A Love Forbidden (15 page)

Next, she found her lidded pot, fashioned a spit, and headed to the river to fill the pot with water. After hanging it over the fire to heat and adding some bigger branches to the flames now leaping into the rapidly darkening sky, Shiloh checked on Jesse once again. His wound was still doing well and he was finally beginning to stir.

Retrieving her knife from her saddlebags, she next headed to a willow tree a short distance down the river. Reaching up as high as she could, she cut off a sizable length of several newer, smoother-barked branches. Her booty in hand, Shiloh hurried back to the fire, where the pot of water was steaming. She stripped the bark from one of the branches, cut it into pieces, and popped a few into her tin cup. Then she carefully filled the cup with the now-boiling water.

“Sh-Shiloh?”

“I’m here.” She set down the cup to allow the tea to steep, and scooted over to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve swallowed half of that blasted river.” He tried to push himself up, then grimaced and fell back. “And my side feels like it’s on fire. But otherwise, not bad. Not bad at all.”

Though he accompanied his last few words with a wan smile, Shiloh knew he was in a lot of discomfort. “I packed some moss into your wound to stop the bleeding. And I’ve got a cup of willow bark tea almost ready for you. It should at least take the edge off your pain.”

His lips quirked. “Trying some of the old Indian remedies, are you?”

“Well, it’s not like we’ve got an apothecary in the neighborhood.” She paused. “How did you get that wound?”

“I’d just freed you from those tree roots when the tree hit some rocks and ricocheted back toward us. I got in the way of a branch.” He glanced up toward her head. “Just so you know, I had to break off some of your hair to get you free of those branches. There wasn’t time to slowly unwind it all, considering what was going on at the time. But I’m sure your hair will look just fine . . . in a year or two.”

At the twinkle in his eyes, Shiloh reflexively touched the top of her head. There were definitely some spots of shorter hair up there. “Well, considering the other option, I reckon it was a good trade-off. And,” she added with a grin, “if it ends up looking too awful, I’ll just cut it all short and start over. Maybe start a new fashion trend.”

He used his good arm to reach up and touch the damp curls tumbling over her shoulders. “I think it’ll be just fine without you having to cut it.”

The tenderness of his gesture and the unguarded expression of affection in his dark eyes found an answering chord in Shiloh. Her breath caught in her throat, and she blinked back tears.

“Oh, J-Jesse . . .” Her voice wobbled. She swallowed hard. “I’m
so
sorry. I should’ve never insisted on taking such a dangerous trip just to get home faster. We both could’ve died today.”

“But we didn’t. I took care of you, and now you’re taking care of me. As long as we each do our part, we’ll get you home safe and sound.” He inhaled a deep breath, then caught himself as the pain in his side apparently fiercely reminded him of his wound. “Er, do you think that willow bark tea has steeped long enough by now?” he asked, shooting a questioning glance at the cup sitting beside her.

“Of course it has.” She picked up the cup, leaned down to slip her other hand beneath his head to raise it, and held the cup to his lips. “Sip it carefully to make sure it’s not too hot for you. Then, try and drink it all down. It’ll be bitter, but I’m thinking you can use a bit stronger dose for a time or two.”

He grimaced at the taste but dutifully emptied the cup’s contents in just a few swallows. She laid him back down. Scooting around to her saddlebags, she pulled out a bag of oatmeal and two smaller containers.

“Do you prefer your oatmeal sweet or salty?” She held up both small containers.

“I don’t recall ever having oatmeal, so I couldn’t say.”

“Even at the mission school? What did they serve for breakfast then?”

“Some sort of gruel. It tasted like glue.”

“Well, oatmeal’s a lot better tasting and better for you.”

“I’d prefer a haunch of roast venison.”

Shiloh laughed. Jesse might just make it after all. “Not tonight. Let’s start with something gentler on your stomach, shall we? Besides, it’s getting too dark for me to go out deer hunting.”

He glanced around and sighed. The night had settled in, Shiloh thought, and the air had taken on a decided chill. She tossed a few more branches on the fire, then rose to go and check how the blankets were doing.

If they weren’t dry enough by bedtime, they were in for a long, cold night.

As she feared, the blankets weren’t dry enough to use for cover that night. By dint of not much sleep, she managed to keep the fire going and the area near it relatively warm. She made Jesse lie as close to it as he could tolerate, and she then tried to shield his back as much as she could by snuggling up behind him. Still, as the night wore on, and despite additional cups of hot willow bark tea, Jesse couldn’t seem to shake off his shivering until, near dawn, he took a fever.

His face became flushed, his forehead and body hot. He was harder to rouse and tossed and turned restlessly. Though hesitant to remove the moss packing, afraid its extraction might set off fresh bleeding, Shiloh knew she needed to do so.

“Jesse,” she said at last, when she had all her supplies ready. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder to waken him.

After a time, he opened his eyes. Their gazes met, and Shiloh knew he was awake enough to understand her.

“I need to clean out your wound with some of the willow bark tea then repack it with the moss. Are you all right with that?”

It took him a long moment before he nodded. “Do what . . . you must.” He licked his dry lips. “But first, a little water, please.”

She grabbed a nearby canteen, lifted his head, and held the opening to his mouth. “Drink as much as you want. It can only help.”

His intake was minimal before he fell back exhausted. Shiloh wet a cloth with some of the water and wiped his sweat-sheened face with it.

“That . . . feels good,” he murmured, smiling softly.

Shiloh laid him down, set aside the cloth and canteen, and began to untie the bandage that held the moss in place. “I’ll do it again, once I’ve got this wound taken care of. And I’ll try to be as gentle as I can.”

Less than ten minutes later, Jesse’s wound was examined, cleaned of a few stray splinters, flushed with the willow bark tea, and repacked with fresh moss. The wound edges were inflamed, which worried her. She could only hope the antiseptic properties of the tea and the moss dressing would help with that. There wasn’t a lot more she could do, save pour more tea down his throat at appropriate intervals, encourage him to drink a lot more water in between times, and keep him warm.

What she really needed was to get him to a doctor, or at least to someplace with better shelter and more access to a variety of food and medical supplies. But, as ill and weak as he now was, she didn’t think there was much chance of getting him onto his horse, much less him staying on it for very long. The other alternative, however, of leaving him to try and find help, didn’t set very well with her either. So far, they hadn’t come upon any towns or individual ranches. And there was no telling how long it might take her to find anyone.

A wave of despair overwhelmed her. What would she do if Jesse got worse? Sit beside him and watch him slowly die?

The sense of helplessness of such a passive act grated on her normally practical, take-charge nature. She lifted a fervent prayer for aid, then rose, walked to Jesse’s saddlebag, and pulled out the small hand ax. After ascertaining that he was sleeping soundly, she headed out toward the nearby hills toward a stand of aspens.

Two hours later, sweaty and sore, Shiloh dragged the first of two felled aspen saplings into camp. She’d found the hand ax did the job, just very slowly. It worked a lot better, though, in stripping off the branches to make relatively smooth, long poles.

Twenty minutes later, the second sapling was back at camp. By noon, she had a reasonably sturdy travois tied to Jesse’s pony’s saddle with the coil of rope they’d brought along and two blankets sewn onto the bottom half of the poles. After making herself a sandwich for lunch and eating it, she woke Jesse and fed him the jerky broth she’d made.

“We need to try and get you somewhere where we can get better care for your wound. Can you get up and make it to the travois?” she asked as she spooned the broth into his mouth. “If not, I’ll drag you over to it on your blanket, then pull you up onto its bed.”

He swallowed the broth in his mouth, then gazed up at her with a confused look in his eyes. “A travois? Where . . . did you find . . . a travois?”

“I didn’t find it, Jesse. I made it.”

“M-made it?”

She nodded. “Yes. If a Ute woman can make one, I reckon I can too.”

“Well, let’s see . . . how well it holds up first. Before you get . . . too cocky.”

“For that comment,” Shiloh said with a grin, offering him another spoonful of broth, “I should dump you on your head no matter how good a job I did on that travois.”

Jesse took the spoonful, then managed a wan smile. “You’re . . . too good to me.”

“Yes, I am.” She scooped up some more broth. “Now, no more talk. You need to finish this so we can be on our way.”

For the next several minutes, Jesse silently complied. Then as he lay resting, Shiloh filled one canteen with the remaining willow bark tea, filled the other two from the creek with fresh water, and packed up what was left of their supplies. Jesse was dozing when she returned.

Kneeling, she gently shook him by the shoulder. “Jesse? Time to go. Do you think you can walk to the travois, if I help you?”

“I-I think so,” he replied, shoving to one elbow.

“I brought it close, so you won’t have to walk more than maybe ten feet or so.”

He was very weak and unsteady on his feet, but with Shiloh’s help, he made it to the travois. After eyeing it for a moment, he nodded. “Looks . . . pretty good.”

Even with Shiloh’s assistance, it was difficult for him to climb onto it. By the time he did so, he was pale and winded. She covered him with the other two blankets.

“I’ll try and go slow enough not to jerk you around a lot,” she said. “But I can’t promise I won’t give you a rough ride at times.”

“Do what you have to,” Jesse whispered, closing his eyes. “I’ll be . . . fine.”

Her heart twisted. He was so weak, so ill, and she feared his wound was beginning to fester. What frightened her the most, though, was that he was totally dependent on her. She literally held his life in her hands.

Well, actually the Lord held Jesse’s life in His hands, and she was but His handmaiden.
Don’t let me lose him
, she prayed,
just when I’ve finally found him again. Please, Jesus. Help me to be Your hands in saving Jesse’s life.

Tears welled and fiercely, almost savagely, Shiloh brushed them away.
Stop it. Stop it now
, she ordered herself.
You don’t have the time for weeping. All that matters is keeping Jesse alive long enough to get him to better medical care. And you’re the only one who can do it.

Shiloh checked one more time to make sure he was securely tied down to the travois, then went to fetch her mare, lead it over, and fasten a long lead rope onto its bridle. Rope in hand, she next mounted Jesse’s pony.

Signaling the horse forward, Shiloh set out across the valley. Their journey, with the travois trailing behind, was slow. Still, they were finally on their way. On their way to find other people.

She only hoped
that
discovery wouldn’t be long in coming.

9

Late that afternoon, after no sign of any other human being, Shiloh came upon the small farming settlement of Carbonville. About twenty homes spread out on the rich, fertile river bottomland and a cluster of homes surrounded a small village consisting of a mercantile, saloon, hotel, bank, sheriff’s office, livery stables, and a doctor’s office.

Her heart rejoicing, Shiloh headed straight for the doctor’s office. Her arrival with the two horses and travois brought out the folk from the various businesses to stand there talking with their neighbors, but she had no time to worry about their thoughts or possible reactions. She tied the two horses to the hitching post in front of the doctor’s office and hurried inside.

At her arrival, a middle-aged man dressed in black trousers, a white shirt unbuttoned at the throat with sleeves folded past his elbows, and a dark brown vest walked from a back room, drying his hands on a towel. He was tall and strongly built, his dark hair thinning to form a deep V on his forehead, and he wore a pair of spectacles perched on his nose. His smile of welcome was friendly, though his teeth were tobacco stained.

“What can I do for you, missy?” the man asked, laying aside his towel.

“I need a doctor.”

He paused to look her up and down. “Well, I’m Dr. Michaels, but you don’t look much in need of any doctor to me.”

“It’s not for me. It’s for my friend outside on the travois. He’s got a wound in his side from a branch that stabbed him while he was rescuing me in the Colorado River. I’ve done the best I could to treat it, but didn’t have much to use save for some old Indian remedies.”

He motioned toward the door. “Let’s bring him in and have a look.”

A crowd of men had gathered around the travois in the short time Shiloh had spent inside with Dr. Michaels. By the looks on most of the faces, they weren’t very happy.

“Step aside there,” the doctor ordered. “We’ve got a sick man to get into my office.”

The men reluctantly parted to allow him and Shiloh through. Dr. Michaels bent over Jesse, touched the back of his hand to Jesse’s forehead, then glanced up at Shiloh. Jesse never stirred.

“He’s burning up with fever. We need to get some fluids in him and treat that wound of his pronto.” He looked up at the men standing around. “Jim and Otto. Help me get this man into my office, will you?”

The two men exchanged a hesitant glance. “Er, Doc,” the taller of the two men said, “you do realize this is an Indian, don’t you? Likely even a Ute?”

“Yeah, Doc,” the other one chimed in. “And surely you haven’t forgotten how they rode in last Wednesday night, stole some of Bart Hancock’s horses, and burned down his barn, have you?”

The doctor straightened and impaled them with a steely look. “No, Jim, I haven’t forgotten. But it wasn’t this man.”

“Still,” the tall one who was apparently Jim said, scratching his unshaven chin, “we don’t need to take no chances of housing some Indian. Once he’s better, he’ll take a good look-see at what we have here, then hightail it back to his camp and tell them all about it. They’re all thieves. No good will come of helping this one.”

Anger filled Shiloh. “Jesse’s no thief. He’s a good man and he saved my life. That’s how he got hurt. And, if it makes you feel any better, he’s only half Ute. He’s also half white.”

“With that long hair and way he’s dressed,” the other one who by process of elimination was Otto, “looks to me like he’s taken on the Ute ways. And since they’re all murderers and thieves . . .” He paused to eye her closely. “And what’s a pretty white woman like you doing with him anyways? Did he steal you away from your kinfolk or something?”

“No, of course not!” Shiloh struggled to keep the exasperation at these two ignorant louts out of her voice. “I’m the new teacher at the White River Indian Agency. When I got word my sister was seriously ill, Jesse offered to escort me home by the fastest route possible.” She turned to look at the doctor. “Could we please get him inside now?”

Doctor Michaels arched a brow at Jim and Otto. The two men exchanged a glance between them, then shook their heads.

“Sorry, Doc,” Jim said, “but I’m not helping some dirty, thieving Ute, no matter who she claims he is.” Still shaking his head, Jim, joined by Otto, shouldered his way through the crowd.

Anger swelled within Shiloh. What a narrow-minded, ignorant pair, she thought, followed swiftly by the realization that this was what Jesse possibly had to deal with whenever he met a white man. Would he be accepted or judged and found lacking, just because of his heritage?

Once again, she was struck by the cruelties people who were different had to endure. Her lifelong dissatisfaction with her freckles and the color of her hair were nothing—absolutely nothing—in comparison.

She looked to the doctor. “With your help, I think you and I can carry Jesse inside. I’ll not be begging the likes of those two men, or any like them, for help. They’re not even worthy to touch him.”

“You’re a feisty one, for sure,” Doc Michaels said with a grin. “Still, can’t say as though I blame you.” He moved to Jesse’s right side and grasped the blanket firmly in both hands.

“Now, if you get a good hold on the other side of him—” he then said when he was suddenly interrupted.

“Let me help you there, Doc,” said a heavyset, sandy-haired man wearing a cleric’s collar. He moved to stand beside Shiloh, tipped the brim of his hat at her, and motioned for her to move aside. “If you’d accept my assistance, ma’am.”

Gladness filled her. At least there were a few good-hearted souls in this place. And one of them was a parson who actually seemed to live the kind of life he was vowed to.

“Thank you,” she whispered and stepped back.

In but the span of five minutes, the two men had lifted Jesse from the travois and carried him into the back room of the doctor’s office, where they laid him on the examination table. With Shiloh’s help, they got Jesse’s buckskin shirt off him. Doc then picked up a set of scissors and began cutting away the bandages.

“I’ll need to examine the wound for any foreign bodies like splinters, then flush it out real good, pack it, and rebandage it,” he said, turning to Shiloh. “Why don’t you and Reverend Bauermann take your horses to the livery? This might require some work, and that way you’ve got the horses all settled in and cared for.”

Shiloh eyed Jesse uncertainly. “I-I’d rather stay here with him.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to do that, Miss . . . ?”

She stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Shiloh Wainwright.”

“Well, Miss Wainwright, it’ll only take you a short time to get your horses seen to.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said after a brief hesitation. “For all they’ve done for us, the horses do deserve a nice stall with some hay and water.” She glanced at Reverend Bauermann. “I’d be much obliged if you could help me get the horses to the livery.”

He smiled, and his teeth were startlingly white against his tanned skin. “No sooner said than done, ma’am.”

“Shiloh. Please, call me Shiloh,” she said as she followed him from the room.

Once outside, Shiloh was relieved to see the crowd had dispersed. She moved immediately to untie Jesse’s pony and hand the reins to the parson. “I’m assuming you know your way around horses, Reverend Bauermann?”

He nodded. “I grew up on a ranch, before deciding to attend seminary. There aren’t very many horses I can’t manage.”

“Good. Jesse’s pony is a bit skittish around strangers but settles down nicely once he realizes he can’t get away with anything.” She unfastened her horse from the hitching post, then indicated that the reverend should lead the way.

It didn’t take long to reach the livery—basically a small barn with six stalls. After removing the travois and laying it just inside the barn door along a wall, she discussed the cost and care she desired with the liveryman. Then she led her horse into a stall beside the one the parson delivered Jesse’s pony to.

“I don’t know just yet how many days I’ll need to board our horses,” she said to Tom, the liveryman, “but I’ll check back each day to pay you and keep you updated. You’ll take good care of our horses, won’t you, Tom?”

“Tom is a good man,” Reverend Bauermann said, clapping the other man on the shoulder. “You can trust him. Can’t she, Tom?”

The liveryman’s head bobbed in nervous agreement. “Sure thing, Reverend.”

“And, if there’s any trouble, you’ll come first thing and let me know, right?”

“Trouble?” Tom’s eyes widened. “What kind of trouble?”

“Oh, just maybe Jim and Otto skulking around.” The parson shrugged. “You know how they can’t seem to keep their noses out of other folks’ business. But if they do come around, you just fetch me and I’ll take care of it.”

Tom nodded again. “Okay, Reverend.”

Reverend Bauermann turned to Shiloh. “Would you like me to escort you back to Doc Michaels’s office, or do you think you’ll be all right on your own?”

Shiloh grinned. “I think I’ll be just fine. You’re not the only one who was raised on a ranch.”

He smiled. “Somehow, I figured you weren’t the helpless sort. Not after seeing all you’ve done to keep your friend alive and get him here.”

Her smile faded. “He would’ve done the same for me. One couldn’t ask for a better friend than that.”

The parson’s mouth quirked. “I’d wager he’s more than just a friend. Leastwise, as far as you’re concerned.”

She could feel the heat rise to her cheeks. Instead of commenting upon his wry observation, Shiloh held out her hand.

“Thank you for all your help, Reverend. It’s so very much appreciated.”

“It’s nothing more than what Christ admonishes us to do for our fellow man,” he replied, taking her hand and shaking it. “Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful . . .”

“Indeed, Reverend. Indeed.” She released his hand, stepped back, then turned and headed down the street to the doctor’s office.

All the while, though, a poignant thought assailed her. Mercy . . . It seemed a virtue in short supply these days, leastwise when it came to the Indians. But then, there were plenty of whites who feared the Indians, and for good reason. If only both sides could sort the good ones from the bad and not inadvertently punish the innocent.

Problem was, the most expedient solution to a lot of whites was also the cruelest. For to them, the only good Indian was a dead one.

Jesse woke slowly, and the first thing he noticed was he was lying on something very comfortable. Silence surrounded him. For an instant, he wondered if he had died and gone to heaven.

Then common sense reminded him he was no longer a Christian, nor did he believe in the Christian god. So it couldn’t be heaven.

And if it were the afterlife of which the People spoke, it wouldn’t be quite like this. He would, instead, be outside where the weather was perfect and the game teeming. And he’d likely be clasping a bow, with a quiver of arrows slung across his back.

Inching open one eye, Jesse realized his assessment had been accurate. He lay on a bed in a room. The door to the room was shut, but beyond it he could now make out the sounds of someone moving about. He turned away from the door to the room’s single window. Ruffled white curtains hung there but just outside he saw other houses nearby. He must be in some white man’s town.