Keeping Faith. Hannah Alexander

log farther up the hill. “We can sit up there. I need to get you cleaned up.”

      “Give me the medicine and I’ll do it myself.”

      She drew the bottle close to her side. “You’ll do no such thing. I’m the doctor. I’ll also take a look at your ribs.” With a nod toward the place where the limbs had ripped his shirt, she raised her eyebrows. “I need to see if anything’s broken.”

      “It’s not.”

      “Are you having any trouble breathing?”

      He took a deep breath and let it out to show her he was fine, and was relieved to find that at least breathing didn’t hurt. “Just a scratch.” But he followed her when she turned and walked up the hill.

      “Have you considered sending the Johnstons back home now?” she asked.

      “I’ve considered it every day.”

      “We’d be ever so much safer without them. You can see that, can’t you? At least the horses weren’t hitched to the wagon,” she said with a glance over her shoulder toward the creek. “Those boys are a hindrance out here, and now you’re injured because of them. They can ride a lot faster by horseback than wagon.”

      “I’m not even sure they’d make it back home alive, and I can’t spare a man to lead them.”

      She seemed ready to argue, but instead fell silent. Ten years ago she’d have gnawed on the subject like a dog with a bone. Instead, she led him deeper into the woods to the fallen log, where trees screened them from sight of the others.

      When she turned back to him, there was a teasing smile in her eyes. “We can’t have the people losing faith in their captain if you start crying like a baby.”

      He checked the log, kicked it and when nothing slithered or skittered out of it, he sat down. “Try me.”

      She unfolded her pure-white cloth, pressed the open bottle of whiskey into the material until it was soaked. “This may burn.” A quick but gentle touch of the medicated cloth met the cuts and scratches on his face and the exposed skin of his hands and arms and neck. It stung a little.

      “I don’t recall you saying this would be such a dangerous trip.” She dabbed at the dirt around the cuts. “Or such a long one.”

      “Difficult. I said it would be difficult. That implies danger, don’t you think? It was why I wanted a doctor to join us this time. We need one in the new town that’s waiting for us.”

      “So you’ve told me. Have you traveled with a doctor before?”

      “One or two came with my wagon trains to California, but people went their separate ways at the end of the trail back then. This time it’s different.”

      She set the bottle down on the log and continued to clean the rest of his face until the white disappeared beneath a coating of mud. “You have quite a bruise on your forehead. Do you recall losing consciousness?”

      “I stayed awake for the whole thing.”

      “Why is this trip different?”

      He couldn’t tell her it was because it was the only way he believed he could convince her to leave St. Louis. “Why are you surprised by the hardships? You told me you and Matthew traveled.”

      “We never went by wagon train over rough terrain with barely a trail to follow.”

      “I believe I warned you we would have to take the road less followed by others for the safety of our mission. We’ll encounter the wrong people on the main trails. I’m expecting more trouble the closer we come to the border of Kansas Territory.”

      Her whole body stiffened for an instant and he saw fear plainly in her eyes.

      “Victoria? I’m sorry. I thought you understood. I didn’t mean to frighten you. My plans are to take the southern route into Indian Territory, then head north once we’re well past the border. I’m hoping to have less trouble with border ruffians on that route.”

      “You’re right, of course. I knew it would be a difficult journey.” She sank onto the fallen log beside him, her dress already so covered with mud that the black material appeared brown.

      Something disturbed him about her posture—erect, stiff. “You were planning to make this a permanent move, weren’t you?” he asked.

      She nodded. “I feel safer here in the wilderness with these companions than I have felt since Matthew’s...death.”

      A slight change in her demeanor caught his attention. “Why is that?”

      “I was determined to keep the clinic open by myself, but many didn’t appreciate my caring for the wounded slaves. I had my windows broken three times, someone tried to burn down the clinic and my wagon was burned.”

      “Then I was right to worry. I prayed for your safety all winter, but as I said, the snows made it impossible to get back.”

      She took a deep breath and her shoulders slumped. She met his gaze. “Thank you for caring.”

      He suppressed a smile. That was putting it mildly. But mild seemed to be all she could handle with him right now. Or maybe ever. Ten years was a long time to harbor the love he’d held for her. He was an oddity, he knew. How could he expect her to still care for him after all the changes in their lives? And there had been plenty. Because of her, he’d never moved on with his life, never married, had lived the life of a loner.

      “You definitely had a change of heart since you left for Georgia,” she said.

      Yes, he’d changed, but not about her, as she seemed to think. “It took me several months, but your words struck me forcefully when I reached my father’s plantation.”

      “And now you’re leading abolitionists into Kansas Territory.”

      “Remember those arguments we used to have?” he asked. “As you told me, power corrupts most men. When one human being has total power over another—”

      “It’s too easy to become corrupt, to see the slave as nothing more than a piece of furniture or farm equipment.” Victoria nodded. “You really did listen.”

      “Now the famous John Brown, outspoken abolitionist, is my greatest hero. Do you know of him?”

      She chuckled softly. “I most certainly do. Tell me, what changed your mind?”

      “My closest friend on the plantation had long ago been the son of a tribal leader in Africa. Then he was captured by men from his own continent and sold in America. My father named him Daniel. A few years ago, Daniel described the conditions of his journey.”

      “I’ve heard a great deal about them. Horrible.”

      “Nearly half the passengers on Daniel’s ship died before they reached harbor. I always hated the thought of that, but I knew my father was different. I believed most of our neighbors were, too. I never saw brutality of the type I saw when I was in St. Louis. No one bought or sold slaves in any market near us. My father and our neighbors always traveled to purchase their slaves.”

      “What happened to Daniel?”

      “When I returned home ten years ago, he was gone.”

      She caught her breath. “He’d been sold.”

      “You must understand,” Joseph said, “my father was well respected in Georgia by a majority of the slave population because he treated his workers more kindly than most, gave them plenty of food, never broke up families—”

      “But he sold Daniel.”

      “Another plantation owner wanted him for a young woman who was healthy.”

      She scowled. “Brood stock.”

      “That was when it hit home for me. You won the argument, Victoria.”

      “I