The WESTWARD Christmas BRIDES COLLECTION: 9 Historical Romances Answer the Call of the American West

by Wanda E. Brunstetter, Susan Page Davis, Melanie Dobson, Cathy Liggett, Vickie McDonough, Olivia Newport, Janet Spaeth, Jennifer Rogers Spinola

  Posy hesitated, biting her lip and looking like she might cry. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea. He’s not in good shape, and I don’t want to upset you.”

  “Upset me? Posy, I need to see him.” Juliet started to get up.

  “Well, can you walk?”

  “You can help me.”

  “All right. I’ll take you.” Posy let out a shaky sigh. “But you might be sorry I did.”

  “Jacob?” Juliet knelt by his bed and turned to see his face.

  When he didn’t answer, she inched closer and put her hand on his forehead. Jacob stirred and his eyes twitched, shivering, but he didn’t respond.

  “Posy, he’s feverish,” she whispered. “Has he been vomiting? What’s wrong with him?” She reached for his hand under the blankets and lifted it, bending his limp fingers. She checked his weak pulse, wishing to goodness she had her medical supplies.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t heard him coughing, but he’s stopped eating.” Posy sat down next to him and looked as if she might cry. “Poor fellow. After getting us all here safely.”

  “How about water?” Juliet’s mind spun through a list of possibilities. “Has he drunk anything? How long has he been like this?”

  Posy straightened his blankets. “They called some people to look at him, but I don’t know what they said. Honestly, I thought he’d be better by now, but he keeps getting worse.”

  Juliet opened Jacob’s mouth and looked at his tongue then pulled his eyelids open and checked his pupils for dilation. He barely moved, and a shaky panic trembled in the pit of her stomach. She pulled the blankets back and lowered her ear to Jacob’s chest to listen to his breathing, and then she ran her fingers along the tender glands at the side of his neck.

  “It doesn’t seem like cholera. Nor mountain fever either, or ague.” She bit her thumbnail as she thought. “You said he hasn’t been coughing?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  And then something awful occurred to her. Juliet pulled down the blanket and reached for Jacob’s arm—the one he’d wounded in combat. She rolled up his sleeve and unwound a fresh bandage, carefully peeling back a strong-smelling herbal poultice—and she and Posy both gasped.

  The arm the surgeon had sutured now was puffed, red and inflamed, and blotches of red streamed out in all direction across his skin in hateful, angry lines. Yellow pus boiled over at the site of the suture, and his whole arm felt hot and swollen with the stench of dead flesh.

  “My word.” Posy rocked back on her heels. “He’s got infection again. That man who tried to clean it out didn’t do a good job, I reckon.”

  “And the infection has probably gone into his bloodstream.” Juliet clapped her hand over her mouth. “With so much exposure to the cold and so little to eat, his body just couldn’t fight it. And what can I do? I don’t have any of my medicines. This poultice might stave off gangrene for a while, but it won’t cure him.”

  Juliet brushed Jacob’s hair from his forehead as he tossed and groaned in his sleep. “There must be somebody close by who can help. Isn’t there a fort nearby, wherever we are? An outpost, somewhere that might have a medical doctor?” She stroked her hand over his limp palm. “I hope they don’t have to amputate his arm.”

  Posy spoke softly. “Seems like not long ago you were ready to knock that arm off yourself.”

  Juliet felt her face blaze with shame, and she couldn’t look at Posy. Couldn’t answer, thinking of Robert. Of the war, and all those soldiers in blue who’d bled to death right in the Union hospital. Their groaning and moans for help, and the nearly lifeless eyes that fluttered with pain.

  So much like the thin face on the blanket in front of her, his lips moving as if in silent prayer. Chest lifting and falling, limbs trembling.

  A man, flesh. Not so different from those who’d fought and died under the Union flag.

  Only she wasn’t about to lose another healthy man like Jacob to infection. Not again. Not when his face still bloomed with faint color and his heart still beat strong and sure beneath the blankets.

  Not this time.

  Juliet stood. A strange new strength surged through her shaky legs as she pushed back the tepee flap.

  “I can’t speak French, Posy. Can you help me find someone who can get a doctor?”

  “I’ll try.” Posy stuck her tongue between her lips as she thought. “Let me see if I can find the fellows who were with him earlier.”

  “Hurry. There might not be much time.”

  Chapter 9

  Juliet huddled under a woven Crow blanket and listened as Posy and a group of buckskinned men conversed in halting French. A slow fire burned in the center of the tepee, and Juliet inhaled pungent scents of smoke, sage, leather, and rawhide.

  “The leader said they’ve applied the best poultice for infection,” Posy whispered with a nod toward a wrinkled man with straight black hair parted into two long braids. Beads, bits of bone, and feathers twinkled at the ends of his hair, and the blankets around his shoulders glowed in rows of brilliant color. “Something about dried flower roots and tree bark. I didn’t get the rest.”

  “Is he the chief?” Juliet whispered.

  “No, one of the tribal leaders. The other two must be important people, too.”

  “I can’t believe they’d even want to help us. Please thank them for me—they’ve saved our lives.”

  Posy did, in such emphatic terms that the men grunted and seemed almost embarrassed, bowing slightly as if to receive her thanks. The old man lifted his hand as if in blessing, his eyes milky with cataracts.

  Juliet raised her head, suddenly ashamed. Ashamed of the broken promises and broken treaties Jacob had spoken of. “Savages”—she’d said it herself. And they’d poured broth down her throat when she was too weak to drink.

  Posy translated. “He says he can ask the medicine man to do a prayer incantation, but he’s not sure it’ll work.”

  “Oh, no. Not that.” Juliet remembered Jacob’s hands breaking bread. “Tell Him the God of the Bible—Jesus—can heal him if He chooses. He hears our prayers.”

  “Goodness, you’re pushing the limits of my French, Juliet.” Posy scowled.

  She talked a few more minutes, shaking her head and haltingly trying French and occasional English words, her arms motioning up to her shoulder and then her heart. They sketched what looked like a map on the earthen floor and argued back and forth as they pointed to different spots—drawing rectangles and lines. Finally, Posy threw her hands up and burst into tears.

  “What’s he saying?” Juliet tugged on Posy’s sleeve.

  “He says there’s no doctor around here for miles, except for the French doctor the trappers use—and he’s expensive. He won’t come without gold in hand, up front—and the heavy snows are coming soon.”

  Juliet’s breath quickened. “Is he good?”

  “What does it matter? We don’t have a thing to give him. No gold, no nothing. Not even our boots. We’re lucky to be here alive.”

  “Ask him if he’s good.” Juliet said again.

  Posy turned back to the group of men and repeated Juliet’s request in French, and the older man nodded soberly.

  “Très bon,” the leader said with a sober nod. “Very good doctor. The best.”

  “How much does he cost?”

  The old man held up a brown hand webbed with lines and counted on his fingers. He held up five, and then five more.

  “That much?” Posy smacked her head.

  “How fast can he get there?” Juliet interrupted.

  “Juliet, you must be feverish. A couple of days, maybe, but what does it matter?”

  “Trust me. Please ask him. See if they’ll go get him.”

  Posy turned to face her. “Why do you care anyway? I thought you couldn’t stand Jacob. You said so yourself—lots of times.”

  “Forget what I said. I need their fastest runners—please.”

  Snowflakes drifted past the tent’s opening like thin bits of co
nfetti, and the fire sputtered and smoked. Wind moaned past the tepee, a mournful sound like a man in agony.

  And Juliet reached beneath her high ruffled collar with shaking fingers and withdrew her heavy golden brooch—its moody blue stone sparkling like sea waves at dusk. She held the cross-shaped brooch, still suspended from its gleaming silken gold chain, and coiled it into Posy’s hand with a musical metallic clink.

  “Take it.” Her engagement ring dangled from the chain next to the brooch. “And give the ring to the Crow runners, if they’ll agree. Please ask them to go as fast as they can.”

  The older man said something in Crow—a surprised exclamation—and reached for the brooch. Glistening dots of light reflected on his wizened face and glinted in his dark eyes.

  “Whatever’s left they can have. We owe it to them.” Juliet handed him the ring. “They’ve given us our lives back—and besides, what good would it do around my finger anyway?”

  Posy’s eyes popped, but she dutifully translated into French. The others in the tepee huddled together around the brooch and the ring, passing them back and forth. The older man bit the tip of the brooch to test the gold and then made another exclamation—with an expression that Juliet thought was almost a smile. He nodded and held up the ring to the light, turning it so that the blue stone sparkled.

  For a second, Juliet wanted to reach for it—for Robert—but she kept her hands folded tight under the blanket. She trembled, but not from cold.

  “Juliet. That’s Robert’s engagement set,” Posy whispered. “Are you sure you want to do this? I want to save Jacob, too, but bringing a doctor won’t guarantee he’ll live. We could do all of this, and Jacob could still die. You know that, right?”

  “Of course I do.” To cover her emotion, Juliet spoke more snappishly than she meant. “But we have to try, don’t we?” She pointed. “Look. The leader is trying to talk to you again. What’s he saying?”

  Posy listened then tossed a few questions back in her uncertain French. “He says this is far more than the doctor needs, or his fastest runners,” said Posy. “He says they could not accept such a high payment.”

  “Tell him it’s a gift.” Juliet’s heart beat fast. “A thank-you gift for saving our lives.”

  The man’s brow wrinkled, and he spoke, shaking his head.

  Posy translated. “He says he does not need a gift for doing right.”

  “Please. Ask him if he’ll help us as friends. Jacob desperately needs a doctor, and whatever’s left, we share in the camp as partners.”

  The old man looked first at Posy, then at Juliet and down at the brooch—and then grinned and grasped Posy’s pale hand in his wrinkled one.

  Chapter 10

  November 9

  The doctor arrived two days later—his horse lathered with sweat from riding from dawn to dusk. A record, the Crow leaders told Posy.

  He grunted a greeting in Crow and disappeared into Jacob’s tepee with a lantern, shutting the flap behind him. And that was the last Juliet saw of him, except when he barged out for more whisky for the patient—and for himself. He was a foul man, a bearded, sweaty fellow who reeked of garlic and body odor and spat in the dust like a cantankerous mule. He didn’t speak, he snarled—and Juliet kept a cold distance.

  “If Jacob wakes up to that, he’ll wish he were still unconscious,” she mumbled as she stood nervously outside the tepee. She half wished she’d saved Robert’s gold for a better candidate. “Are you sure he’s a good doctor?”

  “They said he’s the best.” Posy shrugged.

  “He’d better be.”

  Silas, who had exchanged his tattered pants and dirty, ripped broadcloth shirt for a pair of buckskin trousers like the Crow, crossed his arms. “Jacob, the poor fellow. We wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for him, you know.”

  “No. We’d be like the others.” Posy looked down at her hands. “You heard the news, didn’t you, Juliet?”

  “I did.” Juliet winced and looked over at the children, who were playing nearby. “I just can’t think about it. It’s too awful.”

  “The whole wagon party killed or taken captive by the Cheyenne,” Posy murmured as she wiped her eyes with shaking fingers. “Every last one of them. The horses and oxen divided up, and all their goods taken. It’s just too terrible to be true. The children are grieving so much—they’ve lost their parents.”

  Juliet put her arm around Posy, the news still fresh in her mind like the garish kill of a wolf, spread gruesome and bloody.

  “It broke my heart to tell them,” said Juliet softly. “They’re doing so well considering all they’ve been through.”

  “Poor little dears.” Posy let out a shuddering breath. “At least my aunt and uncle stayed together until the end. So brave and so faithful. I don’t think I could’ve taken a bullet in place of the Henderson children like they did. Both of them, one for one. It tears me up to think about it.”

  “You would have done it, Posy,” said Silas softly as he gazed at her with tenderness. “You underestimate yourself.”

  “Oh no I don’t.” She wiped wet lashes. “I’m a chicken. A big, fat chicken.” And she bawled into her apron.

  “At least the poor Van Dames didn’t suffer much, from what I hear,” said Papa, his face lined with sorrow and exhaustion. “God rest their blessed souls. They’ll get their reward from the Lord. I’m sure of it.”

  “I know they will. I just wish they could have made it here with us. And I hope that doctor will get word to the cavalry that we’re here—so they can send help and find the children’s relatives if they have any close by.” She dried her face. “The Indians have been so kind to us, but I’m ready to go home.”

  Juliet heard the doctor’s voice from inside the tepee, raspy and harsh—barking orders to his assistant—and she jerked her head up.

  Papa, still weak but able to walk, rubbed his hands in the cold. “Is he going to have to take his arm, Juliet, my dear?”

  “He said he’d try his best to save it.”

  Juliet heard Jacob moan from inside the tepee, a sound of agony, and she covered her ears. Her stomach reeled, lurched, and she backed away trembling. She’d seen the forceps and bone saws in the doctor’s bag—horrible instruments—and in an instant it all came back: the wails of the dying. Blue Union wool spattered in blood.

  Before she could flee, the tepee flap suddenly fluttered and the doctor stomped out, wiping bloody hands on his trousers. The doctor—Louis, they said his name was—cursed and spat on the ground, grinding it into the soil with his boot. “Well, that’s about all I can do for the poor sot,” he growled in heavily accented English as he pulled a cloth from his jacket pocket and wiped his hands and his forehead. Then he scrubbed behind his big ears. “God rest him.”

  Without warning, Louis draped a heavy arm around Juliet’s shoulders and breathed his horrible breath into her ear. “And you, miss, probably just threw your money away. It’s anybody’s guess if he even survives.” He squeezed her tighter and grinned, and a gold tooth gleamed in the gap of his mouth. “But as long as you’re giving it to somebody, might as well be me.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Silas hollered, and Papa swiped at the doctor with a beefy arm.

  Juliet shoved Louis’s arm off and stalked away, brushing her hair and pinafore back in place. She rubbed her cheek where his prickly beard had scratched it. “If you please, sir,” she snapped as she pulled Posy a safe distance away, “I hired you to heal the man, and that’s all. Have you done it?”

  “I’ve done what I could.” Louis stretched and popped his knuckles over his head. “On account of the painkillers, he’s half out of his mind now.”

  “And so are you,” retorted Juliet.

  Louis roared, his ample belly shaking. He eyed Juliet with a leering grin, his hand stroking his long beard. “Oh, I see. You’re a fiery one, aren’t you?”

  He moved toward her again, showing yellow teeth in a smile, and Juliet grabbed a heavy mallet the wome
n used to pound dried meat, fat, and berries into pemmican. She raised it over her shoulder, ready to swing. “You come one step closer, sir, and you’ll be sprawled next to Jacob, you hear? Now tell me what you gave him, and quick.”

  “Why does madame care what I gave him? Do you know medicine?” Louis stroked his beard again, his eyes bouncing back and forth from Juliet to Posy as if he couldn’t believe his good luck. “Well, for starters, whiskey. Lots of it.” He grinned.

  “Did you take his arm?” Juliet tried to keep her voice steady and warned herself not to slap him.

  “Non. I managed to leave most of it. And you should thank me, too, because, I usually get paid more for amputations than for cleaning out wounds. This kind of work doesn’t pay as many of my debts, but I take what I can get.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “It’s the truth.” Louis blew his nose on a handkerchief and stuffed it in his pocket. “This fellow, though, I doubt even God himself could save.”

  “Watch yourself, sir,” Juliet snapped, “when you speak of the Lord.”

  Louis laughed. “Well, I’ll put it this way. I’ve seen worse. Much worse.”

  “Did any of them live?”

  “Non.” Louis spat again. “Can’t remember any that did. But …” He leaned forward, and his giddy, bloodshot eyes suddenly sobered. Thick, bushy black brows pulled together like twin caterpillars. “But—there’s always one that beats the odds.” He held up a fat finger. “Mark my words.”

  “It’s going to be Jacob.” Juliet lowered the mallet slightly, but she didn’t relax her grip.

  “Well, for your sake, I hope so.” Louis took a sidelong step toward her. “But if not?”

  Juliet raised the mallet again. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Chapter 11

  December 24

  Juliet—it’s Christmas Eve.” Posy poked her.

  Juliet opened her eyes to white flakes drifting past the dark opening at the top of the tepee. Her back was warm where she’d huddled against Posy in the predusk cold, under thick blankets and buckskins. A fire sputtered in the center of the tepee, and her pinafore and faded calico dress hung next to Posy’s on a rawhide line stretched across part of the ceiling.