She apparently hit her head, but he didn't think she'd hit the bottom of the river or floated into the bridge piling hard enough to give her such a bruise, or a serious concussion. Or was she already unconscious before someone threw her off the train? Seeing the condition of her body, he was afraid that was the most likely scenario.
Her black fuzzy hair was a tangled mess once held up with a handful of pins, now scattered on the floor. Combing and braiding her hair would have to wait until...it needed to be done, if ever. Fergus blotted the moisture out of her hair with his drying towel and felt an oblong lump starting on her left temple and going across the side of her head. Shoot, this was more than a simple bruise. No wonder she wasn’t waking up.
Fergus stood up over her to pull the quilt aside on the small bed on the sidewall. Carefully supporting her head, Fergus picked her up off the floor and laid her in the bed, tucking the quilt clear around her head, with only her face showing.
What was her story? Fergus might never know.
"Dusk is about gone, Missy, so I need to gather up my camera and your belongings while I can still see to do it." And take the horse down to the river for a drink of water and back for a ration of oats...and with no coat or dry boots to keep his chilled body from getting colder while outside in the evening air.
Fergus trotted back to the riverbank to find her cloak. It was hard to see in the remaining light. He'd search around the bridge in the morning.
The horse was taken care of next and picketed beside the wagon. Then he carefully lifted his Seroco view camera off the tripod and carried both back to the wagon. He put the camera back in its carrying case after he pulled out the dry plate. Would the picture reveal what happened when the woman fell? Would there be a second person on the platform watching her fall? Fergus wouldn't know until he could process that plate. Meantime he'd start up the tiny cooking stove in the wagon to provide them with heat and supper. And worry if the woman was going to wake up, or die in his bed without Fergus ever knowing her name.
She still breathed softly but didn't wake up for the smell of coffee and canned beef stew, or his constant questions. The glow of the lamplight cast shadows among their clothes he'd hung on a rope across the room. His coat would still be damp come morning, but would offer some protection as he took care of the horse. He'd planned to continue his travel home once the sun was up this morning, but maybe he needed to give "Missy" a few days of rest before being jolted in the back of the traveling wagon.
And if she died? Well, he'd take her body to the closest town to be buried as an unknown person in their cemetery.
Either way he had a woman to watch overnight. Fergus hoped to sleep a little on the floor beside the bed while he listened to her breathe. Would her breath turn raspy and halted from inhaling dirty river water into her lungs? Or stop altogether? Fergus had done his part and her life was now in the Lord's hands.
How many times had his parents, the pastor and helpmate of their community, sat with families waiting for a loved one to heal or pass away? There would be a knock on the door during the night, words of worry or panic drifting up to the boys' rooms. All six of them would awake, trying to recognize the visitor's voice. The oldest brother, Angus, was in charge when their parents left the house. "Go back to sleep, they'll be home later," he'd always say, but Angus usually left the bedroom to sleep downstairs until their parents returned.
Fergus and his brother, Mack, weren't blood brothers to the other four, but were always loved and protected as part of the Reagan family.
Missy's body looked like no one had protected her. Well, that situation changed when she fell from the train while he took the photograph. She was under his watch and protection now.
Chapter 2
Iris Kerns slowly became aware of two things, being warm and needing to empty her bladder. She slowly opened her eyes, surprised to focus in on a low and curved wooden ceiling. Expanding her view revealed a tiny wooden wagon, probably used as shelter when someone traveled. She was tucked inside a multi-colored quilt in a narrow bed built against the wall. A tiny cooking stove sat across from the bed, giving off heat and the smell of burning wood and coffee. The rest of the interior was a set of built-in drawers or hooks to hold clothing.
"No…" Her dress, petticoats, drawers hung on a rope strung across the room. Iris moved her hands across her stomach to figure out what she was wearing, and then lifted the quilt high enough to look. A man's union suit? The length enveloped her feet and the sleeves reached her fingertips.
Why, and who?
Iris intently listened for voices but only heard a horse snort outside the wagon, and wind blowing through the tall grass.
She squeezed her eyes as tears and memories flooded back. She'd jumped from the train with a purpose, and it wasn't to survive. Someone, whoever was traveling in this wagon, saw her jump and pulled her out of the river.
And took her clothes off to keep her warm before tucking her in their own bed.
Iris hadn't planned to open her eyes this morning. A fresh wave of tears turned into sobbing knowing her plan to leave this hurting world had failed.
Why did someone save me?
She'd thought of shooting or stabbing herself, but was afraid to inflict such suffering on her body. Jumping from the train seemed like a quick and painless way to break her neck and drown. She'd tied the ribbons of the cloak with extra knots so the weight of the full-length cloak would weigh her down.
And darn if the person hadn't saved her cloak too. It was on a hook by the door. And her reticule?
Iris jumped and buried deeper in the quilt as the door of the wagon opened. Would this man hurt her too, before she had another chance to end her life? She shut her eyes trying to look like she was still asleep.
"Missy? You awake? I found your reticule."
She couldn’t help but open her eyes and stare at the man holding her little purse in the small space of the wagon. He was in his mid-twenties, had thick dark brown hair and kind dark green eyes.
"Hello, Missy. I'm sure glad you're awake now," the man shyly smiled as he spoke.
No! I’m not glad to be alive! Iris wanted to scream she wasn't glad she was awake, but didn't want to scare the kind-looking man. And he did seem to be genuinely worried about her. According to a pair of pants and shirt hanging on the makeshift clothesline, he's risked his life trying to save hers.
How she wished he had failed, but then he looked like the type of man who would be heartsick if he hadn't been able to save her.
Why hadn't there been people like him in her life instead of—
"My name is Fergus Reagan, and I'm a photographer. I set up my camera to take a photograph of the train crossing the bridge and about died of fright seeing you being, ah...thrown off the train."
Thrown? Is that what he thought? She'd jumped with a purpose—to end her life of misery.
"What's your name? I've been calling you 'Missy' since I didn't know."
Iris squeezed her eyes shut, wondering what in the world should she do? Act deaf and dumb? Tell the man why she jumped?
"You are perfectly safe with me, Missy. I'm a pastor's son and we six brothers were taught to honor, respect, and protect women and children. I didn't even peek, ah, when I undressed you and put my union suit on you.
"I'm from Clear Creek, Kansas but I've spent the last few months driving through the Nebraska countryside photographing homesteaders. My brother, Mack, is building me a photography studio on Main Street, but I'm no good swinging a hammer so I left for a while. I decided to take my camera and several crates of dry plates to western Nebraska where there's still homesteaders living in sod houses."
"Why?" She couldn't help asking. Mr. Reagan's green eyes grew wide when she finally spoke aloud.
He cleared his throat. "Uh, because I want people to have a memory of their family and their start of life on the prairie."
"Why?"
Mr. Reagan's expression was solemn to the point of sad when he spoke while searching her
eyes. "Because life is short and a photograph of a loved one may be all they have left."
He licked his lips; probably trying to decide how much to push her for answers to the many questions that had to be banging around in his head.
"No matter what, I'm glad I saved you, Miss. Maybe I can help you turn your life around now that you have a second chance?"
There it was. He knew she jumped on purpose.
"I wish you hadn't." she whispered, not meeting his compassionate eyes.
"Remember I said I was a pastor's son, so I firmly believe the Lord has a better plan for you rather than being dead. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been in this same exact spot."
Iris searched the inside of the wagon, noticing he followed right behind.
"Oh, and I owe you a new ribbon for your cloak. I had to cut it with my pocketknife to get it off you. It about drowned both of us."
Iris blushed with shame, knowing he knew she'd knotted the ribbon on purpose.
"How about some coffee and food?" He wasn't pushing her for her name or more information.
"How about a chamber pot?" Iris grimaced asking but she really needed to use one.
"Uh, you'll have to go outside. Being a man traveling by myself, I didn't pack one." Now his face flushed.
She felt along the back of the union suit, relieved she felt a back flap.
"Could you hand me my shoes and cloak?" Now that she was awake and hadn't used any facilities for a long time, she had to go now, or wet his bed.
He quickly grabbed her shoes thinking along the same line as she.
"How about just slipping these on and I'll help you down the steps." He picked up one foot, shoved the legging up and slid her foot into the shoe, and then the other. Mr. Reagan slipped a hand under her shoulder to steady her as she stood up.
"You doing okay? Let's get your cloak and head outside. The cloak is still damp but it will protect you. You’re going to feel the cold after being inside the warm wagon."
Iris was grateful for his help because she was unsteady on her feet. Her head hurt as well as her back. Had he said how long she was unconscious?
"If you want to lean against the wagon for support, I'll go on the other side to give you some privacy. Just call out when you're ready to go back inside."
And that quick she was alone and fumbling with the buttons on the back flap of the union suit.
After relieving herself and buttoning the back flap, she leaned back against the wagon looking at the railroad bridge a short distance away. She had jumped off a moving train, that far down into a river, and survived? Why didn't she die? She shivered thinking about what she attempted.
"You ready?" Mr. Reagan called from the other side.
"Yes, sir."
He walked around the wagon, looked at the bridge and then at her. "I'd like it if you called me Fergus. ‘Mr. Reagan’ is my father, and 'sir' is a respected elder."
"All right. You can call me…Iris."
Fergus held out his elbow for her to grasp. "Pleased to meet you Miss Iris. Would you like to accompany me inside my temporary home for breakfast?"
After a moment’s hesitation Iris nodded and grabbed his elbow to steady herself. Although she didn’t want to be alive, the thought of a hot cup of coffee spurred her to follow his suggestion.
***
Iris ate a few bites of oatmeal, drank a cup of coffee, and then crawled back into bed, exhausted from doing so little. Didn't even bother to change out of his union suit, unfortunately. The suit he had on yesterday evening was still too damp to put on so he would have liked to have worn his spare suit. Instead, he had to think of the woman wearing it in his bed.
Iris reached up often to rub the lump on her left temple, and seemed oblivious to the condition of her hair for the hour she was awake. He still wondered if a blow to the head caused her concussion before she jumped. Her bruises told a tale even if Iris didn't talk. Someone had meant to harm Miss Iris.
And he felt like a sitting duck waiting for that person to follow the tracks back to where Iris jumped off.
Fergus doused the fire in the stove and secured everything inside the wagon so they could travel away from the railroad tracks. He thought about waking Iris to tell her they were moving, but she'd figure it out if she woke up. Iris wasn't strong enough to sit on the wagon seat beside him nor had she the dry clothes to keep warm while riding outside anyway.
"Let's go, Dapper." Fergus flicked the reins over the big horse's back to signal it was time for them to depart. Since Iris didn't seem to need a doctor's care, they'd head away from the string of little towns along the railroad. In other words, it was a good time to get lost. He didn’t know why he felt so protective of her, but he did.
But maybe he was being stupid, thinking he could protect her. If this had happened at home in Clear Creek, Fergus would have run to Marshal Wilerson's jailhouse office before he changed out of his wet clothes. But Fergus didn't know people up here to turn to, so he was on his own.
So, maybe her name was Iris, or that was just the first name that popped in her head. No last name. No mention of where she was from or where she was headed.
It was easy to guess she was from a southern state by her soft drawl. But she was a long ways from home then, being on a train going through Nebraska. Where was she traveling? California? Montana?
With whom was she traveling? The thought of a person hurting another made Fergus cold skin heat up. It wasn't right. His father's words of protection, respect and honor kept rolling through his brain.
Dapper's snort pulled Fergus out of his thoughts. He was gripping the reins too tight, giving the horse mixed signals.
"Sorry, but our cargo became much more precious than all those dozens of dry glass plates and camera equipment you've been carefully pulling around."
Fergus relaxed as much as he could, bouncing on the seat in front of the boxed wagon. The old sheepherder's wagon had served him well. Before he left home, he painted "photographer" on the side so people knew who was driving across their land. And that gave him more business than he realized was possible.
He was welcomed into people's ranch homesteads, them anxious not only to talk to someone, but also to have the opportunity to document their fresh start out in the middle of nowhere.
One hundred and sixty acres of Nebraska grassland, a small cattle herd and a sod house was the extent of their lives. Some ranches, established a decade ago had barns and other outbuildings, and occasionally a new wood-frame home.
After a few times he wasn't surprised now when the people would want to display their wealth in front of their sod home. It wasn't as simple as stopping, taking their image, writing down their information to mail them the photo back and moving on.
It took at least a few hours to set up the display, the family to change into their best clothes and bring their teams of horses—and sometimes their milk cow or goat—up to the house to be included in the photograph. But the stories the homesteaders told and the meals they shared with him were part of the experience for him.
Fergus had enjoyed roaming the area, searching for the next homestead, but he had a deadline to be home by now.
He and his family had decided to use North Platte as the town to leave messages to him while he was gone. Every week or so he’d stop in town to check for mail, telegrams and pick up supplies. His brother Angus sent notice that he was marrying Daisy Clancy on November fourteenth, so he’d turned south the next day. One more week of traveling and he’d be home.
"Fergus? Fergus?" He could hear Iris' muffled calls from inside the wagon.
"Hang on as I slow down to a stop," Fergus yelled over his shoulder. After stopping the horse and setting the brake, Fergus crawled down from the bench and walked around the back to open the door to talk to her.
"You okay?"
Iris sat up in bed, her arms wrapped around her knees. "Where are we going?"
She sounded confused, but she knew to call out his name.
"Heading east a way
s to get away from the train tracks, then we’ll head south again." He hesitated but continued. "I assume you don't want someone to find you?"
Her dark eyes widened as she bit her bottom lip, keeping in the answer.
"Iris, I won't judge you for your past if that's what you're worried about. But I can't help your future unless you tell me what's going on."
She looked at the wall when she whispered, "I wasn't planning on a future."
"Well, now you have one, so we need to act accordingly. Should I take you to a town so you can get back on the train?"
Iris cowered, instantly shrinking against the wall as if she was about to be…hit?
Fergus stepped into the wagon and sank to one knee beside the bed. "Iris, I would never strike or hurt a woman in any way. You can trust me. I can dig out my Bible from the cupboard and swear on it if it would make you believe me."
"You carry a Bible?"
Fergus couldn't help but grin. "I'm a preacher's son and my ma personally packed a Bible along with two batches of my favorite cookies." He tried to lighten the mood and gain Iris' trust.
"Where are you going? Can I travel with you?" Her desperate words stung his heart.
“I’m traveling home to Kansas because my brother’s wedding is in a week. Where were you headed before you left the train?”
"Someplace I didn't want to go."
Well, that was obvious. Fergus bent his head and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger, trying to figure out how to word his next question.
"We need to be honest with each other, Iris. We don't know each other, but I feel like I can trust you. Do you feel the same way about me?"
She stared at the wall again. "I've never met a man I could trust."
"Even your father?"
Iris flinched as if his words caused pain.
Fergus went back to rubbing his forehead again, wondering if she jumped off the train to get away from her father. Something else dawned on him.
Grooms with Honor Series, Books 1-3 Page 15