In the Face of Danger (13 page)

“There’s too much,” Emma told her. “There’s water and firewood to bring in, and the dinner to make.”

Megan removed the dripping, ice-filled pad and dried Emma’s ankle. Then she took a clean strip of cloth and wound it high around the ankle and under the arch of Emma’s foot, splitting the loose end in order to tie it firmly into place. She placed a pillow on the footstool and propped Emma’s foot on top.

Emma sighed gratefully. “That’s much better,” she said. “It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it did.”

Megan stood and smoothed down her skirt. “I’ll start the dinner as soon as I take care of the water and wood,” she said. “I may not be the best cook in the
world, but I’ve watched you, and I’ve learned your ways of doing things.”

“Have you ever cooked an entire meal?”

“When I lived in New York,” Megan said, “I cooked every day for my family. Ma and Frances had to work, and it was up to me to buy the food at the greengrocer’s and cook the dinner and care for the two little ones.” She heard the break in her voice, and she wondered how long it would be before she could think of her brothers and sisters—and especially of Ma—without such a dreadful aching hunger to see them again.

Emma took Megan’s right hand and for just a moment held Megan’s palm against her cheek. “How lucky we are to have you,” she murmured.

Megan shuddered. If only Emma knew! “Please don’t speak of luck,” she whispered, and although Emma looked startled, Megan hurried into her coat and out the door to get the wood without a word of explanation.

She made sure there was plenty of wood piled in the rack that was handy to the back door, as well as a full supply in the house. Then she brought in fresh water from the well and began to cook. Emma rallied enough to complain about her lack of activity, and by late in the afternoon was hobbling about the house, with Megan trying unsuccessfully to coax her into sitting still.

The day went quickly, with many chores to do both inside and outside, and when the daylight faded, Megan was glad to relax by the fire as Emma read poems from Walt Whitman’s
Leaves of Grass
. Megan didn’t understand all that Mr. Whitman wrote, but she loved the sounds of his words as they marched and exploded and sometimes slipped together softly, giving shape to his ideas. She was already drowsing by the time Emma closed the book and said, “Time for bed.”

“How is your ankle?” Megan murmured as she got to her feet.

“Much better,” Emma said, but she limped toward her bedroom.

“I wish Ben were here,” Megan said. In the distance she heard the howl of a wolf, with another joining in. The eerie wailing sound made her shiver.

Emma gave Megan a good-night hug. “I miss him, too,” she said.

But that was not exactly what Megan had meant.

Concerned about Emma, Megan lay wide awake in bed, staring out her window at the clear, dark sky, so cold that the light from the stars seemed to glitter and snap. Maybe Ma could look from her window to see the same stars, she thought. Maybe Ma was thinking of Megan at the very same time that Megan was thinking of her.

The stars became blurry as their edges shimmered and dissolved. Megan turned on her side, pulling the quilt up over her ears and squeezing her eyes tightly shut against the tears. Pale, faraway speckles in a hazy sky, city stars were not the same as the large, bright ones that shone over the prairie. Ma wouldn’t be looking at the stars and thinking of Megan. Ma seemed just as far away as those stars, in a strange room in a strange house that Megan couldn’t even picture.

“Good-night, Ma,” Megan whispered as she tugged the quilt more tightly around her. “Oh, please, please don’t forget me. I’ll never forget you.”

Early the next morning, soon after Goliath’s insistent crow, Megan hurried to the barn to feed the animals and milk the cow. The wind pushed her to a trot, and gray clouds, as thick and heavy as the stuffing in an old
pillow, piled high, smothering the sky. A few flakes of snow prickled her cheeks.

Emma, in the doorway, called to Megan, her voice tight with worry. “Hurry, Megan. I’m afraid Ben was right. It looks as though we’re going to have a snowstorm.”

Megan tugged at the small door in the barn and managed to open it, nearly sprawling over the high sill as the wind yanked the door from her hands and slammed it shut behind her. Rosie rolled her huge eyes and shifted nervously in her stall, while Jay stamped and snorted loud breaths that hung in the cold air like miniature clouds. Megan had let the chickens into the barn the night before, and they huddled together, roosting in the hayloft, sleepy, cold, and complaining to each other in mumbled clucks and squawks.

As Megan worked—feeding the animals, cleaning their stalls, and milking Rosie—she thought about the snowstorms in New York City. Some had been miserable, with wind whipping the snow in heavy gusts down streets and around corners, even shaking the wooden building in which the Kellys lived as though trying to tear it apart. But Megan remembered Ben telling her that snowstorms in the city were nothing compared to prairie blizzards, in which the wind and snow raced and roared across the plains for days, piling up drifts higher than a man is tall, with nothing to stop their speed or break their path.

“What about you?” she asked Rosie and Jay, who turned to stare at her. “How will I take care of you?”

Jay snorted and tossed his head, and Megan thought,
How will I get to them? If the snow is as blinding as Ben described, how will I even find the barn? The animals will be safe enough in here, but someone will have to feed them, and Rosie will bawl if she becomes swollen with milk
.

Slowly Megan looked around the barn, turning until her glance fell on a long coil of rope hanging on a peg. It appeared to be about the right length, with some to spare.

The coil was heavy, but Megan managed to pull it from the peg and drag it after her as she shut the smaller barn door and let down the bar that locked it into place. She tied one end of the rope to the bar, testing it to make sure it was secure, then pulled the rest after her, playing it out as she walked. When she reached the house, she pulled the rope taut and tied the other end to the post near the back door. It made a convenient and strong guideline between the house and the barn, and she examined it with satisfaction.

The snow had begun to fall in earnest now, swirling and whipping in the driving wind. Megan was glad that she’d laid by plenty of firewood, and she hoped there was nothing she’d forgotten.

The back door opened, and Emma called, “Come inside, Megan. The storm’s building. It’ll be a blizzard for sure.”

Megan stumbled into the house, throwing her weight against the door to close it.

“Oh, how I wish Ben were here!” Emma murmured.

For a moment Megan was frightened. “He won’t set out in this just to get home to you, will he?”

Emma shook her head. “No. Ben would never do that. He’s well aware of what these blizzards can be like. He’ll stay with the Oblinskys until it’s safe to travel.”

Fear cut deep lines across Emma’s forehead. Megan took her hand and said, “The house will hold up, won’t it?”

“No worry about that,” Emma said. “It’s good and sturdy.”

“The animals will be all right, too. I made sure of a way to get to the barn.” Megan told Emma about the rope she had rigged, but Emma looked even more concerned.

“I don’t want you going outside in this terrible weather.”

Megan glanced at Emma’s ankle, still a little swollen. “It’s a sure thing that you’re not the one to go.”

“Let’s hope the storm won’t last long,” Emma said. “We may have nothing to worry about.”

But the day had become as dark as night, and Emma and Megan hurried to light the oil lamps. The wind blustered at the door, thudding against it as though someone were beating to get inside. It screamed around the corners of the house and hammered at the roof. Emma sat quietly near the fireplace, stitching pieces into the baby’s quilt, but Megan could see her fingers tremble.

Megan picked up a needle and thread and a shirt of Ben’s with a tear in the sleeve. She worked carefully, trying to make tiny stitches around the edge of the patch, as Ma had taught her, but she jumped in terror, often pricking her finger, each time the wind slammed against the side of the house.

The storm was worse than anything she could have imagined. She pictured it as a huge, white animal trying to claw its way into the house in order to devour them.

O
N THE FIRST
day Megan was able to make two trips to the barn, wading with difficulty through the snow and clinging tightly to the rope as the wind’s icy claws raked her face and tried to snatch her away.

The storm had terrified the animals. Megan attempted to soothe them, but Jay was skittish, and Rosie raised her head and bawled loudly, sending some of the chickens flapping hysterically from their perch. Rosie was so frightened she’d have little milk to give. In a way, Megan thought, that would be a blessing. She could make sure that the animals had plenty of food, and she wouldn’t have to worry about easing Rosie’s discomfort. The animals would stay safe and snug where the storm couldn’t get to them.

On the second day the snow was so deep that, even with the rope to cling to, Megan couldn’t buck the strength of the wind. She stomped back into the kitchen and plopped into the nearest chair, resting her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, frustrated at being defeated.

Emma pulled off Megan’s cap and smoothed down her hair. “This is a way of life on the prairie,” Emma said. “We do the best we can and recognize that there are some things we can’t do, no matter how much we want to.”

“But the animals—”

“They’ll survive. They’re stronger than you think.” Emma tucked a finger under Megan’s chin and lifted her head. As their eyes met, Emma smiled at her. “So are you, Megan. You’ve got an inner strength I hadn’t suspected. You’re a survivor, too.”

To her surprise Megan suddenly pictured the Haskills’ dugout, mounded over with snow, nothing to show that anyone lived in that burrow inside the hill but the black stovepipe poking up like a dirty smudge against the whiteness. “I wonder if Mrs. Haskill is a survivor,” she blurted.

“Oh,” Emma said, her face filled with concern. “The storm will probably frighten her, but they’re safe enough. Farley’s been in blizzards before and knows how important it is to keep the stovepipe from getting covered with snow. We won’t worry about Ada and Farley, Megan. They’ll get through this with no harm done.”

“I’m sure they will,” Megan said, but she knew she hadn’t sounded any more convinced than Emma had.

Early the third morning, a sudden deep silence settled over the land. It woke Megan with as much of a start as if it had been a loud noise. The wind had stopped, and she leaned on the sill of her bedroom window, rubbing away the crystals of frost, to see the prairie glittering in the thin, early light. Megan thrilled to the sight as though it had been created for her alone.

Finally, reluctantly, she left the window. There was
work to be done. Emma was still asleep, so Megan dressed as silently as possible, pulling on her heavy coat, gloves, and boots. She could get to the barn now, care for the animals, and bring back some warm milk for Emma—if Rosie would cooperate.

In spite of the storm the rope was still securely in place. Megan clung to it thankfully, taking one slow step at a time, sinking into the snow and shivering as it fell into the tops of her boots. She had to scoop some of the snow away from in front of the high sill in order to open the small door. The big doors, flush with the ground, couldn’t be opened until the drifts of snow had been shoveled away.

Megan would have liked to have left the small door ajar, just to let in light, but the cold air would have quickly chilled the barn, so she shut it tightly and lit one of the lanterns.

She talked soothingly to Rosie and Jay, but they shifted nervously and rolled their eyes. Jay laid back his ears and whinnied.

“What is it, Jay?” Megan asked. She could feel him tremble as she stroked his neck. “The storm’s over. There’s nothing to be afraid of now.”

She cleaned his stall hurriedly, eager to fork in fresh hay and care for Rosie. At first Rosie stood passively as Megan milked her, but she suddenly raised her head, as though aware of a sound only she could hear, and swung her rump sideways, almost knocking over both Megan and the pail of milk.

Megan grabbed the pail and scrambled out of the way. “What’s the matter with you?” she demanded. Trying to figure out what was spooking the animals, Megan listened carefully. But Jay let out another high-pitched whinny, and with both animals stomping and snorting
and the chickens setting up a racket of squawks and flapping wings, Megan couldn’t hear a thing.

“I think I know what your problem is. You’re restless,” she said. “Well, I’m not sure what Ben would do with you, but I
am
sure that the snow’s too deep for you to be put out to pasture. It’s my way of thinking you’ll be better off staying here in the barn.”

Satisfied that she could do no more for them, Megan put out the lantern, picked up the bucket, and pushed the small door open.