Sarah's Heart (2 page)

 
Her eyes scanned the wagon’s interior for
something to hold the dressing in place. Beyond the butter churn, her gaze
rested on a wooden chest. She crawled to it, opened the lid, and rifled through
the contents, finding a piece of muslin near the bottom. Inching the yardage
beneath Molly, Sarah gently tugged until able to wrap the fabric around Molly’s
slender form and tie the ends together, securing the dressing in place. Molly’s
breathing sounded ragged and slow, but at least she lived.

Sarah fluffed
Molly’s pillow and pulled a light blanket over her, praying she would soon
awaken. She didn’t want to leave Molly’s side, but needed to go for water. The
risk of infection threatened, and her patient’s shoulder needed to be cleaned.

With her energy
waning, Sarah slid from the wagon to the ground. Taking a deep breath, she
arched her back to ease the kink she’d earned from bending over the low
featherbed. A strand of hair had come loose from her ribbon and dangled
annoyingly close to her eye. She ran her fingers alongside her face, smoothing
back the perspiration-dampened strays. Any moisture turned her natural curl
into ringlets that defied restraint.

Shoulder’s tense yet
squared, she searched the Morgan campsite for something to hold water;
purposely avoiding having to stray farther and be forced to look once again
upon the grisly remains of her traveling companions. Noticing an old dishpan
hanging on Molly’s sideboard made Sarah smile, but eying the puddle beneath the
punctured keg next to it stole her momentary pleasure. She had no choice but to
go back to the barrel from which she had earlier quenched her thirst, or trek
to the stream. Either meant she had to cross the campsite. With eyes focused
straight ahead and that dreadful lump in her throat, Sarah walked to the large
cask and filled the pan. Holding the receptacle out, she measured her steps
carefully, and walked back, trying not to slosh the liquid onto herself.

“Molly, can you hear
me? I’ve brought water,” Sarah called out, struggling to open the tailgate and
get the dishpan inside.

Molly didn’t stir.

Sarah pulled the
blanket back and found herself instantly repulsed by the smell of dried blood.
Molly’s dress was already ruined, so Sarah took no care in ripping the material
until it could easily be removed. The chemise needed to go, but how, without
jarring Molly?Sarah turned again to the wooden chest for the shears she saw
earlier, and with a few quick snips, severed the garment’s sides and straps and
removed it. A stinging flush crept into her cheeks at seeing another woman’s
bared breasts. She lowered her eyes, but peeked through her lashes to marvel at
Molly’s perfectly budded nipples.

“Oh for heaven’s
sake,” Sarah mumbled, admonishing her silly reaction. It wasn’t like she didn’t
have teats of her own. They just weren’t as…as full. Still, as she tucked a
strand of Molly’s hair out of the way, Sarah found managing her modesty most
awkward. A fine physician she’d make. She leaned back on her heels and focused
on the gruesome task ahead.

Now, she needed
something suitable for cleansing the wound. Another search through the chest
produced a stack of flannel squares. Before dipping one piece into the pan, she
filled a cup with water and set it aside for when Molly woke up—
if
she
woke.

 
Sarah unknotted the binding muslin and removed
the dressing to see if her attempts to stop the bleeding had worked. She
grimaced. Although her ministrations had been effective, the jagged skin around
the lesion looked red and angry. She searched for something with medicinal
value, but in this wagon like the others, the food box had been stripped bare.
She’d have to do the best she could with the piece of soap she found among the
flannels.

Wringing the excess
water from one of the soft squares, Sarah carefully washed Molly, first around
the laceration, and then removing the clotted blood from her chest and neck.
All feelings of diffidence disappeared, replaced with the urgent need to save
Molly’s life.

 
The continued dipping of the flannel turned
the once-clear water scarlet, causing Sarah to make another trip for a refill.
Returning, she again kneeled at Molly’s side, re-dressed her injury, and then
bathed her face with cool water. “Molly, can you hear me?” Sarah, her voice
faltering, prayed for an answer. “Please say something… anything.”

Molly’s head lolled
toward Sarah, her eyelids fluttered, then opened. She blinked a few times as if
trying to focus, and moved her mouth in an effort to speak. “Sarah…Gil…”

Those two words were
all she managed to croak out before her eyes closed and she drifted off again.
Sarah sighed and re-covered her with the light blanket, reaching beneath to
grasp her hand. “You have to get better, Molly. Do it for me.”

If she knew Gil was
dead she might lose the will to live. Her husband seemed to be the center of
her world. During the past week of walking alongside the wagons all day and
searching for firewood in the evenings, Sarah and Molly had grown close. Hungry
for friendship, they shared secrets and laughter. Sarah gazed on Molly’s
sleeping face and recalled how her green eyes sparkled when she talked of the
babies she hoped to have. Sarah’s own eyes rimmed with tears, and a pang of
reality stabbed at her. What gave her the will to live? She had no one either.

Chapter Two

The air inside the
canopy grew warm and stuffy. Sarah pushed damp hair from her forehead and
sighed. She needed a break and, reluctantly leaving Molly’s side, crawled out
to the ground. The wagon’s shadow had shifted. In a few hours the sun would
set. Sarah dreaded the darkness and wondered if lighting a lamp would be safe.
She hadn’t been afraid of the night since she was a little girl, but all of a
sudden, she wanted to cry like she did when she feared monsters lurked about.
Now she knew they really did.

While taking a
composing breath, her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten for
hours. She gazed at the remains of her wagon and thought of all the food she’d
stored for the trip that was now nothing but ashes. Even though the marauding
savages had stripped the camp clean, she and Molly wouldn’t starve. They could
eat the wild roots and grasses that grew in abundance if need be. Before her
mother’s passing, Sarah’s favorite dish of hers had been mustard and turnip
greens, picked right from the yard. Of course, there wouldn’t be the bacon fat
for flavoring, but now staying alive mattered more than taste.

The memories brought
new tears to Sarah’s eyes. She stared through a haze at her wagon, recalling
the cameo brooch that was the only thing she had left of her mother. Maybe,
just maybe, it had been spared. Worrying about a trinket others would consider
insignificant seemed silly, but Sarah needed something familiar—something to
draw her thoughts from the death surrounding her.

 
Knowing she’d done all she could for Molly for
the time being, Sarah hurried across the camp, climbed up on one of her huge
wheel spokes, precariously teetered over the wagon sideboard, and fished
through the rubble. From appearances, the fire had been contained to the wagon
box and bonnet. She shielded her eyes and gazed up at the charred bows that had
held the canvas in place, still arcing steadfastly over the schooner’s bed. The
smell of smoke radiated from the burned wood. At the front, the oak seat and
tongue were almost as pristine as when she had purchased the wagon from a
family who’d just arrived in Independence
and needed money. Now, she wished she’d never met them—never had the insane
idea to make this trip. She sighed, knowing she hadn’t had a choice. Either she
left or married a man she abhorred. Filled with fear over what now lay ahead,
she wondered if perhaps she should have reconsidered his offer.

Her mood lightened,
and a smile tugged at her lips upon seeing the valise containing her personal
items. The case bore not even a singe to its carpetbag material. She kept
little inside: her hair brush, pins, sewing notions, and a silly little bottle
of toilet water she just had to have; but most importantly, the brooch. Not
much else in the wagon was salvageable, but knowing the pin hadn’t been
destroyed made the loss of the rest somewhat tolerable. She rolled her eyes at
her female logic. A lot of good a piece of jewelry did her at the moment.

Sarah stretched to
reach the valise, her smile broadening in spite of her tenuous situation. Until
this moment, she’d totally forgotten the one other thing she’d packed—her
father’s handgun. She jerked open the bag, and breathed a sigh of relief to see
it still there—and the box of bullets she’d thrown in just in case.

In her wildest
dreams she’d never pictured anything this horrible happening to her. Thank
goodness for her ‘just in case’ mentality. The savages may have stolen her
rifle, but thankfully, she still had a weapon. She just prayed she wouldn’t
have to use it on another human. Taking another’s life wasn’t something she was
sure she could do.

Clutching her
valise, Sarah crossed the campground, her gaze set skyward, preferring the
beautiful pallet of oranges and reds left in the setting sun’s wake rather than
the surrounding carnage. Back inside the Morgan wagon, her gaze immediately
went to her patient, but in the absence of light, Sarah inched closer and
gasped. Molly lay still and lifeless. With her own heart resounding in her
head, Sarah knelt at her friend’s side and rested her hand over her heart. The
rise and fall of Molly’s chest—shallow breaths, but breathing nonetheless,
brought a sigh of relief from Sarah that sliced the stillness.

Searching for a lamp
and finding one, she pondered again the danger in lighting it. The Indians were
most likely far away by now, relishing their bounty and thumping their chests
with pride in having slaughtered and scalped innocent people. At the thought of
such inhumanity, a bitter taste of bile rose in Sarah’s throat. She’d lost her
parents to typhoid but this… this was just senseless killing.

She crossed to the
puckered opening of the bonnet and peered outside. Embers still smoldered from
some of the wagons that had been completely engulfed. Surely one small
flickering kerosene lamp wouldn’t draw attention. Molly needed care and Sarah
couldn’t very well deliver it in the darkness. She decided to risk lighting it
only when necessary. Better to minimize the chance of the attackers knowing that
anyone still lived.

Within minutes, the
sun slipped beneath the horizon and darkness cloaked the camp. A partly clouded
sky kept the moonlight at bay and Sarah on edge. Her thoughts kept turning to
the bodies scattered around camp, and she fretted that they hadn’t received a
proper burial. As a child, she’d often heard stories about restless souls
roaming the earth on moonless nights. Now, along with worrying about the
Indians returning, she had to fret over haunting spirits. She prayed for the
night to pass quickly.

 
Cowering in the dark, she leaned against the
wagon sideboard and rubbed her arms. The slightest noise outside bristled the
hair on them and set her heart to pounding. Besides monitoring her patient’s
shallow breathing, she kept an ear trained for anything out of the ordinary.
Her father’s loaded gun lay close at hand, and Sarah had pinned her mother’s
cameo brooch to the bodice of her gingham dress.

Earlier, the tedious
‘who, who, who’ of a vigilant barn owl had worn on her nerves, but now the
eerie howls of coyotes came closer and closer, until finally, Sarah actually
heard them scurrying around the wagons. Territorial growls conveyed one
animal’s message to another, and the voracious noises caused Sarah to cover her
ears to drown out the horrible sounds.

 
The thought of predators tearing at the flesh
of the deceased sickened her. She tried to focus on something else, and in
almost a whisper, she crooned a tune she used to sing with her father.

Oh I went down
South
for to see my Sal

Singing Polly
wolly doodle all the day.

My Sal, she
am
a spunky gal

Sing Polly wolly
doodle all the day.

Fare thee well,
fare thee well,

Fare thee well,
my fairy Fay.

For I’m off to
Lou’siana for to see my Susyanna

Singing Polly
wolly doodle all the day.

A growing lump in
her throat made it hard to finish the last verse. Although the song brought
back happy memories and images of those she loved, the lyrics also reminded her
of her loss. What she wouldn’t give to step back in time—to be back in Missouri, safe in the
cabin that Pa built for her and Ma. Such a silly wish, she thought, because
there wasn’t a cabin anymore, and both parents were dead… as dead as
those now fodder
for the carnivores outside.

 
The long emotional day had taken a toll on
her. Limp as the rag she’d used to wash away Molly’s blood, Sarah curled into a
ball, pulled a spare pillow beneath her head and prayed for sleep, but her
pulse pounded in her wounded temple and her eyes refused to shut. Instead her
blurry gaze remained fixed on the bonnet and the occasional shadow that played
across it when the moon broke through its misty barrier. Most likely the eerie
images were night birds in flight. She convinced herself they were.