Wind rippled the canvas. Rain hammered on it with deafening force. Emma shivered and closed the dresser drawer, caught her breath as the yellow light of lightning flickered over the watery surface of the cover and flashed its brightness through the wagon. Thunder crashed, its fury vibrating the boards beneath her feet.
That strike had been close! Emma snagged her lower lip with her teeth and glanced down at the garment dangling from her hands. Perhaps she should stay in the wagon. “And then who would get the fresh water you and Anne need, Miss Coward? Garth Lundquist? He must keep the oxen calmed. Put on the cape!” Her voice was all but drowned out by the pounding rain.
She frowned, swirled the India-rubber cape around her shoulders and fastened the ties. How long ago the comfort of her life in Philadelphia seemed. Now there was nothing but storms and mountains and walking, walking, walking. “And do not forget being reduced to talking to yourself, Emma Allen.”
She heaved a sigh, flipped the hood up to cover her head then pulled the empty water keg to the back of the wagon and slipped the knot that untied the flaps. The wind tore them from her grasp, sucked her skirt hems out into the rain with such force she grabbed hold of the canvas to keep from being pulled after them. She turned and backed down the steps, wrestled the keg to the ground.
Water blew off the fluttering canvas and spattered against her face. She turned away from the wind and hurried toward the rock cliff beside her wagon, dragging the keg after her. Rainwater flowing off the rim of a deep ledge jutting out from the cliff formed a waterfall in front of her. She ducked her head and dashed through the deluge, the water splashing on her back chilling the India-rubber of the cape and making her shiver. The beating of the rain on her hood ceased. She shot a grateful glance at the ledge of rock that now formed a roof over her, then shoved the keg beneath the stream of water gushing out of a fissure in the rock wall and shook the raindrops from her hands.
Lightning sizzled and snapped. Thunder clapped and rumbled. She flinched, stepped closer to the wall of stone and looked around. The curve of the cliff and the overhanging ledge made a shelter of sorts, protecting her from the rain and the worst of the wind. What of the others? The storm had struck so fast it had caught the wagons ahead of hers strung out in a line along the ridge they were crossing. What if lightning struck one of the them? Or stampeded the oxen? And what of those behind her? Was Anne all right? She closed her eyes, tried to will away the frightening thoughts but they slipped into her mind like the cold, damp air creeping beneath her cape. What if night fell before the storm stopped, and they could not reach a place where they could camp and circle the wagons? There had been Indians watching them from the hills yesterday. Blackfeet, Mr. Thatcher had called them. Did Indians attack during rainstorms?
A shiver raced down her spine. She wiped the moisture from her face and stared toward her wagon but could see nothing through the pouring rain, could hear nothing but its drumming against earth and stone. It was as if she were alone in the watery world.
She drew her hands in through the slits in the cape and rubbed them against her skirt to warm them. Since they had entered the mountains, every day had become more difficult. In the broken terrain of the foothills, the grass had given way to sage and greasewood. Then the streams had turned bitter with alkali, making it hard to find a camping area. The poor animals bawled, neighed and brayed their misery throughout the nights. And every day the way became steeper and more rugged. Today’s misery was the storm with its relentless, pouring rain. But, at least, she was able to catch the runoff gushing from the rocks. She would have sufficient good water for the oxen and Lady tomorrow if the alkali problem continued. Of course, tomorrow could hold a new trouble.
Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
Emma snorted, hugged herself against another chill. “I hear you, William, even if only in my memory. But I doubt you would quote that scripture so glibly, were you standing here with me.”
Lightning threw flickering light on the water flowing off the stone ledge above her. She gathered her courage, drew the hood of her cape farther forward and grabbed hold of the filled keg and tugged. Water sloshed out and wet her shoes. She scowled, tipped out some of the water, then took a tighter hold and dragged the keg out of the sheltered area to the other side of her wagon. Rain pelted her, stung her face. She yanked the slipping hood back in place and bent to lift the keg. It did not budge.
“Hold on there, Miss Allen!”
Zachary Thatcher appeared like an apparition out of the watery gray. He slid from his saddle, hoisted the keg and dumped it into the large water barrel lashed to the side of her wagon.
She held on to the hood and tipped her head back to look up at him. “Thank you, Mr. Thatcher.” The words were barely audible. She raised her voice to a shout. “I guess I overfilled the keg for my strength.”
He nodded and leaned closer. “Where did you get the water?”
“There is a stream spurting from that wall of rock. I think it is overflow from the rain. Thank you again.” She reached for the keg. He hefted it to his shoulder.
“Show me.”
She led the way, conscious of him moving up to walk beside her, blocking the wind. And of his horse trailing behind. Surely the horse would not— She ducked under the water sheeting off the rock and turned. He would. Comanche followed his master into the sheltered area. At least he came as far as possible. The water off the rock hit his broad rump and splashed every direction. Zachary Thatcher seemed not to notice. He carried the keg to the gushing fount.
“Here, boy.” Emma took hold of the horse’s bridle and turned him sideways, then stroked his wet, silky nose. “You are a very smart horse to come in out of the rain.” She laughed and crowded back to give him room, bumped into Zachary Thatcher and bounced off. She might as well have hit the mountain for all the give there was to the man. She looked up, and the apology on her lips died. He was staring down at her, an odd expression on his face. “Is something wrong?”
“No…” He shook his head, frowned and removed his hat, slapped the water off it and settled it back on his head. “Comanche has never let anyone but me touch him.”
“Oh.” She looked back at the horse. “Perhaps it is because of the storm. He wants to please me so I will share my shelter.” She smiled and ran her fingers through Comanche’s mane, stroked his hard, heavily-muscled shoulder. The horse did not seem to suffer from the lack of good grass. “Why is Comanche not growing gaunt like the other horses, Mr. Thatcher?”
“He’s a Western horse. And, as you said, a smart one. There are small patches of grass around little pockets of sweet water in these mountains. Enough for one or two animals. I set him free to roam at night and he finds his own grass and water.”
She glanced up at him. “You do not worry he will get lost?”
He shook his head. “He doesn’t range that far. He is always back before dawn.”
“Truly? My, you are smart, Comanche!” The horse flicked his ears and tossed his head. She laughed, then sobered and lowered her hands to her sides. Zachary Thatcher’s boots scraped against the stone. His bulk loomed beside her.
“Jim Broadman will take good care of Traveler, Miss Allen. His life depends on it.”
There was sympathy in his voice. Zachary Thatcher was a perceptive man. Too much so at times. Emma nodded and straightened her shoulders. “I do not regret my decision, Mr. Thatcher. I am glad Traveler is being returned to William. I did not want to see him suffer. But I cannot deny I miss him.”
“And your brother.”
If that was an attempt to change the subject to make her feel better, it failed miserably. “Yes… And Mother and Papa Doc, also.” Her throat thickened. She dipped her head, pointed. “The keg is full.”
Zachary Thatcher nodded, grabbed Comanche’s reins and dropped them to the ground, then turned and hoisted the filled keg to his shoulder.
She started for the wagon. His hand clamped on her shoulder.
“You stay here with Comanche, Miss Allen. No sense in us both going out in the storm.”
She watched him go, grateful for the opportunity to get command of her emotions. She pushed the hood off, smoothed the wet strands of hair back off her forehead then put it on again and shook out her long skirts. The horse snorted. She laughed and did a slow pirouette. “I know…it is all foolishness. But it makes a lady feel better to look her best. Even in the midst of a storm.”
“Talking to yourself or Comanche, Miss Allen?” Zachary Thatcher swiped water off his face and gave her a crooked grin. “It usually takes longer than a few weeks in the mountains for that to happen. Besides, you’ve no need to be worrying about such things. I’ve never seen a time you didn’t look pre—fine.” He stepped past her and shoved the keg back under the spouting water.
What was she supposed to say to that? She ignored the warmth his comment spread through her and turned her back and braced a hand against Comanche’s shoulder. Zachary Thatcher’s grin was having a queer effect on her knees. “Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Thatcher.”
“It wasn’t kindness, it was the truth.”
The softness in his deep voice stole the remaining strength from her knees. She grabbed for the saddle horn.
“This Papa Doc? Is he the one that taught you to be a doctor?”
“Yes.” She took a breath, launched into the safe subject. “Billy…William…was run over by a carriage when we were orphans and lived on the streets in Philadelphia. Mother, well, she was not our mother then, of course, she adopted us later. Anyway, Mother and Papa Doc saw the accident and took us to her home. Billy had a broken leg and a head wound.” She stared at the rain, remembering her fear when her big brother would not wake up and talk to her. “Papa Doc treated Billy’s injuries. He made him better.” Something of the wonder she had felt then returned. She smiled, stroked Comanche’s neck. “That was the beginning of my desire to be a doctor. I loved Mother, but I adored Papa Doc. I followed him all around the orphanage when he came to treat the other children.” She gave Zachary Thatcher a sidelong glance. “Mother turned her home into an orphanage. And then, when she and Papa Doc married, they took William and me and Annie to live with them in Papa Doc’s house.” Her throat tightened again. She drew a deep breath.
“He must have been a good teacher. I’ve never heard of a doctor putting someone to sleep before working on them the way you did Daniel Fletcher. I’m sorry I missed seeing that.”
His quiet, matter-of-fact tone drove the threatening tears away. Was he approving of her work? Or merely curious about the ether? She looked up. Their gazes locked, held. Rain fell outside the small, sheltered area. Lightning flashed and thunder crashed, but, suddenly, it did not matter. Something in his eyes made her feel safe. And more. She lowered her gaze and stared at his boots, wishing he would take her in his arms. The boots moved toward her. She caught her breath, looked up, lost it again. His eyes had darkened to the color of blue smoke. Something flickered in their depths. He sucked in air, pivoted on his heel and stepped over to Comanche.
“It seems everyone who comes out to Oregon country has a dream, Miss Allen. I’m guessing yours is to be a doctor.” He looked down, swiped water off his saddle.
Heat burned in her cheeks. Obviously, that moment had not shaken him as it had her. She drew her hands inside the cape and pressed them against her stomach to stop its quivering. “You have guessed wrong, Mr. Thatcher. To be a doctor was my dream. I have learned that is impossible. Men want a male doctor to care for them and their families. And no one can be a doctor without patients.”
“You have patients.”
“For now…yes. But I do not delude myself. The men on the wagon train permit me to treat their families only because there is no male doctor available. And there are those who still refuse to acknowledge my skill.” The old bitterness rose. Zachary Thatcher was one of those men. The thought steadied her when he again looked her way. “It is not my dream that brought me on this journey, Mr. Thatcher, it is Anne. You see, William was to teach at the Banning Mission in Oregon country, and when his wife became too ill to make the journey, Anne declared she would take his place. As she had been recently injured in the carriage accident that killed her husband and child, I could not let her make the journey alone and without care.”
Her words called forth a vision of her empty future with disturbing clarity, and suddenly, she knew what she would do. “Oregon country holds nothing for me. When Anne is settled at the mission, I shall travel on to Oregon City and take a ship for home.” An unexpected sadness washed over her. She forced a smile. “And what dream brings you west, Mr. Thatcher? Do you hope to found a town and build an empire?”
He shook his head, threw the trailing reins back over Comanche’s head. “Like you, Oregon country holds nothing for me. I’ll leave the founding of towns and empire building to Hargrove and Applegate and the others. It is these mountains that call to me. All I want is to be to be free and unfettered to roam them as I will.”
She nodded, smiled through an unreasonable sense of loss and disappointment. “I wish you well in your travels, Mr. Thatcher.”
He looked at her.
Her smile faded. That queer weakness overtook her again. She grabbed for the saddle horn and found his hand waiting. His fingers curled around hers, rough and warm and strong. That smoky look returned to his eyes. Her heart faltered, raced. She stared up at him, shy and uncertain, unable to breathe as he stepped close, lowered his head. Rainwater dripped off his hat brim. His lips, cool and moist, touched hers. She closed her eyes, swayed toward him. His arm slid around her, crushed her against him. His mouth claimed hers, his lips heated, seared hers. And then it was over. He released her, stepped back.
She stared up at him, her heart pounding.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the day you stood on the deck of that ferry, fear and fury in your eyes, and told me you had no husband.” His voice was husky, ragged. “Now it’s done.” He turned, hoisted the keg onto his shoulder, ducked under the water and headed for her wagon. Comanche plodded after him.
His words were as rough against the exposed tenderness of her heart as his work-hardened hands had been against her skin. Emma touched her fingers to her lips. She drew a deep breath, lifted her hands and yanked her hood up, then squared her shoulders, ducked her head and walked out into the wind and rain, defying her emotions that were as raging and turbulent as the storm.
Fort Hall was a disappointment. The few log buildings hiding behind the high log wall enclosure had no windows, only a square hole cut in each mud-covered roof. And in the bastion were a few portholes large enough for guns only. But, as the captain explained, it was not meant for comfort. Its purpose was to afford the inhabitants protection from the frequent attacks by hostile Indians.
Emma pushed her bonnet back to allow the breeze to cool her face and looked up at the hill above the path the wagons were obliged to take to cross over the waterfalls below. Blackfeet Indians had been watching them every day. And they made no effort to hide the fact. Whenever you looked up, they would be there. It was unnerving. They put her in mind of a cat stalking a mouse.
She stepped around a rock following the ruts the wagons ahead were cutting into the ground, then stopped and looked back. Anne was riding the mule that had belonged to the captain’s wife at Fort Hall. The woman had been happy to trade the mule for Lady. Emma sighed. Another connection to William was gone. But it was for the best. There was abundant grass at the fort for Lady, and the mule seemed docile enough. Even if it were not, it would find its match in her sister. Anne was an excellent rider, with gentle hands and a firm seat.
Emma grinned. It had not always been so. Annie had often been thrown from her pony. But one day after Pepper threw her, she had stood up, dusted off her skirts, gripped Pepper’s reins and led him back to the mounting block, her russet curls bobbing with her every determined step. Anne had never been thrown from a horse again. Mother insisted it was the red curls.
Emma stared at Anne, her faltering hope for her sister strengthening. Anne still had red curls. She would get over her grief. She only needed something to rouse her strong, fighting spirit. Perhaps Anne would find that something when she began teaching at the mission.
Emma faced forward and started walking again. When Anne was settled, she would be free to return home and…and what? Content herself to help Papa Doc? It was as close as she would come to her dream of being a doctor. Tears stung her eyes. Anger drove her up the steep grade. If God did not want her to be a doctor, the least He could do was take this desire to be one out of her heart and give her a new dream!
The storm, the half cave and Zachary Thatcher’s kiss slipped into her mind. She set herself firmly against the thought. That was no dream! The kiss had meant nothing. He had told her his dream was to be unfettered and free to roam the mountains at will. The kiss had only been something he had to do, like…like when she had jumped off the roof of Uncle Justin’s stable onto the hay pile. The idea had taunted and tempted her. But once she had made the jump, it was done. She had never been tempted to do it again. And that is what Mr. Thatcher had said, “Now it’s done.” And so it was. And she was not foolish enough to think or hope otherwise. She had only reacted so strongly because she was lonely and frightened of the storm. Zachary Thatcher had offered a moment of safety and comfort. That was all.
She huffed the last few steps to the top of the hill, stopped to catch her breath and look at the small valley a short distance below. There was a meandering stream, trees scattered here and there and grass for the animals. It would be a good camp tonight. She sighed, shook her head and started down the descent. How strange life was. Everything she had known had been stripped away from her. Her comfort, her life, now depended on those three things—water, wood and grass. “Dr. Emma!”
Emma lifted her gaze from the stony ground and looked down the hill. Mary Fenton was running toward her, waving her hand in the air. The girl stopped and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Miz Hargrove says can you come, she needs you. She says hurry!”
Lydia? Had there been an accident? Emma lifted the front hem of her skirt and ran.