What the Heart Wants (6 page)

“The colonel and I first met him when he was just a young man. He went to school with our oldest daughter, Christina, at the Arkansas post. She lives in New Orleans with her husband and three children now. He’s a doctor. Could get work anywhere he wanted. I do wish they’d leave that unpleasant town. It’s bug-infested, don’t ya know, all swamps and bogs, and the heat is unbearable in the summer.” Esther stopped and put a hand to her throat as though she could feel the heat and dampness. “Oh, dear, where was I?”

“You were saying that you met Mr. O’Hara when he was in school,” her niece, Clara, reminded her.

“Ah, yes. His mother was a pretty thing. Used to bring him to school on her horse. I heard she was a full-blooded Cherokee princess,” she whispered loudly enough for the six of us to hear. Several of the women gasped. “His father was always off somewhere. He was a trapper, you see. But he wanted his son to have an education. Insisted upon it.”

“Maybe he vanted his son to have a better life than he had,” one of the women I didn’t know very well suggested. She had a German accent. A little girl with blonde ringlets and big blue eyes clung to her skirts. The child kept sneaking peeks at me. I finally winked, and she began to giggle.

“I dare say he did. Anyway, his Christian name is John, but his Indian name is Charging Bull. They say it’s because he has a tendency to charge in without thinking, to take risks.”

“Like he did when he saved the children from the bear,” Mary Cranmer piped up, and we all nodded and murmured agreement.

“He’s certainly as big as a bull,” Prissy Sims, the preacher’s wife, added innocently, and a few of the women snickered. Prissy just looked confused.

“Maybe we should ask Samantha about that sort of thing,” Clara Potter suggested, rolling her eyes toward me, while Sarah Cranmer grabbed my fingers and squeezed.

I didn’t squeeze back or look at my good friend. I was certain everyone could see me blushing, and I silently wished I was as innocent-looking as Priscilla Sims in her dark, drab dress and starched white cap. “I’d say he’s over six feet tall. And though he’s lean, he must weigh at least a hundred and eighty pounds,” I replied, keeping a straight face as I stated the facts, though not the ones Clara wanted to hear.

The group was quiet for a minute until Clara giggled and said, “You know darned well that’s not what I mean. I’ve heard,” she began, lowering her voice, “that Indian men are hung like stallions. You’ve seen him neked,” she finished, giving my elbow a squeeze. I blushed even more.

“Clara Potter, I swear if you weren’t my sister’s child, I’d abandon you right here where you stand!” her Aunt Esther cried in shock. Clara was twenty-eight and single and traveling with her aunt and uncle.

“You can’t blame me for being curious about him, Aunt Esther, especially when the stories I’ve heard are so…
interesting
,” she enthused, her eyes shining.

“I should never have told you a thing about the man.” Esther harrumphed indignantly.

“Oh, now,” the girl whined. Clara clearly disliked her aunt’s priggish attitude.

Obviously regretting what she had told the women, Esther turned on her heel. “Let’s get back to our wagon, Clara. There are a lot of clothes that need mending,” she said in a huff as she took her niece by the arm.

Prissy had left the group a minute earlier, her nose in the air as though she had decided to avoid any further talk about Mr. O’Hara’s body. Mary Cranmer went to check on her two youngest children, who were whooping up a storm. It was Saturday, and they had the day off from their lessons with Mr. Drummond. The boys, Joe Junior and Frank, were playing soldiers and Indians, and every now and then one of the two towheaded boys would stick his head out of their wagon and let out a war whoop or a bloodcurdling scream.

“Joseph, Franklin, that is enough!” Mary yelled. “I’d better go tie those two down before they break something. You can stay here with Samantha until she’s needed in the wagon. Then you are to leave her to her nursing. Don’t go in there. I don’t want you getting in the way,” Mary told her Sarah, her oldest. I suspected that there was more to it than that. I suspected she didn’t want her daughter getting near Mr. O’Hara under any circumstance. And. though I liked Mary Cranmer a lot, I didn’t like the prejudice I sensed in her. She hurried off to round up her boys while Sarah and I continued our constitutional.

Sarah was a couple of years younger than me, and she was quiet, so much so that I really didn’t feel I knew her very well. We spent time together almost every day, but usually her mother or the other women were with us, and Sarah hardly ever said a word. So I welcomed the opportunity to spend time alone with her. Perhaps I could draw her out of her shell.

“I’d say Clara is going to be mending clothes until we reach California.” I laughed, hoping to break the ice.

“Yes, I’d say so,” Sarah agreed, nodding and smiling.

“I haven’t really seen him naked,” I blurted out, and then I glanced at Sarah’s face to see if she believed me. Her eyes were on the ground as I steered her toward my father’s wagon. I had been asked to take care of a man who was a valuable asset to all of us, and I wasn’t about to stray very far from him. It was just as well I hadn’t gone far because, just then, Papa called out to me.

“Samantha, he’s awake!”

With a quick “see you later” to Sarah, I hiked up my skirt, grabbed hold of the wagon’s seat, and pulled myself up and into the wagon, ducking as I passed under the canvas top. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the shady interior, but when they did, I could see that Mr. O’Hara was indeed awake. And he was sitting up, trying to pull one of my father’s undershirts over his head. It was too snug and had gotten tangled about his shoulders.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed. Where are my clothes? This damned thing doesn’t fit,” he growled as he tore the shirt off and tossed it aside. By this time I was kneeling beside him, one hand on his forearm. Where my fingers touched his skin, he felt hot. Was he still feverish, or was it me?

“Your shirt was damaged. Mrs. Young had to cut it off you,” I explained. Now he was trying to get up, and I knew I had to stop him. But how?

“I’ve got another shirt in my saddlebags. Where are they?” he asked as he looked around the cramped space. As he was so tall, we’d had to shift our things around to accommodate him, and now there was barely space enough next to his bed for me to kneel, but I managed. Suddenly he threw off the quilt that was covering his lower half. My eyes shot directly to his groin.

To make it easier to take care of his bodily functions while he was unconscious, Mrs. Young had removed his leather britches and replaced them with a pair of my father’s long knitted drawers. So, though he was fully clothed from the waist down to his midcalves—the garment being too short to reach his ankles—the soft cotton clung snugly to his muscular legs and to his manhood, which was currently swollen and easily discernible. My mouth fell open at the sight of it.

Witnessing my curious and somewhat startled expression, he grinned at me. “Don’t fret yourself, little lady; I’m not fixin’ to ravish you. I just need to take a piss.”

Blushing to the roots of my blonde hair, I found the chamber pot and set it down next to him. “Do you need my help?” I asked, not sure what I would do if he said he did.

“Not with
this
,” he replied, and I sensed a double meaning in his answer. Shaking nervously, I excused myself and went out to sit with my father. It wasn’t long before I heard my patient cursing a blue streak.

“You best get in there. It sounds like he’s in trouble again,” my father said as he smirked at me.

I guess Papa thought I was sorry that I had agreed to take care of Mr. O’Hara, but that was far from the truth. I enjoyed spending time with him. However, when I saw my patient sprawled on the bottom of the wagon, my heart almost seized in my chest. To my surprise, he had crawled to the back of the wagon, where he had obviously tossed out the contents of the chamber pot. The empty pot sat by his left shoulder while he lay facedown on his belly, half on and half off the bed. It was clear that he was unable to right himself or roll over.

“Mr. O’Hara, what on earth!” I exclaimed upon seeing his predicament. I rushed to his side, and even though he was much heavier than me, I managed to get him back in bed. I was on my knees, his arms were around my shoulders, and we were both breathing hard when we heard the familiar voice of Captain Baker announcing that it was time to circle the wagons for the night.

Embarrassed, I dropped my hands from under his arms, but he didn’t let go of me. I could feel the wagon turning, moving into position, and I knew that any minute Papa could stick his head inside the wagon and see Mr. O’Hara holding me in his arms, and yet I did nothing to get away. Instead, I let him pull me down onto his lap, crushing me to his chest, mashing my rigid nipples in between our warm bodies. Our faces were nose to nose, and I could see myself reflected in his dark molasses eyes. I held my breath, expecting him to kiss me.

“You’re enough to make a man want to get well real fast,” he said through gritted teeth. “But, right now, I gotta admit this hurts too damned much,” he said as he let me go. I scrambled to get off him, embarrassed and disappointed at the same time.

“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt you,” I said sincerely as I looked down at his bandaged chest. There was fresh blood on the bandages, and I was worried he’d broken his stitches. “I need to see your chest. I mean, I need to look at your wound,” I corrected myself rapidly, blushing as he grinned at me.

“Not right now, little lady,” he said as his hand clamped around my wrist to stop me from touching his chest. “I’m a might hot and bothered right now, and I wouldn’t want to scare you,” he added, giving me a meaningful stare as he tugged the quilt up to his waist with his other hand. He let go of me as the wagon shuddered to a halt, and I moved to step down out of the back end. But, before I did, I turned and looked at him, my chin held high.

“You forget, I’ve nursed you while you were unconscious and unable to fend for yourself. There’s nothing I haven’t already seen,” I lied.

“Then you have me at a great disadvantage,” he replied as his eyes locked on my calico-covered breasts. His heated gaze lingered there until I turned and dropped down to the ground, my heart hammering against my ribs.

* * * *

As usual Mrs. Young came by that evening to check on Mr. O’Hara’s condition. And though I was afraid she might find something amiss, she was full of praise for my nursing skills. She had other patients and didn’t stay long; a woman was due to give birth to her first child, and one of the men had cut his hand. I was sorry to see Elizabeth go. I enjoyed talking to her, especially about doctoring.

That evening Papa and I ate supper with the others over at the big campfire. Afterward, still feeling embarrassed by our last encounter, I carried a bowl of venison stew and three biscuits to our wagon where I found Mr. O’Hara awake and seated on his bed, his back against the side slats of the wagon. He didn’t look happy.

“I’d rather eat outside. I ain’t used to being cooped up all the time,” he complained, so I set his food aside and helped him climb out of the wagon. With his arm over my shoulders, I was still a head shorter than him, and his size made me feel almost petite…a feeling I’d never experienced with any man before, and I liked it.

Once I got Mr. O’Hara settled on the ground beside our wagon, eating his stew and biscuits, I went back inside to put fresh linens on his bed. When I came out, he addressed me in a deep voice that seemed to rumble from his chest and into my body. “I’m sorry I put your father and you out of your wagon. There’s no reason I can’t sleep out here from now on.”

“Nonsense. My father prefers sleeping outside when the weather’s mild, and many nights he’s with the cattle. As for myself, I can sleep almost anywhere.” In truth had passed the last few nights tossing and turning on the ground beneath our wagon, listening for sounds that indicated my patient needed me. Not that I was willing to admit it.

“I’ve been a lot of trouble,” he began again.

“No, you have not.”

“Darn it, I’m tryin’ to say thank you, if you’ll just let me,” he complained.

“You’re very welcome, but I would have done the same for anyone.”

“Then I guess I should quit feelin’ flattered. I thought maybe you did it ’cause you like me,” he said with a wry smile, the dimples in his cheeks making him look like a little boy. “I thought maybe you wanted to get to know me better.”

He seemed to know what I was thinking, and I could feel the heat rising up my neck. I silently cursed my mother for giving me her fair complexion. But it wasn’t just her fault I was blushing. The man had a way of making my body react in the most embarrassing ways. And it wasn’t just the blushing. My palms were sweaty, and my legs suddenly felt like the starch had gone out of them. And what was that moisture I felt between my legs? Surely I hadn’t wet myself! What was wrong with me? I had wanted to get to know him better, and now I had my chance, so why was I hesitating? I steeled my will and looked directly into his eyes.

“I’m sorry for being so difficult. I did hope to—”

Just then two of the men who had been standing watch came running into camp, yelling, “Injuns! Injuns!” All hell broke loose as men came running every which way, grabbing up guns and yelling for their wives and children to keep out of sight. One of the things we’d feared the most was about to happen. Or was it?

Captain Baker, who had been leaning against a wagon chatting and drinking coffee with Reverend Sims, hurried over to speak to the excited watchmen. I could hear only part of what was being said, but it was clear there were Indians camped not far from us. By this time most of the adult men had armed themselves, and they and their wives had gathered around to hear what the captain had to say.

At John’s request I helped him join the meeting. He held the quilt around his lower half, but his chest was still bare except for the bandages. We stood at the back of the group, his right arm draped over my shoulders for support. It didn’t feel awkward. In fact, I felt proud to be there with him, to be helping him. I was beginning to think of him as John now, but the looks I got from several people made me realize that not everyone approved of my budding relationship with our half-breed scout.