Prairie Courtship

by Dorothy Clark

  Emma sighed and looked around the center ground of the circled wagons, now dotted with tents. It was so quiet she could hear the murmurings of the few men and women who still sat working around cooking fires that had died to piles of coals. Traveler, Lady and a few other personal mounts were grazing in the center of the makeshift corral, their silhouettes dark against the caliginous light.

  She walked to her wagon, lifted a lantern off its hook on the side but could find no means to light it. She heaved another sigh and looked up at the darkening sky. She should probably retire as others were doing, even if sleep eluded her. But to be alone in the wagon without light—

  “Good evening.”

  Emma gasped and whirled about, the lantern dangling from her hands. “You startled me, Mr. Thatcher!” She pressed one hand over her racing heart and frowned at him. “Is there something you wanted?”

  “I need to know why you and your sister have joined this wagon train. What purpose takes you to Oregon country?”

  His eyes were hidden by the darkness below his hat’s wide brim, but she was sure he was scowling. She brushed back a wisp of hair that had fallen onto her forehead at her quick turn, then, again, gripped the lantern with both hands. “And how is that your concern, Mr. Thatcher?”

  He tilted his hat up, stared down at her. “I am responsible for getting this wagon train to Oregon before winter, Miss Allen. Everything that can endanger that mission is my concern.”

  First he called her a “problem” and now he named her an endangerment! Emma lifted her chin, gave him her haughtiest look. “And how does our presence imperil your mission?”

  “If you want me to name all the ways, you’d best let me light that lantern. We will be a while.” He held out his hand.

  Emma tightened her grip. “I think it would be best for you if I continue to hold the lantern, Mr. Thatcher. At this moment, you would not want my hands to be free.”

  Laughter burst from him, deep and full. Surprising. She had thought him quite without humor. Of course he was laughing at her.

  “Now that erased one of the reasons on my list, Miss Allen. Seems you might not need quite as much protecting as I figured you would. All the same, I’ll take my chances on freeing up your hands.” He reached for the lantern.

  This time she let him take it. She needed that lantern lit. Even more, she needed to know how he would light it. She watched as he walked to a nearby fire, squatted down and held a twig to one of the dying embers then blew on it. The twig burst into flame. Of course! She should have thought of that. He lit the lantern, tossed the twig on the embers and returned to her.

  “Easy enough when you know how, Miss Allen. And that is my first reason.” All trace of amusement was gone from his voice. His expression was dead serious. “If you do not know how to light a lantern out here in the wilderness, how will you manage all the other things you do not know how to do? You are a pampered woman, Miss Allen. Because of that pampering—and without a husband or brother to care for you—you are a burden and an endangerment to all the others traveling with you. And I assume it is the same with your sister. Only worse, because she is ill.”

  “My sister is not a burden, Mr. Thatcher! And she is my responsibility to care for, not yours or any other man’s!” Emma snatched the lantern from his hand, held her breath and counted to ten as she adjusted the wick to stop the smoking. When her anger was under control she looked up at him. “What you say about me was true, Mr. Thatcher—until a moment ago. But I now know how to light a lantern here in the wilderness. And I will learn how to do all the other things I must know the same way. I will observe, or I will ask. I may be a pampered woman, but I am not unintelligent, only untaught in these matters. And I will rectify that very quickly. As for my needing protection—do not concern yourself with my safety. I am an excellent shot with rifle or pistol. As is my sister. We will look to our own safety.”

  “And your wagons and stock?”

  “We have drivers to care for them—as the rules permit.”

  His face darkened. “Accidents happen, Miss Allen! Your drivers can be injured or killed. And then—”

  “And then I would be no worse off than a wife who has lost her husband.” Emma lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eyes. “We have paid our money, and you yourself said we have met the rules and regulations set in place by Mr. Hargrove and the other leaders. My sister and I are going to Oregon country with this wagon train, Mr. Thatcher. Now I bid you good evening, sir.”

  He stared at her a moment, then tugged his hat back in place. “As you will, Miss Allen.” He gave an abrupt nod and strode off into the darkness.

  Emma turned to her wagon, packed and prepared by William for him and Caroline to live in on the journey. Everything had been so rushed after Anne’s surprising announcement, only her own clothes had been added at the last minute. She should have spent some time at Independence exploring it, locating things. But she had stayed at the hotel caring for Anne.

  A burden and endangerment indeed! She would show Mr. Zachary Thatcher how competent a woman she was! She set the lantern on the ground, untied the canvas flaps, then reached inside to undo the latches that held the tailboard secure. Try as she might, she couldn’t release them. Fighting back tears of fatigue and frustration, she grabbed up the lantern, walked to the front of the wagon, stepped onto the tongue and climbed inside.

  Zach untied his bedroll, rolled it out and flopped down on his back, lacing his hands behind his head and staring up at the stars strewn across the black night sky. He was right. That woman was trouble. And stubborn! Whew. No mule could hold a patch on her. Spunky, too. She hadn’t given an inch. Answered every one of his concerns. Even turned his own chivalrous deed of lighting her lantern back on him.

  A chuckle started deep in his chest, traveled up his throat. Mad as she was at him, she’d have stood there holding that lantern all night rather than admit she didn’t know how to light it. And that tailboard! She never did figure out how to open it. Must have spent ten minutes or so trying before she gave up and climbed in the wagon from the front. It had been hard, standing there in the dark watching her struggle. But she probably would have parted his hair with that lantern had he gone back to help her.

  I think it would be best for you if I continue to hold the lantern, Mr. Thatcher. At this moment, you would not want my hands to be free. His lips twitched. She’d been dead serious with that threat to slap him. The spoiled Miss Allen had a temper, and did not take kindly to his authority over her as wagon master. He’d send Blake around with some excuse to examine her wagon tomorrow. He could show her how the tailboard latches worked.

  He stirred, shifted position, uncomfortable with the thought of Josiah Blake spending time around Miss Allen. That could be trouble. She was a beautiful woman. No disputing that. ’Course, he’d never been partial to women with brown eyes and honey-colored hair. He preferred dark-haired women. And he liked a little more to them. Miss Allen was tall enough—came up to his shoulder. But she was slender—a mite on the bony side. Though she had curves sure enough.

  Zach scowled, broke off the thoughts. It was time to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a rough day. Those greenhorns weren’t going to like the pace he set. But he intended to break them in right. Which meant he would have them awake and ready to roll at the break of dawn. He chuckled and closed his eyes. Fell asleep picturing the pampered Miss Allen trying to build a fire and cook breakfast.

  Emma used the chamber pot, dipped water into a bowl from the small keg securely lashed to the inside of the wagon and washed her face and hands with soap she found in a large pocket sewn on the canvas cover. There was a hairbrush in the same pocket. And a small hand mirror. She took them into her hands, traced the vine that twined around to form the edge of the silver backings. It was a beautiful vanity set. Caroline had excellent taste. Her fingers stilled.

  Emma placed the mirror and brush on top of the keg, unfastened her bodice and stepped out of her riding outfit. Was Caroline�
��s severe nausea improving? Was the baby she carried still alive? She untied her split petticoat, spread it overtop of the riding outfit she had laid on a chest. Please, Almighty God, let William’s wife and child live. Grant them— Bitterness, hopelessness stopped her prayer. God had not spared Phillip and little Grace. Why would He spare Caroline and the unborn babe in her womb?

  Emma pulled an embroidered cotton nightgown from a drawer in the dresser sandwiched between two large, deep trunks along the left wall of the wagon, slipped it on, then shrugged into the matching dressing gown. She took the pins from her hair, brushed it free of tangles and wove it into a loose, thick braid to hang down her back. From her doctor’s bag she pulled her small crock of hand balm and rubbed a bit of the soothing beeswax, oatmeal and nut-butter mixture onto her hands, then smoothed them over her cheeks. A hint of lavender tantalized her nose. Papa Doc’s formula. One he’d made especially for her.

  Loneliness for her parents struck with a force that left her breathless. She stood in the cramped wagon, stared at the lantern light flickering on the India-rubber lined canvas that formed the roof over her head. What would she do without her family? Would she ever see or hear from them again?

  A soft sound beneath the wagon set her nerves a tingle. She tensed, listened. There it was again—a snuffling. A dog? Or some wild animal that was drawn to the light of the lamp? She turned, reached up and snatched down the lantern hanging from a hook screwed into the center support rib but fear stayed her hand. If she doused the light she would not be able to see.

  Something howled in the distance, then was answered by a frenzied barking beneath her feet. Only a dog, then. Still… Heart pounding, Emma put the lantern on the floor and tested the ties to make sure the ends of the canvas cover were securely fastened. Her hand grazed the top of the long, red box. She went down on her knees and lifted the wood lid. A fragrance of dried herbs, flowers and leaves flowed out. She caught her breath and peered inside—stared agape at the stoppered bottles, sealed crocks and rolls of bandages. Medical supplies! And a letter! In William’s hand.

  Tears welled into her eyes. She propped open the lid and lifted out the missive, held it pressed to her heart until she got the tears under control, then blinked to clear her vision, lowered the letter close to the lamp and read the precious words.

  My dearest Em,

  I know you think your dream is dead. But I believe it is God’s will for you to be a doctor. I believe God placed the desire to help others in your heart. And I believe He will fulfill His will and purpose for you. Yes, even in Oregon country. The Bible says: “Delight thyself in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart. Commit thy way unto him; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.” I am praying for you. And for Anne. I know you will care well for her injuries, but only God can heal the hurts of her grieving heart. Remember that, Em, lest you take upon yourself a task no one can perform.

  After Anne’s startling announcement and your determination to accompany for her, I asked the local apothecary what you would need to ply your doctoring skills. I have done my best to procure the items he recommended in the limited time available before your departure. I will bring more when Caroline, our child and I join you in Oregon country. Until then, have faith, my dear Doctor Emma. And always remember that I am very proud of you.

  With deepest love and fondest regards,

  Your brother, William

  Her tears overflowed, slipped down her cheeks and dropped onto the letter. She blotted them with the hem of her nightgown lest the ink run and smear, then placed the letter back in the box where it would be safe so she could read it over and over again on the long journey. A smile trembled on her lips. Even here in this cramped wagon with wild animals howling and the whisper of a river flowing by, William could make her feel better.

  Weariness washed over her. She turned down the wick of the lamp and stepped to the bed. It was exactly as William had designed it. A lacing of taut ropes held two mattresses—one of horsehair, the other of feathers—covered in rubber cloth secure inside a wood frame that was fastened to the wagon’s side by leather hinges at the bottom and rope loops at the top. She unhooked the loops and lowered the bed to the floor. A quilt was spread over the top mattress. A quick check found a sheet and two feather pillows in embroidered cases beneath it.

  A horse snorted. A dog barked. In another wagon, a baby cried. Emma shivered in the encroaching cold and slid beneath the quilt, relishing the welcoming softness of the feather mattress, wishing for secure walls and a solid roof. Silence pressed, broken only by the whispering rush of the nearby river.

  Commit thy way unto him…. If only it were that simple a thing. She stretched, yawned and pulled the quilt snug under her chin. Her eyelids drifted closed. William had such faith. But William was not a woman who longed with her whole heart to be a doctor. And he did not have to contend with despotic men like Zachary Thatcher. Nonetheless, for William…

  She opened her eyes and looked up at the canvas arching overhead. “Almighty God, all of my life I have dreamed of being a doctor. That dream is dead.” Accusation rose from her heart. She left the words unspoken, but the bitterness soured her tongue, lent acidity to her tone. “I have no other to replace it. Therefore, do with me what seems right in Your eyes. I commit my way unto Thee. Amen.” It was an ungracious yielding at best. A halfhearted acknowledgment that God could have a purpose for her, should He care to bother with it. But it was the best she could offer.

  She frowned and closed her eyes. It was not worth a moment’s concern. Why did any of it matter? God did not deign to listen to her prayers.

  Chapter Three

  Emma lifted her face to the sunshine and breathed deep of the fresh, sweet fragrance the grass released as it was crushed under the wagon wheels.

  Traveler snorted, tossed his head and pranced. She leaned forward and stroked his neck. “I know, boy. I am weary of this slow pace, too.” She pursed her lips, glanced over her shoulder. Anne had yielded to her discomfort and exhaustion and taken to her bed in her wagon after their midday rest stop. She did not need her. And it was such a fine day. Surely it would not hurt to explore a bit. Perhaps ride out to see what was over that rise ahead on their right.

  She shifted in the saddle, took a firmer grip on the reins. For over a week they had been plodding along, and she was tired of seeing nothing but wagons. She was longing for a real ride. And Traveler needed a run. Surely that was reason enough to disobey Mr. Thatcher’s edict to stay by the wagons. His mount was being exercised. She smiled and touched her heels to the horse’s sides.

  Traveler lunged forward, raced over the beckoning green expanse toward the gentle swell of land. Emma let him have his head, thrilled by his quick response, the bunch and thrust of his powerful muscles, the musical drum of his hoofbeats against the ground.

  Hoofbeats. Too many. And out of cadence.

  She glanced over her shoulder, spotted a rider astride a large roan bearing down on her from an angle that would easily overtake her. A rider in faded blue cavalry garb and a wide-brimmed, once-yellow hat. She frowned, slowed Traveler to a lope. The roan’s hoofbeats thundered close. Zachary Thatcher and his mount raced by her, wheeled at the top of the rise and stopped full in her path.

  Emma gasped and drew rein. Traveler dug in his hoofs, went down on his haunches and stopped in front of the immobile roan with inches to spare. Fury ripped through her. She leaned forward as Traveler surged upright, then straightened in the saddle and glared at Zachary Thatcher. “Are you mad! I could have been thrown! Or—”

  “Killed!” He jerked his arm to the side. One long finger jutted out from his hand and aimed toward the ground behind him. Or where ground should have been.

  Emma stared, shivered with a chill that raced down her spine at sight of the deep fissure on the other side of the rise.

  “This is not a well-groomed riding trail in Philadelphia, Miss Allen!” Zachary Thatcher’s cold, furious voice lashed at her. “It is foolha
rdy and thoughtless for you to race over ground you do not know. There are hidden dangers all over these prairies. That is why I scout out the trail. Now go back to the wagons. And do not ride out by yourself again! I do not have time to waste saving you from your own foolishness.”

  Emma fought to stem her shivering. “Mr. Thatcher, I—” She lost the battle. Her voice trembled, broke.

  “I am not interested in your excuses, Miss Allen.” He gave her a look of pure disgust, reined the roan around and thundered off toward his place out in front of the wagon column.

  Emma stared after him, looked back at that deep, dark gape in the ground and slipped from the saddle. “I’m sorry, boy. I’m so sorry. You could have—” Her voice caught on a sob. She threw her arms around Traveler’s neck, buried her face against the warm flesh and let the tears come.

  The sameness was wearying. Day after day, nothing but blue sky, green, rolling plains and wagons. And slow, plodding oxen. Emma arched her back and wiggled her shoulders. She was an excellent rider, but though she was becoming inured to sitting on a horse all day, it still resulted in an uncomfortable stiffness.

  “Whoa, Traveler.” She braced to slide from the saddle and walk for a short while, heard hoofbeats pounding and looked up to see Zachary Thatcher racing back toward the train.

  “Get to the low ground ahead on the left and circle the wagons! Lash them together! Move!” He raced on down the line of wagons shouting the order.

  What—

  “Haw, Baldy! Haw, Bright!”

  Garth Lundquist’s whip cracked over the backs of the lead team. Cracked again. The oxen lunged forward. He jumped onto the tongue and grabbed the front board. Emma caught her breath, watched him climb into the wagon box even as the vehicle lurched after the wagons in front that were already bouncing their way over the rough ground. She sagged with relief when he gained his seat.