Adam stepped aside, offering a look of empathy.
Hayes strode to the front and slapped a piece of paper down on the table. “Meeting come to order.” He planted his feet and stared around the group, the men’s voices gradually quieting. “It has come to my attention that certain of you have some disagreement with the way I’ve been handling things. If you’ve got anything to say, the time is now.”
Silence reigned for a moment, but then Otis hobbled forward, nudged on by Manning and a few other men.
“Well, sir, I do have something to say. And I’m not the only one who thinks it.”
“And that is?”
Otis looked at his followers for support. “We think you’ve been making some mighty bad decisions of late. Panderin’ to the Indians. Takin’ time off from being on the trail for, well, unnecessary reasons. Keepin’ us from organizin’ a proper buffalo hunt when the opportunity presented itself. Even wastin’ a whole day every week when we could be makin’ tracks for that promised land.”
The wagon master shifted his jaw. “Is that all?”
Otis looked over his shoulder again, then back. “Ain’t it enough?”
“Good. Thank you for stating your opinion.”
A bit nonplussed, Otis hobbled back to his spot.
“I have listened to your grievances, and now I ask you to listen to me.” Hayes raised the paper in the air. “This here document was signed by all of you some weeks ago when we started out on the trail. You all agreed, freely and of your own accord, to be bound by these rules and guidelines all the way to Oregon or however far you stay with the train. I am now going to read these articles aloud once more, as it seems some of us have mighty short memories.”
The men stood silent as Hayes read the entire document, then looked around the group once more.
“Let me repeat a few things. I am the wagon master. What I say goes. You may not always agree, but I didn’t take on this position without being over this trail a heap of times. I may not always know what’s best, but I know a sight more than you do. We stop when I stop, and we go when I go. And about Sundays, you all signed your names to this document that you’d honor the Sabbath and our God, whether you believe in Him or not.” He flattened the paper. “Your teams need that day of rest even more than you do. Your oxen can’t pull your wagons if they’re worked half to death. And we’re not going to make it to Oregon unless we can start pulling together as a team. This is the last gripin’ and bellyachin’ that I want to hear till we reach Willamette Valley. Any questions?”
Silence. Hanging heads.
“Good.” Hayes straightened with a sigh. “Dismissed.”
Adam raised his hand. “Mr. Hayes, if I could?”
“Yes, Doctor?”
“As you may know, we found two orphaned children on the trail today. Clark Nielsen and his sisters have graciously taken them in for now, but they have already taken on the Durhams’ son and wagon after the parents passed. I was wondering if any other family might be willing to open their hearts to these little ones.”
“How old are the children?” someone asked.
“A newborn boy and a girl about two.”
Several shaking heads. Other men looked away.
The doctor bit the inside of his cheek. No one? “Could anyone wet-nurse the infant?”
Nothing.
“Guess that’s your answer,” Hayes said. “Sorry, Doc.”
“One more thing, then.” Adam cleared his throat. “Would anyone have an extra milk cow to spare? Or at least be willing to share some milk? The baby needs it urgently.”
Clark shot him a grateful look.
A middle-aged man raised his hand. “We might.”
“All right, then.” Hayes nodded. “Get some sleep, folks. We move out at first light.”
Adam followed Clark to speak to the gentleman with the cow.
“Josiah Hobson.” He shook the young man’s hand, then the doctor’s. He looked at Clark. “We’ve got two milk cows along. We’ve got seven kids, so we need ’em. But I guess we could spare one for a while. Want to take her over to your wagon?”
“Can we pay you for her?” Clark asked.
“We’ll figure that out later.” Hobson patted the young man’s shoulder. “Just come get her for the little’un.”
“Thanks.” Clark followed the man with a grateful nod to the doctor.
Thank you, Father. Adam headed back to his wagon and Jesse, grief and gratitude warring in his weary mind. At least there is some kindness left in this world.
But all these orphaned little ones. What would become of them?
And what was it about Clark that dug at him?
18
Forsythia couldn’t get the baby to take the milk.
Cradling a screaming Mikael on the wagon seat, she set the milk-soaked rag aside and shifted the newborn to her shoulder. “Shh, little one.” She patted his back. Her shoulders and neck ached with tension. Lord, why won’t he drink?
Lark looked up from driving the oxen. “Still nothing?”
“Nearly.” Forsythia fought the urge to cry.
Lark cracked the whip a bit harder than usual. “This is why taking on other people’s children doesn’t work. What do we know about raising babies? None of us is a mother.”
“Well, we couldn’t leave them there,” Forsythia snapped. “Can I help it if dying mothers keep giving me their children and no one else in the train wants to be bothered?” Her throat ached. She was so tired.
Sighing, Lark turned the oxen over to Lilac and reached up for the infant. “Give him to me awhile.”
“We’ve got to get more milk down him.” Forsythia held on to Mikael. “He’s only had a few teaspoons since yesterday. If he doesn’t drink soon . . .” Tears of worry and exhaustion cut off her words. Between the baby’s wails and poor little Sofie sobbing for her mama, she’d hardly slept last night. Her sisters were up, too, of course, but she felt a responsibility—after all, Lena Olsen had asked
