Faithful Heart (4 page)

“Don’t we all?” Stranger said, then rode forward and rejoined Clayson and Meyer.

When the wagon train stopped and set up camp that evening, Captain Meyer announced that they were within a day’s drive of Fort Bridger. There had been no further sign of hostile Indians, for which the people were thankful.

After supper, Stranger talked with Rip and Curly at the Wesson wagon. They were discussing what kind of action to take if they ran into snow crossing the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

At the same time, Breanna sat beside Carolyne Fulford next to a small fire. Mothers prepared their children for bed, and the men clustered in small groups, talking about their futures in California. Carolyne was telling Breanna about different medical procedures she had seen her father use, and Breanna listened intently.

Their conversation was interrupted when a rugged-looking sergeant stepped up and said, “Excuse me, ladies. May I butt in?”

“It appears you already did,” Carolyne said. “What can we do for you, Sergeant?”

“Pardon my forwardness, but I’ve been wantin’ to meet the pretty nurse here, and I thought now would be as good a time as any.” He looked down at Breanna, grinned, and said softly, “Miss Breanna, my name’s Bill Finley. I … ah—”

“Are you not feeling well, Sergeant?” Breanna said, rising to her feet. “Tell me what’s hurting. I have medicines for various sicknesses and hurts.”

Finley grinned and replied, “I’m fine, ma’am, except …”

“Except what?”

“Except I’d just like to get to know you. I really have a strong feelin’ toward you.”

“I appreciate your straightforwardness, Sergeant,” she said, smiling, “but let me say as kindly as I know how—I’m already spoken for.” Breanna had been in this position more times than she could remember.

“Words ain’t that bindin’, ma’am. I don’t see a ring on your left hand. I figure there might be a chance for a fella to come into your life and mean more to you than some fella who’s only spoken for you but not made it official.”

“There is
no
chance, Sergeant. You may be excused.”

“Whoa! Wait a minute now,” Finley chuckled, lifting palms forward. “I’m not one to back off easy. I think when a woman says no to a friendly man, she really means yes.”

“You can take my word for it, Sergeant. When I say
no
, I mean
no
. Now, as I said, you may be excused.”

Finley grinned, shook his head, and said, “Don’t you beat all? You see, honey, it’s a little feisty filly like you that really sparks interest in me. I like a gal with spirit.”

Breanna’s attention was drawn to the towering figure of John Stranger, who stood six feet behind Finley. She had not noticed his approach and had no idea how long he had been standing there.

“Are you hard of hearing, Sergeant?” she said. “I said you may be excused!”

Finley took a step closer to her and, grinning broadly, said, “I can tell you like me, honey. Why not drop the indignant facade and admit it. You and I could make beautiful music together.”

“Not with the discord you bring, Sergeant,” Stranger said. “Now move on.”

Finley turned to face the owner of the voice. “What business is it of yours?” he gruffed.

“Miss Baylor happens to be
my
woman, and we both like the arrangement. I have the utmost respect for the uniform of the United States Army, and I’d hate to bloody it. But the one you’re wearing
will
get bloody if you don’t move on. I heard the lady excuse you twice.” Few men had ever spoken so boldly to Bill Finley.

“I was only tryin’ to make friends with the lady, mister. That ain’t no crime.”

“It is when she doesn’t want to make friends and tells you to make tracks.”

Neither man was aware that people were staring at them from every direction.

“Well, I just decided I ain’t movin’ on unless you can make me,” Finley said, his eyes sparkling with the anticipation of battle.

Breanna saw Stranger bristle. She rushed around Finley to face him, her back to John, and said, “Sergeant, believe me, if you force John, you’ll be sorry. You’ve never fought a man like him. I know what he can do, and I’m the one who’ll have to try to put you back together after he’s done with you. Take my word for it, you can’t win.”

Finley lifted his line of sight to Stranger and felt the power of those icy gray eyes.

“Listen to me,” Breanna said. “I can see that you’ve been in many a fight. Correct?”

“Yeah.”

“You win them all?”

“No.”

“Well, just think of the worst beating you ever took. Would you want to fight that man again?”

The sergeant frowned. “Nope.”

“Well, there’s an old saying, Sergeant.
Good judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment
. You understand what I’m telling you?”

Finley raised his eyes to the man who stood eyeing him, then meeting Breanna’s gaze again, he nodded and turned away. When he had disappeared in the surrounding darkness, Captain Meyer moved in quickly and said to Breanna, “I appreciate what you did, miss, but maybe you should’ve let the sergeant get his block knocked off. He’s a good soldier, but he’s got a bit of belligerence and bully in him that needs to be pounded out.”

“By someone else, perhaps, Captain,” Breanna said, “but not by John Stranger when he’s protecting me. You wouldn’t have much sergeant left.”

Meyer grinned, looked at Stranger, then said, “I have a feeling you speak from experience, ma’am.”

“I do. This is one man you don’t want to see riled.”

“I believe you, ma’am,” the captain said, then touched his hat, nodded at Stranger, and walked away.

“How about another moonlight walk?” John asked. “That is, if Carolyne will excuse us.”

“No problem,” Carolyne smiled. “It’s about time for me to go and find Rip.”

Arm in arm, John and Breanna made their way outside the circle of wagons and strolled along the double-rutted trail where hundreds of prairie schooners had rolled westward in their trek to California.

“Thanks for talking sense to that soldier,” John said. “I
wouldn’t want to bloody his uniform, but I would’ve if he hadn’t backed off. Any man who’d force himself on you would find himself in real trouble.”

Breanna squeezed his arm and smiled as she looked up at him. “You’ve already demonstrated that, darling, and it means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

They found a moon-drenched spot and sat on a rounded boulder and talked for about an hour. Then they prayed together, asking God to give them wisdom about their future together.

The next day was a cloudy Saturday. The seventeen wagons moved at a slow but steady pace, angling southwest across the arid land. It was midafternoon when the stockade fence and the squat buildings of Fort Bridger came into view. The clouds were breaking up, and yellow shafts of sunlight shined through.

Captain Meyer galloped ahead of the wagon train with his lieutenant beside him. They reached the gate and disappeared inside. Some ten minutes later—when the wagons were within a mile of the fort—the two officers rode through the gate and galloped back.

Rip Clayson and John Stranger rode just in front of the lead wagon. Breanna and Curly listened when the two officers drew up.

“They’re ready for you, Mr. Clayson,” Meyer said. “You can pull all the wagons inside the fort.”

“Won’t that crowd the place?”

“There’s room. The Shoshonis have been on the prowl, and Colonel Lynch wants the wagons safe in the stockade. One of
our patrols had a battle with them earlier today. They came back carrying five dead troopers, and we’ve got eight men shot up pretty bad. Five of them are critical. Our post physician is working furiously to keep them alive. I—” He looked toward Breanna, then said to Clayson, “I told Colonel Lynch we have a nurse in the wagon train, and I … well, I sort of volunteered her services.”

“That’s all right, Captain,” Breanna said. “I’ll be more than glad to help.”

Meyer smiled. “I knew you would, ma’am. Colonel Lynch took me immediately to Dr. Laird and we told him about you. He was mighty glad to hear that a real nurse would be helping him.”

“That isn’t possibly Dr.
David
Laird, is it?”

“Why, yes, ma’am. Do you know him?”

“Yes. He and I worked together in Las Cruces, New Mexico, about three years ago. There was a typhoid epidemic all over that area.”

“If I’d known that, ma’am, I would’ve told him your name.”

“That’s all right, Captain. He’ll find out soon enough.” She paused, then asked, “Did you learn anything about Colonel Wade Moore?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s still having those chest pains. I know it’ll help him to see his wife.”

“I’m sure it will,” Breanna said.

John tugged on the reins and slowed Ebony enough to let the lead wagon catch up to him. “There’s no letup in your line of work, is there?” he said.

“No,” Breanna smiled. “It’s sort of like
your
work. Always someone needing help.”

“I’ve had quite a bit of experience patching up wounded men. I’ll be glad to do anything I can, sweetheart.”

“I’ll sure tell Dr. Laird, honey.”

Curly grinned. “You two are somethin’ else, you are. Real lovebirds. Just like me an’ my wife used to be … from the day we met till the day she died. When you two gonna tie the knot?”

John and Breanna exchanged glances.

“When the Lord gives us the sign that it’s His time for it,” John said.

“Well, guess I cain’t argue with that. Miss Breanna’s been teachin’ me ’bout how the Lord has a plan fer His children’s lives, and how we hafta do a lotta prayin’ and Bible readin’ to be sure we don’t get in His way an’ mess things up.”

“Well, she’s been teaching you right,” Stranger said. “And nobody ever had a prettier teacher than you’ve got.”

“Hey, don’t I know that! An’ I’ll tell you somethin’, sonny. If’n ol’ Curly here was a few years younger, I’d be a-givin’ you a run fer yer money!”

John laughed and wiped a hand across his brow. “Whew! I’m sure glad you were born a hundred years ago!”

The three of them had a good laugh together, then John trotted Ebony forward to join Rip Clayson and the two officers.

The gates of Fort Bridger swung wide, allowing the wagons to roll inside. A young trooper directed Curly to the spot where he was to park his wagon. When it rolled to a halt, Breanna reached behind her and picked up her medical bag. John Stranger was off his horse quickly and beside the wagon to help Breanna down.

“I see they have a telegraph here,” he said. “I really should let Marshal Duvall know where I am, and that I’m going to stick
with the wagon train until it’s safe in California. I’ll find you as soon as I get a wire sent to him.”

Breanna knew that John kept Chief U.S. Marshal Solomon Duvall in Denver informed of his whereabouts in case he was needed. Duvall’s office had become a main contact point for lawmen and fort commanders all over the West who needed to locate him.

“All right,” Breanna said. “I’ll tell Dr. Laird you’ve offered to help.”

Captain Meyer appeared with the fort commandant at his side. John and Breanna were introduced to Colonel Derek Lynch, who was in his late fifties. Just then Marian Moore rushed up and spoke breathlessly to Captain Meyer, asking where she could find her husband. Meyer told her he was being kept in a spare room in the officers’ quarters. He would take her there right away. Breanna told Marian she would look in on her and the colonel later.

Lynch pointed Stranger to the telegraph room and led Breanna toward the infirmary, a small log building in the very center of the fort. Next to it stood the guardhouse, and beyond that the mess hall.

Blue-uniformed men milled about the fort, which covered about three acres inside the stockade fence. Off to one side were the stables and the corral. On the opposite side were long rows of log barracks, and at a right angle to them were the officers’ quarters, the commandant’s office, a large meeting room, and the telegraph room.

Though the afternoon was cool with a touch of fall in the air, the infirmary door was propped open. Colonel Lynch led Breanna to the door, then stepped in front of her, stuck his head in, and said, “Doc, I have the nurse from the wagon train here.”

“Oh, great!” came a voice familiar to Breanna. “Please bring her in.”

C
OLONEL
D
EREK
L
YNCH
stepped back from the door, allowing Breanna Baylor to enter the infirmary, then moved in behind her. Breanna’s gaze swept through the room, taking in a dozen cots lining three walls. Seven were occupied. An eighth patient lay on the examining and operating table near the back wall. A white cabinet stood flat against the rear wall, sided by a long counter where a wash basin sat next to a well pump. The odor of wood alcohol mingled with the odor of ether. Only two of the wounded men had been attended to by the doctor. The others lay in pain, wrapped in makeshift bandages, awaiting their turn.

Dr. David Laird was at the operating table working on a wounded soldier. When he heard footsteps, he turned from his work momentarily to look over his shoulder. His eyes revealed the smile concealed by his surgeon’s mask.