A Bride's Agreement

by Elaine Bonner

  He’d avoided the stares and barbs aimed in his direction and now enjoyed the solitude away from people. Those who singled him out were more heathen than any Kiowa he ever knew. If an Indian brother despised you, you understood the reason why, and you could choose an opportunity to prove yourself worthy. Among too many white people, the judgment was made without consideration of the heart of a man. Not all whites were this way, but far too many were, just as some Kiowa did not represent their race well.

  The Reverend Crandle honored every man through his faith. He’d shown Painted Hands kindness and lived his teachings in the respect and dignity he showed to others. The reverend’s manner of life had led the way for many folks to want to live like him. Sarah Jane also modeled integrity. Her honesty and willingness to extend herself unselfishly had affected Painted Hands. She’d touched him more than he cared to admit. He had yet to understand why her presence bristled and warmed him at the same time.

  Yesterday and today he wanted to comfort her, but physically placing his arms around her grieving body and allowing her to weep against his chest battled against his vow to keep people away. When he closed his eyes at night, he saw Sarah Jane’s face and lived the longing to protect her against those forces that threatened to hurt or sadden her. How many times had he lost himself in those green eyes? She had a beauty about her that rivaled nature. Her reddish-blond hair and matching freckles projected youth and a glimpse of honey sweetness, but Sarah Jane’s true loveliness came from within. If he didn’t keep a shield over his emotions, she’d melt his resolve to let nothing stand in the way of reaching Jacob.

  He vaguely remembered his older brother. At the time of the fire, Jacob already worked with their pa on the farm and did most of the milking. Painted Hands looked up to him, but the older boy didn’t have much need for a younger brother tagging along behind. Painted Hands quickly earned the nickname “Puppy.” What a nuisance he’d been, crying to Ma when Jacob shooed him away like a pesky fly. Those distant memories brought a smile to his lips. Once he found Jacob, he hoped the two of them could find the time to establish a lost relationship.

  He stole a look at Sarah Jane. She bent to turn a slab of sizzling bacon in the frying pan. She had the faith he wished he’d succumbed to. Reverend Crandle had shown him the way, and Painted Hands even prayed for forgiveness and a new life in Jesus Christ, but that was before.

  Nightmarish recollections stole the joy wanting to break through his rough exterior. The same day Painted Hands realized he needed God to lead and direct his life, various townsfolk visited Reverend Crandle with a false accusation about Painted Hands murdering a family outside town. The sheriff arrested him with no more proof than his Indian style of clothes and the way he wore his hair. Reverend Crandle and his wife prayed continuously. The law found the killer, but in the meantime, gossip about Reverend Crandle housing a murderer spread through the town. The church asked the reverend to resign. That’s when Painted Hands decided he wanted no part of the Christian faith. He turned from God with a vow never to return.

  “Don’t let the weakness of man destroy your faith,” the reverend had said. “All believers are saints who sin.”

  “I can’t have faith in a God who allows unjust punishment,” Painted Hands said.

  “What of Jesus? Remember His death?”

  Painted Hands shook his head. “I don’t know. I think God will have to show me His power, because all I see is evil.”

  That had happened over seven years ago. Painted Hands continued to live with the Reverend Crandle awhile longer to try to sort out his future. Then he elected to join up with Greenham’s wagon train as a scout. Painted Hands already had the skills, and Greenham gave him direction. Then some months ago came the unexpected. Painted Hands never tired of recalling every word.

  “I have good news for you,” the reverend had said. “I’ve located your brother, Jacob.”

  Painted Hands at last sensed hope. “Are you sure?”

  The man grinned. “I’m certain. He listed parents Timothy and Elizabeth Carlson as perished in a fire along with three sisters: Rose Alice, Leah Mae, and Mary Elizabeth. He also named a deceased brother, Toby William. They were all from near Council Bluffs along the Missouri River.”

  “Where is Jacob?” Painted Hands could barely contain his excitement. Pictures of the older brother flashed through his memories.

  “He left about ten months ago for Oregon. His friends said he planned to start a logging camp north of the Willamette Valley.”

  “I have to find him.” Painted Hands laughed. “My brother is alive.”

  “And it’s an answer to prayer,” Reverend Crandle said. “God’s hand is in this. I can feel His presence.”

  Painted Hands didn’t want to attribute the good news to God, but he sensed an exhilaration in his whole body. Not a single day since then had the desire wavered to reunite with Jacob. If he could have climbed on the wings of an eagle, he’d have flown to Oregon, but one obstacle after another lengthened the miles between them. The reverend said the journey to the Northwest meant a fresh start—one without malicious tongues. On this last trip to Oregon, Painted Hands wanted to make friends among the travelers, except someone already knew the old stories and spread them through the camp faster than a prairie fire. He hoped things would be different when he reached his brother.

  Once more, Painted Hands knew the pain of isolation. This time he’d learned his lesson. No one would venture close; no one but Jacob, although his brother might shun him.

  Shaking aside the thoughts that repeated in his head, Painted Hands moved his ponderings to the present.

  “We need to decide about what to do next,” he said after he’d unhitched the oxen and the two ate their meal.

  She lifted her gaze; a curly wisp of reddish-blond hair trailed down the side of her face. Innocence and a sense of trust greeted him. He had to be strong and fight his growing feelings.

  “I think joining back up with the wagon train makes good sense.”

  “You mean if they will have us,” she said.

  “Don’t think on it that way. If they are dying of typhoid, we don’t want them either.”

  She nodded. “But they treated you shamefully.”

  “I’m used to it.”

  “I still want to go to Oregon.”

  A wolf howled in the distance and grasped his attention. He waited for another one, but it never came. Hostile Indians sometimes spoke to each other through bird and animal calls. “My plans haven’t changed.”

  She tilted her head and looked about. “There’s nothing keeping us here. When do you want to leave?”

  “As soon as we can get started.” He searched her face for signs of remorse; when her placid features revealed nothing, he finished his bacon and biscuits. “Can we leave in an hour?”

  At the designated time, Sarah Jane climbed onto the wagon seat, and Painted Hands rode alongside. Papa’s horse was tied to the rear of the wagon. Mama and Papa lay behind them without so much as a wooden box to cradle their bodies. The stretch of road ahead provided time to think and plan. In the bottom of the trunk, hidden in the folds of one of Mama’s dresses, was money to purchase land in Oregon and the beginnings of a mercantile. She considered selling Papa’s horse and saddle at Fort Laramie and hiding the money, too.

  Her gaze swung to Painted Hands. This should be a matter she discussed with her husband—if he were a real husband. Since he chose a loveless existence, then she’d keep financial matters to herself. What would stop him from taking the money, leaving her penniless? If only they were friends, like Mama and Papa used to be. Her parents often talked late into the night, never running out of topics. Sarah Jane wanted to learn about Painted Hands—his life with the Kiowa, their customs and language.

  Painted Hands preferred not to talk. He’d told her so. Wishing for a friend in him was futile at best, and she wasted her efforts and faced disappointment every time she tried. Slapping the reins over the backs of the oxen, she chose to dwell
on life once she got to Oregon. Operating a mercantile assured her of wonderful friends. Just thinking about the goods she’d carry and the customers she’d assist made her tingle. Bolts of beautiful cloth, bonnets, food, tools for the men, and jars of penny candy would line the shelves. She’d need a clever name for the store, maybe Sarah Jane’s Supplies or Benson’s Mercantile.

  A realization seized her. She couldn’t open a Benson’s Mercantile; her name was… Mrs. Painted Hands. Peering at her husband, she decided to ask him.

  “What do I tell folks my name is?”

  He said nothing, and she wondered if he’d heard her. She opened her mouth to speak again, then he rode closer.

  “My name?”

  She nodded. “Yes. When folks ask me.”

  “I suppose my white-man name.”

  “Which is?”

  “Toby Carlson.”

  Sarah Jane had learned something about her husband. Sarah Jane Carlson. She rolled the name on her tongue. It went together nicely—for as long as she was his wife. And he had a first name, too—Toby. “That’s a good name.”

  “I don’t imagine you’ll have much of a chance to use it, since I intend to get a divorce as soon as we get to Oregon. Might be best if you continue using your pa’s name.”

  She didn’t respond. What could she say? But the anger grew. Was she simply the wrong race? Maybe he didn’t like the color of her hair or her freckles. She wasn’t happy with her looks either, especially the unruly curls. Her eyes—yes, that must be the problem. She knew she looked like a cat, but those things weren’t supposed to matter. Mama said beauty had to come from the inside. She said comely people one day grew old, but the important traits only got better—the things you learned by living life and honoring God. How would Painted Hands ever see anything worthwhile in her when he kept his distance as though she embarrassed him?

  Startled, she threw a seething look his way. He could use a shave and a haircut. Of course, he might be so ugly that everyone would run.

  “Are you ashamed of me?” She hadn’t intended to blurt out the question. It simply fell from her mouth.

  “What are you talking about?” The deep tone of his voice fueled her fury. The sound by no means frightened her, especially when rage simmered near the surface.

  “I understand you married me because of the committee. I understand you’re a humble man to help me take care of Mama and Papa, and I’m grateful. I understand we don’t know each other, but I’m not that ugly.”

  Painted Hands adjusted his hat. “What are you talking about? Are you sick?”

  “No, I’m not sick. I’m asking you what’s wrong with me.”

  He stared straight ahead as if she’d gone mad. “I’m riding ahead for a camping site.”

  “Of course. Put miles between us as if there aren’t enough right now. While you’re out there scouting around, see if you can find a watering hole where I can take a bath.”

  He pressed his heels into the horse’s side. “Yes ma’am. I’ll do my best.”

  The man didn’t even have the sense to participate in an argument.

  “Go ahead and be by yourself,” she called after him.

  The moment his figure faded, Sarah Jane regretted her childish temper tantrum. This wasn’t like her. She always held her tongue and looked on the bright side of things. What if he kept right on riding? Everything he owned was stuffed in his saddlebag, except the provisions in the wagon. Why should he stay? Those Indian customs would keep him alive all the way to Oregon.

  Sarah Jane’s mind raced with how she might do the same thing. If the committeemen said she couldn’t come back, then she’d find her way to Fort Laramie. There she’d join the next wagon train that rolled through. She wasn’t a man, but she certainly had the means to look out for herself.

  The afternoon wore on, the sun hotter than she could remember, and still no sign of Painted Hands. He really had left her. The sound of creaking wagon wheels scraped at her scrambled thoughts. A pair of buzzards flew overhead, creating a wave of uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. She watched their flight to make certain the vultures didn’t head back toward Mama and Papa’s grave.

  They could be feasting on me in a few days. Forcing the gruesome image from her mind, she shielded her eyes in hopes of seeing Painted Hands. Nothing rose in her view but miles and miles of sparse grass beaten down by the cattle moving with the wagon train ahead.

  “We’ll catch up to Mr. Greenham’s wagons,” she said to the oxen. “They won’t refuse me. After all, I didn’t get the typhoid.”

  The echo of her voice proved how easy it would be to lose her mind in this desolate country. Now she understood Mama’s desperation. All her mother had experienced was the loneliness and nothing of the promise.

  “Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

  Sarah Jane swung her head from side to side, looking for the source of the voice. So real, so clear. The silence repeated, and she shrugged.

  “What good is a promise without trust?”

  Did God think Mama didn’t trust Him? She was one of the most faithful of all the believers Sarah Jane had ever seen.

  “You, My child. Where is your faith? Where is your trust?”

  She wanted desperately to have those things, but all she could see came in the form of Mama and Papa’s grave and a husband who didn’t want her.

  “Painted Hands is a good man.”

  How would she ever know? He despised her.

  “He is a child astray.”

  “What can I do?” she whispered.

  “Trust Me for the promises. Loneliness is for those in darkness.”

  Sarah Jane repeated the words she recognized as from the Father. Lately, she’d been incredibly selfish—fretting over things about herself instead of trusting God. He had a plan for her and for Painted Hands. The mysterious future was laid out by God like a huge feast waiting to be tasted. She craved joy in the engulfing sorrow. She pleaded for direction in the way of her husband and courage to complete the journey to Oregon. Undoubtedly, obedience to God’s directives proved more difficult than she’d ever imagined. “Loneliness is for those in darkness.”

  Sarah Jane sniffed back a sob.

  Forgive me for my faithless heart. I’ll apologize to Painted Hands, and I promise to be a good wife—no matter what happens.

  Her gaze lifted, and she saw a lone rider. Painted Hands had not deserted her. If not for fear of driving him even farther away, she’d have jumped from the wagon and run to him. Asking his forgiveness for her wild tongue meant humbling herself and possibly facing his rejection. From now on, she’d look at Painted Hands as Jesus saw him—totally loved and cherished.

  The closer he rode, the more anxious she became. Once again, loneliness and insecurity washed over her, but she had not been abandoned. God had His hand on her shoulder, gently guiding her.

  “Hello.” She waved and forced a smile. “I am so sorry, Painted Hands, for the mean things I said. Will you forgive me?”

  “No.” He spit his words at her like an angry rattler. “The wagon train is not far ahead. From the tracks I see, maybe three days beyond us. I’ll take you there; then I’m riding on.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Painted Hands hated the way he treated Sarah Jane. She’d apologized to him and even smiled when he rode her way. Still, he had little choice. What kind of life did he have to offer? He’d become set in his ways—probably as mean as most folks liked to think. Best he lived a life of solitude. Everywhere he went, every person he learned to care about met with disaster: his family, the Kiowa, the Reverend Crandle, and now Sarah Jane. In an isolated part of his mind, he wondered if the Bensons would have lived if he’d not stepped up to help. God had cursed him and anyone who drew close. As much as he wanted to see Jacob, he questioned the wisdom of exposing his brother to the inevitable.

  An unquenchable thirst to put miles between him and Sarah Jane consumed him. She pressed against his heart, more so than any other person ever had. He wante
d to know her, open his scars that seemed to fester with age, and pray, really pray, for healing. But he dare not—the reminders of what always happened were as evident as his discolored hands. Reverend Crandle said Painted Hands bore the fire-bitten scars like a breastplate, a shield against freeing himself from pain.

  Nothing could shake his determination as far as Sarah Jane was concerned. Every time he looked at her, his heart weakened. He had to take action fast before he gave in and something happened to her. For too many years, he’d told himself he didn’t need anyone. Most days he’d believed it, but with Sarah Jane, his heart wrenched for a love that would not let him go. He sensed a weakening of his will, no matter how hard he tried to disguise it.

  In the late afternoon they camped by the Platte River, where water was shallow and plentiful. The cattle drank their fill, and with the approaching sunset, the picturesque scene swelled in his chest. How he would have loved to take his wife by the hand and watch the sunset together. The talk he claimed he didn’t want would happen naturally. They could make plans for the future—discuss their ambitions about what lay ahead at the end of their journey. He had never asked what she wanted to do upon reaching the Northwest, if friends or relatives awaited her arrival or if she was alone. As for him, he hoped things went well with Jacob, and there might even be a job for him at the logging camp.

  Fool! What is wrong with you? You have no choice but a solitary life. You destroy everything you touch.

  Shaken back to reality, Painted Hands rode ahead to scout out more of the trail. Sarah Jane had indicated she wanted a bath. A fitting man would disappear into the gathering dusk and give her privacy. Releasing a heavy sigh, he decided that by traveling on Sunday, they’d reach the wagon train in the allotted three days.

  He’d seen the fresh graves, and by the number of them, typhoid had spread through the wagon train. The vengeful side of him claimed those folks had received their due, but the side of him that Reverend Crandle had touched felt sympathy for those who had lost loved ones. Which side of him was the real Toby Carlson, or would he eventually resign completely to Painted Hands—the half-crazed man who favored neither Indian nor white?