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 th
e 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.
* * * * *
Like Rourke, Will Montgomery avoided the people on the wagon train as much as he could. Rourke kept his reasons to himself. But it was obvious that there was an anger seething inside him. An anger that seemed directed at the world.
Will’s reason for avoiding people was obvious. His empty shirt sleeve was the first thing to draw a person’s gaze. Then, to avoid staring, they would look away, steadfastly refusing to meet his eyes. Out of pity, many women took to looking through him as if he weren’t there. Some of the men tried to do things for him, assuming he was no longer capable of a man’s work. It was only the children who were willing to deal with Will honestly.
“I’m Jonathon Peel.” A six-year-old boy stopped Will as he carried a log toward the cook wagon one night. “You’re the new man, aren’t you?”
Will nodded. “Will Montgomery.”
“Where’s your arm?”
Jonathon’s mother glanced up from her sewing with a look of horror. The other women, seated around the Peel campfire, looked distinctly uncomfortable. Only Carrie Market stared directly at Will.
“I left it in a field in Richmond,” Will said.
“How’d it fall off?”
“A doctor had to cut it off.” Will knelt down until his gaze was level with the boy’s.
“With an ax?” Jonathon’s eyes got as big as saucers.
“A knife and a saw, as far as I can remember,” Will said matter-of-factly. “I passed out after the first few minutes.”
“Why did you let him? Why didn’t you stop that doctor from cutting it off?”
Will was acutely aware of Carrie, watching him across the fire. He wished he could say something that would make him sound brave and noble. But all his life he knew only how to tell the truth. Besides, she couldn’t possibly be interested in him. Except as a freak. “He said I’d die unless I let him take off the arm. And I didn’t want to die.”
The boy stared at the shapeless sleeve. “I think I’d rather die than lose my arm,” he said softly.
“Jonathon,” Mrs. Peel shrieked. “How could you say such a terrible thing? You apologize to Mr. Montgomery this minute.”
“It’s all right, ma’am.” Will dropped the log and brushed the hair from the boy’s brow. In a soft voice he said, “There are times when I’ve felt that way myself.”
“If you could do it over, would you still let him cut it off?” Jonathon stared deeply into Will’s eyes, as only a child can. And Will felt he owed him the whole truth.
“Some days I would.” He shrugged. “Some days I wish he’d have let me die.”
The boy digested this a moment, then nodded, accepting Will’s statement without any show of pity. “Guess there’d be days I’d feel that way too.” He turned away, then turned back. “See you, Will.”
“Yeah. See you, Jonathon.” Will wrapped his arm around the log, bringing it to balance against his chest. Struggling to his feet, he avoided looking at the women. Especially Carrie. He wouldn’t be able to bear the look he knew would be in her eyes.
As he strode away, Carrie watched him, then turned to glance at the others. Their heads were bent, their gazes riveted to their sewing.
“Poor thing,” Lavinia Winters said, biting off a length of thread. “I knew a family in St. Louis whose son came home from the war without a leg. Two weeks later he went to the barn and shot himself. His poor mother was the one who found him.”
Carrie’s eyes widened.
“I wonder if this boy’s family turned him out,” Doralyn Peel said. “I suppose a lot of people don’t want to see half a son return from the war.”
Feeling tears scalding the backs of her eyes, Carrie blinked them away with a fury she couldn’t seem to control. With her hands on her hips she stood and faced the others. “He isn’t half of anything. He’s a person. And just because the war did this to him, don’t think he can’t still think and feel and do. Don’t you think he knows we’re talking about him right now? And don’t you think he feels your pity?”
The tears she’d been holding back now spilled down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and picked up her sewing. “Excuse me. I—I have to go to bed now.”
Feeling ashamed, Carrie ran from the light and hurried to her own wagon. Crawling inside, she lay on her blanket and wondered why she should be crying for a man she hardly knew. Why should it matter to her what Will Montgomery thought? And why should she care how others treated him?
She blew her nose in a delicate lace handkerchief, then, still sniffing, sat up and stared at the stars in the night sky. Aunt Vi said the measure of a man was whether or not he was capable of giving of himself to others, whether it be God, country, or family. A man who was so wrapped up in himself that he didn’t have time for others wasn’t much of a man, she said.
Carrie found herself wondering about Will. It was obvious he’d served his country. And tonight he was so gentle with Jonathon Peel, treating his questions with respect. Another man might have told the boy to mind his own business. Will Montgomery was a kind man. And, Carrie knew, she was going to find out more about him. But she wasn’t sure why.
* * * * *
After their chores were finished for the day, Flint Barrows and James Market had begun spending every evening drinking together. Because Violet refused to allow them to drink in her presence, they retired to the Barrows wagon, away from the scornful eyes of the women. In each, the other had found a kindred soul.
After a couple of drinks James Market would begin his litany of hate. He hated men in positions of authority, insisting that he could do better.
“We pay Stump good money to lead us across the country. Why?” Market said, reaching for the jug.
“Because he makes us think he knows more than anyone about this wilderness. Know what I think?”
Flint Barrows shook his head.
“I think if everyone on this train gave me all that money, I’d find the shortest route to California too.”
Barrows chuckled.
Market was just warming up. “Know what else I hate?” Without waiting for Barrows to ask, he said, “Whiny little women who constantly nag and complain. Look at my sister, Vi. What a waste. Dried up old prune. Always telling me how to treat my children. Never had any of her own, and she thinks she knows everything about raising a kid.”
Barrows grinned. He made no secret of what he thought of Market’s spinster sister.
“And I hate useless women who can’t pull their own weight,” Market said, slurring his words slightly. “The only thing I think Carrie is good for is ...” He paused, then laughed, a cruel, harsh laugh. “Can’t think of a one. That girl is just plain useless.”
His companion could think of one. He
wisely kept his thoughts to himself. “What about the older one?” Barrows asked.
“Abby?” Market gave a snort of disgust. “She can work like a mule. But she’s a bad one. Bad seed. Talks back. Goes her own way. Defiant little bastard.”
Barrows squinted at the man seated across from him. He was used to hearing Market badmouth his women. But there was something new, something ugly in his tone.
“What seems to be the problem?”
Market nervously wiped his mouth and stood. “Nothing. I’ve had enough to drink. I’m going to bed.”
“You haven’t finished your drink.” Flint picked up the cup and held it out to Market.
Market shook his head. “I’ve had enough. Too much in fact. G’night.”
Before Barrows could protest, Market stumbled away in the darkness. Lifting the cup, Flint drained Market’s drink, then finished his own. Climbing into his darkened wagon, he rolled himself into a blanket and stared at the moon. What had set Market off? he wondered. What had his stupid daughter done this time to make the old man so angry? Against his will, his eyes closed. He was too tired to sort things out. But tomorrow he’d poke around. It would be good sport watching James Market and his spirited daughter go a few rounds.
* * * * *
Abby listened to her father’s labored breathing as he crawled into the back of the wagon and fell into a deep sleep. She knew he went to drink with Flint Barrows every night. The stench of liquor clung to him, permeating the wagon, their clothing, even their food. She hated it. And there was nothing she could do about it. Except endure.
When she was little, she would lie in her bed and listen to the muffled voices two floors below. Her mother’s voice, frightened, timid. Her father’s, angry, abusive. Though she couldn’t make out the words, she recognized the tone. When had they loved? she wondered. When had they ever managed to love?
Abby remembered her father’s joy when her mother announced that there would be another baby. After Carrie’s birth, Margaret had lost five children to stillbirth. All sons. Grandfather had said they should accept God’s will. James had said he would have a son or die trying. Abby shivered and drew the blanket close. She wouldn’t have minded if her father had been forced to pay the price. But things never seemed to work that way. It was her gentle mother who had died trying. Her mother, and the son James had wanted more than life.