Chapter One
1850--Somewhere on the Santa Fe Trail
Sarah Collins struggled to open her eyes against the glare. The pounding pain in her head urged her to keep them closed. She swept the tip of her tongue across cracked lips and shifted away from whatever jabbed at her back. Her hands groped along something gritty and provided no clue to her whereabouts.
Patchy memories filtered back, and bitter bile rose in her throat. "Oh, Lord," she groaned, pushing up from the pebbled ground. Her pain dimmed at the sight before her; fear seized the breath from her chest as she surveyed what remained of the wagon train.
In a haze, she stood and scanned the area. Her throat constricted at the eerie site. The bodies of her new friends lay scattered amongst the smoking ruins, some oddly contorted and others positioned as they'd fallen. Her heart ached for the mother who sat propped against a wagon wheel, clutching her baby to her breast--both obviously dead. Sarah covered her mouth to stifle a scream. Oh sweet Jesus, who could kill a defenseless infant?
"Oh, God, there have to be others alive," she muttered against her palm.
As evidenced by an attacker's body lying a few feet from her, someone had interceded and saved her. Surely, there were others alive. There had to be! The hair on her arms bristled.
Perhaps it was a bad dream. If not for the carnage, anyone would consider it a beautiful day. She stared up at wispy clouds floating in a powder blue sky then scanned the endless sea of prairie grass. The only sound came from the nearby stream--peaceful water bubbling over a rocky bed. Dizziness left her unsteady. Her head sagged.
Total recollection flooded back. Sarah bit her knuckles and shivered. They had just made camp when war cries sliced the air. A few hours of daylight had remained, but one family's illness prompted the wagon master to halt travel for the day. Supper fires hadn't even been lit when a band of whooping Indians with painted faces stormed the group. There must have been twenty or more on horseback. The last thing Sarah recalled was running to fetch her rifle.
She dusted herself off and checked her body for injury. Other than her throbbing head, she seemed all right until something warm trickled into her eye. She touched her temple and felt a sticky lump. Her mind displayed the image of a scarred-faced brave, whose tomahawk struck only a glancing blow. She stared at her reddened fingertips and shuddered, seeing those hate-filled eyes again.
Her bonnet dangled down her back, its ribbon annoyingly tight across her throat. She pulled at the ties, removed and stared at the stained and dirty head covering. In its present condition she preferred going without one; she wiped her bloodied hand on the gingham material and tossed it to the ground.
The sun hadn't climbed far above the eastern horizon. She figured she must have been unconscious all night, and with a sigh, lifted her dress, ripped a piece from her petticoat and held it to her wound. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she prayed to see another living soul. Surely she was no better than the rest of these simple folk who were trying to find a new start. She cast blurry eyes skyward. "Why would you spare only me, Lord?"
"Hello, can anyone hear me?" Her voice faltered. She scanned the campsite and listened, but no answer came. Nothing moved.
Sarah started toward her smoldering Conestoga, now barely recognizable. She'd used her last penny to buy it to make this trip, hiring a driver and packing everything she owned into the beautifully-crafted prairie schooner. This wasn't how things were supposed to turn out. Headed for California, she wanted to leave all her bad memories in Missouri and forge new and happier ones. Maybe she'd wake up and discover this was all just a horrible nightmare. Her throbbing head told her it wasn't likely.
The smaller wagon behind Sarah's stood unscathed except for the arrows jutting from the canvas covering. In contrast to violence, delicate feathers decorating the shafts swayed in the breeze.
Her eyes smarted from drifting smoke. She called out again, but still received no response. Sarah summoned strength, gathered her wits and forced her reluctant legs to move. Unsteady at first, her determination gave her strength. She fought the urge to retch when she passed by the body of the wagon master, Mr. Simms. The top of his head had been slashed off, leaving a bloody pulp. She jerked her gaze away only to view three more male bodies, one clutching a lance stuck deep in his chest. All had been desecrated in the same savage manner.
She swallowed hard and forced herself to continue her search. Circling the camp, she found more bodies as she went from wagon-to-wagon. Next to what remained of her own, she found her driver, Fred Tanner. His eyes stared lifelessly at the sky; an arrow protruded from a dried circle of blood in the middle of his shirt. He, too, had been scalped. Sarah bent, and focusing only on his placid face, closed his eyelids. Guilt gnawed at her, and she straightened and whispered a silent prayer on his behalf. In their business arrangement, he had ended up paying far more dearly than she had.
Hope pushed her onward in a quest to find someone alive. The dead children sickened her more than the deceased adults. Barely starting their lives, they came to a bitter end far too soon. She discovered most of them huddled with their mothers in the backs of the unburned wagons, fear still etched on their tiny faces.
The smell of charred flesh hung heavy in the air and made it difficult to breathe. Sarah crinkled her nose in disgust. Her shoulders sagged. Each person deserved a proper burial, but she couldn't do it all by herself. Her head pounded in rhythm with the panic in her heart as she realized the seriousness of her predicament. The Indians had taken all the animals, and from what she could tell, most of the food. She had no idea where she was or how she would survive.
Sarah collapsed to the ground and buried her face in her hands. Sobs wracked her body as she mourned each person's passing. She'd barely gotten to know them. Only fifteen days ago in Independence, Missouri, these twelve wagons had gathered, full of excited and happy faces, ready to journey to a new life.
She cried until her tears ran dry, then finding composure, convinced herself weeping wouldn't help. At twenty-two-years old, she was determined to see twenty-three. But how? She could walk for help, but in which direction, and how far? Even if she filled her canteen with fresh water from the stream, how long would it last before she reached another source? What if the Indians came back? It appeared they had taken all the weapons leaving her defenseless. She couldn't just sit and wait. Besides, in the warm spring weather it wouldn't be long before the bodies started to decay. Leaving appeared to be her only option.
She pulled a ladle from a nearby water barrel and took a long draw. The coolness quenched her thirst and eased her parched throat, but another scan of the deserted campground stirred her fear. It was time to begin her trek and she wasn't ready. In fact she felt scared to death. She dropped the dipper back in place and struggled against consuming hopelessness by remembering her faith. God had seen her through other troubled times, surely he wouldn't abandon her now. He saved her for reason, but what?
At the very least, she'd need a change of clothing for the trip, and something to keep her warm at night, but all her belongings had burned. She gazed at the Morgan wagon, one of the few still intact. Maybe she could find something there. Sarah loosened her long hair and combed her fingers through it to capture all the escaped locks in with the rest. She pulled her blonde tresses back and retied the ribbon at the nape of her neck. Her face puckered into a scowl, preparing to view Molly Morgan's remains for a second time. Sarah had thought it painful enough to see her during her earlier search for survivors. Such a waste of a young life. She steeled herself as she climbed up onto the back. Molly had died, but Sarah felt strangely remorseful for rummaging through another person's belongings. It didn't seem right. She lifted a foot to step over the tailgate, but paused with her leg midair.
Her head tilted inquisitively. Was that a sound? She sighed. Now she was imagining things. Her supporting leg wobbled, and goose bumps peppered her skin--not from the cold, but from the feeling of death all around. She lowered her suspended limb to steady herself, took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment.
Clearly, she heard the noise again--a moan from inside the wagon. She threw open the tarpaulin and peered in.
"Molly? Is that you?" Sarah held her breath.
"Help me." The voice inside the wagon sounded weak and barely audible, but it belonged to a woman.
Sarah scrambled over the tailgate and knelt next to the bed. "Molly, it's me, Sarah. I'm here."
Molly moaned low in her throat--her front soaked with blood from an arrow protruding below her shoulder. Earlier, she had been on the floor, but somehow had managed to get to the pallet of blankets and pillows. Sarah had been sure the woman was dead. She should have checked for a pulse as she had with others, but after so many ... God forgive her, had she wasted precious moments of this sweet life?
Sarah wiped her own dry lips with the back of her trembling hand. She wasn't a doctor. What could she do to help? Before she could determine the extent of the injury, she had to remove the arrow, and there seemed only one way to do it--quickly and painfully.
She gazed at Molly's ashen face. Her eyes were closed and beads of perspiration dotted her brow; her copper hair cascaded over her headrest. Sarah caressed the young woman's cheek. "Molly, this is going to hurt like the devil, but I have to get this arrow out of you."
Her eyelids fluttered and she gave weak nod of acknowledgement. Discomfort creased her forehead and made her appear much older than her nineteen years.
Before Sarah's nerves failed her, she rose and locked her fingers around the wooden shaft and yanked with all her might. She expected a scream, but instead, Molly's body flinched and went limp.
Sarah fell to her knees. "Please, don't be dead, Molly, please, please, please." She slapped Molly lightly on the cheek. "Wake up! You have to wake up."
She received no response.
New blood dampened the stain on Molly's dress. Sarah chewed her bottom lip and, with trembling hands, ripped open the bodice. The sodden chemise underneath bore bright red stains, and more fluid gushed from right below Molly's shoulder.
Confusion clouded Sarah's mind. Her heart pounded. How could she possibly tend to something so serious? But she had to save Molly, she just had to. Sarah bit her knuckles. Her mind spun.
The first priority was to stop the bleeding, but she needed cloth. With no time to spare, she ripped a piece from the hem of Molly's dress. She folded it and applied it directly to the wound, forcing her nervous fingers to stuff a corner directly into the puncture hole. She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Blood had always made her queasy, and she inhaled deeply through her nose to keep from vomiting. Fighting nausea had become a regular routine throughout the day.
Her eyes scanned the wagon's interior for something to hold the dressing in place. Beyond the butter churn, her gaze rested on a wooden chest. She crawled to it, opened the lid, and rifled through the contents and found a piece of muslin near the bottom. After inching the piece of yardage beneath Molly, Sarah tugged until she had enough fabric to wrap around Molly's slender form, then tied the ends together to secure the dressing in place. Molly's breathing sounded ragged and slow, but at least she was alive. Sarah fluffed Molly's pillow and pulled a light blanket over her. She prayed her friend would soon awaken. She didn't want to leave Molly's side, but needed to go for water. The risk of infection threatened, and Molly's shoulder needed to be cleaned.
With her energy waning, Sarah slid from the wagon to the ground. She took a deep breath, and arched her back to ease the kink she'd earned from bending over the low featherbed. Loose hair dangled annoyingly close to her eye. She ran her fingers alongside her face, smoothing back the frizzy strands worked free from her ribbon and dampened by perspiration. Any moisture turned her natural curl into ringlets that defied restraint. At the thought of those scalped, she flinched. She vowed not to complain about such trivial matters as hair ever again.
She searched the Morgan campsite for something to hold water; purposely avoiding having to stray farther and be forced to look once again upon the grisly remains of her traveling companions. Sarah smiled at seeing an old dishpan hanging on Molly's sideboard, but her glee quickly faded as she eyed the puddle beneath the punctured keg next to it. She had no choice but to go back to the barrel from which she had earlier drank, or trek to the stream. Either meant she had to cross the campsite. With eyes focused straight ahead and that dreadful lump in her throat, Sarah walked to the large cask and filled the pan. She held the receptacle out in front of her, carefully measuring her steps back to the wagon and trying not to slosh the liquid onto herself.
"Molly, can you hear me? I've brought water," Sarah called out. She struggled to open the tailgate and get the dishpan inside.
Molly didn't stir.
Sarah pulled the blanket back and found herself instantly repulsed by the smell of dried blood. Molly's dress was already ruined, so Sarah took no care in ripping the material until she easily removed it. The chemise needed to go, but how, without jarring Molly? Sarah turned again to the wooden chest for the shears she saw earlier, and with a few quick snips, severed the sides and straps of the garment then removed it. A stinging flush crept into her cheeks at seeing another woman's bared breasts. She lowered her eyes, but peeked through her lashes to marvel at Molly's perfectly budded nipples.
"Oh for heaven's sake," Sarah mumbled, admonishing her silly reaction. It wasn't like she didn't have teats of her own. They just weren't as ... as full. Still, as she tucked a strand of Molly's hair out of the way, Sarah found it awkward to manage her modesty. A fine physician she'd make. She leaned back on her heels and focused on her gruesome task.
Now she needed something suitable for cleansing the wound. Sarah smiled when another search through the chest produced a stack of flannel squares. Before dipping one piece into the pan, she filled a cup with water and set it aside for when Molly woke up--if she woke.
Sarah unknotted the binding muslin and removed the dressing to see if her attempts to stop the bleeding had worked. She grimaced. Although her ministrations had been effective, the jagged skin around the lesion looked red and angry. She searched for something with medicinal value, but in this wagon like the others, the food box had been stripped bare. She'd have to do the best she could with the piece of soap she found among the flannels.
Sarah wrung the excess water from one of the soft squares and carefully washed Molly, first around the laceration, and then removing the clotted blood from her chest and neck. All feelings of diffidence disappeared, replaced with the urgent need to save Molly's life.
The once-clear water turned scarlet, causing Sarah to make another trip for a refill. She returned, and again knelt at Molly's side, re-dressed her injury, then bathed her face with the cool liquid. "Molly, can you hear me?" Sarah called out to her. "Please say something ... anything."
Molly's head lolled toward Sarah; her eyelids fluttered, then opened. She blinked a few times and moved her mouth in an effort to speak. "Gil..."
She managed only to croak her husband's name before her eyes closed and she drifted off again. Sarah sighed, re-covered her with the light blanket, and reached beneath to grasp her hand. "You have to get better, Molly. Do it for me."
If she knew Gil was dead she might lose the will to live. He seemed to be the center of her world. During the past week of walking alongside the wagons all day and searching for firewood in the evenings, Sarah and Molly had grown close. Hungry for friendship, they shared secrets and laughter. Sarah gazed on Molly's sleeping face and recalled how her green eyes sparkled when she talked of the babies she hoped to have. Sarah's own eyes rimmed with tears, and a pang of reality stabbed at her. What gave her the will to live? She had no one either.
Sarah pushed damp hair from her forehead after the air grew warm and stuffy inside the canopy. She needed a break, and reluctantly left Molly's side, crawled over the tailgate and dropped to the ground. The wagon's shadow had shifted. In a few hours the sun would set. Sarah dreaded the darkness and wondered if it would be safe to light a lamp. She hadn't been afraid of the dark since she was a little girl. All of a sudden she wanted to cry like she had then, when she feared monsters lurked about. Now she knew they really did.
While taking a composing breath, her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn't eaten for hours. She gazed at the remains of her wagon and thought of all the food she had stored for the trip, now nothing but ashes. Even though the marauding savages had stripped the camp clean, she knew she and Molly wouldn't starve. There were plenty of wild roots and grasses they could eat if need be. Before her mother's passing, Sarah's favorite dish of hers had been mustard and turnip greens, picked right from the yard. Of course, there wouldn't be the bacon fat for flavoring, but staying alive mattered more than taste.
The memories brought new tears to Sarah's eyes. She stared through a haze at her wagon, recalling the cameo brooch, the only thing she had left of her mother. Maybe, just maybe, it had been spared. It seemed silly to worry about a trinket others would consider insignificant, but Sarah needed something familiar--something to draw her thoughts from the death surrounding her.
She'd done all she could for Molly for the time being. Sarah hurried across the camp, climbed up on one of her huge wheel spokes, and carefully bent over the wagon sideboard to fish through the rubble. It appeared the fire had been contained to the wagon box and bonnet. She shielded her eyes and gazed up at the charred bows holding the canvas in place. They still arced precariously over the schooner's bed. The smell of smoke radiated from the burned wood.
At the front, the oak seat and tongue were almost as pristine as the day she'd purchased the wagon from a family who'd just arrived in Independence and needed money. Now, she wished she'd never met them--never had the insane idea to make this trip. She bit her lip, knowing she hadn't had a choice. Either she left or married a man she abhorred. Now, fearing what lay ahead, she wondered if she should have reconsidered his offer.
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