Sarah's Heart (7 page)

Sarah stood, pulled
her bottoms up and hurriedly fastened them. She paused to peer around the tree
trunk at the mysterious form crumpled in a heap just a few feet away. She
inched forward, her heartbeat sounding in her ears. She bent and pulled her
pistol, holding the weapon in a shaking hand. Her jaw dropped, her eyes widened
when she was close enough to see the painted face of an Indian at her feet. She
gasped. Was he dead? She prayed he was.

Visions of her
scalped traveling companions returned, and Molly’s cries rang in her ears.
Sarah’s finger cramped with want to pull the trigger and gain retribution for
the lost lives. But her morals kept her from it. With a sigh, she let her gun
hand fall to her side, and stared at the prone figure. Taking a moment, she
pondered her next move. Still grasping the gun tightly, Sarah knelt and pressed
the shaking fingertips of her free hand into the flesh of the Indian’s neck,
feeling for a pulse. Maybe he was dead. Repositioning her hand, she searched
for the familiar thumping of life. It was there, shallow and slow, but evidence
that he lived. Overwhelmed by fear and disappointment, she now had another
choice to make—ride away on his horse or help him.

Judging from the
halo of light edging the darkness in the east, sunrise wasn’t far off. If the
savage remained unconscious until daylight, Sarah could continue on her way and
leave him to fend for himself. That was what she wanted to do. She owed him
nothing. Her heart hardened recalling poor Molly and the pain she suffered.
Straining to see through the pale light, Sarah gazed at the painted cheek and
wondered who would mourn him if he didn’t return. She shook her head. It wasn’t
her problem.

Reaching up into the
tree, she snagged her belongings and dropped into a crouch at the trunk’s base.
She cast a wary stare at the Indian, wondering what was wrong with him. As soon
as it was light enough to find her way back to the trail, she’d forget all
about him. “He isn’t worth saving,” she mumbled. Her conscience argued,
recalling a Biblical phrase, ‘judge not lest ye be judged.’

Her eyes grew heavy
from staring at his shadowy outline, and when he moaned, she jumped to her feet
and grabbed, her gun. She stood over his limp form, and in the blossoming dawn,
clearly saw that he was young, maybe her age within a year or two.
Bare
from the waist up, his bronzed back rose and fell
slowly with each breath. His long eyelashes fluttered as if keeping rhythm.
Sarah’s fingers strangely longed to move the thick black braid that framed his
high cheekbone so she could better see his face, but she didn’t dare.

Her face burned as
her gaze traveled down the length of him. His bottom half was covered only by a
rawhide flap. She tried not to stare, focusing instead on his strange footwear.
The knee-length, fringed boots he wore were not like the ones she was
accustomed to seeing; they appeared much softer. There were no apparent
injuries, but a small circle of red colored the ground beneath him. Curiosity
made her want to turn him over.

She argued with her
conscience while eying his horse. As she’d already proclaimed to herself, she
wasn’t a doctor. Even if she stayed, there was no guarantee she would know what
to do. Making her decision, she grabbed her knapsack, donned her canteens and
walked toward the grazing animal.

The horse eyed her
nervously, and sidestepped away from her. “Whoa, girl,” she said, leaning over
to make sure her assumption was right. It was definitely a mare.

“Come here, missy.
I’m not going to hurt you.” Sarah held out her hand.

The horse softly
whinnied, tossing her black mane in the air, then calmed and curiously sniffed
Sarah’s outstretched fingers. Sarah reached for the lead rope, noticing at the
same time that the animal wore no saddle. “Great. How do I get on?” She
grumbled, tensing her jaw.

Tucking the rope
under her neck, Sarah slipped her arms through her knapsack and hiked the bag
onto her back. With her belongings in place, she grasped the twine and a hand
full of horsehair and tried to heft herself astride, but failed. The horse was
tall, at least sixteen hands, and there was nothing for Sarah to stand on. She
wasn’t a practiced horsewoman, but the few times she had ridden, she’d always
had a stirrup to step up into. “What next, oh Lord,” she asked, staring
skyward. “You give me a means of travel but keep me from using it.”

 
After three more unsuccessful tries, the mare
became as nervous as Sarah, skittering in a circle each time she approached.
Sarah heaved a heavy sigh, deciding to lead the animal until she found a stump
or something to help her get astride. The important thing was to get back on
the road. She took one last rueful look at the young Indian, and started toward
the trail.

Leading the plodding
horse through the tall grass that lined the rutted road, Sarah kept a watchful
eye for something to help her mount, but so far saw nothing. She looked over
her shoulder, taking another glimpse of the injured man she left behind. Why
did it bother her so? She argued that he’d probably kill her if he had a
chance, but that didn’t make her feel any better. He was a living, breathing
soul, and she’d been raised to respect life. She rolled her eyes, muttering a
loud, “humph.” The Indians certainly had no bones about slaughtering her
friends.

Spying a boulder
cropping through the grass, she stopped beside it, pausing so quickly that the
animal she led nudged her in the back. A smile tugged at Sarah’s lips as she
teetered forward then turned back to the rock. At last, something encouraging.

Sarah stepped up
onto the stone, preparing to mount. The petrifying sound of a rattle preceded a
painful sting on the back of her leg. She grimaced in pain and dropped the lead
rope to inspect the bite. The mare, frightened by the instinctive sound of a
snake, whinnied and reared on hind legs, its front hooves coming dangerously
close to Sarah’s head. Realizing its freedom, the horse bolted back down the
trail, leaving Sarah stranded again.

Limping, Sarah
backed away from the rock to avoid another strike. She hung her head, wishing
she hadn’t disturbed the sleeping reptile, and bent, grasping her calf, trying
to stem the burning pain beneath her flesh. She’d heard that sucking the venom
out was a life-saving measure, but there was no way her mouth could reach the
wound. Her mind raced. Surely God didn’t save her so she could fall victim to a
rattlesnake. She took a deep breath, trying to slow her heart from pumping the
deadly poison throughout her body. A fearful sob tumbled out when she exhaled.
Maybe this was the Lord’s punishment for leaving another human to die.

No! Sarah’s mind
refused to accept that explanation. She was a good person and she wasn’t about
to lie down and give up. She had to think rationally. What would help? Quickly
she shed her back pack, and clawed at the knot in one of the petticoat strips.
She needed something to slow the blood flow. Her fingers trembled, making it
impossible to undo the tightened fabric. She stopped for a moment and covered
her mouth to muffle the scream building in her throat. The traveling venom
created an uncomfortable heat as it made its way up her leg.

Suddenly she
remembered the piece of a rawhide that held her hair in place. Reaching up, she
stripped the tie from her thick tresses and quickly untied it and fastened it
just below her knee. She nervously chewed her lip, noticing that the warmth
subsided, at least for the moment.

Sarah pulled a
canteen to her lips and washed the dryness from her mouth. She had to find
help—somehow, somewhere. She couldn’t die, she wouldn’t die. Not like this.
Picking up her belongings, she focused on the trail and forced herself to walk.
Despite trying to remain calm, her pulse pounded in her temples and panic
tightened her throat. She took a deep breath, and started to hum. The music
brought serenity, as thoughts of childhood raced through her mind, at least
until the pain pulled her back to the moment.

Her pant leg strained
against her swollen calf. The burning sensation had returned and Sarah’s mouth
felt as dry as cotton. Without slowing her pace, she took a huge swig of water
and swished it around to quench her thirst. She swallowed it slowly, letting it
soothe her throat.

Her gaze, fixed
forward, searched for a miracle. For a moment, she lowered her lids in reverent
prayer. “Please God, send someone to help me. Don’t let me…”

A bird, circling
overhead cried out, interrupting Sarah’s plea. She shielded her eyes to look skyward,
trembling at the sight of a lone vulture. When he swooped down for a closer
look, Sarah dropped her pack and shielded her head with her arms. Greater than
her fear of dying was
knowing
that the ugly
scavenger’s call probably summoned others to join in the feast.

 
Tears burned Sarah’s eyes and a giant lump in
her throat threatened to choke her. She bent and picked up a huge stone. “I’ll
not be your dinner tonight,” she screamed, as she hurled the rock aimlessly
into the air.

Crumpling into a
heap, Sarah sagged to the ground and began to sob.
“Or…or
ever.”
She
hiccupped
the end of her sentence,
wondering if it was true. Even her gun couldn’t help her fight off a whole
flock. She had only a few rounds of ammunition. She wanted to bargain with God,
but it seemed like He had turned his back on her.

 
Her whole leg ached. The rawhide bit into her
skin, and her calf felt as though someone held a branding iron to it. Surely if
she released the tie, death was certain.With all the swelling, she couldn’t
even pull up her pant leg to see the bite. Maybe it was just as well. She took
another calming breath and tried to think positive thoughts. If only
someone…anyone would happen along the trail.

Sarah felt
lightheaded as she got to her feet. She had to push on. Wobbly at first, she
concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, hoping beyond hope that
help would come. Each step sent a searing pain through her right leg. A short
way down the road, she stopped and peered over her shoulder, realizing that in
her delirium, she had left her belongings in the middle of the road.

She turned to go
back for them, but sudden weakness replaced the pain. Her legs felt leaden, her
gait uneven. Sarah staggered to the side, trying to retain her balance, but
tripped on a hardened rut and fell headlong into the tall grass lining the
trail. Her hat flew off, letting her long, blonde hair cascade free as she
landed with a plop, crushing the sun-dried reeds beneath her.

The fall knocked the
air out of her. Sarah rolled to her back and remained sprawled on the ground,
searching the sky apprehensively. Terror combined with her rising fever and
sent chills coursing through her veins. She tried to rise, but unseen forces
held her down. There was no use. Even if she got up, as her mind commanded, her
body couldn’t continue. What a horrid way to die—alone with no one to even shed
a tear.

“Help me. Please God, hel.…” The sky blue
faded to black as her eyes closed and her speech failed.

Gray Wolf blinked.
Something was wrong. The strange view puzzled him, but as the grogginess
disappeared, he realized he was stomach down on the ground, peering through
blades of grass.

 
Something wet and warm nudged his arm. He
stiffened then cautiously turned his head, feeling a flood of relief to see a
hoof and Scout’s white muzzle. Each time a breath flowed from the animal’s
nostrils, a whoosh of air bathed Wolf’s face.

His mind raced.
Where was he
?Why
did his side hurt?

The horse prodded
again, this time stronger. Wolf stroked her nose. The two had been a pair since
Scout was a pony, and she was the one creature on earth he trusted to be loyal.
At his continued touch, Scout meandered away and nibbled a nearby patch of
prairie grass.

Partial memories
returned as Wolf rolled over and gazed at the sky. He’d been foolish, thinking
he could face a buffalo with only his skinning knife. Where was his warrior’s
mind when he let the creature get between him and Scout? Wolf had dismounted
and knelt to get a drink from the stream. As he cupped his hands and filled
them with cool water, he heard an angry snort. The earth shivered when a bull
thundered toward him, a cloud of dust rising in his wake almost obscuring the
female behind him. Wolf’s heart had matched the sound of the pounding hooves. Normally
placid, the rutting bull saw him as a danger and attacked. With no chance to
run for safety, Wolf dove into the stream, lucky that only one of the razor
sharp horns grazed his side. He cleansed the wound as best he could and rode
until tiredness and blood loss rendered him unconscious. He didn’t even
remember tumbling from his horse.

Placing his hand
over the wound, Wolf then raised his palm to check for fresh blood. There
wasn’t any. That was a good sign. The injury felt gritty with dirt, but perhaps
that was what stanched the flow. Still woozy, he rested his head on his arm and
stared into space, replaying the last day over in his head.

He couldn’t rid his
mind of the massacre; wagon bonnets waiving in the breeze, bones picked clean,
the smell of death lingering everywhere.
And not one
survivor.
His sorrow for the lost souls was clouded by joy that his late
arrival prevented him from becoming yet another victim of his red brothers—or
half-brothers. Gray Wolf, born a half-breed, struggled to find his fit in life.
No matter what race he chose, there were always those who shunned him—tried to
make him feel less than human. People’s hatred had only made him stronger and
more determined to build a life for himself wherever he wished. He’d expected
that same bitter treatment when he’d met Eli Simms, but he seemed different.
Their meeting in Independence
replayed itself in his mind.