The Medicine Box: MacPherson Brides, #8

By Mischelle Creager

HOW LONG CAN SHE BATTLE A MAN WHO REFUSES HER LOVE?

DEATH HAS BRUTALLY TAKEN EVERY WOMAN FROM HIM.

WHICH WILL WIN—LOVE OR DEATH?

 

Katy Sullivan must protect her younger sisters at all cost. They've escaped the brutal hand of their step-uncle and took his greatest treasure. Fearing death if found, they travel west in a wagon train but are abandoned along with a sick preacher and his sisters. Rescue comes in the form of two buckskin-clad, tobacco-spitting brothers and their harsh, scar-faced companion. Their offer—come to their valley for the winter—could be very good or very, very bad.

 

Scarred within and without, Jacob Matthews sealed off his heart. He's respected by the army, honored by the Indians, and known as Takota—friend to all.  He fights his feelings for the feisty red-headed woman who came to his valley. Death took every woman he's loved. Death won three times. Jacob can't let it win a fourth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Worbly Publishing
• Release date: Oct 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215346112

Mischelle Creager

Mischelle Creager writes inspirational historical romances set in the mid-1800s. She’s not sure which she loves more—researching or writing. When she’s not doing one of those two things, she can probably be found reading or baking. She is a wife whose wonderful husband told her, when he retired several years ago, that he wanted to support her in her writing and took over all the household chores, including sweeping, dusting, and laundry.  He even cleans up for her after she bakes! Her son and daughter are always available to help with social media questions. Mischelle loves to share her historical research and has a website, Under The Attic Eaves, filled with tidbits she’s found in books written in the 19th Century. She also “reprints” a historical magazine, Worbly’s Family Monthly Magazine, filled with items from books and magazines published in the middle of the 1800s. You can visit these two sites at http://undertheatticeaves.com/ and http://worblysmagazine.com  . If you would like to know more about Mischelle and her family, please visit her blog, Families Across the Generations at http://familiesacrossthegenerations.blogspot.com/ or my website at http://mischellecreager.com. 

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Near the southwestern tip of Wyoming’s Wind River Mountains, Early August, 1861

You’ve taken enough from us. The only other thing you’ll get is a bullet through the heart. Katy MacPherson Sullivan gripped her shotgun a little tighter. Moisture on her fingers caused it to slip a bit while the early morning sun warmed the back of her head.

Her eyes stung as the dust from the men’s shuffling boots mingled with the smoke from her campfire. Mules brayed. Oxen bellowed. The few chickens that had survived—the ones she hadn’t had to sacrifice so far to feed the sick—squawked. The men stayed silent.

If the situation wasn’t so dire, Katy could almost laugh at the way the men in front of her stayed put. But then, an angry twenty-year-old woman with a shotgun wasn’t someone to be ignored.

Noah tugged at her worn, dusty skirt. She didn’t dare take her eyes off the men, but knew she needed to reassure the five-year-old boy. Everything’s going to be fine. She stared at the men and wiggled the gun a bit. Isn’t it?

Clyde Brown, one of the men who had made her life a nightmare all along the journey, eased forward a step or two. We was only gonna trade mules with you. We wasn’t plannin’ on stealin’ or nothin’. His eyes shifted from her to the well-tended animals behind her. A fair trade. Them animals of yours’re in a heap better shape than ours. We gotta go a lot farther to go than you if we’re gonna get over them Rockies ’fore winter sets in. He stopped for a moment and wiped his nose on his sleeve. ’Sides, you’re gonna be here a while yet, ’less you’re gonna leave them sick folks you’ve been tendin’ to.

Of course, she’d be staying. Henry Stone, the man she and her sisters were traveling with, was too sick to travel—probably too sick to live—but she couldn’t leave him to die out here alone, not after the way he had gotten her and her sisters away from the brutal hand of their step-uncle.

Katy’s heart pounded. She motioned with her shotgun to the side of Clyde. "Where’s the mules or oxen you’re going to trade? She stressed the last word to let the man know she didn’t believe a bit of what he said. You’ve already stolen one of our wagons, along with the supplies in it and the mules to pull it. She cocked the gun. Like I said, you aren’t taking anything else from us."

With the wagon master dead and them other wagons already headin’ back the way we come ’stead of goin’ on to Or-e-gan, the men here appointed me the new leader. And since most of your party’s buried over there in them graves, you didn’t need all them supplies or that wagon or them mules.

Clyde Brown tried to look innocent as he shrugged and rolled his hands, but his eyes never lost their hard, narrow stare. What else could I’ve done? There weren’t no way you could’ve handled both them wagons. So I really did you a favor. No sense in leavin’ them supplies for the buzzards or the Indians.

And how about the other dozen or so mules that disappeared over the last couple of nights? Anger bubbled up in Katy. We barely have enough now to get us to some place for the winter. It’s a wonder we still have our cow.

About that cow— Hank Brown’s eyes narrowed—we lost three women. Once we head out, their babies’re gonna need that milk you’ve been bringin’ them.

Katy narrowed her eyes as well. What part of ‘you aren’t taking anything else from us’ don’t you understand?

Hank Brown, Clyde’s oldest son, stepped up to the left of his father and grinned. No need for any shootin’. Come with us instead of stayin’ here. He licked his thin lips while his eyes, the color of filthy mud, oozed down her body. I’d sure like me a red-haired gal with sparkly green eyes.

Clyde shoved his son to the side. Boy, I told you, if she comes, she’s mine. A couple of the other men mumbled something but stayed slightly behind the Browns.

Katy swallowed hard to keep from gagging. No way would she go with these men. After the wagon master and several of the women died, some of the men stopped by her wagon. They got a little too close. Their eyes leered at the front of her dress a little too long. A couple of new widowers even suggested she join them in their wagons or them in hers.

The men’s feet shifted. They spread out in front of her, like wolves encircling a young deer. Her stomach tightened until it hurt. If they attacked, would she be able to kill any of them? Grandda Sullivan had been a physician and had taught her to heal bodies—not to shoot them full of holes, to save lives—not to kill men. But she had to protect herself and the little boy who clung to her skirt, as well as her sisters and those sick in the wagons.

K-katy. Noah’s voice trembled. M-men.

I know, sweetie. If only she could reach down and pat his head to reassure him, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the men surrounding her or her finger off the trigger of the gun.

The cocking of a couple of rifles joined the squawking chickens and the shuffling of men’s feet. The slow clopping of horse’s hooves came from somewhere behind her, but she dare not look away from the men in front of her to see who was back there.

Ma’am, heard tell from some people back on the trail there might be some womenfolk in need of a hand or two. Would you be knowin’ who they might be? The clomping and a gruff voice drew nearer.

Clyde stared past Katy. Without taking his beady eyes off whoever was behind her, he spit out a nasty stream of tobacco juice. The dark moisture hit the ground. He pulled a pistol from his pants. Where’d you come from? Where’re you headed?

Well, not that it’s any business of yours , but we’re comin’ from Abbot’s tradin’ post and headin’ to a valley a ways north of here. From the sounds of it, the man must have dismounted. We answered your questions. Now let the lady answer mine. He softened his voice a bit. Ma’am, you be needin’ our help?

Before she had time to speak, Clyde took another step forward. You ain’t wanted here. This matter don’t concern you none. His chest puffed out a bit. His chin jutted up. I’m the master of this wagon train. He wiggled the barrel of his gun to the side. Jest get.

Wrong. The voice was right behind Katy. With what those other folks said and with what we heard, we decided we was the help this young lady might be needin’. So why don’t you and yours head on out?

Clyde blustered like an old barnyard rooster. He raised his gun higher. Before he could squeeze off a shot, a knife whizzed past the other side of Katy. Clyde screamed. He hit the ground before his gun. Blood ran around the knife stuck in his arm.

A dog ran past her. Growls rose from deep in its throat.

Doggie! Noah jumped up and down. Excitement filled his voice.

Noah. Katy tried to shout, but the word came out no more than a whisper.

"Sadee'." A man’s low voice called out from somewhere behind her, but it brought an immediate result. The dog stopped moving forward but stayed ready to attack—baring its teeth, never taking its eyes off Clyde. The men from the wagon train stood still as statues. Their faces changed from leering to fearing.

A broad-shouldered, buckskin-clad man with a rifle in hand brushed past her. As he did, he glanced down. His icy blue eyes met hers for a second and widened for a moment before he turned away.

Something inside her loosened a bit—what, she wasn’t sure.

He stepped on the screaming man’s arm, pulled out the knife, and wiped it on Clyde’s dirty shirt. Leave.

He joined his companions without another glance at her, for which she was thankful.

Katy let out a long sigh and watched the cowardly men turned tail. No one spoke as the men raced to what was left of their families. One by one, the wagons pulled out.

She let out a sigh of relief and faced her rescuers.

In front of her stood three men—rough-looking, clad in dirty clothes, all with shaggy hair and ragged beards. They each held a rifle. Behind them stood their saddled horses and several heavily loaded pack-mules.

One of the two men nearest her spit out some brown juice and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt while the man and his dog stood several feet away.

Noah took a couple of steps toward the dog.

Noah, come here. Katy’s stomach tightened until he obeyed her. Once she had her hand across the boy’s shoulder, she relaxed a bit.

The two men who stood together looked at her, respectful and sociable, not leering like the Brown boy. The other stared at the departing travelers. The first two strangers had big grins that could just be seen behind their brown beards, which were stained with tobacco juice. The third man, the one who had thrown the knife, had a bushy black beard covering most of his lower face. Some kind of large tooth, along with something shiny, hung from a cord around his neck. The brim of a worn hat covered everything above his eyes. As if he sensed her gaze, he glanced at her. His face tightened. He glared at her.

Those eyes, so cold and intense, Katy shuddered and tried to swallow. She lifted her hand to her dry throat and felt her Da’s silver MacPherson clan shield she wore on a chain around her neck but always hidden under her clothing. Heat scorched her neck and cheeks. She failed to button the top of her dress when she rushed out of the wagon earlier to stop the Browns when they tried to steal her mules. She turned around, slipped the buttons through their openings, and faced the strangers again.

The men appeared to be older than her, but younger than the poor wagon master who had died a week and a half before. The first two looked to be either side of forty with a touch of gray in their hair while the other one might be about twenty-five, maybe thirty. The first two seemed rather friendly, especially considering their welcome. The third, she still wasn’t sure about.

Deep down, she needed to trust that not all men were like those men who left or her step-father and his cruel brother. Katy kept a tight grip on her shotgun and stepped forward. Thank you for your help. I—I’m not sure what would have happened if you hadn’t come by.

A gun shot filled the air. The men jerked around, rifles cocked and aimed at one of the wagons—the one where her two younger sisters were staying with Henry Stone.

The gun barrel slipped into view, followed by Allie’s pale face and red braid. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to go off. She set the rifle down inside the wagon and scrambled out. I couldn’t let those men take the rest of the mules. She rested her hands on her hips and glared at Katy. Have you seen how badly they treated the ones they took from us?

Katy waved to her sister. Meet one of my sisters, Alison Sullivan. Allie loves all animals.

The two older men grinned and nodded to Allie. The other man raised a bushy eyebrow. One?

Norrie, my other sister is still inside the wagon, taking care of the elderly man we’re traveling with. Katy took a deep breath and straightened her spine. Would you like to have some coffee? I must warn you first, we’ve got people sick with fever in the wagons. We’ve already lost a number from the train. She pointed to the make-shift graveyard where they had buried ten people in the last seven days.

Ah, little missy, we’ve pro’bly had, or at least been around, ev’ry sickness there ever was since we came out west in ’39. The older man spit another stream of brown juice off to the side. ’Prec’ate the invite though. Coffee sounds mighty good right now. He looked over at the other men. All right with you, boys?

Coffee sounds real good. The second spitter’s grin grew a bit wider. He moved to the campfire and added some wood.

The third man stood still and straight, not saying a word, but watching what was going on around him.

Something deep inside of Katy sensed she could trust these men. Hoping she wasn’t wrong, she handed her gun to her sister, grabbed the coffee pot, and filled it from a barrel on the side of her wagon.

Name’s John Harris. The oldest man pointed to the one working on the fire. That’s my little brother Pete. The other fellow—the real talkative one—he’s Jacob Matthews.

I’m Katy Sullivan. She pointed to the child she had taken care of since his grandmother had given him to her a few months before. This is Noah, my brother. Step-brother really, but she wasn’t going to go into all that right then.

John Harris nodded to the boy and glanced back at her. How’d you and the young’uns get tangled up with them yahoos?

Katy added ground coffee beans and set the pot above the fire. We got a late start out of Independence, had lots of bad luck, and this latest bout of fever struck. She lifted, then dropped her hand. There was a terrible disagreement among the men yesterday. Some wanted to try and find their way back to Platte Bridge Station and see about wintering there since it was already too late to cross the Rockies. She couldn’t help but shake her head at the stubbornness of the men who had left. Clyde Brown and his group wanted to go on ahead, even though there wasn’t a wagon master to lead them. She glanced up at the men. I’m not sure the wagon master even had us on the right trail.

The younger Harris brother stared down the trail where the other wagons had gone. The older one spit then spoke. You’re right. That trail’s a fer piece to the south.

She gathered some metal cups. Be that as it may, the ones going to Platte Bridge Station left yesterday after the disagreement. Later, there was a meeting, but I couldn’t attend since I was taking care of the sick. She shrugged, causing the cups to rattle in her hands. I tended to the people in those wagons most of the night. She pointed to two of the three wagons which remained. I woke up to the Browns trying to steal the rest of our mules. The ones going back must have been the ones you met.

Have a seat. She motioned to some large, flat rocks she and her sisters had sat on when they prepared meals or ate.

Once the men sat, she poured coffee and set the pot back on the fire. Clyde Brown insisted the rest of the wagon train had to start out this morning, or they couldn’t get through the mountains before winter set in.

Pro’bly won’t make it. The older man spit again.

Noah stepped near the bushy-faced man. Can I pet your dog, mister?

The man stared at Noah for a long moment, then let out a deep sigh. "Sadee'."

The dog walked over and stood by the man.

Down.

The dog sat its backside on the hard ground.

Noah squatted next to the animal. Good doggie. He held out his little hand.

The dog moved its sharp teeth toward Noah’s little boy fingers.

Katy took a step closer to them.

The man with the icy blue eyes glanced at her and raised one eyebrow, the one that didn’t have a scar running through it—a scar that ran from his forehead down his face into his beard.

Katy stood still.

The man turned his attention back to Noah and the dog.

Doggie’s got a funny name. Noah rubbed the dog’s fur, then looked up at the man. "Sadee'. What’s it mean?"

Shoshone for dog.

Noah giggled. You call your dog ‘dog?’

One side of the man’s mouth lifted. At least it seemed like it did. It was hard to tell with that bushy beard, but the hair wiggled a bit.

Noah stood, leaned against the man’s leg, and stared at the man’s face, all the time petting the dog. What’s shony?

The man’s shoulders eased a bit. He glanced at Noah and set his cup on the rock. Shoshone. Mr. Matthews rubbed one hand over the other then moved his hand by his ear and mouth. Indian tribe.

Noah made squiggly motions with his hands. What’s that?

Sign for Shoshone. He moved the fingers of his right hand over the back of his left hand from wrist to knuckles. Indian. He lifted his hand and drew an arc by his ear. Sheep. He cupped his hand in front of his mouth and moved it down. Eat.

Noah mimicked him.

Shoshone, sheep-eater.

Show me more. Noah repeated the sign again.

Katy gripped her cup tighter. Noah had so little—no mother, no father worth anything, only her and her sisters. Maybe they would be able to get a puppy when they got to where they were going—wherever that might end up being.

Is it all right to come out? Katy’s head jerked around when Silvia Morgan’s trembling voice drifted out from the back of the last wagon. Not waiting for an answer, the older lady climbed down and hurried over. The Major passed.

CHAPTER 2

Jacob jerked the hat from his head. The Harris brothers did the same. With his free hand, his hand reached up under his beard and fingered the ring and locket next to the bear tooth that dangled from the leather strip around his neck. Funny how manners learned as a child still held, even if they were taught years ago by women who lay dead in the ground for more than fifteen years.

The Sullivan woman wrapped her arms around the boy and whispered something to him. She kissed the top of his head. Noah, go stay with Dottie.

Dottie? How many more were there in those wagons? Jacob watched the boy run toward the middle wagon but stop and look over his shoulder as if to see whether the men would disappear. When he seemed satisfied they would stay, he ran out of sight and called to someone, probably the Dottie the Sullivan woman told him to go to.

John cleared his throat. Ma’am, could we be of help?

Grave. We’ll need a grave dug. The Sullivan woman took the older woman’s hand and headed for one of the wagons. She stopped and turned. Thank you…for everything.

Jacob watched as they were met by a third woman, a little older than the first two, but resembled the one who said the Major died. Must be sisters or something.

With a feeling in his gut that things were going to change in ways he didn’t want or like, Jacob crossed to the side of the first wagon and a shovel that was tied there. He’d rather do the digging than listen to the women crying. Twenty feet away and near other graves, he shoved the metal tip into the hard earth. After he dumped the fifth shovel of dirt to the side, he twisted his neck to see how the women were holding up. No one cried. Not one of them showed any grief. They just stood there talking. Did no one care if the man had died? But then again, he had seen how some men treated their women. He turned back to his work.

Katy laid her hand on Sylvia’s shoulder. Poor woman. What words could possibly help?

I can’t lie. He wasn’t a good husband. Sylvia stared at the wagon where her husband lay. But I didn’t want him dead. She wrapped her arms around her waist. I can’t even cry for him. Married to him for ten years, but I have no tears for him. Why? Why can’t I cry?

Shh, sister. Florence wobbled a bit with the lingering effects of the fever not far from her. She took Sylvia’s hand. They wore dresses which reeked of the sickness that had surrounded them all. At least, they were both well enough that they didn’t need constant attention. We can deal with that later. Right now, we have to get him ready for burial. We need to check on Gabe, too. Katy, can you tend to Dottie? She’ll be upset. Without waiting for an answer, she led her sister to the Major’s wagon.

Katy stumbled to the side of the middle wagon and leaned against it. She didn’t want the Major to die either. He was difficult to deal with, but…

No, Noah. I gotta go. Dottie’s voice wobbled. I want Momma.

Poor Dottie, she had loved her uncle, but then the child was the only one the Major had ever shown any kindness to. Katy slipped behind the wagon and dropped to the quilt Florence had laid out for her daughter to play on. She spread her arms. Both children reached for her.

Miss Katy? Dottie’s lips quivered. Noah said Uncle Charles’s dead like Timmy. Are they going to put him in the ground like they did Timmy?

Katy brushed back the girl’s hair, only six years old and yet had seen so much death. Yes, honey. Why don’t—

I want Momma. Dottie started crying. Where’s Momma?

Katy held her close. She’s helping your Aunt Sylvia. Why don’t we get you cleaned up, and you’ll be ready for when your momma comes for you? Noah, would you go get your storybook out of our wagon? You can show it to Dottie after I get her ready.

Noah nodded and hurried away.

Katy slipped a handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped the little girl’s face.

Mizz Katy, my tummy feels funny? Dottie’s lips quivered.

I know, honey. Katy plaited the little girl’s hair into braids.

K…Katy. Noah’s voice sounded odd. He dropped on the quilt. Uncle Henry sounds funny. Norrie says for you to come.

Her heart pounded for what she feared she would find in their wagon. Stay here.

She left them huddled together and ran to her wagon. She pulled back the canvas flap. Ragged breathing greeted her. Norrie, the middle sister, stepped to the back of the wagon. Wh—what are we going to do? Fear filled her wide eyes. She kept her voice low, a mere breath of sound. Everyone’s gone or dying.

Katy fought the panic that wrapped itself around her. She climbed in and wrapped her arms around her sister. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you no matter what happens. I always have, haven’t I? She forced a smile to her lips. Go and help Allie fix something to eat. We’ll need to feed the men who’re helping us.

Norrie nodded and hurried out of the wagon.

Katy settled on a wooden box next to the pallet where Uncle Henry lay. Only he wasn’t really her uncle. He was Noah’s great-uncle, but no relation to her. Still, this sweet, loving man had helped her and her sisters escape with old Mrs. Hirsch’s help. He treated them like family as they traveled west.

Katy. Henry’s voice whispered in the silence which was broken by the distant smashing of the earth with shovels. Soon, she feared, those men would need to dig another grave.

I’m here. Katy took his hand in hers.

Protect…Noah. He sucked in a shallow breath. His eyes closed. Seconds passed. At last, he looked at her again. Locked box…in trunk. He gasped. Hirsch’ll kill for it…already has. He’ll…come after Noah…you. Eduard…evil.

I know. She shuddered. The face of her cruel step-uncle filled her mind. She had been in the room when old Mrs. Hirsch offered them an escape from the cruelty of her son—only that escape had come with a price.

Slowly, the old man’s hand slipped from hers.

She watched his spirit leave his body. Not that she could see that invisible part of him, but she saw the change from life to death, the stillness, the emptiness.

The burden she had carried since Ma sent her, along with her sisters and brother, to live with Eduard Hirsch grew heavier. Ma had told her to take care of Norrie, Allie, and Tristan. Pain grabbed hold of her. She wrapped her arms across her chest and rested her hands on her shoulders and felt the scars from the leather belt Eduard Hirsch had used on her time and again. She had failed Ma. Her brother was in prison. She and her sisters were running away from an evil man who would probably kill them when he found them.

Katy lowered her arms to her middle. Sickness, disease, and accidents she understood, but so much death in so short of time was horrible. Screams clawed at her throat, fighting to get out. She swallowed them back.

At last, she finally got control of herself and climbed out of the wagon. Thankful for the help of the strangers, she walked to where the men were digging the Major’s grave. Could you dig one more? The man we were traveling with passed away, as well.

The men nodded. The younger of the brothers moved over a few feet and started making another hole. The other turned to her.

"Missy, do you need