A Home for His Family. Jan Drexler
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The fire would die on its own.
She took Olivia’s hand in hers as Margaret lifted Lucy out of the wagon. Uncle James untied the horses, Charley took his mule and they started up the trail toward home.
Sarah’s breath puffed as they climbed the steep hill, her mind flitting between worry and irritation with the children’s uncle Nate. These children needed her, no matter what their uncle said. Somehow she would see that they received the care and education they deserved.
* * *
As the snowfall grew heavier, obscuring the distant mountains, Nate gave up. He’d been wandering these bare, brown hills since midmorning and hadn’t seen any sign of game. He and the children would just have to make do with the few biscuits left from last night’s supper.
When the wagon axle had finally broken yesterday afternoon, he thought the freight master would have helped them make repairs, but the man had only moved the crippled wagon off the trail and then set on his way with the bull train again.
“We’re less than a mile from town—you’ll be fine until we send help back for you. Just keep an eye out for those Indians.”
And then they were gone, leaving Nate and the children alone.
Less than a mile from Deadwood? It might as well be twenty, or fifty, when everything they owned was lying by the side of the road. By the time the gray light of the cloudy afternoon started fading, Nate knew the bull train driver had forgotten them.
They had spent the night on their own with little food and a fitful fire. Morning had brought clouds building in the northwest and he’d hoped he’d be able to find a turkey or squirrel before too long. But here he was coming home empty-handed.
As he hurried over the last rise, Nate’s empty stomach plummeted like a stone at the sight of the wagon. The wind had torn one corner of the canvas cover and it flapped wildly. Why hadn’t Charley tied that down? Didn’t he know his sisters and all their supplies were exposed to this weather?
And why hadn’t they kept the fire going? They had to be freezing.
The hair on the back of Nate’s neck prickled. The wagon tilted with the blasting gusts of wind. It was too quiet. The horses were missing. Even Loretta was nowhere in sight.
Nate broke into a run.
When he reached the wagon, he closed his eyes, dreading what he might see inside. They were just children. He had been so stupid to leave them. He had let his brother down again.
He gripped the worn wooden end gate and slowly opened his eyes. Nothing. Just the barrels and boxes of supplies. The children were gone.
Why had he taken so long? He should have stayed closer to the wagon. He had been warned about the Indians in the area, attacking any settlers who were foolish enough to venture out without being heavily armed.
He knew why he had taken the risk. No game. No food. He had had to leave them for a few hours.
He turned into the wind and scanned the hills rising above.
“Charley!” A gust snatched his voice away. “Olivia! Lucy!”
A wolf’s howl floating on the wild wind was his only answer as he slumped against the wagon box, his eyes blurred with the cold. It had been the same when he and Andrew had returned from the war, back home to the abandoned farm. The wind had howled that afternoon, too, with a fierce thunderstorm. But they were gone. Ma, Pa, Mattie... Ma and Pa were dead, but Mattie was lost. None of the neighbors knew where she had gone, or even when. Years of searching had brought him only wisps of clues, rumors that this cowboy or that miner had seen her in Tombstone, or Denver or Abilene, but she was gone without a trace.
Nate’s legs gave way as he sank to the ground.
The wolf’s howl came again, answered by several others. A pack on the hunt? Or a Sioux raiding party?
Nate scrambled to the fire, pulling his rifle with him. He blew the coals to life again and fed the flames with a few small sticks left near the wagon and a stray board that he threw on when the blaze was strong enough. A fire should keep the wolves away, at least until dark. Until then, he could search for some sign of which way the children had gone.
He took a deep breath, shutting down the panic that threatened to consume him. The panic that would make him freeze in a shuddering mess if he gave in to it. Closing his eyes, he whooshed out the breath and filled his lungs again. Where could they be? Think.
The wind gusted again with a force strong enough to send the canvas wagon cover flapping. With the rising wind, perhaps the children had gone to seek a better shelter than the crippled wagon. He clung to that hope. The alternative—that they had been stolen along with the horses—was too horrible to consider.
The walk back to the cabin wasn’t more than a half mile, but Sarah’s feet were frozen by the time they climbed the final slope up from the trail at the edge of town. The wind pierced her wool dress.
Charley and Uncle James took the horses and mule into the lean-to where they would get some shelter, as Aunt Margaret led the way into the house. Warmth enveloped Sarah as she stopped just inside the door. She took the cloak from Olivia and guided the girls closer to the fireplace.
Lucy watched the glowing coals while Olivia folded the blanket her sister had been using as a wrap and laid it on the wood plank floor.
“You girls must be frozen.” Aunt Margaret added a few sticks to the fire and swung the kettle over the flames. “Sit right here while we warm up the stew. Supper will be ready soon enough.”
She left the girls to get settled on the blanket while she pulled Sarah to the side of the cabin where Uncle James had built a cupboard and small table.
“What can we feed them? I do wish we had been able to bring Cook out West with us, and Susan. They’d know what to do.”
She wrung her hands, but Sarah stopped her with a touch. “You said you wouldn’t complain about leaving the servants behind in Boston.”
“That was before I found out we would be cooking over an open fireplace. How can we have guests in conditions like this?”
Sarah put one arm around the shorter woman’s shoulders. “We’ll put another can of vegetables in the pot and some water to stretch it out. Meanwhile, we’ll make a batch of biscuits. That will fill everyone’s stomachs.”
“I’m so glad you know your way around a kitchen.” Margaret glanced at the girls, content to sit near the fire. “I’ll learn as quickly as I can, but I don’t think I could make a biscuit if my life depended on it!”
“Then we’ll do it together.” Sarah put a bowl on the table, along with a can of flour and Uncle James’s jar of sourdough starter. She squelched the irritation that always rose whenever Aunt Margaret’s helplessness showed its face. One thing Dr. Amelia Bennett had expounded upon frequently at her Sunday afternoon meetings was the careless way women of the privileged classes in Boston wasted the hours of their days, while their less fortunate sisters in the mills and saloons longed for the advantages denied them because of lack of education. But with all the education available to her, Aunt Margaret had never even learned to do a simple task like baking.
Sarah took a deep breath. Dr. Bennett wasn’t here, but she was. She would help her aunt in any way she could, even if it was only to teach her how to make sourdough biscuits.
While they mixed the dough, James and Charley came in the door, bringing a fresh blast of cold air and stomping feet.
“It’s getting even colder out there as the sun goes down.” James sat in his chair near the fireplace and pulled off his boots.
“But Loretta and the horses will be safe in the lean-to, won’t they?” Charley hung his coat on a hook and joined his sisters by the fireplace.