“You mentioned living with the Indians, Lars,” Clint said. “Miss Brinkerhoff, did you live with them, too?”
Katrine shook her head. “Lars did not want to expose me to danger and hardship, so I stayed in the city to work,” she said, and then Elijah saw her duck her head.
Something had happened to Katrine while the siblings had been parted, Elijah thought. Something she did not want to talk about.
But Clint didn’t seem to notice. “What kind of job did you take, Miss Brinkerhoff?”
She looked away. “I minded the children of a prosperous businessman and his wife for a time,” she said, “but then I...left that and worked in some...ah, restaurants as a waitress...” Her voice trailed off as her eyes lost focus. “Then Lars returned from the Indians and told me of the Land Rush. We also thought it was a chance to make a fresh start, and—how do you say it?—wipe the slate clean. And here we are.
“I hope you have saved room for dessert, gentlemen,” Katrine said brightly then. “I have made ableskiver, which is a kind of doughnut.”
The brothers groaned when she uncovered a plateful of the Danish doughnuts, which were each topped with a dollop of blackberry jam. Elijah had thought his stomach couldn’t possibly hold anything more, but he found himself reaching for one just as his brothers did. Lars and Katrine each took one, too. In seconds there wasn’t so much as a crumb left.
The Brinkerhoffs answered their questions about life in Denmark, and Lars regaled them with tales of life among the Cheyenne until it grew dark. Then, full of good food and the pleasure of making congenial new friends, the Thornton brothers headed back to their tent. The sounds of the tent city settling in for the night were all around them—the faint tinkling of piano music from one of the many whiskey tents, the occasional nicker of a horse, the sleepy whine of a child who did not want to go to bed yet.
Elijah waited until they were back at their campfire, having a last cup of coffee, to discuss the unpleasant incident at the chapel this morning. He hadn’t wanted to end the evening on a sour note, but he thought he’d better warn his brothers about the Chaucers.
Gideon looked up from the embers of the fire he’d just stirred up. “The Chaucers are here?”
Elijah nodded. “Figured I’d better tell you both, in case you run into them around Boomer Town, as we likely will.”
Clint gave a disgusted snort. “Guess it was too much to hope that we’d left that problem back East. And they’re already vilifying the Thornton name in Boomer Town?”
Again Elijah nodded. “So it seems.”
“They better not be doing it when I’m in earshot,” Gideon grumbled. “I know you’ve got to ‘turn the other cheek’ and all that nonsense, Lije, but I’m no preacher.”
“Me neither,” Clint said. “They start acting high-and-mighty ’round me, they’ll wish they hadn’t.”
Elijah sighed. He couldn’t blame his brothers for their reactions. They’d left Virginia because of the Chaucers and their kind, knowing the Thorntons would never be accepted and welcome in their old home. Now the Chaucers had come to Oklahoma, too, and had apparently brought their old enmity with them.
“Look, we’ve just got to be civil and get along with folks until the twenty-second,” Elijah told them. “The Chaucers—and others like Horace LeMaster whose minds they have swayed—probably just want the same thing we want. Free land. Chances are, once the Land Rush is over, they’ll settle somewhere in the territory far away from us, and we won’t ever set eyes on them.”
Clint dug a groove in the dirt with the heel of his boot. “Hope you’re right, Lije. Sorry that happened to you this morning. Did the rest of the service go well? Did more people come?”
Elijah was just going to tell his brothers about Alice Hawthorne and his hope that she would lend her nursing skills as needed, when he heard the sound of running footsteps heading toward them.
A heartbeat later a wild-eyed man burst into the circle of firelight. “Preacher, you got t’ come! Deacon Gilbert’s hurt bad—he’s cut his leg and he’s bleedin’ somethin’ terrible! I’m afeared he’s gonna bleed t’ death! His missus sent me to fetch you!”
“How did it happen?” Elijah demanded, as he strove to control the dread that threatened to swamp him. What could he do in the face of a serious injury but pray and try to comfort? Was he about to lose the man who’d been the very first to step forward and support Elijah’s work?
“He cut hisself with his own ax—he was choppin’ firewood. I—I gotta get back there!” the distraught man cried, already turning to run in the direction he’d come. “Miz Gilbert, she’s carryin’ on somethin’ fierce!”
Elijah started to follow the messenger, but he had a sudden idea and turned back to his brothers. “I’ll go to the Gilberts’ and see what I can do for Keith. You two split up and see if you can find a Miss Alice Hawthorne in one of the tents. She came to chapel this morning, and she’s a nurse. She has dark red hair and blue eyes, and I’d reckon she’s in her mid-twenties. Ask if she’ll come help. Tell her to bring bandages, and whatever else she thinks is needful, and come with you to help Mr. Gilbert.”
Then he turned and ran toward the Gilberts’ campsite, sending up a silent prayer that one of his brothers would be able to find Miss Hawthorne quickly among the maze of wagons and tents, and that she would be willing to follow his brother and help save a life.
The Gilberts’ tent lay on the other side of Boomer Town, but it didn’t take long for Elijah to reach it at a dead run, even though he had to weave through campsites, and dodge wagons and picket lines to which the horses were tied. Even from a distance, he could hear the sound of a woman’s shrieks, and after hurdling the tongue of a freight wagon, he spotted the circle of men and women.
Half a dozen lanterns held by onlookers illuminated the scene, their lights bobbing and flickering. At the edge of the crowd, another woman held the wailing Mrs. Gilbert. Everyone was talking at once, some calling out advice to a kneeling man dabbing at the wound, others softly opining as to whether Keith Gilbert would bleed to death or die later of blood poisoning—assuming it was even possible to stop the bleeding. A handful of women joined the chorus of Mrs. Gilbert’s wails, wringing their hands.
“Let him through, fellers. He’s the preacher!” cried the man who had come for Elijah. “Don’t let Keith die without so much as a prayer said fer ’im!”
His words parted the crowd like a sword, and in the pale light of an upheld kerosene lantern, Elijah beheld Keith Gilbert, lying there pasty pale with wide, terrified eyes. Someone had rolled up a coat and put it under his head. A bloody-bladed ax lay amid an armload of kindling at his feet. But it was the crimson-stained left pants leg and the spreading pool of blood in the dirt that captured Elijah’s attention.
“P-please, Preacher, d-don’t let me die!” Keith Gilbert begged, panting and raising his arm in a feeble beckoning gesture. “It was my own fault—somethin’ d-distracted me just as I swung my ax—a fool thing, to take my eye off an ax I’d just sharpened...”
Dear Lord, spare this man, Elijah prayed silently as he went forward and knelt by Keith. Let Clint or Gideon find Miss Alice quickly, bring her here and give her the skill to save this man!
“You’re not going to die,” Elijah reassured his deacon, though he had no idea if he was telling the truth. The man had already lost a good deal of blood, and he was pale as a shroud. “I’ve sent for a nurse, and I’m sure she can stop your bleeding.” Someone had laid a towel over the wounded leg, and it was already saturated with blood.
Elijah aimed a look at Cassie Gilbert. Maybe giving her something to do would help her calm down. “Mrs. Gilbert, may I please have