Passage West by Ruth Ryan Langan Page A

Carrie’s voice lowered. “I saw her once. Her skin was all blotchy, like she had measles or something. Then after she died, Belinda never left the house. Just fed that baby and cleaned up after him.”
    Abby walked closer and dropped an arm around her younger sister’s shoulders. “Did you ever hear Belinda complain?”
    Carrie shrugged. “No. But I didn’t get to talk to her much.”
    “I’ll bet if you asked her, she’d have told you that little baby was the most precious thing in her life.”
    Carrie looked up. “You think so?”
    Abby nodded and squeezed Carrie’s shoulder. “There’s something special about a baby. One of these days you’ll see.”
    “Not me,” Carrie said dramatically. “I’ll leave all that fun for you.”
    Abby tousled her sister’s hair. “Can you finish dinner while I feed the stock?”
    “I guess so. But don’t be too long. If Pa thinks I made the dinner myself, he’ll find something to complain about.”
    As Abby walked to the team, she heard the mournful sound of Emmaline Barrows’s cries above the din of camp. They caused the hair on the back of her neck to prickle. She’d never heard such suffering.
     
    *  *  *
     
    Abby’s lids fluttered. Pale, luminous light flickered on the far horizon. For a moment she lay, listening to the hushed silence of dawn. She sat up, straining in the darkened wagon. Something was wrong. It was too quiet. Emmaline had grown silent. That’s what it was. There were no cries coming from the Barrows wagon.
    She felt her heartbeat quicken. The babe could be sleeping, she thought, fumbling with her clothes. Please God, let the baby be resting contentedly in its mother’s arms.
    Pulling on her boots, she dropped from the back of the wagon and shivered in the dawn chill. Threading her way through the circle of wagons, she pulled up short at the low murmur of voices. Violet, Evelyn Coulter, and the post doctor huddled in earnest conversation.
    “What’s happened?”
    Violet looked up. “Go back to bed, child. There’s nothing anyone can do now.”
    “What do you mean?” Abby glanced at the slightly opened flap of canvas. Beyond there was only darkness. No lantern burned in the Barrows wagon. It was as still as death. Abby shivered again, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
    “Emmaline is dead,” Violet whispered. “Poor thing suffered the pains of hell. There was nothing we could do for her.”
    “And the baby?”
    “A tiny little girl. No bigger’n a doormouse. But her lungs are healthy enough. She came into the world squalling.”
    “How will Flint Barrows care for a newborn?”
    Violet shook her head sadly. “He doesn’t want to have anything to do with her. Said he can’t stand to even look at her.”
    “What will be done with her?”
    “Reverend and Mrs. Coulter want to raise her. They’ve lost three babies in childbirth and feel as if God has given them another chance.”
    “But how will Mrs. Coulter feed her?”
    “Everyone on the train who has a cow will share with the Coulters. If the infant can’t tolerate that, the Fenwicks have goats. They swear the milk is rich enough to rival mother’s milk.” Violet dropped an arm around her niece. “The little one’s in good hands now. I think the Coulters will do just fine. And maybe,” she added softly, “it’s a godsend that Barrows didn’t want his daughter. I shudder to think what her life would have been like with him.”
    Abby agreed with her aunt’s assessment. Kissing her cheek, she said, “You look tired, Aunt Vi. Why don’t you come to bed now?”
    “In a little while. We want to wash the bloody linens and prepare Emmaline’s body for burial. Flint wants his wife buried right after first light. Reverend Coulter has agreed to hold a small service.”
    “But why so soon?”
    “Those are Flint’s wishes. The post doctor agrees. He advised us not to wait. With the heat, and the strain of the journey still to come, he thought we