Somerset (17 page)

T
he wagon train was five miles from New Orleans when a screeching hawk appeared out of nowhere and dived at the head of the lead horse in Jessica's team. The Conestoga lurched sharply out of line, beyond the capability of Jasper to restrain the four animals, and pitched Jessica overboard. Even at the head of the wagon train, Silas heard Joshua's piercing scream.
“Jessica!”
Turning his horse around, Silas raced to her wagon, in which Joshua was riding, to see Jessica lying motionless on the ground. Silas grabbed the reins of the lead horse and got the team calmed, then jumped from his gelding to run to Jessica. Tippy stuck her head out the back of the wagon, and Jasper and Joshua scampered down from the wagon seat, both starting to cry.

“I'se so sorry, I'se so sorry, Mister Silas,” Jasper moaned.

“Stay with the horses,” Silas ordered, “and keep Joshua with you.”

“Papa, Papa, make Jessica better,” Joshua sobbed.

“I will, son,” Silas said. “Go with Jasper now.”

Jessica lay lifeless on her side, eyes closed, bonnet askew, her calico dress gathered up beyond her knees. Silas turned her onto her back and found blood seeping from a deep gash on her forehead caused by having struck a large, sharp rock. A chill fell over him as if he'd passed through a cold patch of shade. She was breathing, but the wound would require stitching or cauterization to prevent infection, possibly gangrene. Tippy ran to join him.

“We'll need towels, Tippy.”

“Right away, Mister Silas.”

Sick to his heart, Silas untied Jessica's bonnet to press it to the wound and yanked down the skirt of her dress. Dear God. What was this girl doing here in a wagon train wearing faded calico and muddy boots? What had her father been thinking to subject her to this? What had
he
been thinking to agree to it? Jessica opened her eyes.

“Don't move,” he said softly.

“What happened?”

“You were thrown off your wagon seat.”

Tippy dropped beside him with a handful of towels, her huge eyes drowning in dismay. “Oh, Jessica,” she groaned.

“I'm all right, Tippy.”

“Let's make sure,” Silas said. He could hear Joshua crying as he hung out the back of the wagon. “Tippy, I'll take care of Miss Jessica. Go be with my son.”

“Oh, please let me stay with her, Mister Silas.”

Jessica reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Do as he says, Tippy. Joshua needs you.”

Silas applied pressure with a towel to stop the bleeding while he explored her shoulders and arms for fractured bones. He pressed her knees and ankles. “Do you feel that anything is broken?”

“No. I just feel nauseated, and my head hurts.”

“You've had the wind knocked out of you, and you have a deep cut on your forehead. Try moving your arms and legs.”

Obediently, Jessica pulled up one leg, then the other. She wiggled her arms. “See? I'm all right,” she said drowsily.

But Silas had doubts.

Jeremy had ridden up with bandages and ointment, and the driver of the wagon behind Jessica's had drawn a bucket of water from the rain barrel hooked to the Conestoga.

Silas could hear Tippy soothing Joshua as he and Jeremy tended Jessica's wound. She lay pale and listless, and they debated what to do. Once the blood was cleaned away, the cut did not seem as serious as feared. No bone was exposed, but the gash needed immediate attention to prevent infection. Should Jessica be taken in the wagon to a doctor in New Orleans or should a doctor be sent for? They agreed a jolting wagon ride would not be good for her, and much time would be lost trying to locate a doctor in the unfamiliar city.

“I say let's have Tomahawk take a look at her,” Jeremy said. “His people have been treating wounds like this for hundreds of years.”

The Creek was already hovering in the background, his usually impassive face drawn in concern. Jessica's consideration and courtesy had won his devotion. “Aloe leaves,” he called. “They grow here.”

“See what you can do,” Jeremy called back, but the scout had already vanished into the woods.

The wagon train had stopped and word of Jessica's mishap had passed down the line. Her generosity and way with children had warmed some of the hearts frozen against her, and people had gotten out of their wagons to peer worriedly in the direction of the accident but knew from the many casualties experienced along the journey that it was best to stay out of the way and remain with their families and animals.

Tomahawk Lacy appeared with a plant spiked with thick, dark green leaves. Silas and Jeremy moved away to allow him to kneel by Jessica. She had been moving in and out of consciousness but came alert when he removed the bandage.

“I help you, Miss Jessica.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lacy.”

The scout cut several of the cacti-looking leaves that released a thin, clear sap that he applied to the wound. “The cut up and down,” Tomahawk said, pumping his hand vertically to Silas and Jeremy. “Not straight across.” He sliced the air horizontally. “That good. Skin can be pulled to grow back together.”

Jeremy immediately began tearing a towel into strips. Tomahawk said, “Wound should be cleaned first with water that has been disturbed over fire.”

“Boiled?” Silas said.

Tomahawk nodded. “If no…if no…” He struggled for an English word.

“Pus, infection,” Jeremy interpreted.

The scout nodded again. “If no infection, she will get well,” he said. He drew a finger across his temple. “Scar, maybe.”

“I'm most grateful to you,” Silas said, hoping Tomahawk's prognosis was right and there would be no need for the usual treatment against infection. The image of a red-hot iron pressed to Jessica's wound or a needle and catgut sewn through her delicate flesh made him nauseated to contemplate. Boiled water was brought, and Tomahawk cleaned the cut, reapplied fresh aloe, and bound Jessica's head tightly in a strip of towel to draw the flesh together. Silas and Jeremy conferred over the next step. It was decided that Silas, carefully supporting Jessica's head on his shoulder, would lift her up to Jeremy in the Conestoga. When it was done, Silas climbed in rapidly after his friend and together they made Jessica comfortable on her pallet.

“I'll stay with her,” Silas said. “If she becomes feverish, someone will have to ride for a doctor. Tell Tippy to stay with Joshua in my wagon.”

“You might get an argument from Tippy about that. She'll want to be with her mistress.”

“And
I
want to be with my wife,” Silas said in a tone that settled the matter.

“I'll see to them both and give the order to camp here for the night,” Jeremy said. “Also, I'll bring down some laudanum. Your wife is going to have one hell of a headache.”

Jessica opened her eyes as Silas was adjusting her mosquito netting. “Am I going to live?” she asked.

Silas thought he heard a facetious note in the question. He squatted down and stroked her hair back from the bandage. “Yes,” he said. “That head of yours is too hard for a rock to get the better of it.”

A small smile flitted across her lips. “Too bad for you,” she said.

Silas gave a mock sigh. “Worse for the rock.”

Jeremy returned with the laudanum in the company of a local farmer who'd come out to meet the train with fresh produce to sell. Silas should hear his news, Jeremy told him. Silas said it could wait until he'd gotten Jessica to take a spoonful of the reddish-brown, highly bitter liquid used to alleviate pain.

She moaned when he lifted her head, the spoon poised before her mouth. “What is this?”

“Something that will make you feel better. Open wide.”

She made a face as she swallowed and Silas quickly handed her a ladle of water to wash down the taste. “Where is Tippy?” she asked.

“With my son.”

“Why aren't you with him?”

“Because I'm here with you.”

Her lids lowered sleepily. “Good,” she said.

The farmer imparted news that would cause the dissenters against Tomahawk Lacy to blush with shame from that day forward whenever they thought of him. As the emigrants had passed through Georgia and Alabama, to the disgruntlements of many, the scout had taken the train away from the few existing towns and settlements in the north and guided them through dense forests and marshes and swamps along extremely arduous but safer routes near the states' southern borders. Some took every opportunity to criticize the scout's choice of routes. At one point, a settler lost his wagon on a downhill slope and blamed Tomahawk. The man would have taken a steel pike to the scout, but Jeremy stepped in, wrested away the weapon, and reminded the dissenter that his loss was due to his own laziness. He should have locked a wheel to serve as a brake or at least hauled a log behind his wagon to supply drag.

To add to their discontent, the settlers had learned before leaving South Carolina that Santa Anna was no longer a threat. He had been captured when Sam Houston's army had defeated the Mexicans at a place called San Jacinto. Therefore, for what reason must the train divert to New Orleans and cross the Sabine into Texas, many demanded to know.

Jeremy reiterated that anyone wishing to break off from the train to travel the original route was welcome to do so. Several families did. The Creeks wouldn't dare attack, they declared, and they had kinfolks at Roanoke in Georgia they had promised to visit when the train passed by. Silas learned from the farmer that in late spring, the settlement at Roanoke had been attacked and burned to the ground and most of the white families massacred. There had also been an uprising in Chambers County in Alabama, where many in the cavalcade had hoped to replenish supplies and mail letters. But for Tomahawk's wise steerage, the Willow Grove wagon train most certainly would have been a casualty of the Creek Uprising.

The other news the farmer reported was even more stunning and unsettling. Earlier in the month, a band of Comanche Indians had attacked a community in the eastern part of Texas. They had burned alive families in their homes, raped women, brutally tortured and killed the patriarch of the clan, John Parker, and kidnapped his nine-year-old granddaughter, Cynthia Ann.

“Good God,” Silas said, mentally picturing a screaming Joshua carried away on a Comanche buck's swift horse with the pelt of Jessica's red hair streaming from his lance. “And the area is just where we're headed.”

“All the more reason for you to leave Jess and Joshua in New Orleans,” Jeremy said.

Jessica was sleeping when Silas returned to the wagon. He sat beside her, and from time to time took her pulse, placed a hand on her forehead to test for fever, and watched constantly for signs of stressful breathing. After an hour of intense concentration in an uncomfortable sitting position, he stretched out his legs and relaxed against the side of the wagon. He heard the train settle down for the night, and Maddie brought him his supper. Tippy led Joshua over, and Silas allowed them a brief sight of Jessica before sending them off to bed. Darkness fell, and Silas lit a lamp and decided to make use of a fringed cushion as a pillow for his back. It was one of a velvet pair serving as a reminder of the refinements left behind. Silas positioned it behind him and felt something hard. He withdrew the cushion and found the obstruction to be a book that had been inserted into an unsewn end, forming a pocket. Curious, Silas removed it. It was the red leather volume he'd seen Jessica writing in during the long, boring days on the trail. He held it as if he'd come across the holy grail, remembering Jeremy's words:
She's writing a diary, you know. Women confess all to their diaries. Why don't you take a peek in it and enlighten yourself?

Silas glanced at Jessica sleeping soundly. Her breathing was regular. The flesh above her binding felt cool to his touch. He readjusted the mosquito netting, sat back against the pillow, and folded his arms, the red book glowing like a ruby within his reach. Occasionally he swatted at mosquitoes, fanned himself, and listened to the nocturnal sounds filling the silence of the night. Finally, unable to constrain his curiosity any longer and after another glance at the closed lids of his wife, he reached for the book.

S
ilas was dumbfounded. He was indeed as dense as a block of wood not to have seen what Jeremy had perceived all along. As usual, his all-knowing friend had read Jessica correctly, but in all fairness to himself, how could he have remotely guessed her feelings behind the façade of her stony indifference? Silas looked at the sleeping figure under the mosquito netting. Good Lord, the girl was in love with him—or thought she was. How the hell had that happened? And what were his feelings toward her? There was no denying he cared about her—at times lately, even…wanted her—but
for
her? He still cared for Lettie and, oddly, his stirrings for Jessica made him feel the loss of his former fiancée even more.

He suspected that what Jessica felt for him wasn't love at all but physical attraction. She was too young and inexperienced with men to know the difference. Silas was aware of the draw of his looks to women, an endowment of his lineage that in his early, carefree years, he'd not minded using to his advantage in pursuing a woman who'd caught his fancy. He was often disappointed. Women had to be interesting before he could be interested, and he'd found few, if any, of that stamp along the way until he met Lettie and—he must admit—Jessica Wyndham.

Silas studied her. How could Jessica ever believe she was too plain to be desirable? He must somehow relieve her of that delusion. Her body was bewitching. For days after the episode at the creek, he'd been unable to get his mind off its perfection, and when her face lit up with joy or pleasure, or her dark eyes grew round with wonder or awe, she radiated a loveliness far more enticing than the accepted ideal of beauty. He wondered how he could appreciate that distinction in Jessica when he'd been engaged to a woman who was the very definition of feminine allure.

He must also dissuade Jessica from the notion that his concern for her safety had only to do with the condition stated in the contract that her death would nullify his agreement with her father. He must convince her that, as was his duty as her
husband
and because of his fondness for her, he sincerely wished, and meant, to keep her from harm.

Thank God the accident had happened close to New Orleans. By tomorrow, if Jessica were well enough to travel, she would be ensconced at the Winthorp, where she could be properly seen after. There she would have her daily bath. The schedule called for the wagon train to camp outside the city for a week to repair equipment, arrange for water vessels, and replenish supplies before pushing on to the Sabine. There would be seven days for Silas to see her restored to health and settled in the hotel before he left her. By the time he returned, more than likely her infatuation with him would have cooled.

He inserted the book into its hidden pocket, returned the pillow to the spot from which he'd taken it, and took its companion for a cushion.

He seemed to have hardly dozed off before he was awakened at the first ray of light to edge around the canvas flap by Jessica wriggling the toe of his boot. She was smiling at him from her cot. “Good morning,” she said.

Silas blinked the sleep from his eyes but caught Jessica's startled look when he sat up and removed the cushion from behind him. Her glance darted to the other one like it lying in a corner.

“Good morning,” he said. Carelessly, he laid the fringed pillow within her reach. “How do you feel?”

“As if I need a drink of water and the necessary house.”

He assisted her to sit up, and she took the cushion and pressed it to her midriff as if needing its warmth.

“I mean your head,” he said. “How is it?”

With a faint look of relief, obviously satisfied with the feel of the pillow, Jessica laid it aside and touched her bandage. “Like it's been hit by a rock but my head got the better of it.”

Silas grinned and handed her a ladle of water. So she remembered their banter.

“You've been here all night?” she asked.

“Yes, all night.” In the growing light, he saw that a blue tinge had appeared from beneath the bandage along her brow bone.

She peered at him closely over the rim of the bowl. “Were you afraid I might die?”

“No. I was afraid you might live and be a thorn in my side forever. However”—he took the ladle and refilled it—“I don't mind thorns. What would roses be without them?”

Her gaze above the dipper as she drank flickered with amused surprise. “A most thought-provoking observation,” she murmured, handing him back the ladle. “Thank you for…your
vigilanc
e…​Silas.”

“My pleasure, Jessica.” On impulse, because he could not resist the child-like vulnerability in her large, brown-eyed gaze, he chucked her chin. “I'll send Tippy to help you, then we'll have to change the bandage.”

Jeremy and Tippy and Joshua were already standing anxiously outside the wagon when Silas jumped down. “How's the patient?” Jeremy asked.

“She seems better,” Silas said. “She needs you, Tippy. After you see to her, boil some water. Joshua, run get Tomahawk. I want him to dress the wound.”

Jeremy's eyes narrowed at a sight beyond Silas's shoulder. A rider cantering up the road from the direction of New Orleans had diverted his attention. “We've got company,” he said.

Silas followed his curious gaze and for a moment thought he was seeing an apparition. A slim, black-suited figure wearing a plumed hat and riding an ebony, high-stepping filly turned off the trail toward their encampment. The rider sat straight-backed but leisurely in the saddle, his bearing giving the impression that all he surveyed was his domain.

“A Frenchman, I'll wager,” Silas said. “Wonder what he wants? Will you go out to meet him, Jeremy? I must relieve myself and get a cup of coffee.”

When Silas returned, the man introduced himself with a deep bow and dramatic sweep of his swashbuckler's hat as Henri DuMont. A dandy, Silas thought, but the man's handshake was strong and his gaze direct. He'd ridden out to ask if he might join the wagon train. He had a yearning to go to Texas—“a staunch bunch, those Texians, and I feel I can live comfortably among them,” he said.

“Pardon me,” Jeremy interposed, his inspection of the Frenchman's elegant attire patently questioning his suitability to plow land, “but to do what?”

The man waved a lace-cuffed hand bearing a signet ring on his little finger. “To open an emporium as grand as my father's here in New Orleans, which I hope you will visit while you are here,” he said in a tone conveying no doubt of his success in accomplishing his ambition. “How long do you gentlemen intend to camp here before moving on?”

“A week,” Jeremy answered. He exchanged a look with Silas, who responded with a subtle nod. “Will that give you time to get your gear in order?”

“More than enough time, gentlemen,” Henri said, obviously delighted, and again bowed and flourished his hat. “
Merci.
You have my gratitude. May I be of assistance to you while you are here? I can recommend the best establishments for your needs.”

“Right now we might need a doctor,” Silas said. “My wife has suffered a head injury.”

“Dr. Fonteneau,” Henri suggested immediately. “He's the best in New Orleans. Shall I bring him here to you?”

“I'd be most grateful,” Silas said. The signet ring was engraved with a royal crest, he noted. A French aristocrat, then. “I had planned to install my wife and son in the Winthorp Hotel in the Garden District today to remain there until I return for them from Texas,” he explained, “but I'd feel better if a doctor examined her before risking further damage to her injury from a jolting wagon ride.”

“It shall be done,” Henri said. “I will return with Dr. Fonteneau by luncheon time, and perhaps then you gentlemen can advise me on what preparations to make for the journey to Texas.”

The man was as good as his word, but by the time Henri and the doctor arrived, Tomahawk had cleansed the wound and applied a fresh film of aloe oil and pronounced the cut beginning to heal. There was no sign of infection, and only a faint throb in the area reminded her of her ordeal, Jessica said.

After Tomahawk's ministrations, Silas had helped her down from the Conestoga to test her ability to stand without feeling dizzy. In the wagon's shadow, ready to assist her if she were wobbly, he said, “If the doctor approves, it looks as if you will be well enough to travel to New Orleans today,” and watched her face for a sign of how she took the news that the trials of her journey were nearly over. He was not surprised to see her mouth droop slightly before she brushed dried mud from her skirt with exaggerated care. She was still wearing the calico dress from the day before.

“I'm sure Joshua's safety is your foremost concern right now as well as mine, of course, but your son will miss his father,” Jessica said, her tone stiff. “He has expressed his desire to continue with you to Texas. You must be prepared for his tears.”

“And yours?” Silas could not resist asking.

Jessica glanced up in apparent surprise that he would ask such a question. “I do not cry over decisions in which I have no say, Mr. Toliver.”

“So then I take it my decision to leave you in New Orleans disappoints you as well?”

His mind cautioned to let the matter drop before he opened a door too late to close, but something beyond curiosity would not let the moment and opportunity go.

His question flustered her, he could see, and for a girl with so agile a tongue, she seemed utterly at a loss how to answer. Finally, she raised her chin a notch and returned his gaze. “I have become…accustomed to the rigors of the trail, Mr. Toliver, and I fear a long interruption spent in a New Orleans hotel will undo the progress I've made in adjusting to life without a bath.”

“And is that the only reason you regret not pushing on?”

Her face blossomed a traitorous pink. “I can think of no other,” she said.

“I see.”

She was not about to allow him a peek into her feelings for him, Silas recognized, and felt a strong urge to take her into his arms to melt her resistance to them. He pressed her arm instead. “Please be assured that I'm not leaving you in New Orleans to get rid of you, Jessica, but to ensure your well-being and safety. Your death would be a loss to me far greater than the terms of a contract.”

He left her in visible shock as he went to meet Henri DuMont and Dr. Fontenau riding up the trail. He smiled to himself. Let her chew on
that
revelation for a while, he thought.