Elizabeth, seeming to sense Sarah's distress, stopped sucking. Sarah took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax, and gently coaxed the milk-soaked cloth into the baby's mouth again.
Justin walked to the middle of the trail to greet the approaching strangers. "Hello there," he called, waving his arms.
The horsemen halted in front of him and the leader touched the brim of his hat in greeting. "I'm U.S. Marshal Shaw and this is Deputy Marshal Cabot." Shaw's copper beard ended in a point just below his chin. His partner's face was pitted with smallpox scars.
"Pleasure to meet you both," Justin said.
Shaw nodded toward the mule. "It's against the U.S. government to carry alcohol in these parts. You wouldn't happen to be carrying any, would you?"
"I'm not carrying any alcohol," Justin said. "I'm a preacher."
Shaw leaned on his saddle horn. "A preacher, huh? If you're here to convert the Indians, good luck to you." He glanced at Sarah and she quickly lowered her head and busied herself wiping the milk off Elizabeth's chin.
"We're just passing through," Justin explained. "Heading for Rocky Creek, Texas."
"Rocky Creek?" Shaw chuckled. "On second thought, you'd probably have better luck converting the Indians."
Without another word, he touched his hand to his hat, and the two men galloped away.
Sarah felt almost faint with relief. She kept a wary eye on the trail, but no other travelers passed by.
It was almost noon the following day before the ferry arrived carrying three passengers. The men walked their horses off the flatboat, nodded curtly to Justin and Sarah in greeting, and quickly rode away.
The ferry operator was a craggy-faced Creek Indian with black-and-gray braids and bone ornaments hanging from his ears. He wore moccasins but was otherwise dressed like a white man in denim pants and bibbed shirt.
"No firewater," he grunted. He opened Noah's saddlebags and pawed through them.
"We don't have any," Justin said. "I'm a preacher." This made no impression on the Indian, who continued to rifle through their belongings.
The U.S. government paid ferry operators to report anyone carrying alcohol, but Sarah suspected this Indian kept any botde he confiscated for himself.
"What's the Indian word for preacher?" Justin asked Sarah.
Sarah shrugged. "How would I know?"
Justin thought for a moment, then turned back to the Creek, who was now rummaging through the mule's pack. "A preacher is kind of like a missionary. Do you understand? Missionary?" He pointed up to the sky and then pressed his hands together and bowed his head, as if praying, trying to get the man to understand him.
The man nodded and looked even more suspicious than before. Keeping a wary eye on Justin, he rummaged through their belongings a second and even third time.
Obviously disappointed at not finding any contraband, the Indian checked for hot ashes in the fire pit and charged them an outrageous eight dollars for burning firewood.
Sarah opened her mouth to protest, but Justin stopped her. "I'd rather pay the fee than have to swim across the river."
After they boarded the ferry, the Indian guided the boat a half mile down the Grand River to the clay-colored waters of the Arkansas River. He let them off a short distance from the Creek Nation, the boundaries marked with steel poles set a mile apart.
For the next three days, Justin and Sarah traveled across blistering dry plains, rugged hills, and boggy streams. At times, the challenging terrain partnered with the weather to create impassable trails and dangerous detours.
At one point, Elizabeth's newly washed baby clothes blew off the rocks where Sarah had laid them to dry, and Justin chased after them on his horse.
Twisters whipped across the land like giant egg beaters, whisking the air until it was black with dust. Lightning spooked the horses and rain soaked the ground. During one such violent storm, they hunkered beneath a rocky crop and waited for the weather to clear.
It was hard, harder than she could ever imagine to stand so close to Justin and not fall into his arms. As if to guess her thoughts, he looked at her with such longing that it was more than she could bear.
Not strong enough to fight the temptation, she touched his arm. She held Elizabeth, but, even so, he captured her lips with velvety softness.
Reacting as if he'd been burned, he pulled away and dropped his hands to his side. The want and need and, more than anything, frustration on his face matched her own. Still, nothing more could be done. Not with a baby crushed between them. Not with the water and mud at their feet, the hard rocks at their backs. Not with the promises that had been made to God and each other.
Letting out a long, audible breath, he turned and vanished into the pounding rain.
On the fourth day, the wind stopped, but there was little relief from the scorching heat. To make up for lost time, they'd started on the trail hours before dawn. Still, travel was slow out of necessity. Caring for Elizabeth and replenishing the milk supply by providing the goat ample grazing time seemed to consume more and more time.
Just as the sun began to set, they found a place to camp next to a rock-bottom stream.
Sarah cooled Elizabeth down with a wet sponge and then ran along the trail to pick wild berries she spotted a short distance away. Hearing angry voices, she dropped the pan of berries and ran back to camp.
Much to her shock, Justin stood arguing with two Indian women. One woman had her hand on Elizabeth's face, and Justin was struggling with her.
"Let her go," he bellowed.
Sarah ran toward them. "No, no!" She grabbed Justin's arm and pulled him away from the woman, then spun around to confront her. The woman's tattooed face gave her a menacing appearance.
Refusing to be intimidated, Sarah held her right hand at her waist, fingers folded inward, and flipped her first and second finger outward. It was the sign for no and immediately, the taller of the two women released her hold on Elizabeth, who let out an indignant wail. Justin swooped the child up and quickly stepped aside, his watchful gaze leveled at the two intruders.
The crying seemed to upset both women, who discussed it among themselves at great length while glaring at Justin with obvious disapproval.
The Indians wore fringed deerskin dresses with a band of green seed beadwork at the hem. Their black hair, slick with bear oil, hung down their backs in long slender braids, as was customary. Only men allowed their braids to hang in front.
The two women eventually left, shaking their heads and talking in their native language.
Justin watched them leave, his face dark with fury. "We better pack up and go. They were trying to smother Elizabeth."
He looked and sounded so worried, she couldn't help but smile. "They were just tryin' to teach her not to bawl."
"What?"
"Papooses don't cry," she explained. "A cryin' baby gets his mouth and nose pinched so he can't breathe. They were just tryin' to help, is all."
He shifted Elizabeth to his other arm. "What's so wrong with a baby crying?"
"I reckon just about everythin'. A cryin' baby can scare off game and reveal a tribe's location to the enemy. Teachin' a baby not to cry can mean life or death for a tribe."
Her explanation failed to wipe the dark frown from his face. A muscle flicked at his jaw. "It's a good thing you came back when you did."
"Elizabeth was in no real danger," she said.
"Maybe not, but those women were."
Something in his voice told her he was serious. "Maybe you don't need me, after all," she said.
"I need you, Sarah," he said with gravity.
Her breath caught in her chest. The gentle tone of his voice, the softness in his eyes, the very tautness of his body told her he weren't talkin' about no Indians. She didn't want to keep pushin' him away physically even as he kept stealin' more of her heart, but it was the right thing to do. For once in her life, she wanted to know that she was doing right by God. It wouldn't make up for the past but maybe, just maybe, it w
ould make a difference in the future.
She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him that he didn't need no Prescott, but before she had a chance to speak, he turned and walked away.
Later, after the sun had set and day had turned to dusk, a hushed silence settled over the land. It was as if every living creature held its breath, waiting for the cover of night.
A strange sing-songy voice shattered the early evening quiet. It stopped and started again, an eerie sound that seemed to grow louder following each pause.
Justin jumped to his feet and scooped Elizabeth into his arms. Since the encounter with the two Indian women, he was even more protective of the child than before. "Tell me they aren't on the warpath."
She couldn't help but laugh at the worried frown on his face. "Come," she whispered.
She led the way up a nearby hill.
"Are you sure we should be doing this?" he asked.
"Sure enough to drive a nail in it," she replied.
Justin followed close behind, carrying Elizabeth.
Reaching the crest, Sarah lay facedown on the grass. The valley below was dotted with tepees. Hearth fires blazed behind buckskin walls, turning the conical tents into glowing lanterns.
Justin spread a blanket on the ground for Elizabeth, then lay on the grass next to Sarah, his shoulder touching hers. The very nearness of him caused her heart to flutter.
"So that's what a reservation is like," he said. "I thought it would be more fortlike."
"Like that building over there?" she asked pointing to the government structure in the distance, which also served as a school for Indian youths.
The rigid clapboard building with its square windows and neat chimneys offered a startling contrast to the graceful tepees, which in the darkness looked like hands folded in prayer.
"Yes," he admitted.
"You can put an Indian on a reservation, but I reckon he's gonna wanna keep his ways."
"They seem so . . . peaceful," he said. She detected a note of surprise in his voice.
"They are a peaceful people," she said. "Most times."
"You say that even after what happened to Elizabeth's family?"
"It ain't right to judge all tribes for the actions of a few renegade bands."
"I thought the Medicine Lodge Treaty would put an end to the Indian wars," Justin said. The treaty promised government protection for Indians against white intruders. In return, the tribes agreed to relocate to reservations.
"There ain't gonna be no end to the killin's unless the Indians learn to live in the white man's world."
"So you think they should give up their tepees and moccasins?"
She laughed. "Ain't I a fine one to tell someone how to live and dress?"
Justin chuckled with her. "Yet I have to admit, feathers and beads can be intimidating to us city folks. Not to mention war paint."
"And you don't think you look intimidatin' in your black coat and pants?" she teased.
She could feel his eyes on her in the darkness. "So you think beads and feathers would improve my appearance?"
She smiled at the thought. "It's not what's on the outside that divides people. It's the way they think. Indians believe the land belongs to everyone. They ain't got no notion why a white man needs to own property."
"Before . . ." He hesitated as if searching for the right words. "When that Cheyenne put her hand on Elizabeth's face, I wanted to . . . I would have done anything to protect her."
Sensing his distress, she reached out to pat his arm, stopping herself before making contact.
"I never thought to bring harm to another person. It goes against everything I've been taught. Everything I believe in." He spoke in a low voice thick with anguish. "But I can't get the vision of the wagon train massacre out of my head."
She grimaced in an effort to shut out her own memories of that ill-fated scene. "I think about it all the time."
"This land . . . it changes a person," he said slowly. "It's changed me. I'm not the same person I was when I left Boston. I'm not sure if even God recognizes me now."
"This land doesn't change you," she said softly. "It just makes you more of who you are."
"I now know I'm capable of harming another human being, and that's not something I'm proud of."
She longed to touch him but didn't dare. "I ain't got much schoolin' and I don't know nothin' 'bout society ways. But this I do know. You wouldn't hurt no one. You'd have found a way to protect Elizabeth without harmin' that old woman."
She waited for him to respond, but he said nothing.
The eerie voice sounded again, breaking the silence that had suddenly stretched between them. It belonged to a brave who stood at the outer edge of the little village shouting into the hollows of the night. He fell silent, and then an answering voice came from a distance away.
"He's the town crier," Sarah whispered. "He's callin' the news to the next village. The town crier there will pass the news on."
"It sounds like important news," he said. "What do you suppose it is?"
"Probably warnin' the others to watch out for cryin' babies."
Justin's muffled laughter rippled over her like water running over pebbles, lifting her own solemn mood.
The brave fell silent and the sound of drums filled the void.
"Are the drums sending a message too?" Justin asked.
"They use drums to talk to the Great Spirit."
Elbow on the ground, he rested his head on his hand and gazed at her. "Really? That's how they talk to God?"
She smiled at the amazement in his voice and rolled over on her back. Overhead, the first star of the night shone bright. The drums continued until the air vibrated, the thumping beats matching the pulse of the earth.
For several moments, they lay side by side beneath the stars, listening to the beat of drums while Elizabeth slept on the blanket beside them.
After a while, she turned her head to look at him. "You ain't the only one who's long-winded."
His warm, rich laughter brought another smile to her face, and it was all she could do not to follow her heart in a most unladylike way.
As if feeling the sudden tension in the air, the drumbeats grew ever faster. No longer emulating the slow steady rhythm of the earth, they now matched her own galloping pulse.
The scent of him filled her head with pleasant sensations. "I ain't good at this man and woman thing—"
"I thought we agreed to stay away from that."
"We agreed not to . . . go ag'inst God," she said. "It's hard."
He looked at her meaningfully and then sighed. "It's torture."
Not sure how much to say or even if she dare say anything, she bit her lip. "I. . . I was just wond'ring . . . Would it be okay with God if we tell each other how we feel?"
"How we feel?" he asked, his voice muffled.
"I thought it would make it easier, you know, not to—"
"—give into temptation," he finished for her. "Do you think talking will help?"
"Me and Robert used to talk a lot about problems," she said. "About our parents. About. . . different things. It helped."
"We can give it a try," he said, though he sounded dubious.
"Do you want me to go first?" she asked.
"That might be a good idea."
She cleared her throat. She wanted to get this right, but she was surprised to find herself shaking. "I like it when you kiss me. When you hold me. I like it even better when you look at me . . . a certain way." There it was, the honest truth. She held her breath.
For a moment he said nothing and then quietly stood. "Talking doesn't help, Sarah. It only makes things worse."
Unable to see his face in the darkness, she could only stare at his dark form. She'd tossed her heart in the air hoping he would share his feelings with her. Instead, judging by his voice, she had pushed him further away. Swallowing her disappointment, she whispered, "You won't know till you try."
"I know," he said. "I know."
<
br /> He bent to pick Elizabeth off the ground and, slinging the baby's blanket over his shoulder, started down the hill.
No sooner had Justin reached camp when he realized that distancing himself from Sarah hadn't accomplished a thing. The temptation of taking her in his arms was too immense, the lure of capturing her lips far too great to be dampened by space or even time.
I like it when you kiss me . . . when you touch me . . .
The memory of those words blasted a trail of heat through his body.
These last few days, he'd managed somehow to keep his distance from Sarah. It had been difficult and, at times, almost impossible.
Like tonight.
She wanted to talk about it, but he should have known better. Keeping his feelings under control was a matter of self- preservation. The less he had to forget, the easier it would be to say good-bye when the time came for them to part.
Realizing the flaws in his logic, he groaned and covered his face with his hands. He tried to erase the picture of her from his mind, but the vision stubbornly remained. Her words continued to haunt him for the rest of the night. I like it when you kiss me . . .
God forgive him.
Seventeen
The next day, they left the Indian reservation behind and followed the hilly trail south. Neither had spoken more than a few words all morning and the tension in the air was like a storm about to break.
Sarah rode ahead, Mira the goat straddled in front of her. She didn't dare look back at Justin, but his soothing voice as he spoke to Elizabeth warmed her heart. For most of the morning, they followed a narrow buffalo trail. The trail widened and Justin galloped to her side.
"Sarah, about last night—"
She kept her eyes focused ahead. "Last night?"
"I'm sorry I hurt you."
"You didn't hurt me," she lied.
"Then why won't you look at me?" Justin pleaded.
Turning her head, she gave him an indifferent stare that hid the turmoil inside. What could she say that would explain the sense of longing and pain she felt every time he drew near?
The tight set of his mouth was at odds with the tenderness in his eyes, and neither belonged with the uncertainty in his voice. "I'm not good with words."
A Lady Like Sarah Page 12