Brides of Georgia Page 3

  The other man stuck his head out of the wagon when the scuffle started. Abby grabbed a downed tree limb with the intention of using it as a club. The rotten wood broke apart in her hands. She threw the piece she still held at the thief who jumped from the wagon, whacking him full in the face. He reeled for only a moment, but it was long enough for her to lower her head and charge into him like an angry bull. Caught off balance, he fell against the wagon with a grunt of surprise.

  “Why, you little she-devil…” He pushed away from the wagon, and it wobbled on the unstable ground at the edge of the ravine. He came at her, growling fiercely. She nimbly jumped beyond his reach, nearly becoming ensnared in the ongoing struggle between Mr. Danfield and the first man as they continued to wrestle for the weapon. A gunshot split the air as Danfield knocked the pistol from the outlaw’s hand. Florrie’s terrified scream ripped through the trees.

  In the space of a heartbeat, Abby glanced in Florrie’s direction. The second man grabbed Abby around the middle. His grip forced the air from her lungs. She wrenched one hand free and clawed at the brute, dragging the blue neckerchief away from his unshaven face. His vile breath turned her head, and she saw Mr. Danfield still fighting with the man in the vest. He slammed his fist into the bandit’s jaw, sending him sprawling.

  With lightning reflexes, Mr. Danfield leaped across the space, his hands outstretched and fingers splayed. The outlaw who held Abby shoved her aside and turned his attention on Danfield. From the corner of her eye, she saw the first man stagger to his feet.

  “Watch out!” She and Florrie screamed in unison.

  Danfield caught the neck of the man with whom he fought in a headlock and spun him around to meet the other man surging toward him. The man in the vest crashed against the wagon while Danfield continued to fight with the one who’d accosted Abby. Rain-softened soil along the rim of the ravine crumbled and fell as loose rocks gave way from under the two left wheels. The wagon tilted as the unstable ground caved in under the weight.

  The outlaw in the blue bandanna reached for his gun, and Danfield lunged for the man’s arm, the two of them rolling in the dirt as they wrestled for possession of the weapon. The other man bent and picked up the rock with which Danfield had chocked the rear wheel and raised it over his head, aiming it at Mr. Danfield.

  “No!” Abby hurled herself into the man, causing him to drop the rock. He lurched backward at the same time Danfield scrambled to his feet and grabbed his opponent, slinging him into his partner with unexpected strength. Both men slammed against the wagon.

  The conveyance teetered as more rocks loosened from the soft earth, tipping the wagon at a perilous angle. Unbalanced and no longer held fast by the team, the wagon pitched to the side and toppled down the ravine.

  Abby watched in horror, as trunks and crates entangled with bedding and canvas, all crashed through the labyrinth of saplings and brush on its way down the abyss.

  A string of curses blistered her ears. Abby jerked her head to see the bandit in the blue bandanna whip his gun from its holster and point it straight at her. She forgot how to breathe.

  “No!” Mr. Danfield’s voice rang out, the single syllable elongated in strident discord with the simultaneous explosion of gunfire. His body impacted hers, plowing her to the ground. Somewhere in the midst, Florrie screamed.

  Abby lay in the tangle of muddy leaves and vines, unable to move or breathe. Was she shot? No pain ravaged her senses. Numbness overtook her, whether from injury or fear, she couldn’t tell. Mr. Danfield lay motionless beside her, facedown in the dirt.

  One of the outlaws kicked at Danfield and bellowed at his partner. “You fool! Why’d you have to kill him?”

  “I wasn’t trying to kill him. You let the girl see you.” More vile words contaminated the air. “What about the old lady?”

  Florrie! Dear God, please don’t let them hurt Florrie.

  “Leave her. Grab that purse. C’mon, let’s get outta here.”

  Heavy footsteps ran to the horses, but still Abby didn’t move. Not until the hoofbeats faded away behind them did she release her pent-up breath and realize her heart was still beating.

  “Abby! Nathaniel!” Florrie fell to her knees beside Abby, sobbing.

  The strength that propelled Abby to fight off their attackers evaporated. An avalanche of weariness buried her beneath its smothering folds. Even the energy required to lift her head waned like fading beams of light at sunset, but she managed to open her eyes and turn her face in Florrie’s direction.

  “Oh, Abby, I thought you were dead.” The distraught woman sucked in great gulps of air and wrapped trembling arms around Abby.

  Dead. Mr. Danfield remained unmoving. Was he breathing?

  Abby found the will to pull herself to her hands and knees. The man her father called dishonorable lay bleeding beside her. The scene that occurred minutes before plowed through her mind again. Had Mr. Danfield really thrown himself in front of that outlaw’s gun? Surely she was mistaken. In the heat of the moment, she’d imagined it.

  “Help me roll him over, Florrie.”

  The two women succeeded in turning him to lie on his back. A bloody river ran profusely down his face from a deep gash along his temple. Abby laid her hand on his chest. There…his chest rose and fell.

  “He doesn’t seem to be bleeding from anyplace else.” Florrie rose and scurried over to the articles of clothing strewn about, picked up a chemise, and shook it out. With vigor that surprised Abby, the widow tore the garment down the middle. “Here, use this.”

  Abby took the cloth and began blotting at the wound, but the flow of blood did not abate. Mr. Danfield didn’t stir. Abby glanced around.

  “Do you have anything in your satchel that will hold water?”

  Florrie frowned at the scattered belongings, puzzlement etching her features. After a moment she brightened. “Yes. I have a small leather pouch with a few mending supplies in it.” She searched the area, picking up items until she located the tiny sewing case. “Here it is. But we have no water. The canteens were in the back of the wagon.”

  Abby pointed up the trail, the opposite direction taken by the outlaws. “Mr. Danfield went up that way to fill them. He must have found water somewhere.”

  “Of course.” Florrie dumped out the contents of the pouch and hurried in the direction Abby had pointed.

  Left alone on the trail with Mr. Danfield unconscious and wounded, awareness seeped into Abby’s brain that the cloth she held refused to be still. She fastened her stare to their guide. It wasn’t Mr. Danfield who moved beneath the cloth. Her own hands trembled uncontrollably. Sucking in as deep a breath as she could muster, she willed the involuntary tremors to obey her and cease their shaking. She glanced behind her in the direction she’d heard the horses gallop away. Might the outlaws come back to finish the job?

  “Please, God, tell me what to do.” She pulled the bloody cloth away from Mr. Danfield’s head and refolded it, pressing a fresh layer against the wound. What if Mr. Danfield didn’t wake up? What if he bled to death right there in the middle of the woods? “Forgive me, Lord, for complaining and finding fault. Please don’t let him die.”

  “He will not die.”

  Abby gasped and jumped, her splintered nerves on end. Standing not ten yards away was a Cherokee woman holding an oddly shaped basket.

  The small, wiry woman with snapping black eyes moved beside Mr. Danfield. Her simple homespun dress billowed around her when she knelt and set her basket aside. She lifted the wad of bloody cloth from his wound and peered intently at the gash. She looked over at Abby. “Can you make a fire?”

  Abby cast a glance around her. “Even if I can find dry wood, I don’t have any friction lights or even a tinderbox. All our supplies were in the wagon and—”

  The Cherokee woman gave a soft snort. “Plenty of flint rock. Gather wood from places in the sun.” She nodded toward a sparsely treed area up on the ridge above them.

  Abby hurried to obey, still wondering how t
his woman had happened upon them. She climbed the hill toward the ridge where the sunlight warmed her. It was only then she realized she shivered. Grabbing downed limbs and branches at the edge of the tree line in full sun, she found them mostly dry. Dead vines and underbrush from last year’s vegetation offered a source of fast ignition. She pulled hard at the vines, wincing as they cut into her fingers. When her arms were full, she descended the slope back to the trail where Florrie now knelt beside the Cherokee woman.

  “I found a little stream falling over some rocks.” She held up the leather pouch. “It’s not much.”

  The Indian woman directed Abby in building the fire. Once the flame caught and hungrily licked at the twigs Abby fed it, the woman pointed toward the edge of the ravine. “I need thin, flat rock. Be careful not to fall like your wagon.”

  Abby cautiously scavenged until she found a suitable rock and handed it to the woman who reached into her basket and sorted through some leaves and roots. She placed a flowered head of a stem on the rock near the fire and began pulverizing it with a smooth, stained, egg-shaped stone she took from her basket.

  Curiosity captured Abby. “What is that?”

  “Fleabane.” The woman kept working without looking up. “It will stop bleeding.”

  As the rocking motion turned the cluster of tiny blossoms into mush, the Cherokee woman added selected leaves and a bit of water from Florrie’s pouch. The sticky mess grew into a glob. Abby watched in fascination as the woman applied the slimy substance to Mr. Danfield’s wound and then held it in place with strips of cloth torn from the destroyed chemise.

  The woman sat back, apparently satisfied, and wiped her hands on her skirt. “When night comes I will make a poultice. Stop fever getting into the wound.”

  Florrie clasped her hands at her waist. “How can we thank you…we don’t even know your name.”

  The Cherokee woman did not take her eyes off Mr. Danfield, but merely replied, “I am Wren.”

  “Wren.” Abby stared at the woman. Surely God had sent her as a direct answer to Abby’s prayer. “Florrie and I thank you for what you’ve done for Mr. Danfield. How—” She shook her head trying to make sense of everything. “How did you happen to come along right when we needed help?”

  Wren shrugged. “I watch. I see your man try to turn wagon. I see men who steal from you and hurt you.”

  Abby didn’t bother to inform Wren that Mr. Danfield wasn’t her man. “You saw what happened?”

  Wren nodded silently, staring in rapt attention at Mr. Danfield.

  While Florrie added a few more pieces of wood to the fire, Abby peered at the assortment of leaves and petals. “You were out gathering…” She gestured to the contents of Wren’s basket. “Do all these leaves and roots and things have a purpose?”

  A tiny smile lifted the corners of Wren’s mouth. “Everything God gives has purpose.” Her fingers plucked several leaves from the assorted plants in her basket. “Need more water.”

  Florrie hurried to do Wren’s bidding, and Abby watched the Cherokee woman crush the leaves against the stone.

  “What is that?”

  “Pipsissewa leaves. They help heal wound.” Wren continued to study Mr. Danfield while she worked.

  “Why are you staring at him like that?”

  Wren turned her gaze on Abby, and the determination in the Cherokee woman’s eyes made Abby catch her breath.

  “He is a good man.”

  Chapter 4

  Nathaniel opened his eyes. Dawn streaked the eastern sky pink and gold, and the chilled air permeated his bones. Snips of fragmented memory slid together to form a picture—two outlaws, fighting over the gun, the wagon crashing over the edge of the ravine. And something else. Ragged edges of awareness swirled through his mind. Miss Locke. Did she really hold his head in her lap? Was it her voice he heard praying for him?

  Had Felicia ever prayed for him?

  He turned his head and caught sight of her tending the campfire. What he wouldn’t give for a cup of hot coffee. But if the wagon went down the ravine it had taken all their supplies with it. Despite the absence of coffee, however, something smelled wonderful.

  He started to sit up and pain knifed through his head. A groan escaped his parched lips. He lifted his hand and touched his temple. A bulky cloth wrapped his head.

  “Oh, thank goodness, you’re awake.” Relief edged Miss Locke’s voice. She knelt beside him and peered beneath the bandage. “The bullet grazed your head. Swelling seems to be down, and the bleeding has stopped. Do you think you could eat something?”

  Was she joking? He could eat a bear. He managed to pull himself up and lean against a tree trunk.

  “I’m starving.”

  A small smile tweaked Miss Locke’s lips. His eyes widened with a startled jolt. A smile? Perhaps the gunshot brought on hallucinations. Warm tingles tiptoed through his stomach at being the beneficiary of such a rare event. Wonderment pricked him. Could he coax another smile from her?

  She turned back to the fire and returned a moment later with a piece of roasted meat on a stick. Nathaniel’s stomach growled when the aroma of the delicacy teased his nostrils. He gingerly pulled a piece of steaming meat off the spear and slipped the juicy morsel into his mouth. He’d never tasted anything so good. Had Miss Locke or Mrs. Cobb gone hunting?

  Miss Locke pointed at the meat. “Grouse. Wren caught it early this morning in a snare.”

  Grouse he understood, but who was Wren? As he licked juice off his fingers, a Cherokee woman of unidentifiable age approached him.

  “You eat. This is good.” She bent and gazed unblinking at his face before gently pulling the bandage away from his head, inspecting the wound.

  “Mr. Danfield, this is Wren. She has been a great help since yesterday.” Miss Locke held out a tin cup. “It’s willow bark tea. Wren made it. She says it will help relieve your pain.”

  Nathaniel gave Wren a slight nod—the smallest movement of his head produced a raging headache. He took the offering and sent Miss Locke a questioning look. “Where did you get the cup? I thought everything was lost with the wagon.”

  “Before it got dark yesterday, Wren and I climbed down a little way to see if we could find anything.”

  He took a sip and found the concoction surprisingly sweet. “This isn’t too bad. I thought it would taste like—” No, he shouldn’t mention anything as indelicate as a stable floor in the presence of ladies.

  Miss Locke stooped beside him. “One of the first things we found was the honey crock. The crates of supplies dumped out when the wagon turned over. That’s how we found the cup. We have a fork and two plates, a little bit of cornmeal—although most of it spilled—the coffeepot without its lid, and one small pot.”

  Mrs. Cobb held up Nathaniel’s bedroll, still secured with thin strips of leather. “Wren found this and one of the canteens.”

  Nathaniel listened to the pathetic list and tried to be grateful for the few things they had. But his stomach clenched when he pictured Miss Locke trying to climb down the embankment. “I’m glad you were able to find a few things, but please don’t try to go down there again. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I tried to tell her that.” Florrie piped up. “But she’s hardheaded.”

  A rosy flush crept into Miss Locke’s cheeks, and she ducked her head. “Mr. Danfield knows how stubborn I am. Besides, we didn’t go far.” She gave the tin cup a nudge. “Drink the rest of that tea. Wren wants to clean your wound.”

  Something about the Cherokee woman struck a familiar chord, but the effort to recall if he knew her made his head hurt. She scowled at him when he kept turning his head to look at her, but the corners of her mouth twitched with evidence of her amusement. Her fingers moved with deft precision as she cleaned the gash on his head and gently applied some kind of green mush.

  “What’s that stuff?”

  “It is more easy to care for wound when you sleep. Be still,” Wren scolded.

  A quiet snort reached his ears. M
iss Locke put one hand over her mouth while she poked the fire. The young woman was full of surprises. After complaining for an entire week about every aspect of their journey, she risked her neck trying to salvage a few of their supplies, and now she revealed a sense of humor. He’d imagined a number of reactions from her regarding their predicament, but laughter wasn’t one of them.

  Wren completed her ministrations and pointed to the bedroll Mrs. Cobb had placed beside him. “You rest now. Best medicine.”

  He shook his head and immediately wished he hadn’t. With eyes squeezed shut, he waited for the pain to clear. “We can’t stay here. We need to find our way back to that other trail.”

  Mrs. Cobb sat in front of him. “Nathaniel, we need to talk.” Miss Locke knelt beside Mrs. Cobb while the widow continued. “Wren says you need to rest at least another day or two.”

  “But then what?” The usual belligerence was absent from Miss Locke’s tone. “Whether we go on or turn back, either way we’ll be on foot.”

  “I know we passed a trail a couple of days back.” Nathaniel dragged his fingers across his forehead. “My first responsibility is to you ladies. We need to find the nearest town.” He looked at Wren who appeared to be waiting for an invitation to join the conversation. “Wren, how familiar are you with this area?”

  The Cherokee woman cast a heedful glance among the three travelers, as if determining their trustworthiness. “I know the woods.”

  Nathaniel’s vision swam as he leaned forward. “None of us mean you any harm. From the looks of things”—he touched his bandage—“you’ve been very kind, and we’re grateful.” He studied her a moment. Her eyes held a wariness that he understood. He’d seen firsthand the abominable treatment many of the Cherokee received during the relocation process. He didn’t begrudge Wren her caution.

  “Can you direct us to the closest town?”

  Wren seemed to weigh his request. Her eyes locked on his, as though searching the depth of his soul for truth. The lines between her brows eased. “I trust you, Danfield. You show you are a good man.”