A Secret Refuge [02] Sisters of the Confederacy

by Lauraine Snelling

  Jesselynn called to Jane Ellen walking some ahead. “Come take my place for a while.”

  Jane Ellen dropped back and took the goad Meshach had fashioned. “Where you goin’?”

  “Going to the Smith wagon.”

  The little boy lay on a pallet on a box in the rear of the wagon, where the rolled-up canvas side gave him a bit of breeze. His mother put another wet cloth on his forehead as Jesselynn and Mrs. Brundsford came around the end.

  “I brung Mr. Jesse.”

  “Thank you for coming, but I don’t see what you can do. He’s just doing poorly.”

  Jesselynn laid a hand on the pale forehead. “He’s burning up with fever. Get that blanket off him and soak it in water. Wet, it might do him some good.”

  “But he’s got the shakes one minute—”

  “I know, but we need to get that fever down.” They’d just removed the blanket when the boy jerked so hard he almost fell off the box. He twitched all over and banged his head on the wood.

  “Oh, he’s goin’ to die.”

  “Hold him in your arms.” While she talked, Jesselynn dipped part of the blanket in the water and laid it on the child’s body. Roddy jerked again.

  “Has he had anything to eat? To drink?” His mother shook her head at both questions. “Here.” Jesselynn handed a cup of water to Mrs. Smith. “See if you can spoon some into him when the fit is over.” While she worked with the child, Jesselynn racked her brain trying to think what her mother did in cases like this.

  Willow tea. But where could they get willow bark out here? And there was no fire to boil water with anyway. Would laudanum help? But he’s not in pain. She tried to sort out the conflicting thoughts. Dear God, help us. Please, you love the little children, and we do too. Help us in the name of Jesus.

  The boy lay limp, his chest rising only slightly with each slow breath. But he was cooler to the touch. And he wasn’t shaking.

  “Oh, dear God, thank you. Thank you, Mr. Jesse.” Mrs. Smith kissed her child’s little hand, tears trickling down her cheeks. “I already lost two babes, one born dead and another about this age. I sure do pray the Lord spares little Roddy here.”

  “We’ll do what we can. Get as much water in him as possible. If Benjamin can bag some prairie chickens, we can make a broth tonight and get some nourishment in him.” Jesselynn laid her hand on the child’s chest, feeling the heartbeat only faintly. “Got any molasses or honey you could stir into the water? That might make him want more.”

  “That I do.” Mabel Smith pointed to a box up behind her. “Get the jug out of there,” she told her older daughter.

  Jesselynn left them spooning honey water into the little boy. He had that look of death about him, like a blown-out candle.

  A woman’s keening woke the dawn. Jesselynn knew Roddy had died in his sleep. While he’d seemed some better the night before, she wasn’t surprised.

  The men dug a hole while the women dressed the child in a pair of pants and shirt, both sewn by his mother for his upcoming birthday.

  “He looks so nice. At least we had something proper to bury him in.” Mabel Smith stroked her child’s corn-silk hair. “Now, Roddy, you just play with all those children round Jesus’ feet.” Eyes streaming, she looked to Jesselynn. “Thank you for tryin’ to help us. Guess God just wanted another child back in His kingdom.”

  “ ‘The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,’ ” murmured one of the other women. “ ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ ”

  Jesselynn nodded and turned away. Little children shouldn’t have to die like that. Why, God, do you spare mean hunks of offal like the Jones brothers and take a child away from his loving mother’s arms like this? I just don’t understand, and it makes me angry—real angry. Roddy brought joy and delight to everyone. Those others bring nothing but misery.

  She heard the others gathering for the reading and forced herself to join them, standing back on the fringes. Two of the men laid the small body, now wrapped in a quilt, in the hole. Mr. Bronson opened his Bible and read the Twenty-third Psalm. “ ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. . . . ’ ” Other voices joined in, and the ancient words drifted across the prairie. Jesselynn sighed, wiped the moisture from her eyes, and felt someone staring at her. She turned enough to see Rufus Jones snickering behind her and pantomiming wiping his eyes, then pointing at her.

  The urge to use the oxen whip on the pair of them rose so strong she rammed her hands in her pockets to keep from attacking. Benjamin and Daniel appeared on either side of her, as if drawn by an unseen force. They kept their gaze straight forward, bowing their heads in prayer with the others. Jesselynn sneaked a peek over her shoulder, but the two lowlifes were gone.

  “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  “Amen.”

  The wagon folks paid their respects to Mr. and Mrs. Smith, then all returned to their own wagons and prepared to leave. Mr. Smith pounded a wooden cross into the ground at the head of the small grave.

  “I hate to tell you this.” Wolf stopped at the Smith wagon. “But that cross won’t do any good. We have to drive the wagons over the grave. . . .”

  “No, Lord, no. Don’t let this happen.” Mabel’s voice rose on a sob.

  “But that’s the only way we can keep wild animals from digging it up.”

  “I see.” Mr. Smith nodded and blew his nose. “There now, Mabel, we will do what we must.” He patted his wife’s hand.

  Wolf mounted his horse and trotted to the lead wagon. “Roll ’em.”

  Since the sun was well up by then, Jesselynn knew they would push hard to make up for lost time. But when her wagon pulled up to the now obliterated grave, it was all she could do to stay in line. Her mind flew back to the graveyard off from the big house at home. Carved headstones, a winged angel, small stones close together marking the passing of babies, manicured grass, a sheltering weeping-willow tree, petals of blooming honeysuckle—all surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. A place to dream, to remember, to feel the love that passed from generation to generation. A gentle plot filled with beauty and birdsong.

  No markers here, only dust and sky and a westering vision.

  Mother, can you hear me? I want to go home.

  The horizon shimmered and danced through the veil of her tears.

  “How are you, ma’am?” Wolf paused at the Smith campfire that night.

  “Tolerable.” Mrs. Smith sighed. “He did look mighty peaceful, our Roddy. And so nice in his new clothes. I sewed them up special, just for him. First time he didn’t wear hand-me-downs.”

  Jesselynn paused before stepping over the wagon tongue so she wouldn’t interrupt the conversation.

  “I just wanted you to know how sorry I am.”

  “Thank you, Wolf. That means a great deal coming from you.”

  Since she heard Wolf heading the other direction, Jesselynn continued on her way to her neighbors’ camp. If only she could figure out why she worked so hard to stay out of his way, other than the way he had treated her in the beginning, of course. Had his attitude changed?

  She paused to think for a moment. Surely since she’d taken to doctoring those in the wagon train, he had shown her a measure of respect. And he appreciated the extra meat Benjamin and Daniel brought in. That was for sure.

  She set her full water bucket down by the fire. Agatha and Ophelia had biscuits baking, beans cooking, and rabbit frying. “Sure smells good.”

  “Oh, there you are, Marse Jesse. Dat Missy Elizabeth, she be lookin’ for you.”

  Jesselynn groaned. “Which way did she go?”

  Ophelia pointed to the west.

  Jesselynn headed east. Surely she was needed out by the horses.

  THE PLATTE RIVER

  “Talk about flat.”

  “Mebbe dat why dey calls it de River Road.” Meshach stood in his stirrups. “Sure do be flat—and long.” He and Jesselynn had ridden Ahab and Domino ahead of the wagon train and stopped at the last rise so
they could see both ways. The Platte River stretched as far as they could see both east and west, while the northern view across the river looked about the same. Muddy and wet was about all Jesselynn could think of it. Other than that, Wolf had said the River Road to Fort Laramie was the easiest part of the trail. Knee-high grass waved in the wind, just begging their horses and cattle to eat and drink their fill.

  “Some sight, isn’t it?” Wolf rode up and stopped beside them. “Not much flooding this year, but I’ve seen times when this was hill-to-hill water.”

  “Is that the Indian encampment over there?” Jesselynn pointed to an area where spirals of campfire smoke lazed in the air.

  “Could be. But there are settlers taking up land along here too, now that the forts are in place.”

  “And the Indians leave them alone?”

  “For now.” Wolf didn’t look at her when he answered. He didn’t want to tell them of the recent attacks he’d heard about. As the whites settled instead of just passing through, the Indians had become more aggressive. Settlers drove off the game or killed it. The buffalo were getting scarce this far east, so the Indians were losing their hunting grounds.

  “We’ve been fortunate, I hear, in not being attacked.” Jesselynn turned to Wolf for confirmation.

  “True.” Wolf pointed to the west. “Fort Kearney is a day’s journey over there. We’ll be stopping for supplies.”

  The land shimmered in a haze, the light seeming to dance before their eyes. Bluebells and daisies dotted the grasslands, and meadowlarks trilled their courtship arias, often on the wing, liquid joy in the morning.

  The creak of wagon wheels, voices calling with laughter as they glimpsed the flatlands, the bellow of a cow, all the sounds of the wagon train on the move broke into her reverie. She should go back and drive the wagon, but the thought held no appeal. Daniel was doing just fine. And Aunt Agatha would much rather drive than walk, so no one had spelled her since the beginning of the trip.

  “There’s a good place to camp about five miles upriver. We’ll stop there for the night.” Wolf turned his horse and squeezed him into a lope, seemingly without signal of either leg or rein.

  Jesselynn turned in her saddle just enough to watch them streaking across the land. Wolf snatched his hat off and let the wind carry his hair in a dark banner behind him. She knew she rode well, but whether the difference was in Thoroughbred versus Appaloosa pony or his growing up on horseback and she in the big house, there was indeed a difference. A big difference. She patted Ahab’s shoulder. At least her horses were holding up beyond his predictions. As was she.

  Jesselynn sat bareback on Ahab, letting him and the others drink out of the Platte River. Ankle-deep, the stallion blew in the water and started to paw with one front foot, splashing water everywhere. “I know, you want a bath or at least a roll, but not here and not now.” Ahab kept on splashing.

  “He goin’ roll on you.” Benjamin shook his head. “You watch it.”

  “No, he won’t. I won’t let him.” Jesselynn raised her face to the breeze that kicked up ripples farther out in the sand-colored water. Today had been the warmest so far, a portent of the heat to come.

  Ahab buckled his front legs, tipping her forward, and before she could even gasp, she lay flat out in the river, sucking water with her snort. She scrambled away from the stallion so she wouldn’t get caught under him and got to her feet, soaking wet from hat to boot heel.

  Benjamin about fell off Domino laughing.

  Jesselynn looked from her horse, who wisely kept his nose out of the water, to Benjamin and then down at herself. A chuckle rose, fluttered past the muddy-water taste, and burst forth. She looked a sight, she could tell. Taking off her hat, she slapped it against her thigh and crammed it back on her head, laughing all the while.

  “Hey, horse, you sure fooled me.”

  Ahab surged to his feet—one dripping, muddy-coated mass—and shook. Mud splattered five feet in all directions.

  Benjamin buried his face in Domino’s mane, laughing fit to burst. “You cotched de black spot disease.”

  Only the thought of her heavy boots kept Jesselynn from diving in and taking a real swim. As she plodded toward the shore, she glanced up to see Wolf staring at her, his dark eyes slit, likewise his mouth.

  “The water feels great, not that I planned to . . . take . . . a—“ What is the matter with him? Looks like he’s seen a ghost or something. She looked down to make sure her shirt was buttoned and knew what he was seeing. The strips of cloth she used to bind her breasts to keep them flat. Sure proof she was not who she said she was.

  “Mister Jesse Highwood?”

  At his sarcastic tone, Jesselynn could feel her water-soaked clothing begin to steam. She raised her chin and stared him in the eyes. “For as long as necessary, yes.”

  “Hey, Wolf.” Young Billy Bronson cantered up to pull to a stop beside the paint. “I’ll be a jumpin’ bullfrog. Hey, Jesse, how’s the water?” He leaned his crossed arms on the saddlehorn and gave her a studying look, then shook his head. “Well, I’ll be . . . who’d a-guessed it?”

  Jesselynn ignored the teasing and, gathering her reins and a hank of mane, swung atop the stallion, who had not the grace to look ashamed of all the trouble he’d caused. With his mud and her wet clothing, she barely made it but finally was able to sit erect without asking for help. Ask him not to say anything. She answered that voice with another. That will only make the gossip more titillating.

  She’s—he’s a woman. Not Mr. Jesse at all. Fury warred with joy, and confusion defeated them both. Wolf swung his horse around without a word and headed west on the Great Platte River Road as if savages were screaming on his tail. He shut off all thought and left himself to the rhythm of his horse’s pounding feet.

  “He goin’ ride dat horse right into de ground, he keep up like dat.” Benjamin brought Domino to a standstill beside her. The mares had already left the water and were grazing on a patch of green grass. One foal lay flat out, the other had gone back to nursing.

  “Did I say somethin’ wrong?” Billy looked after the racing Wolf.

  Or is he fleeing? Jesselynn wondered. She wasn’t sure. As unobtrusively as possible she pulled her heavy shirt away from her body. She couldn’t go back to camp like this, and with the setting sun, supper would soon be ready.

  “No, just got a burr under his hide.” At least that was as good an explanation as any. “Did someone need him?”

  “My pa was lookin’ for him.”

  Good thing he didn’t come out. The whole wagon train would know by now. Not that they wouldn’t anyway if the glint in Billy’s eye is any indication. Should she ask him to keep the secret? Was the secret necessary any longer? Sure they’d have to keep the horses away from the fort, but would folks knowing about her being a woman cause a problem?

  Other than those who felt they’d been hornswaggled.

  Like Wolf.

  He could refuse to let them travel with the train. But why would he? They’d proven their worth.

  She tried to keep the inner war from showing on her face. “We better get on back. How about you go ask Aunt Agatha for a jacket or vest for me.” After Benjamin trotted off, she rounded up their horses and let them graze their way back to camp.

  From the looks she received when she rode into camp, she knew Billy had blabbed.

  “Well, I never . . .” One of the women muttered just loud enough for Jesselynn to hear.

  “So what do we do?” Jesselynn asked Aunt Agatha when they met at the rear of the wagon.

  Agatha sighed. “Old busybodies must not have enough to do to find time for all the gossipin’.” She arched her back and dug her fists into the middle of it. “Land sakes, but that wagon has a hard seat.”

  “If it would help to put a back on the seat, Meshach could do that for you.” Glad to be thinking of something besides her own britches, Jesselynn studied her aunt. In spite of the sunbonnet Agatha always wore, the sun had found its way to turn her aunt’s ch
eeks and chin the color of soft, tanned deerskin. Her eyes had a brightness formerly lacking, and her mouth no longer looked pinched, as though she’d sucked on a lemon.

  No wonder Brushface finds her appealing. She is. She knew she’d better be careful in referring to Mr. Lyons that way, but the name was so fitting.

  “’Pears to me that we can handle this in one of two ways.”

  Jesselynn waited, knowing there was no hurrying Aunt Agatha when she was pondering.

  “One, we can call a meeting and tell the whole group, or two, we can ignore them and go on as though nothing was different.” She kneaded her back again. “Personally, it ain’t none of their business.”

  And this from the woman who had a conniption fit the first time she saw me in britches? Jesselynn bit her lip to keep the astonishment from her face. But Agatha didn’t know about one important fact—the look on Wolf’s face when he discovered her secret.

  They reached Fort Kearney late the next afternoon. The United States flag snapped in the breeze, blue uniforms swarmed all over the place, and Jesselynn wanted to run back out on the prairie even though they camped half a mile from the fort itself. Another wagon train pulled in after they did. It also came from the east but on the Nebraska Trail, they learned later. After they’d circled the wagons and set up camp, Wolf and several of the men rode on into the fort proper.

  When Wolf assigned the watches for the night, Jesselynn stared at him. Tonight had been her turn, and he’d not called her name. Since they were running the Thoroughbreds with the other horses and livestock much of the time, she tried to take extra duty, she and her men, rather than less.

  “What de matter?” Ophelia stopped beside her as she stared after the departing wagon master.

  “I’m not sure, but I aim to find out.” Jesselynn took off at a dogtrot to catch up with his long-legged stride. Wolf Torstead could cover more ground in less time than any man she knew.

  “Wolf!”

  He stopped and turned around. They were far enough from camp now for no one to overhear.