The Preacher's Bride Claim
Laurie Kingery
CLAIMING THEIR FUTUREFor the Thornton brothers, the Oklahoma Land Rush is the perfect opportunity to finally put down some roots. A new start, a new community—what more could preacher Elijah Thornton need? Not a wife—not after the pain of losing his fiancée. But something draws him to the pretty nurse whose eyes are clouded by trouble.Only by claiming her own homestead can Alice Hawthorne avoid an unwanted marriage. Even Oklahoma may not be far enough away from New York to escape her past. Yet with courage—and the handsome reverend’s support—can she forge a loving future?Bridegroom Brothers: True love awaits three siblings in the Oklahoma Land Rush
Claiming Their Future
For the Thornton brothers, the Oklahoma Land Rush is the perfect opportunity to finally put down some roots. A new start, a new community—what more could preacher Elijah Thornton need? Not a wife—not after the pain of losing his fiancée. But something draws him to the pretty nurse whose eyes are clouded by trouble.
Only by claiming her own homestead can Alice Hawthorne avoid an unwanted marriage. Even Oklahoma may not be far enough away from New York to escape her past. Yet with courage—and the handsome reverend’s support—can she forge a loving future?
Bridegroom Brothers: True love awaits three siblings in the Oklahoma Land Rush
“I’d be perfectly willing to have those who need care to come to my tent,” Alice went on, “but some of them might not feel up to it, or might have trouble finding me. What do you suggest?”
“Why don’t we team up, Miss Alice? I’ve been visiting those I hear about who are ill, or needing prayer, mostly in the evenings—unless they need me immediately, of course. Or if no one has made a request, I just walk around and talk to folks who are sitting by their tents or wagons. Why don’t we go together?”
“Like making rounds in the hospital,” she said, remembering the times she’d gone around to the wards with the physicians, noting their orders for the patients.
“Exactly. I could pray with them while you treat them.”
Her heart felt light as she smiled up at Elijah. She felt strong and full of purpose. Let’s go together, he’d said. Was it wrong that the words made her think of feelings she’d resolved to abandon in favor of independence?
* * *
LAURIE KINGERY
makes her home in central Ohio, where she is a “Texan-in-exile.” Formerly writing as Laurie Grant for the Harlequin Historical line and other publishers, she is the author of eighteen previous books and the 1994 winner of a Readers’ Choice Award in the Short Historical category. She has also been nominated for Best First Medieval and Career Achievement in Western Historical Romance by RT Book Reviews. When not writing her historicals, she loves to travel, read, participate on Facebook and Shoutlife and write her blog at www.lauriekingery.com (http://www.lauriekingery.com).
The Preacher’s Bride Claim
Laurie Kingery
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.
—John 8:32
In memory of those lost in the tornadoes that struck Moore and other communities in central Oklahoma in May 2013
And as always, to Tom
Contents
Chapter One (#u5757e47c-5cbe-5938-b5eb-e9d5694c4e13)
Chapter Two (#u9380094e-eb8c-53b5-a2c9-0ee549bc8d6d)
Chapter Three (#u67c0f14f-97ca-5638-9088-fb87ff90ca8b)
Chapter Four (#u36e15629-a889-55ef-813e-756c01a34e44)
Chapter Five (#u5267cad1-7d60-536b-aa35-bbc3867b453c)
Chapter Six (#ufb5466aa-79a0-5177-aaff-a14c3e36a392)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Discussion Questions (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
April 1, 1889—Boomer Town, Oklahoma Territory
Alice Hawthorne sat down quietly on an empty bench in the back of the tent church. She’d waited until the little congregation was absorbed in singing “Shall We Gather at the River?” so she could steal in unnoticed. There was a family of six on the long bench ahead of her, but none of them paid any attention to her arrival—except for the shortest of the four stair-step boys. He looked over his shoulder at her, his face full of freckles, a cowlick at the back of his shaggy thatch of hair. When he noticed Alice was watching, he gave her a cheerful, gap-toothed grin. Despite the anxiety constricting her heart like a coiled snake, it was such a comical sight that she couldn’t help but smile back.
“You turn around this instant, Otis Beauregard LeMaster,” his mother hissed at him, without looking to see what or who had distracted her youngest. The boy obediently did so, and Alice was once again alone.
That suited Alice just fine. She hoped to continue to be overlooked among the inhabitants of the tent city as much as possible until the day of the Land Rush, after she had claimed her own 160-acre homestead. Her own and her mother’s, she reminded herself.
It was the first of April. Just twenty-one days until the Unassigned Lands—the lands not claimed by one of the many Indian tribes that now called the Oklahoma Territory home—were opened for settlement by the Indian Appropriations Act signed by President Cleveland. His successor, Benjamin Harrison, had designated noon on April 22 as the moment the settlers could rush in, plant their stakes at the claims of their choice and become real homesteaders.
She’d be safe then, wouldn’t she?
He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust... She remembered the verse from childhood, and it comforted her now when she felt like a terrified little bird fleeing from a hunter. Her fear was the reason she had come to the chapel service, to be reminded of God’s love and protection.
As the hymn ended, so did her comfortable solitude. With a rustle of skirts, two women plopped themselves down to her left. Alice kept her gaze aimed at the front and hoped they would leave her alone. She had not been an unsociable person before she’d fled New York, but now, she feared each introduction.
The woman next to her didn’t take the hint. “Hey, you’re new here, ain’t ya?” she asked, smiling in a friendly fashion, which revealed incisors that would have done a jackrabbit proud. “Don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m Carrie Ferguson, and this here’s my sister, Cordelia.”
If she hadn’t said they were sisters, Alice would have guessed it, for the two women at her left were so similar-looking with their sun-weathered long faces, noses so sharp they could slice cheese, the same teeth.
“N-nice to meet you,” Alice managed to say. “I’m—” She thought about using an assumed name, but how could she lie—especially in a church, even one of canvas? “I’m Alice Hawthorne.” Hopefully the two women would forget the name—easy to do in a temporary city populated by hundreds of people, with more coming every day.
“Been in Boomer Town long?” Cordelia asked.
If only the service would start, Alice fretted. She didn’t want to answer a bunch of questions. But now that the hymn had concluded, the tall man who may be the preacher was talking to a middle-aged couple up front, and he seemed to be in no hurry.
Alice managed a small smile. “Just since yesterday.”
“Where ya from? We hail from St. Louis.”
“B-back East,” Alice said and prayed they would let it go at that. She wasn’t looking to make friends. Each person she gave her name to was one more person who could help Maxwell Peterson find her. And if he did, it would mean the end of her dreams.
* * *
“Looks like you’ve tripled attendance in the week you’ve been here, Reverend,” Keith Gilbert, his deacon, exulted as he nodded toward the nearly full benches. “You must be doing something right.”
“It’s the Lord’s doing,” he told Keith. “I have such plans for the church we’ll build in the territory. I hope many of the folks here will be able to settle near us.”
“Well, we’re certainly planning to stake a claim near enough to help you build it, once you decide which way you’ll head,” Keith said, and added, “Lord willing.”
“Glad to hear it, Keith,” Elijah murmured. “I’m counting on your help.”
Only one thing marred Elijah’s joy in the growth of his congregation—his brothers weren’t here. Wanting a fresh start as much as Elijah did, they had come to Oklahoma with him, but they wouldn’t attend his chapel services. His middle-born brother, Gideon, wanted nothing more to do with God after he’d lost his wife and child in the influenza epidemic of ’87, and since Elijah had also lost his fiancée, Marybelle Atkins, Gideon couldn’t understand why Elijah didn’t feel the same. Clint, the youngest of the brothers and still a bachelor, was at odds with the Lord, too, after so many losses of friends and family.
My brothers should be here, Elijah thought, with that old familiar ache. Lord, please draw them back to You.
“The Lord has blessed our work,” he told the Gilberts. “Or perhaps folks come to the chapel because they need divine reassurance at this time of such big changes in their lives.”
The Gilberts nodded in approving agreement, but Elijah knew Gideon would have said something. Like maybe they think the more they show up here in chapel, the more likely the Lord will grant them the 160-acre claim of their choice. Or they don’t have anything else to do while they wait to claim their land.
Perhaps it was presumptuous to call the big tent that sheltered them from the blistering sun and spring rains a chapel—much less a church—but for now it was all the church they had, and Elijah was grateful for it. Hadn’t the Hebrews worshipped God in the open desert air, all those years they wandered in the wilderness?
He was about to greet the congregation when Mr. Gilbert said, “Did you see the pretty lady sitting in the back? The one in the dark bonnet? She came in during the hymn. Can’t remember seeing her before.”
Elijah followed the direction of Gilbert’s nod. Elijah couldn’t see the woman’s face at the moment, because her head was bowed and the bonnet she wore hid her features, but as if she had felt the scrutiny, she raised her head just then. He saw sky-blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face with a peaches-and-cream quality to it—she must be scrupulous about wearing a hat under the hot western sun. Her hair, what little of it he could see, was auburn. Her petite frame was clothed in serviceable calico.
Her blue eyes looked troubled, and he wondered why. Who is she? He thought he’d met everyone who came to his daily services, if not all the inhabitants of this tent city. But newcomers were arriving daily in anticipation of the Land Rush, so she must be a new arrival. He’d have to make it a point to introduce himself after the service, in case she was in need of assistance, as a woman alone very well might be. As the pastor of the freshly sprung-up encampment, his ministry consisted of helping the would-be homesteaders with their needs as much as it did with preaching. He was merely doing his duty.
Of course, she might not be alone after all, he reminded himself. Her husband might be buying supplies at one of the tent stores that had sprouted like weeds after a good rain. Or perhaps he was dealing with livestock or, like his brothers, was not a believer.
“Yessir, she sure is a pretty gal,” Keith murmured, as if afraid Elijah wouldn’t see that for himself.
Elijah wondered what Mrs. Gilbert must think of her husband noticing other ladies, but when Elijah darted a glance at her, Cassie was still smiling.
“We thought we should point her out to ya, Reverend,” she said with a wink. “It isn’t good for a man to be alone. You ought to go meet her, after the service.”
Elijah sighed. At least they hadn’t spoken loud enough for any of the other worshippers to hear. “The Lord calls some of us to singleness,” he said. “I am one of them.”
Neither of the Gilberts looked convinced, but he was thankful when they didn’t press him on the point. He hadn’t told anyone in the tent city about his lost fiancée, nor did he intend to. And in any case, there was no time to converse further.
He stepped to the makeshift pulpit someone had fashioned out of a long crate with a rectangular board nailed across the top to form a flat surface on which to lay his Bible.
“Good morning, congregation,” he said, “and welcome, those of you who are new, to Boomer Town Chapel. I’m Elijah Thornton, and I’m glad you’re here. I hope you gain encouragement from being among believers.” He paused and looked around at the various members of his little flock, trying not to let his gaze stray to the back again. “I’d like to open our worship with a word of prayer.”
He prayed that the Lord would bless them on this Monday. Three weeks from this day, they would race into the newly opened territory, each in hopes of claiming a homestead. He asked God to supply all their needs, physical and spiritual, to keep them free of greed and to remember to put others ahead of themselves—a tall order, he admitted, when they would soon be competing with one another for the best plots of land.
After his “Amen” had been echoed by those sitting on the benches, he raised his head and said, “While Mr. Gilbert leads us in ‘Beneath the Cross of Jesus,’ I’m going to ask his good wife to pass the collection sack. Now, no one here is wealthy, or I imagine you wouldn’t be with us seeking free land from the United States government.”
There was a chorus of answering chuckles from several of the flock, and even another “Amen” or two.
“So I don’t want anyone to feel obligated to put anything in,” Elijah continued. “But if you can spare a few pennies or a couple of bits, it will enable us to carry on the work of helping the sick and the needy among us.”
It always humbled him to see how many dropped some coin or other into the drawstring sack as it passed from hand to hand down one row and up another. Apparently lack of wealth was no barrier to generous hearts.
Cassie Gilbert returned with the sack and sat down.
“Those of you who have been attending daily know that I save my sermons for Sundays,” he announced. “Instead, on weekdays, we’ve been praying for each other, knowing that wherever two or more are gathered in His name, the Lord is there, listening and wanting to satisfy our needs, and that the job of the church body is to build each other up.”
“Amen,” said the deacon.
“Are there any prayer requests? Let’s hear them, and then we’ll take our petitions to the heavenly throne, knowing He will answer us according to His will.”
A tall, rawboned man with the droopy face of an old hound unfolded himself from the bench, his hat in his hands. “Reverend, I’d be obliged iffen you’d pray for my wife. She’s feelin’ poorly. The trip here was mighty hard on her.”
“We’ll do that, Asa,” Elijah promised. “I’ll come visit, too.”
“Thank ya, Reverend. She’d like that.”
A woman midway back stood then, her face creased with worry. “My son Billy slipped away over the line this morning. Left us a note sayin’ he was going to stake us a claim while the pickin’ was good. I’m so worried the federals are gonna catch ’im and kick ’im out for bein’ a ‘Too-Sooner,’ and penalize the whole family for what he done.”
Like everyone, Elijah knew the law dealt seriously with the “Too-Sooners,” or just “Sooners” as they were called—those who sneaked over the line and thought to hide out on their claims till the opening shot, then hold their lands against all comers. Unlike the “Boomers,” who were those living in the tent cities, waiting obediently for noon on April 22.
“Let’s pray that Billy comes to his senses and returns of his own accord,” Elijah agreed. There were other requests following the first two—anxieties about whether they would be equal to the task of wresting a living out of the prairie, concern over ailing livestock, squabbles among kin. He listened to each one, wondering if the pretty stranger in the back row might make a prayer request, but she did not. A glance showed her still sitting on the back bench, her face tense, her eyes watchful. What was she worried about? Please, Lord, comfort her.
At last, when there were no more requests, he bowed his head and began to pray aloud over each one. Sometimes when he was done praying on a matter, others voiced their own prayers, expanding on his requests or merely repeating them, but today no one did. “And now,” he concluded, “we’ll just be silent for a moment, knowing that there are often needs too sensitive to say aloud, needs that You want to meet, Father...” Perhaps the female newcomer’s requirements were of that nature.
“Father, in closing, I pray that You will keep us as one body united in purpose, with the goal of building a community united by faith. Bless these people until we meet again.”
It was his custom to shake hands with those who had come, so while everyone was getting to their feet, he moved to the back, hoping to meet the worried-looking woman and find out what was troubling her.
* * *
Alice had hoped to leave the tent without meeting the preacher. His eyes—what color were they? Brown? No, something lighter; hazel, she decided—simply saw too much. They seemed to pierce through her carefully guarded exterior to her uneasy heart inside. But the garrulous sisters who’d sat next to her had started chattering to her the moment the reverend stopped praying, delaying Alice’s escape.
She’d wanted an atmosphere of worship in which to make her appeal to God, so when she’d spotted the sign in front of the tent announcing services every day, it seemed to be a sign from Heaven. But it went against her resolve to stand and proclaim her prayer request boldly—and didn’t everyone here have the same request anyway? So while Elijah Thornton prayed aloud, Alice prayed silently. Please, Lord, let me win a good plot of land, so it won’t matter if the bank takes our farm in New York, so I won’t be forced to marry Maxwell Peterson to keep my mother from destitution...
There was no polite way to evade shaking the preacher’s hand, she saw that now—short of ducking under the rolled-up tent flaps on the side. The stair-step boys who’d sat in front of her lost no time in doing that, despite a call to halt from their mother. But a well-bred lady would not do such a thing, so Alice resigned herself to the encounter. She would keep it short and be polite but not reveal too much about herself. A person has a right to keep her worries between herself and the Lord, doesn’t she?
The sisters had spotted someone they knew across the tent and had dashed over to greet them, so Alice was spared a further inquisition by the talkative twosome while she stood with the lined-up worshippers filing toward the preacher. Carrie and Cordelia’s departure left Alice directly behind the parents of the boys, and while she awaited her chance to likewise escape, she had an opportunity to study the couple.
The husband radiated irritation. “If you can’t keep the boys in line, Desdemona, maybe I’ll have to start doing it—with my belt,” he muttered to the fretful-looking woman next to him.
The woman was already pale, Alice saw, when the woman turned her face to look up at her husband, but she went a shade more so at the man’s rumbling threat. “Now, Horace, that’s a long time for young boys to sit still,” she said with a timorous reasonability, but the man was not to be placated.
“It’s the belt, if it happens again,” he hissed.
Alice stiffened behind them. She should say something, Alice knew, but making a scene to protest the man’s harsh threat would only bring her the very notice she was trying to avoid. Her view was not likely to be supported either and would probably result in LeMaster taking reprisal against his wife.
Desdemona’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “But I thought you said we weren’t—” She suddenly clamped her jaw shut and smoothed her features though as Reverend Thornton held out a hand to her husband.
Alice wondered what the woman had been about to ask.
“Good morning, sir,” Elijah Thornton said to Horace LeMaster. “And is this your wife? Thanks for coming to the service. I hope you’ll come back—”
LeMaster ignored the outstretched hand and the hint that he should introduce his wife. “We won’t be comin’ back,” he said, his voice raised, his chin jutting forward at a pugnacious angle. “I just wanted to see if you were as big a hypocrite as the Chaucers said you were.”
Everywhere in the tent, heads turned, and conversation ground to a halt. As Alice watched, Elijah Thornton’s face flushed.
“You—you knew the Chaucers?” he asked, his voice suddenly hoarse.
“I know the Chaucers,” LeMaster corrected him. “They’re right here in the territory, waitin’ to claim homesteads same as you. But unlike you, they didn’t come here from a plantation. They didn’t profit from the war, as you did, because they didn’t turn traitor to the South. The war and the taxes levied against them by their Union conquerors and traitors, like yourself, left them destitute, and they lost their plantation. And you call yourself a Christian? Worse yet, a Christian minister? No, Thornton, we won’t be back.” Taking hold of his wife’s elbow, he steered her around Thornton and out of the tent.
Being from the North, Alice didn’t believe a Union sympathizer from the South was a bad man, but might Thornton be a hypocrite in other ways?
“Wait, sir! Please, can’t we discuss this?” Thornton called after LeMaster, taking a few steps.
The man merely increased his pace.
Chapter Two
Thornton turned back, ashen now, his eyes stricken. Alice’s heart went out to him. How very embarrassing, to be accused of hypocrisy in front of his congregation—or at least in front of the few who remained. Alice glanced around, and the faces of those who remained looked as shocked as Thornton himself—and uneasy, too, as if they wondered if LeMaster’s accusations were true. They’d talk about what they had seen, Alice realized, and in short order those who had already left would know what had happened.
She watched as the preacher visibly pulled himself together and cleared his throat.
“I—I’m sorry for the unpleasantness, ma’am,” he managed to say. “Such things normally don’t happen at our services. It’s your...your first visit, isn’t it, Miss—Mrs.—?”
“Miss Alice Hawthorne,” she said. She hadn’t the heart to be evasive with him after what had just transpired. His eyes were hazel—a rich chocolate color mixed with rust and green, like a forest floor in autumn. His accent was Eastern, like her own, but with occasional tinges of a Southern drawl. His tone was deep, wrapping itself around her heart like a warm cloak.
“It’s nice to meet you, Reverend Thornton. I...I enjoyed the service,” she surprised herself by saying. She merely wanted to make him feel better after the awkward incident, she told herself.
“You’re new to Boomer Town, aren’t you?” he asked then. “And from the East, I think. New York?”
She nodded. “Upstate, originally. I grew up on a farm near Albany. More recently I’ve been nursing in New York City, at Bellevue Hospital.” What was wrong with her? She hadn’t meant to say anything more than her name before proceeding on into the sunlight. But there was something compelling about those hazel eyes set in an earnest, scholarly but masculine face that somehow rendered her as talkative as Carrie and Cordelia Ferguson.
His eyebrows rose, and those eyes warmed. “A nurse? You’ll be much appreciated here, Miss Hawthorne.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But I’ve put my nursing career behind me. I—”
“The Lord must have sent you to us,” Elijah Thornton went on, as if he hadn’t heard what she had said. “We don’t have any sort of doctor here. I go around and pray with people who are ill, but they need so much more than I can provide, Miss Hawthorne.”
“But I’ve come to Oklahoma to farm,” she told him firmly. “My mother is not young, and she’ll need all my help, once we have our claim.”
“Is she here now? In Boomer Town, I mean?”
Alice shook her head. “No, I’ll send for her once I’ve managed to erect some sort of dwelling. And now I must be going, Reverend,” she added firmly.
“Miss Hawthorne,” Reverend Thornton continued, “please consider what I’ve said about nursing here. Pray about it, if you would. It’s not that there’s any great amount of sickness and injuries, but occasionally the need is great.”
“I will, Reverend. Good day.”
The man didn’t know how to take no for an answer, Alice thought, as she entered the muddy main street of the tent city. And yet, Elijah Thornton was not the least bit overbearing. There was something very kind in his twinkling hazel eyes.
He was certainly nothing like Maxwell Peterson. If only she’d met a man like the reverend in New York....
Still, she’d made her decision, and there was no use dwelling on “if only.” Marriage and family were not for her. She’d keep her independence and take care of her mother by working the land. No man was going to take over her life and divert her from that goal. Perhaps it was best if she did not return to the daily services at the Boomer Town Chapel, where she would have to listen to and look at Reverend Elijah Thornton—who did not wear a wedding ring, she’d noticed, nor had there been a wife hovering near him.
Yet the idea of not returning to the chapel sent a pang of regret through her. It had felt good to sing hymns with other Christians and to hear the preacher’s deep, resonant voice praying for all of them. But could any threat to her independence be worth it? If she got to know people better at the chapel, they’d start nosing into her business. They’d want to know why a decent-appearing unmarried lady like herself was here in the territory all alone. They’d suspect she was running from something—and they’d be right.
Perhaps it was better to keep to herself. There were only three weeks to go till the Land Rush. Surely she could manage to lead a solitary existence among the crowded tent city until then, so that no one would suspect that a certain man in New York would pay highly to know where she was and what she was about to do, to make sure she never needed anything from him.
* * *
Normally Elijah joined his brothers for the noon meal, which was cooked over their campfire by Gideon, and usually consisted of beans and corn bread, or if Clint had hunted, rabbit, wild turkey or prairie chicken stew. Today, though, still feeling the sting of LeMaster’s denunciation, he had gone to pay the promised visit to Asa Benton’s ailing wife and had been invited to share dinner with them. The meal had been a simple soup and the last half of a loaf of bread, but Mrs. Benton seemed to take encouragement from his company and to keep inventing reasons for him to stay longer.
He paid several other calls around the tent city after that. It appeared the community was buzzing with reaction to Horace LeMaster’s remarks, and Elijah spent a lot of time answering questions and easing their concerns as best as he could. Many would-be homesteaders came from the South, particularly Texas, and even these days—twenty-four years after General Lee had surrendered—the Civil War wounds had not completely healed between the North and the South. Some folks felt as warmly toward him as ever, while others were definitely cooler.
Ah, well, he was not called to be popular but to preach the Gospel. Perhaps this would all blow over, perhaps it wouldn’t, but he would be obedient to his calling.
Still he wondered where Miss Alice Hawthorne’s campsite was and kept an eye out for it. But he never spotted her.
Before he knew it, the afternoon had passed and it was nearly time to meet up with his brothers for their nightly trip to Mrs. Murphy’s dining tent for supper. The red-faced Irishwoman’s meals were filling, cheap and quickly served, and if her beef was occasionally tough as boot leather, her desserts always made up for it. And it made a welcome change from Gideon’s cooking.
Tonight, however, he arrived at their large tent only to be told they’d all been invited to take supper with a fellow Clint had met that day, one Lars Brinkerhoff.
“He’s a Danish fellow, Lije,” Clint said, using the name he’d called his eldest brother ever since he’d lisped his first words and couldn’t quite manage Elijah. “He’s been in this country a decade, he and his sister, and he’s lived with the Cheyenne. They taught him tracking. You’ll never believe how we met, but I think I’ll save the story till we’re there.”
“How does it happen we wrangled a dinner invitation on such short acquaintance?” Elijah asked, though he was always happy to meet new people. Reaching out to others was his job as a preacher, after all.
Clint grinned. “That’s part of the story. Let’s just say we went after the same antelope,” he said with a wink.
“Neighborly of the fellow to invite us,” Gideon remarked in his low, rumbling voice. “But I sure hope he doesn’t plan on pairing us up with that sister of his—at least, not you or me, Elijah—since we’re confirmed bachelors. Right, brother?”
Elijah knew Gideon’s light remark was an attempt to conceal the ache that had resided in his middle-born brother’s heart, losing both his wife and child to the influenza, and Elijah knew Gideon wasn’t expecting a reply.
Precisely at six o’clock—Elijah checked the time on the silver pocket watch that, as the eldest, he had inherited from their father—the men walked down one row of tents and up another to where Lars had told them the Brinkerhoff tent was located. Since Lars’s sister would be present, they’d washed, shaved and put on clean shirts—not that they didn’t do such things regularly, but the prospect of being in the presence of a lady certainly gave them additional motivation.
Their noses told them before they reached the Brinkerhoff tent that they were in for a treat, for the air was redolent with the smell of cooking meat and baking bread and some sort of additional sweet scent.
A tall, well-built man arose from a hay bale on which he had been sitting and came forward. Dressed in fringed buckskin and knee-high leather boots, he had hair that fell to midshoulder and was so pale a yellow it was almost white. “Velkommen—welcome, gentlemen. I am Lars Brinkerhoff.” He looked at Clint. “I am glad you and your brothers could come.”
The men shook hands, and Elijah and Gideon introduced themselves.
“And this is my sister, Katrine,” Lars said, gesturing. A young woman of middle height with the same sparkling blue eyes and flaxen hair—hers was confined in a long, thick braid down her back—straightened from where she had been bent over a cast-iron pot. When she smiled, dimples bloomed in each cheek, and Elijah supposed she could be considered beautiful, but he couldn’t help wondering if Alice Hawthorne had anyone to dine with tonight, or if she had to eat her supper alone.
“Sister, may I present the Thornton brothers,” Lars said, then pointed at each in turn, “Elijah, Gideon and Clint.”
“I am very pleased to meet you,” the young woman said, smiling at each. “I am happy that you could dine with us.”
She had the same thick Danish accent, but coming from her, it sounded charming.
“Miss Brinkerhoff, it is our very great pleasure,” Elijah said, stepping forward and bowing to her.
“Ah, but you won’t really know that until you have tasted my cooking, will you?” she teased. “Perhaps you will not like it.”
“But in such pleasant company, how could any food be less than wonderful?” Clint responded with a smile.
Elijah shared a look with Gideon, both of them clearly amused at their brother’s unaccustomed gallantry.
“Well, let us put it to the test, shall we?” Lars said. “Gentlemen, will you have a seat?” He gestured to a low table made of a wide, flat board set atop bales of hay. They would have to sit on the ground, but provision had been made for that, with a folded blanket set at each place.
“It is not how I would like to serve guests,” Katrine apologized, indicating the tin plates and eating utensils carved from wood, along with a crockery pitcher and wooden cups. “For now we travel light, yes? But Lars has promised me proper china and silverware once we build our house.”
“Please don’t worry about that, ma’am. Our eating utensils aren’t fancy, either, but they get the job done,” Gideon assured her politely, surprising Elijah that Gideon had spoken. He was quiet, even with his brothers, but usually talked much less when in the company of others.
“Mr. Elijah Thornton, since you are the sognepraest—the minister—will you say the blessing, please?” Lars asked.
Elijah did so, thanking God for the privilege of dining with their new friends and for the delicious food of which they were about to partake.
Lars began to carve slabs off the savory antelope haunch that had been roasting on the spit and placed them on a tin platter, which he passed to the men, while Katrine lifted the lid from the thick pot and brought out a golden-brown loaf of bread.
“This is kartoffelbrot, potato bread, so it may taste a little different from what you are used to, gentlemen,” she said as she sliced it. “I was fortunate to be able to trade for some fresh-churned butter, too,” she added.
For the first few minutes, no one spoke except to exclaim at the deliciousness of the food. The antelope had been done to a turn, and Elijah wondered about what herbs Lars’s sister had used to give it such an exotic flavor. The potato bread was hearty and satisfying.
“So how did you and Lars meet?” Elijah asked Clint. “You promised to tell the tale when we got here. Something about an antelope you both shot at?”
A grin spread across Clint’s tanned face. “Yes, and I was mighty upset at him for a couple of seconds for killing my antelope. I was out on the prairie east of here, lying on a bluff next to some rocks, drawing a bead on a prairie antelope down below. But before I could shoot, Lars, here, shot from the bluff across from me at the rocks right next to me.
“Well, I jumped up, mad as thunder, sure this fellow here was trying to murder me. But then he pointed below the rocks, and curled up amid them, there was the body of a rattlesnake, split right in two. I hadn’t spotted it when I’d settled in there. If I’d shot at the antelope or maybe even moved the wrong way, that snake was close enough to strike me easy. I might’ve died!”
Clint’s recital had been dramatic, but there was sobering truth in what he’d said. Clint might have been found on the prairie later, after he’d gone missing, dead of snakebite, but for the Dane’s quick action.
Elijah had been sitting next to Lars, and now Elijah laid a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Mr. Brinkerhoff, we are most deeply in your debt. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Please, you must all call me Lars,” the other man said, grinning. “I was—” it came out vas “—happy to do it.”
“Better yet,” piped up Clint from across the table, “Brinkerhoff didn’t let the antelope get away, either. While I was still gaping at the rattlesnake and pondering how I had almost died, this fellow shot the antelope that had run fifty yards away! Then after he had retrieved it, he was kind enough to offer to share the meat with us tonight,” he said, pointing his fork at what remained on the spit.
“Why did you brothers decide to come to Oklahoma? If you do not mind that I ask, of course,” Lars added.
“Of course it’s all right,” Elijah said. “We hail from Virginia, originally. Our parents had a plantation there before the war, Thornton Hall. You’re familiar with our American Civil War?” he asked.
“The Northern states fought to free the slaves that the South held, ja?” Lars asked.
“Basically, yes, though there were other issues, as well,” Elijah said. “Our pa sent us North to live with a cousin to avoid the unpleasantries of being loyal Unionists in the rebel South.”
Elijah and Gideon were the only ones who clearly remembered leaving home. Clint had been only four, but Elijah and Gideon had told him stories of the middle-of-the-night flight from Thornton Hall, leaving behind all they knew, including their playmates, the Chaucer boys from the neighboring plantation. Elijah felt a twinge of pain as he always did when he thought of their former friends, but it seemed worse now because of the incident today.
Perhaps because Elijah had been lost in thought, Clint now picked up the story. “Pa died in battle, so we went on living with Cousin Obadiah in Pennsylvania,” Clint went on.
Elijah saw the involuntary twist of distaste on both Clint’s and Gideon’s mouths at the mention of their father’s distant cousin, who’d hated all things Southern, including the innocent boys. He’d grudgingly allowed them space in his home, but not his heart.
“Then we sold the plantation for a good profit,” Clint said, “since we were no longer welcome in Virginia, and bought a place in Kansas, where Elijah went to seminary, Gideon worked on a ranch and I became a sheriff. It was all right...but when we heard about the opportunity opening up in the territory, we knew we wanted to come here and start over on our own homesteads.”
“You plan to start a church on your land, Reverend?” Lars asked Elijah.
Elijah nodded. “That is my purpose in coming to Oklahoma,” he said. “God willing, and with the help of God’s people, I mean to use my land to build a church in which our community of faith can be united in purpose. Together we can make Oklahoma a great state someday.”
He felt that same inner certainty he’d been feeling for some time that his goal was in line with God’s will for him as well as the territory. But once again, he said a quick prayer that if his feelings were in error, the Lord would show him—either by that still, small voice that He used, or by the way events unfolded.
Chapter Three
Had he sounded too pompous? Too stuffy? But a glance at Lars and Katrine showed only approval shining from their blue eyes.
“May the good Lord bless your efforts,” Lars said fervently.
“Thank you,” Elijah said. “And now, may I ask you the same question? Why did you leave your home? Clint tells me you have been in this country for ten years. What brought you to Oklahoma, from wherever you first settled?”
“America is the land of opportunity, is it not?” Lars said in reply. “When we arrived in America, we were not content for long in the East. We decided to journey to the West and see the ‘wide open spaces,’ as you Americans say. It was harder than we thought it would be. Perhaps we were naive, but the ‘land of milk and honey’ did not seem to be there for everyone.”
“You mentioned living with the Indians, Lars,” Clint said. “Miss Brinkerhoff, did you live with them, too?”
Katrine shook her head. “Lars did not want to expose me to danger and hardship, so I stayed in the city to work,” she said, and then Elijah saw her duck her head.
Something had happened to Katrine while the siblings had been parted, Elijah thought. Something she did not want to talk about.
But Clint didn’t seem to notice. “What kind of job did you take, Miss Brinkerhoff?”
She looked away. “I minded the children of a prosperous businessman and his wife for a time,” she said, “but then I...left that and worked in some...ah, restaurants as a waitress...” Her voice trailed off as her eyes lost focus. “Then Lars returned from the Indians and told me of the Land Rush. We also thought it was a chance to make a fresh start, and—how do you say it?—wipe the slate clean. And here we are.
“I hope you have saved room for dessert, gentlemen,” Katrine said brightly then. “I have made ableskiver, which is a kind of doughnut.”
The brothers groaned when she uncovered a plateful of the Danish doughnuts, which were each topped with a dollop of blackberry jam. Elijah had thought his stomach couldn’t possibly hold anything more, but he found himself reaching for one just as his brothers did. Lars and Katrine each took one, too. In seconds there wasn’t so much as a crumb left.
The Brinkerhoffs answered their questions about life in Denmark, and Lars regaled them with tales of life among the Cheyenne until it grew dark. Then, full of good food and the pleasure of making congenial new friends, the Thornton brothers headed back to their tent. The sounds of the tent city settling in for the night were all around them—the faint tinkling of piano music from one of the many whiskey tents, the occasional nicker of a horse, the sleepy whine of a child who did not want to go to bed yet.
Elijah waited until they were back at their campfire, having a last cup of coffee, to discuss the unpleasant incident at the chapel this morning. He hadn’t wanted to end the evening on a sour note, but he thought he’d better warn his brothers about the Chaucers.
Gideon looked up from the embers of the fire he’d just stirred up. “The Chaucers are here?”
Elijah nodded. “Figured I’d better tell you both, in case you run into them around Boomer Town, as we likely will.”
Clint gave a disgusted snort. “Guess it was too much to hope that we’d left that problem back East. And they’re already vilifying the Thornton name in Boomer Town?”
Again Elijah nodded. “So it seems.”
“They better not be doing it when I’m in earshot,” Gideon grumbled. “I know you’ve got to ‘turn the other cheek’ and all that nonsense, Lije, but I’m no preacher.”
“Me neither,” Clint said. “They start acting high-and-mighty ’round me, they’ll wish they hadn’t.”
Elijah sighed. He couldn’t blame his brothers for their reactions. They’d left Virginia because of the Chaucers and their kind, knowing the Thorntons would never be accepted and welcome in their old home. Now the Chaucers had come to Oklahoma, too, and had apparently brought their old enmity with them.
“Look, we’ve just got to be civil and get along with folks until the twenty-second,” Elijah told them. “The Chaucers—and others like Horace LeMaster whose minds they have swayed—probably just want the same thing we want. Free land. Chances are, once the Land Rush is over, they’ll settle somewhere in the territory far away from us, and we won’t ever set eyes on them.”
Clint dug a groove in the dirt with the heel of his boot. “Hope you’re right, Lije. Sorry that happened to you this morning. Did the rest of the service go well? Did more people come?”
Elijah was just going to tell his brothers about Alice Hawthorne and his hope that she would lend her nursing skills as needed, when he heard the sound of running footsteps heading toward them.
A heartbeat later a wild-eyed man burst into the circle of firelight. “Preacher, you got t’ come! Deacon Gilbert’s hurt bad—he’s cut his leg and he’s bleedin’ somethin’ terrible! I’m afeared he’s gonna bleed t’ death! His missus sent me to fetch you!”
“How did it happen?” Elijah demanded, as he strove to control the dread that threatened to swamp him. What could he do in the face of a serious injury but pray and try to comfort? Was he about to lose the man who’d been the very first to step forward and support Elijah’s work?
“He cut hisself with his own ax—he was choppin’ firewood. I—I gotta get back there!” the distraught man cried, already turning to run in the direction he’d come. “Miz Gilbert, she’s carryin’ on somethin’ fierce!”
Elijah started to follow the messenger, but he had a sudden idea and turned back to his brothers. “I’ll go to the Gilberts’ and see what I can do for Keith. You two split up and see if you can find a Miss Alice Hawthorne in one of the tents. She came to chapel this morning, and she’s a nurse. She has dark red hair and blue eyes, and I’d reckon she’s in her mid-twenties. Ask if she’ll come help. Tell her to bring bandages, and whatever else she thinks is needful, and come with you to help Mr. Gilbert.”
Then he turned and ran toward the Gilberts’ campsite, sending up a silent prayer that one of his brothers would be able to find Miss Hawthorne quickly among the maze of wagons and tents, and that she would be willing to follow his brother and help save a life.
The Gilberts’ tent lay on the other side of Boomer Town, but it didn’t take long for Elijah to reach it at a dead run, even though he had to weave through campsites, and dodge wagons and picket lines to which the horses were tied. Even from a distance, he could hear the sound of a woman’s shrieks, and after hurdling the tongue of a freight wagon, he spotted the circle of men and women.
Half a dozen lanterns held by onlookers illuminated the scene, their lights bobbing and flickering. At the edge of the crowd, another woman held the wailing Mrs. Gilbert. Everyone was talking at once, some calling out advice to a kneeling man dabbing at the wound, others softly opining as to whether Keith Gilbert would bleed to death or die later of blood poisoning—assuming it was even possible to stop the bleeding. A handful of women joined the chorus of Mrs. Gilbert’s wails, wringing their hands.
“Let him through, fellers. He’s the preacher!” cried the man who had come for Elijah. “Don’t let Keith die without so much as a prayer said fer ’im!”
His words parted the crowd like a sword, and in the pale light of an upheld kerosene lantern, Elijah beheld Keith Gilbert, lying there pasty pale with wide, terrified eyes. Someone had rolled up a coat and put it under his head. A bloody-bladed ax lay amid an armload of kindling at his feet. But it was the crimson-stained left pants leg and the spreading pool of blood in the dirt that captured Elijah’s attention.
“P-please, Preacher, d-don’t let me die!” Keith Gilbert begged, panting and raising his arm in a feeble beckoning gesture. “It was my own fault—somethin’ d-distracted me just as I swung my ax—a fool thing, to take my eye off an ax I’d just sharpened...”
Dear Lord, spare this man, Elijah prayed silently as he went forward and knelt by Keith. Let Clint or Gideon find Miss Alice quickly, bring her here and give her the skill to save this man!
“You’re not going to die,” Elijah reassured his deacon, though he had no idea if he was telling the truth. The man had already lost a good deal of blood, and he was pale as a shroud. “I’ve sent for a nurse, and I’m sure she can stop your bleeding.” Someone had laid a towel over the wounded leg, and it was already saturated with blood.
Elijah aimed a look at Cassie Gilbert. Maybe giving her something to do would help her calm down. “Mrs. Gilbert, may I please have your apron?” he said. The apron was wrinkled and stained here and there, but it was better than nothing.
As he’d hoped, the deaconess untied it with shaking fingers and threw it to Elijah, who caught it and wadded it up. Elijah yanked off the blood-soaked towel, replaced it with the apron and leaned on the bleeding leg with all the force he could muster. When Alice got here—if his brothers could find her—he’d need to rip open the trouser leg so she could see the wound, but for now, trying to stop the bleeding was the first priority.
“Reverend,” rasped Gilbert. “I know I’m a sinner, but the preacher at home said, if I gave my heart to the Lord, He’d take me straight into Heaven. That’s right, isn’t it? I’m a Christian, so He’ll keep His promise, won’t He?”
“Of course He will,” Elijah assured him. “But we’re going to do our best to save you. The nurse I spoke of will be here any second now,” he said, and hoped it was true.
“Lord, in Jesus’s name, please help Your servant Keith Gilbert so he can go on doing Your will on earth,” Elijah prayed aloud. Please, Lord, let Miss Alice get here in time.
It seemed like an eternity that he leaned on the wound, not daring to let up on the pressure lest the scarlet stain spread farther on the trouser leg. Then he heard booted feet shifting in the circle of onlookers around him, and suddenly Gideon was leading Miss Hawthorne through the crowd.
Thank You, Lord.
* * *
Alice had barely been able to keep up with the big man who’d hastily identified himself as Elijah Thornton’s brother Gideon.
She didn’t want to do this. She knew if she tended to the wounded man, she would no longer pass unnoticed in the tent city. People would know her name and that she was a nurse, and the requests would never end.
And Maxwell Peterson might hear of it.
But how could she say no when a man’s life hung in the balance? It wouldn’t be right, even on a basic humanitarian level, and it certainly wouldn’t be a Christian thing to do.
So she’d hastily gathered up her supplies. The kit she’d put together before her journey contained sturdy darning thread—which she’d boiled, then wrapped in an ironed handkerchief—similarly wrapped boiled needles, bandaging lint and a stoppered bottle of disinfectant.
She had hoped she’d never need those supplies, but now here she was, panting from her run and staring down at a man whose ghastly pallor told her that he would die if she didn’t help him. Or maybe even if she did.
“Thanks for coming, Miss Hawthorne,” said Elijah Thornton, who was kneeling over the man, leaning on a blood-stained wad of cloth on the man’s left leg. “Mr. Gilbert accidentally gashed his leg with an ax. Obviously he’s lost a lot of blood,” he added, indicating the dark crimson puddle beneath the limb.
Alice took a deep breath, summoning the calm that had earned her a valued reputation with the doctors of Bellevue. She couldn’t help a victim if she succumbed to the vapors, after all. “Let me see the wound,” she said, carrying her bag over to the recumbent man.
“Very well, but I must warn you, each time I let up on the pressure, the blood starts flowing again,” Elijah cautioned her. Splotches of dark scarlet on his sleeves confirmed what he said.
She nodded and said, “Give me one minute, please, before you release the pressure.” She stared at the circle of gaping men and women around her. “Does anyone have a belt I can use? And a sturdy stick, or long-handled spoon, as well as a knife?”
Most of the men’s trousers were held up by suspenders, but finally a skinny man at the back of the circle made his way through the throng, one hand holding a belt, the other one holding up his trousers; another man furnished a wicked-looking knife from his boot. A woman—Alice recognized her as the deaconess who’d passed the collection sack this morning—stopped wailing and rummaged in a crate fastened to the nearby wagon, coming up with a long-handled spoon, which she held out to Alice.
Kneeling beside the man, Alice did her best to smile down at him. “Mr. Gilbert, I’m Miss Hawthorne, a nurse, and first we’re going to stop the bleeding with a tourniquet, so I can see your wound.”
Mr. Gilbert swallowed with difficulty, but his wide eyes were trusting as he gazed up at her. “Thank ya, Miss H-Hawthorne...I don’t wanna die. Please don’t let me bleed t’ death.”
“I won’t,” she assured him, hoping and praying it would prove to be the truth. Lack of hope could kill a man as quickly as blood loss.
Quickly and efficiently, she slit the trouser leg up the seam and pushed it back from the wound. “Reverend, if you would apply pressure once more?” Then, trying to remember everything about the safe use of tourniquets—taught to her by a surgeon at Bellevue, who’d once treated soldiers in the Civil War—Alice drew one end of the belt under his upper leg, fastened the buckle, then began to twist the belt until she could twist it no more. Finally she stuck the spoon handle into the small remaining loop. Her eyes sought Gideon, who’d remained nearby. “Please hold this loop twisted tight as I have it,” she instructed him. “Don’t let it go unless I tell you.”
He did so, keeping pale gray eyes trained on her.
“Now you can remove your hands,” she told Elijah, and he eased away from the victim with a sigh of relief.
“Can you hold that lantern directly over his leg, please, so I can see what we’re dealing with?” she asked another man who’d come into the circle, a man who looked so much like Elijah he had to be another of his brothers. Once the lantern light flickered over the temporary bandage, she gingerly lifted a corner of it and inspected the gash.
Thanks to the tourniquet, the blood flow had stopped, so she could see the wound on the inside of the left lower leg was about four inches long and at least an inch deep. It must have crossed a big blood vessel to have bled so much—not an artery, she thought, for the bleeding hadn’t been spurting when pressure was loosened, just a steady, continuing crimson stream.
“I’m going to have to stitch up the wound,” she told Gilbert and his wife. “It’s going to hurt some.”
He regarded her with eyes that were now calm. “You do whatever you have t’ do, Miss Hawthorne. I’m in the Lord’s hands as well as yours. Say, weren’t you the newcomer at chapel this mornin’?”
She pretended not to hear the question but directed those with lanterns to come closer and hold the lanterns as steady as they could. Then, after cleaning the wound with carbolic, she started stitching.
Conversation died down as the men watched her work until all Alice could hear was the steady inhale and exhale of her own breathing, and the pounding pulse in her ears.
* * *
An hour later, Elijah watched Alice straighten after putting what was left of her supplies in an oilskin bag. Mr. Gilbert slept inside his wagon, having been lifted there by some of the men. His wife, who’d been profuse with her gratitude, sat beside him. His color was better, and a clean white bandage was wrapped around his newly sutured leg. Those who had been standing around watching the drama began to disperse to their own campsites.
“Thank you, Miss Hawthorne,” Elijah said. “I am in awe of your ability.” The words were so inadequate. Without a murmur of disgust or shrinking from such an awful sight as the ax wound had been, this woman had saved a man’s life.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, her voice weary as she pushed back an errant curl that had strayed onto her perspiration-dampened forehead. “He could still develop septicemia—blood poisoning. What I wouldn’t have given for a handful of catgut ligatures, instead of boiled darning thread,” she said. “I’m glad now that I brought a jar of carbolic acid on my journey. There’s nothing better to cleanse a wound.”
“I thought we might have need of your skills but not so soon as it happened,” Elijah commented.
“Once a nurse, always a nurse,” she responded wryly.
“You met my brother Gideon, of course, but this is my other brother, Clint,” Elijah said, when both men joined them.
“It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am,” the man who’d held the lantern said, and beside him, the big man who’d summoned Alice rumbled an agreement.
Elijah saw Alice staring dazedly at the wagon and around the campsite, as if she’d forgotten where she was.
“Come on, it’s late,” he said gently, wondering if she was a bit in shock herself, now that the emergency had passed. “We’ll walk you back to your campsite.”
“No, I must stay. Mr. Gilbert has to be watched,” Alice protested. “His wife can’t do it—you saw that she was exhausted. If he moves around in his sleep too much, the wound could reopen and bleed again. Or he could develop fever—”
Elijah hadn’t thought about the need to watch Mr. Gilbert through the night, but it was plain Miss Hawthorne was dead on her feet and couldn’t do it. Her cheeks were pale, and her eyes showed the strain of the past hour or so.
“I’ll stay,” Elijah said, “and my brothers will walk you home. I’ve sat up with the sick before,” he added, when she opened her mouth with the obvious intent of objecting. “I’ll come fetch you if he worsens during the night, I promise.”
She stared at him, then her shoulders sagged in surrender and fatigue. “Now it’s my turn to thank you, Reverend Thornton,” she said. “I’ll check on him in the morning. I’ll have to keep an eye on him for several days and take the stitches out.”
“Please, call me Elijah,” he said, surprising himself. It just didn’t seem right to stand on formality after such an event. He could see how fatigued she was by the dark shadows blooming under her eyes. “Get some rest, Miss Hawthorne. Gideon, Clint, please walk Miss Hawthorne back to her tent.”
Gideon had told him that Miss Hawthorne’s tent was five campsites to the left of theirs. Now Elijah knew where to find Alice, but he prayed he would not have to seek her out because of a medical crisis any time soon.
Chapter Four
“Good night, Miss Hawthorne. Thanks again for what you did,” Clint Thornton said, tipping his hat to her.
“Good night, gentlemen.” Alice watched Gideon and Clint Thornton walk away from her tent. Elijah Thornton was a good man, she thought. Apparently he was a true shepherd to his flock. His brothers seemed like good men, too, both the taciturn Gideon and the more talkative Clint, though very different from their preacher brother.
Alice stretched, feeling the muscles in her lower back and legs protest the long time she had knelt to suture the wound. She was more exhausted than she’d ever been, even after a double shift at the hospital or a difficult calving on the farm. The coppery, acrid stench of blood lingered in her nostrils.
Please, Lord, let Mr. Gilbert heal without infection, she prayed as she lay down on her cot a few minutes later. She’d have to go check on her patient first thing in the morning and hoped she could remember how to get back to the Gilberts’ campsite. She’d been so intent on not losing sight of Gideon running ahead of her that she hadn’t paid much attention to where they were heading.
She’d have to check and redress the wound every day, and make sure the patient and his wife knew the importance of keeping the wound clean and dry. Even sterilized silk suture was an irritant to the skin, compared to absorbable catgut, and she’d had to use coarse cotton darning thread. She’d go to the Gilberts’ at sunrise, she decided, so that Elijah Thornton could return to his tent and prepare for his chapel service. Poor man, after sitting up with his deacon all night, he’d be even wearier than she expected to be come morning.
She’d offer to make some broth for Mr. Gilbert from the beef bone she’d been intending to make stew with tomorrow. With the blood loss, the man would be weak and perhaps feverish. Better take some dried willow bark to make into tea, she thought, in case the man’s wife didn’t have any. With the list of chores running through her head, she feared she wouldn’t sleep.
But the heat and sunlight stirred her, apparently hours later. When she awakened, one glance at the watch she’d unpinned from her bodice and left lying on an upended crate by her bed told her that she’d overslept straight through to midmorning. She dressed quickly, then picked up her valise full of dressing supplies and medicaments, and headed in the direction she thought the Gilberts’ tent lay.
Elijah would be conducting his prayer meeting at this hour, she thought, regretting that she had missed him, then assured herself it only mattered because she’d wanted to hear from him how his deacon had passed the night.
She managed to find her way to the tent with only one wrong turn. She found Mrs. Gilbert stirring a pot over the campfire, and Mr. Gilbert reclining in the shade of the wagon, propped up on pillows.
He was pale, but without the flush of fever Alice had been dreading. Nevertheless, as soon as she had greeted them both, she knelt at his side and felt her patient’s forehead. She was pleased to find it no warmer than her hand.
“He had some fever during the night,” Mrs. Gilbert volunteered, “but I brewed him some willow bark tea. I’m simmering some broth in this pot here, ’cause his appetite’s still a little puny after all the blood he lost last night.”
“Excellent,” Alice said approvingly, silently commending the woman for her common sense.
There were only a few spots of dried blood on Mr. Gilbert’s dressing, she noted, unwrapping it from his leg. She found the wound as she had hoped—a little pink around the edges, as was to be expected, but with no fresh bleeding and without the angry red appearance and purulent drainage she had feared. Thank You, Lord, she breathed.
After first anointing the wound with some salve from her bag, she applied a new dressing and a fresh bandage. “I’ll be back to check on him this evening, Mrs. Gilbert. Keep an eye on his temperature, would you? Meanwhile, if you have need of me, I should be at my campsite most of the time—five tents to the east of the Thorntons’. If I’m not, please just leave me a note, and I’ll come as soon as I find it.”
“Not so fast, Miss Alice. Let me dish you up some breakfast,” Mrs. Gilbert offered, pointing to a covered skillet.
Alice began to demur, not wanting to consume what might be the couple’s limited resources, but the woman waved away her polite refusal. “Nonsense, it’s the least we can do after what you did last night, and I’m guessing you hurried right here soon as you woke up, didn’t you, poor lamb? You still look tuckered yourself, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
The woman’s efficient kindness was a balm. Alice surrendered, and was given a plate heaped with scrambled eggs, bacon and biscuits. Afterward she felt as if she could take on the world or at least whatever challenges Boomer Town had to offer today. With a last admonition to her patient just to rest today and a promise from Mrs. Gilbert that she’d make sure he did so, Alice took her leave.
It might be a good day to look at saddle horses, she thought. There was a corral full of them at the end of one of the rows of tents that passed for streets in Boomer Town, watched over by a wiry man with the shifty, knowing eyes of a born horse trader. She’d strolled past the corral before, spotting a tall, handsome bay that looked as if he could run. But then there was that chestnut mare with the sweetest face...
Alice had taken the train as close as she could to the territory, then purchased a tent and camping supplies, a wagon and two stout horses to pull it the rest of the way to the border of the Unassigned Lands. She’d chosen Boomer Town—one of the many tent cities along the boundaries—more or less at random. The wagon horses were kept with others of their kind in a common corral, and she had paid a fee for their upkeep.
She’d initially planned to make the run in the wagon, but she hadn’t expected there would be such hordes of would-be homesteaders waiting with her. More arrived every day. Now Alice thought the heavily laden wagon would hold her back, and only a fast horse would ensure her a good claim.
Alice figured it was probably best to buy her horse sooner rather than later to be sure of getting a good one. That would mean paying for its feed between now and the big day, but she’d have the advantage of getting to know her mount’s temperament and ways in the meantime.
But if she wasn’t driving her wagon into the Unassigned Lands, she’d have to leave it here in Boomer Town until after she had staked her claim. Already enterprising gents were offering to secure such wagons, stock and belongings for a fee until successful homesteaders could return for them, but could they be trusted? Alice reasoned it would be better to make friends with other settlers who were leaving their possessions in Boomer Town with family members and barter with them to watch over hers, too.
Before heading to the corral, Alice walked back to her tent and changed from her calico dress into a dark-colored blouse and the divided skirt she’d packed for riding, for she’d want to try out a horse’s paces and manners before laying down any of her precious cash.
“Yes, ma’am,” the horse trader said, when she arrived at the corral and told him that she wanted to buy a horse for the run. “I can give you your pick of this corral for four hundred dollars.”
Shock rendered Alice momentarily speechless. “Four hundred dollars? B-But these look like mustangs!” she sputtered. The handsome bay and the sweet chestnut mare no longer paced the pen with the others. Four hundred dollars would be a considerable dent in the cash she had left that had to last until she had a dwelling built and crops in.
She closed her eyes for a moment in an attempt to stay calm. “I was told to expect a price more in the range of two hundred, and that was for a saddle-broken horse.” These horses looked as if they’d been captured only yesterday after a lifetime of running loose over the prairie. If only she’d come yesterday, maybe she could have bought the bay or the chestnut...
“Horseflesh’s in great demand, what with the Land Rush approachin’,” he told her, his face smug. “Price is only goin’ up in the future, so you’d be wise t’ buy today.”
“I assume that includes a saddle and bridle?” she asked stiffly, knowing the answer even as she asked.
The trader shook his head. “Bridle an’ saddle are a hundred dollars extra,” the man said with a smirk, nodding toward a pile of used cavalry saddles that looked much the worse for wear, with frayed stirrup leathers and girths, many with cracks and holes in the leather between the pommel and cantle. He seemed to be enjoying her distress, the scoundrel.
“Guess you could always use shank’s mare,” he added, with a meaningful glance toward her legs.
Alice willed herself not to take offense. Though she’d heard several were planning to do just that—walk—such a plan was the purest folly, a sure way to end up with nothing. She suspected the horse trader was trying to use her ignorance to sell her a nag at an exorbitant fee, but it was useless to accuse him of that. He’d likely only raise the price.
“Sir, you are no gentleman to try to take advantage of a lady like that,” said a man’s voice in a pronounced Southern drawl. “And with such inferior stock fit only for carrion.”
“Who asked you?” the horse trader demanded angrily.
Alice ignored the trader, whirling to see a tall, distinguished-looking man who appeared to be in his forties, dressed in the dark blue uniform of a soldier.
“Private Bryson Reeves, ma’am,” the man said, sweeping off a forage cap as he gave her a courtly bow. “I’m part of the Security Patrol tasked with assisting and protecting homesteaders before and after the Land Rush.” He had ginger-colored hair, with eyes that might have been green or blue-green, she wasn’t sure, for he squinted against the sun as he straightened again.
His manner was as charming as his face was well-favored, and she certainly welcomed his intervention. She hadn’t heard anything about a Security Patrol, but maybe the officer could persuade the greedy horse trader to be more reasonable.
“Private Reeves, I am Miss Hawthorne,” Alice said. “Am I correct in thinking that the price this man’s asking for his stock is outrageous?”
“You are, Miss Hawthorne, ma’am,” he agreed, flashing her a broad smile. “I’m honored to meet you. If you will allow me, I will show you a selection of much superior mounts, fit for a lady and fleet of foot. If you will follow me just a little ways?”
He offered her his arm, but since they’d only just met, she pretended not to see it and said, “Lead on, Private Reeves.”
He took her to another pen at the other end of Boomer Town, one in which half a dozen tall, long-legged horses paced restlessly, snorting and showing the whites of their eyes. “Kentucky Thoroughbreds, ma’am, brought here especially for their speed. They will have no equal on the day of the run and will leave poorer specimens, such as the ones in the corral we just left, eating their dust. Am I not right, gentlemen?”
A trio of soldiers—dressed just as Private Reeves was, of about the same age and also bearing the insignia of privates—and a fourth man—dressed in denim trousers and a striped shirt and leather vest—separated themselves from the fence they had been leaning on at the far side of the corral and came toward her.
“My comrades-in-arms, Miss Hawthorne, Privates McGraw, Strafford and Wellington, and our friend, Lemuel Harkinson. It is he who had the brilliant idea of bringing Thoroughbreds from Kentucky to sell for the Land Rush to those smart enough to seize the advantage their proven speed can afford.”
“Ma’am, I am enchanted to meet you,” Harkinson said. “I would be delighted to put you in possession of one of my excellent Thoroughbreds.”
Having a mount bred to race would give her an advantage, Alice thought, but her experience with the other trader had made her wary. “They’re handsome animals,” she agreed, for it was certainly the truth. “And what are you asking for one of your horses?”
“Five hundred dollars,” he said, sinking her hopes with those three words. “And worth every penny, when you consider the excellent homestead you’ll be able to claim by riding one of them. Why, it’ll be like riding the winged Pegasus of ancient mythology.”
“No doubt,” she agreed. Her body felt heavy with disappointment. “But I’m afraid it’s beyond my means, sir. Good day. And thank you, Private Reeves.”
She started to turn away, but Reeves put a gentle hand on her wrist, detaining her. “Miss Hawthorne, it would be my very great honor to buy one of Mr. Harkinson’s horses for you,” he said, bowing again.
She felt her jaw drop open. “Private Reeves, that’s quite chivalrous of you, but it’s out of the question. I could not possibly accept such an off—”
“Please, ma’am,” he said, interrupting her with such a winning smile that she could not be offended. “Where my fellow soldiers and I come from,” he said, his drawl thick as Georgia clay, “we were raised to protect ladies, especially ladies such as yourself who are...on your own, I take it? Please, let me know if I have mistaken the situation, but if you are without the protection of a husband or father or brother, my mother would have wanted me to assist you in any way I could. If you won’t let me give the horse to you, consider it a loan. We can settle up later, once you’re turning a profit on the land I’m sure one of these mounts can gain for you.”
There was no way she could accept, even when the man invoked his mother and an atmosphere of Southern courtliness. The more sensible part of her questioned how a mere soldier could afford a gift such as the one he proposed, even if he was taken with Alice, as his expression suggested.
“As I said—”
“But just consider, dear lady—”
“You heard the lady,” a firmly spoken masculine voice said behind her, a voice she’d heard before. A voice that was very welcome right at this moment. “She’s not interested. Good day, gentlemen. Miss Hawthorne, I’ll have Gideon find you the proper mount,” Elijah Thornton said, “and at a reasonable price, too.”
* * *
The other men’s gazes felt like four sharp daggers between Elijah’s shoulder blades as he escorted Alice away from them. Deciding to focus on Alice rather than worry that he’d just made enemies, he watched the lady beside him pull herself together.
“Thank you for coming along when you did,” Alice said once they’d put more distance between themselves and the men lounging at the horse pen. “I knew to be wary of sharp horse traders, but Private Reeves was so insistent. I’m sure he was trying to be helpful, but...”
Elijah was fairly certain helpful wasn’t at all what the private was trying to be. He hadn’t heard clearly what the man was trying to talk Alice Hawthorne into, but he’d seen the other men gazing at her speculatively, like wolves eyeing a tethered lamb. A righteous, protective fury rose up in him as he imagined what the men had likely been thinking.
“I’m happy to be of assistance,” he said, when he could trust himself to speak.
“I suppose there was no harm done,” she said, straightening her shoulders and elevating her chin a little. “I’ve dealt with overly gallant men before—doctors in the hospital and so forth. One just has to be firm, but Private Reeves wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.”
Alice must have seen concern in his eyes then, for she added, “I soon learned how to deal with such men at Bellevue, and by the time I finished my training, I was treated with respect.” She took a breath. “These men said they’re part of the ‘Security Patrol’ to ensure the safety of the homesteaders. Reverend, have you heard of such an organization?”
Elijah nodded. He had seen them riding around the camp, very proud and important in their blue uniforms, yet wearing only the privates’ insignia. He’d overheard them with their distinctly Southern voices, conversing with a couple of Hungarian immigrants. It seemed to Elijah that they had been overly interested in the foreigners’ circumstances. And why were men of mature years only privates, unless they had only recently joined the army? They’d bear watching, for sure.
“I—I had intended to relieve you at the Gilberts’ this morning,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “I’m sorry, but I fear I overslept.”
He smiled at her reassuringly. “I’m sure you needed it. I’ve never seen such calm and fortitude as you displayed last night, Miss Hawthorne.”
The color rose in her cheeks, and she stared straight ahead as if embarrassed at his praise. “It’s no more than was expected of me when I worked as a nurse, Reverend Thornton,” she said. “A nurse cannot be of any help if she is wringing her hands and swooning, can she?” She went on without waiting for an answer. “In any case, I checked on Mr. Gilbert a little while ago, however, and I was very pleased with how he was progressing. The wound looked as good as I could have hoped for, and his wife had already seen to a slight fever he’d developed. I’ll call on them again this evening.”
“Excellent. I appreciate it, Miss Hawthorne.” He cleared his throat. “I was actually out looking for you. I’m already in your debt for helping my deacon, I know, but there’s a member of the congregation whose child is ailing, and I was wondering if I might ask you to visit them?”
He held his breath, wondering if she would agree. She’d said she’d left her nursing career behind, but after she’d performed so heroically last night, he dared to hope that she might have been so gratified by saving a life that she’d reconsider her stance against becoming a nurse again, and benefit Boomer Town.
Chapter Five
Alice was silent, remembering her reluctance to do anything that might make her stand out so it would be easy for Maxwell Peterson to find her. But really, what were the odds of him or his minions learning that she was here simply because she chose to help some inhabitants of a tent city hundreds of miles from New York?
She should not act like a frightened mouse the rest of her life, when there was something she could do to aid her fellow man. It had felt good, saving Keith Gilbert’s life last night, and receiving his gratitude and that of his wife, Elijah Thornton and his brothers. A patient’s appreciation, and his family’s, had been what had kept her and so many other nurses enduring long hours and scant pay.
“I—I’ll understand if this is something you no longer wish to do,” Elijah said, before she could speak, “and remain grateful that you could aid my deacon last night. I know you said that you no longer wanted to pursue a nursing career.”
He looked so apologetic that Alice realized how long the silence had gone on and spoke quickly. “Oh, no, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to leave you waiting so long! That is— Yes, I will go see this sick child, if you will show me the way. I suppose we should stop back at my tent, though, so I can pick up my bag.”
Within minutes, she had retrieved her bag and followed Elijah to a tent in the middle of Boomer Town. An anxious-looking father stood waiting for them at the entrance of the tent.
“Thank God you found her,” he said, spotting Alice and the preacher. “It don’t seem like my Nate’s ever gonna stop throwin’ up. I’m Jeremiah Kindell, miss, and I sure hope you can help him, like I hear you done with Keith Gilbert last night.”
“I’ll be happy to do what I can,” she murmured, touched by the man’s faith in her.
“Please, come inside,” he said, lifting the tent flap. “My wife’s in there with him.”
As Alice’s eyes adjusted to the dim light within the tent, she saw not only a wife and child within, but three other children, as well, all wide-eyed and fearful. She gave them an encouraging smile before focusing on the boy lying on a sheet in the middle of the tent, his head cradled in a worried-looking woman’s lap.
The boy looked to be about seven or eight, and was pallid except for a spot of hectic color along each cheek. Alice could see pearls of sweat beaded on his forehead and damp hair plastered down at the edges. A cloth-covered bowl lay near his head, evidently at the ready in case he vomited again.
“What can you tell me about your son’s illness, Mrs. Kindell?”
“We had this sack a’ green apples I was gonna make into a pie, and Nate got into ’em when I wasn’t lookin’. He musta et six of ’em at least afore I noticed,” the tired-looking woman said. “Since then he’s been crampin’ and heavin’ ever’ few minutes, since last night.”
Alice breathed an inward sigh of relief. A simple case of green-apple stomachache, a common ailment in active, ever-hungry boys. Nature would take its course and ease his symptoms in time. “I’m sure I can help him feel better,” she said, and reached into her bag. “Do you have a pot I could use to make a tea for him to sip?”
After the woman rose and fetched one, Alice mixed ground ginger root, allspice, cinnamon and cloves, poured in some water fetched by the boy’s father and encouraged the wan-looking boy to sip some.
“Give him a sip or two every few minutes,” she advised the mother. “He’ll feel better in a while, though he might have to visit the privy soon.”
“Thank you so much,” Mrs. Kindell breathed. “God bless you, Miss Hawthorne—”
“Hey, is that nurse still in there?” a man’s voice called from outside the tent. “I got me this boil...”
And so it went. Word had spread that a nurse was seeing those with ailments over at the Kindells’ tent, and before the afternoon was over, she had lanced the man’s boil, seen a young man with quinsy throat, salved and bandaged a burn, treated a case of catarrh and pried a splinter out of a finger. And the afternoon was gone.
“I fear my simple request has ended up consuming the rest of your day, Miss Hawthorne,” Elijah said after the patients finally stopped coming.
“That’s all right,” she told him, realizing that the time had seemed to fly for her because she’d felt productive and useful. “The only plan I had today was to look at horses. We’re all of us just waiting for the twenty-second, aren’t we?”
He nodded in acknowledgment. “You’re a good and generous woman.”
Her stomach rumbled just then, reminding her that she had never been able to start simmering the beef bone and the rest of the ingredients for her supper stew.
She wasn’t sure if Elijah had heard it, but he said, “Why don’t you join my brothers and me for supper? We usually go to Mrs. Murphy’s tent. It’ll be our treat. You can tell Gideon what you’re looking for in a horse,” he added, just as she opened her mouth to say she appreciated the invitation, but it wasn’t necessary.
The truth was, it was so late in the day that she’d have to go to one of the supper tents, too, so she might as well accept. She did need a horse, after all, so it wouldn’t look as if she was merely loathe to part with the preacher. The truth was, though, she had enjoyed Elijah’s company and support this afternoon.
* * *
“No, you sure don’t want a Thoroughbred for the run, Miss Hawthorne. Glad you didn’t buy one,” Gideon said, as the four of them sat at the end of one of the many long tables in Mrs. Murphy’s tent restaurant. The place was full, so they were lucky to get enough space to eat together. The beef was—as the brothers had promised her—tough, but the buttered boiled potatoes, with yeast rolls and green beans, more than made up for it.
“Oh, there was no danger of me spending that much money on a horse,” Alice assured Elijah’s brother. “Not at the price they were asking. But why is a Thoroughbred a bad idea? They’re faster than the average mount, aren’t they?”
“For the first mile or so, sure—they’ll leave all the other horses in the dust. But unless you’re wantin’ a claim just over the line, they can’t keep up that speed. They’ll be played out after that second mile. You want a horse with endurance, ma’am.”
“Could you help her find one at a reasonable price, Gideon?” Elijah asked.
“I was already planning to.”
“Is it possible to buy one that isn’t still half-wild?” Alice asked, remembering the wild-eyed mustangs in the first horse trader’s corral. “I don’t think it would be wise to be struggling with a green-broke horse on the day of the run.”
“I’ll find you a good one, don’t you fret, Miss Hawthorne,” Gideon assured her.
“I think it’s time you gentlemen called me Miss Alice,” she said, and realized she was enjoying herself. It was so much more fun to eat supper with others.
“Then we’re Elijah, Gideon and Clint. Have you ridden much before?” asked Elijah.
“I could give you lessons,” offered Clint.
Alice laughed. It felt good to laugh, and she realized she hadn’t done so in a long, long time. She felt she could relax and let down her guard somewhat around these men, and appreciate having friends. When one considered that they would all be competing for land, it was really quite amazing that everyone was so helpful.
“Bless you, but I grew up on a farm,” she said. “I mostly rode bareback on our plow horses, though my mother said it wasn’t ladylike. Goodness, that’s been ages ago.” It had been a decade or more since Hawthorne Farm had been a thriving, prosperous place, too, she thought, remembering how it had looked when she had come back as her father lay dying, had seen how the farm had fallen apart during his long illness, with all the good stock sold off to pay the doctor’s bills and keep up the mortgage.
From there Alice steered the topic of conversation back to the brothers. She knew Elijah’s goal in coming to Oklahoma was, of course, to build a church, but through skillful questions, she learned that Gideon wanted to start a horse ranch—not a big surprise, since Elijah had asked him to obtain a horse for her—and Clint hoped to be a town sheriff, as well as a homesteader.
None of these men were married, she mused. Why? Making a home out of nothing was hard without a wife to do the cooking and laundry while the husband tamed the land. And didn’t any of them want children to pass the land on to? It was especially unusual for Elijah, a preacher, to be a bachelor. Every preacher she’d ever met before had had a wife and a handful of children.
It wasn’t impossible that one or more of the brothers had been widowed, perhaps lost a wife in childbirth. Such things happened all too often. But perhaps the brothers were waiting till they were settled to go courting. It was none of her business, she reminded herself. She wasn’t about to ask them about that area of their lives, for it might lead to similar questions aimed at her.
“Well, I suppose I’d better walk you over to the Gilberts’ camp before it gets too much later,” Elijah said to Alice, rising from his bench across from her.
She took a quick look at the watch she wore on her bodice. “Goodness! I hadn’t realized so much time had passed,” she said. It was the first evening that she hadn’t watched the minute and hour hands crawl around the circle of her watch face with agonizing slowness until it was time to blow out her lantern. “Thank you, gentlemen, for supper and a most pleasant evening.”
“It was our pleasure, ma’am,” Clint said, sketching a bow. “Anytime you want company at supper, you can generally find us here of an evening.”
Just as they were about to go their separate ways at the entrance to Mrs. Murphy’s tent, a pair of men roughly shouldered past them, one of them clipping Clint’s shoulder, then striding on as if unaware of the contact, but it had obviously been on purpose.
“Whoo-eee. Good thing they’re leavin’,” Alice heard one of them mutter. “I never did cotton to dinin’ with snakes and traitors.”
Clint pivoted and lunged in their direction, but Elijah reached out and restrained Clint with a quick hand on his arm.
“I know how you feel, but it’s not worth it, Clint,” Elijah said in a low, urgent voice.
“Yeah, they’re not worth bruising our knuckles on—or getting ourselves thrown out of Mrs. Murphy’s,” Gideon growled, staring after the two men, his face as resentful as Clint’s. “Reckon the troublemaking Chaucers have been talking again.”
Clint shook off Elijah’s hand, but Clint didn’t follow after Elijah; Gideon standing still, too. “Lije, we’ll meet you back at the tent.” When Elijah gave Clint a searching look, he said, “Don’t worry. We’re not going back in there. I’m not going to do anything stupid. Night, Miss Alice.”
Left alone with Elijah, Alice didn’t know what to say. Her heart went out to the Thornton brothers, even though she didn’t fully understand the reason for the hostility being shown to them.
Elijah sighed. “I feel I owe you an explanation, now that you’ve been witness to this sort of thing on two different occasions,” he said. “Come. I’ll explain as we walk.”
“Please don’t feel you must—it’s none of my business,” Alice murmured as she fell into step with him.
“Perhaps it’s best if you know,” Elijah said. “As Mr. LeMaster hinted at the other day, the Thorntons and the Chaucers both grew up on plantations in Virginia before the war. The Chaucer children were our closest friends.”
“I see,” she murmured. So that was the source of the drawl that occasionally crept into Elijah’s otherwise Yankee voice.
“We spent the war years in Pennsylvania with a cousin of Papa’s, while he went to fight for the Union. The plantation was left in the care of an overseer. Because of our father’s loyalty to the Union, we kept possession of our plantation after the war, while our former friends, the Chaucers, lost theirs to taxes. But they made sure we were no longer welcome there,” he said, bitterness edging into his voice, “so we sold Thornton Hall and moved to Kansas. We’d hoped to leave the past behind when we came to Oklahoma....” He sighed again and looked off into the distance.
Alice had the feeling “the past” included more than just their troubles in Virginia. “But this family, the Chaucers, make that impossible,” she concluded for him. “Elijah, I—I’m sorry.”
How much they had in common, she thought, though it wouldn’t be wise to share her past with him. Both of them were trying to evade people who wished them ill—though Maxwell Peterson, she thought, with the same bitterness Elijah had voiced, insisted he only wanted to share his prosperous future with her.
Elijah met her gaze. “Thank you, Miss Alice,” he said. “I’m only sorry I have to trouble you with it, but I thought, in case you heard anything more, you should be aware of what happened. We need say no more about it.”
Keith Gilbert was sitting up on a camp chair with his wife when Alice and Elijah reached their campsite.
“I’ve been behavin’, Nurse,” he announced cheerfully, “though it’s been infernal hard to watch my wife doin’ all the work. Missed comin’ to chapel this mornin’, too, Reverend.”
“I’ll be glad when you’re able to return, Keith, for I surely can’t lead the singing the way you do,” Elijah assured him, “but don’t let me see you there till Miss Alice gives you the go-ahead.”
Alice saw her patient and his wife exchange a wink. Were they reading something into the fact that Elijah called her “Miss Alice” instead of “Miss Hawthorne”? Flustered, she focused on removing the old dressing. She could hardly correct their impression if they didn’t voice it.
She found the wound was continuing to heal well, and his wife reported there’d been no recurrence of fever. Thank God. Alice quickly redressed the wound and bid them good-night.
* * *
After Elijah returned to the Thornton tent, he found his brothers preparing to retire. “I didn’t want to ask in front of Miss Alice, but what do either of you know about these ‘Security Patrol’ officers riding around Boomer Town, proud as peacocks? One of them was the fellow who was trying to talk Miss Alice into buying that expensive Thoroughbred, but when I came upon him, there were three others.”
“I heard they’re former Confederate cavalry officers who’ve been allowed to rejoin the army,” Gideon said. “Why?”
Elijah sat on the edge of his camp bed, rubbing his chin with his thumb and index finger. “Because it struck me that they all look to be in their forties or so, yet they’re just privates.”
“The word is that there were so many of ’em wanting to get back in the army after Reconstruction,” Clint said, “that the federal government was afraid they’d take over and the war would start all over again. So they stripped them of their ranks before they’d let them rejoin.”
“I see.” Leave it to Clint to always have his ear to the ground, Elijah thought.
“What’s your interest in this, Lije?” Gideon asked, stretching his long legs out on his extralong cot. “Is it because that fellow was pressuring Miss Alice?”
“Yes, partly,” Elijah began, feeling the protective streak rise up in him again as he’d felt when he had seen the way that ginger-haired fellow had looked at her earlier. “I didn’t like the look in his eyes. I don’t think she was quite aware of it, though she assures me that she’s used to holding her own among pushy doctors and the like, but I’m not sure she’s as worldly-wise as she makes out. And it got me thinking of how I’d seen these fellows talking to folks around Boomer Town. They were always with women on their own or foreign immigrants.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to keep our eye on these fellows,” Clint said. “Anyone who looks crosswise at our Miss Alice will have all of us to tangle with.”
“Agreed,” murmured Gideon as he blew out the lamp.
Elijah’s last waking thoughts were thankful ones. He was glad that his brothers were willing to help him watch out for Alice Hawthorne. He was blessed to have two solid, decent brothers who believed in protecting folks like Alice against those who would take advantage of them. Surely those character traits meant that, in time, they would return to the faith they’d been taught at their father’s knee.
Chapter Six
It seemed to Alice, sitting in chapel the next morning, that most of the prayer requests that day had to do with various illnesses and injuries. And something Elijah said in his prayer about using one’s talents in the Lord’s service had her wanting to speak to him afterward.
She waited until nearly everyone else had left, passing the time by chatting with the talkative Ferguson sisters—or rather, Alice murmured “Hmm” and “I see” while they chattered. Then she approached Elijah.
She smiled as she held up her hands. “All right, I surrender, Reverend Thornton,” she said, using his formal title since there were still a few others around. “You’re right. I can see there is a continuing need for someone with medical training here. I’ll do it until the Land Rush.”
Elijah’s smile lit up his serious face and warmed her inside. “Bless you, Miss Alice,” he said, and took her hand between both of his. “You will be rewarded in Heaven, I know.”
His hands felt so warm, as warm as the approval she saw in his eyes. “I’d be perfectly willing to have those who need care to come to my tent,” she went on, “but some of them might not feel up to it or might have trouble finding me. What do you suggest?”
“Why don’t we team up, Miss Alice? I’ve been visiting those I hear about who are ill or needing prayer, mostly in the evenings—unless they need me immediately, of course. Or if no one has made a request, I just walk around and talk to folks who are sitting by their tents or wagons. Why don’t we go together?”
“Like making rounds in the hospital,” she said, remembering the times she’d gone to the wards with the physicians, noting their orders for the patients.
“Exactly. I could pray with them while you treat them.”
Her heart lightened as she smiled up at him. She felt strong and full of purpose. Let’s go together, he’d said. Was it wrong that the words made her think of feelings she’d resolved to abandon in favor of independence?
“Shall we begin tonight, then?” he suggested. “I’ll meet you after supper at your tent.”
“Better yet, why don’t you and your brothers come for an early supper? I’d intended to make stew yesterday, before you so kindly treated me to supper at Mrs. Murphy’s. It’ll just be a simple meal, but you’re all more than welcome. Then we’ll make our rounds.”
* * *
The Thorntons brought more than their appetites when they came to supper. Gideon came leading a black horse whose rump was a blanket of white with black spots—an Appaloosa. When he placed the mare’s lead rope in Alice’s hand, he said, “I think she’ll suit your needs, come the twenty-second, Miss Alice. I’ve tried her, and she’s fast and agile. She can turn on a dime, and she has nice manners. I believe she’d be perfect for you for the Land Rush.”
Alice felt her jaw drop. “Oh, she’s beautiful!” she exclaimed, going to the mare and stroking her neck, and then her soft, velvety muzzle when the horse turned to snuffle her new mistress. “An Indian pony! Where did you get her? How much do I owe you? What’s her name?”
The Thornton brothers laughed at the spate of questions. “I got her from Lars Brinkerhoff, a Danish fellow we’ve met.”
“I’ve met him, too,” she told him. “He and his sister, Katrine, were at the chapel this morning. He didn’t mention the mare, though. He must not have wanted to spoil the surprise.”
Gideon gave her a half smile and went on. “Lars lived with the Cheyenne for a time, and this mare was one of the string of ponies the Indians gave him when he left. He said you could have her for fifty dollars, and that includes a saddle and bridle, but you don’t need to pay him until you decide she’s the right horse for you. And he said her name, but it’s some Cheyenne word, unpronounceable—at least to me—so I reckon you can give her a new name, Miss Alice.”
Still stroking the mare and appreciating the kindness in her eyes, Alice said, “Then I’ll call her Cheyenne. Thank you, Gideon.”
The mare nickered as if she approved.
“You can leave her with our horses until the Land Rush, if you like,” Elijah said. “Shall we ride out to the prairie tomorrow afternoon and try out her paces?”
She nodded, happy at the prospect of an afternoon of riding in Elijah’s company. He was probably just being gentlemanly in offering to accompany her, she told herself, since it wouldn’t be wise to go riding away from the tent city over unfamiliar ground on an untried horse. Keeping that in mind would help her to remember her own resolve, wouldn’t it?
* * *
Their first stop was at the campsite of a man who’d asked for prayer for his daughter, because she had become weak and listless on the journey from Vermont.
After introductions, Alice sat and examined Beth Lambert. She was wan and pallid, just as her father had described. Alice found the mucous membranes around Beth’s eyes and inside her mouth pale also, and her pulse was far too fast for a person at rest. Alice pulled her stethoscope—a gift from her mother when she had finished her training—out of her bag, then listened to the girl’s heart and lungs. The heart rhythm, though rapid, was the regular lub-dub she had hoped for, rather than one with an extra beat that made the rhythm sound more like Ken-tuck-y or Ten-nes-see, as it would be with a heart murmur. The lungs were clear, free of the wet sounds or crackles that might signal consumption.
Nevertheless, she asked Beth if she’d been having night sweats or coughing. The girl shook her head.
“Chest pains?”
Again Beth shook her head.
“What have you been eating, Beth?” Alice asked.
The girl wrinkled her nose. “Pretty much corn bread and biscuits, washed down with coffee, ever since we left the East. Don’t have nothin’ else.”
“I see.” Alice turned to the girl’s parents, who were hovering anxiously nearby. Now that she’d spoken to their daughter, she saw the same pallor in her mother and father.
“I think your daughter is anemic—that is, her blood isn’t carrying oxygen around as it should. She needs to eat more red meat, especially liver and eggs. In fact, I think those things would benefit all of you. Would you be able to get more of those in your diet?”
* * *
Thank You, Lord, for sending Alice to us, Elijah prayed. She was as tactful as she was skilled. She saw what needed to be done or said, and did and said it.
“Waal, I dunno,” the father mumbled, scuffing a small rock out of the dirt and pushing it with his toe. “Beef’s mighty costly.”
“We left the East with not much more than the clothes on our backs,” the mother said, and when the man next to her tried to shush her, she raised her voice more. “Jed, it’s true, and our Beth is sick because of it.” She turned back to Alice and Elijah. “By the time we bought the wagon and team, we didn’t have much left for food on the trip, so we had to think cheap. We all et better back home.”
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