What the Heart Wants (4 page)

“What is it, Samantha?”

“I need to borrow Mister Cranmer’s horse.” Sarah looked at me, her eyes wide with questions, but I didn’t have time to chat with my friend just now.

“You’ll have to ask Mr. Cranmer. He’s with Mister Drummond, helping him grease a stubborn wheel,” Mary replied as she continued to fold blankets and stuff them into a big trunk.

I didn’t even acknowledge her answer as I ran forward to Mr. Drummond’s wagon. I could hear the men talking, but they were on the opposite side of the big covered wagon and I couldn’t see them. As I came barreling around the rear wheel, Mr. Cranmer, who was holding a wooden pot of grease made from fatback and soap, swung out of my way.

“Whoa, girl, what’s your rush?” he asked, recovering his balance.

“I need…to borrow your horse…to ride to the fort,” I answered, huffing and puffing.

“What would you want to do that for?” he asked as he used a stick wrapped with cloth to dab more of the smelly concoction onto the axle.

The big wheel leaned against the side of the wagon where Mr. Drummond stood watching me. There was a glimmer in his eyes that said he was very interested in my answer. And, though I didn’t want to explain myself to him or to Mr. Cranmer, I felt I had little choice. “I need to help Mister O’Hara, or they might throw him in the brig,” I replied. Mr. O’Hara wasn’t military, but I knew he could be arrested anyway. Out here in the wilderness, the military was the only law there was.

“Mercy! Then I guess you better get to the fort with the utmost speed. Just don’t bring her back all lathered up now, you here?”

I turned and began running, throwing my grateful response over my shoulder. “Thank you!” A minute later I was flying over the prairie on my way to the place where I had acted unwisely, thereby causing Mr. O’Hara a bushel of trouble…from which I hoped to free him. When I arrived at the office of the commanding officer, Colonel Bradford, Mr. O’Hara’s and Captain Baker’s horses were tied up outside. The major in the outer office told me the colonel was busy and that I would need to wait to see him, but I insisted I needed to see him right away. “I’ve come to file a complaint against Captain Vincent,” I told him.

“Stay here,” he said, and then he almost ran to the door of the inner office before knocking once and entering. When the door opened again, I was standing where the major had left me, my hands fisted in my skirt. But it was not the major who came out to speak to me.

“Miss…?” the man asked, his blue eyes smiling down at me. He was tall, nearly as tall as Mr. O’Hara, but his hair was the color of ripe wheat. I had seen him the night before as he stood on the raised sidewalk overlooking the dance floor. He had looked cold and aloof as he stood there in his dress uniform, all polished and pressed. Now, as he smiled at me, he didn’t seem as unapproachable, and my heart slowed a little.

“Collins. Samantha Collins,” I said, a huge lump in my throat. He was the leader of the post, and he obviously wanted to interview me in private. I was immediately taken back to my youth. As a child I had been called into the commander’s office only once, but that experience was stuck firmly in my mind. And though I was an adult now and not some naughty child who had been caught trying to take one of the company’s horses out for an early morning ride, I was still intimidated by the man who stood looking down at me.

“What may I do for you, Miss Collins?” he asked pleasantly. “I am in a meeting,” he added, and I thought I detected the tiniest bit of annoyance. I gulped.

“I know, and I’m sorry to disturb you, but…well, that’s why I’m here. Mister O’Hara was only defending my honor when he hit Captain Vincent. It was the captain’s fault…and mine. Mr. O’Hara didn’t do anything wrong,” I stated.

“I see.” He smiled again and led me to a chair, where I told him everything that had happened. Then he thanked me and said I should go back to the wagon train. I rode my mount to the other side of the big timber gates and sat there waiting, too curious to simply leave.

A half hour later Captain Baker rode with me back to the wagon train while Mr. O’Hara rode off toward the west. He didn’t look at me or say anything, and I presumed he was going to scout the trail ahead of us. I hadn’t seen Captain Vincent while I was at the fort, but I was certain he was disappointed that Mr. O’Hara hadn’t been arrested. Captain Baker and I didn’t talk about the incident until we had almost reached the wagons.

“It was good of you to speak up for Mr. O’Hara like you did.”

“I only did what was right. None of it would have happened if it hadn’t been for me. I acted foolishly.”

“Still you didn’t have to defend him. You know many women wouldn’t have done what you did.”

“You mean because he’s part Indian?” I asked, and the captain nodded.

“I don’t judge a person because of the color of their skin,” I told him. “I wasn’t raised that way.”

“I’m not surprised. Jacob is a fine man,” he said, and then he clucked his tongue at his horse, causing the mare to break into a gallop. I urged my mount to do the same.

One day, during our third month on the trail, something happened that reinforced the necessity for the rules Captain Baker had set forth that first day; no one, except for the herdsmen, was supposed to go where they could not be seen from the wagons. But the urge to explore had been too much for several of the older children on that lovely spring day, and they had decided to walk down to a creek they had spotted shimmering in the late-afternoon sunlight. The sun was low in the sky, and the dinner bell had just sounded, when a terrible ruckus was heard as the four adventurous youngsters, two boys and two girls, came running toward camp, yelling their heads off.

“Bear! Bear! There’s a bear!” they screamed as they ran as fast as their legs would take them. People came running from all directions to meet them, some of the men carrying rifles. While three of the children tried to catch their breath, the fourth, a lad of about twelve, managed to explain that Mr. O’Hara had saved them from a bear, and now he was down there fighting for his life.

“Hurry before it eats him alive!” one of the girls cried as her mother pulled her into a thankful embrace.

The other girl, Cassandra, was the oldest child in camp and the daughter of a widow, Elizabeth Young. Mrs. Young gave her daughter a brief hug followed by a disappointed look. I could tell that Mrs. Young was upset that Cassandra had not obeyed the rules, but her eyes quickly shifted to Captain Baker, who grabbed his rifle and was preparing to race off across the meadow.

“Shall I come with you?” Elizabeth asked him. Everyone knew she was a self-taught midwife and practitioner of the healing arts and the only doctor of any sort within hundreds of miles.

“No, you stay here, but be prepared for the worst,” he told her hurriedly, and then he and three other armed men ran in the direction of the stream, where now there wasn’t a sound.

Once the men had disappeared from sight, Mrs. Young took her daughter by the arm, tugging the barefoot girl toward their wagon. “Cassandra Young, you know you aren’t supposed to go off on your own like that. And look at your feet! Where are your shoes and stockings?”

“Down by the stream. I’m sorry, Mama. We just wanted to wade in the water.” I heard the girl sob as her mother dragged her away.

While the others went about their business, Papa and I stood watching for the men to return. I could tell that he wanted to go, to see if he could help, and I patted his arm, knowing how much his ego must be hurting. He’d always been a leader, and now he was forced to let others take his place. I was about to remind him that other younger and healthier men had remained in camp too, but my attention was drawn to Mrs. Young and her daughter. Now that they had reached their wagon, they were making a bed on the ground beside it. I assumed it was for Mr. O’Hara, should he be found alive. I prayed for his survival. Trying to think of some way I could help, I decided to put a kettle of water on the fire, figuring it would be needed to clean the man’s wounds.

Mary Cranmer, whose husband had gone with Captain Baker, sat on a blanket next to her wagon, tearing an old sheet into squares for bandages. Sarah sat next to her. I listened to them as I tended the kettle and the big pot hanging over the campfire. “Mama, do you think he’ll be all right?”

“I don’t know, honey. I figure we should have some bandages put aside, even if
he
don’t need ’em,” Mary said as her eyes worriedly scanned the land between the wagon train and the copse of oak trees where the men had disappeared.

Every few minutes I stirred the pot of bean-and-bacon soup, which would be our supper. I usually avoided the campfire when there was cooking to be done, as it was not something I did well, but tonight was different. The other women stayed close to their wagons, clinging to their children and their husbands, and I needed something to do, as I was too nervous to sit still. Everyone was on edge. Even the children seemed to sense that something out of the ordinary was happening. The older ones, who had emerged from Mr. Drummond’s wagon following their daily lessons, were unusually quiet as they returned to their families, and the younger ones clung anxiously to their mothers’ aprons.

Looking around at the couples and their children, I felt a stab of envy and longing. I often felt inadequate when compared to other women, and this was definitely one of those times. Even if I loved the man Papa had chosen for me, he’d never marry someone like me. Why would Mr. Parker or any man marry a woman who couldn’t cook or sew? And I didn’t know the first thing about babies. While I could ride and shoot as well as most men, when it came to womanly duties I was as useless as a newborn chick. Tears pooled in my eyes, and I turned away so Papa wouldn’t see them. He sat beside our wagon, rocking in his chair. Unable to help the men who had gone to rescue Mr. O’Hara, he was smoking his pipe, his head turned toward the stand of trees. He always said smoking soothed him, and I wondered if it was doing so now.

Suddenly we heard gunfire.
Crackle, crackle, pop, pop, pop!
And then a cry of jubilation arose from down by the creek. Papa and the others rose from their seats, turning from what they’d been doing to gather together at the edge of the campfire’s light. Everyone waited to see what would happen next. I moved to Papa’s side, praying that Mr. O’Hara had not perished. We were all God’s children, or so I’d been taught, and I fervently believed that if any man deserved to live, Mr. O’Hara did.

Soon we heard talking, the men’s voice carried on the soft evening breeze. “They’re coming!” one of the men shouted as we all stared into the darkness.

One man was leading a horse…Mr. O’Hara’s I assumed. It looked to be unharmed. Captain Baker and the other men were carrying a man’s body in between them, holding him by his shoulders and his legs. From the leather clothing, I could tell the man being carried was Mr. O’Hara, and I edged forward, drawn by the need to do something,
anything,
to help the man I had come to admire.

Elizabeth Young was there to meet the men, waving them over to her wagon and the bed she’d made for the injured man. At least I hoped he was just injured. He didn’t appear to be breathing, and with his clothes in shreds and all the blood on his chest, it was hard to tell his condition. The men put him down as directed and backed away while Elizabeth knelt by his side to determine the extent of his injuries. At first the men, and a few women and children, gathered around to watch, but after a few minutes, the curious group dispersed and came toward the campfire, the smell of the hot, savory soup distracting them.

Mrs. Hudson, who had started the mess of beans, onions, bacon, and potatoes in the first place, began dishing out bowls full of the thick, smoky conglomeration. Everyone seemed to be starving now that the danger had passed, and though I took a bowl for Papa, I did not take one for myself. Helping the injured man interested me more than eating. I walked over to Mrs. Young’s wagon, where a small campfire burned brightly, allowing me to see the ghastly state of Mr. O’Hara’s clothes and the pallor of his face. I shivered as I set the pot of boiled water down in the coals to keep it warm. Mrs. Young glanced up at me and nodded her thanks.

Cassandra, who was ten years my junior, was wiping Mr. O’Hara’s brow with a damp cloth, her eyes as big as saucers as she looked up at me.

“You go and get something to eat, Cassie. Miss Collins can help me now.” The girl handed me the cloth and hurried to join her friends and their parents while I knelt on the ground next to Mr. O’Hara’s head. His eyes were closed, and I knew without asking that he was unconscious.

“I need to clean his wounds, but first I’ve got to cut away his clothes. This won’t be easy; they’re stuck in his blood,” she explained, holding a knife in one hand. “You won’t be sick, will you?” she asked, and I shook my head.

“No.” Having grown up at military outposts, I had seen plenty of wounded men before, and I had nursed quite a few too.

First, she unfastened the top of his trousers, yanking them down a bit, out of her way. Then, with deft precision, she slipped the tip of the sharp knife under the bottom edge of the bead-and quill-decorated leather shirt and drew the blade up to the neck opening. The laces across his upper chest had already been loosened to expose a V of smooth, tanned skin. She quickly removed the laces, and then she flipped the edges of the ruined shirt back as far as they would go. Next, she began to cut away the long sleeves, exposing smooth, nut-brown skin, along with bulging muscles, to my curious eyes. I had never seen arms like these before, and my mouth fell open of its own accord.

“You ever done any nursing before?” Elizabeth asked, but I was too stunned to speak.

I couldn’t speak. All I could do was stare at him, at the high rib cage, the broad chest, and the flat belly, and those beautiful, muscular arms. And skin so smooth and golden brown that it looked like melted caramel. I also couldn’t help but notice the dark tuft of hair peeking out from the open waistband of his buckskin trousers. My heart thudded in my chest as I imagined what those trousers concealed. What I
could
see was godlike. That was the only way my besotted mind could describe a body such as his. A body too precious to die.