Chapter Thirteen

 

It had been two days since he’d told her of the marriage arrangement, and Loralei still wouldn’t listen to anything he had to say. Sam shook the grass from his bedroll, glancing her way as she did the same. Short of tying her to a tree, where she couldn’t walk off as soon as he opened his mouth, he had no idea of how to make her listen.

Ruth seemed just as miffed. He couldn’t get within inches of either one of them without the dog growling like he was about to steal her last bone. It had been stupid to start the conversation the way he had, but he’d expected her to listen to everything, and in the end, be happy.

A hate-filled gaze from a face as homely as an apple doll’s landed on him. Mrs. Wilson didn’t look away.

Sam did. He rolled his bedding into a lopsided mess and slapped it on King.

He’d followed Loralei out of the hotel that night. By the time he’d rounded the corner outside the hotel, Mrs. Wilson had an arm wrapped around Loralei. Sam had rushed forward, only to be swatted away by the old woman like some pesky fly.

Loralei had returned to their room later, but refused to listen to a word he said. She and Ruth settled onto the bed while he slept in the chair. The next morning, before he’d a chance to comprehend what happened, they’d joined a wagon train traveling Gooddale’s Cutoff from Fort Hall to Boise.

It wasn’t a large train, only five wagons besides him and Loralei on horseback. He didn’t begrudge the company. The other travelers gave him someone to talk to while Loralei snubbed him. More often than not, the prune faced Mrs. Wilson was at her side.

Right on cue, the woman shouted from her wagon, “Loralei!”

Without so much as a glance his way, Loralei and Ruth, made their way over and started to help the woman with breakfast fixings. Sam moseyed over to the Danbur’s wagon. Mr. Danbur had lost one arm in the war, and though the man could do everything anyone with two arms could, Sam felt inclined to assist a man who’d fought so bravely for his country.

The Danbur’s had three kids, two boys and a girl between the ages of five and ten, and they were right good little helpers.

“Good morning, Mr. McDonald.” Emily Danbur carried a speckled coffee pot to the fire already ablaze in their pit. “Coffee will be ready shortly.”

“Morning,” Sam replied. He wished Loralei had befriended Emily Danbur instead of Mrs. Wilson. Not only because Emily was younger, closer to Loralei’s age, but she also had a kind disposition and gentle, understanding ways.

“You’ll join us for breakfast this morning, won’t you?” Emily Danbur asked, glancing toward the Wilson wagon.

“Of course he will.” Mr. Danbur flipped his suspenders over his shoulders one at a time. “It’s his bacon and coffee we’re fixin’.”

Sam’s eyes had wandered to the Wilson wagon. Loralei scampered around preparing a meal. It was his coffee and bacon being fixed at that campfire, too. Not that he minded. He had more than enough to share. It was just he wanted to share it with Loralei as well.

A hand fell on his shoulder. “Mrs. Wilson still claiming she’s ill?”

Sam nodded. “Yes, say’s it’s a touch of pleurisy.”

Mr. Danbur gave a cockeyed grin. “If that woman has pleurisy, I’ve got two good arms.”

“Afton!” Emily Danbur admonished, but a gleam shone in her eyes.

“She’s got a case of the sours, that’s what that old woman has. I don’t know how Mr. Wilson puts up with her,” Afton Danbur said, walking toward the fire.

Sam moved as well and used a large stick to stir down the fire before he set a grate across the top.

“Well, I think it’s kind of your wife to help out the older couple,” Emily Danbur said, placing her speckled pot on the grate. “We’ve all tried to assist them, but Mrs. Wilson just didn’t take a shine to any of us.”

Afton Danbur let out a grunt, but a smile crossed his face and he winked at his wife. A blush rose on Emily’s cheeks. The exchange between the married couple made a knot form in Sam’s stomach. He longed for what he and Loralei had before he told her about Tiffany.

Why had he told her? He had no intentions of marrying Tiffany. It had been that damn telegram from his father. Even a thousand miles away the man had an effect on Sam’s life.

“We can’t change how people react to us,” Afton said, glancing to where his left arm used to be. “We can only change how we react to them.” The man’s gaze went to the Wilson site, where Loralei was bent over the fire. “Give her time, she’ll come around.”

Time was the one thing Sam had. It would take over two weeks for the train to get to Boise.

Soon, Sam found the days slipping by faster and faster. The trail turned into little more than black rock. A single lane crossed over the rugged layers of ancient lava. The hardships of trains before them scattered the dismal valley in all directions. Crude crosses and long ago discarded possessions lined the route. Their little train forged on, assisting one another the entire way.

Loralei no longer aided the Wilson’s from dawn to dusk. Mrs. Fletcher, a young woman who’d given birth to twins a few months ago, had contracted mastitis. The ailment had the woman feverish and unable to walk more than short distances. Loralei spent most days tending the infants, and the evenings packing the woman’s breasts with warm, wet towels.

Sam tried to help, knew Loralei’s strength had to be waning, and though she accepted his aid—now and again—for the most part she remained aloof to his attention. He refused to grow bitter, knew it wouldn’t solve his problems. Furthermore, he was witnessing a part of Loralei he’d probably have never seen if they hadn’t joined the train. She was a natural healer. Had a way to comfort the ill and treat their aliments more compassionately than the most respected surgeon. Once again he found himself in awe, and quite profoundly in love.

Mrs. Fletcher was pronounced healed the day before they were to reach Boise, giving the entire wagon train two reasons to rejoice. They’d also left the baron, harsh landscape behind, and the lush, greener countryside was a welcomed relief.

That evening, when they stopped for the night, a low lying sense of excitement filtered the camp. It was Wayne Bookman who picked up on it and turned it into a celebration. He was a single man headed for the gold fields near Silver City where he planned on making his fortune with his newspaper. The printing contraption he hauled in his wagon was little shy of a metal monster. As soon as the wagons were parked and the chores complete, Bookman took out a scratched and scarred fiddle.

In no time, Afton Danbur was blowing on his harmonica, and Mr. Fletcher slapping spoons. The women carried their meals to the center of the wagons, where everyone ate and listened to the music. A few even took turns dancing.

Sam, missing her more than ever, walked to where Loralei sat on a blanket she’d spread out for Mrs. Fletcher and the twins. His breath caught with the idea of being near her. When she glanced his way, offering a slight smile, his heart jolted like a colt from a barn.

“Hi,” he said, feeling about as shy as a five-year-old.

“Hi,” she answered, her lashes lowering. One of the twins, swaddled in a quilt lay in her arms, sound asleep. The sight was enough to knock him into next week.

“Everyone’s doing fine?” He gestured toward the twin and the other Mrs. Fletcher held.

Loralei nodded and Alice Fletcher said, “We are doing just fine, thanks to your beautiful wife. I’m sorry we’ve taken so much of her time, but I don’t know what I would have done without her the past week.”

“You’d have been just fine without me.” Loralei patted the woman’s arm.

“No. No we wouldn’t have.” Alice Fletcher looked at him. “I truly thank you, Mr. McDonald. Most husbands wouldn’t have been so understanding. Wouldn’t have let their wife tend to another family nonstop.”

“Maybe,” Sam said, moving his gaze to Loralei. “Then again, maybe most men aren’t as lucky as I.”

Loralei offered a small, puzzled frown.

He had to touch her in some way. It had been so long. His index finger trailed the side of her face, gliding over the soft, smooth skin. “I can’t imagine,” he said not really to Mrs. Fletcher, “that there is another woman as caring and loving as Loralei.”

Loralei’s mouth opened slightly, as if his words shocked her.

“I’ll agree with that, Mr. McDonald,” Mrs. Fletcher said. The woman stood then, and cradling one infant in her left arm, reached down to take the other. “I think I’ll put these two to bed now.”

Loralei started to rise.

“No,” the other woman insisted. “I can manage. You stay here with your husband.” Mrs. Fletcher took the second infant. She was no more than two steps away when her husband, Ian, met her, taking one infant as they crossed the grass to their wagon.

Loralei smoothed the skirt of her blue dress over her knees. Sam reached over and took one of her hands. She felt the same—warm, soft, yet firm, but for some reason he didn’t. Not on the inside anyway. He no longer had the confidence he’d had a few weeks ago. It was more like he was walking on ice and afraid of breaking through at any moment.

“I’ve missed you.” The words came straight from his heart, and he couldn’t have stopped them with a cannon.

Her cheeks turned crimson. “That’s silly. I’ve been right here the whole time.”

The music in the distance floated gently on the air

He kissed the back of her hand. “No, you haven’t,” he quietly argued. “Not right beside me, where I’ve wanted you to be. Where I’ll always want you to be.”

Her lilac eyes glistened. Sam wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her with all the emotion bottled up inside.

“Sam.” Her voice was a soft pleading sound that ripped his chest open.

“Loralei,” he whispered, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck.

Her breath tickled his lips. Anticipation made his blood rush through his veins. His mouth had barely touched her petal softness when a loud, rough voice exclaimed, “Loralei, I need you!”

They both turned to the sound, their cheeks brushing. Mrs. Wilson, with her hands on her plump hips, glared at them. She stomped across the grass. “My pleurisy is acting up.”

“Well, Sam and I—” Loralei stammered.

Mrs. Wilson stopped with one foot on the blanket. “I need you now. I didn’t bother you while Mrs. Fletcher was ill, but I need you now. I can’t possibly get our wagon ready for the night by myself. Not with the pain I’m in.” The woman arched her back slightly. “It’s all but killing me,” she groaned, quite dramatically.

Sam’s jaw hardened into granite. He glared at the woman. Her stare back was defiant, but Sam read something more in it. The woman wanted him to pitch a fit, insist Loralei not aid her. He cocked his head, wondering why. A cord struck then. Over the trail the woman had used most everything he did against him, prattled on about how selfish and boorish he was, no matter how hard he worked. She had it out for him, and most likely her goal was to have Loralei thinking as badly of him as the lemon-sucking-faced old bat did.

His cheek twitched. You get more bees with honey than you do vinegar, his grandmother had always said. He stood, assisting Loralei to rise beside him. Reaching down to retrieve the blanket, he offered, “I’ll help you, Mrs. Wilson. Loralei is tired.”

“I don’t want your help,” Mrs. Wilson snapped.

“Come along, Mrs. Wilson,” Loralei said, wrapping an arm about the woman’s shoulders. “I’ll help you prepare for bed.” She glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes pleaded, asking for forgiveness.

Didn’t she know he’d forgive her if she stole the sunshine from the sky? He winked one eye, and the smile that grew on Loralei’s face made his chest expand. Happier than he’d been in sometime he shook out the blanket and folded it across his arm before he followed the two woman across the grass.