Passage West (31 page)

Less than an hour later, the reverend passed out, falling into a heap in the dirty trail. A cry went up from Abby, who spotted him. Rourke, hearing her shout, came running.

At first it was thought that Reverend Coulter was merely suffering from heat exhaustion. But soon his wife confirmed that he was indeed suffering from the feared cholera.

While the others watched in stunned silence, Evelyn Coulter climbed up on the wagon seat, with her baby beside her, and turned the team around. As the train continued westward, the Coulter wagon waited until the dust had settled before following at a safe distance.

That evening, over a quiet supper, James Market’s face grew purple with rage at the mention of the new victims of cholera.

“Damned fools should have listened to me. The widow Peel and that boy of hers should never have been allowed to rejoin this train.”

“James. You aren’t suggesting that Doralyn Peel and Jonathon are the cause of this.” Violet was appalled at the mere thought.

“’Course they are. You and all those do-gooders who would nurse the sick and bury the dead disgust me, woman. Why, if you’d been allowed inside the Peel wagon, you would have brought that sickness home to us. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course not, James. I was simply trying to do the charitable thing.”

“Charity be hanged. If the others had listened to me in the first place, we would have been rid of the cholera right away. It was the Peel family that brought it here. They’re dirty little devils. She and that grinning boy of hers. They don’t deserve any mercy. Now look,” he hissed, pointing a knife at the dim lights bobbing in the distance. “The Winters brats will be left without a mother, and Evelyn Coulter is about to become a widow.”

“You don’t know that, James. Lavinia and the reverend are young and strong. They’ll fight this illness.”

“You better go wish on a star, woman. Better yet,” he scoffed, “go wish for a handsome prince to marry you and take you away from all this.” He threw back his head and roared with laughter at his little joke. “You do that, all right. You’ve got about as much chance of getting one wish as the other.”

Trembling with rage, Violet turned her back on his laughter and brewed a cup of tea. Her mother had taught her that a cup of tea could soothe the nerves and calm a rising temper. Besides, having something to do offered a release. Straining the leaves carefully through a linen handkerchief, she tied it and set it aside, to be used again for breakfast. When she turned back, James had picked up his jug and was headed for the Garner wagon.

Seeing the tear that glimmered on her aunt’s lashes, Abby placed an arm around her shoulder. “He doesn’t mean any harm, Aunt Vi. Pa’s just scared. Everybody is scared. Scared they’ll be next.”

Sniffing, Violet lifted the cup to her lips. “You’re wise beyond your years, child. Your father thinks it is unmanly to show fear. So he lashes out instead.” Taking another sip, she dabbed at her mouth with a spotless handkerchief. “He’s always had a cruel streak.” Determined to change the subject, she said, “It would be tragic if we lost Lavinia and Reverend Coulter. I pray the Lord will spare them.”

Abby said what they both needed to hear. “They’ll be fine.” Patting her aunt’s hand, Abby went off to attend to her evening chores.

*  *  *

They stopped believing meaningless words meant to comfort.

In the next three days, three more wagons pulled back, leaving only six wagons in the train. Each night, the travelers scanned the horizon, watching for bonfires announcing another death.

Lavinia Winters’s body was burned, along with her six-year-old daughter and all their belongings. A simple wooden cross marked the place where their charred remains were buried. When the wagon bearing her husband and two remaining children returned to the wagon train, they wore the haunted looks of those who had stared into the face of death.

Afraid of contamination, the others on the train shunned the Winterses, just as everyone except Abby and Violet continued to avoid Doralyn Peel and her son. Violet, feeling a wave of pity for two motherless children, cooked a pot of hearty stew and took it to the Winterses’ wagon. When the children peered through the flap of canvas, she invited them down, where she gave each a fierce hug. Like blossoms opening to the sun, the children were soon talking and clinging to her skirts. While they ate, they told her of their mother’s valiant battle with the illness, and about her death and the death of their little sister. By the time she left their wagon to help Abby prepare supper for James, the children had begun to relax, and even smile. They would be fine, she told herself. They would draw together and be a comfort to their father, who was still hurt and bewildered by his sudden loss.

“Fool!” James shouted when he heard what she’d done. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone. Like the old busybody you are, you had to run right over to the Winters family and hear all the details, didn’t you?”

“James, I wanted to let them know we cared. We’re all so afraid of cholera, we’re avoiding dear friends. At a time like this, we all need each other.”

“Soon there won’t be anyone left. You’ll have no one but yourself to blame when you come down with the fever,” he hissed.

“That’s a terrible thing to say.” Abby jumped to her aunt’s defense.

“Oh, is it? Well, you’ll see. She’ll be next.” Pointing his finger at his sister, he sneered. “And how many of them do you think will come running to your aid, Vi?”

“Stop it.” Abby put her hands over her ears. “I can’t stand to listen to you anymore, Pa. You sound as if you’d like to see Aunt Vi take sick, just so you could say ‘I told you so.’”

“You watch your mouth, girlie, or I’ll close it for you.”

She frowned as he uncorked the jug. Then she turned away and tended to the team. Still, even from a distance, she could hear the loud mocking voice of her father, taunting her aunt.

*  *  *

Another bonfire lit the night sky, but no one on the train knew who had died. It was only in the morning, when the Coulter wagon approached just as the train was breaking camp, that they knew.

Evelyn drove, with the tiny baby, Jenny, lying on the seat beside her. The look on her haggard face told them all they needed to know.

“Morning, Mrs. Coulter,” Mordecai called. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Just as sorry as I can be. Is there anything you need before we move out?”

Evelyn shook her head. “Did Lavinia Winters pull through?”

Mordecai met her steady gaze. “No, ma’am. Aaron and two of the children returned to the train two days ago.”

“Only two?” Evelyn was silent for a few moments, fighting the lump that clogged her throat. She and Lavinia had been friends since childhood, growing up on neighboring farms. And after they had married, they remained close. Evelyn had watched Lavinia’s children grow, and cherished them as her own. Now she had lost her husband and best friend in a matter of days. And the dreaded cholera was even taking the lives of the very young.

“If Mr. Winters could spare his daughter, it would help if she could ride with me and take care of Jenny. In return, I would be happy to cook their evening meal.”

Mordecai nodded. “I’ll speak with Aaron right now, ma’am.”

Within the hour, the train pulled out. In the Coulter wagon, ten-year-old Mary Winters sat beside Evelyn Coulter and held the sleeping infant. While eleven-year-old Thaddeus Winters drove his father’s team, Aaron Winters went off in search of game. While their wounds were deep and their tears still fresh, the healing had to begin.

*  *  *

By the light of a full moon, James Market staggered among the darkened wagons. Confused, he stared around. Had the damned women moved his wagon since suppertime? Which was his wagon? The half- empty jug dropped from his hand and he bent to retrieve it. Feeling his legs wobble, he sank to his knees in the dirt. Why should he feel so weak? He hadn’t had that much to drink. He began to sweat profusely, and passed an arm across his forehead. Something he ate. Violet and Abby were terrible cooks. Margaret was the only one who could ever cook a decent meal. In the morning they’d pay for this. Rotten cooks. Silly do-gooders. Weak, useless women.

A wave of nausea left him trembling. Fighting it, he got to his feet, ignoring the jug. Stumbling forward, he caught hold of a wagon wheel and held on until the nausea passed. Then, his vision blurred, his clothes damp with sweat, he searched among the darkened wagons until he found his own. Just as he started to climb up, he fell back and retched.

Damned cheap whiskey. He swore, then retched again. His skin felt cold, clammy. Trembling violently, he pulled himself into the back of the wagon with great effort. Even after he had wrapped himself in a warm blanket, the chills continued. Within a few minutes he was seized with a fit of vomiting. Leaping from the wagon, he knelt in the dirt, fighting the weakness that had taken over. When it passed, he gathered his strength and climbed back inside the wagon, where even several layers of blankets couldn’t relieve the chill. For the rest of the night, he alternately fled from the wagon, retched, then dragged himself back inside. By morning, he was too weak to lift his head.

*  *  *

Abby awoke and lay still, listening to the sounds of morning activity. Somewhere a baby cried. Little Jenny. A few moments later the crying stopped. Abby smiled. As her senses sharpened, the smile turned into a frown. The stench of sweat and vomit permeated the wagon. Sitting up, she glanced at the figure of her father. As she watched, the blanket-clad figure began to tremble. A second later, a moan escaped his lips.

“Pa.” Crawling close, Abby touched a hand to his shoulder.

He stirred, moaned, then shook violently.

“Pa.” At the anxious tone of her voice, Violet sat up and brushed the hair from her eyes.

“What is it, child?”

“It’s Pa. He’s sick.”

Shrugging from her blanket, Violet crawled beside him and touched a hand to his forehead. “Dear God.” Bending close, she whispered, “James, can you hear me?”

His eyes opened but didn’t focus on her. They were glazed with pain. “Hot,” he croaked. “Too damned hot.”

The two women stared at each other for long, silent moments. Then Abby began pulling on her boots. “I’ll go tell Mordecai that we’re pulling back.” She glanced at her aunt’s face and read the fear that mirrored her own.

Violet nodded. “I’ll tend to James.”

“We’ll both tend him,” Abby said firmly. “I’ll hitch the team first, then go to the cook wagon.”

The older woman watched as her niece climbed from the wagon. Then she whispered a prayer as she pressed a damp cloth to her brother’s burning forehead.

Outside, Abby sucked fresh air into her lungs. Already the inside of the wagon reeked of sickness. Her father had been barely coherent. How long had he kept his illness from them?

Murmuring to the team, she coaxed them into the harness and hitched them to the wagon. Tying the horse to the back of the wagon, she loaded their meager supplies, then went in search of Mordecai.

At the cook wagon she halted when she spotted Rourke.

“Morning, Abby.” His smile faded at the look in her eyes.

“Don’t come close, Rourke. My pa’s got the sickness. My aunt and I will be pulling back now.”

“Abby…” As he took a step nearer, she backed up.

“Stay away. I may be next.” She wondered if the weakness she was feeling was cholera, or the nearness of this man. Probably just a reaction to the knowledge that her strong father had been stricken. Her sensible nature took over. It was just a lack of food. “Tell Mordecai that we’ll keep far away from the other wagons.”

“How will you manage?” Rourke wanted to go to her, to hold her. But all he could do was stand here and make useless conversation. Frustrated, he clenched his fists at his sides and memorized the slope of her brow, the curve of her cheek.

“We’ll be fine.” Swallowing the lump that threatened to choke her, Abby swung away.

“Abby.”

She half turned.

He couldn’t think of a single thing to say that would give her any comfort. He let out a sigh. “Take care.”

She tried to smile. He watched her lips curve upward before quivering. Then she strode away.

Behind her, Rourke fought a helpless rage. Swinging into the saddle, he attacked his chores with a vengeance.

*  *  *

Word spread quickly.

As each family passed, they waved or nodded at the slender young woman who sat stiffly in the front of the Market wagon, clutching the reins.

As the Coulter wagon drew abreast, Evelyn called, “Conserve water, Abby. James will be feverish for days.” As Abby nodded, Evelyn added, “God give you strength.”

Strength. Always, it seemed, her strength was being tested. How much more would they have to endure?

As the dust from the wagon train settled, Abby flicked the reins. The mules plodded slowly along the trail carved by the wheels of hundreds of wagons that had crossed this barren wilderness. How many had died before reaching the promised land? she wondered. How many more had turned back in despair?

All through the day, while Abby drove, the sound of her father’s moans could be heard, and then the soft, soothing tones of Violet as she sat beside him. They crossed endless miles of desert before stopping to make camp. While Abby started supper and fed the team, she found herself glancing at the lights of the wagon train in the distance. She hadn’t realized how much comfort they offered each other. Out here all alone, she felt abandoned. She missed the cries of babies, the laughter of children, the shouts of men to their teams.

“Abby.”

She turned at the sound of her aunt’s voice. “Is it Pa? Is he worse?”

Violet shook her head. “He’s no better or worse.” She sighed, feeling the loneliness close in around them. “I just need to hear the sound of your voice.”

Abby nodded her understanding. “I’m heating some broth.”

“I doubt he’ll be able to keep it down.” Violet slumped down in the dirt and Abby felt a wave of pity for her aunt. Her hair had fallen loose from its neat knot and clung damply to her neck. Her once-spotless gown was soiled with signs of her brother’s sickness.