Sarah's Heart

Chapter One

1850 – Somewhere on the Santa Fe Trail

Sarah Collins
struggled to open her eyes against the glare, but the pounding pain in her head
urged her to keep them closed. She swept the tip of her tongue across cracked
lips, her mouth as dry as the feathers in her pillow—yet she felt no downy
softness beneath her, only an uncomfortable jabbing in her back. Her palms groped
along something gritty. Where was she?

Suddenly patchy
memories flooded back. The taste of bile filled her throat. She struggled to
sit, groaning as she pushed herself up from the dusty ground and the offending
stone stabbing at her spine. Her eyes misted with tears, and fear clutched at
her chest as she surveyed what remained of the wagon train.

Grasping her
constricting throat, Sarah stood, scanning the eerie site. The bodies of her
new friends lay scattered amongst the smoking ruins, some oddly contorted and
others positioned just as they’d fallen. Her heart ached for the mother who sat
propped against a wagon wheel, clutching her baby to her breast—both obviously
dead. Sarah covered her mouth to stifle a scream. Oh sweet Jesus, why kill a
defenseless infant?

Was she the only
survivor? As evidenced by an attacker’s body lying a few feet from her, someone
had interceded and saved her life. There had to be someone else alive. There
had to be! The hair on the back of her neck bristled.

If not for the
carnage, the day would be beautiful—wispy clouds floated in a powder blue sky,
and an endless sea of waving prairie grass announced the arrival of spring. The
only sound came from water bubbling in the nearby stream as it traveled over a
rocky bed.

Sarah remembered
everything now. They had just made camp when war cries sliced the air. A few
hours of daylight remained, but one family’s illness prompted the wagon master
to halt travel for the day. Supper fires hadn’t even been lit when a band of
whooping Indians with painted faces stormed the group. There must have been
twenty or more on horseback. The last thing Sarah recalled was running to fetch
her rifle.

She dusted off and
inspected her body for injury. Other than her throbbing head, she assumed she
was all right until something warm trickled into her eye. Her fingertips
reddened from touching a sticky substance on her temple, and she flashed back
to the terror of looking into the scarred face of the brave whose tomahawk
struck only a glancing blow. Recalling those hate-filled eyes sent a shudder
through her.

Her bonnet dangled
down her back, its ribbon annoyingly tight across her throat. She pulled at the
ties, easing the choking feeling, and then inspected the stained head covering.
After wiping her bloodied hand on the yellow gingham, she tossed it to the
ground where her body’s partial outline still etched the dirt.

The sun hadn’t risen
very high above the horizon. She must have been unconscious all night.
Releasing a pent up breath, she lifted her dress and ripped a piece from her
petticoat, folded the cloth and held it to her wound. Fear clutched at her
core, and unbridled tears ran down her cheeks as she prayed to see another
living soul. Surely she was no better than the rest of these simple folk who
were trying to find a new start. Why would God spare only her?

“Hello, can anyone
hear me?” She called out in a faltering voice, then scanned the campsite and
listened, but no answer came. Nothing moved.

Sarah started toward
her smoldering Conestoga, now barely recognizable. She’d used her last penny to
buy the wagon to make this trip, hiring a driver and packing everything she
owned into the beautifully crafted prairie schooner. This wasn’t how things
were supposed to be. Headed for California,
she wanted to leave all her bad memories in Missouri and forge new and happier ones.
Maybe any minute she would awaken and discover this was all just a horrible
nightmare. The pain in her head dragged her back to reality.

The smaller wagon
behind Sarah’s, unscathed except for the arrows jutting from the canvas
covering, bore testament to the violent attack. In contrast, the delicate
feathers decorating the shafts gently swayed in the breeze. Drifting smoke
stung her eyes. She called out again, but still no response.

Gathering her wits,
Sarah forced her reluctant legs to move. Unsteady at first, her determination
gave her strength. She fought the urge to retch when passing the body of the
wagon master, Mr. Simms. The top of his head had been slashed off, leaving a
bloody pulp. She jerked her gaze away only to see three more male bodies, one
clutching a lance stuck deep in his chest. All had been desecrated in the same
manner.

 
She swallowed hard and forced herself to
continue her search, circling the camp and finding more bodies as she went from
wagon to wagon. Next to what remained of her own, she found Fred Tanner, her
driver. His eyes stared lifelessly at the sky; an arrow protruded from a dried
circle of blood in the middle of his shirt. He, too, had been scalped. Bending,
and focusing only on his placid face, she gently closed his lids, fighting
guilt. In their business arrangement, he had ended up paying far more dearly
than she had.

 
The dead children sickened Sarah more than the
deceased adults. Barely starting their lives, they came to a bitter end far too
soon. She discovered most of them huddled with their mothers in the backs of
the unburned wagons, fear still etched on their little faces.

 
The smell of charred flesh hung heavy in the
air, making it difficult to breathe. Sarah crinkled her nose in disgust, her
shoulders sagged. Each person deserved a proper burial, but she couldn’t do it
all by herself. Her head pounded in rhythm with the panic in her heart as she
realized the seriousness of her predicament. The Indians had taken all the
animals, and from what she could tell, most of the food. She had no idea where
she was or how she would survive.

Sarah collapsed to
the ground and buried her face in her hands. Sobs wracked her as she mourned
each person’s passing. She’d barely gotten to know them. Only fifteen days ago
in Independence, Missouri, these twelve wagons had gathered, full of excited
and happy faces, people ready to journey to a new life.

She cried until her
tears ran dry, then finding composure, convinced herself that weeping wouldn’t
help. At twenty-two-years old, she was determined to see twenty-three.
But how?
She could walk for help, but in which direction,
and how far
?She
could fill her canteen with fresh
water from the stream, but how long would the supply last before she reached
another source. What if the Indians came back? Her search revealed they had
taken all the weapons leaving her defenseless. She couldn’t just sit and wait.
Besides, in the warm spring weather, the bodies would start to decay before
long. Leaving appeared to be her only option. She pulled a ladle from a nearby
water barrel and drank, quenching her thirst and easing her parched throat.
Dropping the dipper back in place, she planned her trek.

She’d need a change
of clothing, at least… and something to keep her warm at night. All her
belongings had burned. She gazed at the Morgan wagon, one of the few still
intact. Maybe she could find something there. Sarah loosened her long hair,
running her fingers through it to comb all the escaped locks in with the rest.
Pulling her blonde tresses back, she retied the ribbon at the nape of her neck.
Her face puckered into a scowl, preparing to view Molly Morgan’s remains for a
second time. Sarah had thought it painful enough to see her during her earlier
search for survivors.
Such a waste of a young life.
Approaching the wagon, she steeled herself and climbed up onto the back. Molly
had died, but Sarah felt strangely remorseful for rummaging through another
person’s belongings. It didn’t seem right. She lifted a foot to step over the
tailgate, but paused with her leg midair.

Her head tilted
inquisitively. Was that a sound? She sighed. Now she imagined things. Her
supporting leg wobbled, and goose bumps peppered her skin—not from the cold,
but from the feeling of death all around her. She lowered her suspended limb,
and steadying herself, took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment.

Clearly, she heard
the noise again—a moan from inside the wagon. She threw open the tarpaulin and
peered in.

“Molly? Is that
you?” Sarah held her breath.

“Help me.” The voice
inside the wagon sounded weak and barely audible, but it belonged to a woman.

Sarah scrambled over
the tailgate and knelt next to the bed. “Molly, it’s me, Sarah. I’m here.”

Molly moaned low in
her throat. An arrow protruded from the front of her blood soaked dress, just
below the shoulder. Earlier, she’d been on the floor, but somehow had managed
to get to the pallet of blankets and pillows. Sarah had been sure the woman was
dead. Perhaps, she should have checked for a pulse as she had with others, but
after so many… God forgive her, had she wasted precious moments of this sweet
life?

Sarah wiped her own
dry lips with the back of her trembling hand. She wasn’t a doctor. What could
she do to help? Before she could determine the extent of the injury, she’d have
to remove the arrow, and there seemed only one way to do it—quickly and
painfully.

She gazed at Molly’s
ashen face. Her eyes were closed, and beads of perspiration dotted her brow;
her copper hair cascaded over her head rest. Sarah caressed the young woman’s
cheek. “Molly, this is going to hurt like the devil, but I have to get this
arrow out of you.”

Her eyelids
fluttered, and she gave weak nod of acknowledgement.

Before Sarah’s
nerves failed, she rose, locked her fingers around the wooden shaft, and yanked
with all her might. She expected a scream, but instead, Molly’s body flinched
and went limp. Discomfort creased her forehead and made her appear much older
than her nineteen years.

Sarah fell to her
knees. “Please, don’t be dead, Molly, please,
please
,
please.” She slapped Molly lightly on the cheek. “Wake up! You have to wake
up.”

She received no
response.

New blood dampened
the stain on Molly’s dress. Sarah, chewing on her bottom lip, ripped
open
the bodice. The sodden chemise underneath bore bright
red stains, and more fluid gushed from a wound below Molly’s shoulder.

Confusion clouded
Sarah’s mind. Her heart pounded. How could she possibly tend to something so
serious? She had to save Molly, she just had to. Sarah bit her knuckles, her
mind spinning.

The first priority:
stop the bleeding, but she needed cloth. With no time to spare, she ripped a
piece from the hem of Molly’s dress. After folding it, Sarah applied the
material directly to the wound, forcing her nervous fingers to stuff a corner
directly into the puncture hole. She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached.
Blood had always made her queasy, and she inhaled deeply through her nose to
keep from vomiting. Fighting nausea had become a regular routine throughout the
day.