The Preacher's Bride Claim
Thank You, Lord.
* * *
Alice had barely been able to keep up with the big man who’d hastily identified himself as Elijah Thornton’s brother Gideon.
She didn’t want to do this. She knew if she tended to the wounded man, she would no longer pass unnoticed in the tent city. People would know her name and that she was a nurse, and the requests would never end.
And Maxwell Peterson might hear of it.
But how could she say no when a man’s life hung in the balance? It wouldn’t be right, even on a basic humanitarian level, and it certainly wouldn’t be a Christian thing to do.
So she’d hastily gathered up her supplies. The kit she’d put together before her journey contained sturdy darning thread—which she’d boiled, then wrapped in an ironed handkerchief—similarly wrapped boiled needles, bandaging lint and a stoppered bottle of disinfectant.
She had hoped she’d never need those supplies, but now here she was, panting from her run and staring down at a man whose ghastly pallor told her that he would die if she didn’t help him. Or maybe even if she did.
“Thanks for coming, Miss Hawthorne,” said Elijah Thornton, who was kneeling over the man, leaning on a blood-stained wad of cloth on the man’s left leg. “Mr. Gilbert accidentally gashed his leg with an ax. Obviously he’s lost a lot of blood,” he added, indicating the dark crimson puddle beneath the limb.
Alice took a deep breath, summoning the calm that had earned her a valued reputation with the doctors of Bellevue. She couldn’t help a victim if she succumbed to the vapors, after all. “Let me see the wound,” she said, carrying her bag over to the recumbent man.
“Very well, but I must warn you, each time I let up on the pressure, the blood starts flowing again,” Elijah cautioned her. Splotches of dark scarlet on his sleeves confirmed what he said.
She nodded and said, “Give me one minute, please, before you release the pressure.” She stared at the circle of gaping men and women around her. “Does anyone have a belt I can use? And a sturdy stick, or long-handled spoon, as well as a knife?”
Most of the men’s trousers were held up by suspenders, but finally a skinny man at the back of the circle made his way through the throng, one hand holding a belt, the other one holding up his trousers; another man furnished a wicked-looking knife from his boot. A woman—Alice recognized her as the deaconess who’d passed the collection sack this morning—stopped wailing and rummaged in a crate fastened to the nearby wagon, coming up with a long-handled spoon, which she held out to Alice.
Kneeling beside the man, Alice did her best to smile down at him. “Mr. Gilbert, I’m Miss Hawthorne, a nurse, and first we’re going to stop the bleeding with a tourniquet, so I can see your wound.”
Mr. Gilbert swallowed with difficulty, but his wide eyes were trusting as he gazed up at her. “Thank ya, Miss H-Hawthorne...I don’t wanna die. Please don’t let me bleed t’ death.”
“I won’t,” she assured him, hoping and praying it would prove to be the truth. Lack of hope could kill a man as quickly as blood loss.
Quickly and efficiently, she slit the trouser leg up the seam and pushed it back from the wound. “Reverend, if you would apply pressure once more?” Then, trying to remember everything about the safe use of tourniquets—taught to her by a surgeon at Bellevue, who’d once treated soldiers in the Civil War—Alice drew one end of the belt under his upper leg, fastened the buckle, then began to twist the belt until she could twist it no more. Finally she stuck the spoon handle into the small remaining loop. Her eyes sought Gideon, who’d remained nearby. “Please hold this loop twisted tight as I have it,” she instructed him. “Don’t let it go unless I tell you.”
He did so, keeping pale gray eyes trained on her.
“Now you can remove your hands,” she told Elijah, and he eased away from the victim with a sigh of relief.
“Can you hold that lantern directly over his leg, please, so I can see what we’re dealing with?” she asked another man who’d come into the circle, a man who looked so much like Elijah he had to be another of his brothers. Once the lantern light flickered over the temporary bandage, she gingerly lifted a corner of it and inspected the gash.
Thanks to the tourniquet, the blood flow had stopped, so she could see the wound on the inside of the left lower leg was about four inches long and at least an inch deep. It must have crossed a big blood vessel to have bled so much—not an artery, she thought, for the bleeding hadn’t been spurting when pressure was loosened, just a steady, continuing crimson stream.
“I’m going to have to stitch up the wound,” she told Gilbert and his wife. “It’s going to hurt some.”
He regarded her with eyes that were now calm. “You do whatever you have t’ do, Miss Hawthorne. I’m in the Lord’s hands as well as yours. Say, weren’t you the newcomer at chapel this mornin’?”
She pretended not to hear the question but directed those with lanterns to come closer and hold the lanterns as steady as they could. Then, after cleaning the wound with carbolic, she started stitching.
Conversation died down as the men watched her work until all Alice could hear was the steady inhale and exhale of her own breathing, and the pounding pulse in her ears.
* * *
An hour later, Elijah watched Alice straighten after putting what was left of her supplies in an oilskin bag. Mr. Gilbert slept inside his wagon, having been lifted there by some of the men. His wife, who’d been profuse with her gratitude, sat beside him. His color was better, and a clean white bandage was wrapped around his newly sutured leg. Those who had been standing around watching the drama began to disperse to their own campsites.
“Thank you, Miss Hawthorne,” Elijah said. “I am in awe of your ability.” The words were so inadequate. Without a murmur of disgust or shrinking from such an awful sight as the ax wound had been, this woman had saved a man’s life.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, her voice weary as she pushed back an errant curl that had strayed onto her perspiration-dampened forehead. “He could still develop septicemia—blood poisoning. What I wouldn’t have given for a handful of catgut ligatures, instead of boiled darning thread,” she said. “I’m glad now that I brought a jar of carbolic acid on my journey. There’s nothing better to cleanse a wound.”
“I thought we might have need of your skills but not so soon as it happened,” Elijah commented.
“Once a nurse, always a nurse,” she responded wryly.
“You met my brother Gideon, of course, but this is my other brother, Clint,” Elijah said, when both men joined them.
“It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am,” the man who’d held the lantern said, and beside him, the big man who’d summoned Alice rumbled an agreement.
Elijah saw Alice staring dazedly at the wagon and around the campsite, as if she’d forgotten where she was.
“Come on, it’s late,” he said gently, wondering if she was a bit in shock herself, now that the emergency had passed. “We’ll walk you back to your campsite.”
“No, I must stay. Mr. Gilbert has to be watched,” Alice protested. “His wife can’t do it—you saw that she was exhausted. If he moves around in his sleep too much, the wound could reopen and bleed again. Or he could develop fever—”
Elijah hadn’t thought about the need to watch Mr. Gilbert through the night, but it was plain Miss Hawthorne was dead on her feet and couldn’t do it. Her cheeks were pale, and her eyes showed the strain of the past hour or so.
“I’ll stay,” Elijah said, “and my brothers will walk you home. I’ve sat up with the sick before,” he added, when she opened her mouth with the obvious intent of objecting. “I’ll come fetch you if he worsens during the night, I promise.”
She stared at him, then her shoulders sagged in surrender and fatigue. “Now it’s my turn to thank you, Reverend Thornton,” she said. “I’ll check on him in the morning. I’ll have to keep an eye on him for several days and take the stitches out.”
“Please, call me Elijah,” he said, surprising himself. It just didn’t seem right to stand on formality after such an event. He could see how fatigued she was by the dark shadows blooming under her eyes. “Get some rest, Miss Hawthorne. Gideon, Clint, please walk Miss Hawthorne back to her tent.”
Gideon had told him that Miss Hawthorne’s tent was five campsites to the left of theirs. Now Elijah knew where to find Alice, but he prayed he would not have to seek her out because of a medical crisis any time soon.
Chapter Four
“Good night, Miss Hawthorne. Thanks again for what you did,” Clint Thornton said, tipping his hat to her.
“Good night, gentlemen.” Alice watched Gideon and Clint Thornton walk away from her tent. Elijah Thornton was a good man, she thought. Apparently he was a true shepherd to his flock. His brothers seemed like good men, too, both the taciturn Gideon and the more talkative Clint, though very different from their preacher brother.
Alice stretched, feeling the muscles in her lower back and legs protest the long time she had knelt to suture the wound. She was more exhausted than she’d ever been, even after a double shift at the hospital or a difficult calving on the farm. The coppery, acrid stench of blood lingered in her nostrils.
Please, Lord, let Mr. Gilbert heal without infection, she prayed as she lay down on her cot a few minutes later. She’d have to go check on her patient first thing in the morning and hoped she could remember how to get back to the Gilberts’ campsite. She’d been so intent on not losing sight of Gideon running ahead of her that she hadn’t paid much attention to where they were heading.
She’d have to check and redress the wound every day, and make sure the patient and his wife knew the importance of keeping the wound clean and dry. Even sterilized silk suture was an irritant to the skin, compared to absorbable catgut, and she’d had to use coarse cotton darning thread. She’d go to the Gilberts’ at sunrise, she decided, so that Elijah Thornton could return to his tent and prepare for his chapel service. Poor man, after sitting up with his deacon all night, he’d be even wearier than she expected to be come morning.
She’d offer to make some broth for Mr. Gilbert from the beef bone she’d been intending to make stew with tomorrow. With the blood loss, the man would be weak and perhaps feverish. Better take some dried willow bark to make into tea, she thought, in case the man’s wife didn’t have any. With the list of chores running through her head, she feared she wouldn’t sleep.
But the heat and sunlight stirred her, apparently hours later. When she awakened, one glance at the watch she’d unpinned from her bodice and left lying on an upended crate by her bed told her that she’d overslept straight through to midmorning. She dressed quickly, then picked up her valise full of dressing supplies and medicaments, and headed in the direction she thought the Gilberts’ tent lay.
Elijah would be conducting his prayer meeting at this hour, she thought, regretting that she had missed him, then assured herself it only mattered because she’d wanted to hear from him how his deacon had passed the night.
She managed to find her way to the tent with only one wrong turn. She found Mrs. Gilbert stirring a pot over the campfire, and Mr. Gilbert reclining in the shade of the wagon, propped up on pillows.
He was pale, but without the flush of fever Alice had been dreading. Nevertheless, as soon as she had greeted them both, she knelt at his side and felt her patient’s forehead. She was pleased to find it no warmer than her hand.
“He had some fever during the night,” Mrs. Gilbert volunteered, “but I brewed him some willow bark tea. I’m simmering some broth in this pot here, ’cause his appetite’s still a little puny after all the blood he lost last night.”
“Excellent,” Alice said approvingly, silently commending the woman for her common sense.
There were only a few spots of dried blood on Mr. Gilbert’s dressing, she noted, unwrapping it from his leg. She found the wound as she had hoped—a little pink around the edges, as was to be expected, but with no fresh bleeding and without the angry red appearance and purulent drainage she had feared. Thank You, Lord, she breathed.
After first anointing the wound with some salve from her bag, she applied a new dressing and a fresh bandage. “I’ll be back to check on him this evening, Mrs. Gilbert. Keep an eye on his temperature, would you? Meanwhile, if you have need of me, I should be at my campsite most of the time—five tents to the east of the Thorntons’. If I’m not, please just leave me a note, and I’ll come as soon as I find it.”
“Not so fast, Miss Alice. Let me dish you up some breakfast,” Mrs. Gilbert offered, pointing to a covered skillet.
Alice began to demur, not wanting to consume what might be the couple’s limited resources, but the woman waved away her polite refusal. “Nonsense, it’s the least we can do after what you did last night, and I’m guessing you hurried right here soon as you woke up, didn’t you, poor lamb? You still look tuckered yourself, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
The woman’s efficient kindness was a balm. Alice surrendered, and was given a plate heaped with scrambled eggs, bacon and biscuits. Afterward she felt as if she could take on the world or at least whatever challenges Boomer Town had to offer today. With a last admonition to her patient just to rest today and a promise from Mrs. Gilbert that she’d make sure he did so, Alice took her leave.
It might be a good day to look at saddle horses, she thought. There was a corral full of them at the end of one of the rows of tents that passed for streets in Boomer Town, watched over by a wiry man with the shifty, knowing eyes of a born horse trader. She’d strolled past the corral before, spotting a tall, handsome bay that looked as if he could run. But then there was that chestnut mare with the sweetest face...
Alice had taken the train as close as she could to the territory, then purchased a tent and camping supplies, a wagon and two stout horses to pull it the rest of the way to the border of the Unassigned Lands. She’d chosen Boomer Town—one of the many tent cities along the boundaries—more or less at random. The wagon horses were kept with others of their kind in a common corral, and she had paid a fee for their upkeep.
She’d initially planned to make the run in the wagon, but she hadn’t expected there would be such hordes of would-be homesteaders waiting with her. More arrived every day. Now Alice thought the heavily laden wagon would hold her back, and only a fast horse would ensure her a good claim.
Alice figured it was probably best to buy her horse sooner rather than later to be sure of getting a good one. That would mean paying for its feed between now and the big day, but she’d have the advantage of getting to know her mount’s temperament and ways in the meantime.
But if she wasn’t driving her wagon into the Unassigned Lands, she’d have to leave it here in Boomer Town until after she had staked her claim. Already enterprising gents were offering to secure such wagons, stock and belongings for a fee until successful homesteaders could return for them, but could they be trusted? Alice reasoned it would be better to make friends with other settlers who were leaving their possessions in Boomer Town with family members and barter with them to watch over hers, too.
Before heading to the corral, Alice walked back to her tent and changed from her calico dress into a dark-colored blouse and the divided skirt she’d packed for riding, for she’d want to try out a horse’s paces and manners before laying down any of her precious cash.
“Yes, ma’am,” the horse trader said, when she arrived at the corral and told him that she wanted to buy a horse for the run. “I can give you your pick of this corral for four hundred dollars.”
Shock rendered Alice momentarily speechless. “Four hundred dollars? B-But these look like mustangs!” she sputtered. The handsome bay and the sweet chestnut mare no longer paced the pen with the others. Four hundred dollars would be a considerable dent in the cash she had left that had to last until she had a dwelling built and crops in.
She closed her eyes for a moment in an attempt to stay calm. “I was told to expect a price more in the range of two hundred, and that was for a saddle-broken horse.” These horses looked as if they’d been captured only yesterday after a lifetime of running loose over the prairie. If only she’d come yesterday, maybe she could have bought the bay or the chestnut...
“Horseflesh’s in great demand, what with the Land Rush approachin’,” he told her, his face smug. “Price is only goin’ up in the future, so you’d be wise t’ buy today.”
“I assume that includes a saddle and bridle?” she asked stiffly, knowing the answer even as she asked.
The trader shook his head. “Bridle an’ saddle are a hundred dollars extra,” the man said with a smirk, nodding toward a pile of used cavalry saddles that looked much the worse for wear, with frayed stirrup leathers and girths, many with cracks and holes in the leather between the pommel and cantle. He seemed to be enjoying her distress, the scoundrel.
“Guess you could always use shank’s mare,” he added, with a meaningful glance toward her legs.
Alice willed herself not to take offense. Though she’d heard several were planning to do just that—walk—such a plan was the purest folly, a sure way to end up with nothing. She suspected the horse trader was trying to use her ignorance to sell her a nag at an exorbitant fee, but it was useless to accuse him of that. He’d likely only raise the price.
“Sir, you are no gentleman to try to take advantage of a lady like that,” said a man’s voice in a pronounced Southern drawl. “And with such inferior stock fit only for carrion.”
“Who asked you?” the horse trader demanded angrily.
Alice ignored the trader, whirling to see a tall, distinguished-looking man who appeared to be in his forties, dressed in the dark blue uniform of a soldier.
“Private Bryson Reeves, ma’am,” the man said, sweeping off a forage cap as he gave her a courtly bow. “I’m part of the Security Patrol tasked with assisting and protecting homesteaders before and after the Land Rush.” He had ginger-colored hair, with eyes that might have been green or blue-green, she wasn’t sure, for he squinted against the sun as he straightened again.
His manner was as charming as his face was well-favored, and she certainly welcomed his intervention. She hadn’t heard anything about a Security Patrol, but maybe the officer could persuade the greedy horse trader to be more reasonable.
“Private Reeves, I am Miss Hawthorne,” Alice said. “Am I correct in thinking that the price this man’s asking for his stock is outrageous?”
“You are, Miss Hawthorne, ma’am,” he agreed, flashing her a broad smile. “I’m honored to meet you. If you will allow me, I will show you a selection of much superior mounts, fit for a lady and fleet of foot. If you will follow me just a little ways?”
He offered her his arm, but since they’d only just met, she pretended not to see it and said, “Lead on, Private Reeves.”
He took her to another pen at the other end of Boomer Town, one in which half a dozen tall, long-legged horses paced restlessly, snorting and showing the whites of their eyes. “Kentucky Thoroughbreds, ma’am, brought here especially for their speed. They will have no equal on the day of the run and will leave poorer specimens, such as the ones in the corral we just left, eating their dust. Am I not right, gentlemen?”
A trio of soldiers—dressed just as Private Reeves was, of about the same age and also bearing the insignia of privates—and a fourth man—dressed in denim trousers and a striped shirt and leather vest—separated themselves from the fence they had been leaning on at the far side of the corral and came toward her.
“My comrades-in-arms, Miss Hawthorne, Privates McGraw, Strafford and Wellington, and our friend, Lemuel Harkinson. It is he who had the brilliant idea of bringing Thoroughbreds from Kentucky to sell for the Land Rush to those smart enough to seize the advantage their proven speed can afford.”
“Ma’am, I am enchanted to meet you,” Harkinson said. “I would be delighted to put you in possession of one of my excellent Thoroughbreds.”
Having a mount bred to race would give her an advantage, Alice thought, but her experience with the other trader had made her wary. “They’re handsome animals,” she agreed, for it was certainly the truth. “And what are you asking for one of your horses?”
“Five hundred dollars,” he said, sinking her hopes with those three words. “And worth every penny, when you consider the excellent homestead you’ll be able to claim by riding one of them. Why, it’ll be like riding the winged Pegasus of ancient mythology.”
“No doubt,” she agreed. Her body felt heavy with disappointment. “But I’m afraid it’s beyond my means, sir. Good day. And thank you, Private Reeves.”
She started to turn away, but Reeves put a gentle hand on her wrist, detaining her. “Miss Hawthorne, it would be my very great honor to buy one of Mr. Harkinson’s horses for you,” he said, bowing again.
She felt her jaw drop open. “Private Reeves, that’s quite chivalrous of you, but it’s out of the question. I could not possibly accept such an off—”
“Please, ma’am,” he said, interrupting her with such a winning smile that she could not be offended. “Where my fellow soldiers and I come from,” he said, his drawl thick as Georgia clay, “we were raised to protect ladies, especially ladies such as yourself who are...on your own, I take it? Please, let me know if I have mistaken the situation, but if you are without the protection of a husband or father or brother, my mother would have wanted me to assist you in any way I could. If you won’t let me give the horse to you, consider it a loan. We can settle up later, once you’re turning a profit on the land I’m sure one of these mounts can gain for you.”
There was no way she could accept, even when the man invoked his mother and an atmosphere of Southern courtliness. The more sensible part of her questioned how a mere soldier could afford a gift such as the one he proposed, even if he was taken with Alice, as his expression suggested.
“As I said—”
“But just consider, dear lady—”
“You heard the lady,” a firmly spoken masculine voice said behind her, a voice she’d heard before. A voice that was very welcome right at this moment. “She’s not interested. Good day, gentlemen. Miss Hawthorne, I’ll have Gideon find you the proper mount,” Elijah Thornton said, “and at a reasonable price, too.”
* * *
The other men’s gazes felt like four sharp daggers between Elijah’s shoulder blades as he escorted Alice away from them. Deciding to focus on Alice rather than worry that he’d just made enemies, he watched the lady beside him pull herself together.
“Thank you for coming along when you did,” Alice said once they’d put more distance between themselves and the men lounging at the horse pen. “I knew to be wary of sharp horse traders, but Private Reeves was so insistent. I’m sure he was trying to be helpful, but...”
Elijah was fairly certain helpful wasn’t at all what the private was trying to be. He hadn’t heard clearly what the man was trying to talk Alice Hawthorne into, but he’d seen the other men gazing at her speculatively, like wolves eyeing a tethered lamb. A righteous, protective fury rose up in him as he imagined what the men had likely been thinking.
“I’m happy to be of assistance,” he said, when he could trust himself to speak.
“I suppose there was no harm done,” she said, straightening her shoulders and elevating her chin a little. “I’ve dealt with overly gallant men before—doctors in the hospital and so forth. One just has to be firm, but Private Reeves wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.”
Alice must have seen concern in his eyes then, for she added, “I soon learned how to deal with such men at Bellevue, and by the time I finished my training, I was treated with respect.” She took a breath. “These men said they’re part of the ‘Security Patrol’ to ensure the safety of the homesteaders. Reverend, have you heard of such an organization?”