an excerpt from
Sarah's Heart
by Ginger Simpson
Copyright © 2012 by Ginger Simpson and published here with her permission
Chapter One
1850 – Somewhere on the Santa Fe Trail
Sarah Collins struggled to open her eyes against the glare, but the pounding pain in her head urged her to keep them closed. She swept the tip of her tongue across cracked lips, her mouth as dry as the feathers in her pillow—yet she felt no downy softness beneath her, only an uncomfortable jabbing in her back. Her palms groped along something gritty. Where was she?
Suddenly patchy memories flooded back. The taste of bile filled her throat. She struggled to sit, groaning as she pushed herself up from the dusty ground and the offending stone stabbing at her spine. Her eyes misted with tears, and fear clutched at her chest as she surveyed what remained of the wagon train.
Grasping her constricting throat, Sarah stood, scanning the eerie site. The bodies of her new friends lay scattered amongst the smoking ruins, some oddly contorted and others positioned just as they’d fallen. Her heart ached for the mother who sat propped against a wagon wheel, clutching her baby to her breast—both obviously dead. Sarah covered her mouth to stifle a scream. Oh sweet Jesus, why kill a defenseless infant?
Was she the only survivor? As evidenced by an attacker’s body lying a few feet from her, someone had interceded and saved her life. There had to be someone else alive. There had to be! The hair on the back of her neck bristled.
If not for the carnage, the day would be beautiful—wispy clouds floated in a powder blue sky, and an endless sea of waving prairie grass announced the arrival of spring. The only sound came from water bubbling in the nearby stream as it traveled over a rocky bed.
Sarah remembered everything now. They had just made camp when war cries sliced the air. A few hours of daylight remained, but one family’s illness prompted the wagon master to halt travel for the day. Supper fires hadn’t even been lit when a band of whooping Indians with painted faces stormed the group. There must have been twenty or more on horseback. The last thing Sarah recalled was running to fetch her rifle.
She dusted off and inspected her body for injury. Other than her throbbing head, she assumed she was all right until something warm trickled into her eye. Her fingertips reddened from touching a sticky substance on her temple, and she flashed back to the terror of looking into the scarred face of the brave whose tomahawk struck only a glancing blow. Recalling those hate-filled eyes sent a shudder through her.
Her bonnet dangled down her back, its ribbon annoyingly tight across her throat. She pulled at the ties, easing the choking feeling, and then inspected the stained head covering. After wiping her bloodied hand on the yellow gingham, she tossed it to the ground where her body’s partial outline still etched the dirt.
The sun hadn’t risen very high above the horizon. She must have been unconscious all night. Releasing a pent up breath, she lifted her dress and ripped a piece from her petticoat, folded the cloth and held it to her wound. Fear clutched at her core, and unbridled tears ran down her cheeks as she prayed to see another living soul. Surely she was no better than the rest of these simple folk who were trying to find a new start. Why would God spare only her?
“Hello, can anyone hear me?” She called out in a faltering voice, then scanned the campsite and listened, but no answer came. Nothing moved.
Sarah started toward her smoldering Conestoga, now barely recognizable. She’d used her last penny to buy the wagon to make this trip, hiring a driver and packing everything she owned into the beautifully crafted prairie schooner. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. Headed for California, she wanted to leave all her bad memories in Missouri and forge new and happier ones. Maybe any minute she would awaken and discover this was all just a horrible nightmare. The pain in her head dragged her back to reality.
The smaller wagon behind Sarah’s, unscathed except for the arrows jutting from the canvas covering, bore testament to the violent attack. In contrast, the delicate feathers decorating the shafts gently swayed in the breeze. Drifting smoke stung her eyes. She called out again, but still no response.
Gathering her wits, Sarah forced her reluctant legs to move. Unsteady at first, her determination gave her strength. She fought the urge to retch when passing the body of the wagon master, Mr. Simms. The top of his head had been slashed off, leaving a bloody pulp. She jerked her gaze away only to see three more male bodies, one clutching a lance stuck deep in his chest. All had been desecrated in the same manner.
She swallowed hard and forced herself to continue her search, circling the camp and finding more bodies as she went from wagon to wagon. Next to what remained of her own, she found Fred Tanner, her driver. His eyes stared lifelessly at the sky; an arrow protruded from a dried circle of blood in the middle of his shirt. He, too, had been scalped. Bending, and focusing only on his placid face, she gently closed his lids, fighting guilt. In their business arrangement, he had ended up paying far more dearly than she had.
The dead children sickened Sarah more than the deceased adults. Barely starting their lives, they came to a bitter end far too soon. She discovered most of them huddled with their mothers in the backs of the unburned wagons, fear still etched on their little faces.
The smell of charred flesh hung heavy in the air, making it difficult to breathe. Sarah crinkled her nose in disgust, her shoulders sagged. Each person deserved a proper burial, but she couldn’t do it all by herself. Her head pounded in rhythm with the panic in her heart as she realized the seriousness of her predicament. The Indians had taken all the animals, and from what she could tell, most of the food. She had no idea where she was or how she would survive.
Sarah collapsed to the ground and buried her face in her hands. Sobs wracked her as she mourned each person’s passing. She’d barely gotten to know them. Only fifteen days ago in Independence, Missouri, these twelve wagons had gathered, full of excited and happy faces, people ready to journey to a new life.
She cried until her tears ran dry, then finding composure, convinced herself that weeping wouldn’t help. At twenty-two-years old, she was determined to see twenty-three. But how? She could walk for help, but in which direction, and how far?She could fill her canteen with fresh water from the stream, but how long would the supply last before she reached another source. What if the Indians came back? Her search revealed they had taken all the weapons leaving her defenseless. She couldn’t just sit and wait. Besides, in the warm spring weather, the bodies would start to decay before long. Leaving appeared to be her only option. She pulled a ladle from a nearby water barrel and drank, quenching her thirst and easing her parched throat. Dropping the dipper back in place, she planned her trek.
She’d need a change of clothing, at least… and something to keep her warm at night. All her belongings had burned. She gazed at the Morgan wagon, one of the few still intact. Maybe she could find something there. Sarah loosened her long hair, running her fingers through it to comb all the escaped locks in with the rest. Pulling her blonde tresses back, she retied the ribbon at the nape of her neck. Her face puckered into a scowl, preparing to view Molly Morgan’s remains for a second time. Sarah had thought it painful enough to see her during her earlier search for survivors. Such a waste of a young life. Approaching the wagon, she steeled herself and climbed up onto the back. Molly had died, but Sarah felt strangely remorseful for rummaging through another person’s belongings. It didn’t seem right. She lifted a foot to step over the tailgate, but paused with her leg midair.
Her head tilted inquisitively. Was that a sound? She sighed. Now she imagined things. Her supporting leg wobbled, and goose bumps peppered her skin—not from the cold, but from the feeling of death all around her. She lowered her suspended limb, and steadying herself, took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment.
Clearly, she heard the noise again—a moan from inside the wagon. She threw open the tarpaulin and peered in.
“Molly? Is that you?” Sarah held her breath.
“Help me.” The voice inside the wagon sounded weak and barely audible, but it belonged to a woman.
Sarah scrambled over the tailgate and knelt next to the bed. “Molly, it’s me, Sarah. I’m here.”
Molly moaned low in her throat. An arrow protruded from the front of her blood soaked dress, just below the shoulder. Earlier, she’d been on the floor, but somehow had managed to get to the pallet of blankets and pillows. Sarah had been sure the woman was dead. Perhaps, she should have checked for a pulse as she had with others, but after so many… God forgive her, had she wasted precious moments of this sweet life?
Sarah wiped her own dry lips with the back of her trembling hand. She wasn’t a doctor. What could she do to help? Before she could determine the extent of the injury, she’d have to remove the arrow, and there seemed only one way to do it—quickly and painfully.
She gazed at Molly’s ashen face. Her eyes were closed, and beads of perspiration dotted her brow; her copper hair cascaded over her head rest. Sarah caressed the young woman’s cheek. “Molly, this is going to hurt like the devil, but I have to get this arrow out of you.”
Her eyelids fluttered, and she gave weak nod of acknowledgement.
Before Sarah’s nerves failed, she rose, locked her fingers around the wooden shaft, and yanked with all her might. She expected a scream, but instead, Molly’s body flinched and went limp. Discomfort creased her forehead and made her appear much older than her nineteen years.
Sarah fell to her knees. “Please, don’t be dead, Molly, please, please, please.” She slapped Molly lightly on the cheek. “Wake up! You have to wake up.”
She received no response.
New blood dampened the stain on Molly’s dress. Sarah, chewing on her bottom lip, ripped open the bodice. The sodden chemise underneath bore bright red stains, and more fluid gushed from a wound below Molly’s shoulder.
Confusion clouded Sarah’s mind. Her heart pounded. How could she possibly tend to something so serious? She had to save Molly, she just had to. Sarah bit her knuckles, her mind spinning.
The first priority: stop the bleeding, but she needed cloth. With no time to spare, she ripped a piece from the hem of Molly’s dress. After folding it, Sarah applied the material directly to the wound, forcing her nervous fingers to stuff a corner directly into the puncture hole. She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Blood had always made her queasy, and she inhaled deeply through her nose to keep from vomiting. Fighting nausea had become a regular routine throughout the day.
Her eyes scanned the wagon’s interior for something to hold the dressing in place. Beyond the butter churn, her gaze rested on a wooden chest. She crawled to it, opened the lid, and rifled through the contents, finding a piece of muslin near the bottom. Inching the yardage beneath Molly, Sarah gently tugged until able to wrap the fabric around Molly’s slender form and tie the ends together, securing the dressing in place. Molly’s breathing sounded ragged and slow, but at least she lived.
Sarah fluffed Molly’s pillow and pulled a light blanket over her, praying she would soon awaken. She didn’t want to leave Molly’s side, but needed to go for water. The risk of infection threatened, and her patient’s shoulder needed to be cleaned.
With her energy waning, Sarah slid from the wagon to the ground. Taking a deep breath, she arched her back to ease the kink she’d earned from bending over the low featherbed. A strand of hair had come loose from her ribbon and dangled annoyingly close to her eye. She ran her fingers alongside her face, smoothing back the perspiration-dampened strays. Any moisture turned her natural curl into ringlets that defied restraint.
Shoulder’s tense yet squared, she searched the Morgan campsite for something to hold water; purposely avoiding having to stray farther and be forced to look once again upon the grisly remains of her traveling companions. Noticing an old dishpan hanging on Molly’s sideboard made Sarah smile, but eying the puddle beneath the punctured keg next to it stole her momentary pleasure. She had no choice but to go back to the barrel from which she had earlier quenched her thirst, or trek to the stream. Either meant she had to cross the campsite. With eyes focused straight ahead and that dreadful lump in her throat, Sarah walked to the large cask and filled the pan. Holding the receptacle out, she measured her steps carefully, and walked back, trying not to slosh the liquid onto herself.
“Molly, can you hear me? I’ve brought water,” Sarah called out, struggling to open the tailgate and get the dishpan inside.
Molly didn’t stir.
Sarah pulled the blanket back and found herself instantly repulsed by the smell of dried blood. Molly’s dress was already ruined, so Sarah took no care in ripping the material until it could easily be removed. The chemise needed to go, but how, without jarring Molly?Sarah turned again to the wooden chest for the shears she saw earlier, and with a few quick snips, severed the garment’s sides and straps and removed it. A stinging flush crept into her cheeks at seeing another woman’s bared breasts. She lowered her eyes, but peeked through her lashes to marvel at Molly’s perfectly budded nipples.
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Sarah mumbled, admonishing her silly reaction. It wasn’t like she didn’t have teats of her own. They just weren’t as…as full. Still, as she tucked a strand of Molly’s hair out of the way, Sarah found managing her modesty most awkward. A fine physician she’d make. She leaned back on her heels and focused on the gruesome task ahead.
Now, she needed something suitable for cleansing the wound. Another search through the chest produced a stack of flannel squares. Before dipping one piece into the pan, she filled a cup with water and set it aside for when Molly woke up—if she woke.
Sarah unknotted the binding muslin and removed the dressing to see if her attempts to stop the bleeding had worked. She grimaced. Although her ministrations had been effective, the jagged skin around the lesion looked red and angry. She searched for something with medicinal value, but in this wagon like the others, the food box had been stripped bare. She’d have to do the best she could with the piece of soap she found among the flannels.
Wringing the excess water from one of the soft squares, Sarah carefully washed Molly, first around the laceration, and then removing the clotted blood from her chest and neck. All feelings of diffidence disappeared, replaced with the urgent need to save Molly’s life.
The continued dipping of the flannel turned the once-clear water scarlet, causing Sarah to make another trip for a refill. Returning, she again kneeled at Molly’s side, re-dressed her injury, and then bathed her face with cool water. “Molly, can you hear me?” Sarah, her voice faltering, prayed for an answer. “Please say something… anything.”
Molly’s head lolled toward Sarah, her eyelids fluttered, then opened. She blinked a few times as if trying to focus, and moved her mouth in an effort to speak. “Sarah…Gil…”
Those two words were all she managed to croak out before her eyes closed and she drifted off again. Sarah sighed and re-covered her with the light blanket, reaching beneath to grasp her hand. “You have to get better, Molly. Do it for me.”
If she knew Gil was dead she might lose the will to live. Her husband seemed to be the center of her world. During the past week of walking alongside the wagons all day and searching for firewood in the evenings, Sarah and Molly had grown close. Hungry for friendship, they shared secrets and laughter. Sarah gazed on Molly’s sleeping face and recalled how her green eyes sparkled when she talked of the babies she hoped to have. Sarah’s own eyes rimmed with tears, and a pang of reality stabbed at her. What gave her the will to live? She had no one either.
Chapter Two
The air inside the canopy grew warm and stuffy. Sarah pushed damp hair from her forehead and sighed. She needed a break and, reluctantly leaving Molly’s side, crawled out to the ground. The wagon’s shadow had shifted. In a few hours the sun would set. Sarah dreaded the darkness and wondered if lighting a lamp would be safe. She hadn’t been afraid of the night since she was a little girl, but all of a sudden, she wanted to cry like she did when she feared monsters lurked about. Now she knew they really did.
While taking a composing breath, her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten for hours. She gazed at the remains of her wagon and thought of all the food she’d stored for the trip that was now nothing but ashes. Even though the marauding savages had stripped the camp clean, she and Molly wouldn’t starve. They could eat the wild roots and grasses that grew in abundance if need be. Before her mother’s passing, Sarah’s favorite dish of hers had been mustard and turnip greens, picked right from the yard. Of course, there wouldn’t be the bacon fat for flavoring, but now staying alive mattered more than taste.
The memories brought new tears to Sarah’s eyes. She stared through a haze at her wagon, recalling the cameo brooch that was the only thing she had left of her mother. Maybe, just maybe, it had been spared. Worrying about a trinket others would consider insignificant seemed silly, but Sarah needed something familiar—something to draw her thoughts from the death surrounding her.
Knowing she’d done all she could for Molly for the time being, Sarah hurried across the camp, climbed up on one of her huge wheel spokes, precariously teetered over the wagon sideboard, and fished through the rubble. From appearances, the fire had been contained to the wagon box and bonnet. She shielded her eyes and gazed up at the charred bows that had held the canvas in place, still arcing steadfastly over the schooner’s bed. The smell of smoke radiated from the burned wood. At the front, the oak seat and tongue were almost as pristine as when she had purchased the wagon from a family who’d just arrived in Independence and needed money. Now, she wished she’d never met them—never had the insane idea to make this trip. She sighed, knowing she hadn’t had a choice. Either she left or married a man she abhorred. Filled with fear over what now lay ahead, she wondered if perhaps she should have reconsidered his offer.
Her mood lightened, and a smile tugged at her lips upon seeing the valise containing her personal items. The case bore not even a singe to its carpetbag material. She kept little inside: her hair brush, pins, sewing notions, and a silly little bottle of toilet water she just had to have; but most importantly, the brooch. Not much else in the wagon was salvageable, but knowing the pin hadn’t been destroyed made the loss of the rest somewhat tolerable. She rolled her eyes at her female logic. A lot of good a piece of jewelry did her at the moment.
Sarah stretched to reach the valise, her smile broadening in spite of her tenuous situation. Until this moment, she’d totally forgotten the one other thing she’d packed—her father’s handgun. She jerked open the bag, and breathed a sigh of relief to see it still there—and the box of bullets she’d thrown in just in case.
In her wildest dreams she’d never pictured anything this horrible happening to her. Thank goodness for her ‘just in case’ mentality. The savages may have stolen her rifle, but thankfully, she still had a weapon. She just prayed she wouldn’t have to use it on another human. Taking another’s life wasn’t something she was sure she could do.
Clutching her valise, Sarah crossed the campground, her gaze set skyward, preferring the beautiful pallet of oranges and reds left in the setting sun’s wake rather than the surrounding carnage. Back inside the Morgan wagon, her gaze immediately went to her patient, but in the absence of light, Sarah inched closer and gasped. Molly lay still and lifeless. With her own heart resounding in her head, Sarah knelt at her friend’s side and rested her hand over her heart. The rise and fall of Molly’s chest—shallow breaths, but breathing nonetheless, brought a sigh of relief from Sarah that sliced the stillness.
Searching for a lamp and finding one, she pondered again the danger in lighting it. The Indians were most likely far away by now, relishing their bounty and thumping their chests with pride in having slaughtered and scalped innocent people. At the thought of such inhumanity, a bitter taste of bile rose in Sarah’s throat. She’d lost her parents to typhoid but this… this was just senseless killing.
She crossed to the puckered opening of the bonnet and peered outside. Embers still smoldered from some of the wagons that had been completely engulfed. Surely one small flickering kerosene lamp wouldn’t draw attention. Molly needed care and Sarah couldn’t very well deliver it in the darkness. She decided to risk lighting it only when necessary. Better to minimize the chance of the attackers knowing that anyone still lived.
Within minutes, the sun slipped beneath the horizon and darkness cloaked the camp. A partly clouded sky kept the moonlight at bay and Sarah on edge. Her thoughts kept turning to the bodies scattered around camp, and she fretted that they hadn’t received a proper burial. As a child, she’d often heard stories about restless souls roaming the earth on moonless nights. Now, along with worrying about the Indians returning, she had to fret over haunting spirits. She prayed for the night to pass quickly.
Cowering in the dark, she leaned against the wagon sideboard and rubbed her arms. The slightest noise outside bristled the hair on them and set her heart to pounding. Besides monitoring her patient’s shallow breathing, she kept an ear trained for anything out of the ordinary. Her father’s loaded gun lay close at hand, and Sarah had pinned her mother’s cameo brooch to the bodice of her gingham dress.
Earlier, the tedious ‘who, who, who’ of a vigilant barn owl had worn on her nerves, but now the eerie howls of coyotes came closer and closer, until finally, Sarah actually heard them scurrying around the wagons. Territorial growls conveyed one animal’s message to another, and the voracious noises caused Sarah to cover her ears to drown out the horrible sounds.
The thought of predators tearing at the flesh of the deceased sickened her. She tried to focus on something else, and in almost a whisper, she crooned a tune she used to sing with her father.
Oh I went down South for to see my Sal
Singing Polly wolly doodle all the day.
My Sal, she am a spunky gal
Sing Polly wolly doodle all the day.
Fare thee well, fare thee well,
Fare thee well, my fairy Fay.
For I’m off to Lou’siana for to see my Susyanna
Singing Polly wolly doodle all the day.
A growing lump in her throat made it hard to finish the last verse. Although the song brought back happy memories and images of those she loved, the lyrics also reminded her of her loss. What she wouldn’t give to step back in time—to be back in Missouri, safe in the cabin that Pa built for her and Ma. Such a silly wish, she thought, because there wasn’t a cabin anymore, and both parents were dead… as dead as those now fodder for the carnivores outside.
The long emotional day had taken a toll on her. Limp as the rag she’d used to wash away Molly’s blood, Sarah curled into a ball, pulled a spare pillow beneath her head and prayed for sleep, but her pulse pounded in her wounded temple and her eyes refused to shut. Instead her blurry gaze remained fixed on the bonnet and the occasional shadow that played across it when the moon broke through its misty barrier. Most likely the eerie images were night birds in flight. She convinced herself they were.
At the moment, she heard only the noisy grumbling of her stomach. Eating was the last thing on her mind, even if she had any food. Tomorrow, she’d have to find something edible. Molly needed sustenance to gain back her strength. Maybe at sun up, another sweep of the camp would turn up some provisions. Possibly, like her valise, some things had been overlooked.
Overlooked? She muffled a cynical laugh. The word had more than one meaning. You could search for something and not find it because it wasn’t in plain sight, perhaps hidden behind an object you failed to move, or you could feel strongly about something, express your feelings, and have them totally disregarded—thrown aside like your opinion didn’t matter at all. She knew firsthand about having her wishes overlooked. Silas McCann, the bank president in Hannibal, had held the papers on her father’s land, and assumed that gave him access to her as well. How dare McCann dangle before her the deed to the home her father had built and the acreage he’d toiled, and tie them to a marriage proposal? No wedding meant foreclosure, but she wasn’t about to be compromised.
From a physical standpoint, refusal had been an easy decision. The man looked disgusting. His hawk-like features, emaciated physique, and teeth discolored from snuff dipping repelled her. If that wasn’t enough, his absence of morals strengthened her loathing for him. Wielding power to try to garner admiration surely wasn’t the way to win a wife, or even a friend for that matter. He seemed nothing more than a high-handed tyrant who thought he could buy or bully his way through life. But those tactics didn’t work on her.
With no family to turn to, and his bank being her only avenue of credit, she felt trapped. She had tried finding employment, but whoring at the local saloon turned out to be her only option, and not one she considered—although it did hold more appeal than surrendering herself to Silas.
It wasn’t until she heard about the wagon trains leaving from Independence, forging their way west, that she decided to flee and try her luck elsewhere. Leaving wasn’t easy, but nothing remained for her in Missouri. Her parents were buried in a little plot behind the cabin. Her father had fenced off a small area for a family cemetery when her baby brother had died within two days of his birth. Five years later, Sarah had marked her parent’s graves with crosses identical to little Davey’s; simple wood, painted white and bearing only their names and years of their lives. She’d found solace in knowing that they were all together—her parents close in death as they had been in marriage.
The cabin and the land may not have belonged to her, but the furnishings did. She sold all but a few things that held special meaning and used the money to buy the Conestoga and oxen team. Her thoughts flashed to what remained of her investment, and a tear trickled down her cheek. Nothing remained except for the little bit of cash she’d hidden in her valise. She planned on getting seed money from selling the wagon and team when she reached her destination, but…
Now here she was, lost in the wilderness, alone except for a severely injured woman who depended on Sarah to keep her alive. Knowing this wagon train had been one of the last to leave Independence for California gave her little hope that help would come. Instead of praying the train made it through the maintain passes before the snowfall, she faced certain death now. The responsibility of survival fell to her… but what was she supposed to do?
Wetness from her eyes pooled beneath her face, dampening her pillow, but she felt too tired to move. Feeling devoid of physical and emotional strength, her eyelids fluttered then drooped; in her drowsy state the darkness didn’t seem quite as menacing. She took a deep breath, slowly exhaled and surrendered to sleep.
“Indians!”
Sarah jumped at Molly’s scream and instinctively grabbed for her father’s pistol. With sleep-clouded vision, she struggled to see in the darkness while her heart tried to beat its way through her skin. Her trembling finger poised on the trigger, Sarah prepared to defend herself and Molly against intruding savages.
Her eyes adjusted to the dimness, and she released a pent up breath, now able to see that she and Molly were the only ones inside the wagon, or even in the vicinity. Molly must have had a bad dream. She certainly had reason to. Sarah’s pulse gradually slowed, but turned to racing again when Molly moaned.
Sarah put the gun down and inched the short distance to the bed. “Molly, it’s all right, the Indians are gone. Is the pain worse?” She couldn’t see Molly’s face.
“Hurt…help me. Water…so thirsty….” Her voice sounded raspy.
“Just a minute, Moll. I have a cup somewhere. Let me get some light in here.” Sarah patted the area around her until her fingers touched the kerosene lamp. She found the matches she’d placed right next to it, and striking one, she put the flame to the wick. A soft glow bathed the wagon’s interior and provided light enough to find the water. Sarah kept the lamp turned down, hoping to minimize the shadows and praying she wasn’t making a fatal mistake.
She lifted Molly’s head and held the cup to her lips. “Easy does it.”
Molly took small sips until the liquid was gone, then Sarah lowered her back on her pillow, plumping it around her. Although difficult to tell in the diffused light, she felt hopeful that Molly’s coloring had improved. At least her eyes were open; the lamp’s flicker danced in their emerald color.
Sarah ran a hand over her friend’s forehead and breathed a sigh of relief at its coolness. She rose on her knees so Molly could see her smile. “I’m glad you’re awake. I’ve been so worried about you. Is the pain horrid? What can I do to help?”
Molly’s tongue flicked across her lips, and the blank stare in her eyes expressed confusion. She turned her head to her bandaged shoulder, gave a gentle shrug, and then looked back to Sarah with a weak brow raised.
Sarah smoothed Molly’s hair from her forehead. “We were attacked, and you were shot with an arrow. I removed it, cleaned and dressed the wound, but you’ve been unconscious for hours. I was so scared that I’d lost you.” Sarah shuddered, anticipating her friend’s first question.
“Gil…?” Molly’s lips quivered as if she already knew the answer.
“I’m so sorry, my dear. He and all the others….” Sarah’s throat choked off her words.
Molly’s eyes closed, but a river of tears seeped from beneath her thick lashes. Sarah patted her friend’s hand. “I know nothing I can say is going to take away the pain, but rest assured, I won’t leave you. We’ll see this through together.”
“Did… did he suffer?” Molly’s voice trembled just above whisper.
Sarah’s mind repainted the awful picture of Gil’s tortured body, his missing scalp, his blood-covered face and the fatal gash in his neck. Molly didn’t need to know the gruesome details. Sarah shook her head in answer—and to clear the disturbing image. “No, he died very quickly.” She felt absolutely no guilt in telling a lie. Surely God understood.
The temperature turned noticeably cooler with the setting of the sun, and a chill crept into the wagon. Sarah, feeling the cold, pulled a heavier blanket up over Molly. “I’m so sorry for your loss, but you rest now. We have plenty of water but unfortunately no food. The Indians took everything we had, but come sunup I’ll find something for us to eat. I used to be pretty good at snaring rabbits with my Pa. Maybe I’ll try my hand at that.”
Clearly, Molly’s thoughts weren’t on food either. Her tears had turned to quiet sobs, leaving Sarah at a loss for words. There wasn’t anything she could say to dull the anguish. She knew that from personal experience. Just like the wound in Molly’s shoulder, only time would heal her aching heart.
Sarah closed the canvas at the back of the wagon, turned out the lamp and went back to her sleeping space. Curling beneath the warmth of her cover, she heaved a huge sigh. Hopefully tomorrow would bring Molly strength and bolster Sarah’s sagging spirit. Her determination remained strong but she feared staying in the wagon much longer. She had to find a safe haven for her and her friend, at least until Molly could travel.
Too tired to worry about anything, Sarah fell into a restless sleep.
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