Chapter Twenty-Three
By dawn, the fire had burned down to a red bed of coals..
She sat on an overturned crate with a rag in her hand, watching the little pot tremble above the coals. Water boiled weakly inside it. There was willow bark in it, and a few crushed leaves Charlotte had found near the creek two days before. The smell had gone bitter from being boiled too long.
Behind her, somebody groaned.
The camp had no shape anymore. Wagons stood crooked where they had been abandoned in the night. Blankets lay in the dirt. Men who had walked beside their teams the day before now sweated under damp shirts, too weak to lift their heads. Children slept in their mothers’ laps or cried without tears.
Clay was kneeling beside Samuel beneath the lean-to they had made from a wagon cover. There was dried mud on one cheek and blood on the cuff of his shirt from Everett’s bullet wound, though the wound itself had been cleaned and bound.
Samuel’s eyes were shut. His face had gone gray around the mouth.
“Drink,” Clay said.
Samuel did not move.
Clay put one hand behind his neck and raised him enough to touch the cup to his lips. Some of the water ran down Samuel’s chin. Clay did not curse or force it. At last Samuel swallowed once.
“There,” Clay said quietly. “That’s better.”
Sarah carried the pot toward them, careful not to spill it. Clay looked up when she came near. His green eyes were red from wakefulness.
“You ought to sit down,” he said.
“So ought you. You need to rest properly.”
“I’m busy.”
“So am I.”
He almost smiled; then it was gone.
Sarah set the pot down beside him. “Charlotte says the bark may settle their stomachs.”
“Charlotte says?”
“She’s got more sense than either of us.”
“That’s not a high bar.”
Under any other sky, Sarah might have told him he was insufferable. But Samuel stirred at the sound of their voices, and the words died before she could make them.
Clay took the pot and poured some tea into a cup. “Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“You must.”
“I’m not hungry. No food anyway.”
Sarah glanced toward the Grangers’ wagon.
Charlotte sat on its step, wrapped in Noah’s old brown coat despite the warmth gathering under the clouds. The coat hung from her narrow shoulders and bunched in her lap. Her hands rested over it. She had not moved in some time.
Noah’s wagon stood empty behind her.
They had buried him at the edge of a stand of cottonwoods before the sickness took hold of the camp.
Clay had made the grave deep. Samuel, still standing then, had said the prayer.
Charlotte had watched with her face stiff and pale.
When it was done, she had asked for Noah’s hat.
Clay had handed it to her without a word.
Sarah crossed the camp toward her.
“Mrs. Granger.”
Charlotte did not answer.
Sarah stepped closer. “Charlotte.”
The older woman blinked and looked down at her as if she had come a long way back.
“I brought you some tea.”
“I don’t believe I can take it.”
“You need a little.”
Charlotte looked at the cup Sarah held. “Noah always said my tea could cure a mule of stubbornness. He was wrong, of course. Nothing could cure a mule.”
Her fingers closed over the sleeve of Noah’s coat.
Sarah sat beside her on the wagon step. The wood was cold through her skirt. “He loved your tea.”
“He drank it to please me.”
“That’s love.”
Charlotte’s mouth tightened. She turned her face away.
From the other side of camp came a child’s thin cry. Violet called a name, once, then again.
“Brady?”
Sarah was on her feet before she knew she had risen.
Violet was inside her wagon. The canvas flap had been tied back for air. Sarah ducked beneath it and stopped short.
Brady lay across his mother’s lap. His small body was wrapped in a quilt. His bare feet showed beneath it, blue at the toes. Violet held a damp cloth to his forehead with one hand. With the other, she rubbed his chest in slow circles.
The boy’s eyes were half-open, but they did not settle on anything.
“Sarah,” Violet said. Her voice broke on the name. “He won’t wake proper.”
Sarah knelt beside them. The wagon smelled of sickness. A little tin cup lay tipped over near the wheel brace. There was nothing in it.
“Brady,” Sarah said softly.
His lashes fluttered.
“That’s right. Look at me.”
His gaze wandered past her shoulder.
Violet bent low over him. “Mama’s here. You hear me, honey? I’m right here.”
Brady’s lips moved.
Sarah leaned closer. “What is it?”
“Mr. Clay,” he whispered.
The words were so faint Sarah nearly thought she had imagined them.
Violet made a sound and pressed her mouth against his hair.
“He’ll be back soon,” Sarah told him. “He’s helping Samuel.”
Brady gave the smallest nod. His hand came out from beneath the quilt, searching. Sarah took it. His fingers were hot and dry around hers.
“He said,” Brady whispered, “he said I could catch the big ones if I was quiet.”
“You can,” Sarah said. Her throat hurt. “You surely can.”
His hand loosened.
Violet looked at Sarah then, and Sarah saw that she knew.
“No,” Violet said.
Sarah put her other hand over Brady’s chest. Beneath her palm, his breath came shallow and uneven. She could feel the little space between each one growing longer.
“No,” Violet said again, louder now. “Brady. Brady, look at Mama.”
The boy’s eyes opened once. They were brown, like Violet’s. He seemed surprised by something beyond the wagon roof.
Then he let out a breath and did not draw another.
Violet went still.
Sarah waited, her hand on the boy’s chest. She did not know why. There had to be one more breath. A child could not simply stop while morning went on outside, while the fire smoked and the horses stamped and people lay groaning in the dirt.
“Brady,” she said.
Violet folded over him.
The sound she made was low at first. It came from someplace buried deep in her, then rose until it filled the wagon and spilled into the camp.
Sarah held them both because there was nothing else to do.
A shadow fell across the wagon opening. Clay had arrived, one hand gripping the canvas edge. His face changed when he saw the child.
He stepped inside and removed his hat.
Violet did not look at him. She clutched Brady against her as if someone meant to take him away.
Clay knelt beside Sarah, his hand found the small of Sarah’s back. It stayed there, steady and warm through her dress.
“I’m sorry, Violet,” he said.
Violet shook her head against Brady’s hair.
Clay bowed his head. His lips moved without sound. Sarah understood then that he was praying. Not because he thought prayer would bring Brady back. Nothing could do that. He prayed because grief had come into the wagon, and he would not leave Violet alone with it.
When he finished, he touched two fingers to Brady’s blanket, then rose.
Outside, Sarah followed him.
The sun had climbed above the trees, but it gave little heat. Clay walked a few paces from the wagon before stopping. He put both hands on his hips and stared toward the west, where the trail bent through dry hills.
“We need a doctor,” Sarah said.
Clay did not turn. “I know.”
“We cannot keep boiling leaves and hoping.”
“I know.”
“Samuel’s no better. The baby is still sick. Half the camp can’t stand.” She heard her own voice rising and forced it down. “There must be a settlement ahead. Genoa, perhaps. Somebody must know where there’s a doctor.”
Clay looked at her then. His expression was worn flat, but he set his jaw.
“I’ll go.”
Sarah stared at him. “You?”
“I can ride faster than a wagon.”
Sarah stepped nearer. “I can go.”
“No.”
She folded her arms. “I wasn’t asking permission.”
“I know you weren’t.”
“Then don’t speak to me as if I’m one of the children.”
“I’m not.” He lowered his voice. “Sarah, Everett is still out there. He has men with him. I won’t send you down that road alone.”
“You would not be sending me. I would be going.”
“And I would still say no.”
Her eyes flashed. “You have a great fondness for saying no when it concerns me.”
“That’s because you have a great fondness for walking straight into trouble.”
“I got myself out of Jacob’s house.”
“You did. And then Everett found you alone on a trail.”
The words struck hard. Clay regretted them immediately.
Sarah looked away. Beyond the wagons, the creek flashed between reeds. Charlotte was moving slowly now, carrying a cup toward Lydia Price. Her shoulders bent under Noah’s coat.
“I am not helpless,” Sarah said.
“I never said you were.”
“You don’t have to say it.”
Clay came closer, but he did not touch her. “If I thought you were helpless, I’d tell you to stay in the wagon and let other people work. I need you here because you can do what has to be done.”
She looked back at him.
He went on. “Charlotte can barely eat. Violet has lost her boy. Lydia needs somebody beside her with that baby. You know the herbs. You’ve kept your head when plenty of men haven’t. I need you here, Sarah.”
The anger in her had nowhere to go after that.
Clay glanced toward Violet’s wagon. “I’ll ride hard. Find a doctor, medicines, whatever can be had. Then I’ll come back.”
“And if Everett finds you?”
“He won’t.”
“That isn’t a plan.”
A faint breath of amusement passed over his tired face. “No, ma’am, it’s not.”
Sarah took his hand before she could stop herself. His knuckles were scraped raw. There was dirt packed beneath his nails. He turned his palm up and closed his fingers around hers.
“Take Samuel’s rifle,” she said.
“I will.”
“And water.”
“Yes.”
“More than you think you need.”
“Yes, Sarah.”
She held on another moment. Then she let him go.
Clay bent and picked up his hat. Before putting it on, he looked toward Violet’s wagon.
“We’ll bury Brady before I leave,” he said.
Sarah nodded.
Clay touched the back of her hand with his thumb. A quick, plain gesture. Then he turned toward the horses.
Sarah watched him go. He moved with a limp he tried to hide.
She stood until Charlotte called her name from across the camp.
The water was boiling over again.