Bartered Bride Romance Collection (18 page)

“Our praised heavenly Father, we give You our gratitude for seeing us through another day safely. Each night, Lord, we’ve come to ask for wisdom in the matter of our hearts. You abide in each of us, but we still wait for the assurance of Your blessing or the clear sign that You do not will the union of marriage betwixt us. Grant us courage and composure as we endure. Prepare our hearts so we can carry on Your will. We pray in Jesus’ precious name. Amen.”

He lifted her into the wagon for the night. Charity curled around Cricket with his prayer still threading through her mind. As far as she was concerned, marriage to Ethan was the only way God could make her happy. How was Ethan able to lay the matter before the Lord day after day so impartially? Though he spoke well of her and to her, could it be he fostered no deep, heartfelt affection for her? She buried her face in the pillow and wept over that notion.

Chapter 8

I
n the middle of the night, Charity knew something was amiss. She lay still and tried to decide what woke her. Tad mumbled something and thrashed. She smiled. He was a restless sleeper. Ethan had made a bundling board to divide the bed to protect Cricket since Tad never stayed stationary. Charity started to caress Cricket’s hair but stilled at once. She was burning hot!

Charity whisked on her wrapper. She felt for a lamp and hastily lit it as she called out, “Ethan! Ethan! Wake up! Cricket’s sick.” Her voice broke. “It’s a fever.”

They quickly established Tad was well, so Ethan moved him under the wagon. Charity hastily stripped Cricket out of her nightgown and sponged her off. She glanced up at Ethan. “She’s so hot! Oh, Ethan, she’s so hot.”

“Willow bark,” he decided. “Willow bark tea works fine on her. We’ll give that a try. I brought a bit.” He brewed the tea, but Cricket barely roused enough to take a few scant sips.

By morning, Mrs. Jason paid them a brief visit. “She doesn’t have a rash, and she doesn’t have dysentery. There’s nothing to be done but to give her plenty to drink, sponge her off, and try to knock that fever down.”

Charity and Ethan exchanged anguished looks. They’d spent the whole night doing precisely that—to no avail.

Mr. Jason wore an apologetic look. “The whole train can’t afford to stay put here when only one child is ailing. If we don’t push ahead, we’ll be stranded in the mountains in the winter instead of reaching Oregon. At least with two hale adults, one of you can tend the lass while the other keeps the wagon in formation.”

Charity spent the whole day sponging Cricket and drizzling little bits of broth and willow bark tea into her. Wagons had no springs—something she’d learned her very first day on the trail. Instead of the buffered ride of a springed carriage, wagons jolted and bumped dreadfully. Every yard they covered felt like a mile.

By midday, Cricket started coughing. Charity held her upright so she’d breathe a bit easier. Ethan took a turn while Charity took an essential moment at that stop, and Mary Pitts brought over bacon and fry bread for their noon meal. “How’s the little one?”

Ethan gave no reply. He looked down at his daughter. Every shred of his love and concern showed on his grim face.

Charity dunked the washrag in a water bucket and sponged Cricket as she whispered, “She needs prayer.” After Mary left, Charity fretted, “Her cough is worsening. I have an elixir in the bottom drawer.”

Ethan somberly handed his daughter over and moved his heavy toolbox so the drawer could slip open a bit of the way. “I don’t see any medicinals in here.”

“I’m sure they’re there.” She pressed the damp cloth to Cricket’s fever-cracked lips. “Oh. You’re looking for glass bottles. Daddy said the glass would likely break. He had the apothecary pack all of the tinctures, concoctions, and elixirs into metal containers. There’s a small book with them that holds the labels and notes from the doctor.”

Ethan tilted the kit and yanked it free. As he did, the false bottom of the drawer slid aside, revealing a wealth of twenty-dollar gold coins. He ignored them and reached for the half-inch-thick book wedged alongside another box. He pulled the book free and set it on the bed. A small velvet bag enveloped each container. Frustration flooded him. He needed to access the medication quickly. Charity had opened the book and told him, “We need flask number eight.”

Desperate, Ethan dumped the whole kit and started to rifle through the bags.

“Oh! They were in order in the satchel!”

Her cry came too late. At least each bottle was etched with a number. Together, they exposed each flask until his fingers closed around the right one. “Number Eight! How much do we give her?”

“The book says half a teaspoon, accompanied by a mustard and onion poultice.”

His worry for his daughter erupted into unreasonable anger. “Mustard and onion? Just how am I supposed to get those out here?” He waved at the flasks with disgust. “Silver and gold don’t take care of all of life’s problems.”

Charity gave no reply. Ethan stared at her and saw the hurt in her eyes. She dipped her head, and her lashes lowered. Her cheek pressed lightly against Cricket’s. In a thick, hushed voice, she directed, “My measuring spoons are in the top drawer.”

His anger fled, only to be replaced with remorse.
A soft answer turneth away wrath
. The verse ran through his mind as he poured the cherry elixir into the spoon and gave it to his daughter. “Charity—”

“If you hold her,” Charity interrupted, “I’ll make the poultice.” She didn’t look at him. Instead, she shifted Cricket.

Ethan accepted his daughter’s limp form and wondered afresh how dainty little Charity had managed to prop her up these past hours. “Charity—”

She shook her head. “I need to think. Please don’t distract me.” Her voice was thick with tears. She said nothing more. Neither did he. The drawer holding spices had a tin of mustard. The drawer with dehydrated fruits and vegetables scraped open. Most folk hadn’t been able to afford much of them, but the Davis family brought along a wide variety. To keep the flavors from mingling, they were stored in decorated tins.

Less than ten minutes later, Charity pressed the compress to Cricket’s chest. She’d torn her own flannel nightgown to use for the fabric, and since no fire had been struck for nooning, she’d melted the lard in a pie tin over the kerosene lantern, then added in the onions and mustard. With the plaster made and in place, Charity said in a tight voice, “The wagons are starting to pull out. Do you want to hold her while I drive?”

“The terrain is rough. I’d better drive.” Charity sat on the edge of the feather bed, and Ethan carefully transferred his daughter’s weight into her arms. “Get better,” he murmured to Cricket then gave her a kiss on her cheek. His head lifted a bit. He cradled Charity’s jaw. “Gal, now’s not the time, but we need to talk. I’m sorry—”

“Now isn’t the time,” she cut in. She pulled away, but not before he saw tears sparkling in her eyes.

Ethan let out a groan of remorse and climbed onto the seat. He let out the brake, took up the reins, and set them into motion. “Holler if you need my help,” he called to her. It was a useless thing to say. He couldn’t make a difference. Almost as bad, he’d just crushed Charity’s tender heart, so turning to him was probably the last thing she’d want to do.

By nightfall, Cricket’s cough was still bad, but Charity managed to care for her as well as could be expected with the plaster and elixir. Sucking on the lemon drops seemed to help Cricket’s throat feel better. The fever concerned them most. Cricket stayed hot as a pistol. Common sense dictated they each take a shift during the night with her so they’d both be able to function the next day. Neither slept much at all—worry interfered. Mrs. Jason warned them against using the quinine for the fever because her medical book said it wasn’t to be given to young children.

By the third evening, Ethan knew his little daughter couldn’t weather another night of the fever. Out of desperation, he looked at Charity and said, “We have to give her the quinine. Look it up in that book. Whatever the lowest dose is, we’ll give her half of what they recommend.”

Charity fumbled with the book and found the correct pages. The label stripped from the original glass bottle warned not to administer quinine to small children. In a neat hand, the pharmacist had added several comments and admonishments.

Ethan put a few drops of the bitter medicine in a small cup and added a bit of water. He stared at it. “God, I’m fresh out of prayers. My little girl’s in Your hands. Please”—he let out a mix between a sigh and a groan—“please….”

“Amen,” Charity breathed. She gently stroked Cricket’s throat to make her swallow.

Ethan watched tears pencil down Charity’s wan cheeks. She was hollow-eyed and pasty.
Oh, not you, too
. He touched her forehead, but she drew back. “You’re exhausted. Go lie down.”

She shook her head. “I can’t leave my little girl.” She dipped the cloth and wiped Cricket’s tiny body by rote, yet every move was done with loving tenderness.

Ethan stilled her hand. “Just curl up on Tad’s side of the bed, Charity. I’ll see to her awhile, then you can take the rest of the night.”

Charity barely laid her head down before she fell asleep. Ethan leaned his head against a wagon bow as he rolled up his sleeves. It took a long while until he was sure: Cricket’s fever was waning. He coaxed a bit of cider and more cough elixir into her, and she fell into a peaceful slumber.

Ethan looked at the button on the canvas and knew he had one last thing to do.

Chapter 9

H
ow could a woman go from the heights of elation to the depths of despair in a single heartbeat? Charity was thrilled beyond words to wake and find that Cricket felt better. Then she saw the bare spot where the button belonged. She scrambled out of the wagon with more haste than manners, but she didn’t care. She sat at the edge of camp, out of sight, her spine pressed to the trunk of a tree. All she wanted was to be alone.

Alone.

Yes, she was by herself. She folded her knees up, wound her arms around them, and buried her face in her skirt. She wept half an ocean. From how he’d acted, she’d suspected Ethan had made his decision. After his comment about silver and gold, she’d cut him off before he could tell her then. She’d hoped maybe, after the strain of Cricket’s illness waned, he’d reconsider. He hadn’t. The missing button said it all. Though she’d suspected it, it still crushed her to know the man she loved chose to reject her.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Tad?” Ethan looked over the tailgate of the wagon and smiled at his son.

“Sissy didn’t die and go to the Hereafter?”

“No.” He grinned. “God was good. Sissy’s much better.”

“Great!” Tad’s features twisted into confusion. “Then why did Miss Davis go tearing through camp, weeping?”