A Bride's Agreement

by Elaine Bonner

  “I’m going to tan it,” he said. “You need some good buckskin for the mountains.” He filled a second bucket with the venison. “We’re going to stay here an extra two days to get it started.”

  Buckskin? Mama and Papa will roll over in their graves. “I have clothes, Painted Hands.”

  “I know, but they aren’t suitable for the mountains.” A smile greeted her. “Once you get used to them, you might never wear a dress again.”

  “So will I wear a buckskin dress like an Indian woman?”

  He laughed long and loud. “No, Sarah Jane. These will be breeches and a shirt. They won’t wear out, and the going will be easier.”

  I have to be excited about this. “No one will be able to tell us apart.”

  “Oh, I imagine there will be a few differences.”

  Sarah Jane flushed hot, and it had nothing to do with the heat of the day or a fever.

  Sarah Jane wanted to leave the peaceful site by the Platte River, but she realized the need for a few extra days of rest, and the thought of watching her husband prepare a hide for clothing purposes sounded interesting. In fact, she decided to record each step in Mama’s journal.

  Painted Hands began the process once the meat had been sliced and salted. He prepared a mixture of the deer’s brains and liver with a little fat in a kettle over a low fire.

  “Are you going to eat that?” she asked.

  “Did you want to?”

  “Not exactly, although I guess if I was hungry enough, I’d eat anything.”

  He stirred the mixture before answering. “Once it’s cooked for about an hour, it will be ready to use in the tanning.”

  She had so many questions, but she knew how he felt about them. “Will I bother you by wanting to learn how this is done?”

  He stopped stirring. “I’ll make you a deal. You watch me do this, and if there is something you don’t understand, go ahead and ask.”

  She shrugged. “All right.”

  “The wisdom comes in knowing when to observe and when to pose your questions.”

  Her eyes widened.

  Maybe the idea of recording the instructions could wait until another time, but she would at least begin now.

  “It’s very simple,” he continued. “If you ask a good question, I’ll answer. If you ask a bad one, then you have to eat the brains and liver mixture.” Not a muscle moved in his face.

  Sarah Jane hid her mirth. “Agreed, and I’ll provide a spoon for you, too.”

  They laughed together, and it felt good. Really good.

  In the late afternoon, Painted Hands staked the hide on the ground, stretching it taut as he worked. He divided the brain and liver mixture in half, rubbing it into one side and then the other with an old rag. With his hands and a smooth, rounded rock, he worked the mixture thoroughly over every part of the hide. He scooted back on his knees and appeared to study every inch of it. Then he released the stakes from the hide and folded it up.

  “That’s all I can do for today.” He peered over her shoulder as she wrote. “Tomorrow I’ll wash the hide and stake it again.”

  “Stretch it, too?” she asked, then immediately wondered if she should have waited.

  “Yes, it will shrink if I don’t.” He grinned. “Are you going to write a book about the Oregon adventure?”

  “I’m pondering the matter. Our children and grandchildren might find it interesting.” The mention of children invited warmth to rise from her neck to her cheeks.

  He said nothing, but the silence felt like a wall of rock between them.

  “I’ll fix our supper,” she said. “The deer will be a welcome change.”

  “While you’re tending to that, I need to make a travois, a wide one.”

  She lifted a questioning gaze.

  “The hide will need to dry in the sun. I plan to stretch it out over a travois.”

  “Did you learn that from the Kiowa?”

  “No.” He chuckled. “I don’t know if it’s been done this way before. Tanning hides is done in a camp—and by the women.”

  “Then I’d better pay attention.”

  Once the meat started to sizzle in the pan, Sarah Jane milked the cow. She’d assumed most of her chores by now, but she appreciated that Painted Hands was concerned about her health. When they started on the trail again, she planned to share every bit of the work with him.

  “The color is back in your face,” he said, reaching for another biscuit.

  Grateful for his notice, she responded with a smile.

  “Sarah Jane,” he began a few minutes later. “There’s a matter between us we should talk about.”

  This was not his usual manner. She swallowed hard with the knowledge that he must have a serious topic of discussion. Do not think the worst.

  “We’re married, but we’re not living like married folks.”

  She nodded and sensed her cheeks were aflame.

  “I’m a man, and I could easily claim my rights as a husband, but I won’t until I can see myself as a fitting person for you.”

  She blinked back a tear. He’d already proved to her that he was good and kind. What more did he dare accomplish? “To me you are more than I ever thought possible in a man or a husband.”

  “How many men have you known? Your pa and his acquaintances?”

  “That’s a fair amount.” She twisted a loose thread on her apron hem. “Doesn’t matter to me how many or whom. God knows best. You’re a fine man, Painted Hands, and I’m proud to be your wife.”

  He set his plate on the ground and stood. With a heavy sigh, he turned and stalked away into the darkness.

  Must he always run when things don’t suit him? She wanted to shout at him to come back—to talk about the matter of their marriage—except the words refused to spill from her lips. Without asking, Sarah Jane realized he’d not make a move back to the wagon until she’d gone to bed. In the past, moments like these made her stomach churn, but not tonight. God had given her a peace about Painted Hands.

  Mend his broken heart, God. He blames himself for his family’s deaths and most likely too many other things.

  The following morning, Painted Hands acted as though nothing had happened. He appeared friendly enough, but he’d put a definite distance between them.

  After breakfast, he disappeared again without a word. Sarah Jane elected to bathe and wash her hair. An amazing calm cradled her, and she found herself singing.

  At noontime, Painted Hands returned and announced he planned to work on the hide. She sat on the opposite side of him, relishing in his closeness while watching him work with his hands. Soon he had the hide washed to his perfection and staked in the sun to dry. Once more, he left on his horse.

  Where does he go? What does he do?

  Painted Hands slipped his Bible from his saddlebag and found a soft place to sit and read. He hadn’t told Sarah Jane where he’d been spending his time, and if he allowed himself to be honest, he’d confess his natural rebellious instinct was the reason. The ill-tempered side of him claimed he deserved his privacy. The tender side of him understood she’d worry, and he should spare her any discomfort.

  Since her illness, he’d wanted to find reasons for his existence, answers to why his life had gone from one bad turn to another. All of Reverend Crandle’s words flowed through him, which was why he’d sneaked away to read those passages important to his old friend. Always he came back to Psalm One. The words of David were like a guidebook to Painted Hands, and though he fought the power of God in his life, he couldn’t discount the wisdom.

  Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful. But his delight is in the law of the LORD; and in His law doth he meditate day and night. And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper. The ungodly are not so: but are like the chaff which the wind driveth aw
ay. Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous. For the LORD knoweth the way of the righteous; but the way of the ungodly shall perish.

  Painted Hands looked out over the prairie—quiet, peaceful, as he wanted to feel inside. God had answered his prayers on this very terrain and showed him the coneflowers. In turn, the tea made from the wildflowers helped save Sarah Jane’s life. But the other tragedies of the past filled him with bitterness.

  He couldn’t deny God, but he couldn’t give himself over to trust either—not as he once did. If the answers to his miserable life would miraculously appear, he could understand why. Was he cursed by the same God who said He loved all His creation?

  “The way of the ungodly shall perish.”

  God said the way of sinners would perish, but sinners could receive forgiveness. Painted Hands remembered enough from his own Bible study and his years with the Reverend Crandle to know that acknowledgment of wrongdoings initiated confession. Then repentance had to occur before forgiveness could take place. What had he done so wrong that God chose to strike down him and the ones he loved? Always the same questions. Always the same silence.

  And if he declared love for his wife, God would take her, too. That fear alone halted a move in Sarah Jane’s direction. He ached to hold her, touch her smooth, soft cheeks the way he did when she lay burning up with fever. His mind sped with the words he wanted to say but couldn’t. He recalled the treasured times he’d let himself enjoy her company. Those moments were sealed for the bleak future.

  She wanted to record the events along the trail to Oregon for their children and grandchildren. Painted Hands desired the same and more. A longing deep and passionate assaulted him whenever he thought of a greeneyed child calling him Papa.

  After dusk, Painted Hands returned to the wagon site. He seated himself by the cook fire. His shoulders sagged; when the firelight illuminated his face, lines deepened around his eyes.

  Compassion moved Sarah Jane, but she was weary from wrestling with her own emotions.

  “Tomorrow is your last day before we leave this place.” His gaze stayed fixed on the reddened embers.

  “I’m ready.” She hoped her words sounded optimistic.

  “Nothing you want me to tend to?”

  She shook her head. An urgency in her spirit moved her to say more. “I’m sorry I’ve said things that make you want to stay away.”

  He stared into the fire, his features like stone. “You, Sarah Jane, have always done what is good and right. I’m the restless, wild one.”

  “You’re wrong.” She spoke clearly in the night. “I pray you one day discover how blessed I am.” As she expected, Painted Hands did not respond. “Think of what you’ve done for me. You volunteered to help strangers with deadly typhoid. You married me when Preacher Sanders demanded it. You helped me nurse Mama and Papa and spared me the pain of preparing them for burial. You took care of me when you could have left me behind. Every minute of the day, you ignore your needs for mine. If that is your description of restless and wild, then I hope someday to claim such honorable traits.”

  He rubbed his palms. “I am cursed, Sarah Jane. Whatever I touch is destroyed. I can’t allow another human being to suffer because of me.”

  Folks were not cursed. What did he mean? How could she make him understand that life held many tragedies? Good and bad fell on everyone.

  “I’m going to check on the cattle,” he said. “Go on to bed when you’re tired.”

  She stood and laid her hand on his arm. “You can do all you will to stop me from caring, but I’m determined. Run as far from me as you can, but I won’t stop praying.”

  “You’re a fool!”

  His words pierced her heart. “Perhaps you’re right. Some days I want to give up and resign myself to watching you leave me. But when I consider what I’d lose, I pray for more strength.” Standing, she climbed into the wagon and willed herself to sleep.

  On the morning of their last day along the Platte River, Painted Hands took a rough stone and rubbed it into the entire hide. Sarah Jane silently recorded his every move. In the late afternoon, he made a loop of rope and worked the hide back and forth through it. Once he finished, he heated water and lowered the hide into it.

  “I’ll take care of this before we leave.”

  “What’s next? Can I help you?” She realized he abhorred unnecessary quizzing, but frustration in dealing with him worked at crushing her spirit.

  “To do this properly, I have to make sure it’s stretched out tight.” He paused. “I hope my idea of using a travois is not a mistake.”

  She thought a minute. “Could you fix the hide to the top of the wagon?”

  “Possibly.” He was using his cold, unfeeling tone. She’d gotten rather used to it, but that didn’t mean she liked it or embraced the silence.

  Late that night, Sarah Jane woke to the sound of crashing thunder. The intensity shook the wagon. She glanced out at the night sky and gasped at the vivid display of jagged lightning across the dark heavens. In less than a second, thunder pounded again. High winds seized the canvas and whipped it to the outside. She heard Painted Hands stirring about the travois and hurried to join him.

  “A bad storm is upon us,” he said, releasing the deer hide and hoisting it into his arms. “Make sure everything is brought inside.”

  She hustled about to store their belongings from the impending storm. She remembered when they’d been scarcely out of Elm Grove and a prairie storm besieged the wagon train and sent the cattle stampeding. She and Mama had huddled inside like frightened chickens until it was over. Lightning had struck one of the wagons nearby and quickly set fire to the canvas top. This storm looked no less intimidating.

  The wind wove its way across the land. The whole earth rumbled with no reprieve in sight. Sarah Jane and Painted Hands climbed into the wagon with the lighted lantern and sat on the mattress. The wind whistled, and the wagon rocked. Then the rains came as though the storm clouds desired to drown earth’s inhabitants. This must be how the people felt outside Noah’s ark.

  “Sounds like we’re under a waterfall.” She refused to think about a swirl of floodwaters sweeping them away into the Platte River. “Are we on high enough ground?”

  “I believe so,” Painted Hands replied. He sounded neither hopeful nor downcast.

  The cattle milled about, crying out with the upheaval in nature. As a little girl, she’d covered her ears during storms, but none of those frightful memories compared with the roar outside the wagon. Sarah Jane wrapped her arms about herself and shivered.

  “I hope the cattle don’t stampede,” she said. “Are there any buffalo nearby?”

  “There’s nothing we can do if the cattle get spooked or a herd of buffalo runs us over.”

  “Well, I’m scared!”

  “I figured as much.” He picked up the quilt from the bed and draped it around her shoulders. “Keep warm, Sarah Jane, or you will have fever again.”

  Above the deafening roar of the storm, another drumming against the earth assaulted her ears. The cattle. They were running. She held her breath. Any moment she expected the wagon to topple over while she and Painted Hands faced the hooves of frightened cows.

  The thunder and lightning finally ceased, but the downpour continued until dawn. This was supposed to be the day they’d pack up camp and move toward the Northwest, but instead, it would be spent in rounding up cattle on a water-soaked prairie. Luckily, the oxen were close by.

  “I can ride Papa’s horse and help you,” she said.

  “You stay here. The extra day of rest is a good thing.” With those words, he tramped across the mud and rode out.

  Somewhat agitated with his refusal, she easily fell back to sleep and dreamed of Oregon and its claim to being near heaven. Midmorning, she woke to the soft sounds of more rain. The longer it fell, the more it picked up momentum. The river had risen considerably last night. Would it reach the banks and sweep her aw
ay? Shaking her head, she vowed to push away the worrisome thoughts.

  Painted Hands was a strong man, but his constant exposure to the elements gave her cause for alarm. As long as it continued to rain, she couldn’t make him coffee. Keep him safe, Father, and help him find the cattle.

  By late afternoon, the rain let up. Sarah Jane affixed her skirts to well above her ankles and stepped out beneath a cloudy sky. Her gaze flew to the river, where the water nearly crested. A hint of light attempted to peek through the dismal gray, but what she needed was a rainbow. She picked through the buffalo chips they had stacked inside the wagon last night to build a fire. Cooking for Painted Hands kept her mind and body occupied until he returned.

  Just before dusk, she saw him ride in from the east. He drove a number of cows; not all had run into parts unknown.

  “We lost five of your pa’s cattle,” he said, swinging down from his mare. Water dripped from his hat, beard, and clothes.

  “They are our cattle,” she said. “And I was more worried about you than the animals.”

  Painted Hands lifted a brow.

  “Please don’t doubt me. You’re a sight more important than”—she waved her arm toward the cows—“those cattle.”

  “Are you always looking after other folks?” The strained muscles in his face challenged her.

  Sarah Jane stiffened. “Yes, most times, even those who don’t care one way or the other.” She bent and poured him a mug of coffee. “This hasn’t been made too long. It might thaw out your heart.” She thrust the mug at him, and he chuckled.

  “Guess I had that one coming.”

  “Good, because I’m in no mood to apologize.”

  Early the following morning, the day of their departure, Sarah Jane woke with anticipation to be gone again. She dressed and collected her journal, for already she smelled coffee and biscuits.

  Painted Hands had mounted the hide, hair side down, on the wide travois with strips of leather. About every six inches, he’d fastened a piece of it to the travois. To Sarah Jane, the deer hide could not possibly shrink. With a knife, he began to scrape the pieces of flesh and fat still attached. Twice the hide nearly dried, but he added warm water to his work. Once he had finished, he stood back.