Prairie Courtship

“Dr. Allen, Mr. Thatcher.”

His eyes darkened and narrowed. His lips firmed.

She was familiar with the disparaging expression. She had seen it far too often on the faces of her Papa Doc’s male patients. Very well. If that was how it was to be. Emma trotted out her armor for the battle ahead. “I am a fully trained, fully qualified doctor with credentials from a celebrated surgeon with the Pennsylvania Hospital—” she registered the growing disdain in his eyes and rushed on “—which I will produce if you doubt my word.” Her challenge hit the mark. Anger flashed in those blue depths.

“This is not about your qualifications, Miss Allen. It is about getting this wagon train to Oregon country before winter snows close the mountain passes. To that end, these wagons will move forward every day—including today.” He touched his hat brim and reined his horse around to leave.

Emma clenched her hands into fists. “Whether you acknowledge me as a doctor or not, Mr. Thatcher, Jenny Lewis is my patient. And I cannot—will not—allow her to be jostled around in a moving wagon. It could very well take her life.”

Zachary Thatcher turned his horse back around, stared straight into her eyes. “And if this train gets caught by a blizzard in a mountain pass it could well cost us all our lives, Miss Allen.”

“That is conjecture, Mr. Thatcher. Jenny’s condition is fact. This wagon does not move until it is safe for her to travel.”

Stubborn. He knew it the moment he set eyes on her. Stubborn and spoiled. But he never expected this. A doctor! And if this morning was any indication, one that would give him a good deal of trouble. Zach held the horseshoe nail against the hickory rib in front of him and lifted the hammer. “Ready, Lewis?”

“Hammer away!”

Zach hit the nail with such force the rib thudded against the sledgehammer Joseph Lewis was holding against it outside and twanged back. The nail was buried deep enough in the wood he didn’t need to hit it again. “That will do it!” He tied a long, thick leather thong to the nail, tugged to make sure the knots would hold then picked up the oblong piece of canvas with the big knots on the corners and tied the other end of the thong around one corner and tugged. There was no way the thong could slip off past that big knot. He repeated the process with the other three thongs hanging from the nails he’d driven in other ribs, then gave the canvas a push. It swung gently through the air. There! That would take care of any jolting.

He gave a grunt of satisfaction, picked up the hammer and extra nails and leaped lightly from the wagon. “The bed is ready, Dr. Allen. Now tell Garth Lundquist to get your oxen hitched. Time is wasting!” He took the sledge from Lewis and strode off toward the Fenton wagon to return the tools to the blacksmith.

Emma stared after him, reading disgust and anger in the rigid line of his broad shoulders, the length and power of his strides. Her own shoulders stiffened with resentment. He made the word doctor sound like an expletive.

Joseph Lewis cleared his throat. “I’ll go fetch Lundquist for you. Have him bring up your teams, Miss…er…”

Emma turned her gaze on him. He flushed, pivoted on his heel and hurried off. “It ain’t Miss, Joseph Lewis! It’s Dr. Allen.”

Emma glanced at Lorna Lewis. The woman was staring after her husband, her face as flushed as his. She tamped down her own anger. “Please, Lorna, do not trouble yourself on my behalf. I do not want to be the cause of discord in your household.”

“Well, it ain’t right, Joseph not givin’ you your rightful due—an’ Mr. Thatcher gettin’ riled at you for holdin’ up the train so’s to keep my baby safe an’…” The woman’s words choked off.

“And nothing, Lorna.” Emma whirled around, her long, ruffled skirts billowing out then rustling softly as she climbed into her wagon. “I care not a fig for Mr. Zachary Thatcher’s opinions or anger. And even less for his orders. As for Mr. Lewis’s reluctance to name me a doctor…I am accustomed to that. Keeping Jenny safe is all that is important. And this wagon will not move until I am satisfied it will do her no harm. Now, give Jenny to me and climb in so we can see what sort of bed Mr. Thatcher has contrived.”

She turned and carried the toddler to the canvas sling hanging lengthwise over the long red box just behind the driver’s seat.

“Well, I never…” Lorna Lewis set the sling swinging.

“Nor I.” Emma handed Jenny to her mother and examined the clever contraption from all angles. “I find no fault in this. It will make Jenny a wonderful bed.” She lined the sling with her pillows, covered them with a blanket then gently placed Jenny on them and folded the sides of the blanket over her.

Chains rattled. An ox snorted, bumped against the wagon in passing, causing the bed to sway gently. “You want I should hitch up now, Miss Allen?”

Emma smiled and stuck her head out of the opening behind the driver’s box. “Yes, hitch up the teams, Mr. Lundquist. We will travel today after all. But drive the oxen carefully, mind you. No hurrying.”

She ducked back inside, pulled a long scarf from a dresser drawer and held it out. “Wrap this twice around both Jenny and the sling, Lorna. Then tie it so Jenny cannot fall out. I will be right back.” She climbed down, lifted the hems of her skirts above the still-wet ground and ran across the oval to check on Anne before the wagons began to roll.

Chapter Five

Emma sighed and clutched the edge of the driver’s seat to steady herself as the wagon lurched over the rough terrain. And she thought she was uncomfortable riding Traveler all day. She could only imagine how sore she would be tonight from this day’s continual bone-shaking travel. But at least her patient was being spared. The sling bed Mr. Thatcher had created worked perfectly. No matter how badly the wagon bucked, Jenny simply swung back and forth, the length of the leather thongs keeping the bed from too violent a motion.

Emma tightened her grasp against another lurch and grimaced. Too bad the driver’s seat was not a sling. It would certainly make her ride more comfortable. She considered the idea a moment, then discarded it and resigned herself to endure the punishing jolts. A sling seat was not possible. The box beneath her held Traveler’s feed.

The front wheels dropped into a rut and Emma glanced over her shoulder at Jenny. Her stomach—her personal measure of concern—tightened. The toddler looked perfectly normal. But if she did not wake soon…

Emma’s face drew as taut as her stomach. She lifted her hands to adjust her scoop bonnet that had been jarred awry. The wagon ricocheted off some unforgiving obstacle, and she bounced into the air, then slammed back down onto the hard wood seat. “Ugh!”

A shrill whistle sounded ahead. Emma looked forward, saw Josiah Blake standing in his stirrups and circling his arm over his head, and heaved a sigh of relief. It must be time to rest and graze the stock. Which meant the buffeting would stop—at least for a while. And the break would give her time to check on Anne and ease her feelings of guilt for being unable to watch over her today. She would insist Anne come and ride beside her wagon when their journey resumed.

“Circle up!” The call passed from wagon to wagon, faded away down the line.

Emma frowned and worried her bottom lip with her teeth. Anne’s pain had been worse last night and she was sure the wild ride in the wagon yesterday had re-injured her sister’s mending ribs. Not that Anne had complained. As usual, she said nothing, simply endured whatever pain assailed her mending body. It was only an increased pallor, an involuntary wince and tightening of her sister’s face that had alerted her to Anne’s worsened condition.

Emma gripped the seat harder. Sometimes Anne’s quiescence made her want to shake her. She and William, cousin Mary, even Mary’s pastor had tried to reason with Anne, but none of them could sway her from her notion that her pain was deserved punishment for surviving the accident that had claimed the lives of her husband and baby. It made treating her more difficult. Anne did not want to get better.

Emma heaved a long sigh and released her grasp on the edge of the seat as the wagon followed the Lewis vehicle into the familiar circle and stopped. Across the oval, the source of her concern and frustration rode into view behind her halted wagon and dismounted, her movements slow and careful. Clearly riding was irritating Anne’s injuries, but being tossed around in the wagon was little better. Oh, if only Anne had listened to reason, at this moment they would both be aboard one of their uncle Justin’s steamboats on their way home to Philadelphia with William and Caroline! Home to the bosom of their family where Anne would receive the love and attention she needed.

A sick feeling washed over her. Emma swallowed hard, faced the thought that had been pushing at her all day. Perhaps she did not possess the skills needed to be a good doctor. She did not know what more to do for Anne. Or for little Jenny. Her learning was but a poor substitute for Papa Doc’s medical experience, or her feisty temperament for their mother’s patient, loving care.

“Mama? Maaaamaaaa!”

Jenny! Emma whipped around and scurried over the red box into the wagon, all speculation about her possible inadequacy forgotten at the toddler’s frightened wail.

“Shhh, Jenny, shhh. Everything is all right.” She smiled and patted the little blanket-covered shoulder. Round blue eyes, bright with tears, stared up at her. She studied their clear, focused gaze, held back the shout of relief and joy swelling her chest. The toddler’s tiny lower lip protruded, trembled. She touched it with her fingertip and shook her head. “No, no. I will get your mama for you. But you must not cry, Jenny. It is not good for you to cry.”