Читать книгу Prairie Courtship - Dorothy Clark - Страница 11

Zach swiped off the water sluicing from his hat brim and squinted through the rain at the dark shape ahead. It was a horse, all right. One with an empty saddle. Where was the Allen woman? He scanned the area as far as he could see through the downpour. There was no sign of her. Had the horse been frightened by lightning and thrown her? Had he ridden past her unconscious, injured body in the storm?

He muttered a couple choice words he’d picked up in the cavalry and urged Comanche into a walk. If he spooked her horse, he might have to chase it for miles and he needed it to carry Miss Allen and the child back when he found them—no matter what their condition. His stomach knotted. He was used to handling injured or wounded or even dead soldiers—but a woman and child…

Zach shoved the disquieting thought away and focused on the job at hand. The first thing was to catch the horse. He reined Comanche to circle wide to the right, so the horse would not perceive them as a threat and bolt. He watched the horse, saw it lower its head and kneed Comanche left to move in a little closer. If he— There she was!

Zach halted Comanche, stared at the figure kneeling on the ground in front of the horse, head down, shoulders hunched forward, her back to the driving rain. It was, indeed, Miss Allen. And she was likely injured, else she’d be riding. He told the wind what he thought of foolish women, slid from the saddle and dropped the reins.

Water squirted from beneath his boots as he strode to Miss Allen’s huddled body. Why was she holding that blanket instead of— She’d found the child!

“Miss Allen?” Zach touched her shoulder, felt the icy-cold flesh beneath the soaked gown, the shivers coursing through her. She lifted her head, stared up at him. Blinked. Her trembling lips moved.

“I f-found her.”

He nodded, swept his gaze over her. “Where are you injured, Miss Allen?”

“Not inj-jured.”

“Not—” Irritation broke though his control. “If you can ride, why are you sitting here?”

An expression close to disgust swept across her face. “Sh-she’s injured. I c-can’t mount.”

Zach stared. Scowled. What was she planning to do? Sit here all night in the storm, shielding the child with her body? She could have— He squelched the thought. What did he expect of a greenhorn woman? “You can now.” He leaned over and held out his arms. “Let me have the child.”

She shook her head.

“Miss Allen! You and the child both need to get back to warmth and shelter. And I—”

“Have to…b-be careful. Her arm is broken…h-head injured. I will c-carry her. And we m-must walk horses.”

“Walk them! But you need to get out of—” He stopped, stared at her lifted chin, the sudden set look of her face. “All right, Miss Allen, you will carry the child, and we will walk the horses. Now, give her to me, and let’s get you mounted.” He took the blanket-swaddled child, cradled her in one arm and held out his free hand.

Holding the child was a handicap. And Miss Allen was so stiff and sluggish with cold, so weighted down by her long, sodden skirts, it took him three tries, but at last he had her in the saddle. He handed her the reins, placed the child in her shivering arms and whistled for Comanche. The big roan came dutifully to his side.

“I’ll have you warmer in a minute.” Zach unlashed the bedroll from behind his saddle and yanked the ties. He shook out his blanket, tossed it over Miss Allen’s shoulders and covered it with his India-rubber groundsheet. He grabbed the flapping ends, crossed them over each other in front to cover the child and secured them to the saddle horn with one of the ties. It was the best he could do to warm and protect them.

“Th-thank you.”

Zach looked up. Rain washed down Miss Allen’s face, dropped off her chin onto the rubber sheet and sluiced away. She was shivering so hard he had doubts of her ability to stay in the saddle. He took off his hat and clapped it on her wet hair. It slid down to her eyebrows. “Keep your head down, we’ll be facing into the storm on the way back. And hold on to that horn, I’ll lead your horse.” He took the reins from her and leaped into the saddle, started Comanche toward the wagons at a slow walk.

Rain drenched his hair, funneled down his neck to soak his coat collar and dampen his shirt. Zach frowned and hunched his shoulders as a drop found an opening and slithered down his back. It was going to be a long ride.

A pinpoint of light glowed in the darkness ahead. Only one reason for that. Someone had got a fire started. Zach stared at the welcome sight, a frisson of expectation spreading through him. That should cheer the Allen woman. It made him feel better. There was nothing like a fire when you were cold and wet and feeling miserable. Especially if there was a pot of coffee simmering on the coals.

Zach scanned the area as best he could through the rain, trying to spot the night guards. It wouldn’t do to startle them. The greenhorns were liable to shoot before they were sure of their target. He looked back at the fire, close enough now that he could see the light flickering and make out the crude, canvas canopy someone had rigged. He hadn’t expected any of the emigrants to figure a way to start a fire in a rainstorm, let alone know how to protect it. Likely it was the Lewises, guiding their way back.

The fire disappeared, blocked from his view by the wagons as they approached. He spotted it again through a gap between the bulky vehicles. Looked like Lewis had switched places with the Lundquists. Joseph Lewis and his wife were tending the fire. He could make out the two of them silhouetted against the rosy glow as he rode to the Allen wagon. They appeared to be the only ones about. Not surprising, given the late hour, the weather conditions and the hard day. But where were the guards? They should have challenged him on their way in.

He frowned, halted Comanche at the back of the Allen wagon, slid from the saddle and tethered the woman’s horse. “We’re here, Miss Allen.”

“Yes.”

She sounded about done in. Zach turned his head, raised his voice loud enough to be heard over the beating of the rain on that canvas canopy rigged to protect the fire. “Lewis, give me a hand. I’ve got your daughter and Miss Allen.” He turned back, began to untie the rawhide thong holding the blankets to the saddle horn. “I’ll have you free in—”

“My baby! Where’s my baby?” Mrs. Lewis squeezed through the narrow space between the wagons’ wheels, her husband right behind her.

“She’s right here.” Zach undid the last turn of the thong and threw back the edge of the blankets.

“Oh, give her to me!” The woman reached up for her child.

“Don’t h-hug her.” Miss Allen’s teeth chattered, broke off her words. She threw him a look of appeal.

Zach stuffed the thong in his coat pocket, and gently lifted the child from her arms. “Your daughter has a broken arm and a head injury, Mrs. Lewis. She has to be handled careful.”

The woman gave a little cry, sucked in a breath and nodded. “I understand.”

Zach placed the swaddled toddler in her arms, turned back to remove his blankets and help Miss Allen from the saddle.

“T-take her into my wagon, Mrs. Lewis. I’ll s-set her arm.”

“You!” Joseph Lewis shook his head. “I’m right grateful to you for going to look for our Jenny, Miss Allen. But we need someone knows what they’re doing to care for her. I reckon—”

“I know how to care f-for your daughter, Mr. Lewis. I’m a d-doctor.”

A doctor! Zach froze, stared at Miss Allen—there was a look of grim forbearance on her face. He frowned and tossed his bedding over his saddle. A woman doctor. Judging from the argument going on between Lewis and his wife, it would cause a furor among the emigrants if she plied her trade. That was all he needed. Another problem to get in the way of his getting this train to Oregon country before winter hit the mountains.

He scowled, grasped the Allen woman around her waist and lifted her out of the saddle to the ground. Her knees buckled. She fell against him.

“S-sorry.” She placed her trembling hands against his chest and tried to push herself erect.

Zach’s face tightened as he steadied her. Me, too, Miss Allen. Sorry you ever joined this train. He leaned down, lifted her into his arms and stomped toward her wagon, heedless of the water in her sodden gown soaking through the wet sleeves of his coat.

The dry nightclothes and fire-warmed blanket felt wonderful. But it made her want to sleep. Emma swallowed the last sip of hot coffee and set her cup on the floor. She was losing her battle against the fatigue that dragged at her. Her eyes had closed again.

She forced her reluctant eyelids open, glanced at the child lying on the pallet made out of her feather pillows. Unlike her own still-damp hair, the toddler’s had dried, and soft, blond curls circled the small face now pink with warmth. Jenny looked like any other sleeping toddler. Except for her splinted arm and unnatural stillness.

Emma lifted her gaze to Jenny’s mother, sitting on the floor with her back against the long red box and holding her baby’s hand.

“Jenny’s got blue eyes. Like her papa’s. I wishst she’d open ’em.” The woman’s chest swelled as she took a deep breath, sunk as she let it out again. “Will I ever…see her blue eyes again, Miss—Dr. Allen?”

Emma stiffened. That’s what Anne had asked. Just before— She shoved the thought away, looked into the fear-filled eyes begging for hope and summoned a smile in spite of the bitterness squeezing her heart. “I cannot say for sure—such things are in God’s hands—but I believe you will, Mrs. Lewis. Jenny’s pulse is steady and strong, and that’s a good sign.” Little Grace’s pulse had been uneven and weak…

The woman nodded, pulled the blanket draped over her shoulders closer together across her chest. “I’ve been prayin’.” She looked up, and the lamplight glimmered on the tears swimming in her brown eyes. “I wasn’t meanin’ to make you uncomfortable, askin’ you things only God Hisself can answer.”

Yes. Only God, who had chosen to let little Grace die. “I understand, Mrs. Lewis.” If only she could.

Silence fell. Rain pattered against the canvas cover. The faint sound of snoring came from the Lewis family’s wagon. A child’s yelp. And then— “Move over, Gabe! Yer pokin’ me with yer elbow!”

The woman glanced that way, looked back and shook her head. “You were right to have Jenny stay here in your wagon. With four youngsters, things are a mite crowded in ours. Special with the Mister havin’ to sleep inside ’cause of the rain. ’Tis mortal kind of you to let me stay here with her.”

“Not at all. Jenny will want you when she wakes.” If she wakes. Emma blinked and gave her head a quick shake, rubbed her hands up and down her arms beneath the blanket to ward off sleep.

“You’ve had a hard time of it tonight, what with going out in the storm after Jenny and all. Why don’t you get some sleep, Dr. Allen? I’ll keep watch over Jenny.”

Emma stifled a yawn, shook her head. “Her condition could change and…”

“I’ll wake you if it does.” The woman’s eyes pleaded with her. “Please, Dr. Allen. It would make me feel better for you to rest.”

She was so sincere. Emma swallowed back her fear. Her being awake had not saved little Grace. She sighed and gave in to her exhaustion. “All right. But you must wake me the moment there is the slightest change, Mrs. Lewis. Any change at all. A whimper…or a twitch…anything…” She stretched out on the feather mattress she was sitting on, pulled the quilt over top of the blanket wrapped around her and closed her eyes.

“Not meanin’ to put myself forward, Dr. Allen. But I’d be pleased if you would call me by my given name, Lorna.”

“Lorna…a lovely name.” Emma tucked her hand beneath her cheek. Jenny had her pillows. “And you must call me Emma…”

“I’d be honored to, Dr. Emma.”

Dr. Emma. The name echoed pleasantly around in her head. William had called her that in his letter. She snuggled deeper into the warmth of the quilt and smiled. If only she could…write William and…tell him she had a…patient…

“I gave the order to break camp, Lewis. Get this canopy down and your oxen hitched. We’ve wasted enough daylight. We move out in ten minutes.”

Emma lifted her head at the sound of Zachary Thatcher’s muffled voice coming through the canvas. She had been hoping for an opportunity to properly thank him for rescuing them last night. She pulled the blanket back over Jenny’s splinted arm and turned toward the front of the wagon, paused to run her hands over her hair and down the front of her gown. The feel of the sumptuous fabric brought the memory of their first meeting leaping to the fore. She looked down at the three tiers of lustrous, rose-colored silk trimmed with looped roping that formed the long skirt and frowned. She could well imagine Mr. Thatcher’s opinion of her inappropriate frock. But there had been no time to have gowns made after Anne announced her intention to take William’s place teaching at the mission. With only two days of preparation time, the best she could manage was to purchase dress lengths of cotton and other sensible materials to bring—

“I ain’t travelin’ today.”

Oh dear! Emma jerked her attention back to the conversation outside the wagon. Mr. Lewis sounded…truculent.

“What do you mean, you’re not traveling today? You don’t have a choice. Lest you want to go on by yourself.”

And Mr. Thatcher sounded…adamant, to be charitable. Perhaps this was a poor time to—

“Tell that to that Allen woman what calls herself a doctor! She’s got the missus all in an uproar over Jenny. Says Jenny can’t travel, and the missus won’t go without her. With three other young’uns that need carin’ for, I—”

“You speak respectful of Dr. Emma, Joseph Lewis. She rode out in that storm and found your baby. Likely saved her life.”

Lorna! Emma peeked outside. Joseph Lewis was glaring at his wife, who was glaring back at him from their wagon. “If she lives, Lorna. We don’t have a real doctor to—”

A real doctor! Ohhh! Emma hiked up her voluminous skirts, climbed onto the red box and reached to shove the front flaps of the cover aside. The back of her skirt snagged on the latch. Bother! She reached back.

“Don’t you say if, Joseph Lewis! The Good Book says, ‘According to your faith be it unto you.’ And don’t think I’m goin’ to move one foot from this spot ’till Dr. Emma says it’s safe for Jenny to travel, neither.”

Emma freed her skirt and turned back. Lorna had climbed from their wagon and stood facing her husband. The sight of their angry faces turned her own anger to regret. She had not meant to set husband and wife at odds. But all was not lost. If Zachary Thatcher would agree not to travel out of consideration of the child’s poor condition… She scooted out onto the driver’s seat, cast a longing glance at her sodden, mud-stained riding outfit crumpled in the corner of the driver’s box and stood. “Good morning.”

All three people turned to look at her. Zachary Thatcher swept his gaze over her fancy gown and his expression did not disappoint her expectations. She abandoned the idea of relying on his understanding and sympathy. In the cold light of day, it appeared Mr. Thatcher did not have any. She looked down into his steady, disapproving gaze and stiffened her spine. “I regret the wagon train cannot travel today, Mr. Thatcher. But it would be dangerous for Jenny to be jolted and bounced around in her condition.”

She watched his face tighten and stood her ground as he rode his horse close to the wagon and peered up at her. “I understand the child is ill, Miss Allen. But you must underst—”

“Dr. Allen, Mr. Thatcher.”

His eyes darkened and narrowed. His lips firmed.

She was familiar with the disparaging expression. She had seen it far too often on the faces of her Papa Doc’s male patients. Very well. If that was how it was to be. Emma trotted out her armor for the battle ahead. “I am a fully trained, fully qualified doctor with credentials from a celebrated surgeon with the Pennsylvania Hospital—” she registered the growing disdain in his eyes and rushed on “—which I will produce if you doubt my word.” Her challenge hit the mark. Anger flashed in those blue depths.

“This is not about your qualifications, Miss Allen. It is about getting this wagon train to Oregon country before winter snows close the mountain passes. To that end, these wagons will move forward every day—including today.” He touched his hat brim and reined his horse around to leave.

Emma clenched her hands into fists. “Whether you acknowledge me as a doctor or not, Mr. Thatcher, Jenny Lewis is my patient. And I cannot—will not—allow her to be jostled around in a moving wagon. It could very well take her life.”

Zachary Thatcher turned his horse back around, stared straight into her eyes. “And if this train gets caught by a blizzard in a mountain pass it could well cost us all our lives, Miss Allen.”

“That is conjecture, Mr. Thatcher. Jenny’s condition is fact. This wagon does not move until it is safe for her to travel.”

Stubborn. He knew it the moment he set eyes on her. Stubborn and spoiled. But he never expected this. A doctor! And if this morning was any indication, one that would give him a good deal of trouble. Zach held the horseshoe nail against the hickory rib in front of him and lifted the hammer. “Ready, Lewis?”

“Hammer away!”

Zach hit the nail with such force the rib thudded against the sledgehammer Joseph Lewis was holding against it outside and twanged back. The nail was buried deep enough in the wood he didn’t need to hit it again. “That will do it!” He tied a long, thick leather thong to the nail, tugged to make sure the knots would hold then picked up the oblong piece of canvas with the big knots on the corners and tied the other end of the thong around one corner and tugged. There was no way the thong could slip off past that big knot. He repeated the process with the other three thongs hanging from the nails he’d driven in other ribs, then gave the canvas a push. It swung gently through the air. There! That would take care of any jolting.

He gave a grunt of satisfaction, picked up the hammer and extra nails and leaped lightly from the wagon. “The bed is ready, Dr. Allen. Now tell Garth Lundquist to get your oxen hitched. Time is wasting!” He took the sledge from Lewis and strode off toward the Fenton wagon to return the tools to the blacksmith.

Emma stared after him, reading disgust and anger in the rigid line of his broad shoulders, the length and power of his strides. Her own shoulders stiffened with resentment. He made the word doctor sound like an expletive.

Joseph Lewis cleared his throat. “I’ll go fetch Lundquist for you. Have him bring up your teams, Miss…er…”

Emma turned her gaze on him. He flushed, pivoted on his heel and hurried off. “It ain’t Miss, Joseph Lewis! It’s Dr. Allen.”

Emma glanced at Lorna Lewis. The woman was staring after her husband, her face as flushed as his. She tamped down her own anger. “Please, Lorna, do not trouble yourself on my behalf. I do not want to be the cause of discord in your household.”

“Well, it ain’t right, Joseph not givin’ you your rightful due—an’ Mr. Thatcher gettin’ riled at you for holdin’ up the train so’s to keep my baby safe an’…” The woman’s words choked off.

“And nothing, Lorna.” Emma whirled around, her long, ruffled skirts billowing out then rustling softly as she climbed into her wagon. “I care not a fig for Mr. Zachary Thatcher’s opinions or anger. And even less for his orders. As for Mr. Lewis’s reluctance to name me a doctor…I am accustomed to that. Keeping Jenny safe is all that is important. And this wagon will not move until I am satisfied it will do her no harm. Now, give Jenny to me and climb in so we can see what sort of bed Mr. Thatcher has contrived.”

She turned and carried the toddler to the canvas sling hanging lengthwise over the long red box just behind the driver’s seat.

“Well, I never…” Lorna Lewis set the sling swinging.

“Nor I.” Emma handed Jenny to her mother and examined the clever contraption from all angles. “I find no fault in this. It will make Jenny a wonderful bed.” She lined the sling with her pillows, covered them with a blanket then gently placed Jenny on them and folded the sides of the blanket over her.

Chains rattled. An ox snorted, bumped against the wagon in passing, causing the bed to sway gently. “You want I should hitch up now, Miss Allen?”

Emma smiled and stuck her head out of the opening behind the driver’s box. “Yes, hitch up the teams, Mr. Lundquist. We will travel today after all. But drive the oxen carefully, mind you. No hurrying.”

She ducked back inside, pulled a long scarf from a dresser drawer and held it out. “Wrap this twice around both Jenny and the sling, Lorna. Then tie it so Jenny cannot fall out. I will be right back.” She climbed down, lifted the hems of her skirts above the still-wet ground and ran across the oval to check on Anne before the wagons began to roll.