Love's Long Journey Read online

  “Pesky mosquitoes don’t let nothin’ sleep. Bet the horses had to swish and stomp all night.”

  “The mosquitoes didn’t bother me until I got up this morning. Maybe we didn’t have any in our wagon.”

  “Willie said they were botherin’ him.”

  Missie looked up from turning the bacon. “That so? I guess I was just sleeping too soundly to notice. Do you know where he is?”

  “We checked out the horses and the cows, an’ then he went over to have a chat with Mr. Blake.”

  “Everything all right?” Her brow furrowed as she looked up from the frying pan.

  “Right as rain. Willie jest wanted to chat a spell, I reckon—to see how far we’re goin’ today.”

  “Oh.” Missie didn’t have to worry. She began to set out the tin plates for the morning meal.

  It wasn’t long before she heard Willie’s familiar whistle. Her heart gave its usual flutter. She loved to hear that tuneful sound. It was a sure sign that her world was all in proper order. Willie rounded the wagon and his whistling stopped.

  “Well, I’ll be. Ya sure are up bright an’ early this mornin’,” he joked. “Thought maybe Henry an’ me...” But he stopped after a look at Missie’s expression. “Mosquitoes drive ya out?”

  Missie smiled. “Truth is, I didn’t even notice them. My aching joints were the first to tell me it was time to do a little stretching. Are you feeling a bit stiff, too?”

  “Reckon I’d be fibbin’ iffen I didn’t own up to feelin’ a little sore here an’ there,” Willie said with a grin. “An’ thet’s all yer gonna git me to confess. Full-grown able-bodied man shouldn’t be admittin’ to even thet. Folks will be thinkin’ I never worked a day in my life.”

  Missie glanced at her husband’s well-muscled body. “If they do,” she said, “they sure have got their eyes in the wrong place.”

  “Boy, do I ever hurt,” Henry put in. “Never realized how sore one’s arms could git from drivin’ horses or how much work it is to just sit on thet bumpin’ ole wagon seat.”

  “We’ll git used to it,” Willie assured him, rolling a log over to sit on it. “In a few days’ time, we’ll wonder why we ever felt it in the first place.”

  Willie asked God’s blessing on the food and on the day ahead, then Missie served up their breakfast.

  After they had eaten, Henry left to check the other wagon. As Missie washed up and packed away their supplies, Willie carefully inspected his wagon and harness. The others in the train were also moving about now. Amid the sounds of running and yelling children, barking dogs, and calling mothers, Missie heard a baby cry.

  “Didn’t know we had a baby along,” she commented, watching Willie out of the corner of her eye.

  “It’s the Collins’,” Willie answered. “Only ’bout seven months old, the father tol’ me.”

  “Quite a venture for one so young.”

  “An’ fer her young mama.”

  “This is her first?”

  “No. She’s got another one, too. Jest past two, I’m thinkin’.”

  Missie paused for a moment, then said, “She’ll have her hands full. Maybe the rest of us women can give her a hand now and then.”

  “I’m sure she’d ’preciate thet,” Willie said. “There’s another woman with the train who might need a hand now an’ then, as well.”

  Missie turned to face him. “Someone not well?”

  “Oh, I hope she’s well enough—not fer me to know or say—but she’s expectin’ a young’un.”

  “Oh.”

  Missie could feel herself flush and hoped Willie didn’t notice.

  “It jest could be thet it’ll arrive somewhere along the trail,” Willie continued. “I talked to the wagon master and he says not to worry. Claims lots of young’uns are born on the way west. We have a midwife along, a Mrs. Kosensky. I hear tell she’s delivered a number of babies. Still, iffen it were my wife...”

  When he didn’t finish his comment, Missie prompted, “If it were your wife...?”

  “Iffen it were my wife, I’d prefer thet she had a home to do the birthin’ in—and a doc on hand, jest in case. In spite of Blake’s bold words, I still got the feelin’ thet he was jest a mite edgy ’bout it all, an’ would much prefer to have thet young mother safely into a town and under some doc’s responsibility when her time is come.”

  “He can’t be too worried,” Missie argued, “or he wouldn’t have taken her on.”

  “From what I understand, the fact of the comin’ baby wasn’t told to Blake till all the arrangements were made—an’ then he sure didn’t want to turn them down. They’d already sold their farm back east.”

  “Then Mr. Blake can’t really be faulted, him not knowing.”

  “Her man knew.”

  Missie turned away and busied herself with packing the coffeepot and frying pan. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. I’ll look her up today. What’s her name, by the way?”

  “Her man’s name is Clay. I think it’s John Clay, but I’m not right sure’bout thet.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Jest offhand like. Their wagon is one of the first in line. I saw them last night when I was takin’ the horses down for water. He was helpin’ her down from the wagon. I don’t think she was out much yesterday.”

  “She’ll get the feel of it,” Missie said quickly, but she really wasn’t as sure as she sounded. “Maybe she’ll walk some today and I’ll get a chance to meet her.”

  One of the trail guides was riding toward them on a rangy big roan with wild-looking eyes. Missie stared at the big-boned horse, thinking he looked as if he could handle anything, but she sure would not want to ride him.

  The guide was calling out to each driver as he toured the circle, “Let’s git those wagons hitched. Time to hit the trail.”

  The men moved almost as one toward the tethered horses. The women hurried with their tasks of repacking each item into the wagons, putting out the fires, and gathering their families together. Missie’s preparations were already done, so she stood beside her wagon and observed the bustling scene before her.

  Again she heard the crying baby. She loved babies and had lots of experience with them, growing up as she did in the Davis family. Still, she wasn’t sure how wise or easy it would be to be heading west with one. She would offer the young mother a hand, maybe get some helpful hints on mothering for when her own baby arrived.

  Her thoughts then turned to the other woman, the mother-to-be, hoping that today she would be able to meet her. She also hoped with all her heart that all would go well for the young woman. But Willie’s expressed concern tangled itself about her like a confining garment. I’ll just have a chat with Mrs. Kosensky, she thought. She’s had experience birthing babies, and she’ll know what to do.

  Missie shook off her concerns and pushed away the nagging bit of guilt about not alerting Willie before they left. I wasn’t sure then, she told herself again. There was no point in putting another delay in front of poor Willie. She climbed up on the wagon bench beside him and gave him a confident smile.

  FOUR

  Traveling Neighbors

  That day Missie made a special effort to get acquainted with more of her traveling companions. Mrs. Collins was not hard to find. Missie simply followed the sound of the crying baby. She located the family a few wagons behind her own during the noon-hour break. Mrs. Collins was trying to prepare a midday meal for her hungry family with a small boy tugging at her skirt and the wailing infant being jostled on the young mother’s hip.

  Missie smiled and introduced herself. “We’ve already finished eating,” she said, “and I was wondering if I could help with the baby while you prepare your meal.”

  “Oh, would ya?” Mrs. Collins said with great relief in her voice. “I’d sure appreciate it. Meggie’s cryin’ most drives me to distraction.” She pushed the small boy from her. “Joey, please be patient. Mama will git yer dinner right away. Jest you sit down an’ wait.”

  The b
oy plopped down on his bottom and also began to cry, his voice loud and demanding.

  Missie reached for the baby, whose wails seemed to gain volume along with those of her brother, and walked back toward her own wagon. The poor mother would somehow have to cope with the howling Joey.

  Missie walked back and forth beside their wagon, gently bouncing the baby and singing softly to her. The crying subsided until only an occasional hiccough shook her tiny frame. Missie continued to rock and pace. When finally she checked little Meggie in her arms, she discovered the infant was sound asleep.

  Missie returned to the mother, who was now busy clearing away the dishes and pots after having fed her husband and son. I hope she took time to properly feed herself, Missie thought.

  Joey was sitting on a blanket, no longer crying, although the smudge of tears and trail dust still marked his cheeks. He looked very sleepy, and Missie wondered how long it would be until tears might overtake him again.

  “Thank ya... I thank ya so much,” Mrs. Collins said as she looked up from her tasks. “Ya can jest lay her down on the bed in the wagon.”

  Missie did so, having to move several items in order to find room for the tiny baby on the bed. She noticed that the Collins’ living area was even smaller than the cramped quarters she and Willie shared—and there were four in their family.

  Missie ducked out through the flap in the canvas. “Looks like Joey should get in a nap, too,” she commented matter-of-factly.

  “He’s so tired,” sighed the mother. Missie noted silently that she looked in need of a bed, also.

  “I’ll tuck him in,” offered Missie, wondering if Joey would allow himself to be put to bed by a stranger.

  To her surprise, he did not protest as she took his hand and helped him up. She started to lift him into the wagon but stopped long enough to dip a corner of her apron in water and wash the tear-streaked face. His face was warm and flushed, and Joey seemed to welcome the temporary coolness of the damp wash.

  Missie laid Joey on the bed, trying to keep him far enough away from Meggie that he wouldn’t waken her. Even before Missie left the wagon, Joey’s long eyelashes were fluttering in an attempt to fight off sleep. She was sure sleep would soon win and the boy would get the rest that would improve his disposition. She hoped that when he awakened, his young mother would have an easier time of it.

  Missie left the wagon just as Mrs. Collins was stowing the last of her utensils. The wagons were about ready to move out for the afternoon’s travel.

  “Why don’t you crawl in an’ catch a bit of rest with the children?” Missie advised.

  Mrs. Collins sighed deeply. “I think I will,” she said, then turned to Missie. “I jest don’t know how to thank ya.” She blinked away tears. “Truth is, I was’bout ready to give up.”

  “It’ll get better,” Missie promised, hoping sincerely that she was speaking the truth.

  “Oh, I hope so... I truly hope so.”

  “We’ll help.”

  “Thank ya.” The young mother spoke with bowed head and trembling voice. “Yer very kind.”

  The call to “move out” came, and Missie stepped aside. “Best you get yourself settled,” she encouraged. “I’ll watch for you later.”

  Mrs. Collins nodded, trying valiantly to smile her gratitude. She climbed wearily into her wagon. Missie knew it was hot inside in the full heat of the day, but it was the most comfortable rest the overburdened mother would be able to find.

  That afternoon Missie walked and rode in turn. When she was walking, she chatted with the other women and children who happened to be near. She met Mrs. Standard, a kindlooking woman with a sturdy frame and graying hair. She had a family of eight—five girls and three boys. It was the second marriage for Mr. Standard, Missie learned, and the woman was a bride of seven months—and a mother for only the same period of time. So the adjustment of suddenly caring for a brood of eight was indeed daunting. She had always wanted a family, but to acquire eight all at once—of various sizes, ages, and temperaments—was an awesome undertaking. Missie admired the woman for her enthusiasm and good humor as she faced all the changes in her life. Mrs. Standard had been a “town girl,” so her marriage to the widower included facing the challenge of frontier life. He was convinced the rainbow’s end must rest somewhere in the West, so Mrs. Standard had packed up his eight children and the few things of her own she could find room for and joined him on the long trek.

  Mrs. Standard’s usual walking companion was Mrs. Schmidt, a small, wiry woman who walked with a slight limp. She had three children—two nearly grown sons and a girl of eight.

  Neither of the two women talked much as they walked. Missie assumed that just giving instructions to her large family was enough talking for Mrs. Standard, and Mrs. Schmidt didn’t seem to have the need for much conversation. She was always busy doing, not talking. She gathered more firewood than she could ever manage to burn herself during the evening camping hours.

  The women travelers included Mrs. Larkin, dark and unhappy looking, and Mrs. Page, who talked even faster than she walked—and she walked briskly. Whoever would care to listen—and some who didn’t—had already been informed of every item Mrs. Page possessed, as well as the cost to purchase it, and how it had been obtained. Missie could endure only short sessions near the woman, then would drift farther away, thankful for the excuse of picking up firewood.

  Mrs. Thorne, a tall, sandy-haired woman, walked stiff and upright, striding ahead in a rather manly way. Her three children walked just like their mother, their arms swinging freely at their sides, their steps long and brisk. Missie was sure Mrs. Thorne would have no difficulty taking on the West.

  A young woman who had waved to Missie on her first day on the trail she now discovered to be Kathy Weiss, who was traveling west with her widowed father. She had a sunny smile and an easygoing disposition. She seemed a bit dreamy, and at times Missie wondered if she realized where this journey was taking her or if she just felt herself to be on an afternoon adventure in the woods that had simply gotten extended a bit.

  Already Kathy had made friends with the young Mrs. Crane, a dainty porcelain-doll type of woman who appeared to be in a perpetual state of shock over what was happening to her. She was the train’s fashion piece, refusing to dress herself in common yet practical cotton—the sensible thing to be wearing for this mode of travel and living. She wore instead stylish dresses and bonnets and impractical smart shoes. Her grooming every morning took far more time than her breakfast preparations. Missie smiled at such vanity, but her heart went out to the girl, who seemed so ill equipped for the journey and its unfamiliar end.

  Missie sought out Mrs. Kosensky, the midwife, and she liked the stout motherly woman immediately. Her kind face and ready smile made Missie wish she could somehow ease the miles for the older woman, who had difficulties both with riding in the lurching wagon and walking alongside over the rutted trail.

  Missie saw other small groups of women and children here and there, changing and interchanging with one another as the day wore on. She promised herself she would make an effort to get to know each one of them as quickly as possible, so she might take full advantage of friendships on the trail. Since they all had a common purpose and destination, it seemed to Missie that they should somehow be more similar, but she was amazed at the differences in personality, age, and variety of backgrounds that existed among them.

  Missie watched carefully for the expectant mother Willie had mentioned. She was eager to meet the young Mrs. Clay, feeling a kinship with her, though her own secret would have to be guarded for a time. Missie sought the other woman each time she walked for a spell, but she still had not spotted her when the teams were again called to an early halt. As she had the day before, Missie almost stumbled into camp, so weary was she from the day’s long trek. She deposited her few sticks of firewood beside the wagon and went to speak with Willie.

  As Willie’s hands moved to unharness the team, Missie caught sight of swelling bliste
rs where the reins had irritated the skin on his fingers. She mentioned them, but Willie shrugged it off.

  “They’ll soon toughen up,” he said without concern.

  “Only takes a few days. How’re you?”

  “Tired... and sore. But I think I’m faring better than some of them. I noticed poor Mrs. Crane was really limping when she climbed into her wagon back a piece.”

  “Is she the young peacock in the fancy feathers?”

  Missie smiled. “Don’t be too hard on her, Willie. She appreciates nice things.”

  “Well, she’d be a lot wiser to pack ’em away fer a while an’ wear somethin’ sensible.”

  “Maybe so, but she’ll probably have to come to her own decision on that.”

  “Well, I’m jest glad you don’t have sech notions,” he said as he looked at her with a grin. “You’d best git some rest,” Willie said, watching her closely as he prepared to move off with the horses. “Yer lookin’ all done-in agin.”

  Missie did rest, though this time she determined not to fall asleep. With no trees of any size in the area this time, she settled herself against the wagon wheel and worked on some knitting. She noticed other women and children had found shade by the wagons and were finding some rest time, as well. In fact, the only one bustling about was Mrs. Schmidt, who was throwing more wood onto her already abundant pile.

  The sounds of soft snoring drifted across from the direction of the next wagon. Missie looked over to see Mrs. Thorne stretched out full-length on the grass beside her wagon, one arm tucked beneath her head.

  This in spite of some commotion around the Standard wagons. Mrs. Standard was busy tending the stubbed and bleeding toe of one of her stepchildren. He wailed as she washed the injured foot but soon quieted after he realized what a fine conversation piece that neat white bandage made. He hobbled off in search of someone who would appreciate his badge of courage.

  Another Standard youngster rolled on the ground with the family dog. Mrs. Standard moved away from the yipping dog and laughing boy to lower herself to the ground with a heavy sigh. She removed her walking shoes and sat rubbing her feet. With her own feet suffering in empathy, Missie could imagine how they ached.