A Dream Unfolding (13 page)

After that conversation, Drew felt Eli’s patience wear thin as he taught him how to harness and drive the team of oxen.
 
His ignorance continued to strip away his dignity and confidence well into this third day of their journey.

You’ll be on your own.
 
We don’t take inexperienced
fellas
.
 
The words taunted him as he fastened the last part of the gear.

Drew quickly climbed onto the hard springboard seat of the wagon, calling “all set” as he picked up the reins.

The man in the wagon in front of him shouted back, “About time!”

Heat rose to his cheeks as he released the brake.
 
The wagon master shouted “stretch out.”
 
Slapping the reins against the team’s back, he breathed a sigh of relief.
 
At least this was part of the morning ritual he could handle with some measure of confidence.
 
The tight circle of wagons slowly elongated into a line as the cool breeze tickled his neck.
 
When the wagon master hollered “fall in,” Drew directed the oxen to take their assigned place in the line of wagons.

The past few days on the trail tested him almost to his limit.
 
As the son of a storekeeper, and then as a doctor, the most strenuous physical activity he performed was lifting and unloading crates of supplies.
 
Never before had he worked with livestock.
 
Never before had he hoisted a barrel full of water several feet above ground and into a wagon, much less three barrels.
 
Every task he learned to perform strained his already weary muscles.

Then there were his hands—most definitely the hands of a doctor and not someone used to driving a team all day.
 
Last night, when Hannah handed him his supper plate full of charred food, he nearly screamed out from the pain as the plate hit his raw, bleeding palms.
 
Hannah saw him flinch and, after giving him a piece of her mind—the long string of words giving him hope that she still must care—she rubbed a soothing salve on the wounds.
 
Then she wrapped them in rags.
 
This morning, Drew dug through their things until he found a pair of gloves to wear over the bandages.
 
He paid dearly for his foolishness in waiting this long to wear the gloves.

As the wagon crept along the rutted, dusty road, Drew glanced over at Hannah’s rigid posture.
 
She was still angry.
 
He was certain of it.
 
She never had been angry with him for this long before.
 
Of course, he had never tried to uproot her from her home either.
 
Ever since he announced they would be moving to La Paz, Hannah barely spoke to him.
 
When she did, it was with eyes full of disappointment, disdain, or dejection.
 
No smiles graced her lovely face—not in nearly a month.
 
Not in the weeks they spent packing.
 
Nor in the few days traveling by steamboat from Cincinnati to Fort Leavenworth.
 
Nor in the days spent in Fort Leavenworth.
 
And certainly not since the wagon train moved out.

How long would she remain distant, carrying a grudge against him?
 
What could he do to coax a smile again?
 
As much as he wanted to mend what was broken, at the end of each arduous day he had no energy left to smooth things over with his wife.

She wasn’t the only person mad at him.
 
Drew saw the looks of other settlers traveling with them.
 
Whispers stopped as he neared.
 
Piercing eyes followed his every movement.
 
His shortcomings were painfully obvious.
 
He was completely ill-equipped for what was required of him.
 
Perhaps he would never fully adapt to this type of grueling labor.

Even Hannah seemed to be struggling to adapt to outdoor living, as evidenced by the dreadful, unappetizing meals.
 
He assumed the meals she prepared would be hearty and fulfilling, much like he had come to expect back home.
 
There she had been an amazing cook—never was anything less than sumptuous.
 
However, on the trail that was not the case.
 
Each night she served a foul combination of half raw half charred food.
 
If only his empty stomach and exhausted body would be as forgiving as he.
 
He needed satisfying nourishment if he was going to make it through this.

Restful sleep eluded him, too.
 
The hard ground gave no comfort.
 
The thin shelter of the tent did little to muffle the strange noises of the prairie.
 
Rambunctious, and often inebriated teamsters employed by the freighters, added to the noise late into the night.
 
Wolves or coyotes howled, sounding closer as the hours ticked by.
 
The peaceful dark of night he expected turned out to be nothing more than fanciful images in his mind.

The flat, unending Kansas prairie failed to offer solace.
 
Miles and miles of tall buffalo grass hissed in the wind.
 
Trees confined themselves near river beds, offering little break to the chilling wind.
 
Other than the few towns and sporadic houses they passed on the first day, there had been little sign of civilization or variation in the landscape.

Worse yet, he missed practicing medicine.
 
He loved talking to patients, answering their questions and alleviating their symptoms.
 
He loved birthing babies, watching as new life entered the world.
 
He even liked patching up more severe wounds, like Mr. Davis’s bullet wound, and doing whatever he could to help the healing process along.
 
While unknown illnesses terrified most doctors, Drew thrived when confronted with such a challenge, drawing on his experience or researching new remedies and theories that might aid in curing the patient.

All those years of training, studying late into the night, prepared him to be a confident physician…that sat atop a wagon without a patient in sight.

Discouraged, Drew glanced at Hannah again.
 
He wished, not for the first time, that he would be able to make her proud.

---

Hannah sensed Drew’s eyes on her.
 
As she turned toward him, his head snapped forward, seemingly interested in the miniscule progress of the oxen.

The silence ate at her.
 
How had this wordless, tense chasm formed between her heart and his?
 
They were husband and wife.
 
They were supposed to love each other and want to be with each other.
 
So why did she feel like jumping down from the wagon and running far from his presence?

Moisture tickled the corners of her eyes.
 
Maybe he didn’t love her anymore.

Her aunt would tell her that was impossible.
 
Love doesn’t die.
 
But, Hannah knew otherwise.
 
After all, papa stopped loving her—the day mama died—so could Drew.

Growing up, she knew that both her parents loved and adored her.
 
She felt it in the morning hugs and evening bed-time stories.
 
It was there when papa lifted her off the ground and twirled her around as he came in from the fields at the end of the day.

Both papa and mama wanted more children and often spoke of their hope for another child.
 
Finally, mama announced one day that she was with child.
 
Hannah would have a younger brother or sister soon.
 
Papa cried—for joy he told her—because they had waited twelve long years for their family to increase.

Only that joy faded, too quickly, when mama began having pains only a few months into the pregnancy.
 
When the doctor confined her to bed rest, Hannah overheard him telling mama she had been irresponsible in trying to have a child at her advanced age of forty.

For months, mama remained in bed, following the doctor’s orders without complaint.
 
Each month the doctor visited, he said the pregnancy was progressing, but there was too much cause for concern.
 
She needed to stay abed.

Then, a month before the baby should have arrived, mama went into labor while Hannah was at school.
 
When she arrived home, the doctor’s carriage sat out front.
 
Her mother’s screams filled the air.
 
For hours papa paced the small space between the stove and the table in the small farm house, ignoring Hannah.
 
With each scream, his pacing turned more frantic.

For over a day, Hannah listened, helpless and terrified.
 
Finally, the screaming stopped.

“There should be a baby’s cry,” papa said, reaching for the bedroom door latch.

The door flew open as the doctor stepped into the room.
 
“I’m sorry,” were the only words he uttered before papa pushed him aside.

“No!” papa yelled in a guttural moan as he fell into a heap next to mama’s side.

Confused and frightened, she stepped into the doorway.
 
Her mother’s pale body rested stiffly on their bed.
 
Looking around the room, Hannah could not find the baby.
 
The only thing she saw was her lifeless mother and enormous amounts of blood staining the sheets.
 
The doctor, realizing she snuck into the room, quickly pulled her back into the kitchen as papa’s sobs grew louder.

“I’m sorry, little one, but your mama has passed away,” the doctor whispered, closing the door to allow her father to grieve in private.

The next hours and days had faded from Hannah’s memory.
 
She didn’t remember the funeral.
 

What she did remember was her father working long hours in the field.
 
He left before sunrise and returned late into the night.
 
If she hadn’t lain awake each night to be certain he returned, she would have thought he abandoned her entirely.
 

Weeks rolled into a month.
 
His behavior remained the same.
 
Until one day, when she came home from school, he sat at the table sipping on a mug of coffee, staring off at nothing in particular.
 
As she entered the small room, he looked up.

“Pack your things,” he said coldly before standing and walking out the door.

Not knowing what else to do, she followed the emotionless order.
 
Several minutes later, with her bag in his hand, he led her to the waiting wagon.
 
He lifted her into the seat without a word.
 
Then he drove her to his sister’s house.

“Take her,” he said to auntie.
 
When her aunt started to protest, he cut her off.
 
“I can’t bear to look at her…she reminds me too much of…” his voice cracked.

For three years, Hannah lived with her aunt and uncle, without a single word or visit from her father.
 
Then one day, shortly after her fifteenth birthday, he came as mysteriously as he left.
 
With minimal conversation, he picked her up and took her back home.

The next few years ticked by slowly.
 
Her father barely spoke to her outside of what was necessary to keep up with daily chores and the running of the farm.
 
He hardly looked at her.
 
He never hugged her.
 
He didn’t love her any more.

Daily, Hannah threw herself into her school work and her chores.
 
Many afternoons she cried on Emily’s shoulder, not understanding why her father didn’t love her.
 
She longed to go back to live with her aunt.
 
At least there she felt like someone cared.

Then, after Hannah turned eighteen, her father died suddenly.
 
Bad heart the doctor said.
 
She was an orphan with a farm—crops still in the field.

Her uncle came and advised her to sell the farm, suggesting Hannah move to town and take a job at the local mercantile.
 
She did precisely that.

The first two years after her father’s death, Hannah spent her days working at Francis’s store and her Sundays begging God to heal her broken heart.
 
She wanted to understand why her father stopped loving her, why he had abandoned her.
 
But, she couldn’t.
 
Friends told her that he must have been to overwrought with grief.
 
Perhaps his heart broke beyond repair.

None of that mattered to Hannah.
 
She once had his love and attention.
 
Then, it was gone.

Did the silence from Drew mean that he no longer loved her?

Hannah sighed, looking across the grass-covered prairie.
 
Maybe she held some blame for the distance.
 
She had been less than receptive to the idea of moving to La Paz.
 
After the dinner with Doc Henderson, she tried to convince Drew that moving so far away was ludicrous.
 
The heated argument ended in her vowing to keep her opinions to herself.
 
He would not budge.