Miles from the kindly man who showed him the mark of a true believer, Painted Hands still heard the lessons. He ran from the Reverend Crandle in search of answers to his miserable existence, away from the one man who had loved him even when Painted Hands fled from God. Reverend Crandle had been more than a father and a friend; but what he asked was too difficult, and his spirit cried out for release. Turning from the young woman who needed him in her hour of sorrow was wrong, but he couldn’t comfort her. The past pain consumed him, the barrier around his heart too tall and too wide.
Sarah Jane’s sobs roared in his ears, not the loudness of her cries, but the depths of despair. The teachings of Reverend Crandle urged him to go to her, and yet he stayed still, silently begging her to cease. He poured another cup of coffee and allowed his wretched soul to feed his tortured mind. A raw part of him remembered the little boy who pulled the charred remains of his sister from the burning home. The sound of his own wails had been heard by a Kiowa hunting party.
At last, Sarah Jane’s weeping stopped. He breathed relief and wiped perspiration streaming down his face—certainly not a result of the chilly night air but the result of tremors from his past. He faced the wagon. Preparing the bodies for burial was a task he could accomplish. A breeze caught the canvas flap and whisked it back and forth as though the spirits of Mr. and Mrs. Benson escaped from their beds.
“Sarah Jane,” he called. “Are you all right?”
In the next instant, she climbed down from the wagon. Even in the shadows, he could see her tear-stained face and swollen eyes. “I’m not all right, but I’m sure God in His mercy will make each moment a little easier to bear.”
“I’m sorry.”
She half-nodded. “They are in the arms of Jesus.”
The words sounded as though they were memorized and appropriate rather than how she honestly felt.
“I’ll prepare them and dig the holes for burial.”
She tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders and ventured closer to the dying fire. “I can help.”
“I think you should sleep, and there is only one shovel.”
“Sleep will evade me, I’m sure.”
“Then consider what you want to say over your parents in the morning.”
She nodded, then shivered. “I do regret that your kind heart has been repaid with these dire circumstances.”
“There is nothing kind about me, Sarah Jane. But what of you?”
She sighed, her thin shoulders shaking. “I will live for the legacy you spoke of. Without your wisdom, I’d die this very night. God bless you, Painted Hands, for allowing our Father to use you in my hour of distress.”
CHAPTER 6
Sarah Jane woke the following morning with tears dried on her cheeks and feeling very much alone. She’d fallen asleep begging God for an answer to why her parents were taken. Now she felt guilty for sleeping when a needling voice told her she should stay awake and record all of the pleasant memories about her parents in Mama’s journal. Did God think she didn’t love them enough—that she was a selfish daughter who fell asleep on the eve of their funeral?
Today the remains of Mama and Papa would be laid to rest in an earthen hole. Their spirits had fled their sickened bodies and now waited with the Lord until she joined them. Sarah Jane didn’t know how she’d go on. The sound of Mama’s musical laughter would linger with her always. Back in Nebraska, ladies from all around came to quilt with Mama. Her perfect stitching and the way she pieced pattern sections into unique designs made Sarah Jane and Papa proud, but Mama never took the credit. She said God guided her needle. Papa’s wisdom helped Sarah Jane understand the scriptures and how to apply them to her life. Their days had been good in Nebraska despite the blizzards in winter, the twisters in summer, and the unpredictable weather during planting and harvesting. But they had all been happy.
As much as she treasured Papa, he must not have heard God’s direction in the journey to Oregon.
A part of Sarah Jane would always dwell in the past, where she felt secure and loved. Now she faced an uncertain future with Painted Hands. She had a husband; she was a wife, but she did not possess a real marriage. At the moment, she appreciated his not insisting she take a wifely role. Once they reached Oregon, he’d make the arrangements to dissolve the marriage. As much as she understood their union was in name only, the thought of not being fit for him made her feel worthless. She wasn’t the plainest woman on the wagon train; maybe he had his eye on someone else. Sarah Jane remembered the scriptures said the man was the head of the household, so he must know best about going their own ways in Oregon.
What is wrong with me? Here I am pondering Painted Hands’s displeasure with me on the morning of Mama and Papa’s funeral.
In the way lay all the things Mama and Papa needed to begin homesteading and later open a mercantile. The daunting task frightened her, for she knew little about cultivating the land and even less about operating a business. In the trunk, Papa had made notes about both endeavors. She needed to find the written instruction and study it at nights.
“God has equipped us for this world,” Papa had said. “We look to Him for direction, and He guides our paths.”
“I’ll not disappoint you,” she whispered. “I’ll simply look for God’s messenger to light my way.”
Glancing about, Sarah Jane wondered where Painted Hands had gone. She rolled from underneath the wagon and stood. The smell of coffee brought her to the present. Her mental despair had masked the otherwise enticing smell. He must have brewed it earlier, but where could he be? She turned her attention to the rear of the wagon. He could be digging the graves—a job with which she should help, although Papa had but one shovel. Breakfast. She must prepare a good meal for Painted Hands. She needed the bacon and flour stored inside the wagon, beside Mama and Papa. That meant seeing them again—lifeless. Eating did not appeal to her, but she had a duty to her husband.
Another thought clutched her heart. What if he had ridden off? Left her to fend for herself?
Terror twisted up her spine. She hurried to the opposite side of the wagon and saw his horse grazing on a single tuft of grass. Releasing a heavy sigh, she willed the queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach to vanish. Too many things must be done, whether she felt ill or well. Moving back to the fire, she poured a cup of coffee, then stared in an easterly direction. Painted Hands bent over, digging into the hard earth. A shovel of dirt, then another, was dumped onto a heap beside him. Obviously, he’d been working for some time. Guilt assaulted her again for sleeping while he labored on the hard prairie.
Last night she needed him to offer her comfort. He chose to let her grieve in privacy. When they were on the trail again, she’d ask him if the Kiowa mourned the dead alone. Another thought occurred to her. Mama’s and Papa’s deaths could remind him of his family’s tragic deaths.
He had urged her to talk and remember, but oh, how she craved the arms of another human being. Perhaps she was weak. Shaking her head to dispel the nagging thought of the undesirable trait, she elected to take him a canteen of water at the grave site. She didn’t want to look at Mama and Papa; rather, she preferred to see them in her mind where they were happy and whole.
Sarah Jane moved slowly, not sure what to say or how to help. The barbaric stories told about Painted Hands crept through her mind, yet she believed they were false. Her husband had been raised by Indians, and he preferred their ways; that made him an oddity. Folks tended to criticize what they didn’t know or understand—another one of Papa’s sayings. Or was she attempting to convince herself? Papa had warned her about Painted Hands. Why? Did he simply not know the man and fall prey to the consensus of most of the other folks on the wagon train? She hoped so; she prayed so.
Painted Hands glanced up when she arrived. She handed him the canteen, and he thanked her with a nod. Sweat dotted his brow with a trickle down the side of his face. If not for the beads woven in his hair, he’d look like a mountain man. When she gathered her wits t
o see the burial holes, she saw only one, and it was being widened to hold a second body.
“Good morning,” she said, studying his face. “How early did you rise?”
He leaned on the shovel and released a labored sigh. “I didn’t go to bed.”
Stunned, she grasped for words. “You shouldn’t have done all this alone. I could have helped.”
“Sarah Jane, you were exhausted from caring for your folks. With only one shovel, what would you have done?”
She shrugged. “Kept you in coffee? Let you rest while I dug awhile?”
He stepped on the shovel and lifted another heap of dirt. “I am hungry.”
“I can prepare food. I’ll tend to it right away.”
Silence separated them, as it had before. She’d have to climb into the wagon for the food—and see Mama and Papa.
“Thank you for all you’ve done. I’ll have breakfast ready shortly.” Sarah Jane turned to leave.
“I’ve covered your parents’ bodies. There’s no need for you to look at them.”
She stopped and whirled around. He knew her thoughts. “Truly you are a gift from God.”
Painted Hands continued his work. Without lifting his head, he appeared to speak his words to the empty grave. “I think not.”
“You have been ever so kind.”
“You’ve heard the tales. Don’t tell me you haven’t.” He thrust the shovel into the hard ground with such force that she sucked in a breath.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you saying they are true?”
He peered up at her, his emotionless face offering no indication of the man inside. “You should be frightened.”
Anger rose within Sarah Jane. “Frightened? My parents are dead. I have no choice but to move on to Oregon. The wagon train is surely plagued with typhoid victims, which tells me Mama and Papa will always be blamed because they were the first to be ill. My husband can’t wait to be rid of me.” With each word, she spat fury and grief. Selfishness clouded her thinking, but at the moment she didn’t care. “I thank you for what you’ve done, then you bully me? What is left for me to fear? Ridicule? Abandonment? Disease? Death?” She clamped her lips together before tossing another word. Lifting her chin, she started back to the wagon. “Your breakfast will take but a short while.”
“Sarah Jane.”
She had no intentions of letting him see her weep and marched ahead. “I owe you an apology, but not now—later.”
“Would you rather bury them before eating? The sun will be hot before long.”
The familiar lump rose in her throat. She blinked several times before responding. “Yes, please.”
“I’m nearly finished here. I suggest you retrieve your Bible from the wagon before I return for your folks.”
She paused to gain control. “I’ve been thinking about that very thing.” She kept on walking, despising herself for not apologizing for her outburst and believing Painted Hands deserved her wrath in the same breath.
His mannerisms, so cold and unfeeling, swept over her like a wintry chill. Did the man have no compassion? Was this the Indian part of him? If so, they were truly barbaric and heathen. No wonder women clutched their children to their breast and men reached for their shotguns at the mention of Indians. The fear of hostiles murdering and torturing their captives made sense. Horrible, perfect sense.
She didn’t need Painted Hands’s sympathy. His backbreaking work would suffice, and once they caught up to the wagon train—providing they were permitted—he could go back to scouting for Mr. Greenham, and she’d take care of herself.
“He’s your husband. You made a promise to God.”
She held her breath. Must she be reminded? After all, the marriage hadn’t been consummated.
“You promised God to bind yourself to this man until death.”
Maybe she’d contract typhoid and die like Mama and Papa. The grave would solve everything. Maybe she’d pray for that very thing.
“Are you a child or a woman?”
The voice of the One who ruled the universe would not release her. Why, God? I don’t understand. Do You despise me? Is that why my life has fallen to the depths? Do You even care? Always the questions and no answers. Papa always quoted scripture when folks didn’t understand adversity. She could hear his booming voice still. “‘And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to His purpose.’”
What was the purpose of loving God if He chose to destroy everything she held dear? How could any good come of this? Just tell me, Lord. I see nothing ahead but more heartache.
Her body numb and her heart broken, Sarah Jane trudged ahead until she reached the rear of the wagon. Paralyzed, she simply couldn’t bring herself to fetch the Bible. Upon peering inside, she saw Painted Hands had covered the bodies with Mama’s friendship quilt. The embroidered words “Remember me” seemed to lift off the coverlet and wrap their message around her heart. Mama and Papa were no longer there but in heaven. But touching them in order to fetch Papa’s Bible made her cringe.
“I’ll get the Book for you,” Painted Hands said.
She hadn’t heard him approach. Indians were silent, so Papa had said. They learned to walk without making a sound. Sarah Jane stepped aside and made her way back to the fire. “It’s inside the trunk, on the top.”
She listened to the creak of the lid’s hinge, realizing he’d unfastened the leather straps. A moment later, he handed her the Bible.
“I can read, if it’s too difficult for you.” His voice sounded gentle.
Rubbing her fingers over the rough grain of the cover, she wanted to cry again. Painted Hands did have a tad of decency. She turned her attention to the site of her parents’ final resting place. “Papa’s favorite passage was Psalm One. Mama had several.”
“The man I lived with after the soldiers took me from the Kiowa used to read Psalm Twenty-three at funerals. He thought the passage befited those who were grieving.”
“Can we read both?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Sarah Jane tore her gaze from the graves to his face. To her comfort, she saw a touch of compassion in his blue eyes. “Thank you.”
“You will be able to endure this day, Sarah Jane. You’re a strong woman.”
She shrugged. “I feel like the crumbled dirt beneath our feet.”
“Dirt packed together is what forms the earth. Come—let’s get this thing done.”
She agreed with him on that matter. “What shall I do?” she asked.
Painted Hands pointed to the fire. “Sit and wait for me. I’m going to hitch up the oxen and take your parents to their graves. Then I’ll call for you.”
She glanced at the smoldering chips, then back to him. “Seems like I need to do something more.”
“You loved and nursed them while they were alive. I’ll do what I can for them in death.”
His simple words made sense; she nodded her compliance.
“I do know the sadness in your heart,” Painted Hands said. “My family still lives inside me, and I see their faces lit with joy.”
“How old were you?”
“Six. I thought for many years that I was the only survivor, but the Reverend Crandle learned of an older brother. He lives in Oregon.”
“That is why you’re with the wagon train,” she said. If he’d have mentioned this part of his life before, she wouldn’t have been so quick to criticize.
“Scouting kept me separated from the other folks who don’t care for my ways.” He repositioned his hat.
“I’m sure they’ll feel differently since we’re married and you helped me with Mama and Papa.”
“I’m still the same man.” The coldness whispered through his reply. “Typhoid has probably spread through the rest of them by now.”
“Should we travel alone?” She braced herself, knowing how he preferred solitude.
“I could make it fine, but it would be lonesome for you.” He hea
ded toward the oxen.
Taking Papa’s Bible, she opened it to the worn pages where he’d penned his thoughts or written dates that meant nothing to her. Again she asked to see God’s power in this. Only silence, the dreadful finality of silence.
While she busied herself around the fire, Painted Hands wrapped Mama in the friendship quilt and Papa in another, then tied their bodies with rope and lifted them back into the wagon.
“I’ll call for you after I lower them.”
He drove away, leaving her more alone than she could ever remember. Bile rose in her throat, and she thought for certain she’d be ill. A short while later, Painted Hands called for her. At the grave site, he read Psalms One and Twenty-three, then a passage from First Corinthians chapter fifteen.
“‘In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.’”
Sarah Jane listened to every word as he continued to read.
“‘O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’”
God spoke to her in those words. Her rebellious stand against God shamed her. Please forgive me, Father. I know Mama and Papa are with You. My tears are for myself. How strange that God should choose to speak His words through a man who did not trust in Him. Maybe Painted Hands did believe but had chosen to run.
“‘Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye stedfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord.’”
I will, Father. I will not forget my marriage vows or the lessons Mama and Papa taught me.
CHAPTER 7
Painted Hands pounded dirt into the graves by repeatedly running the wagon wheels over the final resting place of John and Lydia Benson. The procedure deterred animals from digging up the bodies for food and some unscrupulous folks—both white man and Indian—from stealing their clothes. Once he finished, he needed to talk to Sarah Jane about breaking camp and catching up with the wagon train.
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