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Zach frowned and settled back in the saddle. There had been a lot of grumbling when he pushed them to an early start this morning. The problem was the emigrants’ independent spirit. They balked like ornery mules being broke to harness when given orders. It was certainly easier in the military where men obeyed and performed duties as instructed. But it was not as lucrative. And, truth be told, he had his own independent streak. No more fetters of military life for him.
“We are going to be free to roam where we will, when we will. Right, boy?” Comanche flicked an ear his direction, blew softly. Zach chuckled, scratched beneath the dark mane. Of course he had his ambitions, too. A trading post. One that would supply both Indians and army. And the fee for guiding this wagon train to Oregon country, combined with what he had saved from his army pay, would enable him to build one next spring. The large bonus promised—if he got the emigrants to Oregon before the winter snows closed the mountain passes—would buy the goods to stock the place. He intended to earn that bonus. But in order to do that he would have to drive these people hard and fast. It snowed early in those high elevations.
Zach gave Comanche a final scratch and settled back, his lips drawn into their normal, firm line. Too bad they were not all reasonable men like Mr. Allen. It was obvious, even at his first meeting with the emigrants back in St. Louis, that the man understood the need for rules and limitations. Of course that wife of his was a different matter. She had no place on a wagon train with her fancy, ruffled silk dress. He had learned in his days of command to spot troublemakers, and Mrs. Allen spelled trouble with her challenging brown eyes and her small, defiant chin stuck in the air. She looked as stubborn as they came. Beautiful, too. More so today, standing there by the wagon in the soft, morning light.
Zach again crossed his hands on the saddle horn, drew his gaze along the line of wagons. There she was, riding astride, and looking at ease in the saddle. He never would have thought it of her with her fancy gowns and her city ways, but astride she was. Must have had that outfit made special. He’d never seen anything like it. She looked—
He frowned, jerked his gaze away. The woman’s beauty was but a shallow thing. He had overheard her complaining to Allen of their wagon being too small to live in. He shook his head, glanced back at the slender figure in the dark green riding outfit. Coddled and spoiled, that was Mrs. Allen. But she was her husband’s problem to handle, not his. And a good thing it was. He was accustomed to commanding men, not obstreperous women.
The lowing of oxen and braying of mules pulled him from his thoughts. Zach straightened in the saddle, stared at the mixed herd of animals coming over the rise behind the wagons. Those fool boys were letting the stock wander all over the place! And that bull in front looked wild and mean. If he caught a whiff of the river ahead and took it into his head to run—
He reined Comanche around. “Let’s bunch up that herd, boy.” The horse needed no further urging. Zach tugged his hat down firm against the wind, settled deep in the saddle and let him run.
Emma climbed to the top of the knoll, lifted the gossamer tails of the fabric adorning her riding hat and let the gentle breeze cool her neck as she looked back over the low, rolling hills that stretched as far as the eye could see. White pillows of cloud drifted across the blue sky, cast moving shadows on the light green of the new grass. It was a glorious day…except for the occasion.
She frowned, let the frothy tails drop back into place and turned toward the river. Her chest tightened, her breath shortened—the familiar reaction to her fear of water. She’d been plagued by the fear since the day William had pulled her, choking and gasping for air, from the pond on the grounds at their uncle Justin’s home. She’d been reaching for a baby duck and—
“Randolph Court.” Speaking the name drove the terror-filled memory away. Emma closed her eyes, pictured her uncle Justin’s beautiful brick home, with its large stables where she and William had learned to ride along with their cousins Sarah and Mary and James. It was there her mother had taught her to ride astride instead of sidesaddle. A smile curved her lips. She could almost hear her uncle Justin objecting to the practice, and her mother answering, “Now, dearheart, if riding astride is good enough for Marie Antoinette and Catherine the Great, it is good enough for—”
“Lundquist, get that wagon aboard! Time is wasting! We have ten more wagons to ferry across before dark.”
Emma popped her eyes open at Zachary Thatcher’s shout. Was her wagon—“Haw, Scar! Haw, Big Boy!”—No, it was Ernst moving Anne’s wagon forward. She held her breath as her sister’s wagon rolled down the slight embankment toward the river. A figure, garbed in black, appeared briefly at the rear opening in the canvas cover, then disappeared as the flaps were closed.
Annie! What was she doing? She knew Mr. Thatcher had ordered that no one cross the river inside the wagons for fear they would be trapped if— I want you to go home, Emma. It is foolish for you to come along, to place yourself in harm’s way so that you may doctor me when I no longer care if I live or die. A chill slithered down her spine. Surely Annie did not mean to— Her mind balked, refused to finish the horrifying thought.
The wagon halted at the edge of the riverbank. Men rushed forward to help Ernst unhitch the oxen. Others took up places at the tongue, wheels and tailgate. “No! Wait!” Her shout was useless, lost in the clamor below. Emma yanked the front hems of her long skirts clear of her feet and raced down the knoll.
“The teams’re free! Get ’er rollin’!”
The men strained forward, pushed the wagon onto the short, thick planks leading to the deck. Emma dodged around the wagon next in line and ran toward the raft.
“Sutton! Thomas! Chock those wheels fore and aft!” Zachary Thatcher grabbed chunks of wood from a small pile and tossed them onto the deck. “And see you set the chocks firm so that wagon can’t shift or roll. There’ll be no stopping her if she starts slipping toward the water.” He turned toward Ernst. “Lundquist, you get those oxen ready to swim across.”
Emma halted her headlong rush as the men, finished with their work, jumped to the bank. She stood back out of their way and stared at the raft sunk low under the heavy load. Only a few inches of the sides showed above the rushing water of the Kansas River. Every bit of courage she possessed drained from her. But Anne was in that wagon. Anne—who did not care if she lived or died. She drew a deep breath, lifted the hems of her skirts out of the mud with her trembling hands and ran down a plank onto the bobbing ferry. “Mrs. Allen!”
The authoritative shout froze her in her tracks. Emma grabbed hold of the top of the rear wagon wheel, turned and looked full into Zachary Thatcher’s scowling face.
“Come off the ferry and wait for your husband, Mrs. Allen. Everyone is to cross with their own wagon.”
The ferry dipped, shuddered, slipped away from the bank. Muddy water sloshed onto the deck and swirled around her feet. Emma tightened her hold to a death grip on the wheel and shook her head. “My sister, Anne, is lying ill in this wagon, Mr. Thatcher.” She instilled a firmness she was far from feeling into her voice. “I am crossing the river with her.”
“Your sister!” Zachary Thatcher’s face darkened like a storm cloud. “What sister? When did—”
“And I have no husband. William Allen is my brother.”
The ropes attached to the ferry stretched taut with a creaking groan. Emma gasped, turned and fixed her gaze on the men on the opposite bank hauling on the rope. Frightened as she was, the view across the water was preferable to the one of Mr. Thatcher’s furious face. The raft lurched out into the river then turned its nose, caught the current and floated diagonally toward the other side. She closed her eyes and hoped she wouldn’t get sick.
Chapter Two
“The last wagon is safely across, Anne. They are hitching up the teams to pull it up the bank.” Emma hooked back the flap of canvas at the rear of the wagon to let in the evening light. “Perhaps now the camp will settle into a semblance of order.”
“Perhaps. Please close the flap, Emma.”
How she hated that listless attitude! Emma let the flap fall into place and fixed a smile firmly on her face as she stepped to the side of her sister’s bed. “Would you care to take a short walk with me before the sun sets? I want to make certain Traveler and Lady swim across safely.”
“No. You go, Emma.” Anne lifted her hand and pushed a wayward curl off her forehead. “I am weary.”
“And in pain.” Emma dropped the phony smile and frowned. “You cannot move without wincing, Anne. I warned you riding would not be good for your injured ribs. It has irritated them. Your breathing is shallow. I will go get my bag and give you some laudanum to ease the discomfort.” She stepped to the tailgate.
“Please do not bother, Emma. I want no medication—only rest.”
“Annie—”
“I’ll not take it, Emma.”
“Very well.” Her patience had run its course. Emma pushed the canvas flap aside, climbed through the opening then stuck her head back inside. “But I shall return when Mrs. Lundquist has prepared our supper. And you will eat, Anne. You are my patient and I shall not allow you to die—even if you want to!” She jerked the flaps back into place for emphasis, whirled about and headed for a spot beneath a tree to watch the men swimming the stock across the river.
A low hum of voices, broken by the shouts and laughter of children, vibrated the air. From the adjoining field came the lowing of cows and oxen, the neighing of horses and braying of mules. Chickens and roosters, imprisoned in cages lashed to the sides of wagons, cackled and crowed. Dogs barked and snarled at enemies real or imagined.
Such a din! Emma nodded and smiled at the woman and daughter working over a cooking fire and made her way to the outer rim of the men grouped around the lead wagon. Heads turned her direction. Faces scowled. Her steps faltered. She braced herself and continued on.
“Did you want something, Mrs…”
Emma met a thin, bearded man’s gaze. The look of forebearance in his eyes caused a prickle of irritation that fueled her determination. “Only to be obedient to Mr. Thatcher’s order to assemble.”
“This meeting is only for the owners of the wagons. The heads of the families.”
Emma glanced toward the condescending voice coming from her left, stared straight at the rotund, prosperous-looking man who had spoken. “Yes. That was my understanding.”
A frown pulled the man’s bushy, gray eyebrows low over his deep-set eyes. “Now, see here, young woman, we men have business to discuss. This is no time for female foolishness! Go back to your wagon and send your husband, or father, or—”
“My name is Miss Allen, sir.” She kept her tone respectful, but put enough ice in her voice to freeze the Kansas River flowing beside their evening camp. “I have no husband. And my father is in Philadelphia. I am the owner of—”
“Impossible! I personally signed up every—did you say Allen?” The man’s eyes narrowed, accused her. “The only Allen to join our train was William Allen and his wife.”
The man had all but called her a liar! Emma forced a smile. “William Allen is my brother.”
“Then your brother will speak for you, young lady. It is not necessary for you to attend this meeting.”
Emma took a breath, held her voice level. “My brother’s wife took ill and he was unable to make the journey. My sister and I have taken their place on the train.”
“Two lone women!” The exclamation started an up roar.
“Gentlemen!”
The word snapped like a lash. Every head swiveled toward the center of the group. Silence fell as those gathered stared at Zachary Thatcher.
“The trail to Oregon country is two thousand miles of rough, rutted prairies, bogs and marshes, quicksand, swift, turbulent rivers, steep, rocky mountains, perpendicular descents and sandy desert—most of the terrain seldom, if ever, traversed by wagon. Factor in thunderstorms, hailstorms, windstorms, prairie fires and—if we are too often delayed—snowstorms, and everything gets worse. You will never make it to Oregon country if you waste time arguing over every problem that arises. There will be legions of them. And this particular situation is covered by the rules and regulations settled upon by Mr. Hargrove and the other leaders of this enterprise before our departure. Now, to the business at hand. Miss Allen…”
A problem was she? Emma lifted her head, met Zachary Thatcher’s cold gaze and traded him look for look.
“This meeting is about tending stock and standing guard duty. Each wagon owner must shoulder their share of the work. I understand your hu—brother hired drivers. As it states in the rules, hired drivers will be permitted to stand for wagon owners—in this instance, you and your sister. Therefore, Mr. Hargrove is correct—your presence is not required at this meeting.” He turned to the thin man beside him. “Lundquist, your sons—”
The man nodded. “I’ll fetch ’em in.” He faced toward the river and gave a long, ear-piercing whistle.
She was dismissed. Rudely and summarily dismissed. Emma clenched her jaw, stared at the backs of the men who had all faced away from her then turned and strode toward her wagon. A problem! You would think she wanted—
Emma stopped, gathered her long, full skirt close, stepped around a small pile of manure and hurried on. Why was she so discomposed? Her demeaning treatment by the men was nothing new. She had become accustomed to such supercilious attitudes in her quest to be a doctor. Thank goodness Papa Doc did not share such narrow vision! Not that it mattered now. Her dream was not to be. Instead she was on this wagon train of unwelcoming men, headed toward an unknown future in an unknown, unwelcoming country.
Bogs, marshes and quicksand…swift, turbulent rivers…high, steep, rocky mountains… Emma shuddered, looked at her wagon. Her home. It was all she had. The reality of her situation struck her as never before. She sank down on the wagon tongue and buried her face in her hands to compose herself. Not for anything would she let Mr. Zachary Thatcher and those other men see her dismay.
Zach looked at the grazing stock spread out over the fields and shook his head. The men on first watch were taking their duties lightly, in spite of his instructions. But one stampede, one horse or ox or cow stolen by Indians, one morning spent tracking down stock that had wandered off during the night would take care of that. They would learn to listen. Experience was a harsh but effective teacher. So were empty stomachs. A few missed breakfasts would focus their attention on their duties. As for the camp guards—they, too, would learn to take advice and stay alert. Most likely when one of them was found dead from a knife wielded by a silent enemy. His gut tightened. He’d seen enough of that in the army.
He frowned, rode Comanche to the rise he had chosen for his camp and dismounted. He stripped off saddle and bridle, stroked the strong, arched neck and scratched beneath the throat latch. “Good work today, boy. If it weren’t for you, those emigrants would have lost stock while swimming them across the river for sure. But they’ll learn. And your work will get easier.”
The horse snorted, tossed his head. Zach laughed, rubbed the saddle blanket over Comanche’s back. “I know, they’re green as grass, but there’s hope.” He slapped the spots decorating Comanche’s rump and stepped back. “All right, boy—dismissed!” He braced himself. Comanche whickered softly, stretched out his neck, nudged him in the chest with his head then trotted off.
“Stay close, boy!” He called the words, though the command was unnecessary. Comanche never ranged far, and he always returned before dawn. And there wasn’t an Indian born who could get his hands on him.
Zach smiled, then sobered. They were safe from hostiles for now, but once they moved beyond the army’s area of protection it could be a very different story. Sooner, if one of these greenhorn emigrants pulled a stupid stunt that riled the friendlies. “Lord, these people are as unsuspecting of the dangers they’re heading into as a newborn lamb walking into a pack of wolves. I sure would appreciate it if You would help me whip them into shape and grant them Your protection meanwhile.”
He looked toward the red-and-gold sunset in the west, took off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, settled his hat back in place and headed for the wagons. There was one more piece of business to attend to before he turned in.
The small dose of laudanum she had finally convinced Anne to swallow had eased the pain. She would sleep through the night now. Emma pulled the quilt close under Anne’s chin, climbed from the wagon and secured the flaps. It would be a comfort if Anne would consent to share a wagon, but she insisted on being alone. Not that it was surprising. She had resisted all physical contact, all gestures of comfort since Phillip and little Grace had died.
Emma sighed and looked around the center ground of the circled wagons, now dotted with tents. It was so quiet she could hear the murmurings of the few men and women who still sat working around cooking fires that had died to piles of coals. Traveler, Lady and a few other personal mounts were grazing in the center of the makeshift corral, their silhouettes dark against the caliginous light.
She walked to her wagon, lifted a lantern off its hook on the side but could find no means to light it. She heaved another sigh and looked up at the darkening sky. She should probably retire as others were doing, even if sleep eluded her. But to be alone in the wagon without light—
“Good evening.”
Emma gasped and whirled about, the lantern dangling from her hands. “You startled me, Mr. Thatcher!” She pressed one hand over her racing heart and frowned at him. “Is there something you wanted?”
“I need to know why you and your sister have joined this wagon train. What purpose takes you to Oregon country?”
His eyes were hidden by the darkness below his hat’s wide brim, but she was sure he was scowling. She brushed back a wisp of hair that had fallen onto her forehead at her quick turn, then, again, gripped the lantern with both hands. “And how is that your concern, Mr. Thatcher?”
He tilted his hat up, stared down at her. “I am responsible for getting this wagon train to Oregon before winter, Miss Allen. Everything that can endanger that mission is my concern.”
First he called her a “problem” and now he named her an endangerment! Emma lifted her chin, gave him her haughtiest look. “And how does our presence imperil your mission?”
“If you want me to name all the ways, you’d best let me light that lantern. We will be a while.” He held out his hand.
Emma tightened her grip. “I think it would be best for you if I continue to hold the lantern, Mr. Thatcher. At this moment, you would not want my hands to be free.”
Laughter burst from him, deep and full. Surprising. She had thought him quite without humor. Of course he was laughing at her.
“Now that erased one of the reasons on my list, Miss Allen. Seems you might not need quite as much protecting as I figured you would. All the same, I’ll take my chances on freeing up your hands.” He reached for the lantern.
This time she let him take it. She needed that lantern lit. Even more, she needed to know how he would light it. She watched as he walked to a nearby fire, squatted down and held a twig to one of the dying embers then blew on it. The twig burst into flame. Of course! She should have thought of that. He lit the lantern, tossed the twig on the embers and returned to her.
“Easy enough when you know how, Miss Allen. And that is my first reason.” All trace of amusement was gone from his voice. His expression was dead serious. “If you do not know how to light a lantern out here in the wilderness, how will you manage all the other things you do not know how to do? You are a pampered woman, Miss Allen. Because of that pampering—and without a husband or brother to care for you—you are a burden and an endangerment to all the others traveling with you. And I assume it is the same with your sister. Only worse, because she is ill.”
“My sister is not a burden, Mr. Thatcher! And she is my responsibility to care for, not yours or any other man’s!” Emma snatched the lantern from his hand, held her breath and counted to ten as she adjusted the wick to stop the smoking. When her anger was under control she looked up at him. “What you say about me was true, Mr. Thatcher—until a moment ago. But I now know how to light a lantern here in the wilderness. And I will learn how to do all the other things I must know the same way. I will observe, or I will ask. I may be a pampered woman, but I am not unintelligent, only untaught in these matters. And I will rectify that very quickly. As for my needing protection—do not concern yourself with my safety. I am an excellent shot with rifle or pistol. As is my sister. We will look to our own safety.”
“And your wagons and stock?”
“We have drivers to care for them—as the rules permit.”
His face darkened. “Accidents happen, Miss Allen! Your drivers can be injured or killed. And then—”
“And then I would be no worse off than a wife who has lost her husband.” Emma lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eyes. “We have paid our money, and you yourself said we have met the rules and regulations set in place by Mr. Hargrove and the other leaders. My sister and I are going to Oregon country with this wagon train, Mr. Thatcher. Now I bid you good evening, sir.”
He stared at her a moment, then tugged his hat back in place. “As you will, Miss Allen.” He gave an abrupt nod and strode off into the darkness.
Emma turned to her wagon, packed and prepared by William for him and Caroline to live in on the journey. Everything had been so rushed after Anne’s surprising announcement, only her own clothes had been added at the last minute. She should have spent some time at Independence exploring it, locating things. But she had stayed at the hotel caring for Anne.
A burden and endangerment indeed! She would show Mr. Zachary Thatcher how competent a woman she was! She set the lantern on the ground, untied the canvas flaps, then reached inside to undo the latches that held the tailboard secure. Try as she might, she couldn’t release them. Fighting back tears of fatigue and frustration, she grabbed up the lantern, walked to the front of the wagon, stepped onto the tongue and climbed inside.
Zach untied his bedroll, rolled it out and flopped down on his back, lacing his hands behind his head and staring up at the stars strewn across the black night sky. He was right. That woman was trouble. And stubborn! Whew. No mule could hold a patch on her. Spunky, too. She hadn’t given an inch. Answered every one of his concerns. Even turned his own chivalrous deed of lighting her lantern back on him.
A chuckle started deep in his chest, traveled up his throat. Mad as she was at him, she’d have stood there holding that lantern all night rather than admit she didn’t know how to light it. And that tailboard! She never did figure out how to open it. Must have spent ten minutes or so trying before she gave up and climbed in the wagon from the front. It had been hard, standing there in the dark watching her struggle. But she probably would have parted his hair with that lantern had he gone back to help her.
I think it would be best for you if I continue to hold the lantern, Mr. Thatcher. At this moment, you would not want my hands to be free. His lips twitched. She’d been dead serious with that threat to slap him. The spoiled Miss Allen had a temper, and did not take kindly to his authority over her as wagon master. He’d send Blake around with some excuse to examine her wagon tomorrow. He could show her how the tailboard latches worked.
He stirred, shifted position, uncomfortable with the thought of Josiah Blake spending time around Miss Allen. That could be trouble. She was a beautiful woman. No disputing that. ’Course, he’d never been partial to women with brown eyes and honey-colored hair. He preferred dark-haired women. And he liked a little more to them. Miss Allen was tall enough—came up to his shoulder. But she was slender—a mite on the bony side. Though she had curves sure enough.
Zach scowled, broke off the thoughts. It was time to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a rough day. Those greenhorns weren’t going to like the pace he set. But he intended to break them in right. Which meant he would have them awake and ready to roll at the break of dawn. He chuckled and closed his eyes. Fell asleep picturing the pampered Miss Allen trying to build a fire and cook breakfast.
Emma used the chamber pot, dipped water into a bowl from the small keg securely lashed to the inside of the wagon and washed her face and hands with soap she found in a large pocket sewn on the canvas cover. There was a hairbrush in the same pocket. And a small hand mirror. She took them into her hands, traced the vine that twined around to form the edge of the silver backings. It was a beautiful vanity set. Caroline had excellent taste. Her fingers stilled.
Emma placed the mirror and brush on top of the keg, unfastened her bodice and stepped out of her riding outfit. Was Caroline’s severe nausea improving? Was the baby she carried still alive? She untied her split petticoat, spread it overtop of the riding outfit she had laid on a chest. Please, Almighty God, let William’s wife and child live. Grant them— Bitterness, hopelessness stopped her prayer. God had not spared Phillip and little Grace. Why would He spare Caroline and the unborn babe in her womb?
Emma pulled an embroidered cotton nightgown from a drawer in the dresser sandwiched between two large, deep trunks along the left wall of the wagon, slipped it on, then shrugged into the matching dressing gown. She took the pins from her hair, brushed it free of tangles and wove it into a loose, thick braid to hang down her back. From her doctor’s bag she pulled her small crock of hand balm and rubbed a bit of the soothing beeswax, oatmeal and nut-butter mixture onto her hands, then smoothed them over her cheeks. A hint of lavender tantalized her nose. Papa Doc’s formula. One he’d made especially for her.
Loneliness for her parents struck with a force that left her breathless. She stood in the cramped wagon, stared at the lantern light flickering on the India-rubber lined canvas that formed the roof over her head. What would she do without her family? Would she ever see or hear from them again?
A soft sound beneath the wagon set her nerves a tingle. She tensed, listened. There it was again—a snuffling. A dog? Or some wild animal that was drawn to the light of the lamp? She turned, reached up and snatched down the lantern hanging from a hook screwed into the center support rib but fear stayed her hand. If she doused the light she would not be able to see.
Something howled in the distance, then was answered by a frenzied barking beneath her feet. Only a dog, then. Still… Heart pounding, Emma put the lantern on the floor and tested the ties to make sure the ends of the canvas cover were securely fastened. Her hand grazed the top of the long, red box. She went down on her knees and lifted the wood lid. A fragrance of dried herbs, flowers and leaves flowed out. She caught her breath and peered inside—stared agape at the stoppered bottles, sealed crocks and rolls of bandages. Medical supplies! And a letter! In William’s hand.
Tears welled into her eyes. She propped open the lid and lifted out the missive, held it pressed to her heart until she got the tears under control, then blinked to clear her vision, lowered the letter close to the lamp and read the precious words.
My dearest Em,
I know you think your dream is dead. But I believe it is God’s will for you to be a doctor. I believe God placed the desire to help others in your heart. And I believe He will fulfill His will and purpose for you. Yes, even in Oregon country. The Bible says: “Delight thyself in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart. Commit thy way unto him; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.” I am praying for you. And for Anne. I know you will care well for her injuries, but only God can heal the hurts of her grieving heart. Remember that, Em, lest you take upon yourself a task no one can perform.
After Anne’s startling announcement and your determination to accompany for her, I asked the local apothecary what you would need to ply your doctoring skills. I have done my best to procure the items he recommended in the limited time available before your departure. I will bring more when Caroline, our child and I join you in Oregon country. Until then, have faith, my dear Doctor Emma. And always remember that I am very proud of you.
