My beloved family,
I take up my pen to write you of the odd thing that has happened. Mr. Thatcher, being accosted by five Pawnee warriors, warned them of the presence of a large Cheyenne war party nearby. I believe this saved his life, for it seems though they are wild and savage, as evidenced by the bloody scalps dangling at their waists when they suddenly appeared at our wagon train a few days later, these Pawnee have their own code of honor. Those five warriors have escorted us safely through what Mr. Thatcher calls Sioux territory. During the past weeks, they rode ahead of us to discover the best path for our wagons, and to warn of any Sioux close by. And though we all were wary and distrustful of their intent, they proved to be excellent guides. They led us to the safest fording places and helped us to cross our wagons. We did not, during their time with us, lose one animal to the wilds or to ravening beasts thanks to their prowess.
There is so much I wish to share with you all. I have seen my first buffalo. Swarms of them! At the meeting of the North and South Platte rivers, the horizon was black with the beasts as far as the eye could see. There are elk there, also.
I do wish you could see this country. We have traversed plains, valleys and now hills that come down to the banks of the river and oblige us to climb the heights then curve around and again descend to the river below.
It is now late July, and tomorrow we will reach a place called Fort William where, Mr. Thatcher assures us, we shall stop for a day to wash, bathe, purchase available supplies, repair wagons, doctor ill or hurt animals and trade with Indians. Having brought us here, the Pawnee have now left us to return to their homes.
I am well. Anne is healed of her injuries but remains distant from everyone. How I wish I had news of you all. My concern grows for Caroline and the baby.
As ever, I am your devoted,
Emma
Emma addressed and sealed the letter, placed it atop the others she had written and rose to put the lap desk in her wagon. Dusk had chased away the sunlight and mellowed the heat of the day. A breeze played among the trees strewed along the riverbank and carried the voices of mothers calling to their children. She lifted her head and listened to the squeals and laughter of the playing youngsters echoing off the rocks behind the camp then smiled and returned waves as they came running in obedience to the mothers’ summons—Gabe and David Lewis dragging in last, as always. The clamor quieted, stopped. From the direction of the river, a harmonica began a soft, languorous lament.
Emma glanced toward the herders bringing in the grazing stock and searched out the wiry form of the small, dark-haired man riding in a wide loop around the animals in the water to turn them back to land. Charley Karr said the beasts calmed when he played. But the music always brought an ache to her throat. She glanced toward Anne’s wagon, noted the canvas flaps tied closed and sighed. It would be so lovely to have someone with whom she could visit while the other emigrants settled in for the night. Would Anne ever get over her grief?
A vague sense of failure gnawed at her. Had she left anything undone that might help her sister? She sighed and retrieved the oatcake she had saved from supper then headed for the horses grazing at the far end of the inner oval, mentally reexamining her treatment of Anne. She could think of nothing to do but continue to love her, even if she wanted to be left alone. Loneliness washed over her, creating a longing in her heart, a hollow feeling in her stomach. If only Mother and Papa Doc were here. Or William. They would know what to do for Annie.
Emma came out of her musings, stared at Traveler. He was growing gaunt since they had left the good grass of the prairies behind. And his feed was gone. Would he survive the arduous trek ahead over the mountains? Or would it destroy him? Tears stung her eyes. “I brought you an oatcake, boy.” She fed him the treat and finger-combed snarls from his forelock and mane as he munched, noted the dull, lusterless condition of his coat and wished she had saved the other oatcake for him instead of eating it herself. Tomorrow she would—
“Sharing your supper?”
Emma jerked her head up, stared across Traveler’s back at Zachary Thatcher. How was it possible a man of his size could move as silent as a shadow? She nodded. “A bit of it. I wish I had more to give him.”
Understanding flashed in those bright blue eyes. He stepped closer, ran his hand over Traveler’s proudly arched neck. “A journey like ours is hard on the stock. Mules fare better than horses. Especially when the good grass gives out when they are climbing the mountains.”
That was not what she wanted to hear. Especially not with the sympathetic undertone of warning his voice carried. Would she lose Traveler? Her throat tightened so she was afraid to try and speak. She clenched her jaw and stared at Traveler’s shoulder, fighting the urge to lean her head against him and cry.
“I saw you writing earlier and thought you might like to know if you leave your letters at the fort tomorrow, when someone passes through, headed east, they will most likely carry them with them.”
She lifted her gaze to his face. “To St. Louis?” She snagged her bottom lip with her teeth to stop the trembling.
His eyes darkened, the rugged planes of his face softened. He reached out his hand, lowered it to Traveler’s back, close to where hers rested. So close she could feel the warmth radiating off it. “That is the end destination, yes. If they are not going that far they will pass the letters on to someone else.” His thumb moved, brushed against the side of her palm, stayed.
She glanced down, fought the urge to slip her hand sideways, to know the feel of the warmth and strength of his hand covering hers. A strange reaction to his accidental touch, yet it remained. Grew. She moved her hand before she yielded to the temptation.
Zachary Thatcher stepped back and cleared his throat. “There is no guarantee the letters will make it back, you understand. There is a lot of rough, wild and dangerous territory they must pass through on the way.”
She looked up, felt that same, strong draw when their gazes met and curved her mouth into a polite smile to hide behind. “Yes, I know, Mr. Thatcher. I have just come through that rough, wild and dangerous territory.”
He nodded, held her gaze a moment longer then looked away. “So you have, Miss Allen, so you have.” He touched his hat brim and walked off.
Emma stood and watched him go as silently, as quickly as he had come, feeling somehow cheated. It was only when the darkness swallowed him she realized night had fallen. Traveler nibbled at something and moved on. The horse’s plight settled like a stone in her heart, drew her thoughts from Zachary Thatcher. What was she to do about Traveler? What could she do? “If I had known about the grass failing, I never would have brought you, boy. I am so sorry.”
Tears blurred her vision. She blinked them away and walked to the closest wagon she could see then made her way slowly along the circle toward her own in order not to startle the animals in the wagon corral. A spot of light flared ahead, steadied to a soft glow. She paused and stared at the small beacon, then moved forward more surely, guided by the light, trying to ignore the feeling of warmth stealing into her heart. She could be wrong…
She approached her wagon, looked around. There was only the empty night, and the welcoming light of her lantern. She picked it up and again searched the darkness, considered calling out to thank him in case he were near. But how foolish she would appear if she were wrong. Still…no one else knew she was out there in the darkness, alone.
Alone. But not as lonely as before. He had lighted her lantern and placed it on the water barrel shelf to see her safely to her wagon. The warmth around her heart grew. It was silly of her to feel so…so cared about. She was certain Mr. Thatcher would do the same for any of the emigrants on the train, but still… She climbed into her wagon, placed the lantern on top of the red box then pulled the canvas flaps into place and tied them closed.
She was safely inside. Zach stepped away from the rock he was leaning against and jogged off toward his campsite, the moonless night no challenge to his skill. Something he refused to identify coursed through him, bathed his heart in unwelcome warmth. She had smiled when she picked up the lantern. A small smile to be sure. One that merely played at the corners of her rose-colored lips. And it had not been directed at him, as she had smiled at Josiah Blake. No, she had smiled because of him. And that was better. There was no danger of his emotions becoming entangled that way. And there was a danger of that. No sense in fooling himself about it. There had been a moment tonight when she had looked at him….
Zach scowled, spotted the deep black of the fissure in the rock face and climbed to his bed on the shelf above. He had wanted to leap right over that horse and take her in his arms. He had touched her hand, hoping. But she had moved hers away. And that was for the best.
He stepped to the edge of the shelf, stood listening to the night, absorbing the normal sounds of the area so his senses would warn him if danger neared the train. Tonight had been a close thing. Too close. Dr. Emma Allen was like a magnet to him. He needed to keep his distance.