Wagon Train Sweetheart (Journey West 2) Page 3

  It felt good to say the words, admit to her unkind feelings, knowing that no one would ever hear her.

  “Of course,” she went on to excuse them, “it wasn’t as if Ben and Rachel ignored their responsibilities. Ben was constantly busy running the ranch. And Rachel took over the entire household. The situation was difficult on all of us.”

  And that was why her siblings had wanted a new start.

  But the truth was, she’d hoped to find her new start right at home.

  * * *

  Nathan lay in the dark, knowing he should tell Emma Hewitt he was awake.

  The booming thunder had shaken him out of the place of darkness that had claimed him…all day apparently.

  Or maybe it had been the clutch of her small hand against his shoulder that woke him.

  He should tell her.

  But some small part of him that hadn’t died with Beth had savored the soft brush of her fingers against his blazing forehead, the thought that someone wanted to converse with him.

  Oh, he wasn’t kidding himself. He knew she was caring for him out of basic human kindness—even that was as foreign to him as a store-bought candy. As out of it as he’d been, he had still heard her soft-spoken words and had felt her each time she’d smoothed back his hair, had bathed his face and neck with water, had helped him sip water from a tin cup.

  No one treated him this kindly. Not since Beth.

  Most people acted as if he didn’t exist, or if they had no other choice but to talk to him, treated him like dirt.

  It was what he deserved.

  But that one small part of him held his limbs captive and numbed his tongue so that he just lay silent and still.

  He didn’t particularly like the dark, confining space. He was used to sleeping outdoors, even in the rain.

  He couldn’t see her, but he could make out a darker shadow that must be her form sitting close at his side. Beneath the damp smell of rain floated the scent of their foodstuffs. Flour, sugar, coffee. And a hint of wax, perhaps a candle that had guttered out.

  And something he couldn’t identify. Flowers or freshness…it must be her scent.

  She was still speaking in a low voice.

  “Once Ben received Grayson’s letter, there was no talking him out of his plans. And Rachel on board, as well…how could I hold them back from their dreams?”

  What about her dreams? It didn’t sound as if Emma had wanted to take the trip West. Why not? Curiosity stung him. He might not ever get answers, not if she stopped talking. Because he would never ask.

  Light flashed again, not so brightly this time, perhaps farther away. Thunder rolled. Water from the cloth she was using trickled down his jaw and behind his ear.

  It tickled, and he used all the willpower he possessed not to move.

  “I hope your little dog found a safe place to curl up for the night.”

  Mutt. The animal didn’t really belong to Nathan. It had attached itself to him the second night he’d been in camp. He’d waited for someone to claim the dog—it was friendly enough to belong to a family. But no one ever had. And maybe the little dog’s protruding ribs meant no one would.

  Just like no one claimed Nathan.

  He hadn’t been able to avoid the slight feeling of camaraderie with the animal, so he’d taken to feeding it scraps from his meals. It had started following him around, but Nathan didn’t regard it as a pet. It would wander off at some point.

  “Storms like this are just one of the dangers on the trail,” Emma whispered. “Illness, poor nutrition, early winter, stampeding buffalo, snakes…”

  She recited the list as if she’d read it in a book somewhere. Nathan had spent so much time trapping and living off the land that he didn’t even notice the critters she’d mentioned. If you were listening, you could hear stampeding buffalo from a mile off and get out of their way. Snakes didn’t bother you unless you got in their space.

  It was the humans in the caravan that were the real danger. And didn’t he know it? His past had taught him that men couldn’t be trusted. He might have acquaintances back at Fort Laramie that he did business with, but there was always a part of him that held back. And look what had happened after he’d joined the wagon train. He’d been falsely accused.

  There was a sudden muting of the rain outside. Prickles crawled along his skin and light flared. He caught a glance of Emma’s chestnut hair and bright eyes before he had to close his eyes against the painful brightness.

  There was a loud crack, then a boom, shaking everything until he was sure his teeth rattled.

  And this time was different from the last. Voices cried out. Screamed.

  Emma’s hand gripped his wrist painfully.

  A loud thump against the side of the wagon startled her and she jerked, releasing him.

  “The Ericksons’ wagon got struck by lightning and caught fire!” That was Ben Hewitt’s voice. “Stay put for now, I’ll come for you if I need you.”

  What a disaster. The torrential rain should help, but the lightning could’ve hurt the family inside the wagon or caused significant damage. He should get up to help, but he still couldn’t figure out how to get his legs to work. Maybe he was sicker than he’d thought. Or had they tied him up so this suspected thief couldn’t get away?

  Emma shifted beside him. Another lightning flash and he saw that she’d curled up into herself, drawn her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Her head was tucked down and she was rocking very slightly back and forth. She was muttering something, but he couldn’t make out the words over the continuing rain.

  She could be praying.

  Or upset.

  How many times had his sister curled up just like that during one of their father’s angry spells?

  Unexpected emotion ran hot through his chest and he did something he hadn’t done in years. He reached out for her.

  Fever still coursing through him, his arm shook, but he cupped her elbow in his hand.

  Somewhere in the haze of the day, he remembered her saying something about him not liking her. The statement was something of an untruth. He didn’t like anyone. No one liked him.

  But when she stilled beneath his touch, he scrambled for something to say and what came out was, “I don’t dislike you.” His voice was raspy from disuse.

  There was a beat of silence. As full and tense as that moment before the lightning had struck.

  “You’re awake,” she said, surprise in her tone.

  “I’m feeling a mite better.” It wasn’t entirely true but he figured she was probably tired of nursing him. Likely she’d want him out of her wagon any minute. “You all right?” he asked.

  He sensed more than saw that she went still again.

  “How long have you been awake?” she asked quietly.

  Caught.

  He hesitated. “Long enough.” He cleared his throat. His whole body felt as though it were on fire, and he figured half of it must be from the fever and half from the hot embarrassment that spiraled through him.

  But instead of giving him a well-deserved shove out of the wagon, she shifted beside him. “You need to drink some water. Do you think you could keep down any food?”

  She wanted to feed him?

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly. His head felt stuffed with cotton.

  She pressed a cool tin cup into his right hand. He tried to rise up on his elbows. Tried and struggled.

  And she put a hand beneath his shoulder and helped him. She must be the kindest person on the face of the earth.

  He frowned as he sipped from the cup, the tin metallic against his tongue.

  She was too nice. He didn’t know why she was being kind to him. Experience had taught him that everyone wanted something. But with his head hot with fever, he couldn’t
figure what her motive might be. Had her brother forced her in here to make sure he didn’t abscond with the goods he hadn’t actually stolen?

  The water was a relief to the parched desert of his throat. He drank until the cup was empty, then wiped his chin with the back of his wrist.

  Lightning flashed again, illuminating the interior of the wagon and giving him the visibility to see her flinch.

  Thunder boomed again, rattling two pots hung above and behind his head.

  And he had some strange impulse to comfort her. Maybe if he started a conversation with her, she would be distracted from the storm’s fury. Not that he knew how. He’d been on his own for too long to know how to talk to a proper woman. Which was why the most impertinent question popped out of his mouth.

  “Have you always been scared of storms?”

  He heard the small catch in her breath, felt the stillness between them. Even though rain pattered on the wagon’s bonnet, he thought she must be holding her breath.

  “I was four years old when I got caught out in one.” Her words came slowly at first, and then he was surprised when she went on. “My family was at a town picnic and I was playing with a friend. The storm came on quickly and as everyone rushed to get out of the open, I was separated from my friend and couldn’t find my family. It might’ve only been minutes, but I was alone in the wind and rain and thunder. And I’ve never liked storms since.”

  He couldn’t say that he blamed her. Lightning flashed, burning into his brain an image of her as a small girl lost in the storm. His gut tightened. His cheeks got hot.

  He didn’t want to feel the stirring of compassion or the small surge of protectiveness for a lost little girl.

  His discomfort made his next words sharp.

  “If you didn’t want to come West, why did you?”

  Her grip tightened on his elbow. She didn’t answer outright. “Will you tell my brother I was complaining about the journey?”

  “Why should I?” He’d spoken to Ben Hewitt when necessary in the weeks since he’d joined the wagon train, but it wasn’t as if they were friends. They didn’t share confidences. As far as he was concerned, if she hadn’t told her brother she didn’t want to be here, it was her business.

  “There are many difficulties on the trail,” she said. “As you know. I was…finding my way back to being happy where we were, after Papa died.”

  So she’d given up her own desires to go West with her family. It reminded him of Beth, his sister, who had often given in to his whims.

  Thunder rolled again and he sensed her shiver.

  The bitter taste of fear remained from his past. And he didn’t want that for her.

  He tried a different tack.

  “So you’re going to Oregon to get married?”

  She inhaled sharply. “Have you been eavesdropping on me? What a childish thing to do—”

  In the dark, he couldn’t tell if she was angry or teasing. “I just hear stuff is all.”

  It was true. Always on the fringes, half-hidden in the shadows, he heard a lot. Whispered complaints against the committeemen. Young couples sneaking kisses and making plans.

  He just wished he’d had some clue as to who had stolen her hair combs. Then he would’ve been able to prove his own innocence.

  “I might marry Tristan McCullough. If I decide to.” Did he detect a note of petulance in her voice?

  It was too dark to see her expression, so he was left guessing. Not that it was his business, anyway.

  His head was pounding now and he shifted his elbows. She seemed to realize he needed to lie down again and pressed one hand against his shoulder as she guided him back down.

  “My brother Grayson is already settled there,” she said briskly. “He knows Tristan. His friend is looking for a mother for his three daughters.”

  “A ready-made family.” There was something poking his back, beneath the blanket they’d spread. He tried to reach beneath himself to adjust it, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “I suppose. It isn’t as if I’m unused to taking care of…”

  “Your pa. Yes, you said.”

  He still couldn’t get comfortable. He shifted, moving his weight. And she was there, helping him, reaching under his back to move the box or crate that had poked him.

  He still couldn’t see her face; he imagined her frowning. But at least if she was miffed at him she wasn’t thinking about the storm.

  “Do you want to marry a man you’ve never met before?”

  “I don’t know.”

  * * *

  “I don’t know.”

  Emma helped Mr. Reed settle again in the crowded wagon. He was warm, even through the barrier of his shirt. Though he had awakened, his fever had not abated.

  Perhaps she should feel guilty about her indecision over Tristan McCullough. Her brother Grayson thought they would make a fine match, but how could she be ready to marry a man she’d never met before?

  She’d spent the past several years caring for her father. Given up so many things—social events, time spent with friends, even time to herself.

  Joining a new family with the demands of three young girls…she’d be jumping right back into the same type of situation. Housework, caring for the girls and the demands of a husband. She’d just begun finding her feet again, had found a worthy cause in the orphanage back home before their move had uprooted her. Did she really want to take on an entire family?

  Or was this the purpose she’d been petitioning God for? Had He provided this family, these girls who needed a mother, just when Emma needed direction in her life?

  She didn’t know.

  She should be uncomfortable speaking so candidly with Mr. Reed, but somehow the darkness and the intimacy of their situation had erased her usual awkwardness with the opposite sex.

  And then he said, “It sounds like it’s moving off.”

  It took her a moment to realize he meant the storm. And he was right. Thunder rolled in the distance, but the patter of rain had slowed on the wagon bonnet.

  Had he engineered the whole conversation to distract her from the danger the storm represented?

  She loosened the ties and opened the back flap in time to see several flashes of light at the horizon. The storm would be completely gone before much longer.

  “Fire’s out,” someone called out. There was much more activity than the camp usually saw after dark.

  “Do you think you can hold down some food?” she asked again, turning back to her patient.

  There was no response.

  When she knelt at his side, his breathing had gone shallow and he didn’t respond when her fingertips brushed his forehead.

  He’d fallen unconscious again.

  Chapter Three

  Nathan—Emma found she thought of him by his Christian name after their late night conversation—did not rouse at all the next day as they came within sight of the Wind River Mountains, majestic snowcapped peaks miles to the north. She knew they would grow bigger as the caravan approached.

  By the time they’d made camp that evening, she was exhausted from her efforts attempting to cool his fever and forcing water down his throat.

  And he’d begun coughing, a deep racking cough that worried her.

  Rachel came for Emma after supper. The rest of the camp was settling for the night, the sounds of conversations and music and laughter quieting as dusk deepened.

  “Get out of that wagon,” Rachel ordered. “It’s time you had a break. That man isn’t going to die if you leave his side for a half hour.”

  But Emma was half-afraid he might.

  “He’s still burning up. His fever should have broken by now.” She was worried, her fear taking on an urgency that made her movements jerky.

  After sharing a few moments of c
onversation with the man last night, she felt…responsible for him.

  He moaned, a low, pained sound, then coughed again. She tried to support his shoulders as the hacking shook his entire body. She bit her lip, not knowing what to do…

  “If bathing his face in water was going to cool him off, he’d be frozen by now. You’ve soaked his shirt through at least twice,” Rachel said.

  It was true. Wetness stained the collar of his worn shirt.

  When Emma still refused to disembark from the wagon, Rachel disappeared. Emma couldn’t hope it would last very long.

  “Wake up, Nathan,” she whispered. If she’d hoped using his name would rouse him, it was in vain. He remained still in the wagon bed, his cheeks flushed with fever.

  She brushed the damp waves of his hair away from his temple. If he’d been awake, she never would have dared so familiar a touch. But he wasn’t awake, and that was the problem, wasn’t it?

  “Emma.”

  Ben’s stern voice from behind startled her and she hid her hand in her skirts as if she’d been doing something improper. Which she really hadn’t been.

  Her brother stood with hands on his hips. Emma could see Abby and Rachel standing shoulder to shoulder several yards behind him, both wearing matching expressions of concern.

  “Come down for a while,” Ben said. Except it sounded more like an order than a request. And she was tired of others dictating her actions.

  “I’ll stay for a bit—”

  But her voice faded as he spoke over her. “You’ve been cooped up in the wagon for two days. It’s time to come down. Abby can sit with Mr. Reed for a few minutes.”

  He hadn’t even heard her protest.

  “But—” Emma swallowed back the entirety of her argument as her brother reached up and clasped her wrist.

  She allowed herself to be assisted—hauled—from the wagon, but when Rachel offered to accompany her to the nearby creek, Emma insisted she stay in camp.

  Perhaps Rachel sensed Emma’s upset because she didn’t follow.

  The muscles in Emma’s back and legs burned as she walked briskly through the small space of prairie and then down through the brush to the meandering creek.