Mr. Jason wore an apologetic look. “The whole train can’t afford to stay put here when only one child is ailing. If we don’t push ahead, we’ll be stranded in the mountains in the winter instead of reaching Oregon. At least with two hale adults, one of you can tend the lass while the other keeps the wagon in formation.”
Charity spent the whole day sponging Cricket and drizzling little bits of broth and willow bark tea into her. Wagons had no springs—something she’d learned her very first day on the trail. Instead of the buffered ride of a springed carriage, wagons jolted and bumped dreadfully. Every yard they covered felt like a mile.
By midday, Cricket started coughing. Charity held her upright so she’d breathe a bit easier. Ethan took a turn while Charity took an essential moment at that stop, and Mary Pitts brought over bacon and fry bread for their noon meal. “How’s the little one?”
Ethan gave no reply. He looked down at his daughter. Every shred of his love and concern showed on his grim face.
Charity dunked the washrag in a water bucket and sponged Cricket as she whispered, “She needs prayer.” After Mary left, Charity fretted, “Her cough is worsening. I have an elixir in the bottom drawer.”
Ethan somberly handed his daughter over and moved his heavy toolbox so the drawer could slip open a bit of the way. “I don’t see any medicinals in here.”
“I’m sure they’re there.” She pressed the damp cloth to Cricket’s fever-cracked lips. “Oh. You’re looking for glass bottles. Daddy said the glass would likely break. He had the apothecary pack all of the tinctures, concoctions, and elixirs into metal containers. There’s a small book with them that holds the labels and notes from the doctor.”
Ethan tilted the kit and yanked it free. As he did, the false bottom of the drawer slid aside, revealing a wealth of twenty-dollar gold coins. He ignored them and reached for the half-inch-thick book wedged alongside another box. He pulled the book free and set it on the bed. A small velvet bag enveloped each container. Frustration flooded him. He needed to access the medication quickly. Charity had opened the book and told him, “We need flask number eight.”
Desperate, Ethan dumped the whole kit and started to rifle through the bags.
“Oh! They were in order in the satchel!”
Her cry came too late. At least each bottle was etched with a number. Together, they exposed each flask until his fingers closed around the right one. “Number Eight! How much do we give her?”
“The book says half a teaspoon, accompanied by a mustard and onion poultice.”
His worry for his daughter erupted into unreasonable anger. “Mustard and onion? Just how am I supposed to get those out here?” He waved at the flasks with disgust. “Silver and gold don’t take care of all of life’s problems.”
Charity gave no reply. Ethan stared at her and saw the hurt in her eyes. She dipped her head, and her lashes lowered. Her cheek pressed lightly against Cricket’s. In a thick, hushed voice, she directed, “My measuring spoons are in the top drawer.”
His anger fled, only to be replaced with remorse. A soft answer turneth away wrath. The verse ran through his mind as he poured the cherry elixir into the spoon and gave it to his daughter. “Charity—”
“If you hold her,” Charity interrupted, “I’ll make the poultice.” She didn’t look at him. Instead, she shifted Cricket.
Ethan accepted his daughter’s limp form and wondered afresh how dainty little Charity had managed to prop her up these past hours. “Charity—”
She shook her head. “I need to think. Please don’t distract me.” Her voice was thick with tears. She said nothing more. Neither did he. The drawer holding spices had a tin of mustard. The drawer with dehydrated fruits and vegetables scraped open. Most folk hadn’t been able to afford much of them, but the Davis family brought along a wide variety. To keep the flavors from mingling, they were stored in decorated tins.
Less than ten minutes later, Charity pressed the compress to Cricket’s chest. She’d torn her own flannel nightgown to use for the fabric, and since no fire had been struck for nooning, she’d melted the lard in a pie tin over the kerosene lantern, then added in the onions and mustard. With the plaster made and in place, Charity said in a tight voice, “The wagons are starting to pull out. Do you want to hold her while I drive?”
“The terrain is rough. I’d better drive.” Charity sat on the edge of the feather bed, and Ethan carefully transferred his daughter’s weight into her arms. “Get better,” he murmured to Cricket then gave her a kiss on her cheek. His head lifted a bit. He cradled Charity’s jaw. “Gal, now’s not the time, but we need to talk. I’m sorry—”
“Now isn’t the time,” she cut in. She pulled away, but not before he saw tears sparkling in her eyes.
Ethan let out a groan of remorse and climbed onto the seat. He let out the brake, took up the reins, and set them into motion. “Holler if you need my help,” he called to her. It was a useless thing to say. He couldn’t make a difference. Almost as bad, he’d just crushed Charity’s tender heart, so turning to him was probably the last thing she’d want to do.
By nightfall, Cricket’s cough was still bad, but Charity managed to care for her as well as could be expected with the plaster and elixir. Sucking on the lemon drops seemed to help Cricket’s throat feel better. The fever concerned them most. Cricket stayed hot as a pistol. Common sense dictated they each take a shift during the night with her so they’d both be able to function the next day. Neither slept much at all—worry interfered. Mrs. Jason warned them against using the quinine for the fever because her medical book said it wasn’t to be given to young children.
By the third evening, Ethan knew his little daughter couldn’t weather another night of the fever. Out of desperation, he looked at Charity and said, “We have to give her the quinine. Look it up in that book. Whatever the lowest dose is, we’ll give her half of what they recommend.”
Charity fumbled with the book and found the correct pages. The label stripped from the original glass bottle warned not to administer quinine to small children. In a neat hand, the pharmacist had added several comments and admonishments.
Ethan put a few drops of the bitter medicine in a small cup and added a bit of water. He stared at it. “God, I’m fresh out of prayers. My little girl’s in Your hands. Please”—he let out a mix between a sigh and a groan—“please….”
“Amen,” Charity breathed. She gently stroked Cricket’s throat to make her swallow.
Ethan watched tears pencil down Charity’s wan cheeks. She was hollow-eyed and pasty. Oh, not you, too. He touched her forehead, but she drew back. “You’re exhausted. Go lie down.”
She shook her head. “I can’t leave my little girl.” She dipped the cloth and wiped Cricket’s tiny body by rote, yet every move was done with loving tenderness.
Ethan stilled her hand. “Just curl up on Tad’s side of the bed, Charity. I’ll see to her awhile, then you can take the rest of the night.”
Charity barely laid her head down before she fell asleep. Ethan leaned his head against a wagon bow as he rolled up his sleeves. It took a long while until he was sure: Cricket’s fever was waning. He coaxed a bit of cider and more cough elixir into her, and she fell into a peaceful slumber.
Ethan looked at the button on the canvas and knew he had one last thing to do.
Chapter 9
How could a woman go from the heights of elation to the depths of despair in a single heartbeat? Charity was thrilled beyond words to wake and find that Cricket felt better. Then she saw the bare spot where the button belonged. She scrambled out of the wagon with more haste than manners, but she didn’t care. She sat at the edge of camp, out of sight, her spine pressed to the trunk of a tree. All she wanted was to be alone.
Alone.
Yes, she was by herself. She folded her knees up, wound her arms around them, and buried her face in her skirt. She wept half an ocean. From how he’d acted, she’d suspected Ethan had made his decision. After his comment abo
ut silver and gold, she’d cut him off before he could tell her then. She’d hoped maybe, after the strain of Cricket’s illness waned, he’d reconsider. He hadn’t. The missing button said it all. Though she’d suspected it, it still crushed her to know the man she loved chose to reject her.
“Pa?”
“Yes, Tad?” Ethan looked over the tailgate of the wagon and smiled at his son.
“Sissy didn’t die and go to the Hereafter?”
“No.” He grinned. “God was good. Sissy’s much better.”
“Great!” Tad’s features twisted into confusion. “Then why did Miss Davis go tearing through camp, weeping?”
Charity heard the crunch of boots and tried to stop crying. “Aww, honey-gal,” a velvety voice crooned before she had a chance to wipe away the tears.
Ethan! I can’t bear to have him see me like this. She needed time to regain a semblance of composure. How could she do it? She was committed to helping him with the children for the rest of the trip, but knowing he didn’t want her or love her was too painful. Another sob welled up.
He knelt beside her and made a soft hushing sound as he pulled her into his arms. For an instant, everything within her rebelled. Charity tried to push him back and scramble away, but he held her fast. “I’m not letting go of you, honey-gal. Not now. Not ever.”
She couldn’t believe he’d said that. Charity rested her forehead on his shoulder and still cried. He pressed his lips to her hair and stroked her arm and back.
“I’ve been a fool, Charity. I’ve let my pride and your possessions come between us instead of seeking the truth. The truth is, you are one of the sweetest gifts God ever gave me. I got to thinking last night. If God sees the sparrow fall and can count the hairs on my head, He certainly counted the buttons on your string. He knew I was carving that button. He knew the desire of my heart, too. I’d been fighting it for weeks—wanting you as my wife, but I kept telling myself and anyone else who asked that I wasn’t worthy of you. You’re a wealthy woman—”
She looked up at him with aching eyes. “You’re the rich one, Ethan. All of the silver and gold in the world wouldn’t ever buy me a f–family.” Her voice cracked. “I—I have nothing.”
“Sweetheart, that’s where you’re wrong. Last night you called Cricket your little girl.” She gave him a blank look, so he nodded to punctuate his words. “Yes, you did. You said, ‘I can’t leave my little girl.’ That said it all, Charity. In our hearts, we’ve blended until we’re already a family. The only thing missing is a ring on your finger to make it official.”
He’d brought her shawl. He reached to the side and unfolded it to reveal her button string. “I’m no good at stitching.” He chuckled. “You knew that, seeing the sorry way I’d tried to mend my own clothes before you came along. I couldn’t wait, though. Last night I took that button off of the wagon bonnet and secured it to your string. It’s the thousandth, Charity Davis. I know it full well, and I’m staking my claim. I’d best warn you I knotted this button on so tight it would take a twenty-mule team to pull it off. I’m giving you my heart with that button, and you’d better know it’s given with all the love God put in my heart for you.”
He pressed his lips to her temple.
“I love you, honey. I need your sweetness and comfort. I want to be your strength and protection. Maybe things haven’t started out like a storybook, but that doesn’t mean they haven’t been arranged for us by the hand of the Almighty. I love you. Don’t you love me?”
“Oh, Ethan, I was so scared. I never wanted to give the button back in the first place! That night I realized I’d lost my heart to you.”
He slipped her button string around her neck. “Then, Miss Charity Davis, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“Ethan Cole, I love you. Nothing would make me happier.”
He dipped his head. “Let’s seal it with a kiss and a prayer.”
With the resiliency of youth, Cricket recovered quickly. After Charity was sure all was well, she dug to the very bottom of her trunk and brought out the white satin Mama had brought along. Ethan would have been satisfied for the wagon train captain to wed them straight away, but he said she deserved the wedding of her dreams. According to their scout, they had ten days until they made it through The Dalles and reached the Willamette Valley. There was a church at the end of the trail, and Charity was determined to have a bridal gown done by then.
“Ethan, you may as well go on over and share the fire with Rob,” Banner said. “We ladies are fixin’ to help Charity with her finery. Everyone knows a man’s not allowed to see it till the wedding day, so you can just resign yourself to being kicked out of the way for the next week or so.”
Charity giggled as he winked and paced off. Soon Banner, Myrtle, Mary, and Gracie helped her spread the bonnet she’d saved from her wagon on the ground to protect her satin. When they unrolled the bolt, Charity gasped. Mama hadn’t just packed the satin—she’d included elegant lace and packets of seed pearls and minute, crystal beads.
Myrtle oohed and aahed. Banner’s brows knit for a moment. “I can’t imagine why she didn’t just bring her gown for you. Certainly you were both of a size that would have made it possible.”
Charity smiled. “Mama was the middle of three daughters. Though she wore the gown, according to family tradition, it belonged to the firstborn daughter.”
Gracie said, “Then it’s time to start a gown for a new family. Ladies, it’s time to gild our lily. Let’s get busy.” They measured, talked, snipped, and pinned. True friends that they were, they worked afternoon and evening with her until the last stitch was done.
The gown featured a tightly fitted bodice that ended in a downward point. Fabric swagged from side seam to side seam in order to form horizontal scallops down to the floor, and the back draped over a bustle. Closely fitted sleeves hugged her arms and came to a traditional medieval point to call attention to her slender finger where Ethan would place the wedding ring. Lace and seed pearls adorned the entire bodice then edged the hem and sleeves.
“Your mama’s veil is your something old, and this gown is your something new,” Banner said as she and Charity hid the completed gown away from Ethan’s sight. “I made a garter for your something blue. Have you borrowed anything yet?”
Charity smiled. “I’m borrowing Ethan’s children, but I’m not giving them back. I’m keeping them as my own forever.”
At the end of the trail, everyone camped for the night. The next day, after folks had a chance to do laundry and visit the bathhouse, they all met at the church. Cricket, dressed in a pretty little sky-blue frock Charity made for her, skipped down the aisle, carrying Charity’s beloved Bible. She took her place beside her daddy.
Ethan forgot to breathe when he saw Tad escort Charity down the aisle. Her gown sparkled, shimmered, and flowed like a dream. Through her mama’s veil, he could see her smile. As she drew closer, his smile broadened. Instead of ribbons, her beloved button string draped around and hung from the bouquet.
Epilogue
Ma, you’d best better get in here,” Tad hollered. “Cricket’s getting into your fancy talcum powder and making a mess!”
“Cricket!” Charity’s feet pattered on the hardwood floor of the beautiful home Ethan had built for them. “Mama didn’t want you to get messy! We’re supposed to surprise your papa with the anniversary cake as soon as he gets home!”
Ethan stood behind his children. He rested a hand on each of them. Tad hadn’t lied one bit. Cricket had gotten into the violet talcum he’d gotten Charity for Christmas. The whole bedroom smelled like a flower garden. Hopefully, his wife would be so taken with this next gift, she’d ignore that misbehavior.
The crystal doorknob turned, and they all held their breath. Charity entered the room and stopped cold. “Ethan! When did you get home?”
“While Tad had you out in the garden.”
“Can we say it now?” Cricket whispered loudly.
“Yes.”
&nb
sp; “Surprise!” Ethan, Tad, and Cricket exclaimed in unison. They moved to the side, revealing the wedding chest he’d been making in secret. The look on Charity’s face made all of his work worthwhile.
“Oh, Ethan! It’s lovely! Oh, it matches!”
He rocked back on his heels and proudly gazed down at the front panel of the piece. He’d sent back East just to get walnut for it. He’d used the last of his own money to do it, too. “Yup. I traced the highboy and headboard to be sure the ribbon was just right.”
She wound her arms around him. “I was thinking this matched the button you gave me. It’s beautiful, Ethan. Thank you.”
She kissed him, and Tad groaned. “Can we please have the cake now?”
“Go ahead and cut it.” Charity held Ethan back while the kids dashed to the kitchen.
“You can keep your wedding gown inside, honey-gal. I lined it all with cedar. Look.” He opened the lid. Charity’s laughter pleased him. Inside the lid, he’d wood-burned a design of a string of buttons. “It took me a while, but this is my groom’s gift to you.”
“I have a surprise for you, too.” She took his hand and placed it on her tummy. “How about if the chest becomes a family heirloom?”
A Letter from the Bride
To my dear daughters, granddaughters, and all future brides, I thought it would be a wonderful tradition for each bride to write a little note and leave a legacy for those who come after her. How I wish my own mother had lived to see my wedding day and been present to share her wisdom!
I make no pretense at being wise, but God is. The Bible says we can ask for wisdom, and God will honor our request. As you consider marriage, first seek God’s will and ask Him to direct your heart. Do not hasten to take your vows. Pause and reflect before you take such a momentous step, and be sure your mate honors God. A marriage is not just between a man and a woman—it is a holy union which must include the Lord to flourish.
Bartered Bride Romance Collection Page 12