Sunset Embrace (3 page)

"Naw, now, you stop worryin' 'bout that. Git yourself fit and then well work somethin' out."

All the Langstons seemed to reflect that attitude. But Lydia wondered about the other members of the train. Surely there had been speculation on the girl who had been brought in after birthing a stillborn baby in the wilderness with no husband around. Ma had refused to admit even the kindest visitors who came to inquire about "the poor unfortunate girl," saying only that it looked like she was going to pull through and that they would be meeting her soon enough.

Lydia's first encounter with anyone on the wagon train other than a Langston came from a loud knocking on the slats of the wagon in the middle of the night. She sat bolt upright, clutching the sheet to her breasts, certain Clancey had risen from the dead and come after her.

"Easy, Lydia," Ma said, pressing her back down to the pillow.

"Ma Langston!" the impatient masculine voice called. A heavy fist thumped on the tailgate. "Ma, please. Are you in there?"

"Hellfire and damnation, what's all the hollerin' for?" Lydia heard Zeke's grumble from outside the wagon. He and the boys slept in bedrolls beneath it.

"Zeke, Victorias in labor. Could Ma come see to her?" The voice was husky, low, laced with anxiety. "She started feeling bad after supper. Its labor for sure, not just indigestion."

By this time Ma had crawled to the end of the waeon and shoved the canvas flaps aside. "Mr. Coleman? Is that you? You say your wife's in labor? I didn't think she. was due—"

"I didn't either. She's . . ." Lydia heard the stark terror that vibrated in the man's voice. "She's in agony. Will you come?"

"I'm on my way." Ma turned back into the wagon and reached for her boots, pulling them on quickly. "You rest quiet now," she said to Lydia calmly and in contrast to her brisk movements. "Anabeth will be right here. Shell come flying if you need me." She lifted a crocheted shawl over her bulky shoulders. "Seems another babe is 'bout to be born."

M
a hadn't returned by the time the wagons pulled out the next morning. Word filtered through the camp that Mrs. Coleman was still in labor, and that she had insisted the train not lose a day's travel on account of her. Bubba offered to drive for Mr. Coleman while Zeke drove the Langstons' wagon.

In Ma's absence, Anabeth, as eldest daughter, took over the cooking and care of the younger children. She tended Lydia with the same detached competence that her mother had. Lydia was amazed at the girl's knowledge of the birthing process.

"I'm sorry you have to do this for me," she apologized as Anabeth wadded up one of the soiled pads.

"Shoot, I done it for Ma her last two babies and I been having my monthlies since I was ten. It ain't nothin'."

When the train stopped at noon, Ma came back to inform them sadly that Mrs. Coleman had died only a half hour earlier after giving birth to a son.

"She was such a dainty little ol' thing. 'Course Mr. Colemans acting like a madman, blamin' hisself for bringin' her on this trip. She'd told him she wouldn't be due until September, long after we reach Jefferson. It ain't his fault, but he's not takin' it too well."

"The babe?" Zeke asked around a dried, hard biscuit left over from breakfast.

"Puniest tyke you ever saw. Barely has enough in him to cry. Wouldn't surprise me none if his little soul departed this earth today." She heaved herself up into the wagon to speak to Lydia, who had overheard the family's conversation. "How're you doin', Lydia?"

"Fine, Mrs. Langston."

"Please call me Ma. Anabeth takin' care of you proper? I'm sorry I can't be here, but that little boy is in a bad way."

"Of course," Lydia murmured softly. "I'm fine. As soon as I'm able, I'll be off your hands."

"Not if I have anythin' to say about it. You sure you're feelin' all right? You look a mite flushed." She lay a calloused hand on Lydia's forehead. "Still feverish. I'll tell Anabeth to keep a cool cloth on your head this afternoon."

Lydia had a new discomfort, but didn't want to add to Mas burdens, so she didn't mention her swelling, aching breasts. She dozed throughout the day, the train having stopped out of deference to Mr. Coleman. Anabeth fed her a hearty, if hasty, supper. Everyone was to gather after the evening meal to bury Mrs. Coleman.

The camp became quiet. Lydia lay in her bed, staring up at the canvas ceiling. She heard nothing of the gravesite ritual except the singing of "Bock of Ages." Surprising herself, she mouthed the words. How long had it been since she had been to church? Ten, twelve years? Yet she could remember the words to that hymn. That made her glad. She fell asleep smiling and didn't awaken even when the Langston clan trooped somberly back to the wagon.

The next day passed much as the previous one, but Lydia didn't feel as well. Her breasts had ballooned underneath the nightgown, and she tried to hide them whenever Anabeth tended her or brought her food or drink. They throbbed and felt full to bursting. She peeked into the nightgown and was alarmed to see that her nipples looked red and chafed. They were so sensitive, even the weight of the nightgown aggravated them.

Ma was still caring for the Coleman baby and didn't return until long after the children and Zeke had spread their sleeping rolls beneath the wagon. Anabeth, Marynell, and Atlanta were all sleeping soundly on the other side of the wagon. Lydia was awake, restless and aching. She was moaning softly when Ma climbed wearily into the wagon. "Lord have mercy, Lydia, what's wrong? You poorly?" Ma bent over the young woman.

"I'm sorry. I ... my bosom."

Ma wasted no time in opening the buttons of the nightgown and examining Lydia's milk-swollen breasts. "Land o' Goshen. I don't know what I've been thinkin' about. 'Course you got milk and it hurts if there's no babe—" She broke off abruptly and tilted her head to one side with the quick movement of a sparrow who has just sighted a worm.

"Come on, Lydia. You're coming with me."

"Where?" Lydia gasped as Ma pulled the covers off her and hauled her up. Her motions weren't rough, just efficient. "I don't have any clothes."

"It don't matter," Ma said, breathing laboriously as she gripped Lydia under the arms and helped her rise to a crouching position. "You got mothers milk and no babe, and there's a babe that's barely clingin' to life. He needs motherin'."

Ma planned to take her to that baby who had been crying almost ceaselessly for two days. The pitiable mewling sounds could even now be heard throughout the sleeping camp. Ma was taking her to that man with the frantic voice. She didn't want to go. She didn't want anyone gaping at her curiously and wondering why she had birthed her baby In the woods all alone. After knowing the cozy security of the Langstons' wagon, she was afraid to leave it.

But it seemed she had no choice in the matter. Ma slung a shawl over her shoulders and pushed her gently down the steps of the tailgate. "Those shoes of yours aren't much better than bare feet, so you'll just go without for the time being. Careful not to step on a rock."

The jolt when her feet hit the ground for the first time in days caused her to reel. The jostling hurt her breasts, which hung free beneath the nightgown that was her only garment save the crocheted shawl. Her hair hadn't been brushed. She knew it was a tangled, matted mess. Ma had bathed the blood and birth fluid from the insides of her thighs, but Lydia hadn't washed in days. She was so dirty.

Her heels dug into the soft, damp earth in protest. "Please, Ma, I don't want anyone to see me."

"Nonsense," Ma said resolutely, virtually dragging her by the arm toward the only wagon in the camp with a light burning inside it. "You might can save this babe's life. No one's gonna care how you look."

But they would. Lydia knew they would. She had been called white trash before. She knew just how mean people could be.

"Mr. Grayson," Ma called softly when they reached the lighted wagon. She flipped back the canvas hanging over the opening. "Give me some help here." She gave Lydia's backside a forward and upward push and the girl had no choice but to step up into the wagon. the tight skin between her thighs was stretched painfully and she winced. A pair of strong arms in blue shirt-sleeves reached out to help her inside. Ma was right behind her.

There was a moment of confusion as three strangers met face-to-face. The gray-haired man stared in wonder at the girl before him. The thin woman beside him gasped in surprise. Lydia dropped her eyes to avoid their startled stares.

"This here's Mr. Grayson, our wagonmaster," Ma said for Lydias benefit.

Lydia kept her head bowed to stare at her dirty bare feet against the plank floor of the wagon and only nodded in acknowledgment of the introduction. "And that is Mrs. Leona Watkins." Ma was speaking in whispers out of respect for the man who was seated on a low stool, his dark head buried in his hands with his elbows propped on his knees.

It was the woman who spoke first. "Who in the world . . . and why is she gallivanting around virtually naked like that? Oh, this is the girl your boys found and brought in. I must say, I'm surprised you'd bring such a ... a person . . . into this wagon, especially at a time like this. This is a death vigil and—"

"Maybe not," Ma snapped, her obvious dislike for the other woman evident in her voice. "Mr. Grayson, this girl had a babe day before yesterday. She's got milk. I thought that if Mr. Colemans baby could suck—"

"Oh, my Lord," Mrs. Watkins exclaimed, distressed. From beneath her lashes, Lydia saw the woman raising a scrawny hand to a meager chest and clasping the front of her dress as though warding off an evil spirit.

Ma was undaunted by Leona Watkins's disapproval and went on addressing the wagonmaster. "The poor little babe might pull through yet if Lydia here could suckle him." The Watkins woman interrupted before Mr. Grayson could make a comment. As a heated argument ensued, Lydia took in as much of the wagon as her peripheral vision would allow. The quilts piled in the corner were of finer fabric scraps than those she had been covered with in the Langston wagon. One had satin ribbon weaving through the quilting pattern. There was a pair of dainty high-button white kid shoes standing beside a box of china dishes.

Her eyes roamed farther afield and came to rest on a pair of black boots. Spaced now widely apart, they were knee-high boots covering long calves. The boots were scuffed, but obviously of the finest quality leather. They fit a longish, well-shaped foot. The heels were about an inch high and made of wood polished black. The man wearing those boots would be tall if the length of his shinbones was any indication.

"I tell you it's not proper." Mrs. Watkins's objections had increased in volume and intensity. A clawlike hand gripped Lydia's chin and jerked her head up. She was looking into a face which had had all the flesh and life reamed out of it. It was narrow and ridged. The bridge of the skinny nose was as sharp and drastic as a knife blade. From often being pursed in stern disapproval, the lips had a network of fine lines radiating from them. The eyes matched the voice. They were censorious and malicious.

"Just look at her. She's trash. One can tell by looking. She's probably a ... a prostitute—may God forgive me for even speaking the word—who had a baby. She probably killed it herself to be rid of it. I doubt she ever knew who the father was."

Flabbergasted by what the woman had said, Lydia stared at her speechlessly before breathing a soft "No!"

"Mrs. Watkins, please," Mr. Grayson intervened diplomatically. He was a charitable man, though he was inclined to agree with the Watkins woman this time. The young woman did have a wild look about her. There was not one ounce of refinement either in the way she was dressed and groomed or in the shameless way she stared back at them through unusual amber eyes.

"That ain't so!" Ma denied. "But even if it was, Leona Watkins, who else on this train could nurse this baby?
You?"

"Well, I never!"

"That's right,
"
Ma snapped. "You prob'ly never was able to wring one drop of milk from those shriveled-up teats of—"

"Ma, please," Mr. Grayson said wearily.

Leona Watkins's eyes were flashing furiously in anger, but she kept silent, drawing herself up rigidly and pinching her nostrils together in disdain of the entire situation.

Ma ignored her. "Mr. Grayson, its your duty to preserve each life on this wagon train, and that includes that baby over there. Listen to the poor little thing. Out of twenty families, the only other woman who has milk is nursing her twins. Lydia is that babe's only hope. Now, are you going to save his life or let him starve?"

Leona Watkins folded her arms over her chest in a gesture of contempt. She was relinquishing all responsibility for the consequences should Mr. Grayson choose to do as the busybody Ma Langston suggested. She had always thought the Langston woman was unbearably common, and now Ma was proving it.

"The only opinion that counts is Mr. Colemans," Hal Grayson said. "Ross, what do you say to this? Do you want this girl to nurse your son on the outside chance that it might save his life?"

Lydia had turned her back on the lot of them. She didn't care what they thought of her. As soon as she was well enough, she would go somewhere where no one knew her, where she could start fresh, without a past. Unconsciously she had gravitated to the side of the wagon where the infant lay in an empty apple crate lined with flannel. She was staring down at the tiny, struggling life when she heard the shuffling motions of his father standing up.

Lydia's back was to Ross Coleman when he lifted his head, stood, and looked toward the girl who had caused such a ruckus in his wagon and interrupted his grieving over Victorias death. He noticed first her hair, a. veritable bramble bush of undisciplined curls with dried leaves and God knew what else entwined in its masses. What kind of woman goes around with her hair unbound in the first place? Only one kind Ross Colemen knew of.

From the back she looked terribly thin in the nightgown. The ankles poking out of its hem were narrow. Her feet were small. And dirty. God. He didn't need this disruption after the grievous days he had suffered.