“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 asked.
“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.”
Abby felt a lump in her throat. This kind, gentle woman would make the perfect mother for a homeless child.
* * *
The men were somber in their Sunday suits or dark vests. The women wore simple dresses, their heads covered, their eyes downcast.
James Market stood beside his spinster sister, who had dragged from the chest her good black funeral dress and hat. Beside her, Abby, wearing a proper dress, clung to Carrie’s hand and stared at the casket. Was it only a month ago that they had stood like this to bury their mother?
Reverend Coulter read from his Bible, and with trembling voice spoke eloquently. “Greater love hath no man than that he lay down his life for another. Our sister, Emmaline Barrows, joins those noble women of history who willingly gave their lives in order to bring new life into this world.” The preacher’s voice rose and fell over the people like a benediction. “Paul tells us of finishing the race, of fighting the good fight. Our sister Emmaline now enjoys the reward of those who stay the course. Where she is, there is no more pain, only joy.” With tears glistening in his eyes, he intoned, “Thank you, Lord, for the child who was the fruit of Emmaline and Flint’s love. We could ask for no greater blessing.”
Just then the baby cried. Abby chanced a look at Flint Barrows. He kept his gaze fixed on the wooden box. The look in his eyes was thoughtful. Thoughtful and cruel. If he heard the sound of his baby’s cry, it didn’t show.
When the service ended, the casket was lowered into the hole in the ground. Each mourner stooped and picked up a handful of sand to scatter on the box while Reverend Coulter reminded them that man was dust and unto dust he would return. When Carrie bent to scoop up a handful of dirt, the breeze lifted the hem of her gown, revealing a length of shapely ankle. Abby saw Flint Barrows’s eyes glint with amusement. Dropping a protective hand on her sister’s shoulders, she shot him a cutting look. The shame of the man. Her heart pounded. Her palms grew damp with the thought. His wife wasn’t even cold in the grave.
As Carrie and Abby made their way back to their wagon, Abby thought about how strange life was. It was obvious that Flint Barrows hadn’t loved his wife. She had been more a … convenience to him. She wondered just what circumstances had brought about their loveless marriage. Had he needed a wife to accompany him west? Or had she, finding herself with child, coerced him into marriage? Or had they simply drifted into marriage and then found themselves bound for life? She sought to dismiss such appalling thoughts from her mind. Maybe once they had loved. She would cling to this one wonderful fact. Emmaline Barrows had died giving life to a tiny baby girl. The baby’s own father rejected her. But a loving couple, with no children of their own, would have their lives enriched because of it.
Abby could imagine what life would have been like with the cruel Flint for a father and the dour Emmaline for a mother.
Maybe there was a God, Abby thought. And maybe she had just witnessed His mercy.
Chapter Nine
The wagon train stayed on at Fort Laramie for three days. When the wagons finally rolled on, they were in good repair and stocked with fresh supplies. The people seemed imbued with fresh enthusiasm. And they had added a newcomer to their ranks.
Will Montgomery still wore the tattered shirt of the Confederacy, one sleeve dangling over an empty socket where his left arm used to be. His still-boyish face was dusted by pale blond hair, but his eyes were old, showing the ravages of war and pain. At nineteen, he was thin, withdrawn, and painfully shy. Mordecai had hired him because, despite having only one arm, he could sit a horse and shoot a gun. At least that’s what Mordecai told anyone who asked. The wagon master had been warned that several tribes of Plains Indians were fighting among themselves. So far, no white men had been harmed. But the young captain at the fort had hinted that these feuds had a way of spilling over into all-out war.
Still, Mordecai had another reason for hiring the shy young man. The first time he’d seen Will Montgomery, his heart had gone out to him. He knew what it was like to be cut down in his prime. He understood the challenge of learning how to perform simple tasks again, without the use of a limb that had once been taken for granted. Watching Will struggle to shrug into his pants and tighten his belt, Mordecai knew there wouldn’t be too many jobs out there waiting for a man with only one arm.
The first thing Will Montgomery noticed when he joined the train was Rourke’s faded Union cap. The second thing he noted was the gun at Rourke’s hip. It was a Union-issue Spencer eight-shot, which carried seven cartridges in the butt stock, while another was loaded in the chamber. Will and his Confederate buddies used to say, “The Yankees loaded that gun on Sunday and shot all week.” Whenever Will saw Rourke coming his way, he turned aside to avoid him. And when, over the fire, he saw Rourke looking at him, he turned his head away, avoiding eye contact. How many of his friends had he buried because they’d come in contact with that gun? He felt the tingle where his arm used to be and wondered whether it had been a Spencer eight-shot that had been the cause of his empty sleeve.
“Here, Will. Make yourself useful,” Parker said, handing the young man an empty bucket.
Will took the bucket and headed toward the river. He liked the fat cook. From his first day, Parker treated him like just another member of the train. If there were chores to be done, he expected Will to carry his share. Will liked that in a man. He hated feeling different. The hardest part of all was being made to feel like a cripple.
The sky was a cloudless blue, with a white glare of sun already climbing overhead. Breathing deeply, Will thought how different the air was here in Wyoming. Thin, hot, dry, like needles in the lungs. His cheeks were sunburned, his lips dry and cracked. Even the insides of his nostrils felt parched. This land sucked all the juices out of a body, he thought. How different it was from his lush, green boyhood home of Louisiana. His smile faded for just a moment as he allowed himself to think about the rich plantation he’d called home. After the war, he returned to find the buildings burned to the ground, the livestock slaughtered, the crops rotting in the fields. His father was a beaten man. The final blow had been seeing his handsome young son standing before him in ragged clothes, the empty sleeve reminding him of all the lost promise. It would take dozens of men in their prime to repair the damage done to this once-fine plantation. And here they were, a tired old man and a war-ravaged boy. With tears streaming down his face, he’d given his only son what money he could and told him to seek his future elsewhere.
Will knelt at the river’s edge and filled the bucket. Glancing across the plains, he felt the hope begin to rise in him once more. The land on the horizon was new, untamed. Somewhere in this vast wilderness there was a place for him. He wouldn’t lose hope. He’d keep on searching until he found it.
Lifting the bucket, he stood and turned, colliding with a vision in pink. Carrie Market stood perfectly still, absorbing the shock, her mouth dropping open in surprise. The contents of the bucket spilled down the front of her gown, completely soaking it. Will stood there, horrified, watching the water run in little rivers down the skirt and spill onto the toes of her shoes.
“Oh, miss. Oh God, I’m sorry.” The bucket dropped from his nerveless fingers and landed in the dirt with a thud. “Here, I…” Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a soiled handkerchief and looked as if he might actually try to swipe at her bosom.
Carrie leaped back as if the thought of his touch repelled her. “It’s all right. Please. Don’t fuss. It’s only water. I’ll change. It’ll dry.”
She was babbling. Carrie knew it, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She felt her cheeks redden and brought her hands up to hide the revealing blush.
“I feel awful,” Will stammered. “Smashing into a beautiful little thing like you. And that dress is so pretty. I’ve ruined it.”
Carrie had stopped hearing what he was saying. Beautiful? Had he actually called her beautiful?
When she said nothing, Will felt even worse. Here he was, saying all the wrong things to the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, when all she wanted to do was have him get out of her sight. How could he have forgotten what he looked like? The sight of him probably made her sick.
Picking up the bucket, he turned away. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m sorry about your dress. But I promised the cook I’d fetch some water.”
Carrie could only stare at his back while he refilled the bucket. When he stood, he made certain that he stayed far to the right of her as he passed her. Like I’m a leper, she thought.
She watched until he disappeared behind the cook wagon. Then, staring down at her dress, she seemed to realize for the first time just how she looked. The thin cotton clung to her skin, outlining firm young breasts. At the first dash of cold water her nipples had hardened. Just below her waist, the wet fabric indented at her navel. She was mortified to think a man had seen her like this. Lifting her skirts, she ran to the wagon and crawled inside. When she had changed into dry clothes, she hung the wet ones on a line strung across the back of the wagon. All day as she traversed the dust-choked miles, she watched the flutter of pink dress and thought about the intriguing man who had called her beautiful. And then, before she could enjoy the thought, she would remember how silly she’d looked and her head would droop in shame.