nineteen

The chinook blew all through the night, keeping temperatures balmy enough that they didn’t need a campfire. Which was good, because the gusts would have blown out the flame the second it formed.

“Can I take Handsome for a walk, Miss Chastain?” The nicer weather seemed to infuse an extra dose of energy in Samuel the next morning.

“He would like that, if you stay close. And if your mama says you may.” She tacked on that last sentence with a glance at Joanna. As usual, the woman had been working steadily since dawn’s first blush. She might want the boy to stay and help.

“Stay where I can see you.” Joanna wiped her sleeve across her brow. “When Mr. Bradley gets back with Jackson, we’ll be ready to leave.”

“Yes, ma’am. Come on, puppy.” And he was off, a limitless bundle of energy.

“If you’ll bring me a pot of water, Joanna, I’ll clean the morning dishes.” How frustrating that she had to have help to accomplish a simple chore like that.

But Joanna didn’t complain, just brought over the pot that had been sitting at the edge of camp. “I filled this earlier.” She offered a gentle smile, the look softening the lines that had begun to creep in around the edges of her face. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Well. I’m enjoying this warm wind. I just wish I could help more. The burden of everything falls on you.” She studied her friend’s face for signs of agreement.

Joanna shook her head. “Not everything. In fact, it almost seems easier being on the trail than back home. You and Mr. Bradley help so much to occupy Samuel.”

Just the sound of Micah’s name conjured the image of him, trekking forward on snowshoes, Samuel clinging to his back and chattering away. She couldn’t help a smile. “He is good with the boy, isn’t he?”

“I’m surprised Samuel’s constant talking doesn’t make him grumpy, but he just adds a word every now and then and carries on as though he’s used to such.”

Now was her chance to talk to Joanna about what the other woman might have seen between her and Micah the other day. But how to bring it up?

Joanna seemed to read something in her face, and a sparkle touched her eyes. She reached out to touch Ingrid’s shoulder. “You two seem like a good match. The perfect complement to each other.”

Heat flamed to her face. “We’re not—I mean, I wanted to talk to you about that. To let you know that there’s nothing untoward happening between us. He’s merely helping me take the vaccines to Settler’s Fort. And he cared for my wounds from our wagon accident.” She was rambling, but none of her words seem to hold any substance. She wouldn’t believe her if she were in Joanna’s shoes.

Joanna rubbed Ingrid’s arm, maybe trying to silence her. “He seems like a good man. I’ve come to treasure your friendship, even though it seems we rarely have a spare moment to visit. You deserve to be happy, and I see the smile that lights your face every time he comes near. Don’t let him go.” She straightened, and that twinkle crept back into her eyes. “And I’m happy to act as chaperone.”

A lump clogged Ingrid’s throat, making it hard to answer. Joanna may have taken her budding feelings further than Ingrid would like her to think, but having her friend’s support soothed her insides like a cup of tea on a cold day.

She reached for Joanna’s hand. “Thank—”

A scream ripped through the air, stilling her mid-sentence.

They both spun toward the source. The voice had sounded like Samuel. Was he hurt? Caught by a wild animal?

Joanna scrambled to her feet and sprinted in that direction, raising her skirts high, her feet sloshing through the melting snow. In the distance, the boy began crying, lifting up great wails as though something was very wrong. Handsome barked around him, his frantic yip pulling the knot in Ingrid’s chest even tighter.

Micah’s footfalls sounded through the trees where he’d gone to water the donkey. He appeared from the shadows, sprinting with long strides toward the spot where Joanna now knelt. A large rock sat beside her, several more nearby.

The boy’s cries didn’t cease, only grew louder, more anguished. Something was very wrong.

Ingrid scooted backward, dragging her splinted leg until she reached the cart. She had to go help them. By levering her good leg under her, she eased up, gripping the cart’s sides to pull herself upright. It had been more than three weeks since the injury; surely she could walk a little if she could find something to lean against. She could just drag the bad leg behind her.

But as she stood, bent over and bracing herself on the cart, there was nothing around that would provide the support. Nothing tall and strong enough.

She could hear Micah’s deep tenor amidst the boy’s wails but couldn’t make out his words. Thankfully, the dog had ceased barking. Micah would be able to fix what was wrong with Samuel. He had to. If Joanna lost her son, too, after everything else . . . The idea was too horrible to give thought to.

Lord, please save the boy. Give Micah wisdom. Give Joanna peace. Her spirit breathed the prayer, stilling her fear with the same peace she’d petitioned for Joanna to receive.

Micah stood and—with Joanna on Samuel’s other side—helped the boy ease to his feet. As they turned to walk back to her, it looked like Micah was supporting the lad’s left arm. Or maybe just the wrist. Handsome plodded through the snow behind him, as though sorry he’d not protected the boy like he should.

As soon as they reached the camp, Ingrid couldn’t contain herself any longer. “What’s wrong? What can I do?”

Samuel raised his tear-streaked face to her. “My arm.”

“Come sit here so I can wrap it.” Micah’s entire focus was on the boy—or, more specifically, the arm. Was it broken? Would he have moved the lad if it was?

When Samuel was seated, Micah motioned for Joanna to come closer. “Hold his wrist still, just like this.” He was so engrossed in the boy and the injury, a professional intensely focused on his work.

After he was satisfied with the positioning, he stood and turned toward the packs, then stalled when he saw Ingrid. “You shouldn’t be up. Sit back down.” He strode toward her. “I’ll help you.”

She pushed away his outstretched hand. “I’m fine and I want to help. What do you need?”

He froze, looking torn. He glanced toward the mother and boy, then spun back to the pack. “I don’t think the wrist is broken, but there are lacerations, and it’s likely sprained. I’ll wrap it and make a sling to let the arm rest.”

Poor Samuel. “You can use some of my skirt for the sling.” She grabbed the hem of her blue muslin.

“I found a bandage. It will be enough.” He stood and moved back to the boy.

What else might be needed? “I have some willow tea left. Will it help with his pain?”

Micah paused. “Probably.” He moved toward her and she held out the canteen of bitter tea. After taking it he squeezed her hand. “He’ll be all right. Just in a bit of pain for a while.”

She nodded. How had he known she needed to hear that? Her chest throbbed for the heartache Joanna must be feeling. For the searing pain Samuel was struggling to cope with. For Micah’s anguish as he had to face another hurting child. Someone who depended on him to make things better.

Be with them, Lord. Fill each with your loving strength. She may not be able to do anything else, but she could do the most helpful thing—cover them with prayer.

Each of the boy’s cries plunged another knife into Micah’s chest.

He’d wrapped the forearm firmly and strapped it to his chest to restrict movement, and now Samuel sat in his mother’s arms. Deep, shuddering sobs still slipped out every few seconds.

“Try to drink a little more, honey. This will stop your arm from hurting.” Joanna raised the cup of willow tea to her son’s mouth.

The boy took a sip, then turned away with another sob.

“I know that stuff doesn’t taste so good, but I’ll bet you’re brave enough to drink it anyway, aren’t you?” Ingrid stroked the boy’s hair. She’d been more worried about the injury than Micah had expected.

Micah had been so engrossed in wrapping the arm and securing it properly—especially in case there was a fracture to the bone—he’d almost missed the distress on her face. Seeing her standing there, clutching the cart to hold her upright, his heart had surged to his throat. If she’d fallen, her leg could easily have broken again.

The anguish on her face finally took hold of him. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said, but the connection that passed between them as he took her hand seemed to be what she needed. Now she’d regained that strength that always surrounded her. A calm in the storm.

A power he wished he possessed.

“Relying on God fills me with an inner strength greater than I could possess on my own.” Her words from before rushed back at him. How did she get that strength? Surely she didn’t sit down one day and hand over her will to God, like baked goods sold to a neighbor. “Here, God. I’ll trade you this in exchange for inner strength. Would you mind signing this receipt, please? I wouldn’t want you to back out of the bargain.”

Something inside him tightened at the thought. He may not be very close to the Almighty these days, but not even he was so blasphemous as to think such things. Sorry, Lord.

He looked around the campsite. He needed something to do. They should stay here another few hours at least, to give the boy time to calm down. He should take the chance for a little more hunting. Enough to carry them through to Settler’s Fort, plus a little extra in case they experienced delay.

Another delay, that is.

His gaze slipped to Ingrid. She was handling this pause in their journey well so far, her attention focused on helping the boy feel better. Her head bent close to his, and he had to focus on her mouth to tell what she was saying. Or rather . . . singing?

Was she crooning a lullaby?

His heart ached with the sensations flowing through him. This woman . . . how had she become so special? She poured out her beautiful heart for others in so many ways. If only he were worthy of the affection she freely showered on him, too.

But he wasn’t.

Pushing up to his feet, he reached for the rifle. “I’m going to check the donkey, then do some hunting. Call out if you need me. We’ll leave after the noon meal, if everyone is up to it.”

His boot caught on the small satchel that carried his personal things. Maybe this was a good time to do some writing, too. Reaching inside, he snagged his journal, then strode toward the woods.

Perhaps the time alone would help him settle his thoughts. But then again, five years of solitude hadn’t accomplished that feat.

It would take a miracle for it to happen now.

My Sweet Rachel,

Do you remember the song I used to sing to you at night? I can’t remember when our habit began, but every evening I wasn’t out doctoring someone, I would tuck you into bed. I’d lean close to your ear and sing,

“You are precious, you are precious,

You’re the one, you’re the one.

Jesus made you special, Jesus made you special,

For His love, for His love,

And my love, too!”

Then I’d tickle you while you giggled so hard, you’d snort and gasp like a little piggy. When you grew older, you learned how to tickle me back, and our little song turned into a full tickle-fight.

Often, we only stopped when Mama came to tell us to settle down. She always said I was making you too excited before bedtime, but I couldn’t resist hearing you laugh so hard.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to hear you laugh again, my sweet Rachel. I miss you more than I can say.

Papa

When they finally stopped for the night, Joanna looked more exhausted than Ingrid had ever seen her. Samuel had ridden in the cart some of the afternoon, but there were many moments when his tears and cries of “Mommy, please” were too pitiful to ignore. In those moments, Joanna would take her son and carry him, soothing away his sobs as only a mother could.

The effort took a toll on Joanna, though, as was evident by the deep lines under her eyes and her pale face.

After setting up camp, Micah handled meal preparations so Joanna could tend to her son. Now that the heavy wind had left, he’d been able to build a fire—a good thing, since the air dropped to icy temperatures.

“Stew’s ready.” Micah filled a cup and handed it to Joanna.

She took the mug as she wrestled her son into an easier position. “Come, Samuel. Let’s eat a few bites. This will help you feel better.”

“No. It hurts.” He’d been whining those same words for hours, a heartbreaking refrain.

“I know, son. But you have to eat.” Joanna’s tone picked up a twinge of frustration. Nay, desperation.

“How about if I sit with him for a minute?” Micah stood and handed Joanna her own mug of stew as he stepped toward them and Joanna scooted back so he could take her spot.

He settled in, taking the boy on his lap, cradling him as though the two had sat together many times before. “Did I ever tell you about the time my little girl broke her arm?”

The boy’s eyes rounded as he looked up at the man. He shook his head and sniffed, then wiped his nose on a sleeve.

Micah lifted a bite of stew to Samuel’s mouth. “Have a bite here and I’ll tell you.” The boy opened obligingly. “She was about a year younger than you, and her name was Rachel.”

The past tense word was made pain clog in Ingrid’s chest. How hard must it be for him to talk of his child who no longer lived.

But he continued the story. “She loved to climb trees and rocks, just like those boulders you were climbing today. One day a boy came running to tell me Rachel had fallen and I needed to come quickly.” He spooned another bite into Samuel’s mouth, even as the lad’s eyes were fixed on him.

“I ran faster than I’ve ever run in my life. When I got there, I saw she’d broken her arm in the same place yours is hurt.” He touched the boy’s bandaged wrist. “I carried her home and wrapped the arm up just the way I did with yours, but she still cried. And her tears made me so sad inside that I wished it was my arm that was broken instead of hers.” Micah’s words quavered a bit as he gripped his own arm in the same spot.

Ingrid knew well the pain of a broken limb and could only imagine the grief of watching his child with that ache, not being able to remove the agony.

He inhaled audibly. “I knew what she needed most was something to take her mind off the hurting. Something unusual. Do you know what I did?”

“What?” Samuel was so engrossed in the story, he didn’t seem to notice as Micah fed him another bite.

“First, I gave her a licorice stick, because that always helps. But then, I remembered a game I played when I was a boy called ‘Guess What I’m Thinking.’ It goes like this.

“I say, ‘I’m thinking of something that makes noise.’ Now you can ask me five questions to find out what it is, but I can only answer with a yes or no. After five questions, you have to guess. Understand?”

Samuel sniffed and nodded.

“Good. You could ask me something like ‘Is it alive?’ or ‘Does it move?’ Anything that will help you guess what I’m thinking of that makes a noise.”

“Well then, is it alive? An’ does it move?”

Micah chuckled and fed the boy another bite. “Yes and yes.”

“Is it an animal?”

“Yes, it is.”

“What kind?”

He raised his brows. “Best to ask me something that I can answer yes or no.”

“Oh, um . . . does it have four legs?”

“It does. One more question.”

“But, Mr. Bradley, you didn’t answer yes or no.”

Another deep chuckle rumbled from Micah’s chest. “You’re right. Yes, the animal I’m thinking of has four legs.”

“Hmm . . . for my last question . . . does it make a noise like a neigh?”

Ingrid had trouble biting back her laughter at the pair. Samuel was catching on quickly.

Micah scrunched his face as though thinking hard. “I suppose . . . yes.”

Samuel’s expression changed to weary triumph. “I think it’s a horse.”

“And I think you’re right.” Micah spooned another bite of stew into the boy’s mouth. “Now it’s your turn to think of something and I’ll ask the questions.”

They made it through two more rounds before Samuel’s eyes grew droopy. He’d eaten the full cup of stew and drank most of the willow tea she’d poured for him.

For a few minutes, man and boy lapsed into silence. Then Samuel’s little voice broke the quiet. “Mr. Bradley?”

“Yes?” Micah looked down at the boy, the firelight reflecting off the tenderness in his features.

“My arm still hurts.” His voice was low and soft. No trace of the whining from before.

“I know. But you’re being very brave. I’m proud of you.” His voice roughened with the last words, then his Adam’s apple bobbed.

Silence settled over them again as Samuel’s eyelids drifted shut. Micah stared into the fire, his face a mask. Was he remembering the time he’d played that game with his daughter? Remembering the challenge of holding her, unable to take away the pain?

She wanted, more than anything, to move closer. To soothe away his hurts. To hold him until she could ease his heartache. But she stayed where she was.

Be his strength, Lord. His peace.