A Bride's Agreement

by Elaine Bonner

  “Those of you in favor of Painted Hands and his wife staying with the wagons, raise your hand,” Greenham said.

  Three men voted for them to stay, which left three others opposed.

  “I say this couple deserves a chance, especially since we kept the other sick folks,” Greenham said.

  Sanders sneered. “You don’t have a vote.”

  “What if I quit right now? Then you don’t have a scout or a wagon master.”

  “You’d desert all these people, leaving them to die in the wilderness because of a no-good crazy man?” Sanders tossed Painted Hands a triumphant sneer.

  Painted Hands stepped forward. “I’ll pull out in the morning with my wife and the fifty head of cattle.” He nodded at the three men who had voted in their favor. “I appreciate what you tried to do here, but it won’t ever be said that I was responsible for good folks dying.” He turned around and headed back to Sarah Jane. For the first time since he’d agreed to marry, Painted Hands felt as if he’d conducted himself as a good man—not a selfish one.

  “You take care of your wife,” Greenham said. “I’ll get your cattle.”

  “We’ll round them up in the morning,” Andrew said. “Would you like some company tonight? I could sit with your wife while you sleep a little.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think I could rest with her sick.”

  Andrew rammed his hands into his trouser pockets. “I lost my wife and baby boy to typhoid. Can’t sleep anyway—might as well see what I can do for you.”

  Painted Hands studied the man before him. He looked not much older than Sarah Jane. From the haggard look about him, Andrew was hurting real bad. “Sorry about your family. Don’t seem fair, does it?”

  Andrew shook his head and stared into the darkness. “I reckon the Lord needed ’em, but I miss ’em… every minute of the day.”

  Painted Hands didn’t respond, but he knew he’d remember Andrew for as long as he lived. A stranger had seen Painted Hands as a real man without knowing the person inside.

  The rest of the night crept by. Painted Hands kept a vigil for Sarah Jane; the idea of sleep never crossed his mind. He thought back over how she’d tried to please him and done little things for him that he failed to acknowledge. So many times she smiled and appeared to be happy even when he was mean. Shame swept over him until he wept.

  “I often wish I’d said and done things differently,” Andrew said. “I reckon she knows how I’m grieving for her and our son.” His voice cracked. “When your wife gets well, be sure to tell her how much you love her.”

  “I just hope it’s not too late,” Painted Hands said.

  Andrew touched his shoulder. “I’ll be praying for you.”

  Painted Hands wanted to tell him not to bother, but the man had faced enough bad luck in his life without adding to it.

  Come morning, the wagon train pulled out, leaving behind Painted Hands and Sarah Jane along with a cloud of dust and bawling cows. They had plenty of water, grazing for the cattle, and provisions. But he longed for herbs to treat the typhoid. White men called the plant coneflower, and he’d seen it cool down the worst of fevers. That meant leaving her, and he feared she’d grow worse while he searched for the wildflowers. All day and through the night, he tended to her. At times he dozed off only to waken sharply with guilt piercing his heart worse than a jagged knife.

  Sarah Jane’s dress was soaked. He thought long and hard about removing it—wondering about the propriety of it all. Casting aside his doubts, he carefully slid it from her shoulders in hopes this made her more comfortable. She was thin, and he thought back since they’d married and didn’t recall seeing her eat much. He stiffened. She’d been ill and either hadn’t said a word or didn’t pay attention to the symptoms. Pondering over his wife, he assumed she’d pay more attention to someone else’s needs than her own. A few nights ago, she’d gone fishing—for him—and after he’d treated her so shamefully.

  Maybe he should have tried to tell her the truth about his curse right from the beginning, but it took over a year for the Reverend Crandle to earn his confidence and open up to the truth. Painted Hands dabbed the cloth over Sarah Jane’s face and expelled a labored breath. Right now he’d do anything to break this fever.

  Coneflower.

  The higher the sun climbed in the sky, the higher Sarah Jane’s fever. She ranted about things Painted Hands thought were childhood matters, and he’d seen enough typhoid to understand how close she teetered to death. Once she called out for him, and it startled him. The sound of his name on her lips moved him to make a decision. He’d have to leave her long enough to find the reddish-purple wildflower with its healing powers.

  “I won’t be long, Sarah Jane,” he said, caressing her limp hand. “Hold on and fight the typhoid.”

  In his rush against death, he slipped the bridle over his mare’s neck and rode bareback. Digging his heels into the horse’s side, he raced across the plain beyond where the cattle from the wagon train had beaten down the grasses. Not a single coneflower broke into his view.

  Lord, please. I’m not asking for me but for Sarah Jane.

  A stab of realization nearly staggered him. He’d prayed. How long had it been?

  “I have loved you with an everlasting love.”

  The whisper reminded him of Reverend Crandle’s voice but deeper, like the sound of a waterfall. He rolled the words around in his head, grasping and yet fighting their meaning.

  “Then tell me what to do.” Painted Hands stared up at a cloudless sky. “Take my life. Sarah Jane is innocent of my sins—the curse You have cast upon me.”

  “Sin and suffering do not come from Me.”

  “Then tell me how to stop it.” Painted Hands’s voice echoed around him.

  “You can’t.”

  Sarah Jane deserved to live, to reach her dream of Oregon. She trusted God, even when her parents died. Desperation wrapped a strangling hold around him. Had he gone mad? He, too, must have typhoid. A feverish mind was the reason for the voice. God didn’t talk to sinful folks, just good people like Reverend Crandle, Sarah Jane, Andrew, and other folks including his Kiowa family. They all had impressed him with their decency.

  “Please don’t take Sarah Jane.”

  “Trust Me.”

  Painted Hands hesitated. If trusting God was all it took to heal Sarah Jane, then he’d trust with every bit of strength in his body. But he’d called out too many times in the past, and God had been silent.

  “I beg of You to spare her. Whatever You ask, I will do.”

  The sounds of insects chorusing over the heated prairie met his ears. The roar in his spirit ceased. Painted Hands relaxed. His hands loosened their grip on the reins, and he trembled. Sweat streamed down his face, more from the unexplainable encounter than from the afternoon sun. Sensing a need to walk, he slid from the mare’s back and led her while he sorted through what had just happened.

  Suddenly, the horse reared, and the reins were snatched from his grasp. Painted Hands had always prided himself in the way he handled horses, a skill learned from his Indian brothers. In the next instant, the horse broke free and galloped away in the opposite direction of the wagon.

  Painted Hands shook his fist. Again he saw the curse of God. Sarah Jane lay dying in the wagon. He couldn’t find the wildflowers that would aid in her healing, and now his horse had deserted him. How can I trust You when You make a mockery of me?

  With grim determination, he headed toward the wagon. Nearly a mile passed with nothing in view but the prairie. Painted Hands continued to search for the coneflower, though he’d looked before his horse deserted him.

  Then to the right of him he saw several reddish-purple flowers. They nodded their petaled heads in the warm breeze. Laughing like a boy, he hurried to them and pulled up all he could carry. The entire plant would be made into a tea.

  “Thank You,” he said, lifting his head to the heavens. He’d ridden right by them earlier, for hoofprints were embedded in the earth.
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  A surge of energy like fresh hope filled his body as he dashed toward Sarah Jane. And when he caught sight of that canvas-covered prairie schooner, he spotted his horse.

  He’d found the coneflowers, and the mare had taken off in the opposite direction. How strangely odd and wonderful at the same time. God must love Sarah Jane. Painted Hands realized another peculiar matter. He loved her, too.

  Inside the wagon, Sarah Jane lay still; her pallor frightened him. By habit, Painted Hands washed her face, neck, and arms from the basin of water he’d used earlier.

  “I have medicine,” he said. “Please hold on to life while I brew some tea.”

  He snatched up the flint and steel fireworks kit and slipped the striker over his finger. Soon he had water heating over a fire and the coneflower steeping, its healing powers spreading through the water. Grasping a mug and spoon, he stirred the tea and allowed it to cool.

  Lord, You answered me today, and I thank You. Please heal her, I beg of You.

  Inside the wagon, he lifted Sarah Jane’s head and spooned the medicine into her mouth, allowing it to trickle down her throat. This had to break the fever—this and prayer.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sarah Jane fought to open her eyes. She attempted to gather her wits about her, but time and place eluded her. All she could remember was Painted Hands sending his fist into Preacher Sanders’s face. She’d tried to stop her husband, but a part of her—a very wicked part of her—gained a sense of satisfaction from seeing the man run off into the night.

  I’m sorry, Lord. Vengeance is wrong, and I know it.

  Where was Painted Hands? The cloudy haze engulfing her mind started to lift. She remembered he went out into the night, and she kept supper waiting for him. Yes, now things were clearer. She’d found Mama’s letter and the money, put it all back into the trunk, then heard Mr. Sanders calling for her. Suddenly, she remembered the irritating man wanting to cut their wagon again. Why couldn’t she remember more?

  “Sarah Jane?”

  Her eyes fluttered. She desperately wanted to open them. Painted Hands spoke her name. Something must be terribly wrong, for his voice rang with tenderness.

  “Sarah Jane, are you awake?”

  She battled the urge to fall back to sleep, but Painted Hands had called her name in a way she’d dreamed. Slowly, Sarah Jane opened her eyes. The blur faded until she saw his face. He looked tired, and she forced a smile. The gesture stole her strength.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  She mouthed “sleepy,” and he touched her cheek.

  “Don’t try to talk,” he said. “Rest and get well. You’ve been very sick.”

  Sick? She remembered wanting to sleep but nothing else.

  “You had typhoid, Sarah Jane, but the danger is gone. You need to get well.”

  She opened her mouth, but he laid a finger on her lips.

  “Hush. Go to sleep, and we’ll talk later. I have medicine, and it has helped.”

  Obediently, she allowed her eyelids to close. She’d survived typhoid? How long had she lain ill while Painted Hands cared for her? One question after another inched across her mind with no answers. She’d ask the questions later, when she wasn’t so sleepy. Painted Hands had acted so kind….

  When Sarah Jane awoke the second time, evening shadows hugged the wagon. Again her husband sat beside her bed. Had he never left? How dear of him, as though he really cared.

  A smile tugged at his lips. “Hello.” He reached for her hand. “I’ve been watching you sleep.”

  “How long”—the words seemed to drag from her mouth—“have I been ill?”

  “Five days.”

  His reply sent a note of panic throughout her body. Surely she should have died. God must have a reason for sparing her. Now she understood her weakened condition and lack of memory. How good of Painted Hands to nurse her.

  “Thank you,” she managed. “I’m… sorry.”

  He gathered up her hands into his, and she treasured the sweet gesture. “Sarah Jane, things are going to be different now. I’m the one who’s sorry. You nearly died, just when I was about to run off again.”

  “I’ll get well.” Speaking pulled at what little strength she mustered. “I want to be a good wife.”

  “You are. It’s me who has failed. Don’t try to talk anymore. I have medicine for you, and I’ve made broth.”

  Humiliation crept through Sarah Jane as she realized what had been involved in having Painted Hands care for her. She’d been worse than a baby to tend to—spoon-feeding the medicine, bathing her when the dysentery tore through her body. He had ignored his own needs for her sake. Surely the humble task came under God’s plan. She thanked God for her husband and for delivering her from the typhoid. Sarah Jane prayed this would be a new beginning for them.

  Two days later, he carried her outside the wagon and laid her in the shade beneath the wide branches of a cottonwood tree overlooking the Platte River. While she gazed over the water and listened to the insects, birds, and an occasional cow, Painted Hands washed clothes and straightened the inside of the wagon. The smell of death lingered there, and he opened the flaps at both ends to allow fresh air to whisk away the reminders of typhoid.

  While she slept, he found more coneflowers for the healing tea and hunted a rabbit for their supper. She cherished his doting. This was a side of Painted Hands he’d kept secret. He laughed and whistled, and she thought if they never moved from the prairie, she’d be perfectly fine.

  “I think I’ve found a piece of paradise,” she said as he climbed the small bank carrying a dress, shirt, and undergarments from the river.

  “It is peaceful.”

  “Reminds me of Nebraska.”

  He stopped and gazed out over the prairie, beyond the grazing cattle to where the plains and the horizon met. “Do you want to go back?”

  She considered his question. Friends were in Nebraska and a way of life she knew well. But Papa’s dreams lay beyond the mountains, and her life was now with her husband. “Nebraska will always be home, but my future is in Oregon. How long before we can travel?”

  “You need to grow stronger first.”

  “I’ll drink the medicine all day long, if it will help.”

  He eased down beside her, holding the wet bundle against his chest. “I refuse to do anything that causes you to be ill again. Sometimes the fever can last for days or weeks. I’ve seen folks recover from the typhoid, then get something else because their bodies aren’t strong.”

  She studied his blue eyes, matchless to the heavens. “I want us to get to Oregon before the winter snows. When I get tired, I can sleep in the wagon if you’re willing to drive.” She shrugged. “Providing the cattle keep up a good pace.”

  He dropped the washing between his legs to the grass below and leaned back on his hands. “I won’t take any chances where you are concerned. The journey to Fort Laramie is right ahead, but the mountain pass is difficult for those who are hearty.”

  “Can’t we make better time than the wagon train? We could start earlier in the mornings, and I could make extra bread and bacon so we wouldn’t have to stop at noon but could move on till nightfall. And we wouldn’t need a whole Sunday to wash clothes and hunt, but a half day.”

  He chuckled and combed his fingers through her curls. “Are you spending all your time fretting over this trip?”

  His touch sent her heart racing. This had to be the real love Mama used to speak about. “I do have another idea.”

  “And what could it be, Sarah Jane? Shall we grow wings and fly like the eagle?”

  “I’m serious.” She punctuated her words with a nod. “We could sell the cattle at Fort Laramie, unless you want them.”

  He directed his gaze to the grazing animals. “It would be a sight easier and faster going over the mountains. Ought to keep a milk cow or two.”

  She smiled from the inside out. “Then we can go soon?”

  He gathered up the washing. “I’ll think on it, but you n
eed to rest a few more days.”

  “Two?”

  “Three, then we’ll talk again.”

  She sighed. “I want you to see your brother as soon as you can.”

  He stood and seemed to study her. “Thank you, but Jacob knows I’m coming. Reverend Crandle sent word to him months ago, and my brother knows the perils of the journey.”

  “I don’t want him worrying about you.”

  “Don’t know many folks who’ve ever done that.”

  “You have me.” When she saw her words left him uncomfortable, she ventured on. “Are you sad about not joining back up with Mr. Greenham?”

  His laughter caused a nearby cow to perk her ears. “Only if I’d be missing Preacher Sanders and his committeemen.”

  “Oh, I declare he has the devil’s wit. I’m not judging Mr. Sanders, really, but I feel sorry for him when he meets the Lord.”

  “True. He is one miserable man, although I met a man named Andrew who understood the meaning of living a Christian life. He stood up for us when the others were afraid of going against Sanders.”

  “What happened? Do you mind telling me?”

  Painted Hands told her everything that occurred the night she fell to typhoid. “Andrew stayed with me until dawn, then helped cut out the cattle. I hope he reaches Oregon and finds a good future.”

  She thanked God for putting such a good man in their path. Her husband needed to see committed believers who put others before themselves—good folks who lived their faith. Painted Hands had obviously done that very thing while she suffered through typhoid.

  In the past few days, she’d noted something wonderful about Painted Hands: a definite tenderness toward her beginning when she first opened her eyes from the typhoid. His new treatment of her had continued. Before, he had erected a barrier in front of him mortared with a fierce determination to keep others out. Now he no longer hid his emotions or said cruel things to her. She prayed it lasted. Earlier, she nearly told him of her feelings, but she feared he’d leave.

  With an inner sigh, Sarah Jane watched her husband carry the washing to the wagon. He turned, and she waved. Becoming friends with Painted Hands held a bit of a risk and a challenge. Perhaps he felt the same.