Prairie Courtship. Dorothy Clark

God, if You can change the heart of a king, You can make Anne change her mind and return home to Philadelphia where Papa Doc and I can properly care for her—where the love of her family can help her over her grief.

      Emma shifted in the saddle, closed her heart against the useless words. The prayer would only be heaped atop all the countless others she’d offered that had gone unanswered. She cleared the lump from her throat. “Annie—”

      “No!” The black bonnet swept side to side. “I am going on, Emma. I cannot face the…the memories at home.” Anne opened her eyes and looked straight into hers. “But I want you to go home, Emma. It is foolish for you to come along, to place yourself in harm’s way so that you may doctor me when I no longer care if I live or die.” Anne’s voice broke. She took a ragged, shallow breath. “Turn around and go home, Emma. You still have your dream. And all you desire awaits you there.”

      Emma’s vision blurred, her throat closed. She looked away from her sister’s pain, stared at the wagons that had become the symbols of William’s lost hope and Anne’s despair—of her own thwarted ambition. Why God? Why could not at least one of us have our dream?

      Emma huffed out a breath and squared her shoulders. Pity would help nothing. But the truth might help Anne. At least it would keep her from feeling guilty. “How I wish that were true, Anne. But though Papa Doc has taught me all he knows of medicine, his patients do not accept me as a doctor. And they never will.” The frustration and anger she held buried in her heart boiled up and burned like acid on her tongue. “It is time for me to set aside my foolish dream. I will never be a doctor in Philadelphia or anywhere else. Men will not allow it. They will not permit me to treat them or their families. And who can be a doctor without patients?”

      She lifted her chin, tugged her lips into the facsimile of a smile. “So, you and I will journey on together. And we had best start, or we will fall out of place behind our wagons and be chastised by the arrogant Mr. Thatcher.” She urged Traveler into motion, gave an inward sigh of relief as Anne nudged her mount into step beside her. “What slow and lumbering beasts these oxen are. It will take us forever to reach Oregon country at this pace.”

      Anne stared at her a moment, then turned to face forward. “Forever is a long time to live without a dream.”

      The words were flat, quiet…resigned. Emma shot a look at Anne but could see nothing but the stiff brim of her black bonnet, the symbol of all she had lost. Oh, Annie, you cannot give up on life. I will not let you!

      Emma set her jaw and fixed her gaze west, her sister’s words weighing like stones in her heart.

      Zach stopped Comanche at the edge of the woods, rested his hands on the pommel and studied the wagons rolling across the undulating plains. The line was ragged, the paces varied, but it was not bad for the first day. Too bad he’d had to scout out the trail conditions. Things would be better had he been around to run the practice drills himself. Still, Blake had done a fair job, but he was too soft on the greenhorns. They had to learn to survive, and there was more to that than simply learning a few new skills. They had to develop discipline, and a sense of responsibility to the group as a whole or they would never make it to Oregon country.

      Zach frowned and settled back in the saddle. There had been a lot of grumbling when he pushed them to an early start this morning. The problem was the emigrants’ independent spirit. They balked like ornery mules being broke to harness when given orders. It was certainly easier in the military where men obeyed and performed duties as instructed. But it was not as lucrative. And, truth be told, he had his own independent streak. No more fetters of military life for him.

      “We are going to be free to roam where we will, when we will. Right, boy?” Comanche flicked an ear his direction, blew softly. Zach chuckled, scratched beneath the dark mane. Of course he had his ambitions, too. A trading post. One that would supply both Indians and army. And the fee for guiding this wagon train to Oregon country, combined with what he had saved from his army pay, would enable him to build one next spring. The large bonus promised—if he got the emigrants to Oregon before the winter snows closed the mountain passes—would buy the goods to stock the place. He intended to earn that bonus. But in order to do that he would have to drive these people hard and fast. It snowed early in those high elevations.

      Zach gave Comanche a final scratch and settled back, his lips drawn into their normal, firm line. Too bad they were not all reasonable men like Mr. Allen. It was obvious, even at his first meeting with the emigrants back in St. Louis, that the man understood the need for rules and limitations. Of course that wife of his was a different matter. She had no place on a wagon train with her fancy, ruffled silk dress. He had learned in his days of command to spot troublemakers, and Mrs. Allen spelled trouble with her challenging brown eyes and her small, defiant chin stuck in the air. She looked as stubborn as they came. Beautiful, too. More so today, standing there by the wagon in the soft, morning light.

      Zach again crossed his hands on the saddle horn, drew his gaze along the line of wagons. There she was, riding astride, and looking at ease in the saddle. He never would have thought it of her with her fancy gowns and her city ways, but astride she was. Must have had that outfit made special. He’d never seen anything like it. She looked—

      He frowned, jerked his gaze away. The woman’s beauty was but a shallow thing. He had overheard her complaining to Allen of their wagon being too small to live in. He shook his head, glanced back at the slender figure in the dark green riding outfit. Coddled and spoiled, that was Mrs. Allen. But she was her husband’s problem to handle, not his. And a good thing it was. He was accustomed to commanding men, not obstreperous women.

      The lowing of oxen and braying of mules pulled him from his thoughts. Zach straightened in the saddle, stared at the mixed herd of animals coming over the rise behind the wagons. Those fool boys were letting the stock wander all over the place! And that bull in front looked wild and mean. If he caught a whiff of the river ahead and took it into his head to run—

      He reined Comanche around. “Let’s bunch up that herd, boy.” The horse needed no further urging. Zach tugged his hat down firm against the wind, settled deep in the saddle and let him run.

      Emma climbed to the top of the knoll, lifted the gossamer tails of the fabric adorning her riding hat and let the gentle breeze cool her neck as she looked back over the low, rolling hills that stretched as far as the eye could see. White pillows of cloud drifted across the blue sky, cast moving shadows on the light green of the new grass. It was a glorious day…except for the occasion.

      She frowned, let the frothy tails drop back into place and turned toward the river. Her chest tightened, her breath shortened—the familiar reaction to her fear of water. She’d been plagued by the fear since the day William had pulled her, choking and gasping for air, from the pond on the grounds at their uncle Justin’s home. She’d been reaching for a baby duck and—

      “Randolph Court.” Speaking the name drove the terror-filled memory away. Emma closed her eyes, pictured her uncle Justin’s beautiful brick home, with its large stables where she and William had learned to ride along with their cousins Sarah and Mary and James. It was there her mother had taught her to ride astride instead of sidesaddle. A smile curved her lips. She could almost hear her uncle Justin objecting to the practice, and her mother answering, “Now, dearheart, if riding astride is good enough for Marie Antoinette and Catherine the Great, it is good enough for—”

      “Lundquist, get that wagon aboard! Time is wasting! We have ten more wagons to ferry across before dark.”

      Emma popped her eyes open at Zachary Thatcher’s shout. Was her wagon—“Haw, Scar! Haw, Big Boy!”—No, it was Ernst moving Anne’s wagon forward. She held her breath as her sister’s wagon rolled down the slight embankment toward the river. A figure, garbed in black, appeared briefly at the rear opening in the canvas cover, then disappeared as the flaps were closed.

      Annie! What was she doing? She knew Mr. Thatcher had ordered that no one cross the river inside the wagons for fear they would be trapped if— I want you to go home, Emma. It is foolish for you to come along, to place yourself in harm’s way so that you may doctor me when I no longer