Frank reached out a hand, and Jason gripped it. “Thanks, big brother. Way I see it, with the way the railroads and other businessmen keep taking chunks of profit from grain and livestock the farmers raise, a farmer’s got to have a good education today in order to stand a fighting chance. Then, too, there’s the changing agricultural methods and farm machinery. Farmers’ve got to keep up.”
Jason’s brow furrowed. “Reckon you’re right.”
“When I get out of school, I’m going to do my share by this family so you can get back to being an architect.” He looked down at the slip of paper in his hands and took a deep breath. “I’ve been trying to get up the courage to tell you. If things work out the way I hope, I’d like to run this farm one day.”
She saw Jason swallow, and she had to restrain herself from hugging her brother-in-law. This was Frank’s true Christmas gift to Jason, no matter what tangible item he would give him.
When Frank went upstairs a couple minutes later, Pearl could no longer avoid Jason. The time spent with Frank had lessened the tension between them. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as she’d feared.
She picked up the stockings from the table and started toward the parlor. “I guess it’s time to play Santa Claus.”
He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “How long have you known Frank cared for Amy?”
“I don’t recall exactly.” Why did he look worried?
“You… won’t mind if they court?”
“I think it would be wonderful. Don’t you?”
His grin routed every trace of concern from his face. “I sure do, Mrs. Sterling.”
He played with the tiny bow at her neck, and she stepped nervously away.
“You were right about Frank, I think,” he said. “I was so busy being the boss that it never occurred to me to ask God what He wanted anyone else here to do.”
He took the woolen stockings from her, then tugged gently at her hand. “Come with me. I want to give you your gift tonight, too. It’s in the parlor.”
A shaky laugh tripped out at the eagerness in his face. “You’re like a child when it comes to Christmas.”
He stopped at the archway between the dining room and parlor, where the air was rich with the fragrance of pine. “Stay right here, and close your eyes.”
She started to protest, then subsided. “Yes sir.”
She heard the straw crunch beneath the carpet as he crossed the room, and smelled the sulfur of a lit match, the kerosene of a lamp before he said, “Open your eyes.”
He stood near the hanging lamp with its large rose-colored shade. The lamp’s light illuminated the two paintings in their oval, tortoiseshell frames over the green velvet settee.
Her hand flew to her throat. Two paintings. Beside the painting of his parents was a painting of her parents.
She walked toward it slowly, stopping at the settee. “It’s perfect. How… when…”
He slipped behind her and slid his arms around her waist. “Amy Henderson painted it for me, copied from your brother’s picture of your parents on their wedding day. I asked Amy to do it the night of the play. It seems only right that your parents’ picture should hang beside my parents’ picture. After all, our families are joined forever by our marriage.”
Forever. The word brought back Mother Boston’s words from Pearl and Jason’s wedding day—“a lifetime is a long time to be unhappy.” Had she sentenced Jason to a lifetime of unhappiness?
She shivered as his lips touched the side of her neck softly. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Sterling.”
At his husky whisper, longing and terror joined forces to spiral through her. What was happening between them tonight? She freed herself from his arms and moved to the opposite side of the round marble-topped table in the middle of the room. At least now there would be something between them, and perhaps she could keep her mind clear.
“Jason, I’m sorry.” Her fingers twisted the turquoise bow at her waist. “I should never have married you. I meant to make your life easier; instead, I only brought you pain.”
“Pain?” A frown emphasized the lines the wind and sun had already worked into his young skin. “You’ve filled my home with cheerfulness and hope. If it weren’t for you, Maggie would still be frightened of me, Grace would still be having nightmares, and Frank would still be drinking and gambling and running away from God. How can you possibly think you’ve hurt me?”
“Tonight at church…” It was so degrading to put it into words. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She tried again. “I was looking for you. I overheard Miranda tell you… tell you…”
Even in the mellow lamplight, his face looked suddenly pale. His hands fell to his sides in fists. “I’d give everything I own if you hadn’t heard that.”
She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, which felt as parched as if she’d spent a week in the desert. “If I hadn’t agreed to marry you, you’d be free to marry Miranda now.”
His lips narrowed into a line as taut as a bowstring. His voice was just as taut. “I don’t want to marry Miranda.”
“Don’t! Don’t lie to me. You’ve never made any secret of your love for her.”
He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “How much of my conversation with Miranda did you hear?”
She lowered herself onto the edge of the settee cushion. “Enough to know she claims she still loves you, and would marry you if… if…”
Jason sat down beside her and took her hands in a gentle hold that refused to allow her to pull them back. “Did you hear my answer?”
She turned her gaze to the ornate parlor stove, watching the firelight through the grate. “I didn’t need to. I know you’d never break your marriage vows, regardless of your love for her.”
“Thank God you have that much faith in me, anyway.”
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth at his fervent words. Didn’t he know she would never believe he could do anything dishonorable?
“The boy I was loved the girl who was Miranda. The man I’ve become doesn’t love the woman Miranda has become.” He paused, and she fought the temptation to look at him. “It shames me to think I could ever have cared for a woman who has such little regard for another’s marriage vows made before God that she’d…”
Her gasp at his suddenly tightened hold stopped his words. He touched his lips to her hands in apology before taking a ragged breath and continuing, “When I asked you to marry me, I told you I needed you. It was true but not because I needed a housekeeper. I needed you because my house and heart were empty without you. I needed you because I’d fallen in love with you.”
Her heart trembled within her, not daring to believe what he was saying.
He trapped the gaze that darted to his.
“I thought if we lived together in a friendly marriage, you might grow to love me. I would never force my… my affections… on you, but I think it’s only fair to let you know where I stand. I’ve been praying for your love. And I give you fair warning that from this moment on, I intend to court my wife good and hard.”
It was the tremor in his voice that gave him away. Why, he was scared stiff! As frightened as she’d been of not having love returned. The knowledge loosened her throat. “I’m afraid your courting shall prove exceedingly short.”
Disappointment dropped over his face like a mask. “I see.” He stood. “I guess…”
“Because,” she interrupted with a tiny smile, “your wife has always loved you.”
The glory in his face as he pulled her into his arms humbled her. “You dear!” His whisper was rough with love.
Joy shimmered through her. What a lovely Christmas gift! And to think that after all the months of trusting God for her husband’s love, she almost hadn’t recognized the fulfillment of her hope when it came. “Do you remember asking what I hoped for so much that I studied Bible verses on hope?” she asked shyly.
He nodded.
“I was hoping for your love.”
“It’s yours, my de
arest. Always.”
His hands slipped up to cradle her face. It seemed to her he studied every inch of it before he slowly lowered his lips to touch hers in a kiss so tender that her heart ached.
Resting his chin against her hair, his arms wrapped around her. “It’s quite a life I’ve tied you to, a hard life with a ready-made family—at least until Frank’s ready to take over the farm.”
“I’m not complaining.”
She shivered as he drew his thumb lightly over her cheek and along her jawline. “No, you never have complained.”
“If we love each other and the Lord, we can handle anything. Love ‘beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.’”
He kissed her lightly. “Love ‘never faileth,’” he whispered. His golden brown eyes filled with promises.
“Never.” A smile tugged at her lips. “Or as Grace would say, ‘You can’t ever change your mind.’”
His chuckle was lost in her kiss.
KIOWA HUSBAND
by DiAnn Mills
Dedicated to Roberta and Wesley Morgan
PROLOGUE
Independence, Missouri, April 1848
Lydia, Sarah Jane, are we ready to pull out in the morning?” Papa wiped the sweat from his brow with a dirty sleeve and sunk the dipper into a bucket of cool water for a drink.
“Very soon,” Mama said. “Sarah Jane and I want to make one last check.”
He leaned against the side of the narrow, canvas-covered wagon. “The sooner we leave, the sooner we get to Oregon. Is that not right, Sarah Jane?”
“Yes, Papa.” She struggled to push the heavy flour sacks next to the trunk containing their clothes. Beside this rested bolts of gingham and an extra pair of shoes for each of them. Papa had decided they’d make the four- to five-month journey to Oregon, and she and Mama had been working extra hard ever since. “Do you have a little time to read me the list from the guidebook?” Sarah Jane asked.
Mama pulled the book from her apron pocket and handed it to Papa. He studied the list of suggested supplies before calling out what they needed for the journey. “Six hundred pounds of flour,” he began.
Sarah Jane counted the bags. “Yes, we have them.”
“One hundred fifty pounds of lard, two hundred forty pounds of bacon, one hundred fifty pounds of beans, looks like plenty of dried fruit, thirty pounds of sugar, ten pounds of salt, and twenty pounds of coffee.” He peered inside the shadowed wagon. “There’s the cookstove, fry pan, kettle, knives, spinning wheel, rope, ax, and my shotgun.” He peered closer. “In the corner I see the grindstone, my shovel, and the water keg. Are the sewing supplies, medicine, and clothes in the trunk?”
“Along with blankets and the Bible,” Mama said. “We still need to pack many of the provisions into wooden boxes on the wagon bed. I need the coop attached to the side of the wagon for the chickens, and don’t forget the tar when we ford the rivers.”
Despite the wearisome day, Sarah Jane felt excitement tickle her stomach. “We won’t want for a thing.”
“I might squeeze in my fiddle.” Papa gulped the rest of the water. “What do you say, daughter?” His mustache widened with the smile beneath it. She’d never seen him so happy.
“That would be glorious. We can send merriment into the heavens. In fact, we might have a singing fest tonight.”
“After the prayer meeting.” Mama stared down her long nose at him. Many times she’d shared her bad feelings about the trip, and Sarah Jane had seen Mama weep on more than one occasion.
Papa wrapped his arms around Mama’s shoulders. “Of course, Lydia, after we ask the Lord to bless us with safe passage to Oregon.”
“And no Indians to bother us, only to trade,” Mama said.
Papa glanced at Sarah Jane. “We’ll say extra prayers for God to keep us safe from marauding Indians. It doesn’t please me one bit that a white man who’s been raised by them heathens is scouting for the wagon train.”
Mama gasped. “Surely not! Is he Christian?”
Papa shrugged. “I’m praying the wagon master knows what’s best.” He glanced at Sarah Jane. “Mind you stay away from him. I don’t trust him—no, not for one minute.”
“Yes, Papa.” Sarah Jane had seen Painted Hands. His skin was as light as Papa’s and his beard the color of walnuts, but he dressed like an Indian. She’d heard he’d lived years with the Kiowa and committed horrible atrocities against the whites.
Sarah Jane shivered. She prayed God would keep them all in the palms of His hands.
CHAPTER 1
Papa had warned that the hardships of traveling to Oregon would bring about the worst in the emigrants. Until today, Sarah Jane refused to believe his words. They had good friends among the folks in the wagon train. Everyone pitched in to help in times of trouble, and some evenings were filled with singing and dancing to the tune of Papa’s fiddle. During the day, she often walked with the Robinson girls. If their parents knew how they giggled about the single men showing off at every opportunity, the girls would have received a good scolding; but the chatter helped ease the monotony.
“We’re all marrying age,” Martha Robinson, the oldest, had said three days ago. “I bet by the time we get to Oregon, we’ll all have our husbands picked out. Might even be married.”
“I won’t.” Sarah Jane nodded with her words. “I promised Papa I’d help him put in the first spring crop and harvest it before I up and marry.”
“Let your new husband help,” Amelia said. “How could your papa object to that?”
Sarah Jane laughed. “I imagine he’d be glad for two able-bodied people instead of one.” The sound of horse hooves pounding into the prairie dirt captured her attention. Papa reined in his mare and called her name.
“I need you to drive the wagon for your mama.” A frown tugged at his mustache. “She’s feeling poorly.”
Sarah Jane hurried back to the wagon, her heart pounding with worry over Mama. When she lifted her skirts and climbed onto the wagon seat, she inwardly gasped at her mother’s pale cheeks. The journey so far had been hard on everyone, but Sarah Jane didn’t mind the toilsome days, only the way Mama never seemed to be content. She seldom spoke to Papa and Sarah Jane, and she didn’t show any interest in the other womenfolk either. In a far corner of Sarah Jane’s mind, she feared Mama had allowed her apprehension of the trail to possess her soul.
Since they’d crossed the Kansas River and headed in a northwest direction, the wagon train had battled hailstorms, lightning displays that lit up the sky as though God had torched the heavens, and the ever-present flash floods. Once a piercing crack of thunder had sent over fifteen hundred head of cattle stampeding into the night. The wagon train lost two days rounding up the cattle and burying four people who had gotten in the way of the frightened animals. The unpredictable weather and the hand of death trailed them all the way to the Platte River, a little over three hundred miles across the prairie. They’d passed two landmarks, according to the wagon master—Courthouse Rock and Scotts Bluff—and in a matter of days, they’d pass Chimney Rock, which marked five hundred miles from Independence, Missouri. From there they’d move on to Fort Laramie at the foothills of the Rockies. Fortunately, they could rest a little before heading on across the mountains. It was mid-June. Good timing, according to the wagon master, to beat the snowfall in the treacherous Rockies.
One night, after a little boy riding on the tongue of a wagon fell under the wagon wheels and died, she heard the wagon master, Charles Greenham, make a statement. “We’re averaging one person dead every eighteen miles.”
Papa had turned to Sarah Jane, more serious than she’d ever seen him. “Should we head back, daughter? I have money to purchase another farm.”
“But where are your dreams?” Knowing Papa’s growing concern for Mama, she added, “Mama will love Oregon. I’m praying for her every day.”
Now, as Sarah Jane took the reins from Mama, she wondered if Papa had been right. Mama looked frail, l
ike a fine piece of delicate china ready to shatter. Gazing into her once-sparkling brown eyes reminded Sarah Jane of a cloudy sky—no hope or joy, only the anticipation of one more dismal day. Perspiration dotted Mama’s forehead, and the morning had barely begun.
“Mama, why don’t you sleep for a while? I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.”
“I should drive the wagon.” Mama’s breathing came in short gasps. “You already cook the meals and do the washing and mending.”
Sarah Jane smiled into her mother’s face. If not for both hands steadying the reins, she’d have hugged and kissed her. “I don’t mind. When you’re feeling better, we’ll do the work together.”
Tears welled up in Mama’s eyes, and her lips quivered. “I hope so. I’m ready to feel better. I’m ashamed of the bitterness and complaining. My family deserves my best.” With those words, she crawled beneath the canopy of the wagon onto a straw-filled mattress and drew the front flaps into a pucker.
Sarah Jane tried not to dwell on Mama’s failing health but rather on her encouraging words. Perhaps a little peppermint tea and some castor oil would add color to Mama’s cheeks. She used to laugh and urge Papa to play his fiddle and sing. Those days and weeks vanished when the wagon train pulled out of Elm Grove, a mere thirty-three miles outside Independence.
Sometimes she allowed herself to dream about happier days in Nebraska. They’d all left behind treasured friends and cherished memories, but Sarah Jane felt the same enthusiasm as Papa about the Oregon Territory. She loved singing the trail songs and dreaming about the beautiful land awaiting them over the mountains.
When she thought about it, Mama had endured several difficult weeks. First Papa decided he wanted to open a mercantile in Independence. He felt that with the wagon trains heading for California and Oregon, he’d get rich in no time at all. Once they arrived in Independence, something took over Papa, and all he talked about was Oregon. Then he decided that’s where he wanted to live. Sarah Jane looked at the situation as an adventure, but Mama had lived enough days on the trail to want a home of her own. To her, Papa shouldn’t have dragged them all the way from Nebraska to Missouri, then back out onto the prairie again.
A Bride's Agreement Page 74