She used the time to study. Many men had tried to dissuade her father, and her, from studying medicine, especially when she entered medical school. She was sure she gained entrance because of her father’s brilliant reputation although her own intelligence and work ethic gained her respect among the other students and even the professors.
Yes, she should feel grateful to her father and she did. Not many girls would be given such an education and prepared for a career almost exclusively reserved for men. Her father forced them into an austere life, saving money for this trip west, and it was all for her. He knew traveling west, where doctors were scarce, would be her best chance of being accepted, even embraced, by a community short on medical care, especially if she went into practice with him. Even in the west, people knew and respected the name Dr. Robert Rutherford. Many of his colleagues had traveled before them, spreading the news he was relocating, and several towns, from Texas to California had written, begging for his services. And Papa had chosen a growing town in Utah as their destination.
After all her father’s hard work, she could not fail him. When she wasn’t studying, she kept the area around the campfire clear and the fire going. She melted the snow to keep the water buckets and the barrel filled and brought the horses closer to the campsite. Whenever she ventured forth, the gun went with her.
She couldn’t go on like this. But what were her choices? She’d have to wait until all the snow melted and the ground dried before moving on. And Papa would be so angry if she turned back east. He had planned out her future and it lay in the west.
If Papa didn’t get better, she would continue west, although she had no idea how far it was to the nearest town. Surely, Papa had a map somewhere although she’d never seen him use it. He had a knack for knowing exactly the direction to travel. Unfortunately, she had not inherited that trait. But maybe he’d be well enough soon to guide her. But what if he wasn’t?
The snow stopped finally, and she went out to scavenge for broken limbs to feed the fire. When she returned, she saw a brace of quail, already dressed, lying on a flat rock.
Startled, she raised the gun, turning in a complete circle, searching but seeing nothing. Then she realized how foolish she was being. This was a gift. Why was she afraid? And in actuality, she was a little disappointed the man had not made his presence known.
She decided to cook the quail then and there. The soup would be nutritious, more nourishing than the gruel she normally made. While the soup cooked, she thought of the stranger. Why was he out here, in the middle of nowhere? Could there be a ranch nearby, a place she could go for help? If she saw him again, she’d ask.
She dipped out the soup and was able to get both Mama and Papa to drink a bit. They both seemed a bit stronger, especially Papa, although their coughing continued unabated.
She still had distrust of the man and kept the gun close at hand. Nevertheless, knowing someone else was nearby brought her a sense of comfort.
The next day she found a stack of wood for the campfire and roots from a plant she didn’t recognize. She boiled the roots, adding them to the left-over quail stock. Nervously, not being familiar with the plant, not knowing its potential effect, she tried it. After a couple of hours with no ill effects, she allowed her mother and father to sip the soup.
Remarkably, the soup helped their coughs, and they both slept more soundly that night. The stranger had been watching them. The thought should have made her uneasy but instead she was glad not to be alone.
Roberta thought it only right to thank him. The next morning, she went down to the river, taking the pistol with her. It was only a short while later the stranger walked nonchalantly from between two trees, holding the reins of the pinto, staying on his side of the river.
“The roots you left really helped my parents’ coughs,” she said. “What exactly were they?”
“Roots from Orange Milkweed, plentiful in this area. Out here we often have to make do with Injun medicine.”
“Indian medicine? That sounds interesting.” Her father had taught her a great deal about herbal and natural remedies. This stranger might teach her more.
“I’ve got a bit of Cherokee blood on my mother’s side.” He smiled, and even from across the river, she could see the dimples. “I didn’t introduce myself the other day. I’m Taron Babbitt from Texas.”
She hesitated but a moment before she replied. “I’m Roberta Rutherford from Blackstone, Maine.”
“Roberta ... named for your father?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?” It bothered her when people questioned her because it was always followed by He must have wanted a boy.
He flashed another smile. “Because I’m sure your father is honored having you for his namesake.”
It was as if he’d read her mind, and it mollified her a bit. “Some folks ... actually, my mother calls me Robbie.” She glanced down at the river, her cheeks warm.
“When we get to know each other better, perhaps you’ll permit me the pleasure, Miss Rutherford?”
She glanced up and caught his intense gaze. In one smooth movement, he mounted his horse and disappointment washed over her. But instead of riding away, he urged the horse into the river, bringing him closer. Something in the man’s look, that of determination, made her heart flutter. She smoothed her hands on her dress and only then noticed she held the pistol. She sighed. At least they were common in these parts. He had a gun too, didn’t he?
He dismounted and held the reins loosely, his eyes clear, as if he had nothing to hide.
Fear, or excitement, she couldn’t decide which, made her heart pound. “What are you doing here?” she blurted. The words spoken sounded rude, and it was too late to take them back.
He raised a brow. “Here? On your side of the river?”
Her cheeks burned. “I mean, what are you doing in this part of the country? Do you have a ranch nearby?”
“No, Miss Rutherford. I have business to attend to near here.”
“What kind of business are you in?” Her questioning made her nervous, but his eyes remained calm and a smile played on his lips.
“Horse trading. I ran into a spot of trouble and I’m trying to resolve it, if I can.” His gaze shifted away from her, focused beyond her, and his lips thinned into a grimace, gone almost the instant it appeared.
“Does that mean there are ranches nearby?” she asked hopefully.
His attention returned to her, and he shook his head. “Nope, but there’s a town about twenty miles west of here. Mining town called Feeble Creek. You’ve probably never heard of it.”
“Feeble Creek? Due west?” she asked. Only twenty miles away? It wouldn’t take too long to get there, if the trail became passable.
“Slightly north. I could draw you a map if you’d like.” His face had smoothed, but his eyes remained intense, as if he memorized her face.
“Is there a doctor there by any chance?”
He shook his head. “No doctor within a hundred miles, maybe two hundred, none I know of anyway.” He absentmindedly patted the pinto’s neck, yet his gaze remained riveted on Robbie. “Do you know what’s wrong with your parents?”
“I can’t say for certain, perhaps influenza, or pneumonia, bronchitis, maybe even tuberculosis.”
“Not sure if anyone in Feeble Creek can help with that.”
Her shoulders slumped. “No need to go then. If there’s not a doctor, all we’d be doing is spreading the infection.” Would that scare him off? Would he refuse to come back? But he’d already known her parents were sick and still came to her side of the river. The thought lifted her heart.
“Wish I knew of some way to help you.” And he looked sincere, his eyes sparkling in the sun.
“You’ve been a big help already.” She gave him what she hoped was a gracious smile. “I’d better check on my parents. Thank you for all you’ve done.”
He touched a hand to his hat. “My pleasure. Nice meeting you, miss.”
She blushed. “Please call
me Robbie.” She didn’t wait for an answer but hurried away. What would Papa say if Taron strode into camp, his shoulders as broad as Papa’s? But, whereas Papa was wide in girth, Taron was slim and fit. She smiled, hoping if it did happen, Papa would at least be civil.
She giggled, her heart beating wildly in her chest. What was wrong with her? So he was young, good-looking, and by all accounts, kind? She didn’t have to swoon. He was hiding something, she was sure of it. And for all she knew, he could be an outlaw. Her breathing steadied at the sobering thought. She decided to check the horses before going to the wagon.
The horses were contented with the small amount of grain she fed them. She spent some time with them, talking to them as if they understood. Their ears flickered as if they followed her conversation. It did her as much good as it did them.
When her heartbeat and breathing steadied, she continued to the campsite and straight to the wagon. Papa was sitting up.
“Papa!” She’d never been so happy in her life. She climbed between him and Mama, as if she was still a little girl, and hugged him tightly. Tears streamed down her face. After a moment, she pulled away and wiped her tears with the back of her hand.
He smiled and spoke, his chest rattling. “Where you been, child?”
“I walked down to the river.” She didn’t tell him about Taron, afraid it would upset him. “Are you really better, Papa?”
“Getting stronger.” His face was still pale, the wrinkles embedded deeper than she’d ever noticed before. His eyes closed slowly and stayed closed for a long minute.
When he opened them, she squeezed his hand. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”
“Me, too, child. Me, too.”
She turned her attention to Mama who had not stirred. Fear constricted her heart, but when she leaned closer, she heard her mother breathing.
God had heard her prayers. Her parents were going to be fine. And in a few days, they’d resume their journey. A twinge of regret at leaving Taron shot through her. Maybe he’d follow, but she knew that was a silly hope.
She stirred from her thoughts. “Let me get you some more of that soup.”
“Bring me a big bowl,” Papa said.
She laughed and scrambled out to get it. It didn’t take long to warm it. She dipped out some for both Mama and Papa, planning to wake her mother. The sound of her father’s cry startled her. She dropped the bowl, and stared at it blankly. It took a moment for her to process the sobbing sound fully. Her feet shuffled rather than walked to the wagon, as if her body knew before her brain fully comprehended. She peered in at the scene and an uncontrollable shiver shook her body. Papa held Mama in his arms, rocking back and forth.
“Papa?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“She’s gone. She’s dead. My wife is dead.” He turned his tear-stained face toward her and then back to his wife.
Roberta scrambled into the wagon, pulling Papa’s arms away from her precious mother. This couldn’t have happened. Mama was not dead. Papa was wrong!
But when she examined her mother, she collapsed in sobs. She sank down on the quilt beside Papa and together they mourned.
Chapter Four
Snow covered the ground, and the cold seeped into Roberta’s bones. Papa was too weak to dig a grave; she was too lethargic. As they delayed making a decision, hours passed with barely a word spoken.
As the sun set, Taron rode into their camp, another brace of quail across his saddle. She ran to meet him, tears in her eyes.
“My mother ...” Her voice broke.
He was beside her in a second, and not knowing how or why, she was weeping on his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Robbie,” he said, over and over.
When she gained control of herself, she stepped back, suddenly embarrassed at being held by a stranger. “My father ... he’s with my mother...”
“Do you need help?” His voice trailed off.
Robbie nodded. “We would be so thankful if you could dig —”
Thankfully, he cut her off. “I’ll take care of it.”
Her father was in the wagon, and she took Taron to him. Papa didn’t say much, barely acknowledged Taron’s existence, but climbed out and untied the shovel for him.
As Taron dug the grave, Papa took Roberta’s wrist and turned her hand up. “Your mother would want you to have this.” He dropped Mama’s wedding ring onto her palm. Her throat constricted, and she could not speak. She placed the ring in her pocket and held to Papa’s arm.
Taron quickly finished. Poppa’s cough was back, but he managed to speak a few words, and Roberta told her mother she loved her and hoped to see her again in heaven.
Taron left soon after so they were allowed to grieve in private. And Robbie was thankful.
The next morning, the sun shone brightly, melting the snow. Maybe this would be it — all the snow would melt, the mud would dry up, and they would continue on their journey. Without her mother, but Roberta refused to think of that. She went down to feed the horses, and rubbed their muzzles, offering up words of prayer, tears seeping from the corners of her eyes. The horses startled at a sound, something she failed to hear.
“Whoa,” she coaxed, patting their necks. She needed to go and check on Papa, to make sure nothing was amiss. Her nerves were raw since Mama’s death. She started back, her feet dragging and her head down.
When she got into camp, Papa was nowhere to be seen. She peered into the back of the wagon and found him.
She knew, but still said his name softly. “Papa?”
He didn’t stir, and she couldn’t bring herself to climb into the wagon. She knelt where she was, leaning her head against the wagon, sobbing.
Robbie didn’t hear Taron approach, didn’t know he was there, until he lifted her to her feet. She sobbed into his chest, and his arms, exuding warmth, encircled her.
Taron pulled away after a moment. “Did you check to be sure?”
She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and shook her head.
He climbed into the wagon, and she walked away, over to the fire, and took a seat on the log. She pulled her shawl more tightly around her.
She soon heard Taron’s footsteps, but he remained out of her line of sight. Although she knew he was there, when he spoke, she startled.
“Do you want me to bury the bod ... your father now?”
She put her head in her hands, not answering. She tried to think, but images swam in her head, none forming coherent thoughts. Her hands trembled and a chill ran down her spine — she was alone, all alone, with a strange man, in the middle of nowhere.
But Taron didn’t feel like a stranger. She raised her head and turned to study him.
His brow furrowed, and he tilted his hat back with a thumb, as if to get a better look at her, too. “Anything wrong?” And then he looked embarrassed. “I mean I know there is ...” He sighed. He tilted his hat back down and hid his eyes. “What do you plan to do?” His hands hung at his sides, one precariously close to the pearl-handled pistol, and a thrill of danger ran along her spine.
She turned her back to him and scoffed. She was imagining things. Taron had been kind so far. But who was he? Why was he out here, in the middle of nowhere? She couldn’t trust him. How could she trust a stranger, who came out of nowhere, with no logical explanation?
Time was passing, and Papa’s body could not continue lying unattended.
Taron stepped closer to the fire. The planes of his face were smooth. “Don’t you want me to bury him?”
She nodded without speaking and fed another log into the fire. Although she didn’t want to see her father buried in the ground, she had no choice. Taron needed help, and she needed to say goodbye to her father.
Getting up was an effort, as if her muscles had forgotten how to function. Her body shook with a chill, and she pulled her shawl tighter as she made her way to where Taron dug in the cold ground.
“Almost done,” Taron said grimly.
They’d have to move
the body to the grave. She fetched the quilt from the wagon, noticing it was the one her father had coughed blood on a few days ago, the one she’d washed. They’d wrap him in this before putting him into the ground. She ran her fingers along the squares, noting the precise stitches Mama had made. Quilting had been one of Mama’s hobbies as she whiled away the long hours she and Papa studied together.
Taron came to her and took the quilt without a word. He spread it out on the ground, next to Papa’s body. When she moved to her father’s feet, to help lift him to the quilt, Taron motioned her away, but she ignored him. When her father lay in the center of the quilt, she knelt to tug his wedding ring off and placed it in her pocket alongside Mama’s.
Together, she and Taron wrapped the quilt around her father, forever blotting his face from the sun. And her arms were strong enough to lift her end of the quilt, to carry him to his grave, and place him in it.
Taron retrieved the shovel from where he had tossed it and leaned on it. “Do you have anything to say before I ...” His words trailed off into the silence, and he removed his hat.
She nodded, closed her eyes, and bowed her head. “Lord, I commend my beloved father into your hands ...” And her voice cracked, and she could not continue. Her eyes flew open, and she wondered if Papa and Mama were really dead or if she’d dreamed it all.
Taron glanced at her, questioning her with a look, and then said, “Amen.” He scooped a shovelful of dirt, and threw it on the quilt, covering Mama’s handiwork.
She could not bear it. She walked down to the horses.
After a bit, Taron joined her. “What do we do now?” he asked.
Her vision blurred. All she wanted was to lie down and sleep, to be carried away from her sorrow. But how could she with a stranger around? He could be an outlaw for all she knew. She’d cried on his shoulder, but she knew nothing about him. She blinked as if Taron would magically disappear. But he remained, his gaze lying upon her as a tangible thing.
Robbie and Taron Page 2