“Have you seen the reverend since?”
Painted Hands nodded. “Just before the wagon train left Independence. He had a new church in Independence.”
“How wonderful for him and his wife.”
He paused for a moment. Should she have said nothing while he spoke, or should she prod him?
“What was your decision?” Sarah Jane pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
“I figured since God hadn’t given up on me, I needed to follow Him. He answered my prayers to help me find the coneflower when you were sick with typhoid, and He saw fit to save you.”
“Oh, Painted Hands, I’m so glad.”
“I’m a stubborn man, prone to keeping my troubles to myself, but with God’s help, I’m going to change.” He looked up at her through saddened eyes. “I want to be a good husband, Sarah Jane, if you’ll have me and have patience. I nearly got you kidnapped or killed by those Cheyenne, and I’m powerful ashamed.”
Her chest felt heavy, but she was determined not to cry. “I think we both learned a lot today.” She hesitated. How did he feel about her beyond honoring his wedding vows? Love was a gift, a vow on her part, as well as his. “I love you, Painted Hands. I have for some time, but I was afraid to tell you.”
His face tightened, and he inhaled deeply. He reached out for her. “And I love you.” He held her close, and when she peered up at him, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers.
Sarah Jane had never been kissed by any man other than Papa, who had sometimes graced a kiss on the top of her head. Warm and sweet best described the tender embrace of Painted Hands. If she lived to see her great-grandchildren, she’d never forget his endearing words and touch of love.
“Tell me again,” she whispered.
He chuckled and stroked her cheek with his finger. “I love you.”
“Before or after the Cheyenne wanted to take me?”
“Before. I was coming back to tell you.”
She reached up to plant a kiss on his lips, and his beard tickled her mouth. She giggled.
“Looks like I need to take a stand,” he said.
“For what?” Had she angered him?
Painted Hands gently righted her to sit alone. “Can I borrow your scissors and your pa’s razor?”
She started. “I need to get them from the trunk.”
He laughed and hugged her to him. “If I want to kiss you all night, then I’d better be getting rid of these whiskers.”
“All night?” Her pulse quickened.
“Until the sun climbs over the horizon.”
Painted Hands had worn his beard since the soldiers placed him in the Crandles’ home. Full of loathing and longing for his Indian family, Painted Hands chose to blame himself for the tragedies around him. He despised himself so much that the only way he could cover his shame came in the form of a thick, wiry beard.
“You can hide from yourself, but you can’t hide from God,” the Reverend Crandle had said.
Painted Hands ignored him, and even when he stepped into the arms of Jesus, he couldn’t bring himself to face the truth of his torment. As the years went by, the bitterness deepened until it became like a festered sore eating away at his spirit.
Those days were past. He’d become a new creation. And although he realized the accuser would continue to plague him, he prayed God would always guide him through the tough days.
Sarah Jane held a small mirror beside the lantern while he first cut the beard with scissors, then used the razor. Once he finished, his cheeks felt smooth, like soft buckskin. The exposed areas of his face looked darker, a rather amusing sight. As he further studied the transformation, he noted a peculiar likeness of his face to his hands; both were a mixture of light and tanned skin. Both had resulted in choices he’d made. Suddenly, the scars on his hands weren’t so ugly; they represented the love he’d felt for his family and how he’d tried to save them, just as shaving his beard came as a desire not to scratch Sarah Jane’s soft face.
“This is strange, indeed.” He stole a look at Sarah Jane, searching for her reaction.
She gasped. “Painted Hands, you are quite handsome.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “I’m glad we married before the other women on the wagon train saw you without your beard.”
“I don’t remember looking at anyone else but you.” His words were void of teasing, for they were true.
“Me?” Her eyes widened.
He set aside the scissors and razor and drew her into his arms. “I thought you had the prettiest color of hair I’d ever seen.” He combed his fingers through the curls gracing her forehead. “It’s not red or yellow, as if God made a special wildflower.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Your freckles remind me of a mischievous little girl, as though I never know what to expect next. And your eyes—many times since we’ve married, I’ve been lost in your green eyes, the color of growing earth.” With the lantern reflecting in her eyes and adding a soft glow to her skin, she looked lovelier than he’d ever imagined.
“Thank you for making me feel beautiful.”
“You are, Sarah Jane, and I’ve been a fool not to tell you until now. God had to open my eyes to more than one thing today.”
As much as Painted Hands wanted to linger a few days with his precious bride, he saw the foolishness of wasting time with the mountains ahead. The determination to beat the first snows didn’t stop him from stealing kisses from Sarah Jane or thanking God for the gift of love. Another concern kept him constantly alert. This was Cheyenne country, and with their allies the Sioux, they ran fear into every white man who embarked upon their land. He’d feel safer once they hit Fort Laramie.
He continued to work on tanning the deer hide by soaking it again overnight. The next day, he flipped it over to scrape off all the hair in the same manner he’d removed the flesh. Today marked the second day for the hide to dry and bleach out on the travois. Not many days from now, Sarah Jane could sew warm clothes for the mountain trek.
On the north bank of the Laramie River, close to where it met the North Platte River, sat Fort Laramie. Painted Hands stopped the wagon to caulk the sides with tar before crossing the river. He hated crossing rivers with a wagon, and the Laramie was a deep and ofttimes rough waterway. Whereas the lazy Platte seemed to cool off man and beast, the Laramie often plunged into waterfalls.
“I know we’re anxious to get to the fort,” he said. “But I’m taking the time to construct a raft of sorts. This is one of the most dangerous rivers on the trail.”
“Can I help?”
“No ma’am, but you can watch. Record it in your journal.”
She laughed, for it had become his way of teasing her. She’d much rather record their journey than mend and sew. “All right, and I’ll be quiet while you work.”
While he labored over the task before him, Sarah Jane wrote what she could before tending to her chores. He never tired of hearing her chat—not at all as he used to.
“Painted Hands, I need to tell you something.” She lifted her needle from the pale yellow material.
“You want moccasins, too?” he asked, slinging the ax over his shoulder.
“No, I think boots will be fine. I’m serious. I want to tell you about the money Papa left us so you won’t be fretting over how we’ll live once we get to Oregon.”
“That makes me feel a bit uneasy, Sarah Jane. You should be planning what to do with your parents’ money.”
“No, it’s ours. Anyway, I told you before that Papa wanted to build a mercantile and take advantage of the free land for a farm. We have plenty—we’re not rich, mind you, but there’s enough for a venture.”
He smiled. “I have no idea what we’ll do for sure once we get there. From what Reverend Crandle told me, Jacob wanted to start a lumber camp near Willamette Falls, and maybe I could work for him. Then again, I might be a farmer. God hasn’t told me yet.”
She shrugged and started to mend again. “I wanted to tell you about the money. Alon
g with selling the cattle, we should be fine.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing. I’m planning to take good care of you.”
She laughed. “I simply wanted to offer something besides another pair of working hands.”
“Prettiest hands I’ve ever seen.”
Sarah Jane believed the fifteen-foot adobe walls of Fort Laramie were the most welcome sight she’d ever seen. They stood as a link to civilization with the Black Hills in the background.
“This is beautiful,” she said, drawing the oxen to a halt so she could savor the view. “I wish I knew how to paint so I could keep it forever—to look at it when my mind wandered back to our journey.”
“Then memorize every inch of it.” Painted Hands rode up close to her. “So someday you can tell our children.”
“And our great-grandchildren.” She’d kept writing in Mama’s journal for the same reason. “Do we need many supplies from the fort?” she asked.
“I’ve taken inventory, and we need only a few. The cost of provisions here is expensive. I used some salt in preserving the deer, and I’d like to replace it. The wheels need repairing but little else. Not sure what kind of price I’ll get for the cattle.”
“I don’t want to stay long.” She glanced at him for a response. When he didn’t reply, she continued. “I like being alone with my husband.”
He chuckled, and she wrinkled her nose at him. The truth was, she did prefer his company. Oh, someday she’d want for womenfolk talk again, especially when children arrived.
“What’s ahead for us?” she asked. “I mean, what can we expect after leaving the prairie behind?”
“The terrain will change, more barren with mostly sage and occasional cedar. Remember the times on the wagon train when we had to stop the cattle before they reached alkali-poisoned water holes?” When she nodded, he continued. “In addition to the water problem, we’ll have water holes so full of salt that the animals won’t drink it. It’s going to be hot, and the air will be thick with dust.”
“How hot? Worse than the prairie?”
“Mean, miserable heat. I’m not teasing you about the temperatures. I’ve seen cattle appear to go mad for water. We’re lucky to have only a few to contend with.”
“Just tell me what to do,” she said. The road ahead would give any woman cause for alarm. She could do it—as long as she refused to think about Mama’s fate and the others who had fallen prey to nature’s fury.
“Simply endure it, understanding it won’t last forever. Once we’re through the heat and our skin sunburned, we’ll hit Willow Springs. There we can enjoy fresh water and prettier country. I’d like to do a little hunting in that territory. Then we’ll follow the Sweetwater River to Independence Rock. A day’s travel from there is Devil’s Gate and on to the mountains.”
She nodded. “I’m ready—prayed up and looking forward to wearing my new clothes. I’ll have them finished way before I need them.”
“I’m sure every man who ventures into this area wishes his wife would be this excited.”
“Those women don’t have Painted Hands for a husband. Besides, you’re so comely that I’m not so sure I want other women looking at you.”
His laughter echoed across the countryside. “Shall I grow my beard to please my jealous wife?”
She stiffened and pretended anger. “You might have to.” Then she remembered the cold mountains. “Won’t you need it for warmth in the Rockies?”
“Yes ma’am. But I’ll shave it once we’re through them.”
The bantering, the kisses, the nights snuggled in his arms. Sarah Jane never dreamed her husband could make her so happy. She still had her moments when she missed Mama and Papa; she’d not be a real person without those grieving times. Yet more often her thoughts dwelled on the memorable times with them.
Painted Hands had not said any more about his family and nothing about the years spent with the Kiowa. She would not press him. He’d tell her when he saw fit.
The Greenham wagon train was about two weeks ahead of them, and Painted Hands and Sarah Jane preferred to keep their distance. Once they sold all the cattle but two milk cows and purchased a few provisions, they left Fort Laramie. There were creeks to cross and lots of time for Sarah Jane to spend with her husband.
In the distance, she saw the vegetation change. A twinge of fear twisted in her stomach. The unknown. The prairie drew her back. Although it had been filled with death and ugliness, it also held her heart. The beautiful, fragrant wildflowers, the blue of the sky, the tall grass that in places soared above her head, and most of all, the place where she’d found the love of a good man.
The more she considered this journey to Oregon, the more she realized the trail was filled with uncertainty about the future. She had to trust God; she had no choice.
CHAPTER 15
Sarah Jane held her breath at the magnificence of the long, narrow gorge called Devil’s Gate. Through the rock flowed the Sweetwater River with cliffs nearly four hundred feet high. She begged Painted Hands to go exploring, for she’d never seen such a magnificent sight.
“I wonder how it was made,” she said, staring up at the steep rock.
Taking her hand, he guided her over rocks to the rushing sound of the river. “The Indians have a story, if you want to hear it.”
“Need you ask?”
He laughed and helped her over a jagged rock. “The Arapaho and Shoshone Indians believe at one time a huge beast lived here and stopped the Indians from hunting and fishing along the river. They decided to attack and kill it, but when they sent arrows into the animal’s side, it became angry and tore out the gorge to escape.”
“How did you learn this?” Painted Hands always had the best stories.
He shrugged. “Good ears.”
“What about the name?” Sarah Jane released his hand and climbed up a rock for a better view of the river.
“I have no idea—probably from the number of people who tried to climb the cliffs and plunged to their death.”
She glanced down at the many jagged rocks and decided her husband might be right.
“Leave the climbing to the bighorn sheep,” Painted Hands said. “I rather like my wife in one piece.”
By mid-August, they reached the Big Sandy. The land around them held little but sage, and the water was filled with alkali, but Painted Hands showed her where to find good water and plump gooseberries to vary the everyday diet of biscuits and bacon. Together they ventured across streams until they reached the Green River. From there they ambled in a southwesterly direction.
“The trail to Fort Bridger is desertlike. Remember I spoke about this earlier,” Painted Hands said. “Sandstorms and heat that will rival the fire and brimstone one hears from the best of preachers. Wish I knew a better way.”
“We’ve managed before,” Sarah Jane said.
He squeezed her hand. “Once we get to the fort, you’ll see it sits in a green valley with plenty of water. No doubt we’ll need wagon repairs before leaving.”
She listened to every word, sealing the terrain in her mind so she could record it later in the journal. More important, she remembered his caution for potential hardships. She would not be a burden to her husband, not now or ever.
Beyond Fort Bridger, a small post with few extra supplies, they moved toward Bear River.
“This is another rough river to cross,” Painted Hands said. “The current is swift, even in shallow water.”
“I handled the others just fine,” she said, although the thought of the wagon tumbling into the water and ruining provisions always frightened her.
“You don’t sound so confident.”
She offered a faint smile. “I’ll not lie to you about it.”
An hour later they pulled alongside the Bear. Painted Hands appeared to study its flow. Praise God, they’d done this twice before.
“I’ll ride the horse across, and you follow me. Take it slow and easy, and we’ll get safely across.” He glanced at the ri
ver, then back to her. “Would you rather take the horse and go first?”
She shook her head and lifted the reins. “I’ll drive these oxen.”
Painted Hands took the lead, and the oxen stepped into the muddy river. A snake slithered by. Sarah Jane shuddered. The sooner they reached the far bank, the better. The going was slow, and she found herself gripping the reins and praying for courage. At midstream, one of the oxen balked.
She lifted the reins. “Giddyap. Let’s get across.”
Nothing.
Painted Hands whipped his horse around to help, and he called to the oxen, too.
The wagon started to lean to the right. “Haw! Haw!” she exclaimed in an effort to straighten it.
Painted Hands shouted the same command, but the oxen refused to move. “Jump! Get clear of the wagon!” he shouted.
She doubted if the water was over her head, but she feared the wagon would tip over on her. Her legs wouldn’t move. Fear held her in a stranglehold.
“Sarah Jane, jump from the opposite side.” Painted Hands’s anxious voice rose above her harried thoughts. He urged his horse toward her, splashing water in every direction.
The wagon leaned farther to the right.
“You have to jump!”
She glanced up. Lord, help me. It took all of her strength to drop the reins and stand. Any second, the wagon would plunge into the swiftly moving water. Painted Hands shouted at her again. He sounded scared. I won’t be a burden. I won’t be a burden.
She stood and leaped from the left side of the wagon, catching her foot on the side and falling facefirst into the cold water. She came up sputtering and spitting. Water had filled her nose, and her head stung. She choked and coughed. Painted Hands reached down and pulled her up. In the next instant, the wagon fell. With his hand grasped around her waist, Painted Hands carried her safely to the other side and eased her onto the rocky bank.
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