by Marie Caron
Cassandra, who was ten years my junior, was wiping Mr. O’Hara’s brow with a damp cloth, her eyes as big as saucers as she looked up at me.
“You go and get something to eat, Cassie. Miss Collins can help me now.” The girl handed me the cloth and hurried to join her friends and their parents while I knelt on the ground next to Mr. O’Hara’s head. His eyes were closed, and I knew without asking that he was unconscious.
“I need to clean his wounds, but first I’ve got to cut away his clothes. This won’t be easy; they’re stuck in his blood,” she explained, holding a knife in one hand. “You won’t be sick, will you?” she asked, and I shook my head.
“No.” Having grown up at military outposts, I had seen plenty of wounded men before, and I had nursed quite a few too.
First, she unfastened the top of his trousers, yanking them down a bit, out of her way. Then, with deft precision, she slipped the tip of the sharp knife under the bottom edge of the bead-and quill-decorated leather shirt and drew the blade up to the neck opening. The laces across his upper chest had already been loosened to expose a V of smooth, tanned skin. She quickly removed the laces, and then she flipped the edges of the ruined shirt back as far as they would go. Next, she began to cut away the long sleeves, exposing smooth, nut-brown skin, along with bulging muscles, to my curious eyes. I had never seen arms like these before, and my mouth fell open of its own accord.
“You ever done any nursing before?” Elizabeth asked, but I was too stunned to speak.
I couldn’t speak. All I could do was stare at him, at the high rib cage, the broad chest, and the flat belly, and those beautiful, muscular arms. And skin so smooth and golden brown that it looked like melted caramel. I also couldn’t help but notice the dark tuft of hair peeking out from the open waistband of his buckskin trousers. My heart thudded in my chest as I imagined what those trousers concealed. What I could see was godlike. That was the only way my besotted mind could describe a body such as his. A body too precious to die.
Suddenly I felt angry. This man had an important job to do. He wasn’t supposed to die because some stupid children had wanted to play in the creek!
“Samantha, I asked if you’ve ever done any nursing before. If you’re not able to help me, you can go find someone who can,” Mrs. Young said irritably as she removed the unconscious man’s shirt a piece at a time.
“Yes, I can help,” I assured her, finally finding my voice. Too ashamed to admit I’d been daydreaming about Mr. O’Hara’s body, I held my chin up and tried to appear unaffected by his nakedness.
“Good. Now get me some of that boiled water. Use that bowl over there,” she said, pointing with her chin toward a large white china bowl adorned with delicate blue flowers. Thinking that the bowl was probably part of a washstand set and looked much too pretty for the purpose for which it was to be used, I did as she asked anyway and then set the bowl of hot water next to her on the ground. Then I went around to his other side and helped support his upper body while she pulled the cut and torn shirt out from under him.
Now his injuries, which were mainly on his chest, left arm, and neck, seemed to jump out at me as fresh blood seeping from the wounds glistened in the firelight. Great, dark gashes marred his otherwise-smooth chest from his left shoulder down across his ribs. There were shallower cuts and a few puncture wounds on his left arm and on the left side of his brown, sinewy neck, but thankfully, they were barely bleeding. Using the sterilized water, Elizabeth cleaned the wounds carefully before dousing them with a powder, which I knew was used to prevent infection. To the lesser cuts she gently applied a salve with the tips of her fingers.
As I watched her steady hands tending to his injuries, I folded some of the squares of bedsheet Mary had provided into thick pads. Then, together, we placed them over top of the wounds and bound all but the worst one with long strips of sheet, wrapping the ends around his body. To accomplish this I held him, his back against my chest in a half-seated position while Elizabeth wrapped the cotton strips around him. When one became folded or tangled, I helped her smooth it into place. When she was satisfied that the wound was bound adequately, she tied the ends of the bandage and sat up straight, wiping the perspiration from her forehead with the back of one hand.
“Thank you, Samantha. I can tell you’ve done this before,” she said. I took it as a compliment and smiled. It was good to feel useful once more.
“I used to help the doctor when we lived at Jefferson Barracks. I had hoped to study nursing in Philadelphia, but Papa was transferred. And then he got sick. That’s one of the reasons he retired,” I replied. The other reason was to see me married before he died, but my pride wouldn’t allow me to admit that I was such a lost cause that my father had to find me a husband. I liked Mrs. Young. She made me feel at ease, and it was obvious she respected me at least a little. I didn’t want to lose that respect by reminding her of what an inferior female I was.
Elizabeth hummed her understanding as she studied the deepest rent in the man’s flesh. “This one needs stitches,” she said as she threaded a needle with something she’d pulled from a bottle of alcohol. The milky filament, probably animal sinew, was thicker than ordinary thread, and just the thought of it being pulled through that beautiful skin made my stomach roil. Somehow I managed to swallow the bile that rose in my throat.
“You’ll need to hold him still in case he comes to while I’m closing it,” she told me in her no-nonsense way. I took a deep breath and tried to prepare myself. Placing my hands on his shoulders, I leaned over him, marveling at the stubbly, gray-and-black growth on his lower face, his straight nose, the sculpted lines of his lips, and the deep clefts in his cheeks. He wasn’t handsome in the classical sense of the word, but he was very attractive in my eyes, and I found myself wondering what it would be like to bend down and touch my lips to his. Before I knew it, Elizabeth was done sewing him up, and it was time to apply a bandage to the wound. Though I wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, I felt disappointed when it was done and I no longer had an excuse to touch his warm, smooth skin. I was thoroughly besotted, and I knew it.
While we sat together near our patient, eating the bowls of the bean soup I had fetched for us from the communal pot, Elizabeth and I talked about what our lives had been like before we joined the wagon train. She had been widowed before Cassandra was even born, her husband having been killed in a cave-in in the mine where he worked as a doctor, back in Pennsylvania. He’d gone into the mine to try and save lives and had lost his own in the process. She had been learning from him, hoping to one day become a doctor herself.
“When I found out I was pregnant, Geoffrey wouldn’t allow me near the mine. After he died, I had no means of support. The Sisters of Mercy took me in. They’re a Catholic religious order. They run an orphanage and a home for unwed mothers. That’s where I learned to be a midwife. Cassie was born there,” she said, lifting her eyes to my face as though wondering what my reaction would be to her less-than-orthodox lifestyle.
The mention of unwed mothers made me blush, but I tried not to look shocked. I had previously noticed the little gold crucifix she wore around her neck, and now I thought I understood why she wore it. Her faith had supported her in her time of need, and she had reached out to help others. My admiration for this woman was doubling by the minute.
She took another bite of stew and continued her story. “Cassandra was a miracle baby. She was two months early, and I thought for sure I would lose her and have nothing left of my dear Geoffrey. But thanks to the young doctor attending me, Cassie survived.”
“What happened?”
“Well, did you know the common practice with premature babies is to bathe them in ice water?”
“What!” I was horrified to say the least.
“I know; isn’t that barbaric! Well, instead, he kept her warm and dry, and…well, you can see the result,” she said as she glanced over her shoulder to where Cassandra was playing jump rope with two of the other girls. “She’s still so
mewhat delicate. That’s why I had a fit when I found out she’d taken her shoes and stockings off and waded in the creek. She knows better, but…” She shook her head as if to say, “Kids will be kids.”
“She seems fine,” I commented, trying my best not to stare at Mr. O’Hara’s chest or his face or any other part of him. But I couldn’t help it! In my eyes, his body—at least the parts I could see—was breathtakingly beautiful. His legs, which were still encased in those taut leather britches, appeared long and muscular. His belly was flat, and his chest was smooth and hairless. I had seen men’s chests before, but they were always covered with whorls of wiry-looking hair. Seeing one that was as smooth as a baby’s bottom made my heart skip a beat.
“It’s the Indian in him. They don’t have a lot of body hair,” Elizabeth stated out of the blue. I blushed. She had obviously seen me staring at his chest. I was mortified! I simply nodded and tried not to look at him again.
It was late by the time we finished our supper, and by then, Cassandra had tired of playing with her friends and was getting ready for bed. Since this wasn’t his night to tend the livestock, my father was nodding off in his rocking chair, which he had strategically placed where he could keep an eye on me. Soon it would be time to urge him to go to bed without me, and I knew he’d put up a fuss. I intended to stay awake as long as I was needed, to keep an eye on Mr. O’Hara. He still hadn’t awakened, and I was getting worried.
“Do you think he hit his head?” I asked Elizabeth, who had been busy emptying the dirty water and disposing of Mr. O’Hara’s ruined shirt in the communal fire. She was kneeling next to him now, her fingers around his wrist. I knew she was taking his pulse.
“No, I think he’s just in shock. The brain goes to sleep sometimes, to give the body time to heal. Well, it’s been a long day,” Elizabeth said then, and she yawned. “If you wouldn’t mind watching him for a few hours, I’d like to get some sleep. Or I could ask Mrs. Cranmer to watch him,” she offered, looking at me as she rubbed her lower back with both hands.
“No, I’ll do it. Just give me a few minutes to get Papa to bed.” I was back lickety-split, having promised Papa that I’d scream bloody murder if the man even so much as looked at me cross-eyed. I would do no such thing, of course, but I wasn’t about to admit it to Papa. There was no way I was going to lose my nursing position, especially when there wasn’t much else I could do to help. Not to mention the fact that the patient was of such great interest to me that I could barely think of anything else.
So, even though I knew my curiosity about Mr. O’Hara could get me into trouble, I vowed to take the very best care of him that I could. After all, I reasoned, he was necessary to all of us.
Chapter 5
I sat leaning against the big wheel of Mrs. Young’s wagon, desperately trying to remain awake, but I was fighting a losing battle. Except for the occasional crackling and popping of the logs on the fires, the camp was quiet. Other than the men standing watch and the herdsmen who were out in the meadow with the oxen and other animals, everyone had turned in. I had just shut my eyes for possibly the hundredth time when Mr. O’Hara began to stir. I sprang to my knees next to him as he moved his arms and legs and moaned. Then, suddenly, he opened his eyes, pushed himself up on his elbows, and stared straight at me.
“What happened?” he asked gruffly, and my heart leaped up into my throat. Just hearing that smooth, masculine voice made me feel jittery, like a calf heading to be branded.
“You were attacked by a bear. You mustn’t get up; you’re hurt,” I told him as I pushed down on his bare shoulder with one shaking hand. He seemed to consider my statement as he lifted his head and broad shoulders, tilting his chin down to look at his bandaged chest. The blanket, which had covered him from neck to foot, fell to his waist, revealing the white bandages around his chest and upper arms.
“How long?” he asked as he lowered his head and shut his eyes.
“You’ve been unconscious about six hours,” I responded, guessing what he wished to know.
“Did I kill it?” he asked through gritted teeth. It was obvious he was in a lot of pain.
“No, but one of the men did. Captain Baker, I think,” I told him, and he grunted as if to say he was satisfied that at least the bear was dead.
“My horse…”
“One of the men brought it back to camp. Don’t worry, he’s being taken care of,” I assured him. “What’s his name?” I asked as I offered him a drink of water, holding a ladle to his lips as he quenched his thirst.
“Thunder.” His reply was almost a whisper. He’d been able to hold his head up for a couple of minutes, but now it fell back to the bed, and his eyes closed again, as though the effort had been too much for him. His eyes remained closed, and soon his breathing became regular. I was sure he’d fallen asleep, so I sat back and tried to rest, although leaning against the wheel of Mrs. Young’s wagon was extremely uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I soon began to relax, and my mind began to wander.
Except for the occasional hoot of an owl, it was deathly quiet, and my thoughts quickly turned to the conversation I’d had with my father as I was helping him into our wagon for the night.
“He’s a wild one, that O’Hara. He’s not like other men, so don’t go getting attached to him, Samantha.”
“Papa, I’m not going to marry him; I’m just going to nurse him,” I said smartly, earning a critical look from Papa.
“I know that, daughter, but he’s a single man with two eyes in his head. He’s likely never seen a girl as pretty as you before.”
“Oh, Papa, you say the sweetest things. But I must point out that you are very prejudiced.”
“And for good reason. You look like your mother, God rest her soul, and she was a beauty…Everyone said so. Don’t go wasting yourself on some no-account fur trapper. Your future waits for you in Sacramento,” he said, reminding me of the man he intended for me to marry.
I knew that Papa meant well, but I couldn’t help but wonder why Mr. Parker hadn’t found a wife in Sacramento. I also wondered what I would feel for him when I finally met him. It seemed my hopes of marrying for love just wouldn’t die.
Now I found my eyes and my thoughts straying to the man on the ground in front of me. I had once again covered him with the wool blanket, but I could still see his bare chest and arms in my mind’s eye. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted to see more, to know more about this enigmatic man. Where had he come from? Who were his parents? Was he married, and where did he live when he wasn’t working as a wagon-train scout? My mind was awhirl with questions, but just coming right out and asking him seemed rude. If I wanted to get to know him better, I needed to spend more time alone with him. But, as he healed, my nursing skills would be required less and less, and there wasn’t anything I could do about that.
However, fate interceded when, the very next afternoon, one of Mr. O’Hara’s wounds showed signs of infection. The deep gash in his chest turned an angry red, and the area around it swelled. Normally the wagon train didn’t stop for the noonday meal. We usually ate a cold lunch of cheese, bread, and fruit as we went, but today, Captain Baker made an exception so that Elizabeth could clean out, restitch, and rebandage Mr. O’Hara’s wound. Once that was done, we continued on our way.
Since Elizabeth’s daughter was susceptible to chest infections, and the night air wasn’t good for her, Cassandra needed to sleep inside their wagon, so I volunteered to let Mr. O’Hara recuperate in ours. And, though Papa hadn’t been very happy about it, being a gentleman, he had smiled at Mrs. Young and said it would be no trouble at all. He declared that we could sleep outside under our wagon until Mr. O’Hara was well, and so that’s what we did.
* * * *
Often the ladies preferred walking to sitting in the rocking, bumping wagons. And while oxen were dependable, they were very slow, so it was easy to keep up with their plodding gate. I looked forward to the exercise each day, as did the others. Plus, walking provided us women with an opportunity to
gossip…not that I participated, of course. I had always been a very private person and detested gossiping. However, I did enjoy listening, and, lucky for me, that day the conversation centered on my patient. Esther Hudson, the wife of Papa’s good friend, seemed to know a lot about our half-breed scout, as she referred to him, and I was eager to hear what she had to say.
“The colonel and I first met him when he was just a young man. He went to school with our oldest daughter, Christina, at the Arkansas post. She lives in New Orleans with her husband and three children now. He’s a doctor. Could get work anywhere he wanted. I do wish they’d leave that unpleasant town. It’s bug-infested, don’t ya know, all swamps and bogs, and the heat is unbearable in the summer.” Esther stopped and put a hand to her throat as though she could feel the heat and dampness. “Oh, dear, where was I?”
“You were saying that you met Mr. O’Hara when he was in school,” her niece, Clara, reminded her.
“Ah, yes. His mother was a pretty thing. Used to bring him to school on her horse. I heard she was a full-blooded Cherokee princess,” she whispered loudly enough for the six of us to hear. Several of the women gasped. “His father was always off somewhere. He was a trapper, you see. But he wanted his son to have an education. Insisted upon it.”
“Maybe he vanted his son to have a better life than he had,” one of the women I didn’t know very well suggested. She had a German accent. A little girl with blonde ringlets and big blue eyes clung to her skirts. The child kept sneaking peeks at me. I finally winked, and she began to giggle.
