The Doctor's Lady

by Jody Hedlund; Donna Vanliere

  Eli exchanged a look with Henry. “Then if we push hard, there’s the chance we could make it by nightfall?”

  “Maybe.” The man glanced at their wagons and then at the women. His brows lifted. “Maybe not.”

  Eli frowned. He didn’t have to say anything for Priscilla to know what he was thinking. They were slowing him down.

  The stranger tipped his hat at her and smiled. “Morning, ma’am. Aren’t you a bright spot on a cloudy day.”

  Priscilla smiled back. “Thank you.”

  “What’s a lovely lady like you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?” the stranger asked.

  “We’re heading to Oregon Country to set up a mission among the Nez Perce Indians.”

  “You don’t say?” His eyes filled with doubt. “Never heard of women crossing that far.”

  His eyes canvassed her, and his brows arched higher. “Seems like a right foolish idea to me. That trail is hard enough for the toughest trapper. No woman is gonna make it.”

  “Well, we will.” She lifted her chin, but discouragement slithered around her stomach and squeezed it hard.

  Eli came and stood next to her.

  She refused to look at him and see the stranger’s words reflected in his eyes.

  “We’re hooking up with Captain Fitzpatrick and his caravan,” Eli said. “You know if they’ve left Bellevue yet?”

  “Yep. They left yesterday mornin’.”

  “Yesterday?” Eli groaned.

  “Well, let’s stop conversing and get going.” Henry tossed a crate into the back of one of the wagons.

  “Best of luck to you.” The man on the horse gathered the reins and then slapped a hand against his horse. “You’re gonna need to ride day and night to catch up with that caravan.” He spurred his horse forward at a gallop.

  “If we hadn’t taken that half a day off, maybe we’d have a chance to catch them,” Eli mumbled, watching the man ride away.

  “Stop grumbling, and let’s load up.” Henry reached for a blanket. “And let’s all try to remember Psalm 9:10. ‘And they that know thy name will put their trust in thee: for thou, Lord, hast not forsaken them that seek thee.’ The Lord’s been with us and brought us this far. He won’t desert us now.”

  A battle of emotions waged across Eli’s face—frustration with Henry and determination to control himself.

  “He’s just trying to do what’s best for Mabel,” Priscilla offered softly.

  “And I’m just trying to do what’s best for all of us.”

  “It’s not his fault the trappers keep leaving without us.”

  His lips formed a thin line. “I haven’t worked this hard or come this far to lose out on the opportunity to make it west.”

  “But we certainly don’t want anything to happen to Mabel or the baby at the expense of trying to reach the caravan, do we?”

  A battle waged across his features. For a long moment, he held himself rigid. He glanced sideways to where Mabel stood at the back of one of the wagons, folding and putting away their blankets.

  Finally he let out a long breath. “The only thing left for me to do is to ride ahead and see if I can convince Fitzpatrick to wait for us.”

  Priscilla’s heartbeat pattered to a stop. “Ride ahead? Is that really necessary?”

  But he was already stalking away. “I’m leaving,” he announced.

  “Where are you going?” Henry asked.

  “I’m going to catch up with the caravan and beg them to stop,” Eli replied, grabbing some jerky and leftover johnnycakes from a crate.

  “Do you really think that will work?” Henry swung Mabel’s sidesaddle in place over her horse and turned a frown upon Eli.

  “Fitzpatrick is a reasonable man. If I explain the situation and remind him that we already paid for the escort, maybe he’ll give us a break.” Eli strode toward his horse, wrapping the food in his handkerchief. “Even if I can’t get them to stop, at least I can ask them to slow down. Maybe then we’ll actually have a slight chance of catching them.”

  With growing dread, Priscilla watched him stuff the food into his saddlebag. “Now that we’re together again, I don’t think it’s a good idea to split up.”

  What if they got lost without him? Or what if they got into trouble? Eli was right—Henry didn’t have the expertise. Or the strength.

  “Anything could happen,” she added weakly. But hadn’t she been priding herself on how well she was doing and how little danger they’d encountered?

  “You’ll be fine.” Eli glanced to the darkening sky. A strong gust of wind whipped at his hat, and he jammed it further down on his head. “If it storms, don’t stop. Wrap up in your India rubbers and keep going.”

  The humid scent of rain enshrouded her.

  He slung himself over his saddle. “Push yourselves hard, and God willing, you’ll catch up to me and the caravan in a couple days.”

  She wanted to reach out, to stop him, to tell him not to leave them. But she stood rigid, trying to make herself into the strong woman he wanted.

  He urged his horse forward, his body straining, ready to be on his way. But at the last second he looked back at her and swerved, drawing the beast up beside her.

  From underneath the brim of his hat, he peered down at her. The intensity in the blue depths dragged her in until she felt as if she were drowning.

  “You’ve done good so far, Priscilla.”

  At the unexpected words of praise, she sucked in a breath.

  His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered there for an instant before returning to her eyes, darker, bluer.

  Her lungs stopped working, and she clutched a hand to her chest.

  “I’ll see your pretty face in a couple days.”

  She nodded, too breathless to respond.

  He kicked his heels into his horse and left her standing, watching after him, wondering if he was taking her heart with him.

  A fool’s errand. That’s what it had been.

  Eli should have known the caravan wouldn’t change their plans. He didn’t know why he had even bothered trying to convince them to wait.

  His eyelids drooped and his body sagged. Aching weariness had invaded every muscle. After two straight days and nights of riding, he had to rest or he would drop off his horse in fatigue.

  But if he didn’t keep going, he wouldn’t be able to make it back to Priscilla and the others in time to lead them through the shortcut.

  His chin bobbed against his chest. Dizziness swirled with the pounding in his temples.

  All his pleading with Fitzpatrick hadn’t done him a lick of good. The man had claimed he had no objections to the missionaries joining the caravan but had insisted he couldn’t slow down for them.

  Of course, Black Squire had been right there, double-talking as usual. Out of one side of his mouth, he claimed he had nothing to do with them missing the steamboat in Liberty and thanked Eli for saving Running Feet’s life. But out of the other side of his mouth, he made sure to remind Captain Fitzpatrick they were already behind schedule.

  It was only when Eli was getting ready to leave that Captain Fitzpatrick finally pulled him aside and told him about the cutoff that could shave some time off their travel.

  A drop of rain splattered against Eli’s hand. He lifted his face to the billowing clouds. Another drop hit his cheek.

  His cold fingers fumbled behind his saddle for his India rubber cloak, and he dragged it around his body just as the rain began to pelt him in full force.

  He could only hope the thrashing rain would help keep him awake.

  “Lord Almighty,” he prayed, “this trip is testing me beyond my endurance. I don’t know how much longer I can keep going on. I’d appreciate an extra measure of your strength right about now. ’Cuz mine’s running out.”

  The long hours in the saddle alone had given him plenty of time to think about the precariousness of their situation. Even though he’d been wrong to blame the others for missing the caravan, he decided that if he was goi
ng to see his plans for the mission succeed, he couldn’t rely on Henry or anyone else. It would have to be himself and the Almighty. Just like it always had been.

  Eli ducked his head, and the rain poured off the brim of his hat in streams onto his cloak. He cupped his hands and caught the water, then lowered his head and took a long drink.

  When he lifted his head, the wind brought him the faint echoes of a scream.

  His muscles tightened, and he tugged the reins, bringing his horse to a standstill. Through the patter of raindrops against the leaves, he strained his ear, every sense in his body on edge.

  Another burst of wind carried the scream again, this time clearer.

  Apprehension wormed through his pores and into his blood. Was it Priscilla?

  From the thickening of the undergrowth and foliage, he’d guessed he was drawing near to the Elkhorn River. What if Henry was attempting the crossing?

  Eli had made it through the muddy waters on his way toward the caravan. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d managed. But the rain had been heavy at times during the past twenty-four hours, and the river was likely overflowing its banks now.

  If Henry had pushed the group at a decent pace, they’d likely be nearing the river by now. What if something had gone wrong?

  He kicked his horse. “Get up,” he shouted, slapping the beast, spurring it to move as fast as it could.

  The gelding was tired too and couldn’t move at nearly the pace Eli needed it to. He kicked it again and again, dread flowing from his blood into his nerves.

  “Come on, come on.” Rain pelted his face. Branches whipped him.

  The horse stumbled down the rocky descent toward the river. With each lurch, fear settled deeper into Eli’s bones.

  Through the growth, he caught sight of a wagon across the river. The men he’d hired to drive the wagons would know how to make the crossing, but he didn’t trust Henry.

  When Eli reached the bottom of the ravine, he broke through the brush, and the full view of the river lay before him.

  “O Lord Almighty!” He breathed a prayer as his heart crashed into his ribs.

  The rushing water had swept Priscilla from her saddle into the water. Her horse had continued without her, following Henry and Mabel, who were already safe in the shallower water.

  Priscilla was clinging to the drag rope that went from one bank to the other, but the water swelled around her, threatening to wrest her from the rope and sweep her away.

  John and Richard had tossed aside their shirts and were swimming toward her. But their hold on the line was causing her to sway even more.

  “Stop!” Eli galloped toward the bank and splashed into the water. He kicked his horse forward, praying the beast would have the strength to withstand the swift current.

  “Stop!” he shouted again. The Indian boys halted and shifted to look at him.

  Priscilla’s pale face turned toward him. The terror in her eyes reached out and clawed at his gut, slicing it open and releasing a cold fear of his own.

  “Don’t let go!” He dug his heels into his horse. The water swirled around its legs, rushing higher with every unsteady step.

  Her fingers around the rope were white. The skirt of her dress billowed above the surface, tugging at her, tangling her legs, a deadly enemy working at tearing her away from her precarious hold.

  The water crashed over his boots and legs, rising to the horse’s belly, but he urged his horse harder.

  “I can’t hold on.” She closed her eyes and a sob escaped from her lips.

  The cold fear turned his blood to ice. He reached a hand out to her. “I’m almost there.”

  One of her hands slipped from the rope.

  Mabel’s scream echoed from a distance—as if she were miles away instead of yards.

  “Hang on!” He lunged forward and caught Priscilla’s wrist just as her fingers began to lose their grip.

  Her weight threatened to pull him from his mount. He gripped his horse with his thighs and dug his boots deeper into the stirrups. He wrapped the reins around his arm then let go so he could grab her with both hands.

  The reins dug deep, burning his skin, but the hold anchored him to his horse. With a groan, he hefted her with a strength borne of panic. He couldn’t lose her. Not here. Not now.

  “Grab on to me.”

  Her eyes were round with terror. The rushing water had ripped her bonnet from her head and unraveled her hair so that it swirled in a wet tangle about her face.

  She gave a cry and wrapped both her hands around his arm.

  He wrenched her upward, but the strong current and the weight of her drenched clothes fought against him.

  His horse took a step back, and the motion lifted Priscilla out of the river’s hold. He urged his gelding back another step, and she came sliding upward.

  With a last heave, Eli dragged her up the side of the horse and lifted her sideways into the saddle in front of him.

  Her arms snaked around him, and she clung to him, burying her face into his chest as sobs shook her body.

  He unwound his arm from the reins and turned his horse toward the shore.

  The horse wobbled, and he gripped the reins hard.

  “Come on, boy.” He urged the gelding forward. His hold around Priscilla turned fierce. Now that he had her, he wouldn’t lose her. Not unless he died first.

  The horse sloshed into shallower water and finally stumbled up the bank. Eli slid from the horse, pulling Priscilla down with him.

  Dazed relief weakened his knees, and he fell back into the long grass, taking Priscilla with him.

  “Thank you, God,” he murmured against her hair.

  She clung to him, trembling.

  Mabel rushed over and reached for Priscilla. “Praise the Lord.”

  Too tired to speak, he shook his head. But he wasn’t too tired to tighten his hold so that Mabel had no choice but to back away.

  He ran a hand over the wet tangles of Priscilla’s hair and combed them off her face.

  She shuddered, every inch of her body thoroughly soaked.

  Intense relief poured over him, and he pressed his lips to her temple.

  Her pulse throbbed against his touch.

  Death had captured her within its grasp and almost swallowed her. If he’d been a few minutes later . . .

  He wound his fingers into her thick wet strands and took a deep breath, trying to still the frantic pounding of his heartbeat. He brushed his lips against the soft wet skin of her forehead, tasting her saltiness.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured through chattering teeth.

  He could only picture the planks of a coffin and her lying within the dark box, her skin translucent, her lips colorless, eyes closed forever.

  “No. I’m sorry,” he said, choking on the words. “I’m sorry I left you. I won’t do it again.”

  He wouldn’t—couldn’t—risk losing her to death.

  The strength of his fear pulsed hard, demanding that he do whatever it took to keep her safe. Whatever it took.

  Chapter

  15

  Near the Platte River

  They spent the next two days traveling from early dawn until well after dusk. They left the Missouri River and headed in a northwest direction toward the Loup Fork. With each mile they traveled away from the lush river valley, they encountered fewer and fewer trees until eventually nothing but the wide open prairie spread before them like an endless ocean of waving grass.

  If Priscilla thought she’d been weary before, she hadn’t known the true meaning of the word.

  The coldness of the dark night was all that kept her awake.

  “We’ve got to stop now, Dr. Ernest.” Henry’s voice penetrated the weary fog that had settled over her.

  “We’re near the fork,” Eli replied. “A few more miles maybe.”

  “Horses, cows—need rest,” John called. The boys rarely defied Eli’s instruction. But the sun had set hours ago, and Eli had continued to push the group onward.

&n
bsp; They’d begun to see signs of Pawnee Indians in the area. Time was running out. If they didn’t catch up with the caravan by the time they reached the Pawnee villages on the other side of the Platte River, they would have to turn around. They would be foolish to attempt passing the villages without the protection of the trappers.

  “No good for animals or Mrs. Doc,” Richard added.

  For a moment Eli didn’t reply. “All right.” His voice hinted at weariness. “We’ll stop here for a few hours’ rest.”

  Mabel had long since retired to one of the wagons. When Eli had talked of throwing some of their supplies overboard to help them move faster, Priscilla hadn’t dared ask if she could ride in the wagon too.

  Her body sagged. All she’d been able to think about the past two days since her near drowning was that she wanted to be warm and dry and clean. Even though she’d eventually changed into dry clothes, rain had been their constant companion of late. Their India rubbers could keep them dry only to a point.

  Besides, she was tired of traveling, tired of eating cold food, tired of sleeping on the hard, damp ground. And it was growing harder to prevent herself from wondering if she’d really made the right choice coming west. Had she been too hasty? If she’d waited, would God have made a way for her to go to India?

  Worse than those nagging questions was the bigger one, the one that mocked her whenever she faced adversity—was everyone right that the journey was too hard for a lady like her?

  She wriggled out of her sidesaddle and slumped to wet ground. Through the blackness of the night by the faint light of the shrouded moon, she watched Eli untie a cup from his saddle.

  His words of praise from before her near drowning still warmed her heart every time she thought about them. He’d told her she was doing well. She was proving herself to him. She couldn’t give up yet.

  Through the jangle of harnesses and the soft chirping of crickets, she could hear the ping of cow’s milk squirting against Eli’s tin cup. Those hands against the cow’s udder had saved her life.

  She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how he’d charged into the river after her and braved the rushing current. He’d appeared almost out of nowhere, and his face had been chiseled with a determination that had given her renewed hope.