Brides of Prairie Gold Page 10

  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. S
ince 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.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  My Journal, May, 1853. Approximately three hundred miles along the trail. We have settled into numbing fatigue and a tedious daily sameness. Tempers flare. We are beginning to know each other.

  Sarah Jennings

  "I think I see it! Just the top!" Ona Norris exclaimed. "Look. There on the horizon on the south side of the river."

  Augusta pushed back the lip of a fashionable straw sun-bonnet and peered hard. "I don't see a thing."

  "We won't be able to see Courthouse Rock until at least tomorrow evening," Cora insisted, setting two buckets of water beside the back wheel, then stretching her back against her hands. "Mr. Coate said so."

  "Him!" Augusta waved a dismissive hand. But the mention of Webb Coate caused her to instinctively scan the site, searching for his tall graceful form even though she knew he and Miles Dawson were away from camp hunting prong-horns. She had watched them ride out minutes after the fog lifted.

  Why she wasted so much time watching for Webb Coate and constantly thinking about him mystified her. She supposed her secret fascination had developed because this was the first time she had been exposed to one of his kind at close quarters.

  And she had to admit, grudgingly, that Webb Coate wasn't what she had expected. He didn't seem lazy or thieving, and she had yet to catch him reeling about in a drunken state. Nevertheless, she held it uppermost that Coate was a heathen, barely civilized, and like all Indians, not to be trusted. Heaven help her if ever she relaxed her guard. There was no telling what he might do. Something stirred in his eyes when he looked at her, something speculative, dangerous and thrilling.

  "Are you cold, Augusta?" Ona inquired. "You shivered."

  "Merely a passing chill." She glanced at the afternoon sky. "But now that the sun has reappeared, it should warm up some."

  Since entering the Platte Valley, the weather had become troublesome. By midday the air was usually warm, but every afternoon, the temperature plummeted and thunder rumbled down the valley signaling the onset of a chilly afternoon rain.

  Yesterday's storm had turned into a steady slashing downpour that continued until morning. Augusta had spent a miserable night trying to sleep beneath a haze of fine drizzle that filtered through the canvas tent roof.

  This morning they had awakened, tired and out of sorts, to discover a heavy milky fog clinging to grass and ground, making travel impossible. The women had used the free day to turn out the wagons, bake, catch up on chores that never seemed to end.

  Bending over the fire pit, Augusta filled a china pot that had belonged to her mother, waited for the tea to steep, then poured for herself and Ona, trying to bring grace to a ritual never intended to be performed on a barren prairie. As her mother, may she rest in peace, had never surrounded herself with shoddy items, the tea set must have cost a pretty penny. Augusta wondered what the set might fetch today, assuming she could find someone along the trail willing to buy it, and assuming she could bring herself to part with a treasured heirloom.

  She also wondered if she had been a tad hasty to invite Ona Norris to address her familiarly. On reflection, she realized that she knew very little about Ona's background.

  "I know you came to Chastity from back east" she said pleasantly, hoping to draw out more details. Idly she snapped her fingers at Cora as a reminder to pull another of the folding camp chairs out of the wagon. Couldn't the slow-wit see that they had a guest? One who was standing rather awkwardly, holding her cup and saucer in front of her waist?

  "I lived in Washington, D.C., until ten months ago," Ona said evenly. "After my cousin died, I traveled west to Chastity, to live with my mother's brother and his wife."

  "I see," Augusta murmured politely, only slightly more enlightened than before her inquiry. No matter. She would learn Ona's story. There was so little to occupy one's interest on this journey that everyone shared their history merely for something to talk about. Undoubtedly Ona's narrative would be short and largely uninteresting. It could hardly be otherwise, as few were blessed with as fascinating a background as a Boyd.

  "Well, finally!" Cora dropped the extra chair beside Ona, then walked past the fire and smiled grimly toward the first wagon on their side of the square.

  "How, many times must I tell you not to interrupt?" Augusta warned sharply. This was one of those days when dealing with Cora unraveled her. The continual whining, complaining, and rude remarks were enough to erode the patience of a saint. "Can't you see that my guest and I are"

  She gasped and stood so abruptly that her cup and saucer clattered from her lap to the muddy ground. No, her eyes did not deceive her. Perrin Waverly was walking directly toward them. Reluctance tagged her steps, but determination firmed her jawline. There was no mistaking the creature's destination.

  Augusta whirled to stare hard at Cora's smug expression. "You know something about this, don't you? Why is she coming here?"

  Cora's dark eyes glittered and her mouth set in a line. "It don't do no good to ask you for my back pay, so I did like Captain Snow said we should. I took my problem to our representative and asked Mrs. Waverly to help me get my money!"

  Horror blanched the color from Augusta's face so swiftly that she felt dizzy. Throwing out a hand, she steadied herself against the back of the camp chair. "You told that creature! that I owed you money?" Though it sounded to her as if she screamed the words, her shaking voice emerged in a whisper.

  "Maybe now you'll pay me the four dollars you owe me!" Folding her arms across her chest, Cora thrust out her chin, turned her back to Augusta, and waited for Pen-in to arrive.

  The horror and betrayal staggered Augusta. As if looking through a distorted glass, she noticed that Ona's eyes had narrowed with curiosity. And sudden scalding hatred blurred her vision of Cora. All she saw was a ferretlike sharpness of black hair, black eyes, and black satisfaction. Her fingers twitched with the need to slap the smile off of Cora's face. Every ragged nerve ending screamed at her, ordering her to beat the treacherous snip until she begged forgiveness.

  "How dare you do this to me!" Gripping the back of the chair with both shaking hands, she prayed that she would remain upright. Rage and hatred leeched the strength from her muscles.

  Perrin approached the fire, then stopped and wet her lips. She nodded with stern politeness to Ona and Cora. "If you would excuse me, please, I'd like a private word with Miss Boyd."

  Cora backed away, disappointed that she would not be privy to any unpleasantness on her behalf. Wordlessly, Ona pulled her skirts to one side and walked from the wagon to a position where hearing would be difficult but watching remained possible.

  Perrin waited, then clasped her hands at her waist. She spoke in a low voice. "Please believe me when I tell you I'd give anything if this wasn't necessary. But I have no choice. Cora came to me in my capacity as representative and"

  Augusta didn't hear the rest. Humiliation blinded her, closed her ears. Of all the people in the world who might take it upon themselves to chastise or admonish her, fate had dished up Perrin Wa
verly. It was beyond endurance. Hideously intolerable. Every terrible thing that had conspired to bring about her ruin could be laid directly at Perrin Waverly's feet.

  "Cora understands that she is paying for her journey west through her labor. But she claims that you owe her for"

  "You man-killing whore! If it wasn't for you, my father would still be alive!" The accusation exploded through clenched teeth, like poison lanced from a boil. She had held the hatred inside for so long that the relief of finally saying the words opened a torrent. "You seduced him, then you bled him of every penny he possessed, and now you dareyou dare to come here and demand money from me?" The audacity of it swept her breath away. The magnitude of this outrage made her shake all over with violent emotions impossible to contain a moment longer.

  Perrin closed her eyes as if she'd been struck, and oh, how Augusta longed to strike her. She trembled with the need. She wanted to hit and bite and scratch and rend and tear. She wanted to howl at the sky and demand justice from heaven itself.

  Perrin spoke in a voice trembling with quiet dignity. "I never asked Joseph for anything. What he gave, he gave freely."

  "Liar!" Augusta gripped the top of the chair so fiercely that her fingers turned white. Her eyes burned and her heart slammed in her chest. "My father paid the rent on your house. He paid for the food in your harlot's mouth. He paid your dressmaker and the chemist and he paid your bill at Brady's Mercantile! He rented a gig for your use, and he paid your stables bill. He paid and paid until finally he faced ruin or suicide! That is what you did to him. You killed him!"

  "No!"

  Perrin's face paled and she looked sick. But that was not what Augusta saw. Her fevered state painted a superior sneer on Perrin's lips; she saw a harlot's greed and a harlot's indifference. She saw the whore who had destroyed her father.