Love's Long Journey Page 6

  They laughed and cried together as Willie held her in his arms and kissed her forehead and her hair. Their fellow travelers had passed on by and left them alone for the moment.

  “So this is why ya haven’t been yerself,” Willie murmured into her hair. “We gotta take better care of ya. Ya need more rest an’ a better diet. I’ll have to git fresh meat oftener. Ya shouldn’t be doin’ so much. Ya’ll overdo. I was so scared, Missie, thet maybe you’d changed yer mind, thet ya didn’t want to go out west... or thet maybe ya didn’t even love me anymore... or thet ya had some bad sickness... or... oh, I was scared. I jest prayed an’ prayed an’ here... here...” She could hear the emotion in his voice.

  Missie had not realized before what her long days of listlessness and homesickness had meant for Willie. She must not hold back from him again.

  “I’m sorry, Willie,” she whispered, “I didn’t know that you were feeling... were thinking all those things. I’m sorry.”

  “Not yer fault. Not yer fault at all. I’m jest so relieved, thet’s all. Still sorry thet yer not feelin’ well—but we’ll take care of ya. After all, it’s fer a very good reason!”

  “I’m glad that you’re happy—

  ” But Missie didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence. Willie stopped her as he drew her close. “Everything is gonna be fine now, Missie. Ya should be feelin’ better soon. We’ll have a chat with Mrs. Kosensky. We’ll make sure thet ya git lots of rest. An’ ’fore ya know it, you’ll be fine, jest fine.”

  “Willie? Willie, there’s something else, too. True, I’ve been feeling a mite down. But I think the true reason for me... my... ah... well, the way I feel is just lonesomeness, Willie. Just lonesomeness for Mama and Pa and...” Missie could not continue. The tears ran freely.

  Willie held her close against him. He stroked her hair and gently wiped the tears from her cheek.

  “Why didn’t ya tell me, Missie?” he said at last. “I woulda understood. I’ve been missing those left behind, too. Maybe I couldn’t have eased yer sorrow none, Missie, but I’da shared it with ya.” He tipped her face and gently kissed her. “I love ya, Missie.”

  Why had she been so foolish? Why had she hugged her hurt to herself, thinking that Willie would not understand or care? She should have told him long ago and accepted the comfort of his arms. Missie clung to him now and cried until her tears were all spent. Surely there was some healing in shared heartache, in cleansing tears. At length she was able to look up at Willie and smile again.

  Willie kissed her on the nose and gave her another squeeze.

  “Hey,” he said suddenly, “we gotta git this little mama off to bed. No more late nights fer you, missus. An’ not quite so much walkin’ an’ doin’, either.”

  “Oh, Willie,” protested Missie, “the walking is a heap easier for me than that bumpy old wagon.”

  “Ya reckon so?”

  “I reckon so. It’s not exactly a high-springed buggy, you know.”

  Willie chuckled as he led Missie carefully across the clearing to their wagon.

  “Mind yer step, now,” he said earnestly as he boosted her up. “Mustn’t overdo it.”

  “Oh, Willie,” Missie laughed in exasperation. But she knew she was in for a lot of babying in the future. Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he just wouldn’t overdo it. She smiled to herself and ducked to enter their canvas doorway.

  SEVEN

  Rain

  The next morning Missie could tell Willie was still in a state of bliss as he climbed out of the wagon to begin a new day.

  She had watched him pull the gray wool shirt over his head with all those buttons from waist to neck, then tuck it quickly into the coarse denim pants that made up his trail clothing. He had glanced over at her and, seeing she was awake, gave her a delighted grin, then quickly sobered as he told her to stay in bed for a bit longer. She’d need extra rest. She smiled sleepily, then suggested that if the day got too hot, he’d probably want to change the shirt for a cotton one. He nodded, raised his suspenders, and snapped them into place. At the entrance to the wagon he stopped to pull on his calf-high leather boots. He shrugged his way out of the canvas doorway and headed out to get the team ready for the day’s journey. He went with an even jauntier step and cheerier whistle than usual. Missie knew he was pleased about the coming baby. She also knew he was thinking, Four more days to the Big River!

  To Missie, it meant four more days to the point of no return. She tried to shake off her melancholy for Willie’s sake and went about her morning chores with a determined cheerfulness. Today, if she had the opportunity, she might reveal the good news of her coming baby to Becky. They could plan together.

  Willie stopped the team often that morning to give Missie opportunities for walking—and then to check that she hadn’t already walked far enough. She humored him by walking for a while and then welcoming a ride when he suggested it. She actually could have traveled by foot most of the morning. The walking had bothered her less each day, but there was no use worrying Willie.

  In the afternoon a chill came with the wind, and dark storm clouds gathered on the horizon. The whole wagon train seemed to be holding its breath in unison. It was soon apparent to all that this storm would not pass over with just a shower. Still, the team drivers and their apprehensive womenfolk entertained the hope that the rain would not last for long. The animals seemed to sense the approaching storm, too, and by the time the thunder and lightning commenced, they were already nervous and skittish.

  The rain came lightly at first. The women and children scrambled for the cover of the wagons, while the men wrapped themselves in canvas slickers and drove on through the storm.

  But rather than decreasing in intensity, the storm with its dark clouds swirling above seemed angry and vindictive as the waters poured down. Soon the teams were straining to pull the heavy high-wheeled wagons through the deepening mud. Those fortunate enough to have extra horses or oxen hitched them to their wagons, also.

  The guides ranged back and forth, watching for trouble along the trail. It came all too soon. One of the lead wagons slid while going down a slippery steep slope, bouncing a wheel against a large rock. The wooden spokes snapped with a sickening crack. The wagon lurched and heaved, though fortunately it did not tip over. Mr. Calley somehow kept the startled horses from bolting.

  The teams following had to maneuver around the crippled wagon, slipping and sliding their way down the rocky hill and onto even ground. As soon as the last wagon was safely down the badly rutted hillside, Mr. Blake ordered a halt. They should have had many more miles of traveling for the day behind them, but it was useless to try to go on. The Big River would have to wait.

  The sodden wagons gathered into their familiar circular formation, and the teams, with steam rising from their heaving sides, were unhitched. Some of the men went back up the hill to help the unfortunate Calley family. Their wagon could not be moved until the broken wheel was mended. The men labored in the pouring rain, attempting to raise the corner of the wagon by piling rocks and pieces of timber underneath. The Calleys would have to spend the night at a little distance from the rest of the camp.

  While Willie and Henry were gone, Missie wrapped a heavy shawl about her and went in search of firewood. The other women and children were seeking material for their fires, as well, and the rain meant there was very little to be found. Missie felt wet and muddy and cross as she scrambled for bits and pieces of anything she thought might burn. At one point she heard a commotion and then a voice shouting, “You tell Jessie Tuttle thet once a body is headin’ fer a stick of firewood, thet body is entitled to it.” Missie smiled in spite of herself. The two were at it again!

  Only the forward-thinking Mrs. Schmidt did not have to join the others in the dispiriting search. Her ever-abundant supply of dry wood was unloaded from under the wagon seat. Missie wondered why she hadn’t had the presence of mind to plan ahead, as well.

  Missie finally had gathered what she hoped would be enou
gh to cook a hot meal, then slogged her way back through the mud to her wagon. The fire was reluctant, at best, but Missie finally coaxed a flame to life. It sputtered and spit and threatened to go out, but Missie encouraged it on. The coffee never did boil, but the reheated stew was at least warm, and the near-hot coffee was welcome to shivering bodies.

  Missie cleaned up in a halfhearted manner, and they crawled into their canvas home on wheels to get out of their wet clothing and into something warm and dry. It was far too early to go to bed, even though the day had been a strenuous one. Willie lit a lamp and settled down beside it to bring his journal up-to-date. Missie picked up her knitting, but her fingers were still too cold to work effectively. At length she gave up and pulled a blanket around herself for warmth. Willie lifted his head to look at her and started fretting again.

  “Ya chilled? Ya’d best git right into thet bed—don’t want ya pickin’ up a cold. Here, let me help ya. I’ll go see what I can find for a warm stone fer yer feet.” He tucked the blanket more closely around Missie, right to the chin, and started to reach for his coat.

  “Don’t go back out in the rain—please, Willie,” Missie begged. “My feet aren’t that cold. They’ll be warm in no time. I’ll just slip on a pair of your woolen socks.” And Missie did so immediately so Willie could see she meant what she had said.

  It was too early to go to sleep, Missie knew. She also knew it was unwise to protest being tucked in, so she snuggled under the blanket, and gradually the chill began to leave her bones. She even began to feel drowsy.

  Willie finished his journal entries and picked up a leathercovered edition of Pilgrim’s Progress that had been a wedding gift from Missie’s schoolchildren. Missie murmured, “If you don’t mind, would you read it aloud?”

  Willie read, his voice and the familiar story lulling her toward a sense of well-being, and the long evening somehow passed.

  The rain continued to fall, splattering against the canvas of the wagon. Before lying down to sleep beside Missie, Willie checked carefully all around the inside of their small enclosure to make sure there were no leaks. Then in a very few minutes Missie knew by his breathing that he slept. She wished she could fall asleep as easily, but instead she lay and listened to the rain. Again her thoughts turned to home.

  She used to love to listen to the rain pattering on the window as she snuggled down beneath the warm quilt her mama had made. The rain had always seemed friendly then, but somehow tonight it did not seem to be a friend at all. She shivered and moved closer to Willie. She was thankful for his nearness and his warmth. And his confidence.

  When Missie awakened the next morning, the rain was still falling. Puddles of water lay everywhere, and the shrubbery and wagons dripped steady little streams in the damp morning air. Willie arrived just as Missie was about to crawl down from the wagon, wondering what in the world she would ever do about a fire. Instructing her to stay where she was, he managed to get a fire going and make some coffee and pancakes. He served Missie in the covered wagon, ignoring her protests.

  “No use us both gittin’ wet and cold,” he reasoned. “ ’Sides, Mr. Blake hasn’t decided yet whether we move on or jest sit tight.”

  But they all knew of Mr. Blake’s concern about reaching the Big River before the waters were swollen with the rain. So in spite of the mud, he ordered them to pack up and move out as usual.

  Willie was already soaking wet as he climbed up onto the wagon seat and urged the balking horses out. He told Missie to make as comfortable a place for herself as she could and to stay under the canvas.

  It was tough going. The wagons slipped and twisted through the mire. Wheels clogged up and had to be freed from their burdens of mud. Teams and drivers were worn out in only a few hours’ time. When one poor horse finally fell and needed a great deal of assistance to regain his footing, Mr. Blake called a halt. It was useless to try to travel farther under such conditions.

  Missie didn’t know whether to feel relief or dismay when their wagon creaked to a stop. The rain had slackened a bit, so she wrapped her shawl closely about her and went on the inevitable search for firewood. But when Willie returned some time later, Missie still had not succeeded in getting a fire going. She was close to tears and felt like a complete failure. The wood just would not burn. Willie took charge, talking Missie into changing out of her wet clothes. He dared to beg some hot water from Mrs. Schmidt, whose fire was burning cheerily—as if it were sticking its tongue out at the whole camp. Mrs. Schmidt seemed pleased—though possibly a bit smug—to share her hot water. Missie made tea in the confines of the wagon, and she, Willie, and Henry enjoyed the hot refreshment, along with their biscuits from yesterday.

  Still the rain continued. Missie went back to her knitting while Willie mended a piece of harness. When that was done, he pulled out his journal, but this source of activity was soon exhausted, as well. He picked up the John Bunyan volume again and attempted to read, but eventually restlessness drove him from the wagon and out into the rain, muttering an excuse about checking on the teams and the cows.

  With Willie gone, the afternoon dragged even more for Missie. She was on the verge of venturing forth herself when she heard Willie return. At his call from the back of the wagon, Missie raised the tent flap. He handed her a bundle, the Collins’ baby.

  “Their wagon is leakin’,” he explained. “There ain’t a dry place to lay the young’uns. I’ll be right back with the boy.”

  Missie busied herself with unwrapping the baby. True to his word, Willie was soon there at the canvas opening with little Joey in tow. When baby Meggie fussed, Missie cheerfully spent the time hushing her, rocking her back and forth and coaxing her to settle into a comfortable position. Willie entertained Joey, helping him make a tiny cabin with small sticks. Then he read to him out of Pilgrim’s Progress, and even though the young boy could not possibly understand much of the story, he listened intently. Missie finally managed to get the baby to sleep. She joined Willie and Joey, now involved in a little-boy game with sticks and stones.

  Sissie Collins came by later to check on her children and nurse the baby. Willie made the rounds of the camp to see if there was anyone else needing a helping hand.

  When the long day came to an end, they drank the remains of the now-cold tea and ate some cold meat with the remaining biscuits.

  Willie moved into the other wagon with Henry so Sissie and her two little ones could stay with Missie in drier surroundings.

  As Missie went to sleep again with the sound of the rain on the canvas, she wondered if it would ever stop. How could they possibly endure another day such as this?

  But they did. At times the rain slackened to a mere drizzle, and at other times it poured. Each time the rain slowed, Missie pulled on her shawl and left the confines of the wagon. But actually there was little place to walk around and stretch her cramped legs. The ground around the site looked like a lake with only a few high spots still showing through. At first Missie tried to stay to the high ground, then giving up with a shrug, she sloshed about through the water.

  Finally even Mrs. Schmidt ran out of firewood, so the men made a concerted effort to find something farther out that would burn. Eventually it was decreed that one fire, built under a stretched-out canvas, would be shared by the whole camp. The women took turns, three or four at a time, hastily preparing something hot for their families.

  The Collins family wasn’t the only one having problems with leaking canvas. Other wagons, too, were wet—inside and out. Families were doubling up and sharing quarters wherever possible.

  The rain heightened the tension between the two female antagonists. But the howls of outrage from Mrs. Page and the biting retorts of Mrs. Tuttle were often the very thing that kept the rest of the company sane. It was a nice diversion to be able to chuckle—even at one another.

  On the fifth day the sky began to clear, and the sun broke through on the dripping and miserable wagon train.

  The travelers, too, came out, quickly stri
nging lines and hanging clothing and blankets to dry. The ground remained wet, and it could be days before the stands of water disappeared and even a longer time before the ground would be dry enough to allow the wagons to roll ahead once again.

  Missie felt somewhat like Noah as she descended from her wagon. There was water everywhere. How good it would be to see the dry land appear and the horses kick up dust. Oh, to be on the move again!

  Mr. Blake clearly felt impatient, too, but his many years of experience on the trail no doubt told him it would be useless to try to travel on in the mud. No, they’d have to wait, he told them, explaining that with the rains of the past few days, the Big River would be impossible to cross very soon anyway. They’d been delayed, but they’d just take the problems one day at a time. “We’ll be there a’fore ya know it.” He finished his announcement with a tip of his hat to the glum faces before him.

  Missie wondered how much time “a’fore ya know it” actually meant. But her first duty was to collect firewood, wet though it might be, and lay it out to dry for future use. She would not be caught short again if she could at all help it.

  EIGHT

  The Big River

  For six days Mr. Blake kept the wagons in their camp circle. He no doubt would have held them longer, foreseeing the unwelcome surprise that probably awaited them at the Big River, but the growing impatience to be rolling again made the group restless. The ground in the immediate vicinity was dry enough to travel, and the risk of tempers flaring from tense nerves and idle hands overcame his reluctance to face a swollen river. On day seven he called for the travelers to break camp.

  But those six days had not been lost in inactivity. Harnesses had been repaired, wagons reinforced, canvases carefully patched and oiled where the relentless rain had found a way inside. Clothes had been washed and mended, blankets aired, and bodies scrubbed. A hunting party returned to camp with two deer, and the venison fed the whole camp. The fresh meat was a welcome change from their dried and canned diet.