Sixteen Brides Read online

  For the moment, the last passenger on this evening’s westbound train was limping his way to the new hotel that had just opened a couple of days ago. The limp had caused a few heart palpitations for Hettie until she realized the owner of the limp was a stranger. She could breathe again. But now—what?

  Two riders came tearing across the prairie from the north. Hettie went to the door and stepped outside just as they parted north of the railroad tracks. One continued to the east while the other charged toward the Immigrant House and, bringing his horse to a skidding stop when he saw Hettie, hollered, “Need the doc! The lady doc. Fast!”

  Hettie pressed her open palm to her chest. “I…I…there’s no…” She swallowed. “I keep telling people I am not a doctor!”

  “You’re the closest thing we got and we need you.” The cowboy pointed east toward the other rider, who had already nearly disappeared into the distance. “Johnny’s headed to the fort to bring their doc if we can get him, but that’ll take hours longer. You’ve got to come, ma’am. The boss is hurt. Real bad.”

  Ruth Dow came out to join her. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  The rider repeated his desperate plea.

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “Lucas Gray,” the man said, gasping for breath and motioning at Hettie. “He said to bring you.” He gulped. “That new stallion tore loose and nearly killed him. Don’t know what all is wrong, but he’s busted up bad. Please, ma’am.”

  Hettie took a step back as she shook her head. “I told you I’m not—”

  “You knew what to do for Frank Darby’s wife. She said you treated some gal’s ankle, too. Anyway, the boss heard about it. He said to bring you. I can’t go back there without you, ma’am. Please. Anything you can do is gonna be better than what the rest of us know.” He glanced at Ruth and back to Hettie. “Your friend can come, too, if you’re worried about—if you think it won’t look right. Just please, could we not wait any longer. It’ll take us till nearly dawn as it is.”

  Hettie pushed her spectacles up on her nose with a trembling hand.

  “You know more than any of the rest of us,” the man repeated.

  “A-all right,” she said. “Tell me what happened.”

  “His horse—”

  “I heard that. What exactly did the horse do?”

  “Reared up and fell back on him. And then pounded on him while he was down.”

  Hettie’s stomach began to churn. “Is he conscious?”

  “In and out.”

  “Is he bleeding?”

  “Not really. Except his leg. Some. Not bad, though. The boys were wrapping it when Johnny and I left.”

  “Bleeding how? From where?”

  The wrangler shrugged. “It’s broke, I think. Maybe some bone poking through? There wasn’t really all that much blood—”

  Dear God in heaven. A compound fracture? Hettie ran her hand over her hair. She glanced at Ruth. “W-will you come?”

  “Of course. Just let me see to Jackson.”

  The wrangler nodded. “I’ll get the livery to hitch up a light rig.” He hesitated. “You can drive?”

  “I can,” Ruth said briskly.

  Hettie closed her eyes, trying to think. “We’ll need carbolic acid, soap, bandages, alcohol—whiskey if we can’t get alcohol.” She looked at the wrangler. “Did they splint the leg before they moved him?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know, ma’am. Johnny and me were in the saddle on our way to get you before they had it so much as wrapped up.”

  “All right. Ruth and I will meet you at the livery in a few minutes.” Summoned by the commotion, Ella and Zita, and Caroline and Sally had all come outside. Now they waited by the door, ready to help.

  “You need anything else you can think of?” Ruth asked, ticking off the list Hettie had already given her.

  “Camphor. And mustard for a poultice in case there’s—” she gestured toward her lungs—“in case there’s complications. If his leg’s broken, he’s going to have to be in bed for a while. Pneumonia will be a threat.”

  Zita spoke up. “I’ll get you some of my remedy.”

  “Put my cough right to bed the other night,” Sally said, nodding.

  “What’s in it?”

  Zita shrugged. “Old Italian secrets.”

  “I had pneumonia when I was little,” Ella explained. “Mama got this remedy from someone in the village. She’s always believed it saved my life.”

  Hettie glanced Zita’s way. “Th-thank you.” As Zita went after her remedy, Hettie gave orders, calming a bit as the ladies scattered to do her bidding. At least Forrest had been good for that. He’d taught her well. She shivered momentarily. He may have taught her too well. She’d helped him do amputations, and if Lucas Gray had a compound fracture, it was going to take a miracle to keep him from needing one.

  “Young man,” Ruth said to Gray’s wrangler as Hettie settled the last box of provisions into the carriage, “my husband was General George Washington Jackson Dow. We posted in some fairly remote areas, and I once drove a carriage back to the fort with a war party of Apache a few minutes behind me, so stop worrying and mount up.” As the wrangler obeyed, she hugged Jackson and told him to mind the ladies, then for some reason felt compelled to reach out to Zita. “I’ll be trusting you to pray for us.”

  Zita’s eyes sparkled with love as she grasped Ruth’s hands in hers, lifted her face to the sky, and said aloud, “Courage. Safety. Healed bodies. Healed hearts. Mighty faith. Please, Father. Amen.”

  The minute Ruth and Hettie scrambled into the carriage seat, the wrangler took off at a brisk canter. Ruth chirruped to the little roan mare Ermisch said was his best carriage horse. Settling the mare into a lope, Ruth sat back, alert but relaxed. She glanced at Hettie, who was telegraphing tension both in the way she leaned forward in the seat and in the tightness of her grip on the lap robe they shared. “Try to relax,” she said. “According to that wrangler we have a long night ahead of us. It won’t do to have your back cramping up halfway to the ranch.”

  “Y-you really do know what you’re doing,” Hettie finally said.

  Ruth only nodded, although the surprise in Hettie’s voice made her smile.

  “I…I didn’t mean to sound so s-surprised.”

  “It’s all right.” Ruth took a deep breath. “Thank you for asking me to come. For trusting that I could be useful.” And she could be useful. Somehow, she was finding herself again. Finding the capable woman who’d been lost all those years ago when the General’s sudden death swept everything away. For several months it had taken all her energy merely to climb out of bed every morning and feed Jackson. She’d moved through the days like a woman clawing her way through a thick fog. And she’d been so grateful for Margaret’s willingness to make decisions for her. So grateful for the invitation to move in with Margaret and Theo. A lifesaver, Ruth had called it. And for a time it was. Until Cecil Grissom.

  Perhaps that was the beginning of her awakening. Certainly Margaret’s insistence had been a jolt. How had that happened, anyway? How could she have allowed Margaret to think she could not only tell Ruth to marry, but also select the groom? Thinking back on it now, Ruth realized that for most of Jackson’s childhood, she’d been disconnected. Margaret’s willingness to help had only enabled Ruth to lose even more of herself. It was as if she had folded the part of herself George loved away. He never would have wanted that to happen. He would not have been pleased with a weak woman longing so much for the past that she simply allowed things to happen instead of taking the reins and—

  Ruth looked down at the reins in her hands. Taking the reins. That’s what she was doing, wasn’t it? She was driving a carriage across the prairie toward the unknown. And she wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t afraid. George would be so much more pleased with this Ruth Dow. He would be proud of her. Proud of the way she’d said yes to Hettie without hesitation. Proud of the way she’d taken the reins in hand and told that cowboy not to worry. And proud of the w
ay she was driving. Carefully, lest a carriage wheel begin a slide down one of these sand ridges, but with a strong hand that told the little mare there would be no nonsense tonight.

  The wrangler they were following slowed his mount. Ruth drove alongside. “There’s a watering hole ahead,” he said. “We can give the horses a breather. You ladies can just stay seated—” he hesitated—“if you can keep the horse from overdoing it with the water. Otherwise—”

  “I can handle the horse,” Ruth said, and grabbed the buggy whip from its stanchion. “Lead on.” Yes. Ruth Dow was definitely finding her way back.

  Late Sunday night, Caroline stood alone in the pool of pale moonlight shining into the Immigrant House through the tall double windows on either side of the front doors. How long, she wondered, would the bad dreams last? How long would it be before she could sleep without smelling Lowell Day’s peppermint-laced breath, without hearing his voice? She shivered and turned her thoughts toward the northwest and Lucas Gray’s ranch, wishing she’d been nicer to him. Hoping the messenger was somehow wrong about the seriousness of Gray’s injury. Images of the men in Basil’s hospital rose up even as wolves—or maybe it was just coyotes—howled in the distance. The lonely sound sent another wave of sadness through her. Jackson slipped up beside her.

  “You’re supposed to be asleep,” Caroline chided. “We promised your mother we’d watch over you. She wouldn’t want you up half the night.”

  “I don’t need watching over,” Jackson groused. “And anyway, I can’t sleep, either.” He was quiet for a few minutes. “At least it’s a clear night. The moonlight will help Mother drive safely—won’t it?”

  “I’m sure it will. She seemed confident about her driving.”

  “I didn’t know she’d done that. Driven a carriage ahead of a war party. She doesn’t talk very much about her times with my father. Oh, she talks about him all the time, but—I never thought about the adventures she might have had with him before I was born. I mean, I knew she was always with him and that some of the posts weren’t very…luxurious, as Mother put it, but I never pictured her as…tough. She’s probably done some of the things I read about in Texan Joe. Or at least seen them. But she never let on. Not once.” He murmured, “I hope they can help Mr. Gray. I hope he’ll be all right.”

  “So do I,” Caroline agreed.

  “Back in St. Louis we had a doctor—three of them, in fact—just around the corner. And when it snowed the wind didn’t whistle through the walls. Aunt Margaret’s house had gas lighting.” Jackson paused. The quiet made the coyotes sound closer. Or maybe they are closer. Jackson nodded toward the north. “It would be really dark out there if the moon weren’t shining tonight.”

  He’s trying to be brave, but the adventure is wearing thin. Caroline forced a confidence she wasn’t sure she felt into her tone. “Martha says people tend to keep a lamp lit in the window. And she said soddies are warm and cozy.”

  “But we’ll be a long way from…anyone else. Just like Mr. Gray.”

  “Probably not for long. There’s Mr. Cooper. And Mr. Haywood seems to think people are going to be flooding into this area. Things are going to change fast. The town board is already trying to recruit a doctor and a blacksmith and a schoolteacher and more builders, and Linney’s pa is a carpenter and—”

  “Linney says her pa is the best carpenter ever.” Jackson gave a little snort. “She thinks he’s the best everything.”

  Caroline felt she should choose her words carefully when it came to Matthew Ransom. How grateful she’d been for the strength of the arm Matthew had offered last night after—after Lowell Day. He didn’t know how close she’d come to weeping in his arms. Thankfully Sally didn’t either, although Sally had teased Caroline a few times about how Matthew Ransom just seemed to appear whenever she—or her parasol—needed rescuing. Of course that was ridiculous. Sally had done the rescuing that night. And yet…You think about Matthew Ransom far too much.

  “He can’t be the best everything,” Jackson muttered.

  “It is wonderful the way they’re getting along now, though, don’t you think? And wonderful that he’s moved to town.”

  “Sure. Linney’s hard to understand, though. I mean, she was so mad at him. And then they drove off together in a carriage and when they came back everything was fine. Just like that.” Jackson sighed. “I guess that’s good, though. At least she has a father.”

  “And you have a mother who loves you very much.”

  “I know. But Linney has Martha. And lots of other ladies who care about her and teach her all the girl stuff.”

  And you don’t have anyone stepping into your pa’s shoes. Jackson was more than lonely. He was missing having a father. Matthew Ransom’s moving into town must have opened an old wound. Now that Caroline thought about it, it was no wonder Jackson had been so thrilled with Mr. Gray’s invitation to the ranch. After all, how often had he been around someone who exuded such masculine…masculinity? Caroline frowned. Handsome face, psalm singing, and testament toting aside, she didn’t think Lucas Gray was a good candidate to be a father figure for Jackson. Matthew Ransom, on the other hand…

  “I’m glad Hettie’s going to live with us,” Jackson said abruptly. “What I mean is, it’s especially nice to have someone like her with us. In case anyone gets sick. Or hurt.” He paused. “I never thought about all the things that could happen out here. I guess it’s kind of…dangerous in a way.”

  He turned to face Caroline. “I have to learn to ride, Caroline. I need to be able to do my part. I can’t be a little kid out here. If I could ride, then I could be like that wrangler who came for Hettie tonight. I could be the one going for help if something happened she couldn’t handle.”

  Caroline wanted to hug him. She wanted to comfort him and tell him that everyone was going to be fine. To reassure him that nothing bad would happen to them…and that she would teach him to ride, not because he would need to rescue anyone, but because horses were wonderful animals and a boy should have a horse. But she couldn’t promise that nothing bad would happen. Look what had almost happened to her. And she’d heard her share of stories these past two weeks. Stories of violent storms and cattle stampedes, of prairie fires and blizzards. Jackson had likely heard his share of similar stories. People out here either liked to exaggerate, or they liked to celebrate survival. Part of her hoped it wouldn’t be as hard as it sounded to succeed on a homestead. Part of her knew it likely would.

  Abruptly, she tore herself away from the idea of blizzards and prairie fires. Jackson was right about one thing. They all needed to be willing to learn and grow, and she could help him with one part of the process. She put her hand on his shoulder and forced a lighthearted tone. “I’ll tell you what. Before we leave for the homestead in the morning, I’ll ask Mr. Ransom if he meant it when he offered Patch for ridin’ lessons. Ella’s already hired him to do some of the carpentry out at the Four Corners, and while he’ll likely drive out with a wagonload of tools and such, maybe if we ask him, he’ll bring Patch along. Maybe you and I can manage us some ridin’ lessons. Why, if things go well, you just might be a regular cowboy before your mama and Hettie get back.”

  From what Ruth could see in the predawn moonlight, Lucas Gray’s ranch was a random collection of small buildings nestled into a valley surrounded by sandhills. It was too dark to see details, and the instant she pulled the carriage up to the house, a figure appeared out of the shadows to take the little mare in hand. Two more wranglers appeared at either side of the carriage to help Ruth and Hettie down. Yet another one led the hard-riding messenger’s worn-out mount away. Ruth realized she didn’t even know the man’s name.

  “I’ve got it, ma’am,” the wrangler on her side of the buggy said when she reached for her valise. He smelled of tobacco and sweat, but Ruth didn’t mind. In a way, it was one more detail calling her back to her old self as an organized, capable military wife. Woolen uniforms and desert sun created pungent cologne. As Ruth stepped back to let th
e man get her valise, she thanked him. “Oh no, ma’am,” he said. “Thank you. For coming all this way. Pete was mighty impressed with your drivin’.”

  Ruth smiled to herself. A young cadet named George Dow had been impressed more than a time or two, as well. It was one of the things she’d used to get his attention in the long-ago days when she was a somewhat attractive young woman among a bevy of beauties.

  The ranch house cast a much longer shadow than Ruth would have expected. Lamps glowed in four sets of double-hung windows set beneath the overhang of a long, low porch. Pale lines of chinking glimmered in the moonlight. Lucas Gray lived in a log house, not a soddy.

  A slight figure waited just on the other side of a screen door. He has screens. At the ladies’ approach, the little man stepped outside and bowed. “My name is Wah Lo. Mr. Gray hurts very much. Thank you for coming.” He bowed again and looked at Ruth. “You doctor?”

  “No,” Ruth said. “I am Mrs. Dow.” She turned toward Hettie. “Mrs. Raines is—”

  “—not a doctor,” Hettie said. “My husband was. I assisted him. I’m only here to help until the real doctor gets here from the fort.”

  Wah Lo nodded. “Very good. You help now. That’s very good.” A bellow erupted from a room toward the back of the house and Wah Lo waved them inside. “He hurts very bad. Hurry, please.”

  Either Lucas Gray had landed in Nebraska with money, or he was a great deal more successful than Ruth had imagined. The house was large and the furnishings very near luxurious. Even a brief glance to the right as Ruth and Hettie hurried after Wah Lo revealed surprising details about Lucas Gray’s life as a rancher. A large rolltop desk opposite the front door was cluttered with papers and an open book. Beyond the desk in the corner of the room, a fainting couch and two overstuffed chairs encircled a heavily carved low wood table. The room seemed more suited to ladies’ sewing circle meetings than card playing and smoking. The hallway was a long one. It opened onto another large room, which was, again, a surprise because of the number and quality of the furnishings. Ruth couldn’t help but think that perhaps Lucas Gray had earned the right to a certain amount of strutting.