Prairie Courtship

by Dorothy Clark

  “And while shivering so with the cold it’s hard to hold on to things.” Olga Lundquist dipped a cup into the bag at her feet and scooped out rice to add to the pots.

  “That is the reason for the soup, Olga. It will help warm everyone.” Emma squinted her eyes against the smoke and leaned over to peer into the pots. “Should I get you more bacon?”

  “No. You brought a good, generous chunk.”

  Emma nodded, pulled her wool wrap higher up around her neck and smiled at the young girl running toward them. “Hello, Susan.”

  “Hello, Dr. Emma. Ma sent some carrots, and Mrs. Applegate give me some onions to bring for the soup.” Susan Fenton handed the small sacks of desiccated vegetables to Lydia Hargrove, then hunched her shoulders, wrapped her arms around herself and turned her back to the wind. “Ma says do you need me I can stay an’ give ya a hand. She’s sortin’ through the stuff the water soaked to dry it out.”

  Lydia shook her head. “You go back and help your mother, Susan. We have already sorted out and repacked our wagons. It’s—”

  “Dr. Emma! Y’ gotta come quick!” Nathan Fenton ran up and skidded to a stop beside the fire.

  Emma’s stomach flopped. She dropped the spoon and hurried toward him. “What is it?”

  “Edward Swinton fell in the river. Mr. Thatcher got him out, but he’s not wakin’ up.”

  No! Not another child! Emma lifted her skirt hems and ran toward the river, Nathan running along beside her. Please let him be alive, please—

  “Dr. Emma, help me!” Pamelia Swinton sat on the ground beside the river, holding Edward and rocking to and fro and sobbing.

  Emma dropped to her knees and reached for the little boy’s wrist. A slow throb pulsed against her fingers. Too slow. His flesh was icy cold, his skin blue. What should she do? How could she—

  “Thomas and Mr. Thatcher got the water out of him, but he—” Pamelia’s voice choked “—he won’t wake up. So they sent Nathan for you. Edward’s dead, Dr. Emma! But they have to get the wagon out—The Indians—”

  Emma grabbed Pamelia’s shoulders and gave her a quick shake. “Stop it, Pamelia! Listen to me! Edward is not dead. He is only cold.” Too cold. “We must get him warm. Help me get these wet clothes off him.” She jerked the shoes and socks off Edward’s small feet, started tugging at his sodden pants.

  Pamelia released her hold on Edward and yanked at his shirt.

  A whip cracked. Hoofs thumped the ground behind her. Edward’s pants came off in her hands. Emma threw them on the ground, grabbed the hem of Pamelia’s skirt and folded it up over Edward’s legs and feet. “When you get Edward’s shirt off, wrap him in this.” She yanked off her wool wrap and dropped it beside Pamelia. “I will be right back.” She stood and raced to the wagon being pulled up the riverbank. “Mr. Swinton, I need a blanket for your son. Hurry!”

  The man looked down at her, turned and dived into the wagon.

  She looked out at the river and froze. Zachary Thatcher was back in the water, swimming Comanche toward the stock bunched at the opposite riverbank waiting for the herders to start them across. She stared at the wet hair clinging to his bare head, the soaked tunic stretched across his broad shoulders and her heart trembled with fear for him. In this frosty wind… Please— She lifted her gaze upward, gasped. The plateau behind the herders was covered with Indians sitting their horses and watching. So many Indians. Hundreds of them. Watching. If they attacked while the men of the train were split by the river… While Zachary Thatcher was caught in between—

  “Here!”

  She shifted her gaze, caught the blanket Thomas Swinton threw her, stole another quick glance at Zachary Thatcher then ran back to Pamelia and Edward. She was a doctor. She could do nothing about the Indians or the weather or any of the other terrible, frightful hazards of this journey. But she might be able to save young Edward’s life.

  For how long?

  Emma set her jaw, dropped to her knees. She wrapped the doubled blanket around Edward, took him into her arms and started up the slope. For as long as I am alive to fight!

  Pamelia scrambled to her feet and reached for her son.

  Emma shook her head. “I will carry him, Pamelia. Your gown is soaked from Edward’s clothes, you will wet his blanket. Run ahead to the fire and dry your clothes before you take a chill.” She glanced at Pamelia’s face and firmed her voice. “Do not waste time in argument, Pamelia. Edward needs you well to care for him.” Thought of the Indians watching from the plateau sent a shudder through her. A silent prayer rose from her heart. Please, Almighty God, grant that it might be so.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Emma propped her pillows against the sidewall, placed the lantern on the water keg and quickly withdrew her hand. Everything was cold to the touch! She snatched up the extra blanket and draped it around her shoulders, then lifted the covers and sat on the bed, tucking her dressing gown around her legs and pulling the covers over them. The toes of her stocking-clad feet ached from the chill of the floorboards. She wiggled them deep into the downy softness of the feather mattress and leaned back.

  Cold air, radiating off the canvas, sent a shiver down her spine. She jerked forward, tugged the blanket around her shoulders higher around her neck and rested back against the pillows again. What would it be like when they reached those snowcapped elevations? It seemed every day’s climb brought colder weather. And the days were growing shorter, the cold nights longer.

  She frowned, picked up the lap desk and put it on her legs. She was beginning to understand why Mr. Thatcher had been pushing them so hard and fast. And why he found her an…annoyance. But she had to fight for what was best for her patients, even if that ran afoul of his wishes.

  She looked down, absently ran her fingertip over the small scar on the desk, then sighed, blew on her cold hands, rubbed them together and lifted the top. The letters she had written since leaving Fort William stared up at her. Had her other letters reached home yet? Traveler was a strong, fast horse, and Mr. Broadman would not be slowed by traveling with a wagon train. How excited Mary would be to receive them. She smiled, arranged things to her satisfaction and dipped her pen.

  My beloved family,

  I pray this finds you all in good health. Anne is still withdrawn, but we are both well. The weather is deteriorating. Many of our fellow travelers have colds, coughs and sore throats from the wetting they received during our fording of the Snake River. I wrote you of that eventful day. Little Edward is recovered from his near drowning, though he must still be protected from the cold.

  We passed Fort Boise today without stopping, as our path was a long, steady climb that took until nightfall to accomplish. Our camp is by the Powder River. The Indians that have been trailing us left us today as we approached the fort. There is great relief among us all.

  Mr. Thatcher has been pushing us to greater effort than before. Not that we see him. He rides off at dawn to discover our path for the day and choose our next camp. Mr. Blake now makes the nightly rounds of the wagons and relays Mr. Thatcher’s orders. We are approaching the Blue Mountains, and the air grows more chilly with every climb. Do not be concerned, Mother. I have my winter cape.

  I would be remiss, William, if I did not tell you that your wagons are holding up admirably to the journey. Neither Anne nor I have been troubled with the need for repairs. And our wagons do not leak when fording the rivers, save for a little water coming in at the tailgate. That is a blessing that Caroline will be truly grateful for, should you continue to pursue your dream and someday make this journey. I warn you, it is arduous beyond belief! Yet, Anne and I fare well.

  My dearest love to you all,

  Emma

  Emma slipped the letter back into the desk, corked the ink bottle and set the desk aside. She would take care of it tomorrow, when it was warmer.

  She tugged the blanket off her shoulders, shivered at the rush of cold air and hurried to spread the blanket over the bedcovers. Her fingers prickled. She cupped them over th
e lantern chimney a moment, relishing the heat, then extinguished the flame and crawled under the covers, curling up in the warm spot where she had been sitting. Mr. Thatcher had no wagon. Where did he sleep? Most likely out in the open on the hard, cold ground. He seemed impervious to things like weather and frigid water.

  She frowned, burrowed her head deeper into the feather pillow and covered her exposed cheek and ear with the edge of the blanket. He had been thoroughly soaked diving in the river to rescue little Edward Swinton, yet, in spite of the biting wind, he had continued to work to get the stock and herders across safely. She had feared he would sicken, but he was working harder than ever. He no longer came near the wagons, but spent all his time in the saddle searching out their best route. Or was he roaming the mountains “free and unfettered”? And why should she care? It was good that someone should achieve their dream.

  She yawned, turned her thoughts from Zachary Thatcher and determinedly focused them on her plans to travel on to Oregon City and take ship for home. Anne’s injuries were healed and she neither needed nor wanted her now. There was no reason to stay….

  The fatigue dragged at him. His legs felt wobbly as a newborn foal’s. Zach mustered determination in place of his usual strength and slid the saddle from Comanche. Whatever was wrong with him was getting worse. Fear flashed through him. He scowled, tamped it down.

  Maybe Miss Allen would have some medicine—some thing to make him feel better, stronger. He rested a moment, then removed the saddle blanket, draped his arms over Comanche’s broad back and leaned against him trying to absorb his body heat. He couldn’t go to Miss Allen. The woman would probably demand he stop the train and rest! He couldn’t do that. There wasn’t time. He could smell snow in the air.

  The fear pounced again, stronger. He had to get these people out of these mountains before the snow started. He had to! Or they would die. He lifted his shaky hand and wiped a sheen of moisture from his forehead. At least the Indians had kept their part of the bargain he had struck with them and left when the train reached this valley. ’Course, that was not to say they wouldn’t be back. A frown creased his forehead. He couldn’t be sick! He had to fight his way through this weakness. Maybe if he rested…

  “No rubdown tonight, boy.” He took a breath to ease the growing tightness in his chest, coughed at the rush of cold air then winced at the stabbing chest pain the cough produced. Chills chased one another through him. He forced himself erect, stepped back and went to his knees.

  Comanche tossed his head, gave a soft nicker.

  Zach waved his hand in the air. “Go on, boy. Dismissed!” He reached for his bedroll. A fit of coughing took him. The pain in his chest stabbed deeper. He braced himself with his hands on the ground, hung his head and struggled to breathe. The moonlit earth whirled. Give me strength, Lord. Help me. These people need me. He dragged the saddle blanket to him, dropped onto it, grabbed the edge and rolled. It wasn’t big enough to cover him, but it would have to do.

  Comanche plodded close, lowered his head and snuffed. The horse’s breath was warm on his face. And then there was only the darkness…

  “Dr. Allen!” A heavy fist thumped the side of the wagon. “You awake?”

  Emma dropped the lap desk, jerked upright and bumped her head on the lid of the chest. It slammed closed as she bolted to her feet. “I am coming!” She grabbed her wrap and shoved open the canvas flaps above the tailgate, stared down at Josiah Blake and Charley Karr. “What is it?”

  “Somethin’s wrong with Zach. We need you to come with us.”

  Her heart lurched. Bile surged into her throat. Charley Karr was leading a horse. She swallowed and nodded. “Lower the tailgate. I will get my bag.” Please, please let him be all right! She whirled, grabbed the black leather satchel off the dresser, turned back and climbed from the wagon. “Where is he?”

  “Up there.” Josiah Blake gestured toward a small rise to the left of the circled wagons and started walking.

  It was too far. What if they did not reach him in time? What if she were not a good enough doctor to help him? The thoughts tumbled through her head in time with the half-running steps she was taking to keep up with the men’s long, determined strides. She looked at the horse and the rifles, at the men’s grim faces and the bile surged again. If a bear, or wolves, or— “Has Mr. Thatcher been attacked by an animal? Do you have to kill—”

  “His horse.”

  No! Horrid pictures flashed into her head. “Comanche is…injured?” Could she help him?

  “No.” Josiah Blake shot her a sidelong look. “The fool animal won’t let us near Zach. Just keeps circlin’ him and gnashin’ his teeth at us, like some mare with a colt. Ain’t never seen anything like it! We gotta put him down to get to Zach.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Blake! Mr. Thatcher would never want that.”

  The man’s face tightened. “We got no choice.”

  Comanche has never let anyone but me touch him.

  Until that day in the storm. Her pulse raced. “Let me go first, Mr. Blake.” She shot him a pleading look. “Let me try to calm Comanche.”

  He stopped, faced her and shook his head. “No tellin’ what that fool horse might do. He might come at y’, Dr. Allen.”

  “I am not afraid of that, Mr. Blake. Please, for Mr. Thatcher’s sake, let me try.”

  He frowned, rubbed his thumb back and forth on the rifle barrel. She held her breath. Finally, he nodded. “All right, Dr. Allen. We’ll stay out of sight. But we’ll be ready, should you need us. You’ll see the horse when you get up top. Zach’s on the ground beside him.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Blake.” She took a deep breath and ran ahead. The climb was steeper than it appeared. She breasted the top of the rise and stopped, her heart leaping into her throat. Zachary Thatcher was sprawled on the ground, a horse blanket half covering him. Her body twitched with the desire to run to him. She made herself concentrate on the horse standing beside him. “Hello, Comanche. Remember me?” She started forward.

  The roan tossed his head, thudded his hoof against the ground then trotted around his master.

  She stopped. Don’t do this, Comanche! Please! Let me pass. “You do not mean that, boy.” She held her voice low and calm, took a slow step forward. “You know me.” Comanche’s ears flicked. Was that a good sign? She took another step. “And you know all I want is to help your master. I love him, too.” She jolted to a stop, stunned by what she had said. Could that be true? Of course not. It was ridiculous. She pushed the thought aside and took another step. “Please, boy, let me help him.” She stretched out her hand.

  The roan gave a low whicker, tossed his head and stepped toward her. “Good boy, Comanche.” She rubbed his silky muzzle, then rushed to Zachary Thatcher and dropped to her knees beside him. His wrist was cold, his pulse rapid but strong. She placed her hand on his forehead. Hot—in spite of the cold weather. A chill shook him. She jerked off her wrap to cover him, then spotted his bedroll a short distance away and jumped up to get it. One quick yank on the leather thongs and the groundsheet and blanket unrolled on the ground beside him. She dropped to her knees, reached over and gripped the front of his tunic and tugged with all her strength. On the third try, she rolled him onto the bedding.

  He coughed, winced and opened his eyes. “Troops, dismissed!”

  Comanche wheeled and thundered off.

  The men ran up to stand beside her.

  “Heard him yellin’ about troops. He must be ‘dreamin’”

  She shook her head. “No, Mr. Karr, he is delirious.” She grasped the edges of the bedding and covered him. “I can do nothing more for him here. We must get him to my wagon.”

  “I’ll get my horse.”

  Emma nodded, watched Charley Karr run to get his mount and sat back on her heels, holding back tears.

  How would she get him warm? She had every blanket and quilt in the wagon piled on him, but he needed to be warm now. Emma jerked open the chest that held the linens, dropped to her knees and pawed t
hrough the piles of towels and sheets. There had to be a bed warmer…or a soapstone…or a—

  A stone!

  She bolted to her feet, glanced at Zachary Thatcher then scrambled over the red box and ducked through the canvas flaps onto the wagon seat. Josiah Blake was standing by the fire, talking with the men of the train. He looked at a loss. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Mr. Blake!”

  He looked up. There was something close to panic in his eyes. He ran to her wagon. “Is he…”

  “He is the same, Mr. Blake. But I must get him warm. Please have some of the men gather flat stones and warm them in the fire, then bring them to me. And hurry!” She didn’t wait for his answer. She turned and crawled back into the wagon, grabbed the iron teapot from her medical supplies in the box, added some herbs then closed the box, set the teapot down and placed a pile of towels beside it. Please let it work—

  “Squad, right!” Zachary Thatcher jerked upright, coughed.

  “Lie down, Mr. Thatcher! You must stay covered.” Emma grabbed his shoulder.

  “They’re coming around our flank!” He shoved her hand away, tried to rise and fell back, his entire body shaking with a chill. He coughed, coughed again. His face went taut with pain. His eyes closed, and he went still.

  She pulled the covers back over him, tucked them up around the sides of his head, his face hot against her hands. His breath wheezed from his lungs. She brushed the damp hair off his forehead and her doctor’s mien crumbled. If only she had seen him during the past few days, she could have— Her breath caught. She stared down at him and pressed a hand against the sudden sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Was that why he had not come around the wagons? Because he was ill and wanted to avoid her? Did he think that little of her skill? Or was it her personally he derided?

  “Dr. Emma… I have stones for you. Ma had some at the edge of her fire.”

  Emma blinked tears from her eyes and turned back to peer out the front of the wagon, once more the doctor. “Please bring them up to the driver’s seat, Matthew.”