Sarah's Heart (3 page)

 
At the moment, she heard only the noisy
grumbling of her stomach. Eating was the last thing on her mind, even if she
had any food. Tomorrow, she’d have to find something edible. Molly needed
sustenance to gain back her strength. Maybe at sun up, another sweep of the
camp would turn up some provisions. Possibly, like her valise, some things had
been overlooked.

Overlooked?
She muffled a cynical laugh. The word had
more than one meaning. You could search for something and not find it because
it wasn’t in plain sight, perhaps hidden behind an object you failed to move,
or you could feel strongly about something, express your feelings, and have
them totally disregarded—thrown aside like your opinion didn’t matter at all.
She knew firsthand about having her wishes overlooked. Silas McCann, the bank
president in Hannibal,
had held the papers on her father’s land, and assumed that gave him access to
her as well. How dare McCann dangle before her the deed to the home her father
had built and the acreage he’d toiled, and tie them to a marriage proposal? No
wedding meant foreclosure, but she wasn’t about to be compromised.

From a physical
standpoint, refusal had been an easy decision. The man looked disgusting. His
hawk-like features, emaciated physique, and teeth discolored from snuff dipping
repelled her. If that wasn’t enough, his absence of morals strengthened her
loathing for him. Wielding power to try to garner admiration surely wasn’t the
way to win a wife, or even a friend for that matter. He seemed nothing more
than a high-handed tyrant who thought he could buy or bully his way through
life. But those tactics didn’t work on her.

With no family to
turn to, and his bank being her only avenue of credit, she felt trapped. She
had tried finding employment, but whoring at the local saloon turned out to be
her only option, and not one she considered—although it did hold more appeal
than surrendering herself to Silas.

 
It wasn’t until she heard about the wagon
trains leaving from Independence,
forging their way
west, that
she decided to flee and
try her luck elsewhere. Leaving wasn’t easy, but nothing remained for her in Missouri. Her parents
were buried in a little plot behind the cabin. Her father had fenced off a
small area for a family cemetery when her baby brother had died within two days
of his birth. Five years later, Sarah had marked her parent’s graves with
crosses identical to little Davey’s; simple wood, painted white and bearing
only their names and years of their lives. She’d found solace in knowing that
they were all together—her parents close in death as they had been in marriage.

The cabin and the
land may not have belonged to her, but the furnishings did. She sold all but a
few things that held special meaning and used the money to buy the Conestoga
and oxen team. Her thoughts flashed to what remained of her investment, and a
tear trickled down her cheek. Nothing remained except for the little bit of
cash she’d hidden in her valise. She planned on getting seed money from selling
the wagon and team when she reached her destination, but…

Now here she was,
lost in the wilderness, alone except for a severely injured woman who depended
on Sarah to keep her alive. Knowing this wagon train had been one of the last
to leave Independence for California gave her little hope that help
would come. Instead of praying the train made it through the maintain passes
before the snowfall, she faced certain death now. The responsibility of
survival fell to her… but what was she supposed to do?

 
Wetness from her eyes pooled beneath her face,
dampening her pillow, but she felt too tired to move. Feeling devoid of
physical and emotional strength, her eyelids fluttered then drooped; in her
drowsy state the darkness didn’t seem quite as menacing. She took a deep
breath, slowly exhaled and surrendered to sleep.

“Indians!”

Sarah jumped at
Molly’s scream and instinctively grabbed for her father’s pistol. With
sleep-clouded vision, she struggled to see in the darkness while her heart
tried to beat its way through her skin. Her trembling finger poised on the
trigger, Sarah prepared to defend herself and Molly against intruding savages.

Her eyes adjusted to
the dimness, and she released a pent up breath, now able to see that she and
Molly were the only ones inside the wagon, or even in the vicinity. Molly must
have had a bad dream. She certainly had reason to.
Sarah’s
pulse gradually slowed, but turned to racing again when Molly moaned.

Sarah put the gun
down and inched the short distance to the bed. “Molly, it’s all right, the
Indians are gone. Is the pain worse?” She couldn’t see Molly’s face.

“Hurt…
help
me. Water…so thirsty….” Her voice sounded raspy.

“Just
a minute, Moll.
I have a
cup somewhere. Let me get some light in here.” Sarah patted the area around her
until her fingers touched the kerosene lamp. She found the matches she’d placed
right next to it, and striking one, she put the flame to the wick. A soft glow
bathed the wagon’s interior and provided light enough to find the water. Sarah
kept the lamp turned down, hoping to minimize the shadows and praying she
wasn’t making a fatal mistake.

She lifted Molly’s
head and held the cup to her lips. “Easy does it.”

Molly took small
sips until the liquid was gone, then Sarah lowered her back on her pillow,
plumping it around her. Although difficult to tell in the diffused light, she
felt hopeful that Molly’s coloring had improved. At least her eyes were open;
the lamp’s flicker danced in their emerald color.

Sarah ran a hand
over her friend’s forehead and breathed a sigh of relief at its coolness. She
rose on her knees so Molly could see her smile. “I’m glad you’re awake. I’ve
been so worried about you. Is the pain horrid? What can I do to help?”

Molly’s tongue
flicked across her lips, and the blank stare in her eyes expressed confusion.
She turned her head to her bandaged shoulder, gave a gentle shrug, and then
looked back to Sarah with a weak brow raised.

Sarah smoothed
Molly’s hair from her forehead. “We were attacked, and you were shot with an
arrow. I removed it, cleaned and dressed the wound, but you’ve been unconscious
for hours. I was so scared that I’d lost you.” Sarah shuddered, anticipating
her friend’s first question.

 
“Gil…?” Molly’s lips quivered as if she
already knew the answer.

“I’m so sorry, my
dear. He and all the others….” Sarah’s throat choked off her words.

Molly’s eyes closed,
but a river of tears seeped from beneath her thick lashes. Sarah patted her
friend’s hand. “I know nothing I can say is going to take away the pain, but
rest assured, I won’t leave you
. We’ll see this through
together.”

“Did… did he
suffer?” Molly’s voice trembled just above whisper.

Sarah’s mind
repainted the awful picture of Gil’s tortured body, his missing scalp, his
blood-covered face and the fatal gash in his neck. Molly didn’t need to know
the gruesome details. Sarah shook her head in answer—and to clear the disturbing
image. “No, he died very quickly.” She felt absolutely no guilt in telling a
lie. Surely God understood.

The temperature
turned noticeably cooler with the setting of the sun, and a chill crept into
the wagon. Sarah, feeling the cold, pulled a heavier blanket up over Molly.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, but you rest now. We have plenty of water but
unfortunately no food. The Indians took everything we had, but come sunup I’ll
find something for us to eat. I used to be pretty good at snaring rabbits with
my Pa. Maybe
I’ll try my hand at that.”

Clearly, Molly’s
thoughts weren’t on food either. Her tears had turned to quiet sobs, leaving
Sarah at a loss for words. There wasn’t anything she could say to dull the
anguish. She knew that from personal experience. Just like the wound in Molly’s
shoulder, only time would heal her aching heart.

Sarah closed the
canvas at the back of the wagon, turned out the lamp and went back to her
sleeping space. Curling beneath the warmth of her cover, she heaved a huge sigh.
Hopefully tomorrow would bring Molly strength and bolster Sarah’s sagging
spirit. Her determination remained strong but she feared staying in the wagon
much longer. She had to find a safe haven for her and her friend, at least
until Molly could travel.

Too tired to worry
about anything, Sarah fell into a restless sleep.

Chapter Three

“Gil…” Molly’s yell
brought Sarah out of a deep slumber. She sat bolt upright, realizing that
daylight brightened the wagon. Her relief in getting through the night faded as
the dismal details of yesterday unfolded in her mind, and she spied her injured
friend thrashing about.

She scooted to
Molly’s side and took her hand. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

Molly’s face looked
flushed, her features pained. Sarah touched the young woman’s brow and gulped,
panic clutching at her heart. Molly’s skin burned with fever. Sarah had feared
an infection would take hold, but without medicine or healing herbs….

She thumped her
forehead. “Think, Sarah,” she mumbled. “There has to be something more you can
do. Something you can find.”

Molly flailed in
feverish delirium, talking nonsense and staring through vacant eyes at Sarah,
addressing her as Gil. Sopping the remaining water from the dishpan, Sarah
spread the saturated cloth across Molly’s forehead, hoping to cool her
heat-ravaged body and return her to sanity. Sarah sat back on her heels,
waiting.

Her mind wandered to
yesterday’s scant search of the wagons. She had hunted mainly for survivors and
provisions, and although all the food appeared to be gone, the Indians couldn’t
possibly have carried everything with them. There had to be something with
medicinal value left that Sarah could use to help Molly.

What Sarah wouldn’t
give for a piece of bread and cup of milk, but not to
eat.
She thought back to the time when her father had complained of a boil on his
neck. Her mother had soaked a slice with the liquid, put the soggy lot in a
piece of muslin and heated it until it was barely tolerable to the touch. Then
she applied it to the festering sore repeatedly until it broke open and
released the poisons.

Sarah shook her
head. There was no bread, and the cows that came with the families with
children were long gone. She mentally listed other things her mother had
used—tea, goose grease, vinegar, raw onions—none available, most likely. Sarah
chewed a ragged fingernail, determined to find something. Her fear of being all
alone disturbed her more than venturing out to find something to save her
friend.

She patted Molly’s
trembling hand. “I’m going to step out for just a few minutes, Molly. I won’t
go far, I promise. I’m going to find something to make you feel better.”

Chills shook the
young woman so hard that the wagon swayed. Sarah pulled the blankets up to
Molly’s chin and, after loosening the canvas, Sarah dropped to the ground.

Resolute, but not
yet ready to view the battle scene again, she stared at the dirt while her
logic argued with her fear. Molly needed help and Sarah was the only one to
give it. She’d think of the bodies simply as empty containers that no longer
held souls. They couldn’t hurt her, other than causing a queasy stomach or
making her question her own mortality again. Besides, she reminded herself,
even if there were such things as ghosts, they didn’t walk about in broad
daylight. She hated being such a frightened ninny.

Squaring her
shoulders, Sarah raised her gaze. She’d start with Mr. Simm’s wagon, one of the
few the Indians hadn’t burned. As an experienced traveler and captain of the
train, perhaps he thought to pack things that others forgot. She crossed her
fingers and walked in that direction.

Her nose crinkled at
the unpleasant odors as she crossed the compound. She tried to keep her gaze
from wandering, but the coyotes had strewn remains everywhere. It seemed with
every step she passed a grisly reminder of what she had escaped. Raising her
skirt, she tiptoed around a foot that had been gnawed from someone’s leg. It
remained partially encased in a brown boot. She covered her mouth and nose, her
stomach churning.

Just a short time
ago the scattered bits of tattered cloth and bones picked clean of flesh had
been living, breathing people. She looked away from the foot only to spy other
bodies that strangely remained intact, frozen in place by death. The rising sun
must have sent the coyotes back to their dens before they finished their feast.
God, how she wished she was somewhere else—anywhere else. Even with despicable
Silas McCann. A scream of frustration, fear and helplessness bubbled deep in
Sarah’s throat but she swallowed it and continued on.

At shadowy outlines
on the ground, she paused and glanced skyward, raising a shielding hand against
the sun to investigate. Her stomach knotted at seeing buzzards circling
overhead. But she knew it was inevitable. Her father had always referred to
them as ‘death birds’ with the patience of Job. They lingered until their prey
died or became so weak it could no longer struggle before swooping down to
gorge on the remains. Sarah bit her lip and looked away. Maybe their presence was
a blessing. At least she wouldn’t have to learn what rotting flesh smelled
like. The odor of fresh blood alone sickened her.