High Plains Bride

“And I won’t leave your father.”

“After the way he’s always treated you? How can you say that?”

“He’s my husband. I took holy vows and I intend to honor them,” Joanna said flatly. “Come in here with us, all of you.”

Glancing at the tall prairie grasses that were now slashing around like buggy whips and bending nearly flat to the ground Emmeline prayed that Bess and the twins had found suitable shelter. It was too late to go after them now. She’d have no chance of finding them in this turmoil.

She swiveled slowly, guarding her face by pressing the sides of her slat bonnet closer to her cheeks. Rain was beginning to fall in drops the size of apricot pits. That meant the whirling dust would no longer be so vexing, but that was little comfort, since hail was now starting to pelt her, too. It stung her skin like an assault of vicious hornets, striking her head, hands, arms and shoulders until she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out in pain.

That was enough to spur immediate action. Emmeline grabbed the tailgate of the wagon and leaped, hoisting herself over it and tumbling head-first into the straw-filled ticking beside her mother and youngest sister.

They reached out and embraced each other tightly, though their respite from nature’s onslaught was brief. Larger chunks of hail soon began to puncture the canvas roof, each impact making the rends in the fabric bigger, wider.

Wind then grabbed the loosening sheets, lifted and tore them, increasing the damage until there was little covering the wagon’s occupants except a few shreds of canvas, the bare bows and the bedding they clung to for what little protection it offered.

“Hang on!” Emmeline screamed, grabbing Glory more tightly and holding her close to shield the child with her own body.

Joanna was screeching, “Amos!” over and over again, to no avail.

Even if he had been close at hand, Emmeline knew he could not have heard anyone’s cries over the increasing roar of the storm.

It built until it was so deafening it made her ears ache and pop as if she were descending a mountain trail at a gallop. Suction from the spinning torrent pulled at her, foretelling what was about to happen.

“Twister!” Emmeline screamed at the top of her lungs.

She threw herself and Glory over their mother and clung to them both for dear life. Her calico skirt was tearing. Her bonnet was snatched from her head in spite of its tightly tied ribbons and her hair fanned out in a wild tangle, stinging her skin as it slapped her cheeks and neck.

Suddenly, she sensed herself being lifted until she felt weightless. She spun. Tumbled. Cracked the top of her head on one of the bows that arched over the wagon.

The rest of the world passed before her eyes in a fierce blur of colors accompanied by a painful, incessant battering and a dizzying disorientation beyond any she had ever experienced.

Still grasping Glory and trying to protect her small, fragile body with her own, Emmeline was carried away from their mother, from the battered wagon and its heavy-bodied ox team.

Praying wordlessly, thoughtlessly, she imagined that she’d glimpsed the team and wagon in the distance before she’d squeezed her eyes shut to try and stop her vertigo.

That sight had been so fleeting, so tenuous, she wasn’t positive it wasn’t imaginary. All she knew for certain was that they had been overtaken by an enormous twister and were totally at its mercy.

Please, God, let the others be all right.

That was the last lucid thought Emmeline had before blackness overcame her.

Will managed to reach his men and the milling cattle herd before the buffalo crested the nearest rise.

“You think you can handle ‘em?” he shouted to Clint.

“Yeah.” The other man pointed. “Can you turn that mess before it gets to us?”

“I’ll try.”

Hoping to divert the hundreds of stampeding wild buffalo, Will shouted and repeatedly fired his pistol in the air while spurring his reluctant horse to charge straight at them.

The lead bulls faltered little. On they ran, their sharp hooves churning the prairie and raising clouds of acrid dust that was caught by the fierce wind and driven against man and beast to sting like a myriad of tiny needles.

Fear pricked Will, too. He’d heard that bison were as easily redirected as cattle. He sure hoped that was true because unless they turned soon, there wouldn’t be enough left of him to find, let alone bury in the churchyard.

“Yah, yah,” he shouted, continuing to point his pistol in the air and fire. If he’d had his rifle loaded and ready he’d have tried to drop the leaders. Since he didn’t have that option at the moment he’d just have to persevere. And pray fervently that his method was successful.

About the time Will was getting ready to wheel his horse and try to make a dash to safety, the bulls running in front of the herd began to lead the others in a wide arc, avoiding the longhorn herd—and its owner—by a goodly margin.

Satisfied, Will reined in and raised in his stirrups to survey the distant plains while heavy rain continued to fall. He couldn’t see much to the west through the sheeting water, but it had to be plenty bad over that way. It didn’t look much better in the direction of his ranch house, either.

Well, that couldn’t be helped. The steers were the most important thing he owned. They were his livelihood. Everything else could fairly easily be replaced if it was damaged. He just hoped they hadn’t had too many newborn spring calves trampled beneath the hooves of the frightened, milling cattle or knocked unconscious by the hail, and that the men chasing down stragglers hadn’t been harmed.

Shading his eyes and peering into the distance, he tried to make out any signs of the wagon train that he’d encountered in High Plains. They’d still been encamped when he’d left town. Hopefully, they weren’t caught in the maelstrom he could see from the hilltop. If they were, God help them.

Relative calm soon followed the twister. Emmeline awoke to feel rain bathing her hair, her face and what was left of her favorite calico frock. She sat up slowly and wiped her muddy hands on her skirt before pushing her long hair back. It was not only loose and hopelessly tangled, it was matted with bits of straw, mud and goodness-knows-what-else that had come from the prairie.

The cool rain helped bring her to her senses and she raised her face to the heavens to wash her cheeks and help clear the irritating motes from her eyes.

Blinking, she drew a deep, shaky breath. Her ribs hurt a tad when she did so, but she didn’t think they were broken. At least not badly. And although her head was pounding and she had to continually try to clear her vision, the rest of her seemed to be in pretty fair shape, except for a few small cuts and scrapes. But what about the others?

Her heart leaped, her senses fully returning. “Glory!”

Quickly scanning her surroundings, Emmeline tried to spot her baby sister. Her hopes were dashed when she failed. She staggered to her feet, bracing against the milder wind that remained, and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Glory, answer me. Where are you?”

Soft weeping was the only reply.

Following that sound she soon found the little girl seated on the ground, grasping her bent knees and rocking back and forth.

Emmeline knelt and took the child in her arms. “Praise the Lord! Are you all right, Glory, honey?”

“I want Mama.”

Mama. Emmeline’s heart sped like the horrid wind that had decimated their party as her thoughts finally caught up to harsh reality. Where was Mama?

She was glad the rain falling on her face masked her tears because when she turned and spotted the remains of all their worldly possessions she couldn’t help weeping openly. Their heavy wagon lay on its top, wheels in the air like the feet of a long-dead prairie dog, and there was no sign of Papa and Johnny.

Where Mama had ended up was another question. If she was still in the inverted wagon, there was no possible way Emmeline could free her. Not without help.

And, thanks to Papa’s stubbornness, there was no way to tell how long it would be before anyone else knew what had befallen them. No way at all.

“Dear Jesus, help us. Help us all,” she prayed in a whisper as she lifted her little sister and started to carry her toward the wreckage.

Glory clung to her neck and sobbed. Emmeline was so concerned about their mother’s fate she was nearly back to the wagon before it occurred to her that Bess and the twins were unaccounted for, too!

Saying another quick prayer for her sister and the eight-year-olds, Emmeline approached the upset wagon cautiously. She was afraid of letting Glory see death for the first time in her short life.

As a small child, Emmeline had watched her maternal grandmother’s passing and had never gotten that image out of her mind, even though it had been a peaceful scene. Seeing their dear mother injured, or worse, would be terribly hard for a five-year-old to bear.