American Dreams

by Janet Dailey

  The old man hesitated, the scowl turning to a suspicious frown as he moved to the top of the steps. The pin glistened wetly in her hand, the large amethyst in the hilt's crown gleaming a deep purple in the absence of sunlight, the pearls shining like snowdrops.

  Eliza gasped when she saw what was in her hand. "No," she protested. "You can't give him that."

  But it was too late. The man had already plucked it from her palm to examine it more closely. Temple shut her mind to the thought of losing the valuable heirloom that had been in her family for years. But she would willingly sacrifice it and more for a warm, dry shelter.

  "How many of you are there?" His glance shot over them, as if he were counting noses.

  "Ten," Temple acknowledged. "My father and brother, my ... cousin"—she hesitated at identifying Eliza—"myself, my son and husband, and our four blacks. Will you let us sleep in your barn tonight? We won't steal anything."

  He turned the pin over in his hand. "I reckon it won't do any harm. You're all standing there shiverin' like a bunch of half-drowned pups anyways. Never could stand to see somethin' cold and wet," he declared gruffly. "You can sleep in m' barn." Temple felt her knees start to buckle with relief. Before she could thank him, he went on, "This here's a pretty bauble. My wife woulda liked it, but she's been dead now close to three years. I ain't got no use for such things. Reckon you might as well keep it." He grabbed Temple's hand and pressed the brooch back into her palm, then turned abruptly and walked back to the front door of the house. He paused there, glancing back at them. "I got me a milk cow with a calf on her in the barn. You can take some o' her milk fer your little one."

  "Thank you."

  He grumped a reply and went back inside the house.

  An hour later, he stomped into the barn carrying a basket of fresh eggs in one hand and a bundle of quilts tucked under his other arm. "Don't need these." He set them down beside one of the stalls and left.

  Temple ran after him, catching up with him a few feet outside the barn door. "Please, what's your name?"

  He ducked his head slightly, rainwater running off the brim of his hat. "Gosgrove. Hiram Cosgrove."

  "I am Mrs. Stuart." She offered him her rag-bound hand.

  He shook it awkwardly, bobbing his head in a quick acknowledgement. "Mrs. Stuart."

  "Thank you, Mr. Cosgrove. I wanted to be able to tell my son the name of the man who helped us. Thank you."

  "Out here in the rain and the mud ain't a place to be thankin' somebody. You best git in where it's dry," he declared brusquely.

  She lingered a second longer, then turned and ran back inside the barn.

  Later that night, Temple lay beside The Blade, the two of them half buried in the hay and wrapped in one of Mr. Cosgrove's warm, dry quilts. Their own wet blankets and their clothes were draped over the stanchions to dry. She breathed in deeply, inhaling the hay's strong fragrance and trying to remember the last time she had felt this warm and comfortable. The Blade stirred and shuddered convulsively.

  "Are you cold?" she whispered, and immediately turned to hold him, pressing her body to his length to let its heat warm him. "Does that feel better?"

  "I don't think I want to feel better," he murmured, a rasp in his voice from days of coughing.

  "Don't talk like that."

  "Why?" He rolled onto his side to face her, the hay rustling noisily beneath him. "We both know that once I am well you won't be lying beside me anymore. Why would I want to get well when it means losing you again, Temple?"

  "You are wrong." She reached up to stroke his face. "I will not leave. You have to get well because I want to be your wife again."

  He caught hold of her hand and halted its idle caress, surprising her with the strength of his grip. "Don't say that if you don't mean it," he warned thickly.

  "I mean it."

  Nothing; he said nothing. Instead, he pressed the hollow of her hand to his mouth and held it there. She could feel the faint vibration of his body, a trembling that wasn't from the cold or a fever but came from strong feelings. Temple quivered a little herself, thrilling to the certainty of his love. Then he lowered her hand to breathe in deeply and sigh.

  "I have missed you. By all that's holy, I have missed you," he murmured. "Maybe I should accept that you want to come back to me without questioning it, but I can't. Why, Temple? Why have you changed your mind?"

  "Because your son needs you, but—more than that—I need you. I love you," she said quietly and moved closer to lay her head on his chest. She could hear the congested wheeze of his lungs and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "We have both made mistakes, though we didn't think they were at the time. When you signed that treaty, you thought you were doing what was best, but you were wrong, very wrong. And when I left you, I thought I was doing what was best for our child, but I was wrong, too. Much has changed in the last two years, but not the way I feel about you." Temple closed her eyes, conscious of the enveloping heat of his body and the aching tiredness of her own. Part of her wished it wasn't so. "Hold me."

  She felt him kiss her hair before a cough forced him to turn his head. The spasm intensified the rasp in his low voice when he spoke again. "I don't have the strength to do anything else but hold you. I love you, Temple. I never wanted you to leave, but I couldn't ask you to stay."

  "I know." The decision had to be hers, one made freely, without the coercion of his love. Otherwise she would have resented it. She understood that.

  The rain pattered on the barn roof, but they were warm and dry in their soft bed of hay, snuggled closely together. They drifted off to sleep that way.

  31

  Fort Gibson, Indian Territory Late

  February 1839

  The big bay horse snorted impatiently at the slow pace and strained against the bit, its neck tautly arched by the curbing reins. Jarred by its eager prancing gait, Jed nearly gave the animal its head and let it run off some of that freshness as he rode out of the fort along the military road that stretched between Fort Gibson and Fort Smith. But the sight of tents sprawled along the valley of the Arkansas River checked that impulse. It wasn't an army bivouac, but the final encampment of the caravan.

  At Fayetteville, his detachment of exiles had branched west, making for Fort Gibson, although most of the caravans had continued south through the Ouachitas to Fort Smith. Two days ago they had reached journey's end.

  He had slept twenty-four hours of those two days, in a warm bed with dry blankets and on an army mattress considerably softer than the cold, hard ground. He had wakened from a heavy sleep with stiff, sore muscles. A hot bath, a shave, a clean uniform, and a hot meal had alleviated a great many of his aches, but not all.

  Still, looking at these people who had spent another night outside with only blankets and fires to warm them, who had eaten another meal of salt pork and mush, and who possessed little more than the clothes on their backs, Jed couldn't complain. At the officers' mess this morning, he had listened to the laughter and easy voices. Yet here in the camp, the absence of those sounds was deafening.

  When the caravan arrived two days ago, he hadn't seen a single smile or heard one expression of relief that the costly and brutal trek was finally over. The survivors had merely scattered over the river valley in a desultory fashion and methodically pitched their tents.

  His skittish bay horse shied at a bird that flew out of the marshy canebrake growing along the riverbank on his right. Jed checked the bay's sideways lunge and settled it back into its jolting prance, cursing the animal in a soft, soothing voice. He almost wished that he had ridden one of the caravan horses instead of borrowing one of the dragoon's mounts. But his horses were as footsore and weary as everyone else's.

  He reined the bay off the road and walked it into the large and sprawling encampment. This would be his last time to observe and report. After two days of rest and recuperation for the Indians, he had expected to see some change. But the range of expressions he saw was the same as the day they had arrived: distra
ught, desperate, sullen, and bitter.

  Maybe it wasn't so surprising. The hegira was over, but at what cost? Hundreds had died, in the detention camps and on the long trek. The Trail Where They Cried, that's what Jed had heard the Cherokees call it. He had the feeling he would always hear the moaning of their grief in the wind.

  And what had they found when they got here? More of the same shoddy treatment they had endured on the trail. True, the land was good. The hardwood forests would provide game for their tables, lumber for their homes, and fuel for their fires. The rich soil of the river bottoms and valleys would grow their crops. But the rest of the promises in the treaty, the treaty they had never agreed to—in one short morning, Jed had seen and gleaned enough information to know just how well those were being kept. Maybe it didn't fit squarely under the heading of army business, but Jed intended to report those things as well.

  Just ahead, he spotted a small gathering and rode over to investigate. At his approach, the group began to disperse, wandering off in twos and threes. A half dozen remained, solemnly shaking hands with a man clad in a heavy mackinaw with a wide-brimmed hat pulled low on his forehead, partially concealing the shock of sandy hair beneath it. Jed glanced at the book in the man's hand and reined his horse to a halt. Was it a Bible? From twenty feet away, Jed couldn't tell.

  Despite the angular thinness of the man's face, one glance and Jed knew the man hadn't been on the trail. The warm clothes, the sturdy shoes, the ruddy color of his cheeks, and the well-fed horse tied to the wagon behind him marked him as either one of the mixed bloods already settled here, one of the white traders under government contract, or a missionary. Jed was curious to learn which. He waited until the man was alone, then walked his horse closer.

  The man smiled, his glance flickering briefly to the lieutenant's bars on his shoulder. "Good afternoon, Lieutenant."

  Jed caught a glimpse of the book's gold lettering. It was a Bible. "Afternoon, Reverend. It is Reverend, isn't it?"

  "Yes. Reverend Nathan Cole from the Dwight Mission."

  "Dwight Mission. That's about halfway between here and Fort Smith, isn't it?" Jed recalled, and observed the missionary's affirmative nod. "That's a long day's ride. You're ranging pretty far afield."

  "Perhaps. But with so many caravans arriving from the East, I felt I should come where I could do the most good. From the tragic stories I have heard, these people are in need of spiritual sustenance now."

  Jed laughed. "Forgive me, Reverend. I don't mean to make light of God or His power. But I don't think prayer is going to take the weevils out of the flour they have been issued, or make the meat taste less rancid, or put fat on the sick and scrawny cattle they have been given in place of the quality beef they were promised by the government. If you want to pray for someone, pray for the men who won the government contract to supply them with provisions and are now making a huge profit by issuing substandard goods. If you want to try and help these people, get them warm clothes, find homes for their orphans, and look after their sick. That will do more to restore their belief in a fair and just God than reading a few passages out of the Bible." He paused and smiled ruefully. "Seems like I'm the one who's preaching now. My apologies, Reverend Cole."

  "It isn't necessary. Perhaps the sermon was deserved."

  "But I'm not the one to be making it. I'll let you go on with your work. I have some good-byes to say." He wheeled the eager bay away from the missionary and pointed it toward a small semicircle of tents some distance away, the site of the Gordon camp.

  When he rode up, Eliza stood next to the cookfire, a hand raised to shield her eyes against the glare of the sun. The ravages of the trail were evident in the stringy thinness of her arms and the dark hollows under her eyes. Looking at her dirty and matted hair, her ragged and soiled clothes, Jed was more conscious of his own cleanness than ever.

  "Lieutenant Parmelee. Without your beard, I almost didn't recognize you," Eliza said when he reined in. "Step down and warm yourself by the fire. Although it isn't all that cold today. I can't help wondering why we could not have had some of this mild weather on the trail."

  "I don't expect we will ever know the answer to that." He swung down from the saddle and scanned the camp. Except for the stout colored woman and her son, there was no one else in sight. "Where is everyone?"

  "Will and Kipp went to apply for our rations," Eliza said, then hesitated. "Temple left this morning. They went to join The Blade's father. He emigrated here more than a year ago and built a home farther north along the Grand River."

  "I'm surprised the rest of you didn't go with them."

  "The Blade and his father are members of the treaty party. They signed it. To live with them, even for a short time—" Eliza searched for the words that would explain the deep resentment Will would have felt, with all the pain and suffering of the trail still fresh. Not to mention the violent hatred Kipp felt. Finally she settled for an inadequate "It would never have worked."

  Jed tried to think of something else to say—anything—but the words wouldn't come. Temple was gone, and he'd had no chance to tell her good-bye.

  "I... I wish I had known Temple was leaving. I would have liked to wish her well."

  "I am sure Temple knew that."

  "I am leaving myself in the morning, traveling by riverboat this time," Jed explained. "Before I left, I wanted to come by and .. . tell you all good-bye, I guess." He inwardly struggled to hold on to his purpose in coming. Without Temple here, he had no desire to linger.

  "I will tell the others for you. I know Will will be sorry he wasn't here to wish you a safe journey home. You were a friend to us, Jed. Thank you."

  "Good luck to you." Jed climbed back on his horse and turned it toward the fort.

  All the way back, he kept telling himself it was just as well he hadn't seen Temple again. It was over. She had made her choice. In his pocket was a letter from Cecilia. Written just before Christmas, it had been waiting for him when he arrived. She had suggested a spring wedding. Why not? Jed thought, gripped now by a mood of sober resignation.

  As Eliza laid Will's freshly laundered spare shirt atop the blanket on the ground inside the tent, she noticed a tear in the sleeve. Sighing, she picked up the shirt and examined the rip.

  She supposed she could patch it with some material from her petticoat. The poor undergarment was so tattered now it was hardly worth wearing.

  "Miss Eliza," Shadrach called from outside the tent.

  "Yes, what is it?" She didn't mean to sound so tired and irritable, and lonely. Temple had left only this morning. It was silly to be missing her already. Yet the camp seemed so quiet and empty without Temple, The Blade, and little Lije... and Deu and Phoebe, too.

  "There's a rider coming this way," Shadrach said.

  "I will be right out." Eliza refolded the shirt and put it back on the blanket, unable to summon any enthusiasm for the unknown visitor, certain it was probably someone looking for Will. With an effort, she pushed to her feet and crossed to the tent flap. When she lifted the canvas aside, she felt the soreness of her raw, chapped hands. Momentarily preoccupied with the throbbing pain in them, she stared blankly at the man on horseback.

  "Hello." He leaned forward in the saddle. "Do you speak English?"

  Frowning, Eliza nodded. That voice, it sounded as if it belonged to someone she had known long ago. Or was it only her imagination conjuring up something familiar?

  The slanting rays of a setting sun shadowed the man's face. He dismounted to stand beside his horse. "I am Reverend Cole from the Dwight Mission."

  "Nathan." She spoke his name in shock and took a single step forward. "Nathan?" She questioned her own eyes. Did that bulky coat hide a slim, gangly figure? Was there a thatch of sandy hair under that hat? "Is that you, Nathan Cole?"

  "Yes." He moved hesitantly toward her. "I'm sorry. Do I know y—Eliza?" He frowned in disbelief.

  "Yes." She swallowed back the hysterical laugh that tried to bubble out of her throat. She knew
how she must look to him, her dirty hair all loose and matted instead of tightly pinned in its bun, her gown soiled and torn with a blanket draped around her shoulders instead of a shawl, her skin chapped and red instead of fair and smooth, not to mention the weight she had lost and the hollows under her eyes. "I know I don't resemble the Eliza you remember, but it really is me."

  "How—" Nathan seized her arms and held her away from him, unable to believe his eyes. "What are you doing here? I thought you had gone home to New England. How did you get here?"

  "I came with the Gordons." Eliza could feel the tears coming.

  "Over the trail?" Nathan said incredulously.

  "Yes."

  "But.. . how? You're—"

  "I claimed I was a cousin. Although actually no one even asked whether I was Cherokee or not," Eliza remembered, then noticed the look on his face. "I couldn't leave them, Nathan. I couldn't let them go through all that alone. They needed me. They .. . needed me." Her voice trailed off to a whisper as tears began to roll down her checks. When she swayed toward him, Nathan gathered her into his gentle embrace. She rested her cheek against the wool of his coat, letting it absorb her tears. "Little Johnny, the baby, he died while we were in the detention camp. Then on the trail, Xandra died .. . and Victoria. Shadrach's father, Ike, is dead as well."

  She wept softly, crying for those they had buried, for the suffering they had all known, for the grandeur of Gordon Glen forever lost to them, for the log schoolhouse she had taught in, and the clothes and personal items she had been forced to leave behind. It was gone. It was all gone.

  "I'm sorry," Nathan murmured when she finished.

  "We lost virtually everything." Eliza breathed in deeply to check the flow of tears. Drawing back, she self-consciously wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I had forgotten how easy it always was to talk to you. I have missed that."