pink with warmth. Jenny looked like any other sleeping toddler. Except for her splinted arm and unnatural stillness.
Emma lifted her gaze to Jenny’s mother, sitting on the floor with her back against the long red box and holding her baby’s hand.
“Jenny’s got blue eyes. Like her papa’s. I wishst she’d open ’em.” The woman’s chest swelled as she took a deep breath, sunk as she let it out again. “Will I ever…see her blue eyes again, Miss—Dr. Allen?”
Emma stiffened. That’s what Anne had asked. Just before— She shoved the thought away, looked into the fear-filled eyes begging for hope and summoned a smile in spite of the bitterness squeezing her heart. “I cannot say for sure—such things are in God’s hands—but I believe you will, Mrs. Lewis. Jenny’s pulse is steady and strong, and that’s a good sign.” Little Grace’s pulse had been uneven and weak…
The woman nodded, pulled the blanket draped over her shoulders closer together across her chest. “I’ve been prayin’.” She looked up, and the lamplight glimmered on the tears swimming in her brown eyes. “I wasn’t meanin’ to make you uncomfortable, askin’ you things only God Hisself can answer.”
Yes. Only God, who had chosen to let little Grace die. “I understand, Mrs. Lewis.” If only she could.
Silence fell. Rain pattered against the canvas cover. The faint sound of snoring came from the Lewis family’s wagon. A child’s yelp. And then— “Move over, Gabe! Yer pokin’ me with yer elbow!”
The woman glanced that way, looked back and shook her head. “You were right to have Jenny stay here in your wagon. With four youngsters, things are a mite crowded in ours. Special with the Mister havin’ to sleep inside ’cause of the rain. ’Tis mortal kind of you to let me stay here with her.”
“Not at all. Jenny will want you when she wakes.” If she wakes. Emma blinked and gave her head a quick shake, rubbed her hands up and down her arms beneath the blanket to ward off sleep.
“You’ve had a hard time of it tonight, what with going out in the storm after Jenny and all. Why don’t you get some sleep, Dr. Allen? I’ll keep watch over Jenny.”
Emma stifled a yawn, shook her head. “Her condition could change and…”
“I’ll wake you if it does.” The woman’s eyes pleaded with her. “Please, Dr. Allen. It would make me feel better for you to rest.”
She was so sincere. Emma swallowed back her fear. Her being awake had not saved little Grace. She sighed and gave in to her exhaustion. “All right. But you must wake me the moment there is the slightest change, Mrs. Lewis. Any change at all. A whimper…or a twitch…anything…” She stretched out on the feather mattress she was sitting on, pulled the quilt over top of the blanket wrapped around her and closed her eyes.
“Not meanin’ to put myself forward, Dr. Allen. But I’d be pleased if you would call me by my given name, Lorna.”
“Lorna…a lovely name.” Emma tucked her hand beneath her cheek. Jenny had her pillows. “And you must call me Emma…”
“I’d be honored to, Dr. Emma.”
Dr. Emma. The name echoed pleasantly around in her head. William had called her that in his letter. She snuggled deeper into the warmth of the quilt and smiled. If only she could…write William and…tell him she had a…patient…
“I gave the order to break camp, Lewis. Get this canopy down and your oxen hitched. We’ve wasted enough daylight. We move out in ten minutes.”
Emma lifted her head at the sound of Zachary Thatcher’s muffled voice coming through the canvas. She had been hoping for an opportunity to properly thank him for rescuing them last night. She pulled the blanket back over Jenny’s splinted arm and turned toward the front of the wagon, paused to run her hands over her hair and down the front of her gown. The feel of the sumptuous fabric brought the memory of their first meeting leaping to the fore. She looked down at the three tiers of lustrous, rose-colored silk trimmed with looped roping that formed the long skirt and frowned. She could well imagine Mr. Thatcher’s opinion of her inappropriate frock. But there had been no time to have gowns made after Anne announced her intention to take William’s place teaching at the mission. With only two days of preparation time, the best she could manage was to purchase dress lengths of cotton and other sensible materials to bring—
“I ain’t travelin’ today.”
Oh dear! Emma jerked her attention back to the conversation outside the wagon. Mr. Lewis sounded…truculent.
“What do you mean, you’re not traveling today? You don’t have a choice. Lest you want to go on by yourself.”
And Mr. Thatcher sounded…adamant, to be charitable. Perhaps this was a poor time to—
“Tell that to that Allen woman what calls herself a doctor! She’s got the missus all in an uproar over Jenny. Says Jenny can’t travel, and the missus won’t go without her. With three other young’uns that need carin’ for, I—”
“You speak respectful of Dr. Emma, Joseph Lewis. She rode out in that storm and found your baby. Likely saved her life.”
Lorna! Emma peeked outside. Joseph Lewis was glaring at his wife, who was glaring back at him from their wagon. “If she lives, Lorna. We don’t have a real doctor to—”
A real doctor! Ohhh! Emma hiked up her voluminous skirts, climbed onto the red box and reached to shove the front flaps of the cover aside. The back of her skirt snagged on the latch. Bother! She reached back.
“Don’t you say if, Joseph Lewis! The Good Book says, ‘According to your faith be it unto you.’ And don’t think I’m goin’ to move one foot from this spot ’till Dr. Emma says it’s safe for Jenny to travel, neither.”
Emma freed her skirt and turned back. Lorna had climbed from their wagon and stood facing her husband. The sight of their angry faces turned her own anger to regret. She had not meant to set husband and wife at odds. But all was not lost. If Zachary Thatcher would agree not to travel out of consideration of the child’s poor condition… She scooted out onto the driver’s seat, cast a longing glance at her sodden, mud-stained riding outfit crumpled in the corner of the driver’s box and stood. “Good morning.”
All three people turned to look at her. Zachary Thatcher swept his gaze over her fancy gown and his expression did not disappoint her expectations. She abandoned the idea of relying on his understanding and sympathy. In the cold light of day, it appeared Mr. Thatcher did not have any. She looked down into his steady, disapproving gaze and stiffened her spine. “I regret the wagon train cannot travel today, Mr. Thatcher. But it would be dangerous for Jenny to be jolted and bounced around in her condition.”
She watched his face tighten and stood her ground as he rode his horse close to the wagon and peered up at her. “I understand the child is ill, Miss Allen. But you must underst—”
“Dr. Allen, Mr. Thatcher.”
His eyes darkened and narrowed. His lips firmed.
She was familiar with the disparaging expression. She had seen it far too often on the faces of her Papa Doc’s male patients. Very well. If that was how it was to be. Emma trotted out her armor for the battle ahead. “I am a fully trained, fully qualified doctor with credentials
