Pa leveled a piercing gaze. “Aside from being a part of our manifest destiny, why are you headed west, Mr. McCoy? Why aren’t you dead set on finding those gold nuggets they say are yours for the taking?”
Jack’s answering laughter held a dry, cynical sound. “I’m a wanderer, Mr. Bryan. Left home when I was twelve and haven’t put roots down since. I’ve run cattle in Texas, worked on steamboats on the Mississippi. I’ve already found gold, not in California but up in Wyoming Territory on the Sweetwater River. Found it, but couldn’t keep it. The Shoshones drove us away.”
“My, my, you’ve had an interesting life,” Ma said. “Where did you grow up?”
“Back east.” The abrupt manner of Jack’s answer clearly signaled he’d prefer a change of subject.
Ma caught on fast. “Are you familiar with this area?”
“Been through a few times. For a while, I ran cattle up north of here.”
“Can you tell me about the Indians?”
“The different tribes, you mean? You’ve got the Cherokees, Blackfoot, Chippewa, Shoshones—”
“Just hope you don’t meet a Comanche,” Ben chimed in. “They butcher babies and roast their enemies alive. Why, down in Texas I hear there was a woman kidnapped—”
“Ben!”
The older man looked sheepish after Jack’s sharp warning. “Sorry, ma’am, hope I didn’t upset you.”
Ma gasped and clutched at her throat. Sarah said quickly, “The Comanches are far away in Texas, aren’t they, Mr. McCoy? Not around here.”
Jack looked at Ma. “Not within a thousand miles, Mrs. Bryan. I don’t know what happened to your daughter, but she wasn’t kidnapped by a Comanche.”
Too late. Ma started to wheeze—that awful sound Sarah dreaded to hear. She went to her mother and clasped her shoulders. “Relax. Just breathe easy.”
Ma stared at her with frantic eyes. She tried to speak but all that came out was, “Can’t…breathe.” Her face lost its color as she began fighting for breath. The wheezing got worse, gradually turning into a rasping, desperate struggle for air that sounded as if it was tearing her insides apart. Sarah called to her father, “It’s another asthma attack. Did we bring the eucalyptus oil?”
Pa shrugged helplessly. “She hasn’t had an attack for quite a while. We couldn’t bring everything.”
Jack McCoy sprang from his seat. He knelt by Ma’s side and said softly, “You’re going to be all right, Mrs. Bryan. Don’t panic. That only makes it worse.” He stood and gripped her arms. “You and I are going to walk, very slowly and very carefully, around the campfire. Moving should make your breathing easier. Have no fear. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.”
He pulled Luzena to her feet. She slumped against him, continuing the desperate, deep wheezing. Her skin gleamed with perspiration as Jack, his arm securely around her waist, began to walk her slowly, one step at a time. “Good, you’re doing fine. No hurry…and we’re not going to panic.” After one circle of the campfire, her wheezing eased but didn’t stop.
Sarah stood by, helplessly watching. One of her cousins had died of an asthma attack. It could happen again. Ma had these attacks before but none as bad as this one. “Is there something we can do?” she called to Jack. “Shouldn’t she lie down?”
“No, that makes it worse. She’s going to need something more. Do you have any ginger?”
“No.”
“Mustard oil?”
“No.” She hated saying no. Had they nothing that might help?
“Honey?”
“Yes!” Thank God. She hastened to the wagon and retrieved their jar of honey and a spoon. When she returned, Ma was still fighting for breath, and Jack was easing her back in her camp chair. He took the honey, poured a big spoonful and held it under her nose. “Breathe deep. This is going to help.”
As her mother inhaled the fumes from the honey, Pa stood by, face strained with anxiety. “What does the honey do?”
Jack didn’t look up. “It soothes the mucous membranes in her airways.”
Minutes passed while Ma continued to inhale the vapor from the honey, Jack still holding the spoon directly under her nose. “Take your time,” he kept repeating. After a while, she stopped struggling for breath. The wheezing lightened its intensity and finally ceased. Breathing normally again, she sat back in her chair and smiled. “I do believe I’m better now. Mercy, all that fuss. You can take that spoon away now, Mr. McCoy.”
A cry of relief broke from Sarah’s lips. “You had us worried, Ma. Don’t do that again.”
“I’d wager it’s all that worry over Florrie,” Pa said. “That’s it, Luzena. We shouldn’t be out here by ourselves. We should rejoin the train. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”
Ma folded her arms. “We’re not going until Florrie gets back.”
Pa threw up his hands. “You’re not thinking clearly…”
When Sarah’s parents started arguing, Jack McCoy turned away and headed for the nearby stream. She went after him. He had just saved her mother’s life. He might be a notorious gambler, but she had to thank him. He was bending over the stream, washing his hands when she found him. His shirt was off. A gold ring hung on a chain around his neck, a ring so small she doubted it would fit his little finger. It had to be a woman’s.
When he saw her, he said, “Hello,” and leisurely pulled his shirt back on.
“It seems I must thank you again, Mr. McCoy.”
“Don’t bother. No trouble.”
His clipped words told her she need say nothing further, but she couldn’t let it go. “How do you know so much about asthma?”
He straightened, casually wiping his hands on his pants. “Someone I once knew had asthma.” A glint of some undefinable sadness appeared in the dark depths of his eyes. “It was a long time ago.” She started to answer, but he interrupted. “Let’s get back. Got to get some sleep.” One side of his mouth lifted in a slight smile. “Your notorious gambler will be leaving first thing in the morning.”
She thought of the ring she’d just seen on the chain around his neck. Where did he get it? There must be a story there, but something told her this wasn’t the right time to ask.
Chapter 3
Sarah spent a fitful night in her tent by the wagon. Her mind churned with images—Ma fighting for breath—Jack holding the honey under her nose—her vast relief when Ma could breathe again. Thank God, Jack McCoy had been there. Otherwise…
She mustn’t even think it! Outside her tent, less than twenty feet away, Jack lay sleeping. Why was she so acutely aware of his presence? Thank goodness he was leaving in the morning. Jack McCoy was a gambler, and that was not an admirable occupation. Not only that, if he’d chosen to ride with that bunch of lowlifes, there could be but one reason. He, too, was a lowlife, as disreputable as that disgusting Josiah Peterson. So why, then, was she tossing and turning, thinking about a notorious card shark? After tomorrow, she would never see him again, and that would be none too soon.
And where was Florrie? A wild flash of grief ripped through her. She’d lost her sister, God knew how or where, and there was nothing she could do. Before they went to bed, she and Pa had again tried to talk Ma into leaving, but she wouldn’t listen. How much longer must they stay in this desolate area conducting a useless search? Their only hope now was that Florrie had been