Brides of Prairie Gold (14 page)

"All right," Cody finally agreed. "I'll let you attempt this. But I'll be watching, Perrin. If any more of my passengers become dangerously weakened by overwork, or if it looks like this wild plan isn't going to work, I'll intercede, and there won't be any further discussion. At that point, Winnie Larson goes home. Do you understand?"

Weak with relief, Perrin stared at his profile, thinking it looked chiseled in stone. Cody Snow was an astounding man. When she had followed him onto the prairie, she wouldn't have given two pennies for her chances to persuade him. It occurred to her that she couldn't name one other man who might have listened to her appeal with an open mind, or who would have adjusted his own opinion so swiftly, albeit grudgingly.

"Thank you," she whispered. "If Winnie were thinking logically, I believe she would thank you too."

He gazed at her for a long moment, letting her see the doubt narrowing his eyes. "Make no mistake. I'm not agreeing to this fool experiment for Winnie's sake." She folded her arms under her breasts and lifted her chin. "My policy is to encourage passengers to settle problems among themselves and to intercede only if they run into trouble. Plus, if you succeed, your success should take you a long way toward securing your place with the others. And that will make my life a hell of a lot easier."

"And if I fail?" she asked softly, wadding the bloody handkerchief inside her fist.

They studied each other beneath the lightening sky. "We'll talk about that when it happens."

When it happens. So he expected her to fail. Maybe the others did too.

Well, she was going to succeed. She had a lot to prove, to herself and to the other brides. And to Cody Snow.

Mem had never seen anyone suffer the way Winnie Larson suffered during the following week. It was sheer hell for everyone. To spare the others the sound of Winnie's screams and pleas, Jane's and Winnie's wagon assumed the last position in the line for the duration; the dust was choking and unremitting. But during the night, even those on the far side of the squared formation heard Winnie's shouts and threats and pleading screams.

It was as terrible to watch as it was to hear. Winnie shook uncontrollably; she was violently ill. She wet herself, and she couldn't get warm. She sobbed and spit blood as her tortured body jackknifed into convulsions. She tried to strike out at the women who sat by her side day and night, but her thin arms were so weak she could hardly raise them. She threatened, beseeched, promised the earth for a sip, just one sip of laudanum.

It was the most horrifying experience Mem had ever undergone, draining physically, mentally, and emotionally to everyone involved.

"I have come to relieve you," Hilda called softly, climbing into the wagon. A bar of moonlight fell across the wagon floor when she lifted the canvas flap. As weary as everyone was, Hilda had still taken time to pin her braids neatly across the crown of her head and dress in a tidy wool skirt and waist. "She's sleeping?" she asked Mem in relief.

"Just in the last few minutes. And Thea said she asked for something to eat earlier." This was a first, and an event worth celebrating, as they were all desperately worried about Winnie's bony wrists and thin body. They feared she lacked the strength to survive the wracking torments her body was undergoing.

"Her appetite is returning!" The news infused new energy in Hilda's large frame. She squeezed Mem's hand and tears glistened around the sudden brightness in her eyes. "Praise God! If she will eat, she will grow strong again."

Mem returned the pressure of Hilda's fingers, then climbed out of the wagon into the darkness of the wee hours. It was never silent on the trail, even at night. She heard oxen and cattle shifting within the square, heard the distant lonely howl of a wolf. These were sounds she would always associate with the journey west, along with the rattle of harness, the clang of pots and pans banging together like cymbals, and the crunch of iron tires against exposed rock.

Tilting her head, hoping to relieve the tension in her neck, she examined a sweeping dark canopy spangled by the fiery blaze of distant worlds. Imagining worlds on stars was a fanciful thought, one that would have surprised most of the people who believed they knew her. If her headache hadn't pained her so greatly, Mem might have smiled.

Instead, recognizing that her headache was too severe to permit sleep, she considered walking awhile. Sometimes walking helped. Lifting her hems, she took a few steps toward the open darkness before she remembered the night watch, stationed near the arms and molasses wagons. If the men heard someone moving beyond the perimeter, they might mistakenly shoot her. Still, being shot at was almost preferable to crawling into her tent and lying there sleepless, listening to Bootie make little smacking sounds.

After a moment of indecision, Mem sighed, then turned her steps toward the embers glowing in the pit of Smokey Joe's cook fire. It was a less appealing but safer choice. The light from the coals was so low that she didn't realize someone else was sitting beside the cook pit until she had walked up to the pot hanger and extended her palms over the heat. "Oh!"

"Good evening, Miss Grant. Sorry if I startled you." An exotic blend of accents told her who spoke.

"It's so late that I wasn't expecting to find anyone awake except the watch. May I join you?"

"Please do."

Gathering her skirts around her hips, she sank to the same log on which Webb Coate sat. He edged to one side to make room, then watched as she crossed her ankles and stretched her feet so the warmth of the embers reached the soles of her boots.

"The days are warmer, but the nights are still cold," she said, drawing her shawl to her throat. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

"Either Cody or myself has joined the watch since this business with Miss Larson began." An orange flicker revealed his smile. "Most of you aren't aware of it, but you have an escort to and from Miss Larson's wagon."

In this light she noticed his Indian heritage more starkly than in the brightness of day. Shadows emphasized his strong nose and clean hard jaw. The glow from the embers smoothed a forehead Mem surprised herself by wanting to touch.

"The ordeal with Winnie has been hard on everyone. But Sarah Jennings believes we've passed the crisis point. Sarah predicts that Winnie's pain will lessen with every passing day." Mem prayed it was true. Closing her eyes, she touched her fingertips to her forehead and the headache behind it. "Regardless of the outcome, Mr. Coate, I'm truly glad we did this."

"Are you in pain, Miss Grant?"

She felt his black eyes studying her and surprised herself again by enjoying his attention. Suddenly she wanted to lean against him and sleep with her head on his shoulder. The odd yearning gave her a tiny shock and made her blink. This was certainly a night for frivolous speculation.

"It's only a headache," she said with a dismissive wave. "I have them frequently. It's nothing important."

Webb removed a knife from the sheath at his waist and leaned forward, idly whittling slivers from a stick of wood. "My mother's people believe no ache or pain is unimportant. They believe that aches and pains are the voice of the body."

"Really?" Fascinated, Mem strained to see his face in the dim glow. "What is the body saying when it aches?"

He turned dark sober eyes toward her. "It's saying: Make this ache go away."

She stared, then burst into a shout of delighted laughter. Quickly, she clapped a hand over her mouth and hastily looked around, hoping she hadn't awakened anyone.

"Forgive me, Mr. Coate. I don't usually ask stupid questions."

Seeing that she hadn't taken offense, he grinned, his teeth a flash of white in the darkness of face, hair, and night. "Something causes your headaches, Miss Grant. The pain in your head is a request for correction. Your body is telling you that something is amiss."

They sat side by side in front of the fire pit, their faces flickering in the ruddy glow of shifting embers. Mem watched the shavings of pale wood curl away from the stick in his large hand and she imagined Augusta Boyd's outrage had Augusta chanced to see them sitting so close, discussing pains and bodies.

"Unfortunately, I can't correct the cause," she remarked after a minute. Letting her head fall back, she gazed up at the stars.

"Are you certain?"

"Very certain. I can't tell my silly shallow sister whom I love that I wish she had stayed behind in Chastity. I can't tell her that her helplessness and her constant prattle makes me feel like screaming. I can't tell the other brides to stop treating Mrs. Waverly as if she had a disease they could all catch. I can't make them forgive or accept. I can't make Winnie Larson stop craving laudanum, and I can't make Augusta Boyd be less rude or more charitable." She lowered her head and looked into his black eyes. "I can't change an unfair world, Mr. Coate. I can't make every eye see humanity instead of color or a different culture. I can't give women a voice in a man's world. And there's more. I will never do all the things I long to do. I'll never see a storm on the Amazon or sail up the Thames. I'll never stand on an African savanna and watch an elephant raise his trunk against a sunset sky. I will never soar toward heaven in a hot-air balloon, or weep at the beauty of the Louvre."

Webb Coate studied her intently, his hands motionless around the knife and his whittling stick.

"So you see, Mr. Coate," she added softly, mesmerized by his bottomless black eyes, "I cannot treat the cause of my headaches. I can only accept them." Standing, she pushed down her skirts and touched a hand to the auburn tendrils falling from the thick coil wound on her neck. "Good night, sir."

"Sleep well, Miss Grant." As she moved into the darkness, she felt his gaze on the back of her shawl.

There wasn't much left of the night, and Mem doubted it was worth trying to sleep, as Smokey Joe would be banging his gong in an hour or so. As she passed Winnie's wagon, she hard a moan that rose to a heart-wrenching sob, followed by a scream. Pausing, Mem listened for Hilda's soothing murmurs before she moved toward the tent she shared with Bootie.

All of the brides were exhausted and showing the stress of the last terrible week, even Augusta Boyd, who was doing nothing to help with Winnie. Mem made a face and shook her head. Since the incident at Fort Kearney, Her Majesty had not addressed a single word to Mem. That didn't bother her; in fact, she considered Augusta's snub amusing.

But it angered her greatly that Augusta chose to extend her imagined punishment by not speaking to Bootie either. Despite Mem's dislike of Augusta, the woman's supposed friendship was important to Bootie, and Bootie was puzzled and hurt by this recent swerve toward coldness and silence.

A rush of protectiveness and anger tightened Mem's throat and she clenched her fists. For two spits and a spade, she would march over to Augusta's tent, shake the high and mighty creature awake, and give her a scathing piece of her mind.

She had actually turned around before she caught herself. What on earth was she thinking? Appalled, Mem placed one hand on the nearest tent pole and pressed the other to her forehead.

The fatigue and the stress of the last week with Winnie were making all of them as combative as snapping turtles.