Through Dust and Ashes - The Oregon Promise, Book 1, Chapter 1

Chapter 1

***

Late February, 1853

“Mister, please. I’m not asking for much. Just a place to sleep under your wagon.” Mercy Adler plucked at the lace of her high collar and tossed a glance over her shoulder to search the dusty street. She truly was taking a chance out in the open like this. She kept one arm carefully wrapped around her ribs. The pain wasn’t as sharp if she held herself just so.

Avram poked his curly mop from behind the water barrel at the corner of the mercantile. His brown eyes were wide with fear. She flapped a hand for him to return to his hiding spot, and was relieved when he obeyed. While she stood here talking to this stranger, the last thing she needed was for Herst to stumble onto Main Street and see her son. Their son. For he would surely use Avram against her.

Again.

And yet, if she took his son from him, he would come after her.

Her heart tumbled in fear. She swallowed. Searched the road in the other direction.

She couldn’t worry about Herst’s retribution right now. First, they must escape. Then, they could concern themselves with surviving the aftermath.

A haze of heat danced above the surface of the street. Down the way, Old Man Dawson’s hound flopped into the dirt and rolled onto its back to writhe through the dust. But other than the dog and the somber blond man before her, all seemed quiet.

Relief eased through her.

The murder in Herst’s eyes last night had been the last straw.

It was one thing to put up with his fits of rage when they had only been directed at her. But now there was Av to consider. He was a boy—rambunctious, as all happy boys should be. But his exuberance too often set Herst on edge. And Herst on edge constituted a flame hovering near dry tinder.

She and Av were too often in the path of the inferno.

Especially now that Av was old enough to try to come to her rescue. Her fingernails bit into her palm. Yes, the last straw had finally nudged her over the edge. No more inaction, or they would both die.

With the goal of escape in mind, she had waited until Herst left this morning. He’d said he was going to look for work, but she’d heard that before and knew it was a lie. As soon as he’d departed, she had swiftly packed a few essentials into haversacks. One for her and one for Av. After that, she’d headed to the mercantile.

It was the least likely location where Herst might be since he didn’t have any money, and since he owed Old Griff, who would want to collect. It was also the place where anyone traveling through Chamblissburg would stop. And standing in the dim corner near the tall shelf of sewing notions, she could assess passersby without drawing too much attention.

After an hour of measured study—fearful that she was taking too long and Herst would come looking for her—she’d approached the man who seemed the most affable.

However, the one she’d chosen was now practically ignoring her.

He had barely paused loading his supplies into his wagon as he’d barked, “No” a moment ago.

Desperate, she strode to the front corner of the buckboard, where he tied the last corner of his tarp and touched his arm.

The man froze and pegged the place where her fingers rested with a hard look.

She snatched her hand back to her side and wrapped it once more about her ribs, wishing that one touch hadn’t revealed so much about his physical strength. Because the rocky glint in those steely blue eyes had her questioning her judgment of character. Yet . . . these wagons heading to Independence were her only immediate chance of escape, and this man had seemed the—

What? What had he seemed?

Of the two men in this particular group of travelers, he’d seemed the friendliest, perhaps. She’d liked the way he’d treated his wife—a beautiful brunette woman, just the opposite of him in coloring—with gentle respect. And as he’d laid a length of rope into their basket, he’d asked her if there was ought else that she thought she might require between here and Independence. The brunette had smiled and said she felt they’d thought of everything, and they didn’t want the wagon to be too heavy for the horses. Then, at the counter, he’d purchased a dime’s worth of penny candy and told the woman to hide it away in a jar for “Joel” to have a treat now and then . . . Those slim hints of his character were the things that had made her approach him for help to get to Independence. Herst, after all, would never deign to waste money buying candy for a boy.

The safety of Independence seemed far off. Yet . . . to escape Herst, she must find a way to get there. Once she made it to Independence, surely she could hire on with one of the wagon trains that she kept reading about in the papers. Someone would have need of a cook or a governess to look after their children, wouldn’t they? And she would lose herself in the wilds of Oregon country and never have to see Herst again.

Please, God. She swallowed.

She’d retreated to a respectful distance, and thankfully, the blond man had at least paused now. He stared at her with a frown of assessment, hands resting on the tarp atop his load.

She took another step back from the ire in the man’s gaze, but willed herself to be brave. For Avram. “Please? I have my own oil cloth to sleep on. I’ll walk the whole way. I only need the shelter of your wagon come nights.” The party had one covered wagon and this farm wagon, so she presumed he’d planned to sleep in the covered wagon with his family.

Her hope soared when the man hung his head between his arms for a moment as though he were pondering her request. And then he straightened. Faced her. Folded his arms and gave her a sweeping assessment. “And what of food?”

Mercy’s heart jostled between hope that he might agree to take her and terror over her lack of planning. Her only thought after last night’s beating had been escape.

“I’ve food, yes, sir.” It was a lie, but if he only agreed to take her, she would go into the mercantile, buy enough to fill a pack, and have Griff put it on Herst’s account. It was the least he owed them.

She would carry whatever necessary to help Avram escape from his father. To keep herself alive so that she could raise him with love and care.

She trembled with anticipation as she fiddled with her collar and searched the stranger’s face.

Please, please, please, dear God in heaven, if ever there was a time that I needed You to turn Your face back to me and prove that You actually do care, it would be today.

Not that her pleadings had ever garnered her any special favors from the Almighty. She’d pleaded with Him on the night Herst had first attacked her as she walked home from the schoolhouse boxed supper—an evening of fun and dancing to raise funds for a new porch. Earlier that evening, vibrant and full of life, she had danced. Oh, how she’d danced with abandon. And she’d felt joy in her very core. Afterward, Carl Johansen had offered to walk her home. He’d been the perfect gentleman and parted from her at the fork that would take her the remaining short distance to Father’s cabin. The lights of the house glowed golden and inviting as she walked between the tall grasses up the path. And then, in the span of a few nightmarish moments, all had changed.

She banished the memories of that night, locking them deep inside.

Carl Johansen had never come to call again after that long-ago night. But the memory of walking home with him as an innocent girl would always be the place she pointed to as the last moment of happiness she’d experienced.

Now, despite her poor history with the Almighty, she continued to plead with Him as she waited for the stranger’s response. Not that she really believed He was listening.

She pulled in a breath that was too deep. Sharp pain stabbed through her, but she conscientiously kept the agony from her features, knowing from experience that any display of weakness would leave her open to more abuse.

“You married?” The words were sharp and sudden.

Mercy swallowed. Did she lie? Or tell the truth? If she said yes, he wouldn’t feel comfortable taking her with him. If she said no, the same would be true because it would be unseemly for a single woman to travel in such proximity to a family of strangers. And it might make his wife uneasy.

“I think your hesitation tells me all I need to know, ma’am. I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I’m not in the habit of helping women leave their families. You have a good day now.” He turned from her and strode to the other side of the wagon.

Despair weighted her shoulders. It seemed her record of unanswered prayers remained unbroken.

She notched her chin up. He wasn’t the only wagon traveling through. She could try someone else. “Thank you just the same.”

She may as well have spoken the words into the wind because the man wasn’t paying her a bit of attention.

Tears came unbidden. She blinked hard to hold them at bay. She couldn’t fall apart. Not here. Not ever. Avram needed her to be strong.

Her gaze collided with that of the other man that she’d seen with the blond one and his wife. He stood in the road next to the covered wagon just ahead and had apparently been listening to their conversation.

This second man was dark, foreboding, and, if possible, even broader and stronger than the first. His shoulders stretched the material of his white shirt to near capacity. His hands were propped on the waistband of his tawny buckskin trousers. Even from this distance, she could see that despite his dark hair and golden-brown skin, his eyes were a piercing blue. His frank scrutiny sent a shiver through her.

She focused on the ground. What was she going to do now?

None of the other men who had passed through the mercantile had seemed even half as approachable as the one who had just rejected her. And most of them had pulled out with their wagons already.

Clearly the dark man she could still feel watching her wasn’t approachable. His scowl made her knees knock. She at least knew Herst well enough that she could escape his foul moods sometimes. The changing emotions on his face sometimes gave her enough advance warning. But with this dark man with the blue eyes . . . She had a feeling he could strike faster than a rattler. He looked lithe . . . and deadly. One to stay away from.

Maybe she and Av should just start walking? No. She hadn’t done enough planning for that.

In hopelessness, she pressed one hand to her forehead. Pain knifed through her ribs, nearly taking her to her knees right there in the street.

She must think what to do now. She certainly wouldn’t go to Father this time. He would only tell her duty prescribed that she remain with Herst as his helpmate.

Abandoned.

Misunderstood.

Unwanted.

Unloved.

Each emotion pounded into her with unshakable certainty.

She was all those things, indeed. But she had a son who needed her, and she must come up with a plan.

If only she could stop trembling.

***

Standing on the street next to his wagon, Micah Morran gripped the back of his neck. He should turn and walk away. Georgia wouldn’t like him helping. But just the sight of the woman’s discolored face filled him with a roil of nausea. The sight took him right back to the little cabin where he’d spent his boyhood in the foothills of Virginia. He could smell the acidic scent of the cedar-log walls. Hear the crackle of the fire in the creek-stone fireplace.

He could hear Ma’s muffled sniffles through her bedroom door. See as clearly as if it were happening right now, her stepping from behind it with the side of her face all blue and purple tinged with ochre.

His gut churned.

“What is it, Pa?” Joel’s gaze slid from him to the woman who remained forlorn and alone in the middle of the street near Gideon’s wagon.

Micah rested one hand on his son’s head. “Just a lady who’s asking for some help, son. Hop up in the wagon now.”

Joel moved to do as told, but not before he said, “If she needs help, we should help her, shouldn’t we, Pa?”

Micah shuttered away the scene before him, trying to concentrate on the darkness behind his eyelids, clawing and scrabbling in a search for dispassion. She was none of his concern. He had his own family to worry about.

A wife barely holding herself together. A son suffering the same grief as the rest of them.

But it was no use. How might his life have been different if someone had helped Ma when she so desperately needed it?

His brother-in-law, Gideon Riley, tugged off his hat and swiped a trickle of sweat onto one shoulder. From his expression, he felt about as torn as Micah did. Resettling his hat, Gid hesitated on the final knot in his tarp rope. He glanced back, and Micah lifted one hand to let Gid know he was thinking.

It might be evident from one look at this battered woman that she needed their help. But that kind of help would only bring trouble. None of them needed any more difficulty. This trip was about escaping hardship. Looking for a better life.

Well, if there was such a thing as a better life. Mostly he hoped leaving Virginia behind would also leave some of his pain. But he couldn’t dwell on that.

Gideon folded his arms, looking dark and foreboding—how they all felt these days, Micah supposed. Probably trying to decide how to get this woman to move along.

And Gid was right. They really ought to say no.

Guilt rushed in to proclaim him callous. He could almost see his mother’s eyes looking back at him through this woman’s. What kind of man was he if he couldn’t even bring himself to help someone he understood so deeply?

He bit back a grunt.

Why had she approached Gid anyhow? She must be some desperate to be asking a total stranger for help.

But then, one look at the split skin on that swollen lump that had practically closed her left eye was likely all the evidence he needed of her desperation. The whole left side of her face was badly bruised. She was standing awkwardly, too. Like she might be in an all-fired amount of pain.

She pressed her hand to her forehead, dejection clearly written in her posture. The movement made her gasp and wince. After that, she remained nearly perfectly still, one arm clutching her ribs as though to hold them in place.

He wasn’t stupid. If they helped her, they were either helping her escape her husband or some other male relative, and he wasn’t sure which scenario made him want to throttle the man who’d done this to her more.

Gid must have been thinking along the same lines as him because he jutted his chin at her eye. “Who did that to you?”

Seemingly startled, she lowered her gaze to the street, but not before Micah saw a flare of fear in her eyes. Her head remained bowed for only the briefest of moments, yet when she raised it, her features had been schooled. “This?” She waved a hand and pulled a face. “I’m a bit clumsy. Would you believe I was going to the barn to milk the cow yesterday, and I tripped in the dark and fell right into the corral fence?”

Lips thinned, Gid glanced over at him.

Micah shook his head. He would not.

Gid returned his scrutiny to her, and she must have noted his disbelief, for she focused on her twisted-together fingers. “Very embarrassing.”

She might be desperate, but she was also a liar. Could he condone a lie in a situation like this? Maybe. Maybe shame over how she’d been treated had her trying to protect the man who’d done it—though the man deserved none of her protection.

Still . . . she wasn’t their responsibility. There would be other wagons coming through. Steeling his heart, Micah shook his head at Gideon.

 

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