Trail of Longing (Hot on the Trail Book 3) Page 4

  He nodded toward the campfire where he had been eating lunch with Mr. Evans. Emma’s heart plummeted. How could she hope to compete with girls like Helen and Kathleen? They were sweet and talkative. She tripped over her own tongue so often one would think it was three feet long. Helen was gone now, but Kathleen and her mother were still there, talking to Mr. Evans. Mr. Evans was a single man too, as far as Emma knew. Kathleen’s mother must have known, although Kathleen looked less than thrilled. She kept glancing up at Dean. Emma peeked at him to see if he noticed.

  “Never fear. Your mother is no match for me.” He teased her with a wink that made the blood pump faster in her veins.

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to assume that if I were you,” she whispered back.

  As if to prove her right, her mother came sailing back, wedging herself between the two of them. “Now, now,” she said. “We can’t have the two of you standing so close and whispering like thieves. Our neighbors might get the wrong idea.” She punctuated her scolding with a laugh that raised the hair on the back of Emma’s neck.

  It also drew the attention of Kathleen and her mother. They stopped their conversation with Mr. Evans for a moment. Kathleen glared at Emma with a ferocity that made Emma quiver in her boots. And she hadn’t actually done anything. Yet.

  “Dr. Meyers, why don’t you sit over here and have some tea?” Her mother slid her hand along Dean’s arm and tugged him away from the simmering stew. “Emma can take care of that. Why, I’m sure she’d delight in exhibiting her skills for you.” Another laugh, and her mother plucked the spoon from Dean’s hand, passing it to Emma.

  Emma dodged to avoid dripping on her skirt again, and to avoid being bowled over by her mother entirely as she escorted Dean to a pair of chairs that had been in their dining room in New York.

  “Please, sit,” her mother said. “We’ve been told we’re foolish for bringing furniture with us on the journey, that we’ll likely have to leave it behind at some point, but I simply couldn’t part with these.”

  “I should help Emma.” Dean tried to step away from her mother. “She shouldn’t bend so close to the fire in that dress.”

  “Yes, she looks lovely, don’t you think?” Her mother ignored his concern. She laid her palms on his chest, and all but pushed him into the chair. She smiled with false sweetness and perched on the edge of the chair beside him. “Now, Dr. Meyers, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself, your background, your family?”

  Emma would have rolled her eyes if she didn’t think Dean would notice. None of this could end well. And Kathleen was still staring arrows at her as her mother gave up talking to Mr. Evans and said their goodbyes. There was nothing Emma could do but stir the stew to keep it from burning. At least it was finished cooking. She searched for a cloth to wrap around the handle to take it off the fire.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to do that for you?” Dean asked, leaning sideways to peer around her mother.

  “No, thank you,” she said with a smile, keeping her eyes lowered.

  “There, you see?” her mother said. “Now. About you.”

  “There isn’t much to tell,” Dean began. “My family is from Baltimore. I attended Washington University School of Medicine, assisted for a short time at a hospital in Philadelphia before joining the war effort as a battlefield surgeon.”

  He stopped. His pause was heavy enough to prompt Emma to look up from her work. If she wasn’t mistaken, some color had drained from his face. He stared at his hands in his lap. It was the second time she’d felt his reaction when he spoke about the war. She wanted to leave the stew and the kettle she’d just put over the fire to go to him and comfort him.

  “There has to be more than that.” Her mother huffed with impatience, missing the unspoken emotion. “Who are your parents? What kind of living do you have?”

  “Mother,” Emma murmured, and when her mother frowned at her, she shook her head.

  Dean drew in a breath and straightened, his smile returning. “My father was also a physician,” he said. “My mother was a Randolph.”

  “Oh.” Her mother brightened, pressing a hand to her chest as if she knew how noble the Randolph name was. “And your living? Why are you going to Oregon when you have such connections back East?”

  Again, Dean was silent. He searched off across the prairie as if looking for the answer himself. At length, he let out a breath and glanced to Emma. He smiled and said, “There’s nothing left for me back East. My future is in the new frontier.”

  The way his eyes shone with hope as he watched her sent Emma’s heart thumping through her chest. A future in the new frontier. With Dean looking at her like that, it almost seemed possible.

  “Do you have a position waiting for you?” her mother went on. Judging by the seriousness of her expression, she didn’t have an ounce of patience for romantic ideas or dreams that had yet to be fulfilled. “Surely you have connections in Oregon.” Before Dean could answer, she twisted in her chair and snapped, “Emma. The stew. Bring some to Dr. Meyers.”

  The ghost of a frown furrowed Dean’s brow at the command. Emma let it roll off. Her mother was just trying to execute her plot. Emma ladled stew into one of the china bowls her mother had brought out—another foolish detail to her plan—and brought it to Dean, along with a spoon.

  “Thanks.” Dean’s fingers brushed hers as he took the bowl. Emma’s heart gave another lurch. He took a small bite to be polite, then turned to her mother. “No, I don’t have any connections in Oregon.”

  “You don’t?” Her mother’s face fell.

  “Not yet. But I’ve been told that the West is hungry for men with medical training, that there are so few qualified doctors on the frontier that anyone with a little training is highly sought after, no matter what—” He stopped abruptly, cleared his throat, and took a large bite of stew.

  “Mother, I’m sure Dr. Meyers will be snatched up the moment he finds a suitable town to settle in.”

  “That’s what worries me,” her mother mumbled. A moment later, her smile returned. “We shall have to put in a good word for you in Portland, where we are headed. My husband has an old business associate there.”

  “Leave me out of your wooing, Elizabeth,” Emma’s father spoke up from his chair by the wagon, where he was still reading. He’d been so silent that Emma had all but forgotten he was there. With a comment like that, she wished he had remained silent.

  “Oh, Arthur,” her mother huffed.

  Emma could do nothing but stand where she was by her mother’s chair and blush with embarrassment. At least Dean pretended not to notice. He ate his stew quickly, with an appreciative smile.

  “This is very good,” he said when he was near the bottom of the bowl, “but I really should be going.”

  Emma’s heart sank. Do something, she urged herself. Ask him to stay. Ask him to walk with you. Tell him you love him. She gasped at her thought and stood straighter, clamping her lips shut. No, don’t do that. Definitely don’t do that.

  Dean finished his stew and stood, handing the bowl to Emma. Their fingers brushed again, and this time he lingered. “I have patients that I should see to before the wagons start moving again,” he apologized. “But this was a treat. One I hope to repeat at some point.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but all she could manage was a smile.

  “Yes.” Her mother launched from her chair and rushed to stand between them. “Yes, we will have to invite you for a full, formal supper sometime. Sometime soon.”

  Eyes still fixed on Emma’s, Dean answered, “I would like that.” At last, he let go of the bowl and his fingers slipped away from hers. He nodded. “Good afternoon to you.”

  “And to you,” she replied. Yes, she congratulated herself. You can talk to him without turning into a ninny.

  As Dean walked off down the line of the wagons, her mother swept to her side. “There you go, my dear. I think you may have this just about wrapped up.”

  “Please, mo
ther,” she pleaded, turning back to the campfire. “Please don’t rush things. Let whatever happens happen slowly.”

  Her mother barked a laugh. “We don’t have time for slow.” She followed Emma to the fire. “No, what we need is one more big push to seal the deal for good and all.”

  “Marriage is not a deal, Mother,” Emma said. “It is a melding of two souls. It should be based on careful thought and companionability.”

  Her mother sighed and shook her head. “How little you know of the world, my dear. You’ll learn. Just like your dear sister, I’m afraid that all too soon you’ll learn how cruel love and life can be.”

  Chapter Four

  The feeling of dread in Emma’s chest that Dean’s impromptu visit over lunch had inspired didn’t go away. They hadn’t been on the move again for more than three days before her mother was plotting a repeat.

  “What we need is to find an excuse for Dr. Meyers to stay for a much longer visit,” she schemed.

  Emma walked meekly by her side, overdressed once again. Her mother had insisted she wear her finest clothes at all times since they had so effectively turned Dean’s head.

  “We need something that will allow for you to have his undivided attention,” her mother went on.

  “Do we really?” Emma sighed. She glanced up at the sky. It was dark and cloudy, the air full of unrest.

  “Of course we do,” her mother reprimanded her. “Honestly, Emma, it’s as if you don’t want to land yourself a good husband.”

  Emma dragged her eyes down from the threatening clouds on the horizon to frown at her mother. “I want nothing more than to marry a man I love and who loves me honestly. I don’t want to win him through tricks and traps.”

  “Then you might try opening that pretty mouth of yours and talking, for a change.” The frustration in her mother’s expression was so sharp that Emma flinched. Her mother let out a breath and softened. “I’m sorry, my dear. I know you never have been one for idle chit-chat. That’s a blessing. Men want wives who are demure and discrete, but those who are born with those qualities need an extra push to make the right men see it.”

  “I think Dr. Meyers can see it whether you push or not,” Emma answered, barely above a whisper. It was too much to hope that she was right, and yet the light in his eyes when he spoke to her was an encouragement.

  “Do you think so?” her mother asked. She swayed closer. “And what do you think of him? Do you think that you could show sufficient interest to convince him to declare himself?”

  “We’ve only just met,” Emma protested. “We barely know each other. But I—”

  A scream cut off the rest of her sentence. Both Emma and her mother flinched and glanced behind them to see who had cried out. The wagons in back of them slowed to a stop, the oxen and horses pulling them restless in their harnesses. More than a few of their neighbors stared straight ahead, fear growing on their faces. One woman pointed.

  Emma turned forward to see what it was. Her breath caught in her chest. Far ahead of them, the dark clouds had begun to swirl into a funnel. Flashes of lightning cut through the storm.

  “It’s a twister,” someone shouted a few wagons ahead of them.

  “Heavens,” her mother cried, breathless. She grabbed Emma’s arm with one hand and slammed the other over her heart. “Dear God, what do we do?”

  All around them, the wagon train tumbled into chaos. Emma twisted this way and that, looking for any clue about what she should do to protect her family. Her friend Lynne and Cade Lawson mounted their horses and shot off toward the river to their left. Callie and John Rye jumped down from their wagons and were unharnessing their oxen. Mr. Evans ran toward the front of the train, shouting for people to take cover. Dean was nowhere in sight.

  “Look at the size of it,” Alice screamed from the wagon. She stood directly behind their father as he drove, clutching his shoulders as if he could be her shield.

  “It’s coming toward us,” her father announced in a grim voice.

  Emma shot to action. “Quick, Mother. We’ve got to take shelter.”

  She grabbed her mother’s hand and ran to the back of the wagon. Already, the wind was picking up, tugging hard at her hair and skirts and the canvas of the wagon cover. Past their wagon, Emma saw people rushing toward the scant clusters of trees closer to the river. Animals, from dogs to horses, ran around them in all directions. For a moment she thought the people heading for the trees had the best idea, that she should gather Mother and Father and Alice and join them.

  Then a sickening bolt of lightning tore down from the sky, exploding one of the trees. Emma felt the tension of the strike in her throat, through her arms and legs to her fingers and toes. Real terror, far deeper than the quivering fear she felt when faced with talking to Dean, tore through her. More people were screaming now, the wind was picking up, and those who had taken shelter under the tree were lying at its base.

  “Get in the wagon,” she shouted, her voice strange and strangled. “Go!”

  She pulled her mother all the way to the back of the wagon, switching her hands to the small of her back and pushing. Her father had jumped down from the wagon’s seat into the bed. He scrambled across the stacks of their belongings to reach out for her mother.

  “Arthur!” her mother wailed, but couldn’t manage anything else. Her father scooped her mother up under her arms and hauled her into the wagon.

  “Come on, Emma,” he shouted, reaching for her next.

  Emma glanced from him to the wild, wind-whipped prairie around them. Where is Dean? she asked, her heart aching for just one glimpse of him. She held up a hand to her father, telling him to wait, and jogged a few steps to the side, searching up and down the scattered line of the wagons. The scene was total chaos. Men, women, children, and livestock darted in all directions. A team of oxen that had been left in the harness bucked and cried. Toward the front of the train, the canvas cover blew off one of the wagons, sending anything that wasn’t heavy or tied down swirling into the air.

  In front of it all, the tornado raged onward. Its funnel was thick and dark, reaching all the way to the ground, where it tore up the earth. Smaller funnels formed in the sky. It seemed close enough to touch, close enough to swallow her whole. For one heart-stopping moment, all Emma could do was stand there, wide-eyed, and watch it come for her.

  “Emma!” The shout was barely audible over the roar of the wind, but it was enough to snap her out of her horror.

  She pivoted to look behind her. “Dean?”

  But Dean was nowhere in sight. All down the line, wagons creaked and rocked as if they were made of matchsticks. A few more lost their covers and contents. Emma sucked in a quick breath, head pounding, and ran to her family.

  “My God, child,” her father shouted at her with a mixture of scolding and relief when she stretched out her arms to him. “What were you thinking?”

  She didn’t have time to explain. Her mother and Alice were huddled in the center of the wagon, both racked with sobs. Emma rushed to them and threw her arms around them.

  “Move the boxes,” she called to her father. “Shift them so that they shelter us from the wind.”

  He nodded, understanding what she had in mind without her needing to explain further. He reached for the first crate of supplies he could grab and almost tossed it to the opening at the back of the wagon. Emma gave her mother and Alice another squeeze, then half-stood in the cramped space to help him. She lifted a barrel that she would have sworn was too heavy for her and shoved it toward the exposed opening. The canvas flap that they had used for privacy flailed in the wind like a flag. As soon as Emma set the barrel down, she lunged for it. One strip of canvas would not save them from a tornado, but it could help.

  She leaned over the barrel and snatched for the snapping canvas. Her father shouted something at her, but the noise of the wind and the rain that now joined it was so loud that she couldn’t hear him. He was three feet away and she couldn’t hear him. The pressure of the s
torm throbbed in her head. The screaming wind was enough to shatter her eardrums. The whole world outside of the wagon had gone dark, but still she scrambled for the canvas flap.

  Dean, her heart cried out even as her jaw clenched in terror. Dean, where are you?

  At last she caught the flapping canvas, closing her fist around it. A thrill of victory zipped through her heart.

  A moment later, the ground rolled and heaved under her, throwing her into chaos and pain.

  Dean had never seen anything like the fury of wind and lightning and pressure of the tornado that surged closer and closer to the wagon train. It pulled at him from all directions as he did what he could to help the Picketts.

  “There’s a brave girl,” he panted, pulling Sadie out of the back of the Pickett family’s wagon and into his arms. The frightened child shook like a tumbleweed tossed across the prairie. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be fine.”

  She clutched his coat, burying her face against his shoulder. Dean squeezed her tight and dashed away from the wagon as fast as he could with the wind buffeting him to where her family stood, looking lost. He’d had a bad feeling about the weather from the moment he woke up that morning. As soon as the storm began to form on the horizon, he’d known they were in for trouble. He’d started up the line of wagons toward Emma and her family as soon as the twister was sighted, but turned around when he saw that the Picketts needed him more. He’d done what he could and grabbed Sadie.

  “Over there,” he shouted to Mrs. Pickett through the growing rush of the wind. “There are trees by the river.”

  Mrs. Pickett, her face white, a child clasped in each arm, nodded and hurried over blowing prairie grass toward the river. The oldest Pickett boy stayed behind with their father, unharnessing their animals as they had seen John and Callie Rye doing.

  As they joined the confused mass of people desperate for shelter, Dean searched up the scattering line of wagons for Emma. Her family’s wagon shook with the force of the wind pounding on it. The canvas was coming loose near the back. Emma stood with her back to him on the far side of the wagon, staring up at the sky. He could see her in profile, her pink cheeks and delicate chin turned up in horror.