Prairie Courtship. Dorothy Clark

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СКАЧАТЬ 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!” СКАЧАТЬ