“Miss Nielsen?”
She peeked into the wagon.
“Would you take her, please?” The doctor handed the toddler out to her.
“Here, little one.” She smoothed the little girl’s tangled blond hair. Her skinny little legs clung to Forsythia’s waist. When had the child last eaten?
“How long since your husband passed, Mrs. Olsen?” The doctor listened to her chest and felt her forehead, looked into her sunken eyes.
“Two, three days . . . not sure. He died the night before . . . this one was born.” Her voice trembled, and she lifted a shaky hand to her newborn’s head.
“Were his symptoms the same as yours? Diarrhea, vomiting?”
A faint nod.
“We need to get some liquids into you. You’re very dehydrated.” The doctor lifted the baby, who wailed afresh. “Has he nursed?”
“Some . . . don’t have much milk.”
“We’ll take care of your children. Don’t worry.” The doctor climbed out of the wagon, the infant in his arms.
“What do you think?” Forsythia jiggled the little girl.
“She’s extremely weak. Heart rate rapid, dehydrated. We’ll do what we can, but she may not make it.”
“What do you think it is?”
“The symptoms could be many things—bad food or water, dysentery. Or cholera, but I don’t want to think that yet. She’s weak from childbirth too.”
Forsythia swallowed. The cholera epidemics of recent decades were still fresh in everyone’s minds. “Why don’t I take the little girl back to camp and fetch some water?”
“Good.”
At a sudden thrashing from within the wagon, they both turned.
“Oh no.” The doctor thrust the baby into Forsythia’s free arm and hauled himself back into the wagon.
“What is it?” Juggling both children, Forsythia strained to see.
“She’s convulsing. Must be the dehydration.” The doctor tried to hold the woman down. “Mrs. Olsen, we’re here, I’ve got you. God help her.”
A few more moments of thrashing, then the woman lay still.
“Is she . . . ?”
“Still breathing, but barely.” Dr. Brownsville blew out a sigh. “I don’t know what else to—”
“My babies?” Lena Olsen opened her eyes.
“Bring them.” The doctor beckoned.
Forsythia passed the little girl up to him, then climbed up herself with the baby boy.
“Sofie. And little . . . Mikael.” The mother tried to lift her head but couldn’t. Instead, she met Forsythia’s eyes with a fierceness that went to her heart. “Take care of them . . . for me.”
Dear Lord, was this really happening again? Forsythia nodded, unable to force words past the lump in her throat.
Lena closed her eyes and breathed her last. The doctor bowed his head.
“Mama!” Sofie reached for her mother and started to cry.
Numb, Forsythia cradled little Mikael, who had mercifully fallen asleep. Father, what do we do now?
In a daze, she and the doctor got the children back to camp, sending Lark, Jesse, and Martin back to bury the bodies as quickly as possible. With the buffalo herd passed and the meat distributed, folks were eager to get moving again. Meanwhile, Del and Lilac helped Forsythia bathe the children and get some food into their bellies.
The doctor examined them, making a game of his stethoscope with little Sofie and looking over tiny Mikael, who still had his umbilical stump.
“Are they all right?” Forsythia pulled an old nightshirt of Robbie’s over Sofie’s small blond head.
“Seem to be, other than hungry and dehydrated.” The doctor handed the newborn over to Del. “I don’t see any signs of infection or illness.”
Forsythia breathed a sigh of relief. The doctor passed a hand over his face and beard, a habit she’d noticed when he was weary. He’d certainly had cause to be weary of late.
Lark returned. “We decided to burn the wagon, just to be safe, since we don’t know what they had. We’ll start up again now, Hayes says. Try to make a few more miles before dark. Folks are impatient.”
Dr. Brownsville stood. “I hate to ask it of you on top of Robbie, but do you think you can take the children? At least for now?”
What choice do we have? They have to be taken care of. Forsythia looked to Lark. Her older sister hesitated, gave her a hopeless look, then nodded. “We’ll have to find some milk for the little one somehow.”
Martin walked back from their wagon. “Hayes is calling a meeting of all the men tonight to try to iron out some of the ill feeling lately. Maybe you can find another family willing to take the children.” He held out a pail. “Our cow is going dry, as she’s with calf, but here’s a little milk to get him started.” He nodded at the baby.
“Bless you.” Forsythia took the pail. What a gift these friends were.
“We can ask about other milk cows tonight too. I know there’s one three wagons ahead with the family who shared milk when Alice Durham was ill, but I don’t know how much they can spare.” Lark wiped her forehead with her sleeve. “We’d better get the little ones in the wagon. I’m going to start up.” She nodded at the wagons ahead beginning to roll.
Dr. Brownsville turned to head back to his wagon, but Forsythia stopped him. “It’s been one thing after another lately. Are you all right?”
He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “We go where needed, don’t we?”
“You are a godsend to this train, that is certain.”
He pressed her hand ever so briefly. “As are you.”
Adam Brownsville could smell the tension in the air that evening as soon as he arrived at the meeting.
The men had gathered near Hayes’s wagon, the area lit by lanterns hung along its side. A small folding table sat near the wheel, and Little Bear leaned off to the side. Many of the men murmured among themselves, Otis Bane’s strident tones easy to pick out above the rest. John Manning’s too.
Clark Nielsen approached, and Adam made room beside himself. Though at times something about the young man bothered Adam, Clark and his family were the closest thing to friends Adam had so far in this group. And it wasn’t like he could put his finger on anything specific.
“I’ve never had such a
