Prairie Courtship

by Dorothy Clark

  The words she had spoken to Zachary Thatcher the night he had pointed out her ineptitude for life on the wilderness journey brought a flush to her cheeks. They were brave, challenging, empty words. She had not tried to learn the skills she needed for survival on the journey or here in Oregon country. She had merely paid others to care for her and Anne, the same as the servants at home had done for them all their lives. No wonder Zachary Thatcher found her worthy of…of disdain.

  Emma squared her shoulders and scanned the women. Zachary Thatcher was out of her life, but she still had her pride! And a need to survive. Cooking first! As soon as she gave her letters to Josiah Blake she would go to Lydia and ask her to teach her.

  Zach tightened his grip on the reins of the packhorse he was leading and urged Comanche to a faster walk. He wanted to be out of these rolling hills and into the Blue Mountains before nightfall.

  He topped a rise and scanned the surrounding area, searching for the wagon train as Comanche crossed the elevation. He didn’t want to come upon them accidentally. He had made a clean break and he wanted to keep it that way. His last job was done. He had escorted Anne Simms to the Banning Mission four days ago. There was no need for further involvement with the emigrants. He had his fee and his bonus money, less what he had spent on supplies for wintering in the mountains. He was free. And he intended to stay that way.

  There was no sign of the wagons. He stopped Comanche, took a closer look around. Nothing. A thread of worry wormed its way into his thoughts. He had told them to keep close by the river. Of course, they could have followed the north branch. Perhaps he should ride over that way and—

  No. The emigrants were no longer his concern. Not…any of them.

  Zach frowned, forced the image of Emma Allen from his mind and guided Comanche on a straight path to the thick growth of pine at the base of the mountains. There was no need for caution now, and he had no time to waste. If he pushed forward every minute of daylight of every day, he could reach the valley where he wanted to build his trading post before the blizzards started.

  He slowed Comanche, peered into the dusky light beneath the trees then ducked beneath a feathery branch and began to wend his way up the wall of mountain. He had it all planned. He and the horses would live in that huge cavern he had found. And he would spend the winter cutting down trees and trimming and notching logs. In the spring he would start building…

  Emma poured the saleratus into the palm of her hand, dumped it onto the flour in the crockery bowl, stirred it in and added a wooden spoonful of lard. “Tonight, Lydia, my biscuits will be as light and fluffy as yours.”

  “Not if you use that spoon. You work the dough over-much.”

  “Is that what I am doing wrong?” Emma dropped the spoon on top of an upturned barrel serving as a “table,” lightly fingered the mixture until the lard was well distributed then added a small amount of potato water to make it all hold together.

  A cloud of smoke rose from the stone-encircled fire and made her nose burn. She wiped her tearing eyes with the back of her hand, scooped up some dough and gently patted it into a circle. She would need eight of them to fill the spider she had greased with lard. “Do you expect Matthew and Charley with a load of logs for your house tonight? Or are they staying on the mountain to fell trees with the others?”

  “They’ll stay the night.” Lydia carried her filled spider to the fire, grabbed the small iron rake and pulled a pile of hot coals forward. She sat the spider over half of them, and used the rest to cover the rimmed lid. When she finished she stepped back and fanned her heat-reddened face with the long skirt of her apron.

  Emma lifted her gaze to the Blue Mountains, raised it to the snow-whitened pinnacles. Was he up there? Alone? Was he ill or injured or— Her finger poked a hole in the last biscuit. She pushed the edges together and put it in the spider, carried the heavy, iron frying pan to the fire and put the coals under it and on the lid to start the biscuits baking.

  “Here’s more wood fer your fire, Mrs. Hargrove. Mrs. Lundquist and Ma have got all they need.” Daniel Fletcher grinned and dumped a bucket of large wood chunks on their already big pile. “Ma says Pa and Josh are choppin’ the notches out of the logs fer houses so fast she an’ Mary an’ Amy are gettin’ buried by ’em!” The young boy’s chest swelled. “Pa and Josh let me help.”

  “Well we need every hand if we’re to get our homes built before winter sets in.”

  The boy nodded. “Pa says it don’t take long to get the houses up when everyone helps. I got to get back to work!” He ran off.

  Emma stared after him, listening to the sound of the bucket bumping against his leg as he ran, of axes biting deep into wood. Was Mr. Thatcher close enough to hear the men cutting down trees? Or was he already high in the mountains on his way to his valley? The memory of those treacherous ice-covered slopes lifted her gaze toward the sky. Please keep Mr. Thatcher safe, Almighty God. Please keep him healthy and safe. She picked up the spoon and stirred the soup simmering in the iron pot hanging over the fire. Bits of browned bacon floated among chunks of potato and diced onion and corn. The men here would be eating good, hot food tonight. What would Zachary Thatcher eat?

  The fish was good. He would save what was left for his breakfast. Zach moved the pan and added another piece of broken branch to the fire. He would not be able to do that much longer. He was almost to Indian territory. He leaned back against a rock, tipped his hat low over his eyes and listened to the tethered packhorse grazing. Were the emigrants adding to their dwindling supplies by fishing? Had they settled on a site for their town yet? Had they started building their homes? Emma Allen’s home? They’d better. If winter caught them…

  He frowned, watched the fire flare as the branch broke apart and fell against the hot coals. How cold did it get in Oregon country anyway? Did they have blizzards? Or ice storms? If they did, and Emma Allen was still in her wagon…

  Zach surged to his feet, yanked off his hat, ran his hand through his hair and tugged his hat back on. The sun was setting, hiding its face behind the tall mountain peaks, shooting warm, red-and-gold streaks into the western sky. He should get his bedroll. He turned, faced east. The sky was a cold gray with black encroaching along the far edge. He stood and watched the sky growing darker by the minute, feeling the cold seeping into his heart and spirit.

  What was he doing? Why was he riding toward that darkness? There was nothing for him there. There was no excitement, no anticipation to this journey. He had been forcing himself to go on each day. His dream of building a trading post, then roaming the mountains free and unfettered was as cold as that eastern sky. That life had no appeal for him now. Everything he wanted was back at the wagon train, wrapped up in one feisty, slender, blond-haired, brown-eyed woman. Somehow, somewhere along the way on their journey west he had fallen in love with Emma Allen.

  But what was he to do about it? She was a doctor and he had withstood her every request, effectively destroying any personal regard she might have held for him. Of course, he was a soldier. And if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to win a battle…

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I got me a bad hurt, Dr. Emma!”

  Emma set aside her writing desk, rose and peered over the side of the driver’s box. Gabe Lewis looked up at her and held out a bloody forearm for her inspection. David was at his side, as always. The boys could have been twins but for their age difference. Both had black curly hair, dark blue eyes and grins that made you want to hug them, no matter what mischief they had been up to. She nodded and stepped back. “Perhaps you had better come up here and let me look at your arm.”

  Gabe flashed one of those wicked grins at David and both boys charged for the wagon tongue, Gabe a half step ahead. Before she could even turn around he was scrambling over the front board into the box. Obviously, the wound was not causing him great pain. He inched toward her, making room in the box for his brother. She planted her feet more firmly and motioned David onto the seat.


  The five-year-old hopped up to the spot she indicated, then dropped to his knees, peering at her lap desk. “What’s this thing?”

  “It is a lap desk.”

  Gabe turned and looked at it. “What’s it for?”

  “It is for writing letters and other things. Such as accounts and party invitations.”

  Gabe stretched out his hand to touch it, stopped and put his hand behind his back instead. “That what you was doin’ when we come?”

  His voice reflected the wonder in his eyes. Her heart squeezed. She should have thought— “Yes. I was writing a letter to my brother. He lives in Philadelphia.” Perhaps she could send one of the men to the mission to get a few slates and readers…

  “That one of them big, back East cities with people crowded all over one another I heard about?”

  Her lips twitched at his description, but she managed to stem the smile. “Yes. Philadelphia is a very large, important city. It is where the Declaration of Independence was signed.”

  Both boys frowned, swiveled their heads in her direction, their eyes alight with curiosity. “What’s that?”

  William, my dear brother, how you would love this moment. She sought for an explanation they would understand. “Well…a ‘declaration’ is when you state something very firmly.”

  “Like Ma telling Pa he ain’t goin’ to smoke his nasty-smelling pipe in her clean wagon?”

  So that was why Joseph Lewis sat outside by the fire alone at night! Emma coughed to control the laughter bubbling up into her throat at Gabe’s example. “Yes. That is correct.” The boy’s face lit up as if she had given him a piece of candy. She smiled down at him. “And ‘independence’ is—” Oh, my. This could be dangerous, heady information for a seven-year-old. “—it is when one is old enough and wise enough to manage one’s own affairs.”

  The boys looked at one another, gave sober, sage nods. “Like Pa tellin’ Ma he’ll have the say of where he smokes his pipe.”

  Oh dear. Emma cleared her throat. “Let me see your arm, Gabe.” It was covered in both fresh and drying blood. “I shall have to cleanse that before I can see what harm has been done.” She picked up the lap desk. “Sit down. I will get my things.”

  A conspiratorial look flashed between the boys. Gabe grinned and plunked himself down on the seat. What was that look about? Emma tied the canvas flaps back, set the desk on the red box, slid it out of the way and climbed inside.

  Gabe twisted around, perched on his knees on the seat and looked at her. “Are ya gonna give me some of that sleepin’ stuff an’ stitch me up like ya did Daniel?”

  Ah! So that was it. “I will not know if your wound requires me to put you to sleep while I make the stitches until I clean the blood away. I will make my diagnosis after I see the wound.” She bit down on her lower lip to keep from laughing and dipped water out of the keg into the washbowl. Now to teach these little schemers that doctoring was not for fun. She set the desk aside, opened the red box and removed a bottle of alcohol, the shallow bowl, her suturing equipment and a roll of clean, narrow cloth bandages. She placed them all in full view on one end of the red box, then donned her doctor’s apron, tugged the cork from the bottle of alcohol and splashed a little into the water, enough to cleanse with only a little sting. She wanted to teach him a lesson, not torture him. “I believe I am ready now.”

  Gabe did not look quite so happy about the situation as he had a few moments ago. She fixed a sober look on her face, tossed in a clean rag and handed him the washbowl. He scooted back off the seat out of her way and she climbed outside, took the bowl. “Sit down, Gabe.”

  The boy swallowed hard, did as she bid. David’s eyes looked wider, rounder…scared. She wanted to hug him. Instead, she placed the bowl on the seat beside Gabe, squeezed out the cloth and began to gently clean away the dried blood. It was only a surface abrasion. With bits of bark clinging to it.

  “You have been climbing trees again.” One glance at his sheepish face told her she had made a correct diagnosis. It was also the most likely reason he had come to her, instead of going to his mother, who was continually warning the boys to stay out of trees. He did not want to give her proof of her warnings. She was quite sure the “being put to sleep” idea was an afterthought. She rinsed the rag and began again. What would it be like to have sons like these? Adorable boys, full of curiosity and energy, that explored the world with such enjoyment and zest. Zachary Thatcher would father such sons.

  The thought brought heat rushing to her cheeks, tears welling into her eyes. She blinked the tears away and continued her work. She would never know if that were true. Zachary Thatcher wanted only to be free of all entanglements. Most of all he wanted to be free of her, and her stubborn insistence on having her advice for her patients obeyed. He had been gone almost three weeks. Had he reached his valley?

  She fixed a smile on her face and looked up at her young patient. “This will not need to be stitched, Gabe. It will heal fine if you will only keep it nice and clean.” She dropped the cloth into the water, spread some salve on the scrape and wound Gabe’s arm with the clean bandage.

  A good doctor puts his patients first, before his own wants or needs.

  How many times had she heard Papa Doc say those words? How many times had she said them? Sincerely, but blithely said them. She tied off the bandage and patted Gabe’s hand. “I am finished. You may go now. But you come back if your arm turns red or starts to hurt you. Promise?”

  He grinned up at her, nodded then climbed over the side of the driver’s box, dropped to the ground and ran off. David followed.

  She lifted her hand and rubbed to try and ease the pressure in her chest, but there was nothing she could do to make it stop. It was her heart that hurt. And only having Zachary Thatcher’s love could stop the ache. Zachary Thatcher…who was lost to her because of her calling to be a doctor. She threw out the bloody water, pushed the bowl through the opening and climbed inside to take care of her things. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she went down on her knees, opened the red box and placed the alcohol and her suturing equipment inside. She stared at all the bottles and crocks and herbs and bandages, then slowly closed the lid, sat back on her heels and covered her face with her hands.

  “I did not know, Lord.” The hot tears ran down her fingers, mixed with the soft sobs, the warm, hesitant breath carrying her words, and dripped off her wrists onto the red wool covering her lap. “I truly did not know how much being a doctor could cost…until now.”

  “I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Thatcher, for your consideration in taking the household furnishings and the apple seedlings off of my hands. I have no desire to stay in this wretched backwoods country without Mr. Canfield. Indeed, I had no desire to come here at all. But Mr. Canfield fancied himself a nurseryman of great talent. A woman’s lot is a hard one.” The Widow Canfield sniffed delicately into her embroidered lace handkerchief, stepped closer and looked up at him from beneath her lashes. An extremely coy look from a woman so recently bereaved.

  Zach took a step back and gave a small, polite bow. “I am sure it is the Lord’s hand that has made your need to leave Oregon country, and my need to stay here, meet in such a fortuitous way, Widow Canfield. I wish you a safe and pleasant journey.” He turned away from the cloying woman and gripped the hand of the big, white-haired man walking with them toward the ship waiting on the Columbia River. “And to you, sir, I offer my sincere thanks for agreeing to store the furnishings here at Fort Vancouver until my home is built. I give you my word it will be a matter of a few months only.”

  “’Tis not a problem, Mr. Thatcher. There is no need to be rushing the building. We have plenty of room here for storage of such items.” The chief factor of the fort lifted a big hand and clapped Zach’s shoulder. “Welcome again, to Oregon country. I’ll look forward to hearing how those apple trees fare, when next you come to visit.”

  “I shall do all in my power to make that report an excellent one, sir.”

  Zach turned and he
aded for the barn, his steps long and eager. All he had set out to do had been accomplished. And without traveling all the way to Oregon City as he had thought would be necessary. He shook his head, smiled. Those apple seedlings… A turn he had not planned or expected. Surely God was blessing his endeavor. He entered the dusty, dusky barn and marched to the far stalls.

  Comanche neighed, bunched his shoulders and hopped then lowered his head and kicked the back wall of the stall.

  Zach stepped to the door, reached across and scratched under Comanche’s dark forelock. “I know, boy. I’m sorry I had to put you in here. Let me get this travois packed and we will be on our way.”

  The roan whickered his displeasure. Tossed his head and pawed at the door with a front hoof. “At ease, Comanche!” Zach gave him a last pat, stepped to the back wall and knelt down to load the apple tree seedlings onto the piece of canvas stretched between the two long poles leaning against the wall.

  He pulled the first crate toward him and carefully lifted out the fragile seedlings to pile them on the travois. Each had a narrow blue ribbon tied around them. The corresponding blue crate was labeled Sheepnose. He grouped them together and reached for the red crate labeled Winesap. The last group had green ribbons on them and were labeled Pippen. They might better have said Blackfeet, Sioux and Comanche. He would have understood that.

  He stood, moved to the corner and picked up the large piece of burlap he had placed there last night. He spread it overtop the apple seedlings and tied it in place with leather thongs to hold the seedlings secure on the long ride, then stared at his handiwork. Was that the right thing to do? Would it hurt to cover them? It was the only way he could think of to protect them. He removed his hat, shoved his hand through his hair and scowled down at the bundled sprigs. “I sure hope I’m right and this is Your plan for me, Lord, because I know nothing about growing apples!”

  He tugged his hat back on, leaned down to pick up his packs and noticed a small, green-covered book in the blue crate. He picked it up, thumbed through it and grinned. It was full of information about growing apples, written in a neat, careful hand. Seemed as if everything was working out fine. He chuckled, a low, confident sound that came from deep in his chest, lifted the book toward the ceiling and snapped off a sharp salute. “I hear You, Lord.”