A Bride's Agreement

by Elaine Bonner

  “It needs to dry for about two days. Then I’ll soak it again and scrape the hair side.”

  “I see it takes awhile, like most things we value.”

  He set his jaw and cleaned his knife on the grass.

  Sarah Jane decided tanning the deerskin was much like God’s laboring over troubles that plagued Painted Hands. Every day He scraped off the ugliness from the past and worked on making a new man who would eventually step forward with purpose and direction. Maybe then he’d want to be a real husband.

  CHAPTER 13

  The first day on the trail came more easily than Sarah Jane anticipated. A tinge of bittersweetness enveloped her when she thought of leaving the peaceful spot on the prairie with its lush grasses and wildflowers. She could have easily lived out her years there—building a home by the Platte River and raising babies. Of course, harsh winters, summer twisters, and flash floods would soon give cause for regret. So would life almost anywhere she lived.

  She shook her head. Longing for a life that might never be hers was foolish. First in order was her husband’s spiritual life; all the other problems lagged sadly behind.

  The oxen plodded ahead, and the sun grew hotter in the sky. She’d cast aside her petticoat for only her dress in the heat, not caring a bit if she came upon a gathering of women. My, how her priorities had changed. She grinned at the thought of wearing buckskin. Next she’d be in moccasins and living in a tepee. Preacher Sanders would hold a revival if he learned about her new way of life.

  Over to her right, Painted Hands drove the cattle with an occasional holler. The scent of the animals had made Mama ill, but Sarah Jane didn’t mind. After the stench of death, she could handle about anything. The tall grass made the cows fat, which should help bring a fair price at Fort Laramie. Then Painted Hands would be free to roam about as he pleased.

  “Isn’t it wonderful to be moving again?” she called to him.

  He nodded and waved. At least he acknowledged her. The oxen trudged on ahead while the road bent and wound with the river. The solitary wagon ambled on, passing Chimney Rock with its single peak like an outstretched arm reaching to the sky and on to Scotts Bluff. Painted Hands figured it would take them about a week to reach Fort Laramie; he was certain Mr. Greenham had pulled out to the mountains by now. Not that she cared; she’d rather not see any of them again.

  At noon, Painted Hands stopped the cattle to keep his word for her to rest while he prepared a meal. Today they planned to eat leftover biscuits and bacon from breakfast and drink water to wash it all down.

  “I’m going to scout around while you nap,” he said. “Do you know how to use your pa’s shotgun?”

  “Yes, Papa taught Mama and me before we left Nebraska.”

  “Good. I meant to ask you before. Don’t be afraid to use it.”

  Why had he waited so long to find out? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t left her alone in the past. “Is there trouble ahead?”

  He finished his food and set the tin plate on the ground. “Fort Laramie can be rough with white men and Indians.”

  Had he decided to leave her there? “I can take care of myself.” Irritation crept into her thoughts. Painted Hands had more unexplainable moods than a woman.

  He chuckled, fueling her frustration. “What’s so funny?”

  “Your stubborn attitude.”

  “Me?” Sarah Jane squeezed a fold of her skirt. “Sounds to me like you’re ready to leave me at Fort Laramie, but first you have to make sure no one is going to pull a gun on me.”

  He swung a glare at her. “I haven’t decided.”

  “I’m so glad you’re in charge of my future. Let me tell you this, and don’t you lose sight of it. I’m going to Oregon, and if you won’t take me, then I’ll find my way with another wagon train.”

  “I have no doubt you would take out over those mountains alone.”

  “Must you always be so smug?” Sarah Jane bit back another ugly remark, one that involved not needing any man to protect her.

  “I know a few more things about this country than you do.”

  “Wonderful, but your knowledge doesn’t make you an expert on what’s best for me.”

  Painted Hands snatched up his shotgun and stood. He towered over her. “A husband is in charge of his household.”

  She struggled to her feet. Rage pushed through her veins. “You have to be a husband first.”

  Painted Hands whirled around and stomped off toward his spotted mare.

  “You always run,” she said. “For once, I’d like for us to talk through something.”

  He kept right on without hesitation. He slid onto his horse bareback and raced out across the flat terrain, leaving a cloud of mud spitting behind him. Let him ride until he fell off the edge of the earth. Making her own way to Fort Laramie and on to Oregon wasn’t impossible, and she could take care of herself without him or anyone else.

  Suddenly, remorse seized her for the impetuous words she’d flung at Painted Hands. After all he’d done for her, and she repaid him with sarcasm. She’d committed to reflect Jesus in her life, but her pride had stepped in and taken over. Sarah Jane focused her attention on the direction he’d ridden. A part of her wanted to saddle Papa’s horse and go out after him. The longer she waited, the more impatience needled her. Guilt laced every thought. Watching the prairie didn’t bring him any closer either.

  Sarah Jane’s fury tore at Painted Hands. “You always run.” He didn’t know his wife was capable of such anger, and oddly enough, seeing her red-faced offered relief. His original opinion of her was that she’d allow him to domineer her every move. Today she’d proven otherwise.

  “You always run.”

  She was right. He’d spent most of his life running from some kind of truth. When life gave him sorrow, he took off in the opposite direction. He’d started as a child with the Kiowa when their different ways frustrated him or when memories plagued his tormented mind, and he persisted in the habit with the Crandles and now Sarah Jane. They should have named him Runner.

  The Reverend Crandle had told him a man faces his problems head-on and asks God to help him with the solution. Painted Hands understood the wisdom in those words, because the running labeled him less of a man. At one time, Reverend Crandle asked him to dwell on the good times in the past and give the bitterness to God. The idea of facing the problems and remembering the good sounded easy in one breath and insurmountable in the next. So he’d done nothing but continue in the same pattern. Now, feelings for Sarah Jane and the hope she built in him of being a whole man moved him to step out in faith—yes, faith in the God who refused to let him go. If Painted Hands pondered the matter, would his days with God be any more miserable than his current meaningless existence?

  Once again giving his life to Jesus Christ, with the understanding there would be no turning back, frightened him. There—he’d admitted it. Fear of the unknown kept him bound tighter than a heavy rope.

  “You are not alone.”

  Painted Hands recognized the voice, and it wasn’t the one Reverend Crandle called the accuser.

  Lord, forgive me for not having the strength to stay close to You. I’m a broken man, weak and lower than a snake, and I can’t do this alone. So many questions pound my head and heart that I’d rather run forever than face them squarely. Help me, Lord, I beg of You.

  A verse sprang to his mind, one he remembered reading many times in the past. This time the words held clarity, and he reached out to hold on to them with all his might.

  “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

  “Thank You,” he whispered.

  Painted Hands stopped his horse and eased the mare back around. With a renewed commitment to God, he had to mend his relationship with Sarah Jane—his wife.

  Sarah Jane shielded her eyes. There, off to the southwest, someone approached. She studied the figure heading her way until she realized there were several riders. Her heart pounded hard against her c
hest.

  Indians! She counted seven of them—seven fierce-looking men. Papa’s shotgun. She had to dig it out from underneath some boxes. Why hadn’t she done that sooner? By the time she found it, they’d be here. Her legs threatened to give way. Her mouth grew dry. Trembling, she grabbed the side of the wagon for support. Her gaze swept around the campsite. A knife lay just inside the wagon. She forced herself to release her grip and snatch up the weapon.

  Dear Lord, is this the end?

  The Indians wore breechcloths. One wore a sleeveless shirt, similar to the buckskin Painted Hands wore but with more beadwork and fringe. She’d seen the Sioux when still traveling with Mama and Papa, and these Indians looked different. One of the men wore a black animal-skin hat. Their bronzed bodies glistened in the sun, their muscles rippling like the flow of the Platte River. She recalled the horrific tales of warring Indians and shuddered.

  While she leaned against the side of the wagon, they formed a half circle around her. The one who wore the hat laughed and slid from his horse. Sarah Jane raised the knife, although her hand shook so badly she almost dropped it.

  “What do you want?” she asked in a voice that quivered like a leaf in the wind.

  In a language foreign to her, the Indians exchanged words and grunts. They pointed at her, Papa’s horse, and the cattle. Even if Painted Hands returned, what could he do? Maybe they were Kiowa. Why hadn’t she asked Painted Hands to teach her the language? The one wearing the hat stepped closer. She lifted the knife higher. A sick feeling swept over her.

  “Take the cattle.” The sound of her voice wrapped fear around her heart. “I’ll stab this knife into your heart if you come any closer.”

  The hat-wearing Indian yanked the weapon from her hand and grabbed her arm.

  Sarah Jane screamed. She beat her fists against his chest, and when he lowered his grasp to her waist, she continued to pound any part of his body she could reach with her fists. Laughter rose from him and the other Indians. He pulled her toward his horse. He smelled of filth and animals. She kicked, then bit him before a dirty hand clamped over her mouth.

  Dear God, help me!

  The Indian carried her toward his horse, while the others rummaged through the wagon.

  A shot fired.

  She held her breath, praying.

  The voice of Painted Hands rang out over the sultry air, but not in English. The Indians must be Kiowa, but Painted Hands had said the prairie was not their home. She cringed. There were too many of them to fight. He’d be hurt. Help us, dear God.

  Painted Hands had seen the tracks before he raced back to the wagon. The Indians were Cheyenne, and Sarah Jane was alone. They’d pick the place clean, drive away the cattle, and ride off with his wife—if they didn’t choose to kill her. Panic twisted through him, then anger. This was his fault. He’d left her alone to face any danger, as he’d done so many times in the past. He had to get to her, fast.

  “Please, God, no.” His heels dug into the horse’s side, urging the mare faster. He fired his shotgun into the air at the sound of her screams. The image of Sarah Jane abused by the Indians attacked his senses. “Sarah Jane!”

  “Neaahtove!” Listen to me. Painted Hands spoke the words in Cheyenne. “Éneoestse!” Stop.

  The warrior holding on to Sarah Jane laughed. “Emoonahe.” She is pretty.

  Painted Hands fought his anger. “She is my wife.” They would not take her; he’d die trying.

  “Why do you speak our language?” The warrior’s eyes narrowed.

  “I lived with the Kiowa for ten years. I learned your language through a Cheyenne brother.”

  The warrior held a firm grip on Sarah Jane. Fear etched her delicate features.

  “Netonesevehe?” What is your name?

  “Painted Hands.” Perspiration trickled down his face.

  The warrior glanced at the scarred hands of Painted Hands, then back to his face. “I want to buy this woman.”

  “She is not for barter.” He took a step toward Sarah Jane and touched her stomach. “Naneso.” My child. Painted Hands realized the warrior would not let Sarah Jane go easily. “You can have five of the cattle.”

  The warrior sneered. “The cattle are already mine.”

  “We are brothers.”

  The man stiffened. “For long time, Kiowa and Cheyenne at war.”

  “The Kiowa and Cheyenne made peace eight years ago.”

  The other warriors began to talk until the man silenced them. “You know our ways. Five of the cattle are not enough.”

  “Ten.”

  “And the horse.”

  Neither the horse nor the cattle were his to give away, but he had no choice. “Agreed.”

  “Twenty cattle.”

  “I said ten.”

  “Ten and the horse, and we leave the woman,” the warrior said.

  Painted Hands studied the Indian before him. If he hadn’t bargained in Cheyenne, he’d have been killed, and they’d have Sarah Jane. He nodded at the warrior and headed back to retrieve John Benson’s horse. When Painted Hands returned, he held out the bridled horse and eyed the warrior squarely.

  “My wife,” Painted Hands said. The warrior released her, and Painted Hands pulled her to him. “We are brothers. Let me have my woman cook for you.”

  The Indian nodded and motioned for the others to cut out the cattle.

  “Are you hurt?” Painted Hands asked Sarah Jane.

  “No.” Sarah Jane trembled so that her skirt shook.

  He drew her closer, and she laid her head on his chest. If he hadn’t been watching the Indians taking the cattle, he’d have kissed her.

  “They are taking ten head of cattle and your pa’s horse,” he said.

  She nodded and pressed her lips together. “They can have all the cattle.”

  “I was ready to give them everything we have. And a bellyful of lead, if that’s what it took.”

  “They’re leaving?” she asked.

  “They need food. Are you able to cook for them?”

  “We have the salted deer. I’ll cook plenty—anything to make sure they don’t come back.”

  Sarah Jane sliced off hunks of the venison and fried them and baked biscuits. After the Cheyenne ate their fill, Painted Hands watched as the Indians made their way to their horses. The Indians shouted and took out across the plain with the cattle. Two of them held the chickens. In the next instant, they were a speck of dust disappearing over the prairie. He pulled his wife next to him.

  “Thank you, Painted Hands,” she said. “I’m sorry for what I said to you.”

  He rested his chin on her head. “I’m not. It was the truth. Tonight, after we’ve settled down from supper, I want to talk.”

  “Of course.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “The Indians, are they Kiowa?”

  “No, Cheyenne. I learned their language some years before.”

  “Praise God,” she whispered. “I’ve never been so frightened.”

  “He wanted you for himself.” Painted Hands expelled a heavy breath. What if he’d failed?

  Her face paled. “I would have rather died. Why—why did you touch my stomach?”

  “Sarah Jane, forgive me, but I told him you carried my child.”

  She wrapped her arm around his waist. “There is nothing to forgive. Once again you have saved my life.” Her soft weeping tugged at his heart.

  “You forget my anger is what put you in danger. I’ll never leave you like that again. If I need to hunt, you will go with me.”

  She snuggled against his chest. If he died tonight, he’d keep this moment forever sealed in his mind.

  “Let’s leave this place,” he said. “I wouldn’t want those Indians to forget I called them brothers.”

  In a short time the wagon meandered in the opposite direction from where the Cheyenne drove the cattle. He couldn’t keep his gaze off Sarah Jane, and whenever he stole a glimpse of her, she was looking at him. The desire to tell her of his love and his renewed faith nearly bu
rst from his chest.

  The afternoon hours sped by as Painted Hands relived the scene with the Cheyenne. Repeatedly, he praised God for rescuing his precious wife. Every time he considered what might have happened to her, a fierce, protective resolve shattered his past treatment of her.

  “Do you want me to tie my horse to the wagon?” he asked. “I’d like to sit next to you.”

  She pulled back on the reins and called to the oxen. “Does that answer your question?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Sarah Jane prepared a dried-peach cobbler that night, adding a pinch of cinnamon and a hunk of the precious butter. Mama had always said the best way to keep a man happy was to feed him well.

  “You’re a good cook, Sarah Jane,” he said, scooping up more of the peach cobbler.

  “Thank you. I had a good teacher in Mama.”

  “You miss her badly, don’t you?”

  She blinked back the wetness. “Doesn’t seem like they’re really gone. I hope I don’t ever forget the good times—and the love we shared.”

  “I understand. My family lives in my dreams.”

  “Oh, but soon you will be reunited with your brother.”

  He smiled. “Sometimes I wonder if Jacob will look at all as I remember.”

  “I’m excited for you.” She poured him another mug of coffee. “Your meeting will be grand.”

  “He’s not married, at least not yet. So he will have a brother and a sister.”

  His words touched her, and warmth flooded her face. She didn’t know how to respond without becoming emotional. He must have changed his mind about leaving me at Fort Laramie.

  “Sarah Jane,” he began. “While I was gone today, I made a decision.”

  She met his gaze and studied him through the amber firelight.

  “I haven’t been good to you, and saying I’m sorry doesn’t cover all the ways I’ve wronged you. But I am sorry. I told you about the fire. You should know other things about me, and I’ll tell you of them someday. You already know I’m not a talkative man.” He released a sigh and stared into the fire. “While living with Reverend Crandle, I made a decision to follow Christ, but I turned my back on Him. See, folks accused me of murdering a family, and the Reverend Crandle took up for me. Because of his commitment to me, he lost his church. It didn’t seem right for God to allow it. I was bitter, angry, so I signed up as a scout for Greenham’s wagon train. During that time, the reverend tracked down Jacob and found out he’d gone to Oregon.”