top of the knoll, lifted the gossamer tails of the fabric adorning her riding hat and let the gentle breeze cool her neck as she looked back over the low, rolling hills that stretched as far as the eye could see. White pillows of cloud drifted across the blue sky, cast moving shadows on the light green of the new grass. It was a glorious day…except for the occasion.
She frowned, let the frothy tails drop back into place and turned toward the river. Her chest tightened, her breath shortened—the familiar reaction to her fear of water. She’d been plagued by the fear since the day William had pulled her, choking and gasping for air, from the pond on the grounds at their uncle Justin’s home. She’d been reaching for a baby duck and—
“Randolph Court.” Speaking the name drove the terror-filled memory away. Emma closed her eyes, pictured her uncle Justin’s beautiful brick home, with its large stables where she and William had learned to ride along with their cousins Sarah and Mary and James. It was there her mother had taught her to ride astride instead of sidesaddle. A smile curved her lips. She could almost hear her uncle Justin objecting to the practice, and her mother answering, “Now, dearheart, if riding astride is good enough for Marie Antoinette and Catherine the Great, it is good enough for—”
“Lundquist, get that wagon aboard! Time is wasting! We have ten more wagons to ferry across before dark.”
Emma popped her eyes open at Zachary Thatcher’s shout. Was her wagon—“Haw, Scar! Haw, Big Boy!”—No, it was Ernst moving Anne’s wagon forward. She held her breath as her sister’s wagon rolled down the slight embankment toward the river. A figure, garbed in black, appeared briefly at the rear opening in the canvas cover, then disappeared as the flaps were closed.
Annie! What was she doing? She knew Mr. Thatcher had ordered that no one cross the river inside the wagons for fear they would be trapped if— I want you to go home, Emma. It is foolish for you to come along, to place yourself in harm’s way so that you may doctor me when I no longer care if I live or die. A chill slithered down her spine. Surely Annie did not mean to— Her mind balked, refused to finish the horrifying thought.
The wagon halted at the edge of the riverbank. Men rushed forward to help Ernst unhitch the oxen. Others took up places at the tongue, wheels and tailgate. “No! Wait!” Her shout was useless, lost in the clamor below. Emma yanked the front hems of her long skirts clear of her feet and raced down the knoll.
“The teams’re free! Get ’er rollin’!”
The men strained forward, pushed the wagon onto the short, thick planks leading to the deck. Emma dodged around the wagon next in line and ran toward the raft.
“Sutton! Thomas! Chock those wheels fore and aft!” Zachary Thatcher grabbed chunks of wood from a small pile and tossed them onto the deck. “And see you set the chocks firm so that wagon can’t shift or roll. There’ll be no stopping her if she starts slipping toward the water.” He turned toward Ernst. “Lundquist, you get those oxen ready to swim across.”
Emma halted her headlong rush as the men, finished with their work, jumped to the bank. She stood back out of their way and stared at the raft sunk low under the heavy load. Only a few inches of the sides showed above the rushing water of the Kansas River. Every bit of courage she possessed drained from her. But Anne was in that wagon. Anne—who did not care if she lived or died. She drew a deep breath, lifted the hems of her skirts out of the mud with her trembling hands and ran down a plank onto the bobbing ferry. “Mrs. Allen!”
The authoritative shout froze her in her tracks. Emma grabbed hold of the top of the rear wagon wheel, turned and looked full into Zachary Thatcher’s scowling face.
“Come off the ferry and wait for your husband, Mrs. Allen. Everyone is to cross with their own wagon.”
The ferry dipped, shuddered, slipped away from the bank. Muddy water sloshed onto the deck and swirled around her feet. Emma tightened her hold to a death grip on the wheel and shook her head. “My sister, Anne, is lying ill in this wagon, Mr. Thatcher.” She instilled a firmness she was far from feeling into her voice. “I am crossing the river with her.”
“Your sister!” Zachary Thatcher’s face darkened like a storm cloud. “What sister? When did—”
“And I have no husband. William Allen is my brother.”
The ropes attached to the ferry stretched taut with a creaking groan. Emma gasped, turned and fixed her gaze on the men on the opposite bank hauling on the rope. Frightened as she was, the view across the water was preferable to the one of Mr. Thatcher’s furious face. The raft lurched out into the river then turned its nose, caught the current and floated diagonally toward the other side. She closed her eyes and hoped she wouldn’t get sick.
Chapter Two
“The last wagon is safely across, Anne. They are hitching up the teams to pull it up the bank.” Emma hooked back the flap of canvas at the rear of the wagon to let in the evening light. “Perhaps now the camp will settle into a semblance of order.”
“Perhaps. Please close the flap, Emma.”
How she hated that listless attitude! Emma let the flap fall into place and fixed a smile firmly on her face as she stepped to the side of her sister’s bed. “Would you care to take a short walk with me before the sun sets? I want to make certain Traveler and Lady swim across safely.”
“No. You go, Emma.” Anne lifted her hand and pushed a wayward curl off her forehead. “I am weary.”
“And in pain.” Emma dropped the phony smile and frowned. “You cannot move without wincing, Anne. I warned you riding would not be good for your injured ribs. It has irritated them. Your breathing is shallow. I will go get my bag and give you some laudanum to ease the discomfort.” She stepped to the tailgate.
“Please do not bother, Emma. I want no medication—only rest.”
“Annie—”
“I’ll not take it, Emma.”
“Very well.” Her patience had run its course. Emma pushed the canvas flap aside, climbed through the opening then stuck her head back inside. “But I shall return when Mrs. Lundquist has prepared our supper. And you will eat, Anne. You are my patient and I shall not allow you to die—even if you want to!” She jerked the flaps back into place for emphasis, whirled about and headed for a spot beneath a tree to watch the men swimming the stock across the river.
A low hum of voices, broken by the shouts and laughter of children, vibrated the air. From the adjoining field came the lowing of cows and oxen, the neighing of horses and braying of mules. Chickens and roosters, imprisoned in cages lashed to the sides of wagons, cackled and crowed. Dogs barked and snarled at enemies real or imagined.
Such a din! Emma nodded and smiled at the woman and daughter working over a cooking fire and made her way to the outer rim of the men grouped around the lead wagon. Heads turned her direction. Faces scowled. Her steps faltered. She braced herself and continued on.
“Did you want something, Mrs…”
Emma met a thin, bearded man’s gaze. The look of forebearance in his eyes caused a prickle of irritation that fueled her determination. “Only to be obedient to Mr. Thatcher’s order to assemble.”
“This meeting is only for the owners of the wagons. The heads of the families.”
Emma
