by Barbara Goss
Captured Heart
Barbara Goss
Scripture quotations in this volume are from the King James Version of the Bible.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this book is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage system without express written permission from the author.
Copyright © 2015 Barbara Goss
All Rights Reserved
Kindle Edition
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
1
The tender tiptoeing of the raindrops soon began to sound like grains of rice bombarding the wagons tightly stretched canvas top.
Their sound pulled Amanda Barker from her dazed stupor. Lying upon her bedroll, she focused her swollen, red-rimmed eyes on the indentations the torrents of rain momentarily imprinted on the cloth roof as the early morning storm raged.
“Angels’ tears,” she spat. Grandmother Hurley had always said that at rainy funerals.
Amanda pounded her pillow. “Let them cry!” Bitterness hid her beauty as she buried her fists into the pillow again.
“Why did you let this happen, God? Why?” Her voice grew louder as she choked on her words. “Why take Mama? Why Pa? Why Phillip? Why Hazel Jane?” She gazed upward, suddenly puzzled, “And why not me?” Amanda began to tremble and her face wrinkled as if she might cry; yet no tears fell. “God, please take me too; I just can’t bear it without them!” No more tears could be squeezed from her large, green eyes; they’d been used up hours ago. Only the telltale signs revealed the grief of the past forty-eight hours: her swollen, raw eyelids and bright-red nose.
As if finally answering an inner call, she jumped up and nimbly began scooping up her family’s personal belongings. Tossing them recklessly into a trunk, she stopped now and then to fondle some beloved possession: Pa’s watch, Mama’s golden locket, Hazel Jane’s rag doll, and even Phillip’s handmade fishing pole. She recalled the first catch on the now-mangled hook, hanging from tangled, worn string. She tossed it into the trunk with a
scowl. Useless, sentimental, heart-tugging objects--that’s all they are! I must put them away, out of sight, if I want to survive and carry out our dream of reaching California. The past lay behind her; they were dead. Cholera had beaten them, but it hadn’t beaten her. She’d make it on her own. They would have wanted that.
Aunt Hattie was expecting them in San Francisco. Poor Aunt Hattie--wait until she found out the two of them were now all that remained of the Homer Barker family, formerly of Springview, Ohio.
Amanda scanned the wagon by the dim light of the kerosene lamp. Had she missed anything? Something shiny gleamed at her from a pocket sewed into the side of the wagon cloth. She reached for it. The family portrait. Drawing her arm back, she prepared to toss it into the now heaping-full trunk, but caught herself. Instead, she pressed the framed picture to her breast until its sharp corner drew blood from her upper arm. Drawing the photograph back, she held it before her and studied it with a grimace.
If only she could go back to that day. How happy they’d been. Of course, you’d never guess that by the stern looking faces. Only five-year-old Hazel Jane smiled. They all should have. Only her little sister looked her natural self.
She touched the image of her pa gently. He stood proudly behind his seated wife, one hand on his watch chain, the other resting fondly on lovely Anna Barker’s shoulder. Seated at Mamma’s feet, Hazel Jane grinned brightly, so plump, rosy, and full of life.
Phillip stood arrogantly behind Amanda’s chair, trying to imitate Pa and look well beyond his fifteen years. He didn’t look himself without his seldom-missing, boyish smile.
Oh, she thought, why do families pose so somberly? Even her own image frowned back at her. Why had she pinned up her long, dark, thick hair? She remembered promising herself after first viewing the photograph never to wear her hair up again and to smile more.
Now, here she sat, sure she’d never want to smile again. Here, miles from Ohio, miles from Aunt Hattie, miles from anywhere—all alone.
Getting up, she peeked out the back of the wagon. The rain had stopped, but the dawn refused to break through the still-cloudy skies. Well, she thought, if the train moves today, at least there won’t be that dratted dust! The rain had solved that problem.
Will the train move today? It had been halted for three days. Too many passengers had ailed with cholera .Too many burials. Too many grieving families; those left on the train had to recuperate.
She pulled her head back into the wagon and began to neaten it for travel. If they did move today, she must be prepared to drive the team. Could she do it? She’d sat beside Pa and watched him steer the oxen. How difficult could it be? She must. She had no choice. Jumping from the rear of the wagon, she yanked the bucket from its hook and swung it over her shoulder. She’d need fresh water to wash. Perhaps she’d feel better, cleaned up.
Amanda headed down the path, made by numerous other wagon-train campers in the last few years, to the banks of the Platte River. Purposefully she held her head high so as not to see the four fresh graves along the side of the trail. There had been two new ones added, she’d heard, but she didn’t want to see them. At least they weren’t alone, she thought. Just last week Lulu Beecham and Mama had laughed at Amanda’s burnt biscuits; now they were eternal neighbors. The other grave held Lulu’s daughter, Emily.
Amanda knelt by the shore and lowered her bucket. She gasped and jumped as a large figure reflected in the water beside her.
“Oh, Captain Larsen!”
The short, spry, middle-aged man spoke kindly, but as brusquely as ever. “Sorry to alarm you, my dear, but ve must talk right avay.” His Swedish accent was only slight but clearly definable on ws.
“As you please, sir,” Amanda mumbled politely, her mind blank yet curious. “Can we speak here, or would you like to come back to my wagon?”
“Here is fine,” he replied. “I have a job to do and vill come right to the point. Vithout a man to head your vagon, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the train.” His grey eyes, she noticed, looked past her as he spoke, as if unable to meet hers.
“L-leave? Leave the wagon train?” She felt her knees tremble. “Where shall I go? Will you just leave me here alone?” Her head throbbed; she began to feel dizzy.
When Amanda next opened her eyes, she lay in her own wagon, upon her mat, looking up into Mr. Larsen’s grey eyes and a pair of brilliant blue ones.
“Are you all right, Miss Barker?”
“I guess so,” she answered Larsen but continued to stare into the blue eyed stranger’s face.
The stranger spoke, “Lucky I happened by at just that moment, or you’d have hurt yourself falling backwards like that.”
Amanda fumbled for words of explanation, her eyes flitting from one man to the other for help.
“The young lady,” Larsen explained, “has had some tough luck.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably.
/> “Cholera took her whole family in just three days. I vas just explaining to her vhy she’d have to leave the train.”
“I see,” the stranger whispered compassionately. “May I have a few words with her alone?” Larsen looked about nervously.
“I mean,” the young man reddened, “outside the wagon, of course.”
He asked Amanda, “Are you up to a valk vith him?” Amanda looked from one to the other, still confused. The young man whispered hoarsely to Larsen. “Maybe you should introduce us....”
“Of course,” he shook his white head. “How ignorant of me! Miss Amanda Barker, this is Mr. Lucas Vest. I have hired him as a scout. He has no vagon, just a horse and bedroll, but he’s a hard vorker, and I’m mighty glad to have him aboard.”
“My friends call me Luke,” he began after settling her comfortably beside himself on a dead log near the river. “The reason I wanted a word with you is…” He picked up a flat stone and played with it as he spoke. “I think I know how you must feel, for I’ve recently lost a loved one, too. Your pain must be four times as sharp as mine. And mine is plenty sharp!”
When Amanda didn’t answer, but continued to stare at him, he made a hasty confession. “I also overheard you early this morning, blaming God, and that troubles me greatly.”
Amanda’s look was curious and a bit angry. “You … you… what?”
“I heard you refer to the rain as angels’ tears and ask God why He took away your family. I wasn’t eavesdropping-- you were quite loud. I was on my way to the river and passed your wagon. Couldn’t help hearing. ...”
Amanda turned away, half embarrassed, half angry at having her private moment invaded by this stranger.
“Don’t blame God, Miss Barker.” He touched her arm gently. “Blaming causes bitterness. Bitterness grows like weeds and smothers flowers--like you.”
Amanda examined him. Was he mocking or sincere? His eyes held hers evenly.
Luke continued, “If we weed the garden and kill the ugly, deadly weeds, the flowers live, thrive, and are worthy of the beauty God gave them.”
He took his hand from her arm and toyed with the stone again before hurling it into the river at an angle that amused Amanda, despite her grief. The stone skipped across the water four or five times before neatly sliding into its depths.
As they stared after the stone, he said, “You are just like a flower. Don’t let the weeds, bitterness, kill your beauty, your vitality and spirit.”
Amanda studied his expressive face. If his nose were not a bit too long, he would be handsome. Even the barely noticeable scar between his sandy colored hair and shaggy eyebrows couldn’t detract from his pleasing appearance. Only his nose and extreme ruggedness stopped her from calling him classically handsome.
He was definitely likable, though. The type of man a woman feels like mothering, she thought. Probably because of the boyish way he scoops his hair from his eyes with a whisk of his hand or the way he squints when unsure of the effect of his words. But why did she feel as if she’d known him for years, when they’d just met? Of course, she decided, he reminds me of Phillip. Though well over twenty, this man before her had all Phillip’s boyish qualities.
“Thank you for talking to me,” she said at last. “It has all happened so fast—I’m so confused. I just buried my family, and now I’m told to leave the train. Where shall I go? Will they just leave me here?” She felt a tear slip from one eye and was genuinely surprised when he caught it with his rough yet gentle finger.
“Of course not,” he said with tender gruffness. “Larsen isn’t the most tactful fellow.” Again Luke hesitated and squinted boyishly. “Actually, there are two choices open to you. If another family takes you in, you may stay. Otherwise, you’ll be escorted, by Griff, or me to the nearest town. If there is a financial need, everyone in the train pitches in. You’d never be just left on your own; I promise you that.” Amanda let out a breath of relief and relaxed somewhat.
“In fact...,” he jumped up with beaming eyes.
There, Amanda noted, just like Phillip! So enthusiastic! Her heart tugged for this new friend and for her beloved brother. She listened attentively to his idea.
“I’ll spread the word around the train that you need a family. Perhaps there’s someone needing a good pair of female hands.”
“You think they’d take me in?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“It’s worth a try.”
“Thank you, Mr. West,” she replied, twisting her wrinkled handkerchief.
“Luke,” he insisted.
“Amanda,” she whispered back.
Luke turned and sped down the path excitedly, but turned to wave and smile--that irresistible Phillip-like smile.
In the morning, word passed quickly from wagon to wagon that the train would move out in one hour. Amanda panicked once again. Could she manage the oxen team? Would they allow her to drive? Her heart skipped a beat; her oxen weren’t even harnessed to the wagon! She’d never watched Pa or Phillip do that! She doubted she could even lift the heavy halters. Whatever would she do? She sat upon her bedroll, buried her face in her hands, and began to sob.
2
As Amanda softly wept, she felt the wagon shift slightly. Had she imagined it? No. There, it moved again. The wagon was being lightly jostled. She jumped to her feet and dashed to the back opening. She saw nothing unusual, but on her way to the front flap, she recognized a familiar mixture of leather and metal sounds, reminding her of Pa.
Opening the front flap, behind the driver’s bench, she saw Luke West bent over her oxen, harnessing them. He glanced up and smiled. “Hope you don’t mind me for company, ‘cause Larsen gave me permission to drive for you today.”
Amanda guessed her beaming smile was all he needed for an answer, for he turned back to his chore.
Just as the lead wagons began to roll, Amanda glanced quickly toward the graves. A panicky feeling enveloped her. How strange it felt to leave her family behind. She gasped as she suddenly noticed the graves had changed. Each mound had a cross upon it, made from white rocks.
How beautiful! How thoughtful of someone! Tears she’d thought long dried up began to flow freely again.
“Go quickly,” Luke urged, offering her his hand. “Say farewell--not good-bye. You will see them again.” He glanced upward meaningfully.
She grasped his hand, jumped down, started to dart away, but stopped short and gazed up at him with wonder. “The crosses… did you?”
He nodded.
“Oh thank you!” she cried tearfully before dashing the few feet to say farewell to her family.
That morning they continued along the much-traveled trail west, always within sight of the Platte River. They passed many graves that day--too many for Amanda to count. It was sad yet comforting to know others shared her grief. While none of the graves they passed that day had beautiful white crosses laid in stone, some had boards propped up on them, giving the person’s name, origin, and cause of death. Most read cholera.
Amanda rubbed her stomach as a hunger pang nudged her. She hadn’t eaten breakfast. When would they stop for lunch? Would she hear of someone who would be willing to take her in? Or would she be forced to leave the train? She rubbed her temples. If only she could pray. Why had God let her down? Hadn’t she always gone to Sunday services? Hadn’t she always prayed and thanked Him for everything? Why hadn’t He listened to her plea for her family?
Luke’s company comforted and reassured her, though they had little chance to talk. Driving on the wet and sandy trail took all his attention. The train noises also made conversation difficult: Babies cried; dogs barked; children ran beside wagons, calling out; and men shouted orders.
Once that morning they met a lone rider heading back to Missouri. He’d told members of their train he’d lost his family to cholera.
When they stopped for lunch, bread and cold coffee, she confronted Luke about her position on the train. “Well,” he squinted uncomfortably, “we haven’t had much response yet,
but I’m sure we will. A few families seemed interested, but nothing definite yet.”
“Then you think a family will take me in?”
“Where’s your faith?” he asked, cuffing her chin lightly.
“Are you a preacher or something?” she asked.
“No. Why?”
“You sound like one.”
“I read my Bible, but I’m no preacher. My brother Edward is. I didn’t know what I was going to say yesterday to comfort you; I just asked God to give me the right words.”
“You can do that? Ask for something like that and get it so quickly?”
“Sure, once you know Him.”
“Anything?”
“No.”
“Why not anything?”
“Anything isn’t always good for us or what He wants for us.”
“Then, if you had prayed for my family, they still would have died?”
“If it was God’s will, yes.”
“Is that fair?” she asked, looking up at him, tilting her head.
“Why do you think death is a bad thing? If they are with Him, perhaps they are the fortunate ones, and you are the one who has the ‘bad’ outcome.”
“So you don’t pray for people not to die?”
“No, I ask that if it be His will, to let them live; if not, then to take them peacefully and painlessly,” he explained.
“I come from a praying family, too,” she said. “We all loved God and lived for Him. Yet when I needed Him most, He didn’t hear me. I’ll never pray again. Mama prayed, Pa prayed ..., yet they all died. Why did God turn His back on us when we needed Him most?” she asked, briskly wiping tears from her cheeks.
Luke scooped his hair from his eyes. “I wish Edward were here. I don’t know what to say, Amanda. There are so many things we don’t understand about God and the way He operates. Someday we’ll know all the answers.”