“I got me a bad hurt, Dr. Emma!”
Emma set aside her writing desk, rose and peered over the side of the driver’s box. Gabe Lewis looked up at her and held out a bloody forearm for her inspection. David was at his side, as always. The boys could have been twins but for their age difference. Both had black curly hair, dark blue eyes and grins that made you want to hug them, no matter what mischief they had been up to. She nodded and stepped back. “Perhaps you had better come up here and let me look at your arm.”
Gabe flashed one of those wicked grins at David and both boys charged for the wagon tongue, Gabe a half step ahead. Before she could even turn around he was scrambling over the front board into the box. Obviously, the wound was not causing him great pain. He inched toward her, making room in the box for his brother. She planted her feet more firmly and motioned David onto the seat.
The five-year-old hopped up to the spot she indicated, then dropped to his knees, peering at her lap desk. “What’s this thing?”
“It is a lap desk.”
Gabe turned and looked at it. “What’s it for?”
“It is for writing letters and other things. Such as accounts and party invitations.”
Gabe stretched out his hand to touch it, stopped and put his hand behind his back instead. “That what you was doin’ when we come?”
His voice reflected the wonder in his eyes. Her heart squeezed. She should have thought— “Yes. I was writing a letter to my brother. He lives in Philadelphia.” Perhaps she could send one of the men to the mission to get a few slates and readers…
“That one of them big, back East cities with people crowded all over one another I heard about?”
Her lips twitched at his description, but she managed to stem the smile. “Yes. Philadelphia is a very large, important city. It is where the Declaration of Independence was signed.”
Both boys frowned, swiveled their heads in her direction, their eyes alight with curiosity. “What’s that?”
William, my dear brother, how you would love this moment. She sought for an explanation they would understand. “Well…a ‘declaration’ is when you state something very firmly.”
“Like Ma telling Pa he ain’t goin’ to smoke his nasty-smelling pipe in her clean wagon?”
So that was why Joseph Lewis sat outside by the fire alone at night! Emma coughed to control the laughter bubbling up into her throat at Gabe’s example. “Yes. That is correct.” The boy’s face lit up as if she had given him a piece of candy. She smiled down at him. “And ‘independence’ is—” Oh, my. This could be dangerous, heady information for a seven-year-old. “—it is when one is old enough and wise enough to manage one’s own affairs.”
The boys looked at one another, gave sober, sage nods. “Like Pa tellin’ Ma he’ll have the say of where he smokes his pipe.”
Oh dear. Emma cleared her throat. “Let me see your arm, Gabe.” It was covered in both fresh and drying blood. “I shall have to cleanse that before I can see what harm has been done.” She picked up the lap desk. “Sit down. I will get my things.”
A conspiratorial look flashed between the boys. Gabe grinned and plunked himself down on the seat. What was that look about? Emma tied the canvas flaps back, set the desk on the red box, slid it out of the way and climbed inside.
Gabe twisted around, perched on his knees on the seat and looked at her. “Are ya gonna give me some of that sleepin’ stuff an’ stitch me up like ya did Daniel?”
Ah! So that was it. “I will not know if your wound requires me to put you to sleep while I make the stitches until I clean the blood away. I will make my diagnosis after I see the wound.” She bit down on her lower lip to keep from laughing and dipped water out of the keg into the washbowl. Now to teach these little schemers that doctoring was not for fun. She set the desk aside, opened the red box and removed a bottle of alcohol, the shallow bowl, her suturing equipment and a roll of clean, narrow cloth bandages. She placed them all in full view on one end of the red box, then donned her doctor’s apron, tugged the cork from the bottle of alcohol and splashed a little into the water, enough to cleanse with only a little sting. She wanted to teach him a lesson, not torture him. “I believe I am ready now.”
Gabe did not look quite so happy about the situation as he had a few moments ago. She fixed a sober look on her face, tossed in a clean rag and handed him the washbowl. He scooted back off the seat out of her way and she climbed outside, took the bowl. “Sit down, Gabe.”
The boy swallowed hard, did as she bid. David’s eyes looked wider, rounder…scared. She wanted to hug him. Instead, she placed the bowl on the seat beside Gabe, squeezed out the cloth and began to gently clean away the dried blood. It was only a surface abrasion. With bits of bark clinging to it.
“You have been climbing trees again.” One glance at his sheepish face told her she had made a correct diagnosis. It was also the most likely reason he had come to her, instead of going to his mother, who was continually warning the boys to stay out of trees. He did not want to give her proof of her warnings. She was quite sure the “being put to sleep” idea was an afterthought. She rinsed the rag and began again. What would it be like to have sons like these? Adorable boys, full of curiosity and energy, that explored the world with such enjoyment and zest. Zachary Thatcher would father such sons.
The thought brought heat rushing to her cheeks, tears welling into her eyes. She blinked the tears away and continued her work. She would never know if that were true. Zachary Thatcher wanted only to be free of all entanglements. Most of all he wanted to be free of her, and her stubborn insistence on having her advice for her patients obeyed. He had been gone almost three weeks. Had he reached his valley?
She fixed a smile on her face and looked up at her young patient. “This will not need to be stitched, Gabe. It will heal fine if you will only keep it nice and clean.” She dropped the cloth into the water, spread some salve on the scrape and wound Gabe’s arm with the clean bandage.
A good doctor puts his patients first, before his own wants or needs.
How many times had she heard Papa Doc say those words? How many times had she said them? Sincerely, but blithely said them. She tied off the bandage and patted Gabe’s hand. “I am finished. You may go now. But you come back if your arm turns red or starts to hurt you. Promise?”
He grinned up at her, nodded then climbed over the side of the driver’s box, dropped to the ground and ran off. David followed.
She lifted her hand and rubbed to try and ease the pressure in her chest, but there was nothing she could do to make it stop. It was her heart that hurt. And only having Zachary Thatcher’s love could stop the ache. Zachary Thatcher…who was lost to her because of her calling to be a doctor. She threw out the bloody water, pushed the bowl through the opening and climbed inside to take care of her things. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she went down on her knees, opened the red box and placed the alcohol and her suturing equipment inside. She stared at all the bottles and crocks and herbs and bandages, then slowly closed the lid, sat back on her heels and covered her face with her hands.
“I did not know, Lord.” The hot tears ran down her fingers, mixed with the soft sobs, the warm, hesitant breath carrying her words, and dripped off her wrists onto the red wool covering her lap. “I truly did not know how much being a doctor could cost…until now.”
“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Thatcher, for your consideration in taking the household furnishings and the apple seedlings off of my hands. I have no desire to stay in this wretched backwoods country without Mr. Canfield. Indeed, I had no desire to come here at all. But Mr. Canfield fancied himself a nurseryman of great talent. A woman’s lot is a hard one.” The Widow Canfield sniffed delicately into her embroidered lace handkerchief, stepped closer and looked up at him from beneath her lashes. An extremely coy look from a woman so recently bereaved.
Zach took a step back and gave a small, polite bow. “I am sure it is the Lord’s hand that has made your need to leave Oregon country, and my need to stay here, meet in such a fortuitous way, Widow Canfield. I wish you a safe and pleasant journey.” He turned away from the cloying woman and gripped the hand of the big, white-haired man walking with them toward the ship waiting on the Columbia River. “And to you, sir, I offer my sincere thanks for agreeing to store the furnishings here at Fort Vancouver until my home is built. I give you my word it will be a matter of a few months only.”
“’Tis not a problem, Mr. Thatcher. There is no need to be rushing the building. We have plenty of room here for storage of such items.” The chief factor of the fort lifted a big hand and clapped Zach’s shoulder. “Welcome again, to Oregon country. I’ll look forward to hearing how those apple trees fare, when next you come to visit.”
“I shall do all in my power to make that report an excellent one, sir.”
Zach turned and headed for the barn, his steps long and eager. All he had set out to do had been accomplished. And without traveling all the way to Oregon City as he had thought would be necessary. He shook his head, smiled. Those apple seedlings… A turn he had not planned or expected. Surely God was blessing his endeavor. He entered the dusty, dusky barn and marched to the far stalls.
Comanche neighed, bunched his shoulders and hopped then lowered his head and kicked the back wall of the stall.
Zach stepped to the door, reached across and scratched under Comanche’s dark forelock. “I know, boy. I’m sorry I had to put you in here. Let me get this travois packed and we will be on our way.”
The roan whickered his displeasure. Tossed his head and pawed at the door with a front hoof. “At ease, Comanche!” Zach gave him a last pat, stepped to the back wall and knelt down to load the apple tree seedlings onto the piece of canvas stretched between the two long poles leaning against the wall.
He pulled the first crate toward him and carefully lifted out the fragile seedlings to pile them on the travois. Each had a narrow blue ribbon tied around them. The corresponding blue crate was labeled Sheepnose. He grouped them together and reached for the red crate labeled Winesap. The last group had green ribbons on them and were labeled Pippen. They might better have said Blackfeet, Sioux and Comanche. He would have understood that.
He stood, moved to the corner and picked up the large piece of burlap he had placed there last night. He spread it overtop the apple seedlings and tied it in place with leather thongs to hold the seedlings secure on the long ride, then stared at his handiwork. Was that the right thing to do? Would it hurt to cover them? It was the only way he could think of to protect them. He removed his hat, shoved his hand through his hair and scowled down at the bundled sprigs. “I sure hope I’m right and this is Your plan for me, Lord, because I know nothing about growing apples!”
He tugged his hat back on, leaned down to pick up his packs and noticed a small, green-covered book in the blue crate. He picked it up, thumbed through it and grinned. It was full of information about growing apples, written in a neat, careful hand. Seemed as if everything was working out fine. He chuckled, a low, confident sound that came from deep in his chest, lifted the book toward the ceiling and snapped off a sharp salute. “I hear You, Lord.”
He stood there for a moment in the quiet, then tucked the book in one of the packs and carried them to the opposite stall to load on the packhorse. He had his battle plan and his weapons. And he was certain now the Lord was blessing his efforts. He couldn’t wait to get back and lay siege to Emma Allen’s heart!
Emma threw off the covers, sat up and pulled the quilt around her. She could not sleep. She felt hemmed in, restless. How wonderful it would be to have someone to talk to when worry stole your sleep, and your peace. She stood and stepped to the front of the wagon, listened for any unusual sounds. Anything that might indicate danger. All she could hear was the river’s whisper as it brushed along its banks on its way. She untied the end flaps, peeked outside. Bright moonlight lit the landscape, turned the distant mountains silver.
She gathered up the dragging edge of the quilt and crawled outside to sit on the driver’s seat. The air was frosty. It nipped at her cheeks, her ears and toes. She drew her feet back under the quilt’s protection, folded the top edge high on the back of her neck, then grabbed both front edges and tucked her covered hands under her chin. They were well into October now. How long before winter would arrive? How would it come? With snowstorms? Ice storms? Or would it be gray and overcast and soak them with frigid rain? It was strange not to know what sort of weather to expect.
She lifted her chin, blew out a long breath and watched the small gray cloud appear. The air touched its cold fingers to her exposed throat. She shivered, tucked her chin back into its warm spot between her covered, fisted hands and looked toward the mountains.
The highest peaks were white with snow. Was it so deep it had closed off those narrow passes? Not that it mattered. She knew he wasn’t up there. He would have traveled beyond that distance long ago. Still, she liked to look at the mountains. It made her feel close to him. Fear clutched at her heart. She hoped he had an extra blanket.
It was done. Zach smoothed the rough edges where his knife had gouged the board, blew off the tiny bits of wood and slowly ran his hand over the surface to test for slivers. There was no roughness anywhere. He turned the board this way and that studying his work in the moonlight, then smiled and shoved the board in his saddlebag. Time to sleep.
A sharp yank on the ties freed his groundsheet and blanket. He stretched out and spread the cover over his legs. Cold air kissed his cheek. He frowned, looked up at the streaming moonlight. It was a clear night with a chill in the air. It could get down to a frost level before morning. He shoved off the blanket and put more wood on the fire, gathered up a few more pieces littering the ground under a nearby tree and carried them back to have close at hand. He didn’t want anything happening to those apple seedlings. He took hold of the double poles and pulled until the loaded end was near the fire. That should protect them.
He stretched out again, linked his hands behind his head and stared up at the sky. Where were the wagons? If he knew where Hargrove and the others had located their town, he could figure the best place to plant his orchard. And build the cabin. A nice one with two rooms, a lean-to kitchen and a loft. And a stone milk house. That would do for a start. He would build her whatever she wanted later on. There was plenty of timber on the mountains. And rocks for chimneys.
A frown drew his brows together. Would it be good enough? She was from Philadelphia. And judging from her clothes, and her sister’s and the way her brother had outfitted his wagons, they were wealthy. What if she refused him?
He scowled, flopped onto his side and closed his eyes. That was enough of thinking. No soldier should ever go into battle thinking he was going to be defeated. He would win Emma Allen’s heart. Nothing less was acceptable.