“Annie, please come with me to visit the fort. I am certain you will find—” Emma stopped, stared at the russet-colored curls set swaying by the negative shake of her sister’s head.
“You go, Emma. There is nothing of interest to me there. I shall stay here and rest.”
Emma lifted her chin. “I will not go without you, Anne! There are Indians camped nearby and—”
“And Mr. Thatcher has set guards over the wagons and the stock. I shall be fine.” Anne turned, focused her gaze on her. “I am not being difficult, Emma. I cannot—the children…the families…”
“Oh, Annie.” Emma reached out her hand, took a step forward. Anne shook her head and turned away. Emma stopped, lowered her hand to her side. “All right, Anne. I will go without you. I must inquire as to getting my letters carried back to St. Louis.” She cast a hopeful look at her sister’s back. “Have you any letters—”
“No. None.”
Anne’s curt tone told her not to inquire further. She held back a sigh. “Very well. I shall return shortly.” She lifted her skirt hems out of the way and climbed from Anne’s wagon, let the flaps fall into place.
“We’re goin’ to the Injuns’ camp, Dr. Emma!” Gabe Lewis raced by, wheeled and ran back. “Pa says maybe I c’n trade my marble fer a bow and arrow!”
“Me, too!” Little David Lewis, never far behind his older brother, held out his hand and unfolded his pudgy fingers. A large amber-colored marble resting on his palm winked in the sunlight. He grinned up at her.
“Oh, my, that is a lovely marble!” She returned his grin, looked over at Gabe. “I wish you well in your barter.” He flashed her a grin and raced off, David close on his heels.
“Gabriel and David! Do not go outside this wagon circle without your pa!” Lorna Lewis looked up at her and shook her head. “Those boys will be the death of me. Always runnin’ off and gettin’ up to some mischief!” She glanced toward the closed wagon flaps. “I come for your sister’s laundry—sent Lillian to fetch yours. My wash water is heatin’ down beside the river.”
Emma ducked inside the flaps and drew out a pillowcase stuffed full of Anne’s laundry. “Is Jenny using her arm normally, yet?”
Lorna chuckled and shook her head. “She’s still tellin’ the other kids it’s her ‘special hurt’ arm. The little minx uses it to get her own way.”
Emma laughed. “Very clever of her.”
“Except she forgets now and again when they get to playin’, so the kids are on to her high jinks.”
“Will you be taking her and your other girls to the fort?”
Lorna glanced toward the palisade, then looked back at her and shook her head. “Mr. Lewis will buy what we’re wantin’ in the way of supplies. I aim to get the wash done, and the wagon emptied out and put to rights. Those young’uns make an awful mess of things. And then I mean to bake bread and biscuits enough for a week whilst there is light to see and wood to make a good fire. After that, I aim to bed down the children and enjoy the pleasure of sittin’ still.” She laughed and took the pillowcase from Emma’s hand. “Tell Lillian to hurry on.”
Emma nodded and headed for her wagon.
Emma stared at the fort. Indians roamed around the area, going in and out of the fort at will. So many Indians. She flicked her gaze toward the conical skin shelters dotting the grassy field. At least they were on the opposite side of this tongue of land formed by the Laramie and North Platte rivers. She drew her gaze back, lifted it skyward to the guardhouse overhanging the wide, gated entrance in the palisade wall. Surely they would watch and see her safely across—
“Dr. Emma! Dr. Emma!”
Emma whirled about. Mary Fletcher was running toward her. “What is it, Mary?”
“Ma says come quick!” The young girl clutched her side and drew in a ragged breath. “Daniel cut hisself bad…with the hatchet!”
“Where is he?”
“They’re bringin’ him…to…yer wagon.”
“Stay here until you catch your breath!” Emma lifted the hems of her skirts and ran back across the inner oval toward her wagon. Charley Karr was climbing the slope from the river, young Daniel draped across his arms. Hannah Fletcher walked at his side, holding her son’s hand. There was a bloody gash in the calf of the boy’s leg, a gash so large it was visible even over the distance. She scrambled up to the driver’s box of her wagon, gave a hard shove that folded the collapsible canvas overhang back against the first rib of the wagon body. Sunlight poured down on the driver’s seat. She climbed over it, scooted across the red box behind it and yanked a sheet out of the chest.
“Where do y’ want me to put him, Doc?”
“Here—on the driver’s seat.” She flapped the sheet open and spread it over the tops of the seat and red box.
Charley Karr hopped up onto the wagon tongue. “Y’ might want to take that there sheet off, Doc. He’s bleedin’ pretty bad.”
“I know, Mr. Karr. Please put him down.”
The man shrugged, leaned forward and placed Daniel on the seat then stepped down.
Emma glanced at Hannah Fletcher. The woman’s face was pale, but her grip on her son’s hand was firm. “Please come up into the box, Mrs. Fletcher. I may need your help.”
The boy bit down on his lower lip, stared up at her out of hazel-colored eyes that were clouded with pain and fear. The freckles marching across his nose and cheekbones stood out in stark contrast to the pallor of his skin.
Emma smiled, then fisted her hands, placed them on her hips and shook her head. “You are supposed to use the hatchet on firewood and trees, Daniel—not on your leg.”
“I k-n-now, Dr. Emma. It s-slipped.”
She glanced at his calf. “That’s a nasty wound. I shall have to clean it, then stitch it up.” The boy’s face turned pasty white. He swallowed hard. She patted his shoulder. “But I promise you, you shall not feel it.” She glanced up at Mrs. Fletcher, read the disapproval in her eyes.
“Daniel is eleven years old, Dr. Allen. He’s old enough to know the truth.”
“That is the truth, Mrs. Fletcher. Now, please sit down and let Daniel rest his head in your lap while I get things ready.” She opened the red box, took out various stoppered bottles, a shallow bowl, suturing equipment, a pile of clean rags and a bandage roll. Thank you, dearest William, for these supplies. And for your faith in me.
She closed the top of the box, smoothed the sheet, placed the shallow bowl, the rags and bandage roll on top of it. The rest of the items she placed on top of the water keg. It gave her an excuse to turn her back so Daniel could not see her thread the needle. When she finished she placed the suturing material in the shallow bowl, opened one of the stoppered bottles and poured alcohol over it, then set the bottles on the box. Almost ready. She turned back to the keg and frowned. There was no time to heat water. Cold water would have to do. She dipped some water into her washbowl, pushed up her sleeves and scrubbed her hands and wrists with lye soap. Thank you, Papa Doc, for teaching me to be a doctor. I wish I had more practice at this next part.
Emma put on the long doctor’s apron Ruth Applegate had made her, climbed from the wagon, walked to the front and climbed into the wagon box. Her patient looked up at her, his eyes dark with fear. She smiled down at him. “Do you remember I promised you you would not feel me stitching up your wound?” He bit down on his lip and nodded. “Well, this is the reason.” Emma reached across him to the equipment on top of the red box, poured some alcohol into a small vial, opened one of the stoppered bottles and added some of the heavy, oily liquid to the alcohol. “This will put you to sleep. And when you wake up, it will all be over.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “For true?”
Emma grinned at him. “For true. Are you ready?”
He looked at his mother, then nodded.
“Good.” Emma picked up one of the rags, looked at Mrs. Fletcher. There was fear and skepticism in her eyes. “I shall need your help, Mrs. Fletcher. I am going to pour this ether on this rag and hold it under Daniel’s nose where he can breathe it. When he goes to sleep, I shall need you to hold the rag. If he starts to awaken before I finish stitching his wound, I want you to hold the rag back under his nose, until he again falls asleep. Can you do that?”
Mrs. Fletcher’s face tightened. She looked at the rag. “It won’t hurt him none?”
Emma shook her head and smiled. “I promise you it will not.”
The woman looked down at her son, took a deep breath and nodded.
“All right then. I shall begin.”
Emma poured the ether on the rag and held it under Daniel’s nose. He took a tentative sniff, looked up at her and grinned. “It smells—” he took another, deeper sniff “—smells…kinda…funnnn…” His eyes closed, his body went slack.
“Well, I never seen the like!”
Emma smiled and handed his mother the rag. “There’s no need to whisper, he cannot hear you. No!” She grabbed Mrs. Fletcher’s hand and pulled it away from her face. “Do not sniff it. You will go to sleep, and I need you to watch Daniel.” She reached for the alcohol, splashed some on her hands then poured some onto the cut, doused one of the rags and began to wipe the blood from his leg.
The day had slipped away. Emma frowned and placed her hand on her stomach. It still quivered with nerves. Not surprising as it was the first time she had used the ether on her own. Or on a child. She had thought it was safe. But she could not know for sure.
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly and blotted the notes she had made on Daniel’s treatment. Her stomach added hunger pangs to the quivering, reminding her she had not eaten supper. Though she had watched the boy carefully all day, had stayed with him while he ate his supper and could detect no sign of any ill effects from the ether, her own stomach had rebelled at the thought of the meal Mrs. Fletcher offered.
She shook her head and tucked her medical journal back in her doctor’s bag. In this instance, the patient had fared better than the doctor. Daniel had eagerly told his tale and showed off his bandage to all who had come around. Indeed, he felt so well, it had been difficult to make him stay quiet until he was settled for the night. She, however, had not enjoyed being the center of the excited furor that rose over her treatment of Daniel when the emigrants who had finished their work, or returned from the fort, gathered at the Fletchers’ wagon. Not all of them were favorably impressed. Especially Mr. Hargrove. And she had little to offer them by way of explanation. There had been moments when she had wished for Mr. Thatcher’s presence—when she would have welcomed his authoritative way. She latched the black bag, rested her hands on it and stared off into the distance. If anything should go wrong with Daniel’s healing…
No! She would not think such things. She would write Papa Doc a report on Daniel. He would understand she had done what she thought best for her patient, and he would be thrilled to know the ether worked so well.
If he ever received the letter.
Emma looked out at the fading light, then glanced at the pile of letters on the dresser. She did not have enough courage to cross that broad expanse of field to the fort in the growing darkness. Tears welled into her eyes. She so wanted to send her letters on their way to her family. It would ease some of her loneliness for them by sharing a small part of what she was experiencing on this journey—by letting them know they were always in her thoughts and in her heart. The disappointment brought a choking lump to her throat. Perhaps Mr. Thatcher would grant her time to go to the fort and inquire about someone carrying the letters back to St. Louis before they started out in the morning. If not…well, Papa Doc would be proud of her. He always said a good doctor puts his patients first, before his own wants or needs.
Neighing and snorting and pounding hoofs intruded on her thoughts. She glanced up, saw the tossing heads and flowing tails of the horses the men were herding into the wagon corral where they would be safe from theft by the Indians. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and opened the crock of dried apples she had found when she was searching among the stores in Anne’s wagon for something to feed Traveler and Lady. There was still light enough to visit the horses. She felt close to William when she was with his horse.
Emma climbed from her wagon and stood on the step looking over the corralled stock. Cold air touched her face and neck and hands. She shivered and started toward Traveler at a brisk pace. If the temperature dropped so quickly here along the river when the sun went down, how cold must it be in the mountains? She lifted her gaze to the massive wall of stone that barred their way west. The mountains looked cold, gray and impenetrable in the shadowed light of dusk. How would they ever get their wagons over them? It seemed an impossible task. But Mr. Thatcher had ridden off this morning to check the trail conditions for tomorrow’s journey. Pray God, he returned safe. Myriad possibilities for harm to him flooded her mind. Fear knotted her already unsettled stomach. Please, Almighty God, keep him safe.
Emma yanked her gaze from the mountains, strode to Lady and fed her two of the dried apple slices then moved on to Traveler. The horse accepted her offering, then lowered his head to graze. She stroked his neck and listened to him chomping on the rich, thick grass. 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.
Emma clenched her hands and took a deep breath. Zachary Thatcher had been warning her. But she would not lose Traveler. She would not! There had to be—
“Miss Allen…”
Emma whirled. “Mr. Thatcher! You are returned safe.” The words burst out of their own volition. Heat spread across her cheeks as she looked up at him. She had not meant to sound so…joyous. “I mean—I was looking at the mountains, and they seem so formidable…”
“They are that, Miss.” A small, wiry-looking man, dressed in fringed leather, stepped out from behind Zachary Thatcher. “But Zach, here, is equal to ’em. He saved my bacon today! Them Blackfeet had me fer sure.” The words were accompanied by a hefty thump on Zachary Thatcher’s shoulder. “This the lady you was tellin’ me about, Zach?”
Emma stared at the man’s weathered and bearded face, looked into his alert, dark eyes. Why would Zachary Thatcher discuss her with him? She shifted her gaze back to Zachary Thatcher, let her eyes convey her puzzlement, but read reassurance in his.
“Miss Allen, this is Jim Broadman. One of the best mountain men in the country. He has business back East, and has agreed to carry your letters to St. Louis.” A slight frown puckered his brow. “If you haven’t made other arrangements, that is.”
He had remembered about her letters! Emma’s breath caught. “I have not. Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Mr. Thatcher.” She smiled at the mountain man, who promptly yanked his stained and battered hat off. “How kind of you, Mr. Broadman. Thank you for—”
“No need fer thanks yet, Miss.” The man frowned and clapped the dirty felt hat back on his head. “Them Blackfeet shot my horse plumb out from under me today. I can’t go east ’till I get me another mount.” He gave Zach a wry smile. “One that knows how to run. Not some sad excuse of a…er…of a horse like I had.” He glanced back at her. “I’ll get on over t’ the fort an’ see can I find—”
“No. Please wait, Mr. Broadman.” She swallowed hard, glanced at Zachary Thatcher then looked toward the west, toward those high, rugged mountains. A journey like ours is hard on the horses. She lifted her chin, placed her hand on William’s horse. Zachary Thatcher did not make a sound. He did not move a muscle. But, for some reason she could not define, she was certain he understood what she was about to do, and it gave her strength. She stroked the horse’s shoulder, fought to keep her voice even. “This is Traveler, Mr. Broadman. I—I want to return him to my brother. Traveler is a swift runner, and I will loan him to you for your journey. In exchange, you must agree to deliver both Traveler and my letters to Mrs. Samuel Benton at Riverside, upon your arrival in St. Louis.” She squared her shoulders and turned. “Do you find that agreeable, Mr. Broadman?”
The man nodded, stepped forward and ran his hand over Traveler’s back. “He’s a fine horse, Miss.” His gaze locked on hers. “I’ll take good care of him. Y’ have my word on it.”
Emma nodded and turned away. Zachary Thatcher stepped up beside her.
“Broadman, you go on to the fort. I will get the letters and bring them to you.”
“And William’s saddle.” Her voice sounded odd, sort of tight and small, but she got the words out.
“As you wish. Now, come along, Miss Allen, there is no reason to delay.”
Zachary Thatcher gripped her elbow with his strong hand and propelled her toward her wagon. She did not object. For once, she was thankful for his autocratic ways. And for the strength and warmth of his hand that supported and guided her.