“But think how much more we can see by not being in the wagon. While we walk we’re able to see so much of this strange country. Don’t you agree, Carrie?”
The younger girl shrugged. “So far, all I’ve seen is a lot of dust.”
“Yes, it is dry.” Violet dabbed cocoa butter on her lips and passed it to her niece. “This will help your cracked skin, dear.”
Brushing her hair, Abby wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and climbed down from the back of the wagon to join the others.
Violet glanced up and gave a little gasp. Both girls looked at her in alarm. Composing herself, Violet touched a hand to her throat. “You gave me a start, Abby. With your hair like that, wearing a long flowing gown, I thought for a minute I was seeing Lily.”
The girls had grown up hearing all about their father’s family. Besides Violet, there had been two younger sisters, Rose and Lily. Their names were a result of their mother’s fondness for flowers. Rose and her farmer husband lived in Illinois. Lily, the beautiful, headstrong youngest member of the family, had died during childbirth. According to Violet, her baby had died as well. And Lily had gone to her grave without revealing the name of the father of her child. It had been the family’s greatest disgrace. And Abby’s grandfather, the stern minister, had borne his dishonor in sullen silence. Like his father, James never forgave his sister her sins. He never allowed her name to be mentioned in his presence.
“Did she have red hair like Abby’s?” Carrie asked.
Violet nodded, studying Abby in the glow of the fire. “Beautiful red hair, and skin like alabaster.” She grew silent for a moment, and neither girl wanted to intrude on her thoughts. Then, in a softer tone, she continued her reminiscences. “I don’t think Father ever forgave Lily for being the cause of our mother’s death from complications of Lily’s birth. Since I was the oldest, it was up to me to raise her. When she was growing up, Father constantly reviled her beauty, saying that she would cause men to lust in their hearts.” Violet gave a deep sigh. “Poor Lily. I always thought she went out looking for the love our own father couldn’t give her.”
Glancing up, she realized she’d just revealed something scandalous to her nieces. “I don’t mean that what Lily did was right. But everyone deserves to be loved.”
Abby watched as her aunt dried her feet. “Is that why you never married, Aunt Vi? Because your father made you stay and raise the younger ones?”
Violet’s chin lifted. Tossing the water to one side, she dried the basin, then turned back to the girls. “My father didn’t have to make me stay. I wanted to help. And then when Lily died, I felt I should stay and give whatever comfort I could to my father.” She bent and kissed each niece good night, then climbed into the wagon.
“And now she’s stuck taking care of us,” Carrie whispered. “Poor Aunt Vi.”
After Carrie climbed into the wagon, Abby sat in the darkness, staring at the glowing embers. All her life she’d been made to feel ugly, by her father’s and grandfather’s rejection, by her own feelings of inadequacy. Yet today Rourke had kissed her, and suddenly she’d felt like a beautiful woman. And tonight Aunt Vi said she was reminded of Lily. Lily, the family outcast. Lily the infamous. Beautiful, fiery Lily.
Climbing into the back of the wagon, Abby crawled between the blankets. Despite the rigors of the day, she knew that sleep would not come easily. There were too many things she wanted to think about, to cling to. For this one precious night, she wanted to savor the feeling of being a woman. A beautiful woman.
Chapter Eight
Because of her success on her first hunt, Abby was invited to accompany the men whenever they hunted. On this hot day, she accompanied Mordecai’s partner, Mr. Thompson.
Big Jack Thompson, like Mordecai, had worked for the Butterfield Overland Mail. He claimed to know every watering hole in the west, and handled a horse with the firm assurance of one born in the saddle. Though he stood ramrod straight and had the bearing of a general, he quickly put Abby at ease. He could be very abrupt, yet he was scrupulously polite. And when he corrected her use of her weapon, or warned her of the dangers that lurked in this strange countryside, she knew that he was only looking out for her welfare.
They had spotted the pronghorn nearly two hours earlier. Since that time, they had stalked, searched, and broiled under the relentless sun. Now, huddled behind a column of rocks, they waited for the animal to approach.
“Mordecai used to love this part of the hunt,” Thompson said, wiping the sweat from his brow and replacing his hat.
“Then we should have persuaded him to come with us.” The minute the words were spoken, Abby regretted them. She had grown so accustomed to seeing Mordecai’s cane, she’d stopped noticing it. The limp seemed a natural part of the man. “How stupid of me. His leg.”
Thompson nodded, watching for the telltale antlers to appear around an outcropping of rock.
“How did Mordecai injure his leg?”
Thompson’s eyes narrowed slightly. Averting his gaze, he said, “Took a bullet in the knee. Shattered the bone. Doctor probed, but never did find the bullet. It’s still in there somewhere. At first, we thought he’d never walk again. But Mordecai’s tough. A month after doc gave up hope, Mordecai just fashioned himself a walking stick, pushed himself out of bed, and limped to his horse. Been getting around like that ever since.”
“He must be in a great deal of pain.”
Thompson’s eyes watered as he strained to see something in the distance. “That he is. Most of the time he hides it. Sometimes you can see it in his eyes, though.”
“Did they ever get the man who shot him?”
Thompson turned to look at her. Abby thought she’d never seen such misery. His voice was raw, as though every word burned his throat. “I used to be a hard-drinking man, Miss Abby. Mordecai and I rode together. One night, in a saloon, I got liquored up and suckered into a gunfight. Mordecai knew that even stone sober I didn’t stand a chance against the man. When he tried to reason with me, I shoved him away and headed for the street. Just as we drew our guns, Mordecai stepped between us. He was a few seconds too late. The shot rang out, hitting Mordecai.”
“The gunfighter shot Mordecai? How awful.” She turned away and brought a hand to her mouth.
“No, Miss Abby,” Thompson said so softly she had to turn and look at him. “I shot Mordecai. And if it takes me a lifetime, I’ll make it up to him.”
Abby felt tears spring to her eyes. She blinked them away, determined not to let Big Jack see her cry. For long minutes, the silence hung between them. Then Thompson touched her arm and pointed. The prong-horn was standing quietly, studying the rocks above them. Motioning for her to take the shot, Thompson aimed his rifle, prepared to back her up if she missed. Abby swallowed, fired, then watched as the antelope leaped up, scrambled several steps, then toppled.
When they rode back to join the train at the end of the day, the pronghorn, a smaller, antlerless deer, and four jackrabbits were slung over their saddles. For a few more days the wagon train had more than enough food. And Abby had a clearer image of the men she rode with. Her minister grandfather had preached about a life divided into good and evil. But now she found herself wondering about those murky areas between the two extremes. She had no doubt that Violet was everything good. But Thompson, once a drunk and a fighter, was spending a lifetime atoning for his sins. Surely that made him a good man. And Lily, the aunt she’d never known, had been punished all her life for the sin of being beautiful. And so she had come to live out her family’s expectations. Did that make her evil? Or had the evil come from those who’d failed her? Abby wrestled with the timeless question. Who really were the good? And who the bad?
The wagon train limped into Fort Laramie with two damaged wagons and a dangerously low supply of water. Morale was also low. Flint Barrows’s wife had been in labor for over thirty-six hours. Despite the ministrations of Violet and Evelyn Coulter, the baby had made no progress. And still her cries went on.
/> “Brand said there would be a doctor at the fort,” Violet said, taking a respite from the Barrows wagon to walk with her family. “If he can’t do something soon, I fear for both mother and child.”
Abby still felt a seething anger whenever she thought about Flint Barrows. But his pale, timid wife evoked only pity. The woman rarely spoke to anyone on the train, keeping to her wagon. Until she had gone into heavy labor, she had walked alongside the wagon, keeping pace under a scorching sun. Every woman in the train sympathized with her. And shared her prayers for an end to the pain.
“How long will we stay at Fort Laramie?” Carrie asked, staring eagerly toward the cluster of houses.
Though the fort could hardly be called a town, the houses of the traders and military men were a comforting sight.
“Only a day or two,” Abby replied. “Unless they can’t get the Coulter wagon repaired in time.”
“What about Mrs. Barrows?”
Abby heard the shriek of pain and winced. “That baby has to come soon. She can’t hold on much longer.”
Shielding her eyes, Abby studied the fort. Like all military outposts, there were the familiar barracks, the simple wooden houses for the married officers, and a few other buildings housing a fur trader’s, a post store, and a two-story boardinghouse. Unlike many forts, there was no fence or wall. Built on the Wyoming plains, it offered a view for miles in every direction.
Brand had prepared the military for the arrival of the wagon train. After being directed to the far end of the fort, the families set up camp. While the women started fires and prepared supper, the men and children hauled empty buckets and barrels to a community well.
“I’d better get back to the Barrows wagon,” Violet said, leaving Abby and Carrie to attend to the chores.
When she was gone, Carrie whispered, “I don’t ever want to have a baby. I wouldn’t be brave enough to go through all the pain Mrs. Barrows is suffering.” She looked up from the fire. “Don’t you wonder how women ever have more than one baby?”
Abby grinned. “Ma used to say a woman forgets the pain the moment that little one is placed in her arms.”
Carrie made a face. “All babies ever do is wail, eat, and crap in their britches.”
“Carrie. You watch your mouth.” Abby gave her sister a piercing look.
“It’s true. I remember Belinda Moffet’s baby brother. After he was born, she couldn’t do anything except feed him and change his drawers. And her ma laid in bed for weeks before she died.” Carrie’s voice lowered. “I saw her once. Her skin was all blotchy, like she had measles or something. Then after she died, Belinda never left the house. Just fed that baby and cleaned up after him.”
Abby walked closer and dropped an arm around her younger sister’s shoulders. “Did you ever hear Belinda complain?”
Carrie shrugged. “No. But I didn’t get to talk to her much.”
“I’ll bet if you asked her, she’d have told you that little baby was the most precious thing in her life.”
Carrie looked up. “You think so?”
Abby nodded and squeezed Carrie’s shoulder. “There’s something special about a baby. One of these days you’ll see.”
“Not me,” Carrie said dramatically. “I’ll leave all that fun for you.”
Abby tousled her sister’s hair. “Can you finish dinner while I feed the stock?”
“I guess so. But don’t be too long. If Pa thinks I made the dinner myself, he’ll find something to complain about.”
As Abby walked to the team, she heard the mournful sound of Emmaline Barrows’s cries above the din of camp. They caused the hair on the back of her neck to prickle. She’d never heard such suffering.
* * * * *
Abby’s lids fluttered. Pale, luminous light flickered on the far horizon. For a moment she lay, listening to the hushed silence of dawn. She sat up, straining in the darkened wagon. Something was wrong. It was too quiet. Emmaline had grown silent. That’s what it was. There were no cries coming from the Barrows wagon.
She felt her heartbeat quicken. The babe could be sleeping, she thought, fumbling with her clothes. Please God, let the baby be resting contentedly in its mother’s arms.
Pulling on her boots, she dropped from the back of the wagon and shivered in the dawn chill. Threading her way through the circle of wagons, she pulled up short at the low murmur of voices. Violet, Evelyn Coulter, and the post doctor huddled in earnest conversation.
“What’s happened?”
Violet looked up. “Go back to bed, child. There’s nothing anyone can do now.”
“What do you mean?” Abby glanced at the slightly opened flap of canvas. Beyond there was only darkness. No lantern burned in the Barrows wagon. It was as still as death. Abby shivered again, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
“Emmaline is dead,” Violet whispered. “Poor thing suffered the pains of hell. There was nothing we could do for her.”
“And the baby?”
“A tiny little girl. No bigger’n a doormouse. But her lungs are healthy enough. She came into the world squalling.”
“How will Flint Barrows care for a newborn?”
Violet shook her head sadly. “He doesn’t want to have anything to do with her. Said he can’t stand to even look at her.”
“What will be done with her?”
“Reverend and Mrs. Coulter want to raise her. They’ve lost three babies in childbirth and feel as if God has given them another chance.”
“But how will Mrs. Coulter feed her?”
“Everyone on the train who has a cow will share with the Coulters. If the infant can’t tolerate that, the Fenwicks have goats. They swear the milk is rich enough to rival mother’s milk.” Violet dropped an arm around her niece. “The little one’s in good hands now. I think the Coulters will do just fine. And maybe,” she added softly, “it’s a godsend that Barrows didn’t want his daughter. I shudder to think what her life would have been like with him.”
Abby agreed with her aunt’s assessment. Kissing her cheek, she said, “You look tired, Aunt Vi. Why don’t you come to bed now?”
“In a little while. We want to wash the bloody linens and prepare Emmaline’s body for burial. Flint wants his wife buried right after first light. Reverend Coulter has agreed to hold a small service.”
“But why so soon?”
“Those are Flint’s wishes. The post doctor agrees. He advised us not to wait. With the heat, and the strain of the journey still to come, he thought we should put Emmaline to rest as quickly as possible.”
“I’ll stay and help.”
“No child.” Vi lowered her voice so the others wouldn’t hear. “Stay close to your pa today. This death will remind him of his own loss. He shouldn’t be alone.”
Or he’ll get drunk, Abby thought, feeling her stomach begin to churn. Aunt Vi didn’t need to say it out loud. They both knew. Whenever Pa started talking about his wife and stillborn son, he turned to his jug for comfort. And for days afterward, he would be sullen and abusive.
Hearing her father moving inside the wagon, Abby squared her shoulders and started a fire. She’d see that he had a hearty breakfast. It might be the last food he’d take for a while, if he started drinking. If her pa and Flint Barrows should band together to drown their sorrow, there’d be no living with them.
* * * * *
Word of the death spread through the train at first light. After breakfast the men fashioned a wooden casket while the women finished cleaning the Barrows wagon. Flint had said that he wanted no trace of his wife’s clothes or precious belongings. Though Abby found his request strange, Aunt Vi argued that every man grieved in his own way.
“Maybe the sight of her things would keep opening the wound,” Aunt Vi said, folding the few faded and patched dresses that lay in a chest. Except for a few simple undergarments and a shawl that had seen better days, Emmaline Barrows seemed to have few possessions.
“What will you do with these?” Abby a
sked.
“I thought Evelyn Coulter might like to use them to make some infant clothes. Though Emmaline had a few things ready, they weren’t nearly enough.” Handing the pile of carefully folded clothes to Abby, Violet climbed down from the Barrows wagon. In a low voice she sighed, “I’m glad to be finished, child. Though Flint seems to have enough money for whiskey and guns, they lived poor. That young woman barely had enough to keep herself warm. I don’t know how she planned to care for a baby.”
Leading the way, Violet directed Abby to the Coulter wagon, where the sound of a baby’s cries could be heard.
When the reverend’s wife poked her head from the wagon and saw Abby and Violet, she smiled warmly. Though barely thirty, Evelyn Coulter’s hair was already shot with gray. She was as wide as she was tall, and when she hugged Abby, the girl felt herself engulfed in warm, baby-scented flesh. The fine lines around her eyes deepened with her smile. “Come on up and have a look at our little Jenny.”
“Is that what Flint named her?” Abby asked.
“It’s the name we chose. My mother’s name,” Evelyn said proudly. Opening the blanket, she cuddled the baby close for a moment, then laid her on her lap to be admired.
The baby was so tiny she reminded Abby of a newly hatched bird. Her skin was red and wrinkled. Her arms were as spindly as little sticks. Her fist curled tightly around Evelyn’s finger. Her eyes squinted shut as she bleated in hunger.
Placing a twisted corner of handkerchief dipped in water and sugar into the infant’s mouth, Evelyn smiled as the baby’s eyes opened.
“Oh, she’s so sweet,” Abby cooed, watching in fascination as the baby began to suck.
“And hungry,” Evelyn added. “Later on today I’ll start giving her a little cow’s milk diluted with water. If she tolerates it, she’ll soon be plump and pink and sleek as a kitten.”
Abby had her doubts that this tiny creature could ever look plump and sleek, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
“We’ve brought you Emmaline Barrows’s things,” Violet said. “They aren’t much, but we thought you ought to have them.”
“How nice.” Rummaging through the meager pile, Evelyn suddenly smiled. “I know what I’ll do with these. I’ll make a patchwork quilt out of Emmaline’s things to save for Jenny. That way, when she’s older, she will have something of the mother she never knew.”