What the Heart Wants by Marie Caron Read Free Book Online Page B

when, the very next afternoon, one of Mr. O’Hara’s wounds showed signs of infection. The deep gash in his chest turned an angry red, and the area around it swelled. Normally the wagon train didn’t stop for the noonday meal. We usually ate a cold lunch of cheese, bread, and fruit as we went, but today, Captain Baker made an exception so that Elizabeth could clean out, restitch, and rebandage Mr. O’Hara’s wound. Once that was done, we continued on our way.
    Since Elizabeth’s daughter was susceptible to chest infections, and the night air wasn’t good for her, Cassandra needed to sleep inside their wagon, so I volunteered to let Mr. O’Hara recuperate in ours. And, though Papa hadn’t been very happy about it, being a gentleman, he had smiled at Mrs. Young and said it would be no trouble at all. He declared that we could sleep outside under our wagon until Mr. O’Hara was well, and so that’s what we did.
    * * * *
    Often the ladies preferred walking to sitting in the rocking, bumping wagons. And while oxen were dependable, they were very slow, so it was easy to keep up with their plodding gate. I looked forward to the exercise each day, as did the others. Plus, walking provided us women with an opportunity to gossip…not that I participated, of course. I had always been a very private person and detested gossiping. However, I did enjoy listening, and, lucky for me, that day the conversation centered on my patient. Esther Hudson, the wife of Papa’s good friend, seemed to know a lot about our half-breed scout, as she referred to him, and I was eager to hear what she had to say.
    “The colonel and I first met him when he was just a young man. He went to school with our oldest daughter, Christina, at the Arkansas post. She lives in New Orleans with her husband and three children now. He’s a doctor. Could get work anywhere he wanted. I do wish they’d leave that unpleasant town. It’s bug-infested, don’t ya know, all swamps and bogs, and the heat is unbearable in the summer.” Esther stopped and put a hand to her throat as though she could feel the heat and dampness. “Oh, dear, where was I?”
    “You were saying that you met Mr. O’Hara when he was in school,” her niece, Clara, reminded her.
    “Ah, yes. His mother was a pretty thing. Used to bring him to school on her horse. I heard she was a full-blooded Cherokee princess,” she whispered loudly enough for the six of us to hear. Several of the women gasped. “His father was always off somewhere. He was a trapper, you see. But he wanted his son to have an education. Insisted upon it.”
    “Maybe he vanted his son to have a better life than he had,” one of the women I didn’t know very well suggested. She had a German accent. A little girl with blonde ringlets and big blue eyes clung to her skirts. The child kept sneaking peeks at me. I finally winked, and she began to giggle.
    “I dare say he did. Anyway, his Christian name is John, but his Indian name is Charging Bull. They say it’s because he has a tendency to charge in without thinking, to take risks.”
    “Like he did when he saved the children from the bear,” Mary Cranmer piped up, and we all nodded and murmured agreement.
    “He’s certainly as big as a bull,” Prissy Sims, the preacher’s wife, added innocently, and a few of the women snickered. Prissy just looked confused.
    “Maybe we should ask Samantha about that sort of thing,” Clara Potter suggested, rolling her eyes toward me, while Sarah Cranmer grabbed my fingers and squeezed.
    I didn’t squeeze back or look at my good friend. I was certain everyone could see me blushing, and I silently wished I was as innocent-looking as Priscilla Sims in her dark, drab dress and starched white cap. “I’d say he’s over six feet tall. And though he’s lean, he must weigh at least a hundred and eighty pounds,” I replied, keeping a straight face as I stated the facts, though not the ones Clara wanted to hear.
    The group was