Her Cheyenne Warrior. Lauri Robinson
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outfits was astonishing.
“You could write that I say I’m sorry,” Tillie said.
“I will not,” Lorna insisted. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”
Tillie wiggled her small frame from under the wagon, pulling the blanket behind her. Once sitting next to Lorna with her back against the same wheel, she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. “Yes, I do. If not for me, the rest of you would still be with the wagon train. You should have left me behind.”
Lorna set her pencil in her diary, and closed the book. After the death of her husband, pregnant Tillie had started to hemorrhage. The doctor traveling on the train—a disgusting little man who never washed his hands—said nothing could be done for her. In great disagreement, Lorna and Meg, as well as Betty, who’d latched on to her and Meg for protection as well as friendship by that time, had chosen to take matters into their own hands. The small town they’d found and the doctor there had tried, but Tillie had lost her baby a week later. It had taken another three weeks—since Tillie had almost died, too—before the doctor had declared she could travel again. The wagon train had long since left without them, so only the four women and their two wagons remained. That was also why she and Meg only had one dress each. They’d started the trip with two each, but had given the extra dresses and habits to Betty and Tillie. Four nuns traveling alone were safer than four single women. That was what Meg had said and they all believed she was right.
“Leaving you behind was never an option,” Lorna said. “And we are all better off being separated from the train. They were nothing more than army deserters and leeches. There wasn’t a man on that train I trusted, and very few women.”
“You got that right,” Meg said, joining her and Tillie on the ground.
“Furthermore,” Betty said, sticking her head out the back of the wagon, “taking you to see Dr. Wayne was our chance to escape.”
Lorna turned to Meg, and they read each other’s minds. Neither of them would have guessed that little Betty, heartbroken and quieter than a rabbit, had known of the dangers staying with the wagon train would have brought. Lorna and Meg had, and had been seeking an excuse to leave the group before Tillie had lost her husband and become ill.
Betty climbed out of the wagon and sat down with the rest of them. “I wasn’t able to sleep at night with the way Jacob Lerber leered at me during the day. Me! With Christopher barely cold in his grave.”
The contempt in Betty’s voice caused Lorna and Meg to share another knowing glance. Jacob Lerber had done more than leer. Both of them had stopped him from following Betty too closely on more than one occasion when she’d gone for water or firewood. Gratitude for the nun’s outfits had begun long before then. Everyone had been a bit wary of her and Meg, and kept their distance, afraid of being sent to hell and damnation on the spot. When Tillie had become ill, no one had protested against two nuns taking her to find a doctor. In fact, most of the others on the train had appeared happy at the prospect.
“But,” Tillie said softly, “because of me, we might not get to California before winter. It’s midsummer and we aren’t even to Wyoming yet.” Glancing toward Meg, Tillie added, “Are we?”
Meg shook her head. “But I’ve been thinking about that. There are plenty of towns along the way. I say wherever we are come October, we find a town and spend the winter. It would be good if we made it as far as Fort Hall, but there are other places. Having pooled our supplies, we have more than enough to see us through and come spring, we can head out again.”
Betty and Tillie readily agreed. Meg had become their wagon master, and they all trusted her judgment. None of them had anyone waiting at the other end, and whether they arrived this year or next made no difference.
To them. To Lorna it did. She needed to arrive in San Francisco as soon as possible. That was why she was on this trip, but she hadn’t told anyone else that. Not her reasons for going to California nor what she would do once she arrived and found Elliot Chadwick. That was the first thing she’d do. Right after getting rid of the nun’s habit. However, she also wanted to arrive in California alive. Others on their original train had told terrifying stories about being caught up in the mountains come winter, and claimed they couldn’t wait for Tillie to get the doctoring she’d needed.
Meg’s plan of wintering in a small town, although it made sense, wasn’t what Lorna wanted to hear. She didn’t want to pass the winter in any of the towns between here and California. The few they’d come across since leaving Missouri were not what she’d call towns. Then again, having lived in London most of her life, few cities in America were what she’d been used to, not even New York, despite having been born there.
“Lorna, you haven’t said anything,” Meg pointed out. “Do you agree?”
Meg might have become their wagon master, but for some unknown reason, they all acted as if Lorna was the leader of their small troupe. “Yes,” Lorna answered, figuring she’d hold her real opinion until there was something she could do about it. “Wherever we are come October, that’s where we stay.” She turned to Tillie. “And no more talk of being sorry. We are all here by choice.” Holding one hand out, palm down, she asked, “Right?”
One by one they slapped their hands atop hers. “Right!” Together they all said, “One for all and all for one.”
As their hands separated, Lorna reached for the diary that had tumbled off her lap. Too late she realized the others had read the brief entry she’d written for the day.
The women looked at one another and the silence thickened as Lorna closed the book.
Tillie picked up the pencil and while handing it back said, “How old will you be tomorrow?”
Lorna took the pencil and set it and the book on the ground. “Twenty.”
“I’m eighteen,” Betty said. “Had my birthday last March, right before we left Missouri.”
“Me, too,” Tillie said. “I’m eighteen. My birthday is in January.”
The others looked at Meg. She sighed and spit out a stem of grass she’d been chewing on. “Twenty. December.”
Betty turned to Lorna, her big eyes sparkling. “I have all the fixings. If we stop early enough tomorrow, I could bake a cake in my Dutch oven.”
Lorna shook her head. “No reason to waste supplies on a cake...or the time.”
Silence settled again, until Tillie asked, “Did you have cake back in England? Or birthday parties?”
Lorna considered not answering, but, ultimately, these were her friends, the only ones she had now. Meg didn’t, but Betty and Tillie, the way their eyes sparkled, acted as if living in England made her some kind of special person. No country did that.
“Yes,” she said. “My mother loved big, lavish parties, with all sorts of food and desserts, and fancy dresses.”
“What was your dress like last year?” Betty asked, folding her hands beneath her chin. Surrounded by the black nun’s habit, the excited glow of her face was prominent.
Lorna held in a sigh. She’d rather not remember that night, but couldn’t help but give the others a hint of the society they longed to hear about. “It was made of lovely dark blue velvet and took the seamstress a month to sew.”
“A month?”
She nodded. “My mother insisted it be covered with white lace, rows and rows of it.”
“You didn’t like the lace,” Meg said, as intuitive as ever.
Lorna shrugged. “I thought it was prettier without it.”
“I bet it was beautiful,” Betty said wistfully. “How many guests were there?”
“Over a hundred.”
Tillie gasped. “A hundred! Goodness.”
Lorna leaned back