The Mail-Order Brides Collection

by Megan Besing

  She scooted over on the seat. “That sounds good. Maybe I can get Cassie to eat.”

  “Don’t share a spoon. You don’t want what she’s got.”

  Now it was Mary’s turn to smile. “A little late for that. She’s been coughing all over me for hours.” She cuddled the child closer. “But I should be okay. I had whooping cough when I was younger.”

  “If that’s what it is, you got no guarantee. One of my young’uns had it three times, Miss Mary. Only God can keep you safe this time around.”

  “Well, He’s not likely worried about me. I’d much rather He focus His attention on these children.”

  Thomas patted her shoulder, his large, meaty hand transmitting his care and concern like a warm hug. “He can look after you and these young’uns alike, Miss Mary. No job too big for Him.”

  Mary nodded and looked out the window again. Nothing but white.

  If God was looking for something to do, He might think about getting them to Flagstaff.

  John set Trevor on the seat and covered him with a blanket then dozed off for a few minutes, awaking to find the train wasn’t moving. A quick check out the window—after he scraped the frost off with a fingernail—confirmed what he already knew.

  They weren’t going anywhere.

  He strode through the three cars ahead then stepped through the door to the outdoors. A bitter wind whipped around the train, blowing up small snow-tornadoes that pelted him with shards of ice, stinging his face and neck. Holding a ladder, he peered around the train.

  Up ahead, in front of the engine, stood a knot of men, including Thomas, huddled against the cold, snow collecting on their shoulders. He hopped down and made his way through thigh-deep drifts.

  The engineer shook his head, his brim cap with the telltale stripes slicing through the frigid air. “I’m telling you, we aren’t going anywhere. This train is up to its axles in snow and ice.”

  The fireman, his face black from coal, leaned on his shovel. “So what are we going to do? Wait for spring? We can’t sit here.”

  The engineer shrugged. “We’ll have to send someone back the track. Holbrook is closer than Flagstaff, and the storm is bound to be worse up ahead. It’s moving west.”

  John stepped forward. “I’ll go.”

  Another man who’d been helpful in moving the rockslide joined him. “You can’t go alone. I’ll go, too.”

  The fireman nodded. “Makes sense. I’ll stay here and keep the firebox going. We can move passengers forward to stay warm.”

  The engineer turned to Thomas. “How long can we hold out?”

  Thomas pulled a notebook from his pocket and peered at the figures. “Dinin’ car says they have enough food for almost two days if we cut rations. We can melt snow in the engine for water. We’ll need to dig a facilities pit. But what are we goin’ to do with the ones who are sick?”

  The engineer peered at Thomas. “Sick? With what?”

  “Whoopin’ cough, we think. Two young’uns in the fourth car.”

  The engineer and fireman argued between themselves. After listening for several minutes, John raised a hand, and the men fell silent. “Fit us out with warm clothes, food, and a gun. We’ll head for Holbrook. We should be able to cover twenty-five miles in six hours.”

  “Think again.” The engineer pointed to the track behind them. “You might be able to make it that quick in the summer. But there’s almost a foot of snow on the track. And if you go off-track to cut miles, you’ll be breaking new trail. Could take you twelve hours or more.”

  Twelve hours. In unfamiliar country. And if they got lost, or injured—but somebody had to go. He looked to his fellow volunteer. “Still willing to go?”

  “If you are.”

  John nodded. “Good enough for me. Get our supplies. Quick. I want to get on the way within twenty minutes.”

  No point standing around burning daylight.

  The two men tromped away from the train on hastily constructed snowshoes while the able-bodied passengers crowded the windows on that side of the train.

  Mary couldn’t bear to watch. When she learned of Mr. John’s plans to traverse the rough countryside between them and Holbrook, it took every ounce of strength not to scream out.

  Now that he was gone, her chest ached as though the air had been sucked out of her life. But she had no time to fret, no energy for worry. She had patients to care for.

  Eli and Cassie had taken a turn for the worse, and their mother, worn out from caring for them, distraught over the recent death of her husband, and mightily afraid of what the future held for her and her family, appeared lethargic and disinterested today, leaving Mary to their full care.

  With Mr. John gone, Trevor needed someone to watch him. The other passengers, concerned he may be contagious, refused to take the little tyke under their wing, so he played on the floor at her feet.

  Thomas waddled down the aisle, a tray in his hands. “Soup for the young’uns.”

  Mary swabbed a damp cloth over Eli’s forehead. “I can’t get them to eat. Sorry you went to the trouble.”

  He set the food on the seat across from her. “Maybe Trevor is hungry.”

  Trevor climbed up in her lap. She held the bowl, and he finished every drop. Then he laid his head on her chest and within minutes was asleep.

  Mary set him carefully on the seat opposite, glad for a respite from his constant activity and questions. Traveling by train was hard on the children. Nowhere to play, no place to run and work off their energy. Surrounded by adults, reading the same books over and over, playing the same quiet games.

  Thomas returned from the car behind, his brow pulled down. He settled onto the seat in front of her and sighed. “I just don’t know what’s wrong with folks.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  He quirked his head toward the rear of the train. “Some of them folks back there got a notion that these here young’uns is dangerous to the rest of us because they’re ailin’. I told them it’s nothin’ to worry about, but someone started a rumor about yellow fever.”

  “That’s not what they have.”

  He held up a hand in surrender. “They won’t listen. They want to put the children and their mother—and you—off’n the train.”

  “But it’s too cold out there.”

  “They say you can build a fire and a shelter. ‘Keep them warm and fed out there, before the rest of us catch it.’ That’s what they’re sayin’.”

  “Can you gather the passengers in the forward car?”

  He brightened. “That’s a good idea. The engineer said they’d be warmer up there anyways. If’n I say they gots to move, we can keep them away from the young’uns.”

  She smiled and patted his hand. “Thank you. I’ll come and talk to them.”

  “Give me a few minutes. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

  For the next twenty minutes or so, Mary tended to her charges. Eli and Cassie seemed to be holding their own, but their mother wasn’t. Her breathing worsened, and she coughed more frequently, long, drawn-out coughs that left her breathless. Her temperature soared, and she went from violent cold chills to severe sweats and back within minutes.

  Finally, Thomas came to the front of the car and beckoned to her. “Ever’body is gathered in the front two cars. I’ll open the doors so you can talk to them all at the same time. They’s a portico to protect you from the weather.”

  She nodded. “Trevor, come with me.”

  He grasped her hand and toddled along behind her. When she entered the second car, all conversation fell silent. And when Thomas opened the doors between the cars, the passengers forward turned around and stared.

  She cleared her throat softly. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to settle your concerns. The children have whooping cough, not yellow fever.”

  A woman from the first car spoke up. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, but I know the difference.”

  A man sitting near her stood. “But whooping cough can
kill ya, can’t it?”

  “It can, but that usually only happens to the very old and the very young who don’t get good care.”

  Another woman: “What kind of care can you give?”

  A young man with a large Adam’s apple called out: “You got any drugs to help them?”

  “No, I don’t. But—”

  With that, everybody started talking at once. Mary sank onto the nearest seat, her head pounding. She rubbed her eyes.

  At a shout from nearby, the crowd quieted. “If’n you don’t have anythin’ good to say, keep still.”

  She looked up. Old Thomas stood on the seat opposite her, his cap with the gold braid held high over his head like a signal lamp. Trevor climbed into her lap and nestled against her.

  Thomas continued. “This here is what we’s gonna do. We’s gonna move them that ain’t sick to these two cars. Them what’s sick will be in the third car. Miss Mary has generously offered to watch over the sick until the men get back with a doctor and supplies.” He stared at each passenger in turn. “Anybody got anythin’ else to say?”

  Despite some grumbling and whispering, his solution solved the two problems Mary was most familiar with: not me, and not here. She sighed. So long as not too many passengers sickened, she should be able to handle the work.

  She stood. “Thank you for your help. If you could spare extra blankets, pillows, clothing, tea, and soup, the children and their mother will appreciate it.”

  More grumbling followed her suggestion.

  As she made her way back to the third car, Trevor in tow, she glanced through a frosted window. John and the other man, Peter, had been gone for several hours. How far had they gotten? The wind blew a snow devil across the landscape, and she shivered.

  She paused and closed her eyes. Lord, please protect Mr. John and bring him back safe. He has a wife and children who need him. God, forgive me for not letting You into my life. If You need to take somebody, take me. Nobody will miss me.

  Chapter 6

  John slogged through the thigh-deep snow, with Peter close behind. Both pairs of makeshift snowshoes had broken more than an hour before, so they followed a riverbed running approximately parallel to the tracks. Ice made the going treacherous, and several times they slipped on rocks beneath the snow.

  Peter’s breathing labored, coming in wheezy gasps. John slowed his pace to accommodate his companion’s. After a few hundred yards, Peter caught his breath again, and they moved on at a more brisk pace.

  After several hours, John checked the position of the sun—around two in the afternoon. They still had more than half the distance to go. They needed to keep moving. But he had no more strength, and his breathing rasped over near-frozen lips. He bent over, hands on his knees.

  Peter came up from behind. “Let me go first for a while. Break trail for you for a change.”

  John nodded, too weary to object.

  Peter dug into his pack and handed him a wrapped package. “Eat a sandwich.”

  “Not hungry.”

  “You need your strength.”

  His friend spoke well, and John unwrapped the food with numb fingers, broke off a corner, and put it into his mouth. The flavors of salty ham and hearty bread exploded in his mouth. Surely a king couldn’t have eaten better. He soon finished the rest and tucked the wrapper in his pocket.

  Another half a mile and they crossed the small river, the crust of ice bending and creaking beneath their weight.

  Safe on the other side, John surveyed the terrain. “Should we look for the tracks again?”

  Peter shrugged. “Surely the river will eventually go through or near a town.”

  John nodded. “Sounds good.”

  He tucked down into his jacket, shrugged his pack into a more comfortable position, and trudged on through the snow, keeping the water to their left. Ice formed around his nose and lips, making breathing difficult. He cupped chilled hands around his mouth, trying to thaw out his fingers and melt the ice from his face.

  As they slipped and slid along the treacherous terrain, he thought about things meant to warm him from the inside. Sophia. His daughters.

  Miss Mary.

  His travel today was much like his journey over the past three months. Being a widower wasn’t something he’d prepared for. He was in unfamiliar territory here and in his life in Heartbreak. Sophia said anything was bearable if God was there. He didn’t know about that, but she’d been very much at peace in her last days, knowing the end was near.

  But would God welcome him back after the way he’d treated Him when Sophia fell ill? Deciding he had nothing to lose, he held his arms out wide in surrender. God, if You can hear me, we need help. Miss Mary needs Your help. And the kids on the train, too.

  His prayer, exhaled in a vapor of breath, was carried off by a strong breeze. Straight to the ears of God, he hoped.

  Miss Mary’s face flashed across his mind, propelling him forward. How strange to meet a woman with the same name as his fiancée. Why had they never exchanged surnames? Maybe he didn’t want to know her better. She might tell him he was making a mistake. And he didn’t want to fall in love with a woman he could never have.

  While his logical mind struggled to explain away his feelings for this woman, his heart ached with the knowledge that in a few days they would part ways in Bakersfield, and he would never see her again.

  Mary’s eyes felt like they were glued shut, and she struggled to open them. A shaft of sunlight seeped through a small circle in the frost-covered window, splaying across her lap, warming her legs. She patted her hair back into some semblance of order and pressed her hands down the length of her skirt, trying to iron out the wrinkles while she worked out her sleepy state.

  The third car, which she initially occupied with the children and their mother, was now filled to overflowing with the sick. In fact, so many passengers were ill that they put those with the worst symptoms into the fourth car, while those recovering were with her.

  The rest of the passengers huddled in the front two cars, most not even checking on their own sick family and friends. With less than a couple hours of sleep in the last two days, and more than twenty people under her care, Mary wasn’t certain she could continue. Thomas was the only person who offered his help, but he’d fallen ill during the night, too.

  One of the passengers set trays of tea and soup on the landing between the cars. She fetched the food and distributed it to those able to eat, forcing warm liquid through parched lips. Once some of the healthy patients became ill, their attitudes changed, and she’d heard no more murmuring about throwing her and the sick from the train.

  As she made her rounds among the patients, she wondered how Mr. John fared. Funny how he shared his name with the man she would soon marry. A man she’d barely thought of since meeting Her John.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Her John. She’d taken to thinking of him in those terms since he left to get help. What did that say about her? That she was unworthy of the undoubtedly fine man in Heartbreak, California, who awaited her.

  She ran a practiced hand across Eli’s forehead. Cool to the touch. His fever broke last night. One less patient to worry about.

  Cassie, curled up on the seat next to her older brother, sat up and swiped her hair from her face. “Hungry.” She looked around. “Where Momma?”

  “I’m going to check on her now.” She stroked the girl’s cheek. “Feeling better? You must be, if you’re hungry.”

  “Hmm-mmm.”

  She turned to Trevor, perched on the seat across the aisle. “Can you get the tray from outside the door?” Mary pointed. “Give a little tea and soup to those who are awake, then share the rest with your sister.”

  Mary headed toward the car where the most ill were housed. But first, she paused on the landing between the cars and drew in several deep breaths. Yesterday, an older woman had died.

  There could be more this morning.

  She stepped inside and checked her patients. Several seemed
less hot this morning, which was a good sign. One seemed a little worse, but the rest held their own. Mrs. McGee, the children’s mother and first patient to be moved into this car, was in the last seat. Mary stepped around arms and legs splayed in the aisle and pasted on a smile.

  No point in letting her see worry—no!

  The woman lay on her back, eyes open. Around her mouth, blue-tinged skin. A mottled hand hung uncovered over the edge of the seat.

  Mary sank to the edge of the seat, the grip on her emotions slipping away like sand through her fingers. A lump formed in her throat, threatening to cut off her breathing. How could she tell the children?

  If only she were in a position to take them herself. Could she even hope Mr. Stewart might be compassionate enough to adopt them? Unlikely. He had two daughters. He didn’t need more children. He expected nothing of her other than to raise his children.

  Mary covered Mrs. McGee’s face with a blanket. Her John would be back soon, and he would help move the body.

  Her John was good and kind.

  Completely unlike Mr. Stewart.

  Mary returned to the third car, berating herself for her ill will toward a man she’d never met. She didn’t know Mr. Stewart any more than she knew Her John. Sure, he was polite, helpful, strong, willing to help. But what was he like in his everyday life?

  She returned to the third car and paused. What were the children doing? Their heads were bowed, their little hands folded in prayer.

  Eli led them. “God, thank You for this food. Thank You for keeping Trevor safe while we were sick, and thank You for making us well. God, we love You, and we know You’ll make Momma not be sick. And thanks for Miss Mary. She must be one of those angels Momma tells us about. Amen.”

  Mary’s vision clouded as they dug into their thin soup and lukewarm tea. These children had nothing, yet they had everything—one another and a childlike faith. They talked to God like He was sitting there beside them.

  She wanted that.

  She sat in the seat in front of the three and turned to face them. “How are you doing?”