A Bride's Agreement

by Elaine Bonner

  “I meant every word. I can see you’re torn between living as an Indian or a white; but either way you decide, the other side loses.”

  Sarah Jane paced along the outside of the wagon. She’d washed down Mama and Papa with cool water and tried to get them to drink ginger tea, but neither one could swallow it. They drifted between sleep and unconsciousness, both eaten up with fever and delirium.

  She stared in the direction of the wagon train and pondered the committee’s decision. Deep within, she sensed the lone wagon would be abandoned. And she understood their way of thinking. They had families who faced enough danger without adding an epidemic. She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest in an effort to ease the aching in her heart. What am I going to do? What can I give Mama and Papa to stop the fever? How long will they be sick? What if they don’t survive?

  The thought of burying them or getting the fever caused her to shudder. When would Mr. Greenham be here? Not knowing left a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. How could she settle things in her mind with such an uncertain future?

  She studied the outline of two riders heading her way. One part of her wanted them to hurry, and the other part dreaded the decision.

  “Please don’t let them abandon us, dear Lord,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I will do.” She swiped at a tear. Mr. Greenham and Painted Hands would not see her cry.

  She checked one more time on Mama and Papa before the two men arrived. She prayed to see them awake and her fears arrested, but their condition had not changed. She dabbed the perspiration on their faces and offered another prayer before stepping from the wagon and hearing their fate.

  Mr. Greenham and Painted Hands dismounted and led their horses toward her. Sarah Jane searched their faces for signs of a good word. Both men were stoical.

  “What did they say?” She rubbed her hands together, anxiety weaving cobwebs in her mind.

  Mr. Greenham cleared his throat. “Miss Benson, I hate being the bearer of bad news, but the committee feels it’s best if you don’t join back up with the others until your parents are better.”

  She swallowed her tears while a simmering of anger started to rise. “So we’re left to fend for ourselves.”

  “You won’t be alone,” Mr. Greenham said.

  I know God is with us….

  “Painted Hands has volunteered to help you through this troublesome time.”

  She focused her attention on the scout, not sure what to say, not sure if she should be grateful or terrified. Stories whispered around the campfires wove an unknown path through her bleak future, but Mama and Papa’s care came first.

  “I appreciate your help, sir. I admit I’m at a loss as to what plagues my parents.”

  “We think we know the cause of the fever, Miss Benson,” Painted Hands said.

  Sarah Jane glanced from him to the wagon master. “Please tell me.”

  Mr. Greenham removed his hat. “Typhoid. Painted Hands and I are in agreement.”

  Chills rolled over her. Typhoid killed. Her mind roared with the deadly implication. They must be wrong. Another realization struck her, and she centered her attention on Painted Hands. “You could very well get this by helping me.”

  Not a muscle moved in his face. “I fully understand the risk.”

  If she could simply read the man’s eyes, see how he truly felt, learn his motivation for wanting to help. “As soon as they are better, then we can join back up with the wagons?” she asked.

  “I see no reason why you can’t continue with the others,” Mr. Greenham said. “But the committee will have to vote again. They did have one specific request.”

  “I’m confused. What else am I supposed to do? Burn the wagon or pay a fee?”

  Mr. Greenham hesitated.

  “I’ll tell her.” Painted Hands looped his thumbs in the top of his buckskins. “In order for me to stay with you, the committeemen say we must marry. They claim it’s not fitting for a single man and woman to travel together.”

  A murderer. He ate his victims. Dear Lord in heaven, those things can’t be true! She struggled to maintain her composure. “But they’ll leave us alone to die? What if I refuse?”

  Mr. Greenham touched her shoulder. “Painted Hands would still stay with you, but you couldn’t join the wagons.”

  Bewilderment and helplessness twisted around her heart. If she’d been given to a sensitive constitution, she’d have fainted to avoid thinking about the committee’s ultimatum. Marriage to Painted Hands? What would Papa say when he recovered? He’d be so angry that he might never forgive her. Sarah Jane held her breath. If the scout didn’t help her, Mama and Papa would die for sure. This way they had a chance, and for them, she’d do anything.

  “I’ll marry Painted Hands.” Sarah Jane swallowed so hard she nearly choked. She peered into her husband-to-be’s face. “Thank you, sir, for your kindness. I appreciate the sacrifice you’re making to help me and my folks, and I’ll forever be indebted to you.”

  Painted Hands kept his impassive stance. This man before her had committed to spending the rest of his life with her, and she knew not why. She had neither the time nor the wisdom to discern his reasons.

  Mama and Papa used to laugh and talk. For hours they’d sit in front of their sod house back in Nebraska and talk about everything from the farm to deadly twisters to the scriptures. Sarah Jane had always dreamed of the same qualities in a man. The scout before her held no resemblance to Papa. He could be spiteful, looking forward to hurting her once they were alone. Dare she live a life so miserable?

  With a shudder, she realized the thoughts seizing control of her mind were selfish. Mama and Papa had given their best to her, and now she repaid their love and devotion with worrisome concerns about herself. She would honor her husband and nurse her parents back to health.

  If only she could calm her quivering heart.

  CHAPTER 3

  With trembling fingers, Sarah Jane removed her soiled apron and attempted to smooth back her wayward curls, damp with perspiration. Glancing at her hands, she saw they were dirty and wiped them the best she could on the apron. Tossing it to the ground, she’d gather it up after the ceremony.

  I’m about to marry, and I don’t even have clean hands or a clean dress.

  With unsteady legs, she walked alongside Painted Hands to the spot where Mr. Sanders awaited them. She and Mama had talked about her wedding day since she was a little girl—and none of this resembled their aspirations. Certainly not the groom. Certainly not these circumstances. And certainly not while Mama and Papa lay so gravely ill.

  Painted Hands avoided looking at her, and she couldn’t criticize him for it. The thought of beginning her married life with a stranger filled her with emptiness. Surely he must feel the same dread, as though judged and sentenced. She knew of couples who married sight unseen and parents who arranged marriages, but this had never been a consideration for her.

  “We need to get on with this,” Mr. Sanders said. He opened his Bible and read the story of Adam and Eve so fast that she could barely understand him.

  Sarah Jane tried to concentrate on Mr. Sanders’s reading of the vows. Her mind wandered to what the Robinson girls must be saying about her fate.

  “Miss Benson,” Mr. Sanders said, obviously irritated. “Do you take this man to be your husband? I’ve asked you twice before.”

  The idea of crumpling into a pool of emotion held merit, but she could not. Would not. “Yes… yes, I do.”

  “I know your folks are sick, but you are making a promise to God here, and I advise you to pay attention. The wages of sin is death.”

  Suddenly, Sarah Jane realized how much she detested Mr. Sanders. Her God and his were not the same. “I understand God’s Word quite well, and I pray for your enlightenment as well.”

  Painted Hands fought hard not to release his temper on Sanders. The self-righteous preacher refused to venture toward the Benson wagon for fear he’d contract typhoid and demanded Sarah Jane and Painted
Hands walk several yards for the marriage ceremony. Painted Hands itched to lay his fists on the bony man’s jaw and leave him sprawling in the dirt.

  Greenham agreed to stay with the sick couple while Sanders married Sarah Jane and Painted Hands. Even then, the preacher shifted from one foot to the other and rushed through the ceremony in the time it took to breathe in and out.

  Unlike the Reverend Crandle, the man who wore the peace of God on his face and God’s love in his heart, Sanders interpreted the Bible according to his whim. The preacher might be surprised at how much Painted Hands knew about the Bible, even if he hadn’t found the words meaningful to his life.

  Anger chiseled at his good sense every time Painted Hands recalled the callous approach of so many men toward the Bensons.

  “Cut their wagon.”

  “We have our own to think about.”

  The real believers on the wagon train recognized the burden of typhoid and yet were willing to take a risk to help. Mr. and Mrs. Benson had been among these folks for days, and the others were bound to get the sickness no matter where they situated themselves. Painted Hands vowed never to forget the believers’ kindness. They brought food, blankets, herbs, and prayers for Sarah Jane. Those men reminded him of some of the folks back in Missouri, who were gentle and good when the situation called for it but strong and determined when righteousness required a firm stand.

  Beside him, Sarah Jane quivered so that the skirt of her dress shook. Painted Hands wished something else could have been done to help her and her parents. She feared him and rightfully so. His looks and mannerisms set him apart as a man to avoid, one with a sordid past. He’d heard one toothless old man state that Painted Hands murdered a whole family, but no one could prove it. Another tale drifting through the wagons told of his living with wolves and drinking the blood of the animals’ prey. As soon as he and Sarah Jane grew more acquainted, he’d tell her the truth about those tales—those vicious lies concocted by wagging tongues.

  He hoped she wasn’t the type of woman who made useless prattle or pestered folks with questions. He’d grown used to listening to the sounds of nature—the quiet of earth, the songs of birds and insects. There his spirit calmed the restless part of him that remembered his dark secret. Maybe in finding his brother, Jacob, Painted Hands would find peace.

  Jacob was two years older; he’d been a lively boy who loved to hunt and fish. The Reverend Crandle found out Jacob had escaped the flames and run to get help. All these years, and at last, Painted Hands had found a link to his real family. Some memories had been blocked out about that night; others forged ahead like heavy boots in a muddy riverbed. He wanted to pull his feet out of the muck, but they’d been stuck for longer than he cared to remember. Some days he looked forward to the reunion with his brother. Some days he dreaded the image of a grown man calling him brother, then accusing him of murder. The screams of his family trapped inside the burning cabin preyed on his heart like a stalking cougar.

  Among the Kiowa, the medicine men had tried to rid Painted Hands of the nightmares, but always they came back, each one worse than the last.

  Painted Hands stared into his wife’s young face. He beheld a distinct loveliness about her. He’d noticed her before because she always seemed to be laughing. He liked the part-girl, part-woman look about her, a combination of innocence and wisdom. Dare he hope they might grow to be friends? He didn’t expect a real marriage between them. Sarah Jane already feared, maybe even loathed, him. Right now, she looked like a frightened deer. Why make the relationship any worse by consummating their vows or letting her inside his heart to learn the wretched truth?

  “Most folks give the preacher something for marrying them,” Sanders said, stretching out his hand.

  Painted Hands considered the statement with as much gratefulness as a rattler’s bite. “I’ll make sure you keep your scalp.”

  Sanders snapped his Bible shut and headed toward his mule. “May God have mercy on your heathen soul, Mr. Painted Hands.”

  He wanted to take a few long steps to the preacher and wipe the smirk off his face, but he contained himself with Sarah Jane before him. He stole a look at her, and she pressed her lips firmly together. No doubt she agreed with Sanders.

  “Miss Benson, we should get back to your folks,” Painted Hands said.

  She lifted her chin and gave him a faint smile. “I’m Mrs. Painted Hands now, and my given name is Sarah Jane.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “I… want to thank you for all you’ve done.” She lifted her shoulders with a deep breath, and a few yellow-red curls slipped from under her bonnet. “I’ll do my best to be a good wife.”

  Touched by her kind words, he wanted to respond with the same tenderness, but instead, a haunting voice rose in him—one that said she’d trick him, use him, despise him like all the other whites. Painted Hands kept his stance. He’d not be made to look like a fool. Sarah Jane needed him to nurse her parents, nothing more. When Mr. and Mrs. Benson recovered or died, she’d be on her way and he’d venture on to Oregon.

  “I’m not expecting anything. We were both forced into this because of the committee. I won’t be taking advantage of you.”

  She stepped back, her eyes full of apprehension. Good, Sarah Jane needed to keep her distance. In the next moment, he decided not to tell her the truth about the gossip. Let her think what she wanted. He cared neither way.

  CHAPTER 4

  Long after dark, Sarah Jane bedded down beneath the wagon for a precious hour of sleep. Papa’s fifty head of cattle surrounded the wagon, and they acted uneasy. Maybe they sensed the trouble from the wagon train. Painted Hands and Mr. Greenham had separated them from the large herd and driven them back. The smell of the cattle almost felt comforting, as though nothing had changed.

  Painted Hands had stacked his provisions in the wagon alongside Mama’s spinning wheel, although he’d sold about half of them to Mr. Robinson. The day’s troubles thundered in her ears, and a tear slipped over her cheek.

  She prayed for God to multiply the time she slept before she crawled back into the wagon to nurse Mama and Papa. From here, the sounds from inside the wagon were vivid. If Mama or Papa rolled over or called out, she’d hear them. They drifted in and out of consciousness and often cried out from a confused world. Sarah Jane attempted to comfort them, only to realize they didn’t know or care she stayed by their side.

  Exhaustion seized Sarah Jane’s body and mind. The day had been harder than the ones before, and the fever tearing through Mama and Papa caused a longing she couldn’t describe. How could one day hold so much turmoil? This morning she woke with a prayer on her lips for Mama to renew her health. Tonight she prayed for Mama and Papa’s healing—and for strength to endure her marriage to Painted Hands.

  In all her girlish dreams, she’d never anticipated a wedding like today’s. Mr. Sanders spoke the words that sealed her to Painted Hands until death met them face-to-face. Her husband said they were forced into marriage, and he didn’t expect anything in return. Sarah Jane knew precious little about married couples, but what she did know bewildered her. To be relieved of wifely duties came as a blessing when her every waking moment centered on Mama and Papa’s care. Except… what would the future bring?

  Again she worried about Papa when he learned about the circumstances surrounding her marriage. She’d seen him enraged only twice: once when a man in Nebraska beat his wife and the second time when a twister destroyed their crops. The memory of unbridled anger made her cringe. Surely he’d understand. Of course he would. Staring up at the wagon bottom, she wondered when Painted Hands planned to sleep—and where.

  Tears slipped unbidden from her eyes and slid over her cheeks. Papa always said God allowed things to happen for a reason—and a good reason for folks who loved Him. Why this? What good could come from Mama and Papa suffering with typhoid? If the wagon train traveled at the same fifteen miles per day, how would she and Painted Hands catch up once they could travel again? They must
get to the mountains before the winter snows, and every day lost weakened their chances. Would Painted Hands remain as her husband, or once Mama and Papa regained their health, would he ride out?

  Oh, how she ached for release from this burden of not knowing or understanding the future. On the farm in Nebraska, Papa set traps for wolves. The sight of an animal’s foot caught and bleeding in the snare of metal jaws and the sound of the animal’s mournful cries tore at her heart. Now she understood how the wolves felt; only her bleeding came from the inside.

  Sarah Jane turned to stare into the fire. Painted Hands sat there on the hard ground with his legs crossed, motionless, gazing into the embers as though spellbound. She observed him, this strange man who had promised to love and cherish her. How could he maintain no emotion during all of this? His life had been changed forever, too. She wished she could master the same nonfeeling demeanor. Maybe in doing so she’d grow numb and not suffer any of the pain.

  Studying him more closely, she saw he was a little taller than most men, stocky with broad shoulders. He wore a heavy beard along with his long, beaded hair, which most likely caused more folks to fear him. And his hands—they’d been burned and scarred. The discoloration must be the reason for his Indian name. In her next breath, she wondered about the name his parents gave him. Someday she’d ask.

  As though he sensed her scrutiny, he swung his gaze from the fire to where she lay beneath the wagon. “You should be asleep.” No compassion for the day’s event. No sympathy for the plight of her parents.

  “So should you.”

  “Tomorrow will be hard, and the days to come won’t give you a reprieve.”

  “It’s been that way since Independence,” she said. “And I expect you’re right about hard times with the wagon train leaving us behind.” If he’d been Papa, she’d have scrambled from under the wagon to join him. They enjoyed long talks. “I’m sorry about today.”