“I’m sorry, Miss Allen. But the wagons form up and travel on tomorrow at dawn, same as always.”
Emma stared at him, disappointment and anger churning in her stomach. “Mr. Thatcher, as a doctor, I am telling you that being bounced and jolted by that wagon will almost certainly cause Ruth Applegate to lose her baby. Perhaps even her life. I am asking you—”
“Have you seen the Indians on the hills, Dr. Allen?”
She stared up at him, taken aback. “The Indians? Yes. But—”
“There are over three hundred of them. There—” he jabbed his finger in the air to their right “—there—” another jab behind them “—and there.”
The last jab was to their left. She peered beyond the circled wagons into the darkness, her heart pounding.
“They surround our camp every night. The only way open is west.”
The quiet, factual way he spoke was terrifying. She shuddered, looked up at him.
“They do not attack the train because I have assured them we are only passing through their territory. They are watching to see if what I say is true.” He stepped closer, locked his gaze on hers. “If these wagons do not roll west tomorrow morning, Dr. Allen, Mrs. Applegate, her baby and every other member of this wagon train will be in grave danger. If we travel on, at least she and her baby have a chance. Now, if you will excuse me, I have guards to post.” He touched the brim of his hat, turned and walked off.
Emma stared after him until he disappeared, then looked around the inner oval. The animals were settling down for the night. Here and there the red embers of dying cook fires shimmered against the dark, or a lantern showed as a dull circle of gold on the canvas of a wagon. Voices, muted and indistinct, floated on the air as men and women finished chores and bid one another good-night. Did any of them know of the danger that lurked out there in the night, waiting to pounce on and destroy them?
There was no lantern light showing in the Hargrove wagon. Little Isaac was asleep. And little Jenny…and Gabe and David… Mary… Emily and Susan and Amy…So many children.
Emma turned and forced her trembling legs to carry her back to her wagon. Ruth was waiting to hear about Isaac. Ruth, who was in danger of losing her unborn baby and, perhaps, her life. And she was helpless to do anything about it.
She climbed to the driver’s box, took a deep breath and fixed a smile on her face. Ruth must be kept calm. She could not let her guess… She ducked beneath the canvas flaps to tell Ruth Isaac was sound asleep.
Zach moved from guard to guard under the cover of the darkness, checking their positions, making sure they were alert without alarming them. Thus far the Blackfeet had kept their word, but their presence was a constant threat—one that weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had not told Emma Allen the whole truth.
He scowled, detoured around a rock outcropping and headed for the far side of the herd. The hard truth was, the Indians were driving them the same as they were driving these oxen and mules and horses. And if they did not move, that open-ended circle would close about them, they would be overrun by the multitude of fierce warriors and his few unskilled, untrained fighting men would die quickly in battle. It would be different for the women and children on the train. His gut knotted. It had been bad enough seeing the horrors visited on women and children he did not know. To think of Emma Allen and—
Emma. She was so beautiful standing there with the moonlight bathing her face. And the way she had looked at him as he walked toward her… For a moment he’d thought…
The knots in his gut twisted tighter. Zach took a firmer grip on his knife and slipped through the night toward his camp. What he had thought had no bearing on the truth. Or on his job. He had to keep this train moving. Now more than ever.
Chapter Fourteen
“Ugh!” The jolt slammed her back against the dresser, her breath gusting from her lungs. Emma clamped her lips together to stop a moan, pushed herself back onto her knees and resumed her gentle kneading of Ruth’s abdomen. The baby was lost, but the bleeding had not stopped, and she refused to lose Ruth, too. She simply refused.
Ruth’s sharp intake of breath alerted her. The flesh beneath her hands went rigid, relaxed, went rigid again. Please! Emma stopped the kneading, checked the rag between Ruth’s legs. At last! She folded the rag over the expelled birth matter, slipped a clean rag in its place, then dropped the dirty one in the pail. The tension in her shoulder muscles eased. Ruth should be all right now. If… No! She would not think that way. Sufficient unto the day…
“The bleeding should stop now, Ruth.” She pulled the nightgown back down over Ruth’s legs and tugged the covers up over her. “I want you to stay well covered. You have lost blood and will take a chill easily.” She sat back on her heels and looked down at her patient. “I am sorry about the baby, Ruth.”
“I know you tried your best, Dr. Emma. And you were right. The cramping and spotting did stop after I went to bed last night.” Ruth turned her face away. “It was the bouncing around this morning that started it again.”
“Yes, but—” Emma raised her head. “Listen!” Chains rattled, hoofs stomped. The very distraction she needed for Ruth. She looked back at her. “Mr. Lundquist is un hitching the oxen. We must have reached our camping spot. It seems dusk comes earlier every day, and our travel time grows shorter and shorter.” She rubbed her upper arms, chilly now that she had stopped working on Ruth. “But it is good that you will be able to have a long night of rest.”
Ruth nodded, plucked at the quilt. “James worries about the weather. It is already so cold at night ice forms on the water in the barrel. He’s afraid snow will catch us in the mountain passes.”
From the sound of Ruth’s voice, James was not alone in his concern. In truth, she had thought about that possibility herself. How could she not with Mr. Thatcher issuing dire warnings of such an occurrence, or of Indian attacks, whenever she asked him to have mercy and stop the train for her patients’ sakes. Emma shoved away thought of the Indians and gave Ruth a wry look. “I am sure the snow would not have the temerity to defy Mr. Thatcher. He will bring us safely through to Oregon country.”
The comment brought forth the smile she was seeking, albeit a weak, listless one. She pushed to her feet and slipped by the bed to peek out of the tied flaps.
“What do you see?”
“We are stopped on a low plateau, very near a river below. I suppose it is still the Snake River.” She undid a tie and tugged the flaps farther apart. The cool September air rushed in. She shivered, closed the flaps and turned back to Ruth. “There are three islands in the river, side by side. Rather like this…” She folded her index finger down with her thumb, spread her extended fingers and held out her hand where Ruth could see it.
“That should make James happy. It will mean plenty of good water, and maybe grass, for the stock.”
“The islands are too small and rocky for grazing. But they are almost on a level with the water. It should make things easier if we are to ford across tomorrow.”
“Dr. Emma…”
“Yes?”
“Where are my clothes, please?” Ruth boosted herself to a sitting position. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done, but there is no reason for me to stay now. I would like to go back to my own wagon.” She swallowed, cleared her throat. “I want to see Isaac. And I—I have to tell James about the baby.”
Emma bit back her objection and lifted Ruth’s clothes off the top of the chest and handed them to her. “You must go right to bed, Ruth. Do not lift or carry Isaac, and do not get chilled.”
“I’ll be careful, Dr. Emma. I’ll keep Isaac in bed with me.” Ruth stood, removed the nightgown and pulled on her shift. “James will not—” She looked away, put on her dress and busied herself with the buttons. “I will be happy to sew you another dress to pay you for all you have done for me.”
“Another dress would be wonderful, Ruth. You do lovely work.” Emma smiled and helped Ruth into her shoes. “We will talk about it when you ar
e stronger.” She picked up a blanket and handed it to Ruth. “Put this around your shoulders while I untie the flaps and open the tailgate, and then I will help you to your wagon.” And see you settled in bed. “But Isaac—”
Emma shook her head, untied the flaps and slid back the latches on the tailgate. “I will go and get Isaac from Lydia, after I help you to bed. Now, take these rags for the spotting, and let me help you down these steps.”
Things had quieted. The children had been called to their wagons for the night. Emma turned her lantern low and peeked out of the flaps. There were no curious youngsters running about who might follow her. She put on her wrap and picked up the small, towel-wrapped bundle she had put on the floor beside the chest out of Ruth’s sight. An image of the tiny baby, of her minuscule hands and feet, filled her head. She forced the image away, put the bundle in the empty pail and climbed from the wagon. Her flesh prickled. She scanned the area ahead as she walked away from her wagon, visions of wild savages with feathers in their hair filling her head, fear quickening her steps.
Moonlight lit her way to the spot she had noticed earlier. She went down on her knees, placed the tiny bundle in the small hollow at the base of the large rock, then gathered up nearby stones to seal off the opening. The smooth cold surfaces numbed her fingertips as she wedged the stones firmly in place.
There. It was done. She dusted off her hands and rose to her feet, then stood looking down at the rock, unable to simply walk away. “I wish you were here, Mother. You would know the right words to say.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “Almighty God, this baby did not grow to know life on this earth. May it know eternal life with You. Amen.”
There was a soft, rustling sound. Her heart lurched. She snatched up the pail and ran for her wagon.
“…that current is mighty swift.”
“The rain has swollen the river, but we should make it across all right. If need be, we will lash the wagons together…”
Emma jerked to a halt. That was Zachary Thatcher talking with Axel Lundquist. He must be making his nightly round of the wagons. Had he discovered her missing? She frowned and headed toward the other end of her wagon. Zachary Thatcher was the last person she wanted to see at—
“Miss Allen…”
Too late. She turned. He was coming toward her, a scowl on his face. “You know the rules, Miss Allen. No one is to go off by themself at night. Especially a woman.”
Emma lifted her chin. “Yes, I am aware of your rule, Mr. Thatcher, but—”
“There are no exceptions, Miss Allen.” He glanced down at the pail dangling from her hand and his scowl deepened. “You were dumping trash? Why didn’t you do that with the others earlier, when it was safe?”
She clamped her jaw together and moved to the tailgate of her wagon. His hand closed on her arm, preventing her from climbing the steps—bringing back the memory of being in his arms.
“You cannot put the other members of this train in danger because of your whims, Miss Allen. From now on—”
She jerked her arm free and whirled about. “It was not a whim that took me off by myself, Mr. Thatcher, it was a baby. A tiny, little baby girl that will never know life because I could not save her! The least I could do was bury her.” Her voice broke. She whipped back toward the tailgate. His hand closed on her arm again. She braced herself against his touch.
“If there is fault to be borne in this circumstance it is mine, Miss Allen.” His deep voice flowed over her, bringing the tears she was struggling to hold back dangerously near to flowing. “I am the one who ordered the wagons to move on in spite of your warning as to the likely consequence. I am sorry for the outcome, but—”
“The fault is not yours, Mr. Thatcher.” She turned and looked into his eyes. “As guide and leader of this wagon train, your task is to keep its members safe. You succeeded. As a doctor, my task is to preserve life. I failed.”
“Miss Allen—”
She shook her head. “Please, do not say more.” She looked down at his hand still holding her arm and took a breath to steady her voice. “Please release me, Mr. Thatcher. I would like to retire.”
He didn’t move.
She stared at his hand, afraid to look at him, afraid to say more for fear the tears that were so close would escape her control. She willed herself to wait, to stay still, when everything within her yearned to step into his arms and cry out her despair in the one place she had felt safe since this wretched journey had begun.
His fingers flexed, lingered. She heard him draw in a quick breath, and then he released his hold.
Cold replaced the warmth where his hand had been, traveled deep inside her. She stepped to the water shelf and hung the pail on the hook on the underside hoping he would not notice the trembling in her hands. When she returned to the back of the wagon he was gone.
Emma gripped the sideboard of the wagon and stared at the roiling, foaming water in front of the oxen. The three fords of the swift-flowing water in the channels between the islands had been frightening. This was terrifying! She looked from Garth Lundquist, who was calming the nervous beasts, to the two wagons that had already made it through the maelstrom to the opposite bank of the river and sucked in a deep breath. William’s wagon was well built and Garth Lundquist was an excellent driver. She would be safe. And Anne. Please let Annie be safe.
Wind flowed down off the surrounding mountains and whipped across the river valley, its cold breath stinging her face and hands. She drew her wool wrap closer about her shoulders, then wiped her clammy hands on her skirt. Her wagon was next.
She took another, firmer grip on the sideboard and watched the pantomime of motions as Zachary Thatcher spoke to Josiah Blake and John Hargrove. The wagons moved away from the riverbank, then, once again, Zachary Thatcher rode upstream and urged Comanche back into the river. The horse struggled against the strong current, his head bobbing on the water, his tail floating at a downstream angle from his body as they drifted diagonally toward the island. When they reached the solid ground at the upper point of the island, man and horse surged free of the water.
Emma focused her attention on the roan, and, less obviously, on his rider. Zachary Thatcher’s belt encircled his neck and one broad shoulder, his holster rested high on his chest. His boots, pants and the lower half of his tunic were sodden. He leaned forward and stroked Comanche’s neck, his mouth moving, his words swallowed by the roar of the rushing water. After a minute or two, he straightened in the saddle. Her stomach flopped. It was time. She faced front, her heart pounding.
Comanche’s hoofs beat against the stony ground, drew closer. Zachary Thatcher rode by on the other side of the wagon and took up a position to the left front of the oxen. Garth Lundquist talked with him a moment, then nodded and ran back, climbed into the seat and took up his whip. He snapped it over the oxen’s broad backs. Comanche plunged into the foaming water, the oxen lunging after him. The wagon lurched and rolled off the island, the roiling water swirling around the floorboards, washing up against the sides and splashing over the sideboard to soak her skirts. She gasped at the touch of the frigid water against her skin. Zachary Thatcher must be—
A rush of water hit them, swept over the oxen. The wagon quivered and slewed sideways. Zachary Thatcher urged Comanche close, plunged his hand into the water then straightened in the saddle, pulling the lead ox’s head up out of the water by a horn. The beast lurched forward, the other oxen following. The wagon straightened, shook and shuddered, buffeted by the water. The old fear rose, clutching her throat, squeezing her chest.
The lead oxen’s shoulders cleared the water, step by plodding step they rose slowly out of the water. They were through the maelstrom! They were safe.
She took a long, slow breath and released her death grip on the seat and sideboard as the wagon broke free from the sucking water and rolled up the sloping bank.
Zachary Thatcher waved them on toward the other wagons, then rode off upstream.
What a mess! Emma swept her gaze
around the circled wagons. Women and children were carrying barrels, boxes and cloth bags of food stores, mattresses and bedding, chests, trunks and household items and clothes out of the wagons to dry. The canvas covers on several of the wagons were rolled up on the sides to let the wind blow through and perform the same service. The frosty wind that made wet or damp clothing torture. There would be colds and sore throats, frostbitten fingers and toes to treat from this day’s work. Thank goodness William had purchased all those medical supplies.
She slid her gaze to her wagon, then brought it to rest on Anne’s. Guilt nudged her. For no good reason. It was not their fault William had the wagon beds shiplapped and caulked so watertight the only place river water had oozed through was around the tailgate. It was their blessing. Still—
Lydia Hargrove chuckled. “Stop borrowin’ trouble, and give these pots a stir, Emma. Making soup to feed everyone was a good idea, but the soup won’t be any good lest you rile the pots every once in a while. Too bad we don’t have one big enough pot!”
“How do you know I was ‘borrowing trouble,’ Lydia?” Emma smiled at the older woman. “Perhaps I was daydreaming.”
“No, you was borrowin’ trouble. You had your doctor face on.”
“My doctor face? Gracious, I was not aware I had one! I shall have to be more careful.” Emma laughed, lifted her arm to protect her face from the smoke and swirled the liquid in the pots with the wooden spoon. In spite of her precaution she got a strong whiff of smoke and started coughing.
Lydia Hargrove straightened from dividing the dried green beans young Amy had brought as the Fletchers’ contribution among the four large iron pots hanging close over the flames and wiped the tears from her eyes. “It’s sure tryin’ to cook on a fire with the smoke blowing in your eyes an’ makin’ them smart so as to blind you.”
Prairie Courtship Page 14
