A Bride's Agreement

by Elaine Bonner

  His hard stare sent her heart pounding, as though he hated her. “I made my choice.”

  She took a deep breath. “I suppose being married will change your plans.”

  “I won’t let it. I’ve got important things to do.”

  “Is scouting your job?”

  “Yes, but I’m heading to Oregon like the rest of ’em.”

  “What will you do there?”

  “No more talk. I need time to think.”

  Sarah Jane gasped. His stinging response told fathoms of how he preferred a solitary life. Papa groaned and shifted above her, sending waves of guilt over her for attempting a brief reprieve. She rolled out from under the wagon. “You don’t have to stay here,” she said. “I can nurse Mama and Papa and later catch up with the other wagons. No point in you sitting here all miserable.”

  Painted Hands stood. He reminded her of a huge bear ready to pounce. “I keep my word. You’d die out here alone.”

  “I may die anyway.” She’d not be bullied into thinking Painted Hands was her only chance of survival.

  “That’s right.”

  As soon as he hurled those words, she stepped to the rear of the wagon and climbed inside. If tonight gave any indication of how they’d get along for the rest of their married life, they’d most likely destroy each other.

  Papa’s ravings seized her attention. He called out for his ma, uttering childlike phrases. Sarah Jane touched his head. She jerked back her hand as alarm raced through her. The lantern. I want to see his face. In her haste to climb down, she caught her dress and fell backward. Her head hit the ground with a thud. For a moment, she lay there stunned, her head throbbing and her eyes flashing streaks of light. Strong arms lifted her from behind and righted her.

  “Are you all right?” Painted Hands asked without a trace of emotion.

  She nodded slowly and remembered the urgency. “Papa’s worse,” she said. “I need to see him and get some tea down him.”

  “I’ll tend to him.” Painted Hands urged her to sit down with a gentleness that surprised her.

  In the shadows, she glanced up into Painted Hands’s face. He didn’t look nearly as ominous.

  “He’s talking out of his mind.” Sarah Jane closed her eyes in hopes of settling the pain searing the back of her head.

  “Typhoid does that.” He stood and lifted the lantern from the side of the wagon, then disappeared inside.

  While she waited for him to return, she struggled with what to do for Papa, and she hadn’t checked on Mama. Earlier Sarah Jane had worked hard to get spoonfuls of tea down them and wipe their faces and necks with water. Nothing seemed to help.

  God, please heal Mama and Papa. I’ve done all I can.

  Sarah Jane braced herself with the side of the wagon and pulled herself to her feet. Her head spun, but after blinking several times, the dizziness faded. Holding on, she peered inside. Painted Hands blocked her view.

  “Does he appear worse to you?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid so. Your ma is unconscious, and she feels hotter.”

  She recalled Painted Hands’s insistence on not wanting her to speak. Even so, she needed answers to her questions. “What can I do?”

  “Wait and continue with what you’ve been doing.” He eased back out of the wagon and stood beside her. “How’s your head?”

  “Better. What else can I expect?” She thought he might refuse to reply.

  “Depends on each person. I’d say dysentery, more confusion, possibly a rash on the lower chest and stomach.”

  “How long will it all last?”

  “Hard to tell, Sarah Jane. It could be days. It could be until morning.” His voice sounded firm, and she wondered if he didn’t think Mama and Papa would live.

  “Do you think they’re going to die?”

  He leaned against the wagon. His relaxed stance took away from his Indian bearing. “Living and dying are not up to me. Your folks are real sick. They might pull through, and they might not.”

  “Mama’s been poorly since we first started to Oregon. Leaving her friends behind made her sad.” Sarah Jane pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “The church women made her a friendship quilt just before we left. She loves that quilt, and I have it around her now.”

  “She needs to fight the fever. Tell her so even if you don’t think she hears.”

  She sighed. “I’m afraid she’ll give up. Papa has always been strong. Loved to work outside. Loved to play his fiddle. Loved talking to people. It’s real hard seeing him… like this.”

  “Indian medicines would help, but I have none with me. I could ride out and look or search out the Indians in the area.” He hesitated. “But you’d be left alone, and I don’t know how long I’d be gone.”

  “I have no idea what is best.”

  He rubbed the top of his hand as though trying to remove the scars. “I knew a man who believed in prayer. He said it changes a man from the inside out. I see you’re a believer, and, well, I think you need to hold on to your God.”

  “I’ve been praying until there are no more words.”

  “My friend said God hears our hearts.”

  “Are you a believer, too?”

  He shook his head and pressed his lips together. “Kiowa believe in many spirits, not just one God like you. I reckon I’m more Kiowa than white.”

  Sarah Jane remembered Papa saying in order to reach folks with the Gospel of Jesus Christ, a man must understand what the other person believes. “I hope one day you will tell me about those spirits.”

  “You make a strange comment for a Christian.”

  “I want to know what’s important to you. I’m your wife now.”

  Immediately, Painted Hands stiffened. “I want you to understand the truth here. I never wanted a wife. I have important business in Oregon, matters that don’t involve a woman or a family. Once we’re there, I’ll take care of undoing what Sanders insisted was proper.”

  A wisp of a breeze blew back her hair. To Sarah Jane, the wind felt like a touch of God, letting her know of His love and provision. A woman who lived wary of her husband might never be happy as God intended for married folk. “I’d like for us to be friends,” she said.

  “I’m a loner.”

  Papa used to say a man who didn’t want friends had something to hide. “Maybe in the weeks to come you’ll change your mind.”

  “Too many men have tried.”

  But they weren’t your wife.

  CHAPTER 5

  Sarah Jane prayed constantly for the strength and courage to withstand the hours and days to come. She feared for her stricken parents and the stranger who was now her husband. She no longer thought about taking a respite to sleep or eat; instead, she kept a vigil over Mama and Papa, doing all she could to keep them comfortable. At times, she talked to them. Her words moved from the hope and promise of the Northwest Territory, reminding them of the wondrous stories of rich earth and thick green forests, to the sweet memories left behind in Nebraska but alive in their hearts.

  Painted Hands tended to cooking and making certain a plentiful supply of water was at hand. Camping beside the Platte River assured them they wouldn’t run out. Sarah Jane and Painted Hands said little more than those things necessary in passing. She didn’t have the stamina to encourage the friendship she deemed important, and she understood he preferred to be left alone. Later, when Mama and Papa were well, she’d concentrate on her husband. Odd that her new status took some getting used to, even if they were married in name only. For that concession, she thanked God. Outwardly, she refused to show signs of apprehension around Painted Hands. Inwardly, she quivered at the thought of his touching her. Never one given to gossip, she repeatedly pushed the stories about him from her mind, but in dark moments, they haunted her.

  A strange predicament, this marriage to a stranger. She recalled his offer to search out medicine from the prairie or from neighboring Indians. She appreciated his willingness to do whatever might help Mama and Papa,
even if she’d be left alone. God was always her companion; yet she feared the dangers of predators both animal and human. In the past, Indians had viewed the wagon train from a distance or stopped to trade with the hundreds of sojourners. The Sioux were ferocious looking, and she prayed they never approached the lone wagon.

  Sarah Jane held the distinction of a woman defenseless against those who could easily overpower her. What good would she do Mama and Papa if she were abducted by Indians? Unwelcome thoughts tramped miles of fears and insecurities. For certain, she didn’t want Painted Hands to venture out for the medicine; neither did she want to be accused of being selfish. What if Mama and Papa died when the Indian remedies could have healed them?

  Precious Father in heaven, help me discern Your will. I am so confused.

  The Twenty-third Psalm, the verses often spoken over graves, broke into her ponderings.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

  Tell me how not to be afraid, Father.

  “Trust, My daughter. My will is woven into your life.”

  In the darkness, Sarah Jane heard a rustle and turned to see Painted Hands at the rear of the wagon.

  “How are they?” he asked.

  She wiped her forehead, then focused on Mama and Papa. “I believe they’re worse. The rash has thickened on their stomachs and the lower part of their chests.” Swallowing the emotion threatening to overcome her, she took a deep breath and whispered, “Tell me what to do.”

  “Climb down and let me take a look.” He held out his hand, and she took it. His touch felt strong and secure, and she needed something solid to hold on to.

  Outside, she grabbed the coffeepot and filled a tin cup. The hot liquid tasted bitter, but it helped settle her fragile emotions. She should ask Painted Hands to look for medicine in the morning. God promised never to leave her or forsake her. Her selfishness dare not steal the life from Mama and Papa.

  Moments later, Painted Hands joined her at the fire. He poured coffee for himself and kicked at a cow chip, sending it into the smoldering fire. “Sarah Jane, I’m thinking you need to talk about your folks.”

  “Why is that?” She sensed the color drain from her face. The answer lay in the shadows of truth, a dark place where she refused to walk.

  “Your ma and pa—they aren’t going to live.” Unlike in the past, Painted Hands spoke with tenderness. “Their spirits are giving in to the typhoid.”

  “No.” Sarah Jane covered her mouth to hide the weeping.

  “You’ve done all you can. Be brave now.” He paused and took her hand. “Let’s talk.”

  She swiped at her eyes. Prayer. Yes, more prayer and God would heal Mama and Papa. God wanted her to trust Him—not the words of a heathen who refused to believe in God. “I must pray harder. God must not have heard me.” She pulled back her hand and started toward the wagon, but Painted Hands swung her around to face him.

  “Listen to me. There is nothing you can do. If you insist upon sitting with them, I’ll go with you.”

  She longed to give in to the hysteria, but Mama and Papa needed her. Later, no matter what happened, she’d allow herself to feel the pain. Sarah Jane nodded. Inside the wagon, he held up the lantern. Gasping, she saw exactly what Painted Hands meant. Their shallow breathing and gray pallor indicated the beginnings of death. But she would not give up until Mama and Papa breathed their last.

  “Are you the only child?” Painted Hands asked.

  Forcing back the weeping, she found the strength to answer Painted Hands’s question. “The only living child. Two little girls died of summer complaint before I was born.”

  “You are their legacy.”

  Legacy? A strange word for Painted Hands. “I’d never thought of it that way.”

  “Their blood flows through your body. They will never really die but will live on in you and your children and your grandchildren.”

  She glanced at him curiously, yearning to hear more. His words, like rich poetry, took her mind off the inevitable.

  “The seeds here in this wagon are for planting when you arrive in Oregon. Did they come from good plants?”

  Sarah Jane nodded, and he continued. “Only at the end of harvest when the beauty and usefulness of a plant are gone can one gather seeds. The plant lives on in its seed to accomplish the same as the parent plant.”

  “Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.’” She recited the scripture as though it were a prayer.

  Painted Hands smiled, the first she’d seen. “I’ve read the passage.”

  Yet Painted Hands did not believe. The Kiowa gods had a firm grip on him, and she vowed to pray for his release.

  “What you’ve told me makes this easier to bear.” She studied Mama and Papa, touching one cheek, then the other, and lingering on Mama’s. “I understand, but life without them will be so hard.”

  “We are all dying from the moment life is breathed into us.”

  “Papa said our days on earth are to prepare us for the hereafter.”

  “Your father spoke with wisdom.”

  She twisted to see Painted Hands’s face. “You, too, speak with wisdom. I wish I knew what to do while we wait. Prayer alone seems so feeble.”

  “You will honor them best by being strong. What is your pa’s name?” he asked.

  “John William, and Mama’s name is Lydia Jane.”

  “And you are named after her.”

  “Mama and my grandmother Benson, Papa’s mother.”

  “Where are you from?” Painted Hands leaned into the rear of the wagon. His voice echoed across the darkness as though he belonged with the night creatures.

  “Near Lincoln, Nebraska. We lived in a sod house on a farm. Papa kept hearing about how he could get rich operating a mercantile in Independence, where wagon trains left for out west. He couldn’t resist, not with his adventurous streak. Mama didn’t like the idea, but she finally agreed. Once we arrived in Independence, talk of Oregon got into his blood, and before long, he caught the fever, too.” She took a deep breath at the utterance of the word fever.

  “Go on,” he urged.

  “Then Papa abandoned the idea of purchasing a mercantile for the territory beyond the mountains. Not much more to tell. He signed on with Mr. Greenham’s wagon train, and we purchased the provisions needed. Mama fretted over Papa’s plans, but he believed we should go.”

  “Did you want to come?”

  Sarah Jane tilted her head in remembrance. “Oh, I wanted to go, although the preparations were more work than I thought. I inherited Papa’s desire to see and do new things.”

  “And now?” His words were barely above a whisper.

  She touched a cloth to Papa’s face while pondering the question. “I can’t turn around and go back. If I gave up, I wouldn’t be my father’s child.”

  “And your ma? What are you going to carry on about her?”

  Sarah Jane probed her mind in search of the special something she wanted to treasure about Mama. “Your questions make me think, but that’s good. I need to have purpose and meaning in my life. Before Mama started feeling poorly, she used to laugh a lot. She looked for the good in folks and never tired in helping others. She enjoyed taking food to those who needed it or visiting the sick.”

  “Your life will be full, Sarah Jane.”

  She bit down hard on her lip to keep from breaking down into sobs. “I hope so.” Sarah Jane’s fingers caressed her mother’s cheek. The skin felt hard, cooler. “Oh no.” She buried her face in her hands, no longer able to hide the unfathomable grief.

  Painted Hands thought Lydia Benson had died some moments before while Sarah Jane talked. He’d felt the woman’s wrist for a steady beat and discovered none existed, but he hadn’t wanted to interrupt. The memories of Sarah Jane’s parents were more important than the precise m
oment of death. If he was not mistaken, Mr. Benson had passed away, too. He stepped down from the wagon to let her deal with the loss. He gripped the side of the wagon and watched, not sure what he should do.

  Many new graves would lead the way to Oregon, all belonging to the wagons that had abandoned the Bensons. Typhoid. He’d seen it wipe out half a population, leaving widows and orphans to limp through life with only the memories of their loved ones to console them. He’d seen cholera and smallpox, too, but Painted Hands had escaped them and hoped to again. Now he wondered about Sarah Jane. His wife.

  Her quiet weeping broke into his thoughts. Her shoulders rose and fell. He wrestled with comforting her, but he fought the intimacy it invited. A long time ago, he vowed never to feel the pain of losing loved ones again. If he attempted to console her, he risked growing close. If he grew close, he’d feel the agony of loss. Typhoid could attack Sarah Jane this very night. She could die in the next few days. Why allow himself to feel?

  “Papa!”

  He held his breath, certain Sarah Jane must have discovered her father no longer lived. He well remembered the terror of losing both parents at the same time.

  The gruesome memories washed over him once more, bringing to the surface the cold night that a raging fire destroyed his family. The flames snatched up those he loved and left him to hear their screams forever. He’d done nothing to help until it was too late, and the scars on his hands were ever-present reminders.

  Releasing his hold on the wagon, Painted Hands made his way back to the fire. For Sarah Jane to find strength, she must toughen in this barren land. If he allowed her to depend on him, he’d delay the process. Once his obligation was fulfilled, she’d be on her own. This night marked the beginning of her training ground. Let her harden like the sun baking the ground around them. It had worked for him. Painted Hands stared up into the starlit night. A gnawing sensation bit at his stomach, a mixture of guilt and regret. The thought of Sarah Jane living years of misery as he had was cruel. Did he really want her to exist alone and fearful of love?

  Painted Hands heard the Reverend Crandle’s voice whispering around him. “‘You need to love, Painted Hands. Without it, we are nothing. For this commandment which I command thee this day, it is not hidden from thee, neither is it far off.’”