Painted Hands laid the washing over the brush and flat out on the grass to dry. He stole a look at Sarah Jane. Today the color had started to return to her cheeks. She was still weak, and he noticed she’d napped after spending but a few minutes brushing her hair. Such a small task to waste away her energy. He thought of asking if he could brush it for her. He would gladly while away the hours serving her needs. He craved every moment with Sarah Jane, like a calf trailing after its mother. Making her life easier in this harsh land became his sole purpose. Gazing into her green eyes became his passion. Without question, Painted Hands loved his wife.
A fierce protective instinct settled on him. He peered in every direction, keeping a guarded watch for any animal or bout of nature that might seek to do her harm. His brothers, the Kiowa, flashed across his mind. Some thought they were lazy, for their days were spent hunting, deepening their skills as warriors, and guarding their homes. Without those traits, a Kiowa could not protect those he loved. Painted Hands understood his purpose as a man, and the realization made him proud and humble at the same time.
The thought of revealing his heart hammered incessantly. Although she held the title of his wife, he’d done nothing to consummate the marriage or encourage her about the relationship—quite the contrary. The spiteful things he’d said to her in the past aroused more guilt than he cared to admit. Tonight he’d apologize for the things he’d said and done. Confessing his heart was another matter. That would have to wait.
Dare he make plans to break camp and risk her health? Selfishly, he wanted nothing better than to head toward Oregon, but Sarah Jane’s health was foremost. He’d speak of it again in three days hence. By then he could tell if she were strong enough to continue on to Fort Laramie. The thought of losing her made him shudder. He’d already lost so many before.
Everything you touch is destroyed.
The nagging, despised voice plagued him again. He longed for true peace, the kind he’d felt when he searched for the coneflower—when God spoke to him. Where did the condemning thoughts come from? Reverend Crandle said God loved him and the accusations came from Satan. If only he could believe those words.
That evening Painted Hands milked the cow and urged Sarah Jane to drink a full mug. He’d made butter earlier in the day, and it tasted good on hot biscuits. She even ate a little roasted rabbit with wild onions. Pleased with her determination to gain her strength, he praised her efforts.
“If we are to leave the prairie, then I must eat,” she said. “I think you will have to show me how to cook. Your food is so much better than mine.”
“You are simply hungry.”
“And you prepared a feast.”
He watched the firelight dance off her face and wondered how he’d ever managed without her, certainly a strange notion for a man who’d sworn he needed no one. She yawned. Sleepiness filled her eyes.
“Looks like you need some rest.” Painted Hands took her plate and glanced at the bit of milk in the bottom of her mug. “Are you going to finish this?”
She covered her mouth to hide another yawn. “You sound like my mama.”
“I’ve assumed a new role.”
She drank the last bit and smiled. The mere sight of her warmed his soul.
“I’m looking forward to the day when you don’t have to spend all your time taking care of me,” she said.
He reached for her hands. “Until then, I’ll be your mama. Let me help you to bed.”
She slipped her frail fingers into his palms, and he pulled her to meet him. She stood close enough that he trembled at her nearness, and when she peered into his face with a look of trust and innocence, the urge to kiss her swept over him.
Sarah Jane lifted his hands to her lips, kissing each one. The gesture startled and embarrassed him.
“Why did you do that?” he asked a bit more gruffly than he intended.
“Because these hands took care of me. You fed me, gave me medicine, bathed me, and countless other things.” Her melodious voice rang above the night sounds.
“The scars—”
She shook her head. “I feel awkward with how you nursed me, rather discomfited at times, and this is my way of thanking you.”
Painted Hands hesitated. The thought of revealing his pain to this precious woman tugged at him. “They are ugly.”
“I have never considered them as such. Were they burned?”
“Yes, a long time ago.”
“Would you tell me what happened?”
He touched her cheek. He’d never told the whole story to anyone, not even to Reverend Crandle, but that didn’t mean the need wasn’t there.
“If it’s too painful, I understand,” she said. “I simply wondered.”
Perhaps now the time had come for him to open up a small portion of his past. If he felt worse or she was repulsed, he’d never venture in that direction again. “Once you are in bed, I’ll tell you.” When she smiled at him again, he thought his heart would burst from his chest. “Do you need for me to help you?”
“I can manage,” Sarah Jane said. “I’m getting stronger, you know, and I shan’t take long.”
CHAPTER 11
Sarah Jane nestled beneath the warmth of the quilt and called for Painted Hands. She was so very tired, but hearing him talk about himself meant more to her than sleep. They had come so far, and she refused to lose the closeness growing between them.
When he climbed into the wagon carrying the lantern, she couldn’t help but admire the familiarity of him: the broad muscles spreading across his shoulders and his beaded hair. His buckskin clothes and moccasins no longer seemed foreign but welcome. A worried frown creased his forehead.
“Sit by me,” she said. “I do want to hear your story. Every little bit I learn about you makes me feel as if we are deepening our friendship.”
He sat beside the narrow mattress and drew up his knees. She pulled her hands from beneath the quilt to slip into his.
“This is not easy for me, Sarah Jane. I’ve lived with what happened the night of the fire for many years.”
She glanced at the hand covering hers, then back to his face. “I’m listening. I don’t want there ever to be anything you hesitate to tell me. After all, you discovered the very worst of me.”
Painted Hands squeezed her hand lightly. “You are wrong to think those things. It was an honor to help you.” He took a deep breath, and she prayed for his ability to relate the obviously painful memories. “My parents, three sisters, and an older brother—Jacob—lived in the western Kansas Territory. I was the youngest. Pa farmed, and we raised animals, and Ma and my sisters tended a garden. My job was to feed the pigs and chickens.” He smiled with a look in his eyes that went beyond the here and now.
“I was six years old when I noticed several baby chicks running about the barnyard. In my mind I thought some wild animal would eat them, so I begged my folks to let me bring them inside. They said no, and I went to bed that night very upset. I couldn’t sleep and got up to check on those chicks. Everyone else slept, and I knew better than to wake Ma or Pa. I crept out into the cold dark and made my way to the barn. Well, I found the mother hen and discovered her babies were snug and safe under her warm body. I decided to watch the mother hen awhile to make sure she didn’t forget about those chicks, and I fell asleep. I woke sometime later to the sight of flames lapping up the cabin and screams from inside. I ran to the front of the cabin and cried out for my ma and pa. Horrible cries echoed around me. I hurried to the well, but the bucket sat inside the house. I remembered Ma asking me to take it outside earlier. I didn’t know what to do, and I wanted to save my family. Every time I tried to get inside the cabin, a wall of hot flames stopped me.
“That’s when a band of Kiowa on a hunting trip rode up. They were far from their normal territory. They pulled me from the fire, but my family died inside. My hands were burned, and that is how I received my name. For the next ten years, I lived with the Kiowa.”
Tears filled Sarah Jane’s
eyes. “Why haven’t you told anyone this? No one should live with this burden.”
He released her hand and clenched his fists. “The bucket. I couldn’t save any of them because I’d left it inside.” He hesitated. “I’ve often wondered if I did something to start the fire before I left the cabin—knocked over the lantern or failed to see a stray spark from the cook fire.”
“You were six years old.” Compassion welled in her. “The fire, the deaths were not your fault.”
He set his jaw. “I’ve never seen it that way.” He rubbed his face. “I want to know how Jacob got out.” Pain poured from his words.
“Now I understand even more about the urgency to get to Oregon. I’m sorry about your family. I wish I could say the right words to make you feel better, to help you see it wasn’t your fault.”
“I don’t think it’s possible.”
“God can give you peace, Painted Hands. He wants to lift the burden—”
“I’ve been told the same thing before. I cried out to God that night, but He turned a deaf ear to me.”
“He had a reason, although like you, I find it hard not to be angry.”
“To send innocent people to a horrible death?” He lifted his hands. “I remember how my hands hurt, as though someone had taken a knife to them. To think their whole bodies were tortured like that. A loving, caring God would do this?”
The more he spoke, the louder his voice grew. Sarah Jane shivered. She well recalled the night Painted Hands took after Preacher Sanders. Fury hid beneath his soul, a frightening trait for a man she loved.
“I don’t know why this terrible thing happened any more than I understand why Mama and Papa died, but I do know two things. Our families are in a better place where there is no pain or fear, and God has a plan for your life and mine. Because I trust in His wisdom and love, I can only serve Him the best way I can.”
He said nothing, but the anger remained on his face like a rock etched with time. She hadn’t seen this anger since before the fever, and she feared the pleasant days had disappeared. Painted Hands stood and left the wagon without a good-bye.
Sarah Jane longed to call after him, but she also recognized his need to work through the problems separating him from God. She couldn’t be his savior; she could only live her life as Jesus desired and pray Painted Hands found God’s grace and mercy.
The following morning, she awoke with a sense of renewed energy. She dressed and realized the simple task did not waste all of her strength. This morning she’d make coffee and breakfast for Painted Hands.
Stepping outside into a marvelous sunrise, Sarah Jane stopped to admire the dusky pink and gray-blue sky of dawn. It felt good to be alive, even with the hazards ahead and the grief of losing Mama and Papa. Her gaze swept about the area for Painted Hands. Normally, he slept under the wagon, but he was neither there nor at the river. She turned her attention toward the cattle and called for him.
Silence.
His spotted mare was nowhere to be found either. He’d gone hunting, she told herself and ignored the gnawing voice reminding her of last night. Her husband needed breakfast, and she would prepare it for him. When he returned from wherever he’d ridden, she’d ask him about leaving tomorrow. After all, he’d said three days and they’d talk about beginning the journey again.
The smell of fresh coffee tugged at her growling stomach, as well as the aroma of biscuits and frying bacon; yet Painted Hands was nowhere in sight. A twinge of fear wormed up her spine. All the old conversations and his desire to head alone for Oregon worried her. Finally, she sat in the grass and prayed for Painted Hands. She could not eat without him. He’d return shortly, she felt certain. Sleep tugged at her eyelids until they slid shut.
“Sarah Jane. Wake up. Are you ill?”
She opened her eyes to see Painted Hands kneeling beside her. He smelled of the outdoors, of fresh grass and leather. So happy to see him, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his whiskered cheek. Immediately, his eyes widened, and a look of panic swept over him.
“I was frightened.” She groped for words. “I… thought you’d gone on without me.”
“And left you?” He sounded surprised, and she sighed with relief.
“Silly, aren’t I?”
“I wouldn’t just up and leave you, not without making provisions.”
She released her hold on his neck. A sinking feeling settled in her stomach. She thought he’d abandoned the idea of going ahead alone. Fierce determination rose in her, and the words spilled out. “I want to go all the way to Oregon with you, Painted Hands. I’m well and able to drive the wagon. We can make good time as we talked about the other night. I promise not to slow you down.”
“I’m not good company.”
“You’re the company I choose.”
He crossed his arms. “You’re a difficult woman to understand.”
She lifted her chin. “Have you ever met a woman you did understand?”
He paused and moistened his lips. “Reckon not.”
“This land is terribly hard, Painted Hands, but I know the dreams of Oregon are only weeks away. Please understand that if you want to set up homesteading here by the Platte River and not move another inch toward the mountains, then I want to be right here with you. If you decide to go back to Independence, I want to be with you. If you are ready to head on beyond Fort Laramie and wade through mud and the first signs of snow in the mountains, I’m ready.”
He rubbed his whiskered chin. “You’re a stubborn and courageous woman.”
She shook her head and touched his arm. “I’m not brave, no, not at all. Too many times I feel Mama’s desperation. But what I do know is I want to be with you, and I don’t care where.”
He stared at her for a moment longer. “We could put a few miles behind us day after tomorrow. We will stop at noon for you to rest, and I’ll prepare something for us to eat. I’ll be watching you, and at the first signs of your faltering, we’ll not go a step farther until you sleep.”
“So be it.” She leaned over and kissed him once more on the cheek. “Thank you. I intend to be a helpmate, not a burden.”
Painted Hands glanced away, as though ignoring her kiss. “I brought down another rabbit, but I want to hunt deer after breakfast.”
Painted Hands raised his shotgun and took aim at the buck in the distance. Meat wasn’t his only motive in bringing down the animal. He wanted the hide to make clothes for Sarah Jane. He saw what she wore, and the rugged terrain of the Rockies called for more practical dress than long skirts that became weighed down with snow and mud—and proved a hindrance in climbing. If she’d slip into buckskin breeches once her feet hit the mountains, she’d fare much better. For that matter, so would every female journeying the narrow mountain passes.
He chuckled in remembering past wagon trains where proper ladies left Independence donned in heavy skirts, petticoats, and all their other wearisome layers. As the journey lengthened, one layer after another disappeared or was thread-thin the closer they got to Oregon. Sadly, he recalled the women who swished their skirts too close to the fire or fainted from heat on the prairie when the daytime temperatures soared to one hundred. Because of their choice of clothing, many took sick when the mountain cold chilled them to the bone.
Why a woman chose to make this trip puzzled him. Being separated from friends and family, realizing the death of loved ones, struggling with day-to-day survival, and facing their own female sensibilities were grim challenges. Sarah Jane’s words inched across his mind. Did the hundreds of women who started out across the wilderness feel like her? Did being with their husbands mean more to them than danger? He was uncomfortable with Sarah Jane’s feeling so strongly about him, but her commitment left him proud. Could he claim the same about her?
She’d be clothed properly, for sure, and he’d treat her as he wanted to be treated. Looks said more than words, and he’d seen something in her eyes, a light that seemed to say she cared for him. He had no idea why, unless
his nursing her had brought about sentiments of gratitude. But if he thought back to before the typhoid, she’d tried to please him then, too.
Sarah Jane scared him worse than walking up on a she-bear with cubs.
After taking down the buck, Painted Hands positioned the animal atop his horse and led the mare back to the wagon. Again, as he had so many times in the past, he pondered the situation with his wife—his wife in name only. If he could fault her, he’d feel much better. If she had reacted to his story with anything but kindness, he could have justified leaving her at Fort Laramie. Sarah Jane wasn’t perfect, but she stood on the border, causing him to wonder if she was an angel sent to make his miserable existence a little easier to bear. If he affixed his mind to that way of thinking, he’d have to acknowledge God.
CHAPTER 12
Sarah Jane had busied herself all morning, and now she read from Papa’s Bible. Her perch beneath the cottonwood facing the river had become her favorite spot during her recuperation. She could become very lazy here, mesmerized by the gentle flow of the water and the placid scene of grazing cattle. She opened the Bible to one of Mama’s favorite passages—the book of Ruth. The ancient Moabite woman’s journey to a new home and her devotion to God filled Sarah Jane with renewed hope for her marriage.
Papa always said things happened for God’s reason and not our own. At the time, Sarah Jane believed him; but since her marriage, she’d contemplated the wisdom of Papa’s statement. One moment she was filled with despair and certain Painted Hands planned to leave her at Fort Laramie; in the next he acted as if he cared. She wanted to look expectantly to the future, but she wished God would give her a glimpse of it. Trust was a heavy dose of medicine to one who lacked patience.
Closing the Bible, she stood and headed back to the wagon. There, Painted Hands bent over a deer. He’d skinned the hide and set it aside, then deftly sliced up the meat. She could cure it with the extra salt, but her curiosity was piqued with what he intended to do with the hide.
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