Turner's Woman

by Jenna Kernan

  There was no turning back now. She lifted her chin and set her jaw.

  “Emma?”

  She felt his gaze upon her and turned to meet his cautious stare. “If anyone can do it, Jake, it’s you.”

  He smiled, seemingly pleased at her declaration of confidence. “Best get on. I want to leave the lake tomorrow.”

  They swung along the north shore following the tail of the Rockies. Emma looked at the ground, surprised at the crunching sound, which came from the horses’ hooves breaking through a white crust.

  “What is that, Jake?”

  “Salt. Ground is loaded with it. Ruins the streams. You have to find groundwater to get clear of it and usually that’s brackish.”

  That evening they camped beside a spring. Just as Jake warned the water tasted slightly of salt.

  Jake stared down at the little up swelling of water. “If we find better, we can refill the skins. I hope this isn’t the last we find, but I’ll treat it like it is.”

  The next morning they lingered by the spring and Emma wondered what might pass before she saw this place once more. Her gut twisted as she realized that she might never set eyes on it again. She wanted to speak her doubts and hear Jake give reassurances. She glanced toward the barren west and knew he could offer few.

  Jake packed the remaining gear as she held the horses. The animals drank deeply and she wondered if they sensed what lay ahead. She followed their example drinking until her belly swelled with the brackish water, as if she were a camel and she might store this life-giving liquid in her hump. A queasy feeling filled her as the water sloshed within like a wineskin.

  The result of her gorging was that she had to stop and dismount three times before midday to relieve herself. On her third trip back to the horse, she found Jake taking measurements with his compass and consulting the timepiece.

  She stood before him, her questions unspoken.

  “All right, damn it. I’m scouting ahead for a party and that’s all I’m saying.”

  Her eyebrow lifted. “Mapping you mean.”

  “Amounts to the same thing. You ready?”

  She nodded, then mounted up. For some reason she’d pictured the desert as being a great flat sandy expanse, but it was not. As the lake fell behind, they followed a dry riverbed, surrounded by reddish-brown cliffs that rose thirty feet. There were plants, too, thick gray-green brush clung in stubborn patches along the dry riverbanks beside dwarfed and twisted pines. She sketched them as she rode. The white crust continued to coat the ground making her certain that nothing of any value would ever grow here.

  Her hat hung so hot and heavy as the afternoon wore on, she felt tempted to draw if off, but feared the sun after her last experience.

  “Do people go blind from the sun in the desert?” she asked.

  Jake nodded. “They do. But mostly the heat kills them. You still sweating?”

  She thought it an odd question. Of course she was. Hot droplets trickled down her back at regular intervals. “Yes.”

  “Headache?”

  Now that he mentioned it, she did feel a dull pounding. The heat and glare made her squint. “A little.”

  “Drink more water.”

  She lifted her leather skin, startled to find it was already half-done. She had yet to see Jake touch his. Perhaps men were built differently or he was more accustomed to such hard conditions.

  They did not stop for dinner and continued on into the twilight. Emma’s back ached and her bottom felt raw from rocking in the saddle. Scout’s head drooped and she leaned forward to give his wet shoulder a pat.

  “Almost there,” she whispered.

  The moon rose, now glowing in its quarter and casting enough light for Jake to pick his way along. Emma shook her head as sleep stalked her. The desert held a strange silence. It took her several moments’ consideration to realize she heard no owls, no insects. She listened hard for some reassurance that they were not the only living creatures in this barren place, but found none.

  Jake pulled up at last and she groaned with relief. Sliding out of the saddle proved difficult and she staggered when her feet touched down. Her shoulders ached as she unfastened the girth and slid the heavy saddle into her arms, succeeding only in turning a half circle before dropping it. Next she removed the saddlebags and hobbled Scout.

  There was no grass to curry the horses’ lathered flanks. She stood considering what to do. Jake poured water into his hat and offered Scout a drink. The horse sucked the leather dry and then proceeded to try and eat his hat. Jake filled it again but offered it to the mule.

  “I think he’s still thirsty,” she said.

  “No doubt. But that’s enough for now. I saw no trace of water today.”

  He’d been looking. She realized again how ill prepared she was to survive out here.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” she said.

  The corner of his mouth quirked. “I thought you’d be crying by now.”

  Her eyes rounded. “Did you?”

  “I’ve never seen a woman take such hardships without complaint. I rode right into the night and you never whined or fussed about when we were stopping.”

  But she had wanted to. She kept that information to herself and determined to act like a good partner, even if she was a woman. Always in the back of her mind was his warning. If you fall behind, I’ll leave you. She was determined not to give him the chance.

  He gave her another curious stare. “You’re just not like any other female in my experience.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Good, I think.”

  She smiled and instantly was rewarded with one of his. Their eyes met and held and a wave of awareness rippled through her. He seemed to take pride in her. Impossible. She glanced away.

  Emma made an effort to sort out her emotions, but gave up. They were tangled and confused. After a time, she began to wonder what occupied Jake’s thoughts.

  Her throat burned and her tongue felt coated with salt and dust. This was only the first day. She fingered her cheek and was surprised to find her skin as dry as dirt. Her lips seemed ready to crack. She retrieved some beeswax and mineral oil she had for burns and rubbed it over her lips, then offered it to Jake. He tried the salve and nodded his approval.

  “No fire tonight. We’ll eat the dried deer.”

  She cast down a hide to rest upon. Stars wheeled overhead. In the vast expanse of the desert night they seemed larger and closer.

  “Aren’t they lovely?” she asked.

  He glanced up and nodded. “I’d give plenty not to see them, seems we left the clouds on the mountains. The sky is nearly always clear here.”

  She thought about that as she chewed the dry meat, wishing for some of her mother’s lemonade to wash it down, but settling for the brackish water from a sad little spring. The tingling of doubt surfaced again.

  “How long can we live without water?” she asked.

  He rested against his saddle on a skin beside hers. “I know a man who had a similar problem once.” Jake launched into a tall tale about a man named Hugh Glass and how he survived a grizzly attack and days and days in the wilderness before staggering into camp.

  “He did show me his scars,” said Jake. “They were dreadful. I don’t know how he survived.” Jake sank to a reclining position and clasped his hands behind his head. “Best settle in. I plan an early start, before it gets too hot.” He drew out a fur. “You’ll need this.”

  Emma knew she would not. It was still so hot that it was hard to breathe.

  “The temperature falls quick out here. Soon it will be cold. Just keep it close by.”

  “Thank you.”

  She lay only a foot from him and stared up at the heavens. It wasn’t until sometime later she realized he’d never answered her question about how long a man could live without water. Instead, he told her a grand tale until she forgot all about her worries. She smiled in the darkness and inched closer. What a remarkable man.

  Chapter Seven
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br />   Their water ran out on the fifth day. Jake considered the expanse of sage stretching to the bluish haze that might be a plateau or the foothills of some mountain range. Either way the distance would take them at least two more days. Without water, they’d never make it.

  At midday, the sun beat down on them with savagery that seemed to have no end. He heard a groan, then a thud and turned to see his packhorse on his side.

  “Great God Almighty.” He slid from Duchess and rounded on the horse, but no amount of slapping with the reins or cursing would make the beast rise.

  He rubbed his chin, then glanced at Emma’s puffy sunburned face and cracked lips. Dried blood filled the fissures. How long before she went the way of his horse? He’d been in a similar spot in twenty-eight, south on the Colorado. They’d eaten the packhorses and mules as they’d died. He’d hoped never to have to eat horse flesh again. Where was the damn spring?

  He stated the obvious. “He’s done.”

  “If we had a little water for him, I’m sure he’d go on.”

  He told her the hard truth. “We don’t. We drank the last this morning.”

  Her eyes went wide. He knew the instant she comprehended their dire straits for her gaze danced frantically about. Whether she searched for rescue or escape he was not certain. She found neither.

  “What shall we do?” she whispered, sounding like a frightened child.

  He knew it hurt to speak. His throat burned and his tongue felt too big for his mouth. The headache behind his eyes grew fiercer as death stalked him. Dying of thirst was one of the most miserable ways to go.

  “I’m going to put that horse out of his misery and we’ll eat his flesh.”

  “Oh, no! Please don’t kill him. He faithfully carried your things all this way.”

  He tugged on his hat in frustration. Women—when they weren’t twisting a man to their will, they were fawning over some dumb animal. Loved their damn cats more than people.

  Piece by piece he unpacked the horse, moving the necessary supplies to his other packhorse and the mule, then abandoned the rest. Even with the load removed the horse did not rise, preferring to roll to his side and lower his head to the sand. Jake turned and found Emma staring at him with sad eyes.

  “Must you?” she asked.

  “You promised to follow orders. Here’s one. Take the mule and the horses over to that ledge.” He pointed to the outcropping of red stone providing the only close shade. The spot would stay sheltered except for the long hours of the morning. “Unpack everything and stow it under the cliff. Leave Duchess saddled. Understand?”

  She opened her mouth as if to argue, then stopped herself and nodded. He watched her draw the animals away and tie them to a thorny bush. He turned to the horse drawing his butcher knife from its sheath and steeling himself to what must be done. This death would be more merciful than leaving the poor creature behind. An animal alone and vulnerable drew buzzards faster than a turd draws flies. Scavengers wouldn’t wait until the horse died. No, they’d take his eyes first and then pick at any soft flesh they could rip into with their sharp beaks.

  He positioned the cooking pot, laid a gentle hand on the horse’s shoulder and sliced cleanly through the great vessel at the neck. Blood poured into the container and spilled into the thirsty sand. The horse shook his head and kicked weakly. His head dropped to the sand and his eyes rolled back as his ribs sagged. His last breath fanned the desert.

  “Forgive me,” Jake whispered, stroking the still neck.

  He glanced toward the cliff and saw Emma standing as a silent witness to his brutality, then he stripped meat from the great hindquarters and brought it to her with the life-giving fluid.

  She said nothing as he lit a fire of sage and roasted the meat. He offered the pot.

  “Drink some.”

  She drew up her shoulders and quivered. “I can’t.”

  “Might make the difference between living and dying.”

  Emma gave a tortured swallow and shook her head. “I’m sorry I’m so weak.”

  He sighed and lifted the iron bucket to his lips closing his eyes in an unsuccessful effort to ignore the taste and feel as the warm, viscous fluid passed down his parched throat. He lowered the kettle and glared at Emma, daring her to object. She looked away.

  The thin strips of meat cooked quickly. He scowled as precious drops of fluid fell into the fire, hissing into steam. Better to eat the flesh raw and save every ounce of moisture. He glanced at Emma and knew she would not.

  He offered her a rare piece. Her nose wrinkled, but she accepted it.

  “Don’t think about it,” he suggested.

  She gave him a look of desperation. Her hand trembled.

  “He’s dead. He can’t feel anything. If you don’t eat every bit of that, you’ll be dead, too. Now do what I’m telling you.”

  She hesitated.

  “That’s an order.”

  Her lips parted and she took a tiny bite. He turned to his own portion, tearing into the dry, leathery meat with his teeth. Judging from the consistency, he was astonished his horse had lasted as long as it did.

  He glanced at Duchess, the other packhorse and his mule and gritted his teeth. They all needed water. He knew the animals would not live even one more day without it. Horses, mule and then Emma. She wouldn’t last long on foot. The grief accompanying that thought rocked him to the core. Up until that second, he believed the most important thing was to complete his mission and get the necessary information to Washington. When had that changed?

  He didn’t know—but it had. Emma’s life hung in the balance. He must find water.

  A glance at the sky told him that he had a few more hours of daylight. Without gear, he could travel faster, scout ahead and find a spring. His gaze rested on her big horse. Here the extra muscle and bulk was a liability. The animal was near done.

  Emma gagged on the meat, but managed to swallow. She would have to stay behind and wait.

  “I’m going ahead to find water.”

  Her eyes rounded as she set aside her portion. “Alone?”

  He nodded and she sprang to her feet. “But I didn’t fall behind. I can keep up.”

  Suddenly he understood. The first day he had met her, he had laid down the law. She was to follow his orders, not ask questions and keep up or be left behind. Emma stood trembling before him, her fingers reaching to grasp at his shirt in desperation. He had seen the same expression the day he had rescued her from the Crow.

  “Please. Don’t leave me. If I can’t go, then kill me, too. Don’t abandon me to this hell on earth.”

  He gripped her shoulders. “Emma, I’m coming back.”

  “No. I didn’t fall behind.”

  She was past hearing. He shook her and she blinked.

  “I’m scouting for water. Do you understand?”

  No tears this time. Was she capable of tears or was her body so depleted of water she had none? The thought cut at his heart. He must hurry.

  Emma’s fingers dropped from his buckskin and she sank to the ground. “I understand.”

  He knew in that instant that she didn’t believe him. She accepted that he would abandon her.

  “I’m coming back.”

  Her head hung forward in an attitude of defeat. She did not move or speak.

  For several moments he stood speechless. Without hope, how long would she last? That thought scared him into action. She did not believe his words. He went to his bags, still hanging behind his saddle. He drew out his chronometer, sextant and finally his journal with the green leather cover. He set these precious offerings at her feet and waited. Slowly her gaze moved to the fruits of his efforts. Her hand reached and she fingered the oak box of the chronometer.

  “Wind this in the morning. Protect the horse and mule. Don’t leave this spot or I won’t be able to find you when I come back with water.”

  He waited. Her fingers touched his journal. She pressed the book to her bosom and hugged tight. Then her gaze lifted to m
eet his.

  “You’re coming back.” It was a statement and the certainty shone in her eyes.

  “Yes. Tomorrow, I hope, before dark.”

  She nodded.

  “Rest and eat as much of the meat as you can. Stay in the shade.”

  “And guard the animals.”

  “That’s right.” He strung a hide over a section of ledge hoping to afford her a measure of shade come morning. When he turned back, she stood clutching his journal.

  “Tomorrow, by dark,” she whispered.

  He stood before her wanting to tell her something, wanting to assure her that he’d return. But he knew he might fail. He swallowed his doubt. He had no room for it.

  He lifted a hand to stroke her burned face. “See you tomorrow.”

  Her eyes fluttered closed and she smiled. Her lips cracked. He felt the tear as if it were his own. No time to waste. He needed to ride. Turning, he strode away ignoring the invisible bond that pulled him to her.

  He gave her one final glance, then mounted up. She looked thin and burned and about done. He pressed his heels into the horse’s sides and headed out into the open desert.

  First he made for the bluff to the south, climbing steadily for the next hour. From the top, he gained a view of the wasteland beyond and gleaned little hope. The rock and sand stretched out endlessly in all directions. Heat rising from the desert made the ground seem liquid, dancing before his weary eyes. He knew the shortest distance out was to the west and, although nothing before him gave solace, he continued on that path throughout the afternoon and into the evening.

  That night he did not stop. The drop in temperature and the half moon made traveling a comparative pleasure. Also to rest reduced his chances. Duchess carried less weight than the packhorse and she was younger, only four. But he knew she could not last much longer. None of them could. If the horse died, how would he get back to her?

  He dreaded the coming of the day, knowing that when the sun rose, the temperatures would soar and she would suffer. By tomorrow he’d be too far to return to Emma by sunset of the second evening. The journal gave her hope. Hope alone would not sustain her. She needed water.