Prairie Courtship

by Dorothy Clark

  “Why?”

  The word felt like a caress. “Because I—” She stopped, horrified by what had almost slipped out. She gave a small shrug. “You had told me Comanche grazed on his own, but always returned to you. I was responsible for your not being there. I wanted to give him a reason to keep coming back so he would be there if—when—you returned.” Dangerous ground. Do not speak of that time. “The oats and honey were a bribe.”

  “I don’t think the oats and honey are what brought him back. He let you pet him when we were getting water during that thunderstorm on the mountain.”

  She looked up, saw his eyes were darker still and jerked her gaze away. Do not think about that day. Do not think about those moments—

  “He trusts you.”

  “I shall try to be worthy of his trust.”

  “You already are.”

  She could take no more. She had to stop this. Send him away. She drew on all of her professional training to mask her emotions. “Mr. Thatcher—”

  “I gave him one of your apple dumplings.”

  She was so shocked by the rapid change of subject and tone she lifted her head and stared at him. He grinned. A slow, lopsided grin that had her clutching the edge of the saddle again.

  “He liked it. So did I.” He tipped his hat back, crossed his arms on the saddle and rested his chin on them, gazing down at her. “I didn’t know you could cook like that.”

  “I learned.”

  He grinned.

  She lifted her chin. “I did not know you could build log cabins like that.”

  His grin widened. “I learned.”

  She caught her breath, thrown off guard by this teasing, charming side of him she’d never seen before. “Mr. Thatcher—”

  “I know how to carve things, too.”

  “I am certain that is very useful, but—”

  “I made you a present.”

  “Me?” He had done it again. Thrown her completely off balance. She hoped her lack of equilibrium did not show.

  He nodded and walked around Comanche to stand beside her. He reached in his saddlebag, pulled out a good-size piece of wood and handed it to her. “For your cabin door.”

  Her fingertips felt ridges and grooves on the underside. She turned the board over.

  Doctor Emma.

  “Oh.” Tears welled. She blinked and blinked, ran her fingertip over the letters, the vines that curved around each corner. “Thank you, Mr. Thatcher. I—I will treasure this always. But…I do not understand.”

  His fingers curved beneath her chin, lifted. She had nowhere to look but at him, unless she closed her eyes. Her heart lurched at the memory of what had happened the last time she had done that. She swallowed and met his gaze.

  “We had some rough times over your patients on the journey here. I wanted you to know that I never doubted your doctoring skills…Dr. Emma.” He leaned down, touched his lips to hers then turned, swung into the saddle and rode off.

  She stood there staring after him, feeling the warmth of his mouth on hers, long after the sound of Comanche splashing through the river had faded away.

  Emma washed and creamed her face and hands, brushed her teeth, then donned her rose-embroidered cotton nightdress and dressing gown. She removed the combs and brushed out her hair, let it fall free around her face and shoulders for warmth, then slid under the covers and picked up Zachary Thatcher’s gift. Her movements were all slow and deliberate, because she felt brittle. As if a quick movement would make her break.

  She ran her hand over the beautifully carved sign, then pulled it beneath the covers and hugged it to her chest. The question she had been asking herself since talking with Lydia this morning had been answered. Lydia was right. She was wrong. Zachary Thatcher had respected her as a doctor from the beginning. She held the proof of that in her hands. But what did that quick, gentle kiss mean? Was she wrong in her thinking there, also? Did he hold her in high regard as a woman, or not? Perhaps so. But that was not what she wanted from Zachary Thatcher. Not anymore. She wanted his love.

  Heaviness settled over her, drove her deeper under the covers. But there was no place to hide from the pain. She had said yes when the emigrants asked her to be their doctor. She had “sworn to her own hurt.” Because Zachary Thatcher did not return her love was not a reason to break her word. She would have to stay in Promise and pray she did not see him often.

  God had answered her prayer. He had given her her dream. She simply had not realized what her dream would cost.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Can you open your mouth and stick your tongue way out for me, Edward? Like this.” Emma looked down at young Edward and stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes.

  Edward giggled and tried to mimic her. He broke into a barking cough, struggled to catch his breath. His eyes widened with fright. He began to wheeze.

  “Let me help you sit up, Edward.” She slid her arm beneath the little boy’s shoulders and lifted him to a sitting position. “Now, do as I say. Breathe very…slowly…” She smiled and gently rubbed his back. He calmed. His breath came easier. “There, you see. You need not fight to breathe. You are all right. Now, let me put this pillow here—” she propped it against the wall “—and you lean back and rest.”

  She rose and smiled down at him. “I am going to give your mama some things that will help you feel better. I want you to do as she says.” She walked to the front of the room.

  “What is wrong with Edward, Dr. Emma?”

  “He has the croup, Pamelia.” She glanced back at the little boy. “He should improve in two or three days. Meantime, it is frightening for him because he feels he can’t breathe. I want you to keep him calm and help him to relax when he has a coughing attack, as I did. Keep him sitting up, it makes it easier for him to breathe. And give him some sage and savory tea regularly. A warm poultice on his chest may help.” She took a tighter grip on her bag. “His condition will worsen at night, so be prepared by resting during the day. I do not want you becoming ill. The croup is very contagious, so please do not let others come to see him, especially children. And wash your hands every time you take care of him.”

  “I will do as you say, Dr. Emma.” Pamelia smiled. “And this time Thomas told me he will come to your office and pay your fee.” She laughed. “I believe that means your wagon.”

  Emma smiled. “For a few more days. They are cutting the logs for my cabin today.” She stepped to the blanket that covered the doorway. “Send Thomas for me if you are concerned for Edward.”

  “Yes. Thank you for coming, Dr. Emma.”

  She nodded, swept the blanket aside and stepped out into the sunshine. It was a lovely day, surprisingly warm after the cold weather they had suffered. She hoped it lasted until her cabin was built. And her fireplace. Carl Sutton and Luke Murray were adding fireplaces to the cabins that were being raised so quickly. The Hargroves’ fireplace had been the first.

  She glanced at the wide stone base that tapered upward to the narrow chimney as she walked by the Hargroves’ cabin. Their fireplace was lovely and warm on cold days. She wanted one like it. And a table made from her tailgate. She would ask Joseph Lewis to make her one the next time she saw him. She would need a good, sturdy table for any operations. And a cupboard to hold her medical supplies. And a door. She was tired of canvas flaps and blankets. Could Joseph make her a door from the wood of the wagon? And perhaps shutters for windows? How lovely it would be to have windows again! Where did one purchase glass in the wilderness?

  He will come to your office. She sighed and turned into the open area where her wagon sat. Perhaps one day she would have an office. For now, people would come to her home. She did have her first furnishing for the office. She had a sign. Her Doctor Emma sign from Mr. Thatcher. She would use it always.

  She stood looking at the open area where, tomorrow, her cabin would sit, then looked down at her feet and smiled. Someday, this would be a wooden sidewalk. Or, perhaps, brick or stone. Someday.

&nbs
p; She walked to the wagon, climbed to the wagon seat, pushed the flaps out of the way and crawled inside. Yes. It would definitely be lovely to have a door again! She put her doctor’s bag on the dresser and looked around. There was not much to furnish her cabin.

  The mattresses were in a good, sturdy wood frame. Perhaps Joseph Lewis could make legs to raise it off the floor. And she had the dresser. And the chests. And the long red box. She would keep that always. It had held so many treasures for her on the long journey. And the sign. Her symbol of success as a doctor, and failure as a woman. Which would become more important as the years went by?

  She drew a long breath and stepped to the rear of the wagon, opened a slit between the canvas flaps and looked out across the river to Zachary Thatcher’s land. He would build his cabin there. Perhaps that had something to do with his mysterious digging. They would be neighbors. Every time she looked out her windows, or walked outside, or went to the river, she would see his home. And she would wonder.

  When would he bring a wife there? For surely that would happen. How would she bear meeting her, seeing her around town over the years? How could she bear watching her grow large with his children? And then see them playing and exploring, hear their shouts and laughter? How could she bear watching him grow older and never share his joys and sorrows? Would this feeling of fragility, of…shattering frailty…lessen? Would she ever stop feeling empty inside?

  “Dr. Emma?”

  She dropped the canvas, whirled, her heart pounding. She had not heard him come.

  “Dr. Emma?”

  Finally. The acknowledgment of her doctoring skills she had sought. But it was not the name she wanted on his lips when he called to her. “Yes, I’m coming.”

  She wiped the tears from her cheeks, hurried forward and climbed out into the driver’s box. He had dismounted, and was standing beside the wagon, Comanche behind him. She could see him out of the corner of her eye. She shook the long skirts of her red wool dress into place, arranged her face in her “professional doctor’s look” and gathered her courage to look at him. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” He tipped his hat back and took her gaze prisoner. “I have something I want to show you. Will you come with me?”

  To the ends of the earth. “Yes. Of course.”

  He held up his hands.

  Her heart stopped. She couldn’t…shouldn’t… She moved to the side of the seat, felt the strength of his hands circle her waist and leaned forward to place her hands on his hard, broad shoulders.

  She never touched the ground. He lowered her until her waist was level with his chest, turned her back to him and caught her against him with one strong arm. He swung into the saddle and urged Comanche forward still holding her tight against him. The way he had held her once before. He had saved her then. She was dying now.

  Comanche splashed through the water, surged onto land and walked to the small copse of trees that clustered on the riverbank. His camp was there, hidden from view. A stone fire circle, the packhorse equipment and a small tent. He dismounted and grasped her waist, lifted her down, looked at her. She turned and hid her face from him.

  “Is this what you want to show me?”

  “No. It’s this way.” He gestured toward the open plain.

  She nodded and started walking toward nothing, needing to put space between them. He moved up beside her, adjusted his long stride to match her shorter one.

  “Over here.” He took her elbow, turned her to the left, walked forward a few feet and stopped. There was a small circle of disturbed soil with a long, skinny piece of twig sticking out of it. He touched the twig and looked at her. “This is an apple tree. A Winesap apple tree. There are twenty of them here.” He swept his hand forward.

  She saw them then. All the small circles of raw soil with twigs sticking out of them. “This is what you have been digging!” She glanced up at him for confirmation, saw his smile and knew her error. She had just admitted she had been watching him. Heat crawled across her cheekbones. She ducked her head, touched the twig. “It looks dead.”

  He chuckled, a low, manly sound that made her want to turn and step into his arms and place her head against his chest to hear the rumble of it inside, before he set it free.

  “I thought the same when I first saw them, but they are only dormant, ready to wait out winter and grow in the spring.”

  She looked up at him, the question in her eyes.

  “I’ve been reading up on growing apples. Over here—” he led her to another twig “—are twenty Sheepnose apples. And there—” he gestured farther to their left “—are twenty Pippen apples.”

  “You must like apples.” It came out more droll than she intended. He threw back his head and laughed and the sound brought joy bubbling into her heart. She turned and looked up at him and his laughter died to a grin.

  “I like apple dumplings.”

  Oh dear. She whipped back around toward the open plains. “Are there any more dormant twigs out there?”

  “No. But there is space for more, if these do well. And on the left, all the way to the rolling hills, there is space to grow grain to sell and to feed the cattle and horses that will graze those hills. I figure the world can use more Comanches.” He stepped up beside her, pointed to one of the lower, flatter hills close to the plains. “I see the barn right there.”

  There was an odd, fluttery feeling, a knowing, growing in her stomach. She took a deep breath and looked up at him. “I thought your dream was to roam the mountains free and unfettered.”

  He nodded, took her gaze captive. “A man can change. Hearts can change. When I left here, I started back to my valley to build my dream. But every step I took got harder to take. Every mile became a chore. There was no excitement, no anticipation, no pleasure in the journey and I knew, I wasn’t riding toward my dream, I was riding away from it.” His voice grew husky, his eyes turned the gray, smoky-blue of the mountains behind him. “Those mountains hold no dreams for me now, Dr. Emma Allen. My dream—all I want—is standing right here in front of me. I’ve shown you my future. I want you to share it with me. I love you, now and forever. Will you marry me?”

  She nodded and stepped into Zach’s arms, joy flooding her heart. “Yes. Oh, yes, I will marry you. I love you, Zach—”

  He caught her to him, drew her against his hard chest, his lips covering hers. A kiss like she remembered, only so much more.

  She opened her heart, parted her lips beneath his and gave all her love in return.

  Epilogue

  Emma rose from her chair, rested her hands on her swollen abdomen and walked out onto the porch. A smile touched her lips. Every time she came outside and looked over the budding orchards she was more thankful she had won the argument over where they should build their home. Zach had wanted to build in town, next door to the Hargroves’, in the lot where her wagon had sat, so she could be near her patients. But she had wanted their home here on the plains, by the barn, so she would be near Zach while he tended the apple orchards and watched over their cattle and horses.

  She turned and looked across the river at the sturdy iron rod with a bell on the top, and a side arm from which dangled a hand-carved sign that read Doctor Emma. She smiled and rubbed her hands over the bulge beneath her skirt. Zach had promised the bell was loud enough to be heard over the clamor of any and all future children. And the neighing and snorting of Comanche’s get.

  She sank down onto the porch swing Zach had hung so she could sit and look toward the fields and barns while she waited for him to come to the house at the end of the day. Things had worked out so well. And, looking back, she could see God’s hand clearly guiding them and blessing them. The furniture Zach had purchased from the Widow Canfield was enough for all five rooms, with some left over for expansion. Those items, awaiting the births of future little Thatchers, were in the loft of the second barn they had built by the house for storage of apples.

  Emma sighed, pushed her toes against the porch floor and set th
e swing in motion. This was her favorite spot. Would the baby she carried like to sit and swing here with her? She laughed and pushed harder. Probably not, if they were the energetic, adventurous sons she hoped for. As soon as they could walk they would be off exploring their land, learning to ride Comanche’s colts and fillies. Of course, she could have a little filly of her own. The daughter Zach wanted…one, he said, who would look like her and be just as stubborn. Tenacious, she always corrected, because she loved to hear him laugh.

  She heard the thunder of hoofs, looked up and saw Zach riding Comanche across the field, heading home. To her. Her heart filled. How blessed she was. She stopped the swing and closed her eyes. “Thank You, God, for leading me on the path to Your blessings. For fulfilling my dream of being a doctor, and giving me so much more than I even knew to ask for.”

  The hoofbeats pounded close, stopped. She smiled, rose from the swing as Zach swung from the saddle then hurried forward to step into her husband’s strong, loving arms.

  Dear Reader,

  When I began writing Prairie Courtship I knew the story would be based on the scripture: “Delight thyself also 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.” Psalms 37:4–5. But then I realized there is another scripture that is equally appropriate: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord.” Isaiah. 55:8

  Emma’s dream was to become a respected doctor, a goal all but impossible for a woman in the year 1841. She prayed that God might answer her prayers. But she was so certain how that should be accomplished she did not recognize that God was answering her prayer all along—just not her way.

  I have learned that God’s answers to our prayers are far better than any our minds or hearts can conceive, and that His will and plan for us is always one of love and blessings.