Книга - Prairie Courtship

Prairie Courtship
Dorothy Clark


No one could love a female doctor–Emma Allen knows that well. But her spinsterhood bothers her less than the lack of opportunity to use her medical training.In Missouri, no one trusts a female doctor, either. Then the opportunity arises to join a wagon train headed to the Oregon Trail. A new frontier offers a new hope for the life she wants to lead. But first she must deal with the hazards of the journey–including infuriating wagon master Zachary Thatcher. Zach riles Emma's temper until she's convinced no man could be more wrong for her. Yet when the treacherous trail challenges them, it takes his experience and her skill working together to bring them safely home.









“Why have you and your sister joined this wagon train?”


Thatcher’s eyes were hidden below his hat’s wide brim, but Emma was sure he was scowling. She gripped the lantern with both hands. “And how is that your concern, Mr. Thatcher?”

“I am responsible for getting this wagon train to Oregon before winter, Miss Allen. Everything that can endanger that mission is my concern.”

He called her an endangerment! Emma gave him her haughtiest look. “And how does our presence imperil your mission?”

“If you want me to name all the ways, you’d best let me light that lantern. We will be a while.” He held out his hand.

“I think it would be best for you if I continue to hold the lantern, Mr. Thatcher. At this moment, you would not want my hands to be free.”

Laughter burst from him, deep and full. Surprising. She had thought him quite without humor.

“Seems you might not need quite as much protecting as I figured you would.” He chuckled.




DOROTHY CLARK


Critically acclaimed, award-winning author Dorothy Clark lives in rural New York, in a home she designed and helped her husband build (she swings a mean hammer!) with the able assistance of their three children. When she is not writing, she and her husband enjoy traveling throughout the United States doing research and gaining inspiration for future books. Dorothy believes in God, love, family and happy endings, which explains why she feels so at home writing stories for Steeple Hill. Dorothy enjoys hearing from her readers and may be contacted at dorothyjclark@hotmail.com.




Prairie Courtship

Dorothy Clark





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


“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


This book is dedicated to my sisters Jo and Marj.

My thanks to you both for being so understanding of my time constraints, and for praying me through these last two months. I wouldn’t have made it without your help. I love you both.

And to my critique partner, Sam. You stand tall, cowboy. Thank you again for your encouragement and prayers. And for sticking with me through the crunch. I will return the favor when your deadline hovers! And, yes, you may have Comanche—after the next book is written. Blessings.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion




Chapter One


Independence, Missouri

April, 1841

“Break camp!”

That was not Josiah Blake’s voice. Emma Allen turned in the direction of the barked order, stiffened at the sight of an imposing figure atop a roan with distinctive spots on its hindquarters. So the autocratic Mr. Thatcher had returned to take command. She had hoped his absence since their arrival at Independence had meant he would not be leading the wagon train after all.

Brass buttons on the front of the once dark blue tunic that stretched across the ex-soldier’s shoulders gleamed dully in the early morning light. Pants of lighter blue fabric skimmed over his long legs and disappeared into the knee-high, black boots jammed into his stirrups. He rode forward, began to wend his way through the wagons scattered over the field.

Emma frowned and stepped out of sight at the back of the wagon. Mr. Thatcher did not need to wear the faded blue cavalry uniform to remind people he had been a military officer. It was in his bearing. And in the penetrating gaze of the bright blue eyes that peered out from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. Eyes that looked straight at a person, noticed everything about her—including a lace-trimmed silk gown that was inappropriate garb for an emigrant. Eyes that had unfairly impaled her on their spike of disapproval at that first meeting in St. Louis when he had simply assumed she was William’s wife and would be accompanying him on the journey to Oregon country—and judged her accordingly. Had the man bothered to ask, she would have informed him William was her brother and that she was not traveling with the train.

Not then.

But that was before everything in their lives had turned upside down. Emma sighed and stroked Traveler’s arched neck. How she had hated telling William that the severe nausea Caroline had developed was not normal for a woman with child. That his wife and the baby she carried were in peril, and would, of a certainty, not survive the journey to Oregon country. Her face tightened. Another prayer unanswered. Another hope shattered. William had to give up his dream of teaching at his friend Mitchel Banning’s mission in Oregon country.

Emma glanced at the two wagons sitting side by side, lifted her hand and combed through Traveler’s mane with her fingers. How many hours had she sat watching William plan and design the two wagons’ interiors—one to hold their personal necessities and provide for Caroline’s comfort, the other to carry needed provisions, the teaching materials and provide shelter for Caroline’s mother? He had had such faith that things would turn out all right. Misplaced faith. William was, at this moment, aboard one of their uncle Justin’s luxury river steamboats taking his wife home to Philadelphia. And she and Annie—who should not be traveling at all in her injured condition—were—

Traveler tossed his head, snorted. The thud of a horse’s hoofs drew near. Stopped. Mr. Thatcher. Emma stood immobile, aware of a sudden tenseness in her breathing, a quickening of her pulse.

“Good morning, Mrs. Allen.”

Emma turned, looked up at Zachary Thatcher sitting so tall and handsome in his saddle and gave him a cool nod of greeting. He was a lean man, muscular and broad of shoulder. But it was not his size, rather the intensity, the firm, purposeful expression on his weather-darkened face, the aura of strength and authority that emanated from him that produced an antipathy in her. Autocratic men like Zachary Thatcher were the bane of her life, had caused the demise of her dream. She refused to feed this one’s vanity by exhibiting the slightest interest in him or what he had to say.

A frown tightened his face, drew his brows together into a V-shaped line. “I see your lead team is not hitched yet. Tell your husband from now on every wagon is to be ready to roll out by first light.”

Emma stared up into those judgmental, sky-blue eyes. Clearly Mr. Thatcher expected an acknowledgment. “I will relay your order.” Her conscience pricked. She quelled the unease. It was the truth as far as it went. As for the rest, let the pompous Mr. Thatcher who formed his own conclusions believe what he chose.

He glanced toward the second wagon. “I understand your husband hired the oldest Lundquist sons to help him out—drive his wagons, herd the stock and such. Is that right?”

“They have been hired, yes.” There was that prick of conscience again. She clenched her hands and yielded to its prompting. “But I must explain that William is not—”

“I have no time for explanations or excuses, Mrs. Allen. Only make sure your husband passes my message on to his drivers. Tomorrow we start traveling at the break of dawn. Any slackers will be left behind to turn back or catch up as best they can.” He touched his fingers to his hat’s brim and rode off.

Tyrant! It was a wonder he did not make the members of the train salute and call him “sir”! Emma glared at Zachary Thatcher’s strong, straight back and shoved her conscience firmly aside. She had tried to tell him the truth about William. It was not her fault if he would not take the time to listen.

“Whoa, now, whoa!” Oxen hoofs thumped against the ground—stopped. Chains rattled at the front of the wagon.

Emma hurried forward. “Mr. Lundquist, Mr. Thatcher has returned. He ordered that from now on all wagons are to be hitched up and ready to leave by first light, else they will be left behind. Please inform your brother.”

Her hired driver’s head dipped. “I’ll see to it.” He leaned a beefy shoulder against an ox and shoved. “Give over, now!”

Emma left him to his work, glanced around the field. Everywhere she looked men were making last-minute checks of equipment, climbing to wagon seats or taking up their places beside oxen teams. Women and girls were dousing cooking fires, stowing away breakfast paraphernalia and gathering small children into the wagons. All was as she had watched their company practice over the past few days under Josiah Blake’s guidance—and yet completely different.

“Form up!”

The words cracked through the cool morning air, sharp as a gunshot. Zachary Thatcher’s order was picked up and echoed around the camp. Emma caught her breath and tugged her riding gloves snug. This was it. There was no more time. A tremble rippled through her, shook her hands as she loosed the reins tethering Traveler and led him to the side of the wagon to use the spoke of a wheel as a mounting aid. The light wool fabric of the long, divided skirt of her riding outfit whispered softly as she stepped into the stirrup and settled herself into the strange saddle with the horn on the front. William’s saddle. William’s horse.

Tears flooded her eyes. Her brother, her staunch protector, the only one of her family who shared her blood, would soon be out of her life—forced by his wife’s illness to remain at home, while she, who wanted only to return to Philadelphia, traveled with this wagon train bound for Oregon country. Oh, if only William had sold the wagons! But he had kept hoping. And then Annie had declared she would go to Mitchel Banning’s mission and teach in William’s place!

Emma’s shoulder’s slumped. When Annie would not be dissuaded, her fate had been decided. What choice had she but to come along to care for her injured sister? The sick, hollow feeling she had been fighting for days swelled in her stomach. Would she ever see William again? Or Mother and Papa Doc, who had taken them into their hearts and adopted them so many years ago she could remember no other parents?

Emma blinked to clear her vision, brushed the moisture from her cheeks and focused her attention on the last-minute rush of activity to block out the dear, loved faces that floated on her memory. Her heart pounded. Men’s mouths opened wide in shouts she could not hear over the throbbing of her pulse in her ears. Whips snaked through the air over the backs of the teams. Here and there a wagon lurched, began to move. She tensed, counted. William’s wagon—no, her wagon—was to be fourth in line…to what? A primitive, unknown land inhabited by heathen. It was insanity!

“Haw, Baldy! Haw, Bright!”

The command penetrated her anxiety, the roaring in her ears. Emma drew her gaze from the camp, watched the oxen her brother had purchased lean into their yokes and move forward at Garth Lundquist’s bidding. The wagon shuddered and creaked, rolled over the trampled grass. She swallowed hard against a sudden surge of nausea, made certain only the toes of her riding boots showed from beneath the fullness of her long skirts and rode forward beside the wagon. All through the eight-day steamboat journey from St. Louis up the muddy Missouri River to Independence she had managed to hold her apprehension at bay. Even when the steamer had run aground on one of the many sandbars, or when it had been raked by hidden snags, she had maintained her calm. But now…

Now there was no more time.

Emma closed her eyes, took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Still, who could blame her for her fearfulness? She opened her eyes and stared at the western horizon. This was not merely another drill to ensure everyone could drive their wagons and herd their stock on the trail. This was it. She was leaving behind family, friends and all of civilization and heading into untold danger. And for what? Someone else’s dream. If Mitchel Banning had not started that mission in Oregon country none of this—

“Haw, Big Boy. Steady on, Scar.”

Emma glanced over her shoulder, watched Garth Lund quist’s brother, Ernst, bring William’s second wagon into line behind hers. Anne’s wagon now. She and her adopted sister were on their own. A tremor snaked through her. Traveler snorted, tossed his head and danced sideways. She leaned forward, patted the arched neck. “It’s all right, boy. Everything is all right.” The horse calmed.

Emma gave him another pat and straightened in the saddle. How lovely it would be if there were someone to reassure her, to ease her fear. Disgust pulled her brows down, stiffened her spine. She had to stop this self-pity that eroded her courage and undermined her purpose. Still…

She halted Traveler and glanced over her shoulder. Perhaps she should try once more—now that the time of departure was upon them—to dissuade Anne from going to Oregon country. Perhaps the reality of the leave-taking had softened Anne’s determination. Perhaps. Hope she could not quite stifle fluttered in her chest.

Emma reined Traveler around, halted and stared as Anne, riding Lady, the bay mare William had bought for Caroline, emerged from behind her wagon. So Anne had, again, ignored her advice. She was supposed to be in the wagon. Abed.

Worry spiraled upward, crowded out every emotion but concern. Anne’s face was thin and pale beneath the russet curls that had escaped from beneath the stiff brim of her black bonnet, her body frail and tense in her widow’s garb. That she was in discomfort was obvious in her taut face and posture. If only she would give up this madness!

Emma tapped Traveler with her heels and rode to her sister’s side. “Annie…” She frowned, changed her tone. She had tried pleading. “Anne, this is your last chance. It will soon be too late to change your mind. As your doctor, I am advising you to reconsider your decision to make this journey. You are not yet recovered from—”

“Do not say it, Emma!”

Anguish flashed across Anne’s pale face. Emma’s heart squeezed, her professional doctor’s facade crumbled. “Oh, Annie, forgive me. I did not mean to—” She stopped, stared at the silencing hand Anne raised between them, the uncontrollable twitching fingers that were the outward sign of Anne’s inward suffering. She reached out to touch her sister’s arm. It was jerked away.

Emma pulled back. She stared at her younger sister, once so happy and loving, now so grim and distant, and closed her hand in a white-knuckled grip on the reins. All Anne had ever wanted was to marry and have children. But that dream was now as lifeless and cold as the stone that marked her loved ones’ graves.

“I know you mean well, Emma. And I do not mean to be sharp with you. It is only—I cannot bear—” Anne’s hesitant words stopped on a small gasp. She clutched her side.

Emma took note of Anne’s closed eyes, the increased pallor of her skin, and clenched her jaw. She could not bring back Phillip and little baby Grace, but she could treat the physical injuries Anne had sustained in the carriage accident that had killed her husband and child. Only not here. Not on a wagon train.

Almighty God, if You can change the heart of a king, You can make Anne change her mind and return home to Philadelphia where Papa Doc and I can properly care for her—where the love of her family can help her over her grief.

Emma shifted in the saddle, closed her heart against the useless words. The prayer would only be heaped atop all the countless others she’d offered that had gone unanswered. She cleared the lump from her throat. “Annie—”

“No!” The black bonnet swept side to side. “I am going on, Emma. I cannot face the…the memories at home.” Anne opened her eyes and looked straight into hers. “But I want you to go home, Emma. It is foolish for you to come along, to place yourself in harm’s way so that you may doctor me when I no longer care if I live or die.” Anne’s voice broke. She took a ragged, shallow breath. “Turn around and go home, Emma. You still have your dream. And all you desire awaits you there.”

Emma’s vision blurred, her throat closed. She looked away from her sister’s pain, stared at the wagons that had become the symbols of William’s lost hope and Anne’s despair—of her own thwarted ambition. Why God? Why could not at least one of us have our dream?

Emma huffed out a breath and squared her shoulders. Pity would help nothing. But the truth might help Anne. At least it would keep her from feeling guilty. “How I wish that were true, Anne. But though Papa Doc has taught me all he knows of medicine, his patients do not accept me as a doctor. And they never will.” The frustration and anger she held buried in her heart boiled up and burned like acid on her tongue. “It is time for me to set aside my foolish dream. I will never be a doctor in Philadelphia or anywhere else. Men will not allow it. They will not permit me to treat them or their families. And who can be a doctor without patients?”

She lifted her chin, tugged her lips into the facsimile of a smile. “So, you and I will journey on together. And we had best start, or we will fall out of place behind our wagons and be chastised by the arrogant Mr. Thatcher.” She urged Traveler into motion, gave an inward sigh of relief as Anne nudged her mount into step beside her. “What slow and lumbering beasts these oxen are. It will take us forever to reach Oregon country at this pace.”

Anne stared at her a moment, then turned to face forward. “Forever is a long time to live without a dream.”

The words were flat, quiet…resigned. Emma shot a look at Anne but could see nothing but the stiff brim of her black bonnet, the symbol of all she had lost. Oh, Annie, you cannot give up on life. I will not let you!

Emma set her jaw and fixed her gaze west, her sister’s words weighing like stones in her heart.



Zach stopped Comanche at the edge of the woods, rested his hands on the pommel and studied the wagons rolling across the undulating plains. The line was ragged, the paces varied, but it was not bad for the first day. Too bad he’d had to scout out the trail conditions. Things would be better had he been around to run the practice drills himself. Still, Blake had done a fair job, but he was too soft on the greenhorns. They had to learn to survive, and there was more to that than simply learning a few new skills. They had to develop discipline, and a sense of responsibility to the group as a whole or they would never make it to Oregon country.

Zach frowned and settled back in the saddle. There had been a lot of grumbling when he pushed them to an early start this morning. The problem was the emigrants’ independent spirit. They balked like ornery mules being broke to harness when given orders. It was certainly easier in the military where men obeyed and performed duties as instructed. But it was not as lucrative. And, truth be told, he had his own independent streak. No more fetters of military life for him.

“We are going to be free to roam where we will, when we will. Right, boy?” Comanche flicked an ear his direction, blew softly. Zach chuckled, scratched beneath the dark mane. Of course he had his ambitions, too. A trading post. One that would supply both Indians and army. And the fee for guiding this wagon train to Oregon country, combined with what he had saved from his army pay, would enable him to build one next spring. The large bonus promised—if he got the emigrants to Oregon before the winter snows closed the mountain passes—would buy the goods to stock the place. He intended to earn that bonus. But in order to do that he would have to drive these people hard and fast. It snowed early in those high elevations.

Zach gave Comanche a final scratch and settled back, his lips drawn into their normal, firm line. Too bad they were not all reasonable men like Mr. Allen. It was obvious, even at his first meeting with the emigrants back in St. Louis, that the man understood the need for rules and limitations. Of course that wife of his was a different matter. She had no place on a wagon train with her fancy, ruffled silk dress. He had learned in his days of command to spot troublemakers, and Mrs. Allen spelled trouble with her challenging brown eyes and her small, defiant chin stuck in the air. She looked as stubborn as they came. Beautiful, too. More so today, standing there by the wagon in the soft, morning light.

Zach again crossed his hands on the saddle horn, drew his gaze along the line of wagons. There she was, riding astride, and looking at ease in the saddle. He never would have thought it of her with her fancy gowns and her city ways, but astride she was. Must have had that outfit made special. He’d never seen anything like it. She looked—

He frowned, jerked his gaze away. The woman’s beauty was but a shallow thing. He had overheard her complaining to Allen of their wagon being too small to live in. He shook his head, glanced back at the slender figure in the dark green riding outfit. Coddled and spoiled, that was Mrs. Allen. But she was her husband’s problem to handle, not his. And a good thing it was. He was accustomed to commanding men, not obstreperous women.

The lowing of oxen and braying of mules pulled him from his thoughts. Zach straightened in the saddle, stared at the mixed herd of animals coming over the rise behind the wagons. Those fool boys were letting the stock wander all over the place! And that bull in front looked wild and mean. If he caught a whiff of the river ahead and took it into his head to run—

He reined Comanche around. “Let’s bunch up that herd, boy.” The horse needed no further urging. Zach tugged his hat down firm against the wind, settled deep in the saddle and let him run.



Emma climbed to the top of the knoll, lifted the gossamer tails of the fabric adorning her riding hat and let the gentle breeze cool her neck as she looked back over the low, rolling hills that stretched as far as the eye could see. White pillows of cloud drifted across the blue sky, cast moving shadows on the light green of the new grass. It was a glorious day…except for the occasion.

She frowned, let the frothy tails drop back into place and turned toward the river. Her chest tightened, her breath shortened—the familiar reaction to her fear of water. She’d been plagued by the fear since the day William had pulled her, choking and gasping for air, from the pond on the grounds at their uncle Justin’s home. She’d been reaching for a baby duck and—

“Randolph Court.” Speaking the name drove the terror-filled memory away. Emma closed her eyes, pictured her uncle Justin’s beautiful brick home, with its large stables where she and William had learned to ride along with their cousins Sarah and Mary and James. It was there her mother had taught her to ride astride instead of sidesaddle. A smile curved her lips. She could almost hear her uncle Justin objecting to the practice, and her mother answering, “Now, dearheart, if riding astride is good enough for Marie Antoinette and Catherine the Great, it is good enough for—”

“Lundquist, get that wagon aboard! Time is wasting! We have ten more wagons to ferry across before dark.”

Emma popped her eyes open at Zachary Thatcher’s shout. Was her wagon—“Haw, Scar! Haw, Big Boy!”—No, it was Ernst moving Anne’s wagon forward. She held her breath as her sister’s wagon rolled down the slight embankment toward the river. A figure, garbed in black, appeared briefly at the rear opening in the canvas cover, then disappeared as the flaps were closed.

Annie! What was she doing? She knew Mr. Thatcher had ordered that no one cross the river inside the wagons for fear they would be trapped if— I want you to go home, Emma. It is foolish for you to come along, to place yourself in harm’s way so that you may doctor me when I no longer care if I live or die. A chill slithered down her spine. Surely Annie did not mean to— Her mind balked, refused to finish the horrifying thought.

The wagon halted at the edge of the riverbank. Men rushed forward to help Ernst unhitch the oxen. Others took up places at the tongue, wheels and tailgate. “No! Wait!” Her shout was useless, lost in the clamor below. Emma yanked the front hems of her long skirts clear of her feet and raced down the knoll.

“The teams’re free! Get ’er rollin’!”

The men strained forward, pushed the wagon onto the short, thick planks leading to the deck. Emma dodged around the wagon next in line and ran toward the raft.

“Sutton! Thomas! Chock those wheels fore and aft!” Zachary Thatcher grabbed chunks of wood from a small pile and tossed them onto the deck. “And see you set the chocks firm so that wagon can’t shift or roll. There’ll be no stopping her if she starts slipping toward the water.” He turned toward Ernst. “Lundquist, you get those oxen ready to swim across.”

Emma halted her headlong rush as the men, finished with their work, jumped to the bank. She stood back out of their way and stared at the raft sunk low under the heavy load. Only a few inches of the sides showed above the rushing water of the Kansas River. Every bit of courage she possessed drained from her. But Anne was in that wagon. Anne—who did not care if she lived or died. She drew a deep breath, lifted the hems of her skirts out of the mud with her trembling hands and ran down a plank onto the bobbing ferry. “Mrs. Allen!”

The authoritative shout froze her in her tracks. Emma grabbed hold of the top of the rear wagon wheel, turned and looked full into Zachary Thatcher’s scowling face.

“Come off the ferry and wait for your husband, Mrs. Allen. Everyone is to cross with their own wagon.”

The ferry dipped, shuddered, slipped away from the bank. Muddy water sloshed onto the deck and swirled around her feet. Emma tightened her hold to a death grip on the wheel and shook her head. “My sister, Anne, is lying ill in this wagon, Mr. Thatcher.” She instilled a firmness she was far from feeling into her voice. “I am crossing the river with her.”

“Your sister!” Zachary Thatcher’s face darkened like a storm cloud. “What sister? When did—”

“And I have no husband. William Allen is my brother.”

The ropes attached to the ferry stretched taut with a creaking groan. Emma gasped, turned and fixed her gaze on the men on the opposite bank hauling on the rope. Frightened as she was, the view across the water was preferable to the one of Mr. Thatcher’s furious face. The raft lurched out into the river then turned its nose, caught the current and floated diagonally toward the other side. She closed her eyes and hoped she wouldn’t get sick.




Chapter Two


“The last wagon is safely across, Anne. They are hitching up the teams to pull it up the bank.” Emma hooked back the flap of canvas at the rear of the wagon to let in the evening light. “Perhaps now the camp will settle into a semblance of order.”

“Perhaps. Please close the flap, Emma.”

How she hated that listless attitude! Emma let the flap fall into place and fixed a smile firmly on her face as she stepped to the side of her sister’s bed. “Would you care to take a short walk with me before the sun sets? I want to make certain Traveler and Lady swim across safely.”

“No. You go, Emma.” Anne lifted her hand and pushed a wayward curl off her forehead. “I am weary.”

“And in pain.” Emma dropped the phony smile and frowned. “You cannot move without wincing, Anne. I warned you riding would not be good for your injured ribs. It has irritated them. Your breathing is shallow. I will go get my bag and give you some laudanum to ease the discomfort.” She stepped to the tailgate.

“Please do not bother, Emma. I want no medication—only rest.”

“Annie—”

“I’ll not take it, Emma.”

“Very well.” Her patience had run its course. Emma pushed the canvas flap aside, climbed through the opening then stuck her head back inside. “But I shall return when Mrs. Lundquist has prepared our supper. And you will eat, Anne. You are my patient and I shall not allow you to die—even if you want to!” She jerked the flaps back into place for emphasis, whirled about and headed for a spot beneath a tree to watch the men swimming the stock across the river.



A low hum of voices, broken by the shouts and laughter of children, vibrated the air. From the adjoining field came the lowing of cows and oxen, the neighing of horses and braying of mules. Chickens and roosters, imprisoned in cages lashed to the sides of wagons, cackled and crowed. Dogs barked and snarled at enemies real or imagined.

Such a din! Emma nodded and smiled at the woman and daughter working over a cooking fire and made her way to the outer rim of the men grouped around the lead wagon. Heads turned her direction. Faces scowled. Her steps faltered. She braced herself and continued on.

“Did you want something, Mrs…”

Emma met a thin, bearded man’s gaze. The look of forebearance in his eyes caused a prickle of irritation that fueled her determination. “Only to be obedient to Mr. Thatcher’s order to assemble.”

“This meeting is only for the owners of the wagons. The heads of the families.”

Emma glanced toward the condescending voice coming from her left, stared straight at the rotund, prosperous-looking man who had spoken. “Yes. That was my understanding.”

A frown pulled the man’s bushy, gray eyebrows low over his deep-set eyes. “Now, see here, young woman, we men have business to discuss. This is no time for female foolishness! Go back to your wagon and send your husband, or father, or—”

“My name is Miss Allen, sir.” She kept her tone respectful, but put enough ice in her voice to freeze the Kansas River flowing beside their evening camp. “I have no husband. And my father is in Philadelphia. I am the owner of—”

“Impossible! I personally signed up every—did you say Allen?” The man’s eyes narrowed, accused her. “The only Allen to join our train was William Allen and his wife.”

The man had all but called her a liar! Emma forced a smile. “William Allen is my brother.”

“Then your brother will speak for you, young lady. It is not necessary for you to attend this meeting.”

Emma took a breath, held her voice level. “My brother’s wife took ill and he was unable to make the journey. My sister and I have taken their place on the train.”

“Two lone women!” The exclamation started an up roar.

“Gentlemen!”

The word snapped like a lash. Every head swiveled toward the center of the group. Silence fell as those gathered stared at Zachary Thatcher.

“The trail to Oregon country is two thousand miles of rough, rutted prairies, bogs and marshes, quicksand, swift, turbulent rivers, steep, rocky mountains, perpendicular descents and sandy desert—most of the terrain seldom, if ever, traversed by wagon. Factor in thunderstorms, hailstorms, windstorms, prairie fires and—if we are too often delayed—snowstorms, and everything gets worse. You will never make it to Oregon country if you waste time arguing over every problem that arises. There will be legions of them. And this particular situation is covered by the rules and regulations settled upon by Mr. Hargrove and the other leaders of this enterprise before our departure. Now, to the business at hand. Miss Allen…”

A problem was she? Emma lifted her head, met Zachary Thatcher’s cold gaze and traded him look for look.

“This meeting is about tending stock and standing guard duty. Each wagon owner must shoulder their share of the work. I understand your hu—brother hired drivers. As it states in the rules, hired drivers will be permitted to stand for wagon owners—in this instance, you and your sister. Therefore, Mr. Hargrove is correct—your presence is not required at this meeting.” He turned to the thin man beside him. “Lundquist, your sons—”

The man nodded. “I’ll fetch ’em in.” He faced toward the river and gave a long, ear-piercing whistle.

She was dismissed. Rudely and summarily dismissed. Emma clenched her jaw, stared at the backs of the men who had all faced away from her then turned and strode toward her wagon. A problem! You would think she wanted—

Emma stopped, gathered her long, full skirt close, stepped around a small pile of manure and hurried on. Why was she so discomposed? Her demeaning treatment by the men was nothing new. She had become accustomed to such supercilious attitudes in her quest to be a doctor. Thank goodness Papa Doc did not share such narrow vision! Not that it mattered now. Her dream was not to be. Instead she was on this wagon train of unwelcoming men, headed toward an unknown future in an unknown, unwelcoming country.

Bogs, marshes and quicksand…swift, turbulent rivers…high, steep, rocky mountains… Emma shuddered, looked at her wagon. Her home. It was all she had. The reality of her situation struck her as never before. She sank down on the wagon tongue and buried her face in her hands to compose herself. Not for anything would she let Mr. Zachary Thatcher and those other men see her dismay.



Zach looked at the grazing stock spread out over the fields and shook his head. The men on first watch were taking their duties lightly, in spite of his instructions. But one stampede, one horse or ox or cow stolen by Indians, one morning spent tracking down stock that had wandered off during the night would take care of that. They would learn to listen. Experience was a harsh but effective teacher. So were empty stomachs. A few missed breakfasts would focus their attention on their duties. As for the camp guards—they, too, would learn to take advice and stay alert. Most likely when one of them was found dead from a knife wielded by a silent enemy. His gut tightened. He’d seen enough of that in the army.

He frowned, rode Comanche to the rise he had chosen for his camp and dismounted. He stripped off saddle and bridle, stroked the strong, arched neck and scratched beneath the throat latch. “Good work today, boy. If it weren’t for you, those emigrants would have lost stock while swimming them across the river for sure. But they’ll learn. And your work will get easier.”

The horse snorted, tossed his head. Zach laughed, rubbed the saddle blanket over Comanche’s back. “I know, they’re green as grass, but there’s hope.” He slapped the spots decorating Comanche’s rump and stepped back. “All right, boy—dismissed!” He braced himself. Comanche whickered softly, stretched out his neck, nudged him in the chest with his head then trotted off.

“Stay close, boy!” He called the words, though the command was unnecessary. Comanche never ranged far, and he always returned before dawn. And there wasn’t an Indian born who could get his hands on him.

Zach smiled, then sobered. They were safe from hostiles for now, but once they moved beyond the army’s area of protection it could be a very different story. Sooner, if one of these greenhorn emigrants pulled a stupid stunt that riled the friendlies. “Lord, these people are as unsuspecting of the dangers they’re heading into as a newborn lamb walking into a pack of wolves. I sure would appreciate it if You would help me whip them into shape and grant them Your protection meanwhile.”

He looked toward the red-and-gold sunset in the west, took off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, settled his hat back in place and headed for the wagons. There was one more piece of business to attend to before he turned in.



The small dose of laudanum she had finally convinced Anne to swallow had eased the pain. She would sleep through the night now. Emma pulled the quilt close under Anne’s chin, climbed from the wagon and secured the flaps. It would be a comfort if Anne would consent to share a wagon, but she insisted on being alone. Not that it was surprising. She had resisted all physical contact, all gestures of comfort since Phillip and little Grace had died.

Emma sighed and looked around the center ground of the circled wagons, now dotted with tents. It was so quiet she could hear the murmurings of the few men and women who still sat working around cooking fires that had died to piles of coals. Traveler, Lady and a few other personal mounts were grazing in the center of the makeshift corral, their silhouettes dark against the caliginous light.

She walked to her wagon, lifted a lantern off its hook on the side but could find no means to light it. She heaved another sigh and looked up at the darkening sky. She should probably retire as others were doing, even if sleep eluded her. But to be alone in the wagon without light—

“Good evening.”

Emma gasped and whirled about, the lantern dangling from her hands. “You startled me, Mr. Thatcher!” She pressed one hand over her racing heart and frowned at him. “Is there something you wanted?”

“I need to know why you and your sister have joined this wagon train. What purpose takes you to Oregon country?”

His eyes were hidden by the darkness below his hat’s wide brim, but she was sure he was scowling. She brushed back a wisp of hair that had fallen onto her forehead at her quick turn, then, again, gripped the lantern with both hands. “And how is that your concern, Mr. Thatcher?”

He tilted his hat up, stared down at her. “I am responsible for getting this wagon train to Oregon before winter, Miss Allen. Everything that can endanger that mission is my concern.”

First he called her a “problem” and now he named her an endangerment! Emma lifted her chin, gave him her haughtiest look. “And how does our presence imperil your mission?”

“If you want me to name all the ways, you’d best let me light that lantern. We will be a while.” He held out his hand.

Emma tightened her grip. “I think it would be best for you if I continue to hold the lantern, Mr. Thatcher. At this moment, you would not want my hands to be free.”

Laughter burst from him, deep and full. Surprising. She had thought him quite without humor. Of course he was laughing at her.

“Now that erased one of the reasons on my list, Miss Allen. Seems you might not need quite as much protecting as I figured you would. All the same, I’ll take my chances on freeing up your hands.” He reached for the lantern.

This time she let him take it. She needed that lantern lit. Even more, she needed to know how he would light it. She watched as he walked to a nearby fire, squatted down and held a twig to one of the dying embers then blew on it. The twig burst into flame. Of course! She should have thought of that. He lit the lantern, tossed the twig on the embers and returned to her.

“Easy enough when you know how, Miss Allen. And that is my first reason.” All trace of amusement was gone from his voice. His expression was dead serious. “If you do not know how to light a lantern out here in the wilderness, how will you manage all the other things you do not know how to do? You are a pampered woman, Miss Allen. Because of that pampering—and without a husband or brother to care for you—you are a burden and an endangerment to all the others traveling with you. And I assume it is the same with your sister. Only worse, because she is ill.”

“My sister is not a burden, Mr. Thatcher! And she is my responsibility to care for, not yours or any other man’s!” Emma snatched the lantern from his hand, held her breath and counted to ten as she adjusted the wick to stop the smoking. When her anger was under control she looked up at him. “What you say about me was true, Mr. Thatcher—until a moment ago. But I now know how to light a lantern here in the wilderness. And I will learn how to do all the other things I must know the same way. I will observe, or I will ask. I may be a pampered woman, but I am not unintelligent, only untaught in these matters. And I will rectify that very quickly. As for my needing protection—do not concern yourself with my safety. I am an excellent shot with rifle or pistol. As is my sister. We will look to our own safety.”

“And your wagons and stock?”

“We have drivers to care for them—as the rules permit.”

His face darkened. “Accidents happen, Miss Allen! Your drivers can be injured or killed. And then—”

“And then I would be no worse off than a wife who has lost her husband.” Emma lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eyes. “We have paid our money, and you yourself said we have met the rules and regulations set in place by Mr. Hargrove and the other leaders. My sister and I are going to Oregon country with this wagon train, Mr. Thatcher. Now I bid you good evening, sir.”

He stared at her a moment, then tugged his hat back in place. “As you will, Miss Allen.” He gave an abrupt nod and strode off into the darkness.

Emma turned to her wagon, packed and prepared by William for him and Caroline to live in on the journey. Everything had been so rushed after Anne’s surprising announcement, only her own clothes had been added at the last minute. She should have spent some time at Independence exploring it, locating things. But she had stayed at the hotel caring for Anne.

A burden and endangerment indeed! She would show Mr. Zachary Thatcher how competent a woman she was! She set the lantern on the ground, untied the canvas flaps, then reached inside to undo the latches that held the tailboard secure. Try as she might, she couldn’t release them. Fighting back tears of fatigue and frustration, she grabbed up the lantern, walked to the front of the wagon, stepped onto the tongue and climbed inside.



Zach untied his bedroll, rolled it out and flopped down on his back, lacing his hands behind his head and staring up at the stars strewn across the black night sky. He was right. That woman was trouble. And stubborn! Whew. No mule could hold a patch on her. Spunky, too. She hadn’t given an inch. Answered every one of his concerns. Even turned his own chivalrous deed of lighting her lantern back on him.

A chuckle started deep in his chest, traveled up his throat. Mad as she was at him, she’d have stood there holding that lantern all night rather than admit she didn’t know how to light it. And that tailboard! She never did figure out how to open it. Must have spent ten minutes or so trying before she gave up and climbed in the wagon from the front. It had been hard, standing there in the dark watching her struggle. But she probably would have parted his hair with that lantern had he gone back to help her.

I think it would be best for you if I continue to hold the lantern, Mr. Thatcher. At this moment, you would not want my hands to be free. His lips twitched. She’d been dead serious with that threat to slap him. The spoiled Miss Allen had a temper, and did not take kindly to his authority over her as wagon master. He’d send Blake around with some excuse to examine her wagon tomorrow. He could show her how the tailboard latches worked.

He stirred, shifted position, uncomfortable with the thought of Josiah Blake spending time around Miss Allen. That could be trouble. She was a beautiful woman. No disputing that. ’Course, he’d never been partial to women with brown eyes and honey-colored hair. He preferred dark-haired women. And he liked a little more to them. Miss Allen was tall enough—came up to his shoulder. But she was slender—a mite on the bony side. Though she had curves sure enough.

Zach scowled, broke off the thoughts. It was time to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a rough day. Those greenhorns weren’t going to like the pace he set. But he intended to break them in right. Which meant he would have them awake and ready to roll at the break of dawn. He chuckled and closed his eyes. Fell asleep picturing the pampered Miss Allen trying to build a fire and cook breakfast.



Emma used the chamber pot, dipped water into a bowl from the small keg securely lashed to the inside of the wagon and washed her face and hands with soap she found in a large pocket sewn on the canvas cover. There was a hairbrush in the same pocket. And a small hand mirror. She took them into her hands, traced the vine that twined around to form the edge of the silver backings. It was a beautiful vanity set. Caroline had excellent taste. Her fingers stilled.

Emma placed the mirror 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!” He jerked his arm to the side. One long finger jutted out from his hand and aimed toward the ground behind him. Or where ground should have been.

Emma stared, shivered with a chill that raced down her spine at sight of the deep fissure on the other side of the rise.

“This is not a well-groomed riding trail in Philadelphia, Miss Allen!” Zachary Thatcher’s cold, furious voice lashed at her. “It is foolhardy and thoughtless for you to race over ground you do not know. There are hidden dangers all over these prairies. That is why I scout out the trail. Now go back to the wagons. And do not ride out by yourself again! I do not have time to waste saving you from your own foolishness.”

Emma fought to stem her shivering. “Mr. Thatcher, I—” She lost the battle. Her voice trembled, broke.

“I am not interested in your excuses, Miss Allen.” He gave her a look of pure disgust, reined the roan around and thundered off toward his place out in front of the wagon column.

Emma stared after him, looked back at that deep, dark gape in the ground and slipped from the saddle. “I’m sorry, boy. I’m so sorry. You could have—” Her voice caught on a sob. She threw her arms around Traveler’s neck, buried her face against the warm flesh and let the tears come.



The sameness was wearying. Day after day, nothing but blue sky, green, rolling plains and wagons. And slow, plodding oxen. Emma arched her back and wiggled her shoulders. She was an excellent rider, but though she was becoming inured to sitting on a horse all day, it still resulted in an uncomfortable stiffness.

“Whoa, Traveler.” She braced to slide from the saddle and walk for a short while, heard hoofbeats pounding and looked up to see Zachary Thatcher racing back toward the train.

“Get to the low ground ahead on the left and circle the wagons! Lash them together! Move!” He raced on down the line of wagons shouting the order.

What—

“Haw, Baldy! Haw, Bright!”

Garth Lundquist’s whip cracked over the backs of the lead team. Cracked again. The oxen lunged forward. He jumped onto the tongue and grabbed the front board. Emma caught her breath, watched him climb into the wagon box even as the vehicle lurched after the wagons in front that were already bouncing their way over the rough ground. She sagged with relief when he gained his seat.

“Hurry on, Scar. Move, Big Boy! Haw! Haw!”

Ernst’s whip and voice joined the din. Emma looked back. Anne’s oxen teams were settling into an awkward run, the wagon jolting along behind.

Annie! That jarring was not good for Annie!

Emma halted Traveler, waited for the oxen teams to pass so she could tell Ernst to slow down. Wind rose, whipped the gauzy tails of her riding hat into her face. She brushed them back and turned to lower her head against the force of the blow, gasped. The western half of the sky had turned dark as night. Black clouds foamed at the edge of the darkness, tumbled and rolled east at a great speed. Lightning flashed sulfurous streaks across the roiling mass. Thunder rumbled. And rain poured from the clouds to earth in a solid, gray curtain.

The old terror gripped her, lessened in intensity from the span of eighteen years, but still there. She braced herself against the memory of lightning striking the old, dilapidated shed where she and Billy had lived with other street orphans—closed her mind to the remembered crackle of the devouring flames, the screams of Bobby and Joe who had been trapped inside. She heeled Traveler into motion, urged him close to her sister’s wagon, then clapped her hand over her hat’s crown and leaned toward the canvas cover as the horse trotted alongside. “Anne, there is a terrible storm coming. Brace yourself for a rough ride.” The wind fluttered the canvas, bent the brim of her hat backward. She raised her voice. “Hold on tight, Anne! Protect your ribs! Do you hear me? Protect your ribs!”

“I hear—”

The iron rim of the front wagon wheel clanged and jerked over a stone. The wagon tilted, slammed back to earth. There was a sharp cry from inside.

“Anne?”

A sudden drumming sound drowned out any answer. Hail the size of a cherry hit her with stinging force, bounced off the canvas cover. Emma raced Traveler ahead, fell in behind her own wagon to gain some protection from the driving wind and pelting ice. The rain came, soaked her clothes. She lowered her head, hunched over and rode on, the hail pummeling her back.



Garth Lundquist guided the oxen toward the inside of the forming circle, stopped the wagon in place with the outside front wheel in line with the inside back wheel of his father’s wagon that had stopped ahead of them. Emma sighed with relief, thought of the dry clothes awaiting her inside and would have smiled if her lips hadn’t been pulled taut with cold and fear.

She glanced across the distance, watched as Ernst pulled Anne’s wagon into place on the other side. Other wagons followed on both sides until the circle was complete. The enclosed oxen bawled, bugled their fear. Men jumped from their wagon seats and ran forward to calm their teams and lash the wagons together as ordered. Wagons rocked. Canvas covers fluttered and flapped.

Emma slid from the saddle, tethered Traveler to the back of the wagon then slipped through the narrow gap between the two side-by-side wheels. She skirted around her nervous, bawling oxen being calmed by her driver, and headed for Anne’s wagon. Wind buffeted her, whipped her sodden skirts into a frenzy. She reached to hold them down and her hat flew away. Hail struck with bruising force against the side of her face. The rain stung like needles. She turned her face away from the wind and struggled on across the inner oval to the side of the wagon. “Are you all right, Anne?” The wind stole her words. She raised her voice to a shout. “Are you all right, Anne? I thought I heard you cry out.” She cupped her ear against the fluttering onsaburg.

“I’m all right, Emma. Come in out of the rain!”

“I have to get out of these wet clothes. I will come back when the storm is over!” Water dripped off her flailing hair, dribbled down her wet back. Emma shivered and turned. A hand grasped her arm. She lifted her bowed head, looked into the fear-filled eyes of a sodden woman holding a folded blanket to her chest. The woman’s lips moved. She leaned forward to hear her.

“Please, Miss. You were ridin’. Did you see my little girl, Jenny? I’ve checked with everyone and she’s not here. She must of fell out of the wagon, and—” Lightning flickered through the darkened sky, streaked to earth with a crack that drowned out the woman’s voice. Thunder clapped, rumbled. “—did you see her?”

“No. I am sorry, but I did not.”

The woman swayed, sagged against the side of the wagon. Her lips trembled. “You were my last hope. Oh, God…my baby…my baby…” She lifted her hands, buried her face in the blanket.

Emma’s throat constricted. She put her arm about the woman’s shoulders, though she wanted desperately to go to her wagon. “Please don’t—there is still hope. My head was bowed, I was not looking—” She stopped. Closed her eyes. If the child had fallen out of the wagon she was probably injured, or worse. But if she did survive the fall, this storm… The storm! She took a shuddering breath and held out her hand. “Give me the blanket. I will go back and look for your daughter.”

The woman lifted her head. Hope and doubt mingled in her eyes. “Now?”

Emma nodded, took the blanket from the woman’s hands. “She will need this when I find her.” If I am not too late.

She battled her way back to her wagon, climbed over the chains Garth had used to lash the wheels together and reached up to untie the back opening in the canvas. There was no time now to change out of her wet clothes, but she needed her doctor’s bag. And Caroline’s rain cape. She bit down on her trembling lips, tried to stop shivering and concentrate on her task. It was no use. The flapping had drawn the knots too tight—her chilled fingers could not undo them.

Lightning sizzled to earth with an ear-deafening crack. Emma cringed against the wagon, shivering and shaking so hard she feared her joints would detach. Hot tears stung her eyes. She tugged again at the knots, yanking at the bottom edge of the canvas when they did not yield. A spatter of water from the canvas was her only reward. A chill shook her to her toes. She sagged back against the wagon, ceding defeat.

The patient’s welfare must always come first, Emma. A good doctor does not hesitate to sacrifice time or comfort, or to do whatever he must to save a life.

How many times had Papa Doc said that to her when they were called to a patient’s side in the middle of the night? Strength of purpose flowed into her. “Thank you, Papa Doc.” She shoved away from the wagon, unhitched Traveler and mounted. Coat or no coat, doctor’s bag or not, she would go. The child did not have a chance of surviving the storm without her.



Please, God, let me find her soon. She cannot live in this storm. Emma lifted her lips in a grim smile. Why did she pray when she did not expect God to answer? Why did it make her feel better? It was foolishness.

Her teeth clattered together. She clenched her jaw, but could not sustain the pressure. She had never been so cold. But at least the hail had stopped and the wind was at her back. She tried to use her misery to block out her fear. It was impossible. Every time the lightning flashed across the sky and streaked to the ground with a thunderous clap that made the very air vibrate, she had to hold herself from screaming. She dare not let Traveler sense her terror. Thank goodness he was not a horse to panic at the flashes and rumbles.

“Good b-boy, Traveler.” She patted the horse’s neck, studied the ground in front of her. The rain and hail had beaten the grasses down so that it was difficult to make out the wagon tracks. If only the land were not all the same! Had she come far enough? Was this where they had started the wild run with the wagons? Was she even looking in the right place?

Almighty God, for that little girl’s sake, guide me to her, I pray. She lifted her head and peered through the deluge, trying to spot something familiar. Something she had noticed earlier that afternoon. There had been a rise with a dip in the middle of the top. She had wondered if there was a pond….

Lightning glinted, turned the sky into a watery, yellow nightmare with a coruscating tail dropping to the earth. Thunder crashed. She rode on, topped the next swell and spotted the rise she was looking for off to the right. She had been going the wrong way. She slumped in the saddle, discouraged, frightened. What if she got lost out here? What if—

“Stop that this i-instant, Emma Allen! That little g-girl needs y-you!” She could barely hear her own voice above the pounding rain. But the scolding worked. She squared her shoulders, wiped the rain from her eyes and reined Traveler around. The wind slapped a long tress of freed hair across her eyes. She brushed it back, wiped the sheeting water from her forehead. She would surely find the wagon tracks now. Then she could line them up with that rise and backtrack. She rode down the other side of the swell into a broad swale, urged Traveler into a lope and came up the knoll on the other side. And there, lying on the sodden grass, was the child.

“Whoa!” Traveler danced to a stop. “Please G-God. Please l-let her be a-l-live.” Emma slid from the saddle, led Traveler close and dropped the reins to the ground. Please let him stand. She grabbed the blanket she had been sitting on to keep it dry, knelt beside the child and touched a cold, tiny wrist. A faint throbbing pulsed against her fingers. Tears sprang to her eyes, mingled with the rain on her cheeks. She blinked her vision clear, leaned over the child to protect her from the bone-chilling downpour and began to examine the small body.



The storm had let up, except for the relentless rain. The occasional glimmer of lightning and grumble of thunder in the distance held no menace. Zach circled the herd of stock one last time. They were bunched and settled, the threat of a stampede past. The others would be able to handle them now. He slapped the water from his hat, peered through the rain at the wagons. Some had not moved, despite his relayed order. Must be there were problems Blake couldn’t handle. He rode down into the shallow basin and headed toward the Lewis wagon.

“Be reasonable, Lorna.”

“I’m not moving from this place without her.”

“Blake said it’s only a short ways. If she—”

“Don’t say if, Joseph Lewis. Don’t you dare say if!” The Lewis woman buried her face in her apron and burst into tears.

Zach scowled. This was no time for a domestic argument. “I ordered all the wagons moved to higher, dryer ground, Lewis. They’ll bog here when the water soaks in. Unless you have a broken wheel or axle, get rolling.”

“It’s not the wagon, sir. It’s—it’s—” The man looked at his wife, cleared his throat. “Our little Jenny has come up missing. The missus asked all around for her and no one has seen her. We—we figure she fell out of the wagon during our run here. But I’ll find someone to move the wagon while I go look—”

The wife jerked the apron from her face. “I ain’t leaving this place ’till she comes back, Joseph Lewis! If this wagon moves, it goes without me. She’ll come here, and I’ve got to know one way or…or the other.”

“Hush, Lorna! I told you if Miss Allen—”

“Miss Allen?” Zach’s scowl deepened. “What does Miss Allen have to do with your daughter?”

“She went to look for her.”

Anger shot him bolt upright in the saddle. Fool woman! He’d told her not to go riding off by herself. Now he’d have two lost people to search for! At least she couldn’t have much of a head start on him. His face tightened. “How long ago did Miss Allen leave?”

“Why, right away. When I was askin’ round about Jenny. She said she would find her, and she got on her horse and rode off.”

“During the storm?”

The woman nodded. Her lips quivered. “She took the blanket with her. To warm Jenny when she found her.”

The fury of the storm was nothing compared to the anger that flashed through him. Zach stood in the stirrups, looked behind him. “Blake! Get these wagons moving! Every one of them!” He looked down at the man beside him. “Lewis, you move your wagon out with the others. I know this land, and if it’s humanly possible, I’ll bring your daughter back to you.”

He glanced up at the misty light filtering through the rain. It would soon be night—and Miss Allen was out there searching unknown land with no trail experience to fall back on. Fool women. May he be spared from them all! He urged Comanche into a lope and started back along the wagon trail.




Chapter Four


Zach swiped off the water sluicing from his hat brim and squinted through the rain at the dark shape ahead. It was a horse, all right. One with an empty saddle. Where was the Allen woman? He scanned the area as far as he could see through the downpour. There was no sign of her. Had the horse been frightened by lightning and thrown her? Had he ridden past her unconscious, injured body in the storm?

He muttered a couple choice words he’d picked up in the cavalry and urged Comanche into a walk. If he spooked her horse, he might have to chase it for miles and he needed it to carry Miss Allen and the child back when he found them—no matter what their condition. His stomach knotted. He was used to handling injured or wounded or even dead soldiers—but a woman and child…

Zach shoved the disquieting thought away and focused on the job at hand. The first thing was to catch the horse. He reined Comanche to circle wide to the right, so the horse would not perceive them as a threat and bolt. He watched the horse, saw it lower its head and kneed Comanche left to move in a little closer. If he— There she was!

Zach halted Comanche, stared at the figure kneeling on the ground in front of the horse, head down, shoulders hunched forward, her back to the driving rain. It was, indeed, Miss Allen. And she was likely injured, else she’d be riding. He told the wind what he thought of foolish women, slid from the saddle and dropped the reins.

Water squirted from beneath his boots as he strode to Miss Allen’s huddled body. Why was she holding that blanket instead of— She’d found the child!

“Miss Allen?” Zach touched her shoulder, felt the icy-cold flesh beneath the soaked gown, the shivers coursing through her. She lifted her head, stared up at him. Blinked. Her trembling lips moved.

“I f-found her.”

He nodded, swept his gaze over her. “Where are you injured, Miss Allen?”

“Not inj-jured.”

“Not—” Irritation broke though his control. “If you can ride, why are you sitting here?”

An expression close to disgust swept across her face. “Sh-she’s injured. I c-can’t mount.”

Zach stared. Scowled. What was she planning to do? Sit here all night in the storm, shielding the child with her body? She could have— He squelched the thought. What did he expect of a greenhorn woman? “You can now.” He leaned over and held out his arms. “Let me have the child.”

She shook her head.

“Miss Allen! You and the child both need to get back to warmth and shelter. And I—”

“Have to…b-be careful. Her arm is broken…h-head injured. I will c-carry her. And we m-must walk horses.”

“Walk them! But you need to get out of—” He stopped, stared at her lifted chin, the sudden set look of her face. “All right, Miss Allen, you will carry the child, and we will walk the horses. Now, give her to me, and let’s get you mounted.” He took the blanket-swaddled child, cradled her in one arm and held out his free hand.

Holding the child was a handicap. And Miss Allen was so stiff and sluggish with cold, so weighted down by her long, sodden skirts, it took him three tries, but at last he had her in the saddle. He handed her the reins, placed the child in her shivering arms and whistled for Comanche. The big roan came dutifully to his side.

“I’ll have you warmer in a minute.” Zach unlashed the bedroll from behind his saddle and yanked the ties. He shook out his blanket, tossed it over Miss Allen’s shoulders and covered it with his India-rubber groundsheet. He grabbed the flapping ends, crossed them over each other in front to cover the child and secured them to the saddle horn with one of the ties. It was the best he could do to warm and protect them.

“Th-thank you.”

Zach looked up. Rain washed down Miss Allen’s face, dropped off her chin onto the rubber sheet and sluiced away. She was shivering so hard he had doubts of her ability to stay in the saddle. He took off his hat and clapped it on her wet hair. It slid down to her eyebrows. “Keep your head down, we’ll be facing into the storm on the way back. And hold on to that horn, I’ll lead your horse.” He took the reins from her and leaped into the saddle, started Comanche toward the wagons at a slow walk.

Rain drenched his hair, funneled down his neck to soak his coat collar and dampen his shirt. Zach frowned and hunched his shoulders as a drop found an opening and slithered down his back. It was going to be a long ride.



A pinpoint of light glowed in the darkness ahead. Only one reason for that. Someone had got a fire started. Zach stared at the welcome sight, a frisson of expectation spreading through him. That should cheer the Allen woman. It made him feel better. There was nothing like a fire when you were cold and wet and feeling miserable. Especially if there was a pot of coffee simmering on the coals.

Zach scanned the area as best he could through the rain, trying to spot the night guards. It wouldn’t do to startle them. The greenhorns were liable to shoot before they were sure of their target. He looked back at the fire, close enough now that he could see the light flickering and make out the crude, canvas canopy someone had rigged. He hadn’t expected any of the emigrants to figure a way to start a fire in a rainstorm, let alone know how to protect it. Likely it was the Lewises, guiding their way back.

The fire disappeared, blocked from his view by the wagons as they approached. He spotted it again through a gap between the bulky vehicles. Looked like Lewis had switched places with the Lundquists. Joseph Lewis and his wife were tending the fire. He could make out the two of them silhouetted against the rosy glow as he rode to the Allen wagon. They appeared to be the only ones about. Not surprising, given the late hour, the weather conditions and the hard day. But where were the guards? They should have challenged him on their way in.

He frowned, halted Comanche at the back of the Allen wagon, slid from the saddle and tethered the woman’s horse. “We’re here, Miss Allen.”

“Yes.”

She sounded about done in. Zach turned his head, raised his voice loud enough to be heard over the beating of the rain on that canvas canopy rigged to protect the fire. “Lewis, give me a hand. I’ve got your daughter and Miss Allen.” He turned back, began to untie the rawhide thong holding the blankets to the saddle horn. “I’ll have you free in—”

“My baby! Where’s my baby?” Mrs. Lewis squeezed through the narrow space between the wagons’ wheels, her husband right behind her.

“She’s right here.” Zach undid the last turn of the thong and threw back the edge of the blankets.

“Oh, give her to me!” The woman reached up for her child.

“Don’t h-hug her.” Miss Allen’s teeth chattered, broke off her words. She threw him a look of appeal.

Zach stuffed the thong in his coat pocket, and gently lifted the child from her arms. “Your daughter has a broken arm and a head injury, Mrs. Lewis. She has to be handled careful.”

The woman gave a little cry, sucked in a breath and nodded. “I understand.”

Zach placed the swaddled toddler in her arms, turned back to remove his blankets and help Miss Allen from the saddle.

“T-take her into my wagon, Mrs. Lewis. I’ll s-set her arm.”

“You!” Joseph Lewis shook his head. “I’m right grateful to you for going to look for our Jenny, Miss Allen. But we need someone knows what they’re doing to care for her. I reckon—”

“I know how to care f-for your daughter, Mr. Lewis. I’m a d-doctor.”

A doctor! Zach froze, stared at Miss Allen—there was a look of grim forbearance on her face. He frowned and tossed his bedding over his saddle. A woman doctor. Judging from the argument going on between Lewis and his wife, it would cause a furor among the emigrants if she plied her trade. That was all he needed. Another problem to get in the way of his getting this train to Oregon country before winter hit the mountains.

He scowled, grasped the Allen woman around her waist and lifted her out of the saddle to the ground. Her knees buckled. She fell against him.

“S-sorry.” She placed her trembling hands against his chest and tried to push herself erect.

Zach’s face tightened as he steadied her. Me, too, Miss Allen. Sorry you ever joined this train. He leaned down, lifted her into his arms and stomped toward her wagon, heedless of the water in her sodden gown soaking through the wet sleeves of his coat.



The dry nightclothes and fire-warmed blanket felt wonderful. But it made her want to sleep. Emma swallowed the last sip of hot coffee and set her cup on the floor. She was losing her battle against the fatigue that dragged at her. Her eyes had closed again.

She forced her reluctant eyelids open, glanced at the child lying on the pallet made out of her feather pillows. Unlike her own still-damp hair, the toddler’s had dried, and soft, blond curls circled the small face now pink with warmth. Jenny looked like any other sleeping toddler. Except for her splinted arm and unnatural stillness.

Emma lifted her gaze to Jenny’s mother, sitting on the floor with her back against the long red box and holding her baby’s hand.

“Jenny’s got blue eyes. Like her papa’s. I wishst she’d open ’em.” The woman’s chest swelled as she took a deep breath, sunk as she let it out again. “Will I ever…see her blue eyes again, Miss—Dr. Allen?”

Emma stiffened. That’s what Anne had asked. Just before— She shoved the thought away, looked into the fear-filled eyes begging for hope and summoned a smile in spite of the bitterness squeezing her heart. “I cannot say for sure—such things are in God’s hands—but I believe you will, Mrs. Lewis. Jenny’s pulse is steady and strong, and that’s a good sign.” Little Grace’s pulse had been uneven and weak…

The woman nodded, pulled the blanket draped over her shoulders closer together across her chest. “I’ve been prayin’.” She looked up, and the lamplight glimmered on the tears swimming in her brown eyes. “I wasn’t meanin’ to make you uncomfortable, askin’ you things only God Hisself can answer.”

Yes. Only God, who had chosen to let little Grace die. “I understand, Mrs. Lewis.” If only she could.

Silence fell. Rain pattered against the canvas cover. The faint sound of snoring came from the Lewis family’s wagon. A child’s yelp. And then— “Move over, Gabe! Yer pokin’ me with yer elbow!”

The woman glanced that way, looked back and shook her head. “You were right to have Jenny stay here in your wagon. With four youngsters, things are a mite crowded in ours. Special with the Mister havin’ to sleep inside ’cause of the rain. ’Tis mortal kind of you to let me stay here with her.”

“Not at all. Jenny will want you when she wakes.” If she wakes. Emma blinked and gave her head a quick shake, rubbed her hands up and down her arms beneath the blanket to ward off sleep.

“You’ve had a hard time of it tonight, what with going out in the storm after Jenny and all. Why don’t you get some sleep, Dr. Allen? I’ll keep watch over Jenny.”

Emma stifled a yawn, shook her head. “Her condition could change and…”

“I’ll wake you if it does.” The woman’s eyes pleaded with her. “Please, Dr. Allen. It would make me feel better for you to rest.”

She was so sincere. Emma swallowed back her fear. Her being awake had not saved little Grace. She sighed and gave in to her exhaustion. “All right. But you must wake me the moment there is the slightest change, Mrs. Lewis. Any change at all. A whimper…or a twitch…anything…” She stretched out on the feather mattress she was sitting on, pulled the quilt over top of the blanket wrapped around her and closed her eyes.

“Not meanin’ to put myself forward, Dr. Allen. But I’d be pleased if you would call me by my given name, Lorna.”

“Lorna…a lovely name.” Emma tucked her hand beneath her cheek. Jenny had her pillows. “And you must call me Emma…”

“I’d be honored to, Dr. Emma.”

Dr. Emma. The name echoed pleasantly around in her head. William had called her that in his letter. She snuggled deeper into the warmth of the quilt and smiled. If only she could…write William and…tell him she had a…patient…



“I gave the order to break camp, Lewis. Get this canopy down and your oxen hitched. We’ve wasted enough daylight. We move out in ten minutes.”

Emma lifted her head at the sound of Zachary Thatcher’s muffled voice coming through the canvas. She had been hoping for an opportunity to properly thank him for rescuing them last night. She pulled the blanket back over Jenny’s splinted arm and turned toward the front of the wagon, paused to run her hands over her hair and down the front of her gown. The feel of the sumptuous fabric brought the memory of their first meeting leaping to the fore. She looked down at the three tiers of lustrous, rose-colored silk trimmed with looped roping that formed the long skirt and frowned. She could well imagine Mr. Thatcher’s opinion of her inappropriate frock. But there had been no time to have gowns made after Anne announced her intention to take William’s place teaching at the mission. With only two days of preparation time, the best she could manage was to purchase dress lengths of cotton and other sensible materials to bring—

“I ain’t travelin’ today.”

Oh dear! Emma jerked her attention back to the conversation outside the wagon. Mr. Lewis sounded…truculent.

“What do you mean, you’re not traveling today? You don’t have a choice. Lest you want to go on by yourself.”

And Mr. Thatcher sounded…adamant, to be charitable. Perhaps this was a poor time to—

“Tell that to that Allen woman what calls herself a doctor! She’s got the missus all in an uproar over Jenny. Says Jenny can’t travel, and the missus won’t go without her. With three other young’uns that need carin’ for, I—”

“You speak respectful of Dr. Emma, Joseph Lewis. She rode out in that storm and found your baby. Likely saved her life.”

Lorna! Emma peeked outside. Joseph Lewis was glaring at his wife, who was glaring back at him from their wagon. “If she lives, Lorna. We don’t have a real doctor to—”

A real doctor! Ohhh! Emma hiked up her voluminous skirts, climbed onto the red box and reached to shove the front flaps of the cover aside. The back of her skirt snagged on the latch. Bother! She reached back.

“Don’t you say if, Joseph Lewis! The Good Book says, ‘According to your faith be it unto you.’ And don’t think I’m goin’ to move one foot from this spot ’till Dr. Emma says it’s safe for Jenny to travel, neither.”

Emma freed her skirt and turned back. Lorna had climbed from their wagon and stood facing her husband. The sight of their angry faces turned her own anger to regret. She had not meant to set husband and wife at odds. But all was not lost. If Zachary Thatcher would agree not to travel out of consideration of the child’s poor condition… She scooted out onto the driver’s seat, cast a longing glance at her sodden, mud-stained riding outfit crumpled in the corner of the driver’s box and stood. “Good morning.”

All three people turned to look at her. Zachary Thatcher swept his gaze over her fancy gown and his expression did not disappoint her expectations. She abandoned the idea of relying on his understanding and sympathy. In the cold light of day, it appeared Mr. Thatcher did not have any. She looked down into his steady, disapproving gaze and stiffened her spine. “I regret the wagon train cannot travel today, Mr. Thatcher. But it would be dangerous for Jenny to be jolted and bounced around in her condition.”

She watched his face tighten and stood her ground as he rode his horse close to the wagon and peered up at her. “I understand the child is ill, Miss Allen. But you must underst—”

“Dr. Allen, Mr. Thatcher.”

His eyes darkened and narrowed. His lips firmed.

She was familiar with the disparaging expression. She had seen it far too often on the faces of her Papa Doc’s male patients. Very well. If that was how it was to be. Emma trotted out her armor for the battle ahead. “I am a fully trained, fully qualified doctor with credentials from a celebrated surgeon with the Pennsylvania Hospital—” she registered the growing disdain in his eyes and rushed on “—which I will produce if you doubt my word.” Her challenge hit the mark. Anger flashed in those blue depths.

“This is not about your qualifications, Miss Allen. It is about getting this wagon train to Oregon country before winter snows close the mountain passes. To that end, these wagons will move forward every day—including today.” He touched his hat brim and reined his horse around to leave.

Emma clenched her hands into fists. “Whether you acknowledge me as a doctor or not, Mr. Thatcher, Jenny Lewis is my patient. And I cannot—will not—allow her to be jostled around in a moving wagon. It could very well take her life.”

Zachary Thatcher turned his horse back around, stared straight into her eyes. “And if this train gets caught by a blizzard in a mountain pass it could well cost us all our lives, Miss Allen.”

“That is conjecture, Mr. Thatcher. Jenny’s condition is fact. This wagon does not move until it is safe for her to travel.”



Stubborn. He knew it the moment he set eyes on her. Stubborn and spoiled. But he never expected this. A doctor! And if this morning was any indication, one that would give him a good deal of trouble. Zach held the horseshoe nail against the hickory rib in front of him and lifted the hammer. “Ready, Lewis?”

“Hammer away!”

Zach hit the nail with such force the rib thudded against the sledgehammer Joseph Lewis was holding against it outside and twanged back. The nail was buried deep enough in the wood he didn’t need to hit it again. “That will do it!” He tied a long, thick leather thong to the nail, tugged to make sure the knots would hold then picked up the oblong piece of canvas with the big knots on the corners and tied the other end of the thong around one corner and tugged. There was no way the thong could slip off past that big knot. He repeated the process with the other three thongs hanging from the nails he’d driven in other ribs, then gave the canvas a push. It swung gently through the air. There! That would take care of any jolting.

He gave a grunt of satisfaction, picked up the hammer and extra nails and leaped lightly from the wagon. “The bed is ready, Dr. Allen. Now tell Garth Lundquist to get your oxen hitched. Time is wasting!” He took the sledge from Lewis and strode off toward the Fenton wagon to return the tools to the blacksmith.

Emma stared after him, reading disgust and anger in the rigid line of his broad shoulders, the length and power of his strides. Her own shoulders stiffened with resentment. He made the word doctor sound like an expletive.

Joseph Lewis cleared his throat. “I’ll go fetch Lundquist for you. Have him bring up your teams, Miss…er…”

Emma turned her gaze on him. He flushed, pivoted on his heel and hurried off. “It ain’t Miss, Joseph Lewis! It’s Dr. Allen.”

Emma glanced at Lorna Lewis. The woman was staring after her husband, her face as flushed as his. She tamped down her own anger. “Please, Lorna, do not trouble yourself on my behalf. I do not want to be the cause of discord in your household.”

“Well, it ain’t right, Joseph not givin’ you your rightful due—an’ Mr. Thatcher gettin’ riled at you for holdin’ up the train so’s to keep my baby safe an’…” The woman’s words choked off.

“And nothing, Lorna.” Emma whirled around, her long, ruffled skirts billowing out then rustling softly as she climbed into her wagon. “I care not a fig for Mr. Zachary Thatcher’s opinions or anger. And even less for his orders. As for Mr. Lewis’s reluctance to name me a doctor…I am accustomed to that. Keeping Jenny safe is all that is important. And this wagon will not move until I am satisfied it will do her no harm. Now, give Jenny to me and climb in so we can see what sort of bed Mr. Thatcher has contrived.”

She turned and carried the toddler to the canvas sling hanging lengthwise over the long red box just behind the driver’s seat.

“Well, I never…” Lorna Lewis set the sling swinging.

“Nor I.” Emma handed Jenny to her mother and examined the clever contraption from all angles. “I find no fault in this. It will make Jenny a wonderful bed.” She lined the sling with her pillows, covered them with a blanket then gently placed Jenny on them and folded the sides of the blanket over her.

Chains rattled. An ox snorted, bumped against the wagon in passing, causing the bed to sway gently. “You want I should hitch up now, Miss Allen?”

Emma smiled and stuck her head out of the opening behind the driver’s box. “Yes, hitch up the teams, Mr. Lundquist. We will travel today after all. But drive the oxen carefully, mind you. No hurrying.”

She ducked back inside, pulled a long scarf from a dresser drawer and held it out. “Wrap this twice around both Jenny and the sling, Lorna. Then tie it so Jenny cannot fall out. I will be right back.” She climbed down, lifted the hems of her skirts above the still-wet ground and ran across the oval to check on Anne before the wagons began to roll.




Chapter Five


Emma sighed and clutched the edge of the driver’s seat to steady herself as the wagon lurched over the rough terrain. And she thought she was uncomfortable riding Traveler all day. She could only imagine how sore she would be tonight from this day’s continual bone-shaking travel. But at least her patient was being spared. The sling bed Mr. Thatcher had created worked perfectly. No matter how badly the wagon bucked, Jenny simply swung back and forth, the length of the leather thongs keeping the bed from too violent a motion.

Emma tightened her grasp against another lurch and grimaced. Too bad the driver’s seat was not a sling. It would certainly make her ride more comfortable. She considered the idea a moment, then discarded it and resigned herself to endure the punishing jolts. A sling seat was not possible. The box beneath her held Traveler’s feed.

The front wheels dropped into a rut and Emma glanced over her shoulder at Jenny. Her stomach—her personal measure of concern—tightened. The toddler looked perfectly normal. But if she did not wake soon…

Emma’s face drew as taut as her stomach. She lifted her hands to adjust her scoop bonnet that had been jarred awry. The wagon ricocheted off some unforgiving obstacle, and she bounced into the air, then slammed back down onto the hard wood seat. “Ugh!”

A shrill whistle sounded ahead. Emma looked forward, saw Josiah Blake standing in his stirrups and circling his arm over his head, and heaved a sigh of relief. It must be time to rest and graze the stock. Which meant the buffeting would stop—at least for a while. And the break would give her time to check on Anne and ease her feelings of guilt for being unable to watch over her today. She would insist Anne come and ride beside her wagon when their journey resumed.

“Circle up!” The call passed from wagon to wagon, faded away down the line.

Emma frowned and worried her bottom lip with her teeth. Anne’s pain had been worse last night and she was sure the wild ride in the wagon yesterday had re-injured her sister’s mending ribs. Not that Anne had complained. As usual, she said nothing, simply endured whatever pain assailed her mending body. It was only an increased pallor, an involuntary wince and tightening of her sister’s face that had alerted her to Anne’s worsened condition.

Emma gripped the seat harder. Sometimes Anne’s quiescence made her want to shake her. She and William, cousin Mary, even Mary’s pastor had tried to reason with Anne, but none of them could sway her from her notion that her pain was deserved punishment for surviving the accident that had claimed the lives of her husband and baby. It made treating her more difficult. Anne did not want to get better.

Emma heaved a long sigh and released her grasp on the edge of the seat as the wagon followed the Lewis vehicle into the familiar circle and stopped. Across the oval, the source of her concern and frustration rode into view behind her halted wagon and dismounted, her movements slow and careful. Clearly riding was irritating Anne’s injuries, but being tossed around in the wagon was little better. Oh, if only Anne had listened to reason, at this moment they would both be aboard one of their uncle Justin’s steamboats on their way home to Philadelphia with William and Caroline! Home to the bosom of their family where Anne would receive the love and attention she needed.

A sick feeling washed over her. Emma swallowed hard, faced the thought that had been pushing at her all day. Perhaps she did not possess the skills needed to be a good doctor. She did not know what more to do for Anne. Or for little Jenny. Her learning was but a poor substitute for Papa Doc’s medical experience, or her feisty temperament for their mother’s patient, loving care.

“Mama? Maaaamaaaa!”

Jenny! Emma whipped around and scurried over the red box into the wagon, all speculation about her possible inadequacy forgotten at the toddler’s frightened wail.

“Shhh, Jenny, shhh. Everything is all right.” She smiled and patted the little blanket-covered shoulder. Round blue eyes, bright with tears, stared up at her. She studied their clear, focused gaze, held back the shout of relief and joy swelling her chest. The toddler’s tiny lower lip protruded, trembled. She touched it with her fingertip and shook her head. “No, no. I will get your mama for you. But you must not cry, Jenny. It is not good for you to cry.”





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