The Doctor's Lady (16 page)

The gelding was tired too and couldn’t move at nearly the pace Eli needed it to. He kicked it again and again, dread flowing from his blood into his nerves.

“Come on, come on.” Rain pelted his face. Branches whipped him.

The horse stumbled down the rocky descent toward the river. With each lurch, fear settled deeper into Eli’s bones.

Through the growth, he caught sight of a wagon across the river. The men he’d hired to drive the wagons would know how to make the crossing, but he didn’t trust Henry.

When Eli reached the bottom of the ravine, he broke through the brush, and the full view of the river lay before him.

“O Lord Almighty!” He breathed a prayer as his heart crashed into his ribs.

The rushing water had swept Priscilla from her saddle into the water. Her horse had continued without her, following Henry and Mabel, who were already safe in the shallower water.

Priscilla was clinging to the drag rope that went from one bank to the other, but the water swelled around her, threatening to wrest her from the rope and sweep her away.

John and Richard had tossed aside their shirts and were swimming toward her. But their hold on the line was causing her to sway even more.

“Stop!” Eli galloped toward the bank and splashed into the water. He kicked his horse forward, praying the beast would have the strength to withstand the swift current.

“Stop!” he shouted again. The Indian boys halted and shifted to look at him.

Priscilla’s pale face turned toward him. The terror in her eyes reached out and clawed at his gut, slicing it open and releasing a cold fear of his own.

“Don’t let go!” He dug his heels into his horse. The water swirled around its legs, rushing higher with every unsteady step.

Her fingers around the rope were white. The skirt of her dress billowed above the surface, tugging at her, tangling her legs, a deadly enemy working at tearing her away from her precarious hold.

The water crashed over his boots and legs, rising to the horse’s belly, but he urged his horse harder.

“I can’t hold on.” She closed her eyes and a sob escaped from her lips.

The cold fear turned his blood to ice. He reached a hand out to her. “I’m almost there.”

One of her hands slipped from the rope.

Mabel’s scream echoed from a distance—as if she were miles away instead of yards.

“Hang on!” He lunged forward and caught Priscilla’s wrist just as her fingers began to lose their grip.

Her weight threatened to pull him from his mount. He gripped his horse with his thighs and dug his boots deeper into the stirrups. He wrapped the reins around his arm then let go so he could grab her with both hands.

The reins dug deep, burning his skin, but the hold anchored him to his horse. With a groan, he hefted her with a strength borne of panic. He couldn’t lose her. Not here. Not now.

“Grab on to me.”

Her eyes were round with terror. The rushing water had ripped her bonnet from her head and unraveled her hair so that it swirled in a wet tangle about her face.

She gave a cry and wrapped both her hands around his arm.

He wrenched her upward, but the strong current and the weight of her drenched clothes fought against him.

His horse took a step back, and the motion lifted Priscilla out of the river’s hold. He urged his gelding back another step, and she came sliding upward.

With a last heave, Eli dragged her up the side of the horse and lifted her sideways into the saddle in front of him.

Her arms snaked around him, and she clung to him, burying her face into his chest as sobs shook her body.

He unwound his arm from the reins and turned his horse toward the shore.

The horse wobbled, and he gripped the reins hard.

“Come on, boy.” He urged the gelding forward. His hold around Priscilla turned fierce. Now that he had her, he wouldn’t lose her. Not unless he died first.

The horse sloshed into shallower water and finally stumbled up the bank. Eli slid from the horse, pulling Priscilla down with him.

Dazed relief weakened his knees, and he fell back into the long grass, taking Priscilla with him.

“Thank you, God,” he murmured against her hair.

She clung to him, trembling.

Mabel rushed over and reached for Priscilla. “Praise the Lord.”

Too tired to speak, he shook his head. But he wasn’t too tired to tighten his hold so that Mabel had no choice but to back away.

He ran a hand over the wet tangles of Priscilla’s hair and combed them off her face.

She shuddered, every inch of her body thoroughly soaked.

Intense relief poured over him, and he pressed his lips to her temple.

Her pulse throbbed against his touch.

Death had captured her within its grasp and almost swallowed her. If he’d been a few minutes later . . .

He wound his fingers into her thick wet strands and took a deep breath, trying to still the frantic pounding of his heartbeat. He brushed his lips against the soft wet skin of her forehead, tasting her saltiness.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured through chattering teeth.

He could only picture the planks of a coffin and her lying within the dark box, her skin translucent, her lips colorless, eyes closed forever.

“No. I’m sorry,” he said, choking on the words. “I’m sorry I left you. I won’t do it again.”

He wouldn’t—couldn’t—risk losing her to death.

The strength of his fear pulsed hard, demanding that he do whatever it took to keep her safe.
Whatever
it took.

Near the Platte River

T
hey spent the next two days traveling from early dawn until well after dusk. They left the Missouri River and headed in a northwest direction toward the Loup Fork. With each mile they traveled away from the lush river valley, they encountered fewer and fewer trees until eventually nothing but the wide open prairie spread before them like an endless ocean of waving grass.

If Priscilla thought she’d been weary before, she hadn’t known the true meaning of the word.

The coldness of the dark night was all that kept her awake.

“We’ve got to stop now, Dr. Ernest.” Henry’s voice penetrated the weary fog that had settled over her.

“We’re near the fork,” Eli replied. “A few more miles maybe.”

“Horses, cows—need rest,” John called. The boys rarely defied Eli’s instruction. But the sun had set hours ago, and Eli had continued to push the group onward.

They’d begun to see signs of Pawnee Indians in the area. Time was running out. If they didn’t catch up with the caravan by the time they reached the Pawnee villages on the other side of the Platte River, they would have to turn around. They would be foolish to attempt passing the villages without the protection of the trappers.

“No good for animals or Mrs. Doc,” Richard added.

For a moment Eli didn’t reply. “All right.” His voice hinted at weariness. “We’ll stop here for a few hours’ rest.”

Mabel had long since retired to one of the wagons. When Eli had talked of throwing some of their supplies overboard to help them move faster, Priscilla hadn’t dared ask if she could ride in the wagon too.

Her body sagged. All she’d been able to think about the past two days since her near drowning was that she wanted to be warm and dry and clean. Even though she’d eventually changed into dry clothes, rain had been their constant companion of late. Their India rubbers could keep them dry only to a point.

Besides, she was tired of traveling, tired of eating cold food, tired of sleeping on the hard, damp ground. And it was growing harder to prevent herself from wondering if she’d really made the right choice coming west. Had she been too hasty? If she’d waited, would God have made a way for her to go to India?

Worse than those nagging questions was the bigger one, the one that mocked her whenever she faced adversity—was everyone right that the journey was too hard for a lady like her?

She wriggled out of her sidesaddle and slumped to wet ground. Through the blackness of the night by the faint light of the shrouded moon, she watched Eli untie a cup from his saddle.

His words of praise from before her near drowning still warmed her heart every time she thought about them. He’d told her she was doing well. She was proving herself to him. She couldn’t give up yet.

Through the jangle of harnesses and the soft chirping of crickets, she could hear the ping of cow’s milk squirting against Eli’s tin cup. Those hands against the cow’s udder had saved her life.

She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how he’d charged into the river after her and braved the rushing current. He’d appeared almost out of nowhere, and his face had been chiseled with a determination that had given her renewed hope.

He’d risked his life to save hers.

What kind of man would do that for a woman?

And the way he’d held her on the banks of the river . . .

A sweet ache wound through her belly at the memory. He’d crushed her—the fierceness of his embrace was like nothing she’d ever known before. And inside the safety of his strong arms she’d savored the steady thump of his heartbeat against her ear, the solidness of his chest, the musky scent of his body.

Maybe his concern had been borne of the moment. Maybe he would have cared for anyone else the same way. Even so, whenever she glanced at his broad shoulders and thought about what a strong, good man he was, her insides quivered with strange longing, the desire to be special to him, to be cherished, to be more than just another missionary.

Richard approached her and held out his hand. “Mrs. Doc, get sleep.”

She nodded, weariness washing back over her.

He helped her up and propelled her toward the covered wagon.

“Thank you, Richard.”

He steadied her climb inside the damp, musty wagon bed.

Mabel was still asleep on the makeshift bed Henry had assembled for her out of blankets on top of crates pushed together.

Priscilla sank onto her trunk and leaned her head back against the side of the canvas. She didn’t care if she fell asleep sitting up. She was just glad to be off the horse and out of the rain.

“Priscilla,” Eli whispered.

She started.

“I have a cup of milk for you.”

“You do?” She searched the blackness of the canvas opening and could make out the outline of his body.

“Come drink this.”

She crawled toward him. Her hand found his, and he gently folded her fingers around the tin cup. She brought it to her lips and took a long drink of the warm, creamy liquid.

“Do you want some?” she asked, holding the cup out to him.

“No, you finish it.”

“Are you sure?”

“There’s plenty more where that came from.” His tone had the hint of a smile.

“True.” She was grateful Eli had thought to bring the milk cows along.

She took another long drink and finished it off. The warmth trickled through her.

“Do you want any more?”

She could just imagine him in the dark, fumbling at the cow’s udder, squirting milk into the cup. It was the last thing he needed to be doing when they were all so weary.

“I’m very satisfied.” She pressed the cup back into his hands. “Thank you.”

He shifted but didn’t make a move to leave. The even rhythm of his breath sent a cascade of tingles over her skin and a rush of energy through her, waking every nerve.

“I’m sorry you had to keep riding,” he finally whispered, “and couldn’t take a break in the wagon with Mabel.”

“She needs the rest more than I do,” Priscilla whispered back. At least that’s what she’d told herself and prayed God would give her the strength to believe it.

He was quiet for a moment, as if he wanted to say something more but didn’t know quite what.

“You’re holding up, then?” he finally said.

“I’m surviving.” She wasn’t sure how well, but she didn’t want him to know that. What she did know was that each day God was showing her just how selfish and pampered a life she’d led up until the trip.

“I’m glad you’re making it—that you’re still alive.”

The relief in his voice sent a tremor through her middle.

“Get some sleep.” His warm breath fanned her forehead.

She wanted him to linger, wanted to lay her head against his chest and have him encircle her with his arms.

But he stepped back and pulled the canvas closed. Utter darkness fell upon her. She shuddered from a sudden damp chill and clutched her arms across her chest.

Loneliness crept through the blackness and slithered next to her.

Thoughts of her family who loved her flooded her mind. She’d always had companionship and attention, even when she’d wanted to be alone.

But now . . .

What would it be like to have a different kind of relationship with Eli, one where he didn’t have to leave her at night, where he could hold her and they could whisper together about their dreams and plans?

Surely she had sensed some desire from him. But was he ready to put aside their partnership for something more? Would he ever want to? Would she?

With a shiver, she rubbed her arms, lay back among the blankets, and closed her weary eyes. She must never forget that God had called her to love and save the lost heathen. That was the most important thing. And no matter what happened, God would be her constant companion.

Still, she couldn’t help that her last thought was of Eli’s arms surrounding her and pulling her close.

At the first hint of dawn, Eli roused them. After a cold breakfast of dried beef and pickles, they started forward again.

The recent rains had saturated the ground, and the hired men struggled to drive the wagons through the long, soggy grass.

Priscilla didn’t have the energy to hold her head up. Even when the sun began to rise and show promise of making its appearance for the first time in days, she couldn’t find the stamina for cheerfulness.

Only after John and Richard pulled their horses next to hers and began to point out the fascinating wildlife of the open prairies did she begin to feel alive again.

Richard stared into the sky, at the thin black line floating in the distance.
“Weptes.”

Priscilla peered at the bird. “Is it another falcon, like the ones we saw among the bluffs of the Missouri River?”

“No falcon.” Richard shook his head, and his long braid swished against his back.
“We-ptes.”

Priscilla studied the long wingspan and the lighter—almost white—head that contrasted with its dark body. “Is it an eagle?”

“Ea-gle?” the boys both said at once.

She smiled at them and lifted her gaze to the majestic bird soaring with the wind currents. “I’ve never seen a bald eagle before.”

“River ahead,” John said. “
Weptes
hunt fish.” Excitement lit the boy’s face, and he spurred his horse to a gallop toward the front of their group.

“Did you know,” she said to Richard, who lingered beside her, “the bald eagle was picked as our national emblem because at one of the first battles of the Revolution, the noise of the battle woke the sleeping eagles? They flew from their nests and circled over the fighting men, shrieking for freedom.”

“The eagles were probably just waiting for carnage to eat.” Eli’s voice next to her made her jump.

He reined his horse until he matched her pace, then he grinned.

Her heart sped to a gallop.

Even with the dark circles under his eyes and the shadows of scruff on his face, he was still as ruggedly handsome as the first day she’d seen him in the meetinghouse. Could she dare say he was even more appealing?

She peered at the gliding eagle, lest he see deep into her eyes to her wild thoughts. “The eagle is a strange mixture of strength and gentleness, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.” His gaze didn’t waver from her, and the intensity of it sent a shiver through her.

“You’re like an eagle, Dr. Ernest.” She tried to infuse humor into her tone. “You’re a mixture of strength and gentleness too.”

Even though she’d hoped to jest and cover the attraction, she was sure he could see it in her face and eyes.

He didn’t say anything.

She chanced a glance at him.

“We have another river crossing ahead.” His eyes gently probed hers. “Loup Fork, the place where the Loup River meets the Platte River.”

A rush of fear cascaded through her body and chilled her blood.

“I just wanted to let you know that you don’t have anything to fear.”

The water of the Elkhorn River had been frigid, had weighted down her skirt, had clawed at her, had wanted to swallow her.

“And I wanted you to know that this time, I’ll be right there with you.”

She gave him what she hoped was a confident nod, but as he spurred his horse ahead, she pulled back on hers. Her heart pounded with dread. She was the last to straggle to the sandy banks of the river.

“We’ve done it, Sister Ernest.” Tears streamed down Mabel’s face. She pointed across the wide river to the opposite shore. “The Fur Company caravan is over there.”

“Indeed?” A thrill of excitement mingled through Priscilla’s fear.

A circle of baggage, tents, wagons, mules, and men was coming to life. Drifts of smoke rose into the clear morning air, and the braying of the mules wafted across the river. It was like a village. How would so many animals ever move forward in an organized fashion?

She lowered herself from her horse, and relief seeped through her. “We did it!”

“Praise the Lord.” Mabel lifted her face heavenward.

Priscilla searched the figures across the river. Where were Running Feet and David? Had they survived without her?

Eli trotted his horse into the water. “I’ll take the drag rope across and let Captain Fitzpatrick know we’re here.” He plunged his gelding deeper and moved quickly but in an instant the horse stumbled and started to sink down.

A scream stuck in Priscilla’s throat.

“I’m in a patch of quicksand!” Eli shouted. The gray swirling water sucked at his horse until Eli was hip deep.

Richard, John, and the other Nez Perce traveling with them shed their shirts and charged in after Eli.

Henry stepped to the edge of the water. “Pull him loose, boys.”

The Indians swam toward Eli, yelling to each other in their native language.

“Faster,” Henry called. He glanced from his shoes to the water and then took a step away from the shore.

“Don’t just stand there.” Priscilla turned to Henry, desperation churning through her. “Go in and help him.”

“Now, Sister Ernest, calm down,” he said, staring at the men. Henry rarely spoke or looked directly at her, as if he hoped to avoid the unspoken awkwardness that still existed between them. “I’m sure the horse will be out in no time.”