shoulder.
“You stay here with Comanche, Miss Allen. No sense in us both going out in the storm.”
She watched him go, grateful for the opportunity to get command of her emotions. She pushed the hood off, smoothed the wet strands of hair back off her forehead then put it on again and shook out her long skirts. The horse snorted. She laughed and did a slow pirouette. “I know…it is all foolishness. But it makes a lady feel better to look her best. Even in the midst of a storm.”
“Talking to yourself or Comanche, Miss Allen?” Zachary Thatcher swiped water off his face and gave her a crooked grin. “It usually takes longer than a few weeks in the mountains for that to happen. Besides, you’ve no need to be worrying about such things. I’ve never seen a time you didn’t look pre—fine.” He stepped past her and shoved the keg back under the spouting water.
What was she supposed to say to that? She ignored the warmth his comment spread through her and turned her back and braced a hand against Comanche’s shoulder. Zachary Thatcher’s grin was having a queer effect on her knees. “Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Thatcher.”
Prairie Courtship Page 12
