Prairie Courtship. Dorothy Clark
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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