Glory

by Lori Copeland

  Ruth offered to help, but he brushed her efforts aside, saying he could complete the job faster by himself. However, Glory noticed he was thoughtful enough to thank Ruth for her offer.

  The girls spread out, each pursuing her own activity. Ruth and Lily caught up on mending; Harper read a dime-store novel that she kept tucked out of sight in her satchel. Patience sat in the shade and fanned herself, her young face flushed with heat.

  Midafternoon, Mary climbed into the back of the wagon and slept, her coughing more pronounced today.

  Glory asked, “Why does Mary cough so much?”

  “Dust,” Ruth explained. “She has asthma.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a powerful affliction affecting the lungs. Doctors don’t know much about it, so it’s difficult to control or treat.” She glanced at the wagon, shaking her head. “Poor Mary.”

  Glory nodded. Poor Mary. She listened to Mary’s dry coughs at night, hurting for her. Mornings, Mary’s ribs were sore from coughing, and she struggled to draw each breath. When the attacks refused to let up, Ruth heated water, and Mary put a towel over her head to inhale the vapors. Sometimes that was the only thing that kept Mary breathing.

  Late afternoon, Glory wandered over to the tree where Jackson was repairing the harness. She studied the tool he was threading through the leather. “What’s that?”

  “An awl.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Pokes through leather so you can sew it.”

  She stood for a moment, waiting for an invitation to join him, but it never came. So she sat down without one. Lately, he didn’t seem to mind her company as long as she didn’t talk too much or ask too many questions. She thought maybe he was getting used to her.

  Jackson glanced up from his mending. “Where are the other girls?”

  “Keeping out of your way.”

  He flashed a tolerant grin. His temper had cooled, but Glory noticed the worry lines were still evident around his eyes. The delays were happening more often, it seemed. Guess he had a right to be concerned.

  “We’ll walk faster,” she promised. “We’ll be in Denver City before the first snow.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  They sat in companionable silence, she watching his long, capable fingers thread the rawhide strips through the harness straps. Mary’s worsening coughs filled the silence.

  “You shouldn’t talk bad, you know,” Glory said evenly.

  He bent his head, pretending interest in the harness, but he didn’t fool her. He was ashamed of himself for talking that way in front of the others, and he should be. He was a good man who had let his anger get the best of him.

  “There’s women present—Ruth says a man isn’t to talk that way in front of a woman.”

  “Ruth’s right. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” She wasn’t one to hold grudges. “I’ll remind you when you do it again.”

  He gave her a sour look. “You do that.”

  Settling back, she crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the faultless blue sky. “Do you believe in angels?”

  Jackson glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “Never thought much about it. Why?”

  “Ever met one?” Glory turned to perch on one knee, watching him work. Her discussion with Ruth still lingered in her mind.

  “For certain? No, I don’t think so, though I wondered a few times.”

  “Really? You think you might have met one?” If he’d met an honest-to-goodness angel, she wanted to hear about it. Harper didn’t believe in angels, but there wasn’t much she did believe in.

  However, angels fascinated Glory. It was only a couple of nights ago Ruth read where God gives his angels charge over you, to protect you, to guide you. One appeared to Mary in a blaze of light to tell her she was going to have a baby. And a whole bunch of angels sang in the sky to the shepherds. Now that’d be plumb scary—get a body’s attention all right. The suggestion that there was an all-powerful God and watchful angels looking after her seemed imaginary, yet when Ruth read from the black book, Glory wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe it with all her heart. The pretty words spoke to her—made her long to know this all-powerful being, made her want him to know her. But how could he know her? Except for Jackson and the girls, no one knew her, and it wasn’t likely God would ever find her out here on the trail.

  Jackson worked the tool through the leather, lost in thought. “Met a man once. I’d been shot trying to defend a friend; I was left lying beside the road. I thought I would bleed to death, but a stranger came along and tended my wound. He got me to a doctor, and before he left, he told me that I would live.”

  Jackson paused, staring at the piece of rigging in his hand. “There was something about his eyes… . At the time, the doctor shook his head, and I could see he didn’t think that I would make it through the night. Infection set in, and I was out of my head with a high fever for two weeks. Then one morning, I opened my eyes. My fever was gone, and I was hungry enough to eat a bear.”

  Glory sat up straighter, leaning toward him. “Was it because of that man? You think he was an honest-to-goodness angel?”

  “I don’t know who he was, but that day he was my angel.”

  Glory sat back, mulling the story over in her mind. Poppy could have been her angel—hadn’t she fallen out of the back of a wagon, and hadn’t he been there to rescue her? She knew their prairie schooner traveled for days, sometimes weeks, before meeting another soul. Poppy’s shanty was even more secluded, so why had Poppy been there that day, that hour, that moment?

  She glanced back at Jackson. “You never talk about your life. Why not?”

  “Not much to tell.”

  Glory didn’t believe that for a minute. He was an interesting man with an interesting life. She bet that he had all kinds of stories to tell, adventurous stories, like meeting that angel—if it had been an angel.

  “Actually, I’m boring.” He laid the mended harness aside and flexed his hand. “Lived a pretty normal life.”

  “But you take people across country every year.” She’d heard Ruth and Lily talking; Jackson was one of the most experienced wagon masters around. Folks paid a bundle of money for his services.

  “That doesn’t make me interesting.” He smiled, and her heart leapt at the familiarity in his eyes, and she wanted—oh, how she wanted—to sit here all day and talk to him. She thought about what would happen to her when they reached Colorado. He’d go one way, and she’d go another. She didn’t much like the thought. The feelings that went with it grew more painful every day.

  “What about your mother?” She knew she was out of line now. Ruth had already told her that he didn’t get along with his mother and didn’t like to talk about her.

  His features tightened. “My mother lives in Illinois.”

  “Do you see her often?”

  “Not often.” He leaned back, resting his eyes from the hot sun. Grasshoppers lifted in a dark cloud; others flitted back and forth across the road, their spindly legs whirling. He was silent so long she thought he had forgotten her question. Or maybe he was sorting out his feelings.

  “No more often than necessary,” he finally murmured.

  Glory couldn’t imagine not wanting to see Poppy. She’d loved him, wanted to be near him, though he wasn’t perfect. Far from it. Cantankerous as a woodpile rattler at times, but that didn’t make her love him any less. She could be a mite trying herself if the situation called for it. Yet she couldn’t understand why a son wouldn’t want to keep in touch with his mother. Didn’t seem natural.

  Jackson’s eyes remained closed. “Go ahead.”

  Glory pulled a strand of weed. “Go ahead what?”

  “Ask what you’re fairly bursting to ask.”

  “I’m not bursting—not much, anyway. I was just wondering why a son wouldn’t want to be with his mother as often as possible.”

  “You haven’t met my mother.”

  She knew
he was right. She hadn’t met his mother, didn’t know a thing about her, but she’d like to see the woman who’d produced such a fine specimen of manhood. For Jackson, with all his swearing and impatient flare-ups, was a good man. Other than a few bad words in trying situations, he was a true gentleman. He also seemed to have faith like Ruth’s Bible said. He often reminded the girls about their evening devotions and prayers before each meal.

  She’d seen the way he dealt with others less fortunate whom they’d met along the way. He’d given a man and his wife and infant child two sacks of flour—flour that would be needed for their own journey—but Jackson had said that they were all getting fat and could eat less for the duration of the trip.

  Another time he’d given a fellow traveler a pair of boots, boots Glory knew Jackson favored. But the man had no boots, and Jackson said he had two pair. Jackson seemed to go out of his way at times to prove otherwise, but he had a good heart.

  He met her eyes and sighed. “My ma ran my father off when I was a little boy. I didn’t think much of her from then on.”

  “Ran him off? Like, ‘Shoo! Go on, get out of here’?”

  “No, like she complained and nagged until he couldn’t take it any longer. One day he up and left, and I never saw him again.”

  “And you’re mad at her?” Seemed it ought to be the other way around. Glory didn’t know much about mothers, but she’d heard Ruth read something about children respecting their parents.

  “Doesn’t that book say something about the way we’re supposed to treat parents?”

  “It’s not ‘that book’; it’s the Bible, Glory. And, yes, it does say how we’re supposed to treat our parents, but sometimes it’s hard to live by those teachings.”

  Glory thought about that. She expected that he was right; no matter how hard she tried, she messed up. And those rules Ruth read were mighty lofty goals for people. She sat, twirling the weed in her fingers, thinking about all the troubles a body faced.

  “I don’t know much, and I don’t know anything at all about your mother, but seems to me folks would be better off trying to right their own problems than stewing about the wrong in everybody else.”

  Reaching for the harness, he glanced at her. “How old are you? Fifty?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t rightly know, but I don’t think I’m that old.”

  He grinned. “That was meant to be a joke.”

  “Oh.” She grinned, relieved. She was hoping her almost nightly baths made her look right nice, even nice enough for him to notice.

  His eyes softened, and he leaned over to brush a lock of sweat-soaked hair off her cheek. “How old are you?”

  “Best I can figure—eighteen.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Can’t know. Poppy could only guess how old I was when I fell off that wagon.” Her eyes fused with his, and the sun suddenly felt like a fiery furnace. “How old are you?”

  “Turn twenty-eight this spring.”

  Twenty-eight. He was mighty old. A lot of years separated them, but the age span blurred for Glory. When he looked at her the way he was looking at her right now, those blue eyes boring into her soul, she didn’t care how old he was; she could love a man like Jackson Lincoln if he were twice her age.

  “I’m too old for you,” he stated, and she wondered if she’d spoken her thoughts aloud.

  “Ain’t looking for a husband,” she reminded him. The only thing she needed was a life free of Amos and to be rid of the awful burden of knowing that she had killed a man.

  His smile was crooked. “You aren’t looking for a husband.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  They stared at each other, unable to break contact. Glory wondered what she saw in the depths of his eyes. Respect? Affection? Trouble? Regret that he’d even asked her to ride along that day?

  Mary’s cough broke their visual standoff.

  Gathering the mended harness, Jackson stood up. “See if Mary needs your help. She sounds worse this afternoon.”

  “Yes, sir.” Glory struggled to her feet, brushing dirt off the seat of her trousers.

  “Jackson,” he reminded. He winked at her.

  Jackson. Her heart sang as she hurried to the back of the wagon to look in on Mary.

  Fiddlesticks. Twenty-eight wasn’t that old.

  Chapter Eleven

  The prairie schooner swayed along the Fontaine qui Bouille Creek. The travelers walked long into the night, trying to make up for lost time.

  During noon breaks, Jackson would unhitch the oxen and tie them to the back of the wagon. In their place he would hitch the mules they’d rescued from the family who died of cholera; the mules could withstand the heat of the afternoon sun better than the oxen. Switching teams made it possible for the animals to work longer than they could have otherwise.

  Sunday was a day of rest, except when rains plagued them during the week and muddy conditions forced them to stop. Then they would travel even on the Lord’s Day, after a short worship time. Jackson said the Lord would understand.

  Glory helped with the stock as often as he would permit her, and Ruth took on as many extra duties as she could, but the weight of responsibilities fell directly on Jackson’s shoulders, which were beginning to ache on a daily basis.

  He silently prayed for the weather to hold as his eyes searched the clouds. It had rained every night for the past week, bad thunderstorms with wolves howling in concert. Shoving his sweat-soaked hair off his brow, he was tempted to curse the relentless heat that raged every minute the sun was up, but he knew that it was better than the blizzards that would halt them on the trail if he didn’t make up time somehow. And cursing wouldn’t set well with the Lord, whose favor he sorely needed.

  Lord, Jackson prayed, eyeing the ominous sky, please help the weather hold. I won’t even complain about this cursed heat if you’ll just help us to not lose any more time.

  The mare’s stone bruise had healed, and he’d ridden her every day, ranging ahead to check the trail or falling behind to be sure they weren’t being followed. Amos was never far from his thoughts.

  On a few occasions he’d seen wisps of smoke from a fire not far from their camp. When he’d ridden out to check it, he’d found freshly doused ashes, but no one present. There was no doubt in his mind that someone was trailing them. It was one more worry, but there was a more immediate concern on his mind that afternoon as he tied his mare to the back of the wagon for the noon break.

  No matter how far he’d ridden from the wagon that morning, he’d been unable to avoid hearing Mary’s racking coughs as she’d tossed on her fever-soaked pallet inside the wagon.

  The inescapable dust that billowed around the wagon, penetrating its canvas and even the dampened cloths placed over Mary’s face, made her ailment worse. There were alarming moments when Mary was wheezing so badly that everyone waited, praying that she would catch her next breath.

  Ruth disappeared inside the wagon to spoon bites of milk-soaked corn bread into the girl’s mouth, but she was coughing so hard that she was unable to keep the food down. As the hours passed that afternoon, Mary grew weaker.

  That night when the wind finally died, Ruth successfully fed Mary thin soup that seemed to ease her raw throat and give her a small measure of strength. When she could manage a few words, Mary’s concern was that her condition was slowing them down.

  “Nonsense,” Lily soothed. “It’s the road, not you, holding us up.”

  Lily climbed into the wagon to stay with Mary, and Ruth joined Jackson. They spoke in quiet tones as they walked a short distance away.

  “She won’t last much longer at this rate.” Ruth drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders. After sunset, a penetrating chill had settled over the flatland. “She needs a doctor.”

  Jackson nodded. “Dodge City is half a day’s ride ahead.” He stopped to face Ruth squarely. “We’ll find someone there to look after her.”

  Ruth gazed up at him. “Mary’s concerned that she’s
creating another delay. She knows it’s important to make up for lost time. And now—”

  “Let me worry about time,” he said. “Assure Mary that we’re doing fine.” He turned to head back to camp, refusing to meet Ruth’s inquisitive eyes.

  “Would that be the truth?” Ruth probed gently.

  “Get some rest, Ruth. You’ve been working double time.”

  “I’m not the only one.” She glanced at the others gathered around the campfire stealing casual glances their way.

  “Leave it to me, Ruth. I’ll get you to Colorado safely.”

  The next afternoon they detoured into Dodge City and, after making inquiries, found that it had a physician, of sorts. They arrived at his office where Jackson carried in a weak and feverish Mary. The other women trooped in behind him, crowding the cramped quarters until there was scarcely a breath of air.

  “If you don’t mind,” said the elderly, stoop-shouldered doctor, casting an encompassing glance around the room, “I would like to examine the patient privately.”

  “I’ll stay,” Ruth volunteered. “It is customary for a woman to remain present while another woman is being examined, isn’t it?”

  “Very well,” the doctor conceded.

  Jackson gave a terse nod, and the other ladies filed out, their eyes lingering on Mary as they shuffled to the door. Jackson turned to follow them, pausing to speak to the doctor quietly. “You will step out to speak with me after your examination.” It was a statement, the kind the wagon master often made, that was never mistaken for a request.

  “Indeed,” the doctor replied as he placed his glasses on his nose and bent to his task.

  Jackson closed the door behind him and took a seat on the first bench outside the doctor’s office. He watched Glory lead the mules to the water tank and return them to their positions behind the wagon.

  It didn’t bother him anymore to see her helping out. At first, he’d been worried that she would get herself hurt, but now he realized that she was as good a hand with the stock as he, probably better. He watched her soothe his riding mare, stroking her neck, then lifting and checking each hoof for rocks or other debris. The mare was calmer around Glory than she was with him. The girl caught him watching her and flashed a friendly smile.