Prairie Courtship. Dorothy Clark

and I are going to Oregon country with this wagon train, Mr. Thatcher. Now I bid you good evening, sir.”

      He stared at her a moment, then tugged his hat back in place. “As you will, Miss Allen.” He gave an abrupt nod and strode off into the darkness.

      Emma turned to her wagon, packed and prepared by William for him and Caroline to live in on the journey. Everything had been so rushed after Anne’s surprising announcement, only her own clothes had been added at the last minute. She should have spent some time at Independence exploring it, locating things. But she had stayed at the hotel caring for Anne.

      A burden and endangerment indeed! She would show Mr. Zachary Thatcher how competent a woman she was! She set the lantern on the ground, untied the canvas flaps, then reached inside to undo the latches that held the tailboard secure. Try as she might, she couldn’t release them. Fighting back tears of fatigue and frustration, she grabbed up the lantern, walked to the front of the wagon, stepped onto the tongue and climbed inside.

      Zach untied his bedroll, rolled it out and flopped down on his back, lacing his hands behind his head and staring up at the stars strewn across the black night sky. He was right. That woman was trouble. And stubborn! Whew. No mule could hold a patch on her. Spunky, too. She hadn’t given an inch. Answered every one of his concerns. Even turned his own chivalrous deed of lighting her lantern back on him.

      A chuckle started deep in his chest, traveled up his throat. Mad as she was at him, she’d have stood there holding that lantern all night rather than admit she didn’t know how to light it. And that tailboard! She never did figure out how to open it. Must have spent ten minutes or so trying before she gave up and climbed in the wagon from the front. It had been hard, standing there in the dark watching her struggle. But she probably would have parted his hair with that lantern had he gone back to help her.

      I think it would be best for you if I continue to hold the lantern, Mr. Thatcher. At this moment, you would not want my hands to be free. His lips twitched. She’d been dead serious with that threat to slap him. The spoiled Miss Allen had a temper, and did not take kindly to his authority over her as wagon master. He’d send Blake around with some excuse to examine her wagon tomorrow. He could show her how the tailboard latches worked.

      He stirred, shifted position, uncomfortable with the thought of Josiah Blake spending time around Miss Allen. That could be trouble. She was a beautiful woman. No disputing that. ’Course, he’d never been partial to women with brown eyes and honey-colored hair. He preferred dark-haired women. And he liked a little more to them. Miss Allen was tall enough—came up to his shoulder. But she was slender—a mite on the bony side. Though she had curves sure enough.

      Zach scowled, broke off the thoughts. It was time to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a rough day. Those greenhorns weren’t going to like the pace he set. But he intended to break them in right. Which meant he would have them awake and ready to roll at the break of dawn. He chuckled and closed his eyes. Fell asleep picturing the pampered Miss Allen trying to build a fire and cook breakfast.

      Emma used the chamber pot, dipped water into a bowl from the small keg securely lashed to the inside of the wagon and washed her face and hands with soap she found in a large pocket sewn on the canvas cover. There was a hairbrush in the same pocket. And a small hand mirror. She took them into her hands, traced the vine that twined around to form the edge of the silver backings. It was a beautiful vanity set. Caroline had excellent taste. Her fingers stilled.

      Emma placed the mirror and brush on top of the keg, unfastened her bodice and stepped out of her riding outfit. Was Caroline’s severe nausea improving? Was the baby she carried still alive? She untied her split petticoat, spread it overtop of the riding outfit she had laid on a chest. Please, Almighty God, let William’s wife and child live. Grant them— Bitterness, hopelessness stopped her prayer. God had not spared Phillip and little Grace. Why would He spare Caroline and the unborn babe in her womb?

      Emma pulled an embroidered cotton nightgown from a drawer in the dresser sandwiched between two large, deep trunks along the left wall of the wagon, slipped it on, then shrugged into the matching dressing gown. She took the pins from her hair, brushed it free of tangles and wove it into a loose, thick braid to hang down her back. From her doctor’s bag she pulled her small crock of hand balm and rubbed a bit of the soothing beeswax, oatmeal and nut-butter mixture onto her hands, then smoothed them over her cheeks. A hint of lavender tantalized her nose. Papa Doc’s formula. One he’d made especially for her.

      Loneliness for her parents struck with a force that left her breathless. She stood in the cramped wagon, stared at the lantern light flickering on the India-rubber lined canvas that formed the roof over her head. What would she do without her family? Would she ever see or hear from them again?

      A soft sound beneath the wagon set her nerves a tingle. She tensed, listened. There it was again—a snuffling. A dog? Or some wild animal that was drawn to the light of the lamp? She turned, reached up and snatched down the lantern hanging from a hook screwed into the center support rib but fear stayed her hand. If she doused the light she would not be able to see.

      Something howled in the distance, then was answered by a frenzied barking beneath her feet. Only a dog, then. Still… Heart pounding, Emma put the lantern on the floor and tested the ties to make sure the ends of the canvas cover were securely fastened. Her hand grazed the top of the long, red box. She went down on her knees and lifted the wood lid. A fragrance of dried herbs, flowers and leaves flowed out. She caught her breath and peered inside—stared agape at the stoppered bottles, sealed crocks and rolls of bandages. Medical supplies! And a letter! In William’s hand.

      Tears welled into her eyes. She propped open the lid and lifted out the missive, held it pressed to her heart until she got the tears under control, then blinked to clear her vision, lowered the letter close to the lamp and read the precious words.

      My dearest Em,

      I know you think your dream is dead. But I believe it is God’s will for you to be a doctor. I believe God placed the desire to help others in your heart. And I believe He will fulfill His will and purpose for you. Yes, even in Oregon country. The Bible says: “Delight thyself in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart. Commit thy way unto him; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.” I am praying for you. And for Anne. I know you will care well for her injuries, but only God can heal the hurts of her grieving heart. Remember that, Em, lest you take upon yourself a task no one can perform.

      After Anne’s startling announcement and your determination to accompany for her, I asked the local apothecary what you would need to ply your doctoring skills. I have done my best to procure the items he recommended in the limited time available before your departure. I will bring more when Caroline, our child and I join you in Oregon country. Until then, have faith, my dear Doctor Emma. And always remember that I am very proud of you.

      With deepest love and fondest regards,

       Your brother, William

      Her tears overflowed, slipped down her cheeks and dropped onto the letter. She blotted them with the hem of her nightgown lest the ink run and smear, then placed the letter back in the box where it would be safe so she could read it over and over again on the long journey. A smile trembled on her lips. Even here in this cramped wagon with wild animals howling and the whisper of a river flowing by, William could make her feel better.

      Weariness washed over her. She turned down the wick of the lamp and stepped to the bed. It was exactly as William had designed it. A lacing of taut ropes held two mattresses—one of horsehair, the other of feathers—covered in rubber cloth secure inside a wood frame that was fastened to the wagon’s side by leather hinges at the bottom and rope loops at the top. She unhooked the loops and lowered the bed to the floor. A quilt was spread over the top mattress. A quick check found a sheet and two feather pillows in embroidered cases beneath it.

      A horse snorted. A dog barked. In another wagon, a baby cried. Emma shivered in the encroaching cold and slid beneath the quilt, relishing the welcoming softness of the feather mattress, wishing for secure walls and a solid roof. Silence pressed, broken only by the whispering rush of the nearby river.

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