Prairie Courtship

by Dorothy Clark

  The young man hopped up onto the wagon tongue, leaned down and lifted a pailful of the heated flat rocks to the seat, then leaned down and lifted another.

  “Thank you, Matthew.” Emma dumped the stones out of the first pail onto the lid of the red box, tossed in the iron teapot and the bags of herbs and reached for the other pail. “I shall need more when these cool.”

  He nodded. “They’re gatherin’ ’em now. I’ll bring ’em soon’s they’re hot.” He grabbed the pails and hopped down.

  “And Matthew, please tell your mother and Olga Lundquist I need some good, strong meat broth for Mr. Thatcher. And also, some summer savory and sage tea. The herbs are in the pail.” Emma closed the flaps, covered one of the stones with a towel and carried it to the bed. She lifted the covers, tucked the wrapped stone next to Zachary Thatcher’s shivering body and hurried back for the next one. Please let this work. Please…

  The prayer rose in a continual stream from her heart as she concentrated on wrapping the heated rocks and placing them around Zachary Thatcher as quickly as possible, her ear tuned to the sound of the air whistling in and out of his lungs, his hard coughs and his feverish mutterings. She closed her mind to the word pressing against her will. Not even in her thoughts would she admit Zachary Thatcher had pneumonia. Or that it might already be too late to save him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Emma glanced up at the sound of someone climbing to the wagon seat, caught a glimpse of Lydia Hargrove’s face, then skirts being shaken into place. She smiled when Lydia poked her head through the opening of the canvas flaps.

  “Here is the tea, Emma.” She set the towel-wrapped iron teapot on the lid of the box and started to climb in.

  “No, Lydia, do not come in!” Emma scurried from her place on the floor beside the bed to stop the woman from entering. “Mr. Thatcher is contagious, and I do not want you to sicken.” She grasped the teapot and placed it on the top of the dresser out of the direct draft. “Thank you for making the tea so quickly, Lydia.” She poured a bit of the hot liquid into a cup.

  “It’s little enough to do. The broth is cooking.” Lydia glanced at Zachary Thatcher. “How is he?”

  Emma hesitated, then took a breath and shook her head. She could not lie. “He’s not well.”

  “His breathing sounds labored.”

  “Yes.”

  Lydia fastened her gaze on her. “He looks fevered.”

  Do not make me say it, Lydia! She nodded, went to her knees on the floor and set the cup down to lift Zachary Thatcher’s head and shoulders. He was too heavy for her. She could not hold him and the cup. Tears smarted at the backs of her eyes. She bit her lip to keep them from flowing, and tried again. Fabric rustled. Lydia Hargrove’s skirts appeared, ballooned out as the woman knelt beside her and slipped her arm beneath Zachary’s raised head and shoulders. “I’ll hold him. You give him the tea.”

  Emma shot her a grateful look, grabbed the cup and raised it to Zachary Thatcher’s mouth. He turned his head away, rolled it side to side. “Draw sabers!” He jerked his arm from beneath the covers, raised it. “Charge!” His arm dropped to the bed, and he went limp.

  She touched the cup to his mouth again. “Drink this, Mr. Thatcher. It will help your cough and your fever.” There was no response. She tipped the cup so the tea touched his parched lips. They parted. She poured a little of the liquid in his mouth and he swallowed, then swallowed again, and again. He burst into a fit of coughing, grabbed at his chest. “Lift him higher, Lydia!” She put down the cup and rubbed his back as Lydia raised his shoulders. When the paroxysm passed, she fluffed his pillow, piled the extra pillow on top of it and they lowered him to rest against them. He was shaking with chills. She tucked his arm back under the covers and pulled them up close around his head.

  “How long has he been like this?”

  Emma looked at Lydia, then averted her gaze. Knowledge of Mr. Thatcher’s dire condition was in the woman’s eyes. “I cannot say. He was like this when they found him this morning.” She rose, stepped to the keg and ladled some of the cold water into the wash bowl.

  “Fool man! Why didn’t he come get help when he come down sick?”

  Because of me. The pain stabbed deep. She had fought him for her patients’ sakes, and because of that Zachary Thatcher was…was— Emma swallowed hard, tossed a cloth in the water, wrung it out and folded it. Fortunately, judging from the tone of her voice, and the look of disgust on her face, Lydia was not expecting an answer. She fixed her professional doctor’s expression on her face and carried the cloth to the bed and laid it on Zachary Thatcher’s forehead. He muttered something unintelligible and turned away.

  “Ain’t a man born got the brains God give a goose when it comes to takin’ care of hisself!” Lydia frowned down at Zachary Thatcher, then lifted her gaze. “I expect that’s why God made us women. Though it sure is worryin’ for us.”

  It is indeed.

  “I’d best be gettin’ back to help Olga with the broth an’ such.” Lydia fixed an assessing gaze on her. “We’ll send along some good, nourishing soup an’ biscuits for you. You’re lookin’ a mite peaked.” She rose and stepped to the red box.

  “Lydia…” The woman looked back at her. “My Papa Doc taught me to always wash my hands when I left a patient. He said it keeps the illness from spreading.” She smiled at the older woman. “Thank you for your help. You will find soap and hand balm beside the washbowl.”

  The day passed in a blur of worry and work. Emma wrapped heated stones, coaxed spoonfuls of soup and swallows of tea into Zachary Thatcher and searched her memory for every tiny crumb of information Papa Doc had given her on treating someone with his disease.

  She remembered Papa Doc’s story of how he had discovered the benefit of fresh air for the patient with straining lungs while he had been caring for the then Laina Brighton, and dived into the dresser to find her Augusta spencer in bottle-green velvet. She put the short jacket on beneath her doctor’s coat, tucked the covers more snugly around Zachary Thatcher and opened the canvas flaps a bit to let the brisk September air blow through the wagon.

  She folded her extra sheets into a bundle, enlisted Matthew’s help to lift Zachary Thatcher’s head and shoulders, and slipped the bundled sheets beneath his pillows to further elevate his torso and stretch his chest to aid the expansion of his lungs.

  Nothing helped. In spite of all she did, Zachary Thatcher’s condition worsened. During the night his fever climbed. His cough deepened. His chills became so severe they shook his entire body, and his lungs rasped and wheezed with his efforts to breathe.

  She tried to maintain a professional detachment, but with every passing minute her fear increased. She was losing the battle. Zachary Thatcher could die, and it would be her fault. She was the reason he was so sick, and she was not a good enough doctor to save him. Guilt warred with reason. Fear undermined determination. And finally, tears overcame her will. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed out her misery. “Oh, Papa Doc, I wish you were here! If only you were here.”

  We are doctors, Emma…not God. Never forget that. And never fail to pray for your patients.

  Anger shook her. She jerked her head up and swiped the tears from her cheeks. “I prayed for Annie’s baby, Papa Doc. I did! I begged God to let her live, but she died. Little baby Grace died in my arms! And I prayed Caroline would get well so William could have his dream of coming to Oregon country. I prayed and prayed, but she did not. I prayed Annie would get over her grief. She has not! I—”

  Trust Me.

  The words rang through her spirit. Emma caught her breath, clenched her hands and stared at the canvas arching over her head. “No, God. Not anymore. I am afraid to trust You.”

  Zachary Thatcher coughed, coughed again. He arched his back, his lungs struggling to draw in air, then went limp.

  She leaned over him, clutched his shoulders and gave them a violent shake. “Mr. Thatcher! Mr. Thatcher, breathe!” Her lungs strained to suck in life-givi
ng air for him. His remained silent, deflated. Panic took her. She collapsed to her knees, sobbing into her hands. “Oh, Heavenly Father, there is nothing more I can do. You are the source of life. Please…please breathe for him…”

  A soft, rasping whistle broke the silence. It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. She held her breath, listened. It came again. She lifted her trembling hand and placed it on Zachary Thatcher’s blanket-covered chest, felt the slight rise and fall as his lungs filled to their impaired capacity then emptied. She did not know if it were answered prayer or mere coincidence. But she knew what William and their mother and Papa Doc would say…and do. She closed her eyes, allowed her heart to open to her shattered faith. “Thank You, Heavenly Father. Thank You.” Peace washed over her. A peace she had not felt since she turned away from God in anger.

  She stayed there a few minutes watching Zachary Thatcher breathe, then lifted the cloth from his forehead and wiped the sheen of sweat off his face. His skin was cooler against her hand. His shivering abated. She studied his face. He was sleeping normally. The crisis was over.

  If a patient with pneumonia survives the crisis, it is most likely that, with proper care, he will live.

  With proper care. She would see to that…somehow. In spite of Zachary Thatcher’s disdainful feelings toward her. She rose on her shaky legs and stepped to the front of the wagon to tell the others she would need no more heated stones. Dawn was lightening the eastern sky.

  Emma shifted the pail to her other hand and made herself slow her steps. Lydia was with him. He was sleeping normally. He would be all right. Unless he did something foolish and caused a relapse.

  She sighed and smoothed the tabs at the hem of the spencer over her knotted stomach as she started up the rise. This urgent need to be with Zachary Thatcher, to reassure herself he was still alive and on the mend, was foolishness. But it had been such a close thing she still could not believe it. And telling herself it was so did not help. But her feelings and needs were not important. The best thing she could do for Zachary Thatcher right now was to take care of Comanche.

  She smiled and looked down at the pail as she crested the low hill. How fortunate that William loved oatmeal with honey for his morning meal. She had found a large bag of rolled oats and a sealed crock of honey among the food stores in Annie’s wagon. Comanche should—

  A low nicker greeted her. She looked up, relief making her knees go weak. She had not realized until that moment how afraid she was that the horse would not have returned. “Hello, Comanche. I brought you a treat.” She held out the pail.

  The horse stretched his neck, snuffed then drew back and tossed his head.

  “Ah, so you want to be coaxed, is that it?” Emma laughed and tipped the bucket toward him. “You know you want the oats and honey. You might as well give in.”

  The roan snuffed, drew his head back and thudded his hoof against the ground.

  “Hmm, stubborn are you? All right. I will set the bucket down. But I will not go away.” She placed the pail on the ground at her feet. “If you want the treat, you must come get it.”

  The horse jabbed his nose toward her, then stepped back, dragging his feet.

  “I know…you want me to leave, but I am staying right here.” She sobered. “You cannot outwait me, Comanche. You are too important to your master. You might as well make friends.”

  The horse flicked his ears, took a step forward.

  “Good boy, Comanche.” She kept her voice low, confident. “Take another step.”

  The roan stepped toward her, stuck out his head and snuffed at the bucket.

  She stood perfectly still.

  He stuck his nose in the pail, then lifted his head and crunched the mouthful of sweetened oats. A minute later, he shoved his nose back in the bucket.

  “Good boy, Comanche.” Emma lifted her hand and stroked the horse’s hard, heavily muscled shoulder. His flesh rippled beneath her hand, but he did not move away. She slid her hand up. “You have got tangles in your mane.” She scratched beneath the long, thick hair, then ran her fingers through it. Comanche crunched on. She smiled and began finger-combing out the snarls.

  Zach came awake, his heart pounding. Something was wrong. He felt as weak as a new fawn. He stayed perfectly still, listening, smelling, assessing his situation before he moved. Had he been wounded? He mentally searched his body for pain, found nothing but the incredible weakness. And thirst. His mouth felt dry as dust, and his body was screaming for a drink of water. He ignored the need. The greater need was to know what had happened to him. Where he was.

  There was a hint of golden light against his eyelids. A lantern turned down low? So it was night. A soft breathing to his right alerted him to the fact he was not alone. He pressed his fingers down slightly, expecting hard earth, finding a yielding softness. Soft weight held him in a cocoon of warmth. Where was he? Wind moaned. There was a sound of fabric rippling. He inched his hand to the side beneath the warm weight, found cold wood. Floorboards? He was in a wagon. Whose? And how had he gotten here?

  Zach opened his eyes a slit, waited. When they had adjusted to the dim lantern light he slid his gaze to the right. His heart jolted. Emma Allen was sitting on the wagon floor, leaning against a pillow that was propped against a dresser. She was wrapped in a quilt, only her head showing. Her long lashes lay like smudges against her skin. Her lips were parted slightly in slumber, and tresses of her hair trailed along her cheek and curled onto the quilt. Emma Allen. Doctor Emma Allen. Memory flashed. Yes. He had been sick. Very sick. That would explain the weakness. And the tiredness. And the doctor. And— It was her wagon! He should not be here. Did the woman give no thought to her reputation?

  Zach scowled, considered waking her, but the exhaustion overrode his need for answers. Tomorrow would be soon enough. For now he would go to his camp. He shoved against the floorboards, found no strength in his arms. He lifted his head, tried again. The effort exhausted him. He dropped back against the downy pillows and closed his eyes to rest and gather strength for another try.

  Emma took another peek from under her lashes. Zachary Thatcher had succumbed. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed. The rise and fall of his chest under the blankets was slow and even. The weakness from the pneumonia had defeated him. He was fast asleep.

  She frowned and fully opened her eyes to study him. What was the man thinking, trying to get up and leave? In the cold of the night? To go where? Back to his camp to roll up in a horse blanket? He could relapse and die. Why would he do such a thing? Was his desire to avoid her that strong?

  Hurt washed over her. She called up anger to fight it. Zachary Thatcher was an arrogant, stubborn, ungrateful man! Yet her fingers itched to touch him, to take his pulse, to feel his forehead and be certain he was all right. Perhaps that made her a good doctor, but it also made her a very foolish woman.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Emma had not stomped her foot since she was a very young girl, but she was close to doing so now. She looked at Lydia Hargrove for support, read the “let it be, they will not listen” look in her eyes and took a calming breath. “Mr. Thatcher, you are not a well man. You need rest and—”

  “And this wagon train needs to get moving.” His voice was quiet, implacable. But not nearly as strong as normal.

  She watched him set his breakfast plate aside and stand, did not miss the shiver he tried to hide, nor his careful movements that betrayed his weakened state. At least there was no sign of recurring fever. She clenched her hands at her sides to keep from placing one on his forehead to be sure. She looked at his set jaw and turned to the others. “Mr. Hargrove, you are the leader of this wagon train. You can order—”

  “Thatcher has full say. And he is right. The train has to keep moving. We’ve already lost a full day’s travel and more.” The older man gave her a piercing look. “You don’t understand the importance of our decision, Miss Allen, and—”

  “Mr. Hargrove, I fully understand the import of your decision.”
She looked straight into the portly man’s deep-set eyes. “It is you, sir, who do not understand. Tell me—” she swept her gaze over Joshia Blake, Charley Karr and back to John Hargrove “—who is going to lead us out of these mountains if Mr. Thatcher has a relapse and dies? Do any of you know the path we must take to reach Oregon country?”

  She swallowed back the lump of anger rising to clog her throat and looked at the subject of her fear. There was no sign of yielding. “Will you at least wear a coat and do all in your power to keep yourself from taking a further chill, Mr. Thatcher?” She jutted her chin in the air. “I assume you have a coat as you are so concerned about the snows in the mountains! I can only hope your concern for the welfare of these people lends itself to your deigning to obey my instructions that far!”

  She pivoted on her heel and stormed off toward her wagon, too furious, worried and afraid for Zachary Thatcher to watch him leave camp.

  Zach guided Comanche through the stand of pitch and spruce pine at the foot of the hill, choosing the best path for the following wagons, snapping off branches to point the way when he changed direction. The wagons would have a hard time of it coming down that steep descent. It had taken all his strength to stay upright in the saddle. He rode out into the open, shivered as the air sinking off the mountains touched his neck with its icy fingers and chased down his spine.

  He reached up and pulled the collar of his sheepskin-lined buckskin coat higher. He hated to admit it, but Miss Allen was right. He was not well. He was still weak and easily chilled. He frowned and tugged his shrunken hat down lower on his forehead. His body had betrayed him. He had figured he would get stronger as the day wore on, the way he always did. The opposite was true. Fatigue such as he had never known pulled at him. He found him self slumping in the saddle. But the air smelled of snow. He had no choice but to push on. If the wagons were caught here in the mountains…