Emma had not stomped her foot since she was a very young girl, but she was close to doing so now. She looked at Lydia Hargrove for support, read the “let it be, they will not listen” look in her eyes and took a calming breath. “Mr. Thatcher, you are not a well man. You need rest and—”
“And this wagon train needs to get moving.” His voice was quiet, implacable. But not nearly as strong as normal.
She watched him set his breakfast plate aside and stand, did not miss the shiver he tried to hide, nor his careful movements that betrayed his weakened state. At least there was no sign of recurring fever. She clenched her hands at her sides to keep from placing one on his forehead to be sure. She looked at his set jaw and turned to the others. “Mr. Hargrove, you are the leader of this wagon train. You can order—”
“Thatcher has full say. And he is right. The train has to keep moving. We’ve already lost a full day’s travel and more.” The older man gave her a piercing look. “You don’t understand the importance of our decision, Miss Allen, and—”
“Mr. Hargrove, I fully understand the import of your decision.” She looked straight into the portly man’s deep-set eyes. “It is you, sir, who do not understand. Tell me—” she swept her gaze over Joshia Blake, Charley Karr and back to John Hargrove “—who is going to lead us out of these mountains if Mr. Thatcher has a relapse and dies? Do any of you know the path we must take to reach Oregon country?”
She swallowed back the lump of anger rising to clog her throat and looked at the subject of her fear. There was no sign of yielding. “Will you at least wear a coat and do all in your power to keep yourself from taking a further chill, Mr. Thatcher?” She jutted her chin in the air. “I assume you have a coat as you are so concerned about the snows in the mountains! I can only hope your concern for the welfare of these people lends itself to your deigning to obey my instructions that far!”
She pivoted on her heel and stormed off toward her wagon, too furious, worried and afraid for Zachary Thatcher to watch him leave camp.
Zach guided Comanche through the stand of pitch and spruce pine at the foot of the hill, choosing the best path for the following wagons, snapping off branches to point the way when he changed direction. The wagons would have a hard time of it coming down that steep descent. It had taken all his strength to stay upright in the saddle. He rode out into the open, shivered as the air sinking off the mountains touched his neck with its icy fingers and chased down his spine.
He reached up and pulled the collar of his sheepskin-lined buckskin coat higher. He hated to admit it, but Miss Allen was right. He was not well. He was still weak and easily chilled. He frowned and tugged his shrunken hat down lower on his forehead. His body had betrayed him. He had figured he would get stronger as the day wore on, the way he always did. The opposite was true. Fatigue such as he had never known pulled at him. He found him self slumping in the saddle. But the air smelled of snow. He had no choice but to push on. If the wagons were caught here in the mountains…
Who is going to lead us out of these mountains if Mr. Thatcher has a relapse and dies?
Zach deepened his frown to a scowl. Emma Allen had struck straight at the heart of the matter. The choices were the same as always—stop and rest for her patient’s sake, or push on. But this time there was a huge difference. He was the recovering patient. And if she was right and he sickened and—
Zach gave his head a sharp shake, glared up at the darkening, overcast sky. He wouldn’t die. He couldn’t. These people’s lives depended on his staying alive. He leaned forward and patted Comanche’s neck, shifted his gaze to the lofty snowcapped heights that surrounded the circular Grande Ronde plain. There was not time enough to continue on today. Those mountains were the worst of the journey. They would likely have to double the teams to haul the wagons up, maybe use block and tackle…and again to hold them back on the steep descents. As weary and worn as the animals were, that forced rest because of his illness might have been a fortuitous thing. And an early stop tonight would help, as well.
He straightened in the saddle and glanced around. There was dried grass and a good mountain stream for water. Plenty of large timber for wood. They could camp here tonight and make the long climb out of the plain tomorrow when the animals were fresh off a night’s rest. When he had rested.
He scanned the surrounding mountain walls, found what he was looking for and urged Comanche forward.
The spot was perfect. The stone curved along the narrow ledge, providing protection from the worst of the wind. He glanced up at the slight overhang above him. It was deep enough to shield him from falling snow if he crowded his bed close against the rock wall. He turned in the saddle and looked out over the basin below. There was a clear view of the entire area, he would be able to see if trouble threatened. If the Blackfeet returned.
A flash of white through the cluster of pines on his back trail caught his eye. Josiah Blake rode into view, followed by the first wagon. Zach gave a shrill whistle, waited until Blake spotted him on the ledge, then stood in his saddle, lifted his arm and circled his hand over his head. Blake turned toward the following wagons and repeated the signal. The first wagon entered the plain and swung out to the right.
Blake could handle things now. Zach urged Comanche over to the rock wall and slipped from the saddle. He removed his gear, brushed the saddle blanket over Comanche, then stood back and slapped the spots on the horse’s rump. “All right, boy, our work is done. Dismissed!”
The horse tossed his head, nudged him in the chest and trotted off. Zach dropped to his knees, yanked the ties and spread out his bedroll. He would rest until the wagons were circled and the herd massed. Time enough then to go down and set the guards in place for the night. He placed the extra blanket he had taken from the supply wagon on top of his groundsheet and stretched out on it, grateful for the added barrier it provided between him and the cold stone. The other blanket brought a warm comfort to his chilled legs.
He closed his eyes, let his mind drift. That feather mattress had sure been warm and comforting last night, not like the stone beneath him now… He shifted his weight, tugged the hatchet at his belt out from under him. Not as comforting as Emma Allen’s hand on his forehead though. Or the quiet prayer for his healing she had been whispering. She certainly had soft hands. And a gentle touch. He hadn’t wanted her to move her hand. Had stayed still, barely breathing, until she moved away. A man could get used to that kind of thing. And to the soft yielding of her lips beneath his, the way she felt in his arms…
A gust of wind whipped around the stone barrier, picked up dust and dirt off the ledge and swirled it through the air. He frowned, tugged the collar of his coat higher around his ears. That kiss had been a mistake. A big mistake. He had thought it would satisfy him to hold her, kiss her. Instead it had made it worse. Emma Allen was a woman from a wealthy family who had stated her desire to return to the pampered life she had always known. And she was a doctor. She cared for all her patients. He’d seen that. The gentleness in her touch meant nothing special. Nothing at all. Nor did he want it to. He wanted no ties to her or any other woman. He had valleys to roam and mountains to explore. Still…
He scowled, rejecting the thought, tried to summon a vision of the valley where he wanted to build his trading post. But all he could see was the look of hurt and anger in Emma Allen’s eyes when he had refused to rest as she advised. He had no need to worry about an entanglement with her. She wanted no part of him. But all the same, he’d never seen such beautiful eyes…
Every ridge had gotten higher, steeper and more difficult to climb, every chasm deeper and more frightening to descend. And the trees! So many trees the men had to cut a way through them. But it was over now. Emma donned her blue wool cape, climbed from her wagon and walked toward the group gathered around the fire by the head wagon. Zachary Thatcher was there. She had seen his tall, gaunt frame from her wagon. He had lost weight since his illness. He should—
She frowned, broke off the thought, ignored the worry and fear that haunted her for him. Zachary Thatcher did not want her advice…or anything to do with her. He had made that abundantly clear. And in a few more days he would be out of her life forever. If he accepted her offer to take Anne to the Banning Mission and then escort her on to Oregon City.
That sick, hollow feeling struck the pit of her stomach again. She paused, took a deep breath, and then another to gain control. It would not do to let her emotions show. The last thing she wanted was for Zachary Thatcher to guess how she felt about him. What was wrong with her anyway? Why was she so foolish, always desiring what she could not have? And why should she care so deeply about someone so arrogant, so… So competent and brave. And right.
She looked up at the falling snowflakes, sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight. If he had agreed and halted the wagons for the quarantine, or the other times she had asked, this snow would have caught them deep in the mountains. And she knew now how terrible and costly that could have been. The snow and ice on these dreadful, twisting trails was dangerous. But deep drifts in those narrow gaps would have trapped them…
She shuddered, started walking again. It did not matter now. Soon they would make the last mountainous descent to the Columbia River Valley. Then the emigrants had only to choose the place where they would begin building their town. She and Annie would travel on. Annie to the Banning Mission, and she to Oregon City to board a ship for home. Tears stung her eyes. She would miss these people she had grown so close to over the past months. The hardships they had endured together had formed a closeness she had never known in her friendships at home. Lydia and Pamelia and Olga and Lorna and— She would never see little Jenny and Edward or the other children grow. She would never know if Pamelia’s baby—
She stopped again, blinked the tears from her eyes. She must focus her thoughts on family and home. But they seemed so far away… And Annie would be here. And if William brought his family to Oregon country next year, she would be on one of Uncle Justin’s ships docking at Philadelphia when he was starting out from St. Louis. She would not see him, or Caroline or their baby if— Please, Heavenly Father, let William’s baby live. And please watch over these people. Please keep them safe and—
“Dr. Emma! Joseph was about to come fetch you. Come join us.”
Dr. Emma. She would never be called that again. She looked across the remaining distance at Lydia, swallowed the lump in her throat and hurried to the fire, automatically scanning faces for signs of illness, looking for any visible injury. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes.” John Hargrove cleared his throat, glanced around the people assembled then fixed his gaze on her. “We have been discussing our new town and the needs—”
“Fire that bullet straight, Hargrove—’for the target in yer sights gets away!”
There was a roar of laughter at Axel Lundquist’s taunt. Emma shot a glance at him. The grizzled farmer winked. She stiffened, shocked to her toes. She looked at Lorna Lewis who wore a huge grin. And Pamelia—
“We have taken a vote, Miss Allen, and—”
“Oh, for goodness sake, John! We want you to stay and be our doctor, Emma! The men will all help build you a cabin. And our boys will keep you supplied with firewood. We’ll all share our garden bounty with you.” Lydia rushed around the fire to her. “Will you?”
Emma stared, her mouth gaping open. Then all of the women were crowding around her, urging her to say yes. She looked from their anxious faces to the men. Axel Lundquist winked again and nodded. Joseph Lewis gave a sheepish nod. Thomas Swinton actually smiled and nodded. And the others—they had voted for her to stay. Her heart swelled. She kept her gaze from straying to Zachary Thatcher. He had no part in this request, or her decision. He would be off roaming the mountains…free and unfettered. That thought stole her elation.
“We should like an answer, Miss Allen.”
Emma looked over at John Hargrove, took in his frown. Poor Mr. Hargrove, obviously he disapproved. But the others… She cleared her throat and nodded. “Yes. My answer is yes.”
“I told them you would!” Lydia gave the other women a smug smile. “They were afraid you would say no, seein’ as how we haven’t much to offer you.” The women, who had stood silent and staring, broke into speech.
“Hush, ladies! We have business to conduct.” John Hargrove glared across the fire at them. “Your chattering will keep us all standing out here in this snow! Now then—” He turned toward the men. “Thatcher, we can’t offer much by way of recompense, but we want you to stay on, as well.”
Hope surged in her, vibrant, intense, unbidden. Emma caught her breath, lifted her hand beneath her cape and pressed it against the sudden, wild throbbing at the base of her throat. She turned and looked Zachary Thatcher’s way. He turned his head. Their gazes met. She lifted her chin and turned away for fear he could read her desire that he stay in her eyes.
“—At least until we get the town built up and are settled in. You know how to deal with Indians. And we’ll need your skills to lead hunting parties. We’re running low on supplies.”
“I appreciate the offer, Hargrove. But my job was to bring you to Oregon country. I’ll be moving on.”
His deep, rich voice killed her hope. She lowered her hand to press against that sick, emptiness in her stomach, looked at the women and forced a smile. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I want to go tell Anne what has happened.” She hurried away, refusing to let her emotions overcome her.