Chapter 3 - The Storm Beneath the Canvas
The storm swallowed the prairie whole.
Rain hammered the wagon canvas so violently that Boon had to lean close to hear Martha breathe. Wind shoved against the freight wagon in long, savage bursts. The horses stamped and pulled at their lines outside, frightened by thunder that seemed to split the sky directly overhead.
None of it mattered to Martha.
Her entire world had narrowed to the tightening beneath her ribs.
Another contraction seized her.
She folded forward with a low cry.
Boon caught her shoulders before she slid from the blankets.
“Easy.”
“Don’t tell me easy.”
“All right.”
“Don’t tell me all right either.”
He nodded once.
“Fair.”
Even terrified, she nearly laughed.
Then the pain climbed higher, and there was nothing funny left in the world.
Boon shifted behind her and pressed one broad hand into the small of her back.
The pressure helped.
Martha hated that it helped because it made her want to lean against him.
She did anyway.
“It’s too early,” she whispered.
The baby was not due for weeks.
She had counted every day since Jeb died because counting was easier than grieving. Weeks left. Too many weeks. A child born now could be too small, too weak, too far from a doctor.
Martha had already buried Jeb.
The thought of burying the baby too broke something inside her.
“If I lose this one…”
Her voice failed.
Boon’s arm tightened around her shoulders.
“You’re not losing anything.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
“Then don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
She turned her face toward him.
Rainwater ran from his hair where he had pulled off his hat. His coat was soaked at the shoulders. His eyes held hers with such fierce certainty that for one foolish second she almost believed certainty itself could change what happened next.
“You’re too stubborn to die,” he growled into her hair. “And so is that young one.”
Another contraction struck.
This one did not release quickly.
Martha grabbed his forearm with both hands.
“Boon.”
“I’m here.”
“Boon.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The pain stretched on.
Her breath came in short, frightened sounds.
Boon counted for her.
Not loudly.
Not like a man who knew what he was doing.
Like a man who needed numbers because he could not fight pain with his hands.
“One… two… three…”
When the contraction finally eased, Martha collapsed against him.
Boon reached for the canteen.
“Drink.”
“I’ll be sick.”
“One swallow.”
She obeyed because arguing required more strength than she possessed.
Then she noticed his hands.
They were steady.
His face was not.
“You’re scared,” she whispered.
He looked almost offended.
“No.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar.”
“You’re not.”
“Drink again.”
Martha managed another swallow.
Outside, a horse screamed.
Boon looked toward the canvas opening.
“You need to check them,” Martha said.
“They’ll survive.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
She stared at him.
He realized what he had done and sighed.
“Apparently I’m repeating you now.”
Despite everything, Martha smiled weakly.
The next hour passed in fragments.
Pain.
Rain.
Boon’s hand against her back.
Thunder.
Martha breathing into his shoulder.
Then waiting.
Always waiting for the next tightening.
Boon had delivered calves, he admitted. A foal once. Never a baby.
“That is the least comforting thing you could have said,” Martha told him.
“I could tell you about the time the foal kicked me.”
“Boon.”
“Right. Not helpful.”
He found clean cloth in her trunk and set it nearby anyway.
Martha saw him doing it.
Her fear sharpened.
“Don’t prepare.”
He froze.
“If you prepare, it means this is happening.”
His expression changed.
He moved the cloth out of her sight.
“All right.”
Martha closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For being unreasonable.”
“You’re allowed.”
“Who decided that?”
“I did.”
She opened one eye.
“You decide a lot.”
“Occupational habit.”
“What occupation?”
“Staying alive.”
That answer stayed with her.
After nearly an hour, the contractions began to change.
Not stop.
Change.
The space between them lengthened. Their grip loosened. Martha could breathe through them without crushing Boon’s arm.
He noticed before she did.
“Longer apart,” he said.
Martha nodded, afraid to hope.
They waited.
Five minutes.
Then ten.
Then fifteen.
A tightening came, but softer.
Boon’s shoulders dropped an inch.
Martha had not realized how tense he had been until then.
Another twenty minutes passed.
The storm moved east. Thunder became a distant growl.
Rain softened against the canvas.
Martha lay on her side, drained of strength.
Boon remained beside her.
“You can go check the horses now,” she murmured.
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You’re recovering.”
He started to stand.
Martha caught his sleeve.
He looked down.
She had not meant to stop him.
Her fingers had moved before pride could interfere.
“Just…” She swallowed. “Wait until the next one.”
Boon sat back down.
They waited together.
No contraction came.
After half an hour, he checked the team. Two horses had tangled their traces but none were hurt. One wagon cover had torn loose. Boon fixed it in the rain while Martha watched through the flap.
When he returned, he carried his soaked coat over one arm.
“You need sleep,” he said.
“So do you.”
“I’m not carrying a child.”
“No. You’re just carrying everything else.”
He looked at her strangely.
Martha realized she had said something truer than intended.
Boon turned away and busied himself with the coffee pot.
“Rest.”
“Boon?”
He paused.
“Thank you.”
For several seconds he did not move.
Then he nodded without turning around.
Martha slept.
When she woke near dawn, the world smelled washed clean. Rainwater dripped from the wagon. Pale light spread under the clouds.
Boon sat outside on the rear step, elbows on his knees, watching the horizon.
Martha eased herself upright.
No pain.
Only soreness.
The baby moved beneath her hand.
Strong.
Martha closed her eyes and whispered a prayer she had been too frightened to say during the storm.
Boon heard the wagon creak and turned.
“Well?”
She pressed her palm to her belly.
“Kicking.”
His face changed.
Relief did not suit him. It made him look younger.
“Good,” he said.
Martha studied him.
“You really thought I might lose the baby.”
He looked away.
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised her.
“You said I wouldn’t.”
“You needed me to say it.”
“That sounds suspiciously like lying.”
Boon finally smiled.
A real smile this time.
Small. Crooked. Gone quickly.
“I told you I was good at it.”
They remained camped until noon.
Boon wanted Martha to rest. She wanted to reach Fort Laramie before another storm decided her fate.
They compromised in the way they always seemed to compromise: Boon quietly did what Martha wanted but arranged it so she could believe it had been his idea.
For the next two days, they traveled slowly.
Martha spent more time lying down. Boon stopped every few hours. At night he built fires and sat where he could watch both the trail and the wagon.
On the second morning after the storm, the land opened before them.
Boon pulled the wagon to the crest of a long rise.
Martha climbed carefully onto the seat beside him.
Below, beyond the winding river, walls and roofs stood beneath the wide sky.
Fort Laramie.
Martha gripped the edge of the seat.
Safety.
People.
A doctor.
A place where she might finally stop surviving one mile at a time.
Tears filled her eyes before she could stop them.
Boon saw.
He said nothing.
That was another kindness.
“We made it,” she whispered.
His jaw tightened.
Martha was too relieved to notice.
The freight wagon rolled down the rise.
One mile from the fort, Boon suddenly pulled hard on the reins.
The four horses tossed their heads and came to a stop.
Martha caught the sideboard.
“What are you doing?”
Boon did not answer.
He stared toward the fort for several long seconds.
Then he climbed down from the wagon.
And Martha noticed his hand had moved to the revolver at his hip.
For several minutes after Boon stopped the wagon, Martha stayed inside beneath the canvas and watched him through the opening. Something about the way he stood bothered her more than if he had drawn his gun at once. He was listening, measuring, deciding. The man who had remained steady while she feared losing her child now looked as though the sight of the fort had awakened a danger he understood too well.
Martha touched Jeb’s folded coat beside her. She had spent the last week thinking Fort Laramie would be the end of uncertainty. A doctor would tell her the baby was safe. She would register the deed, find the road to Cottonwood Creek, and somehow begin the life she and Jeb had planned. She had imagined walls, people, and authority as protection.
Now Boon’s silence suggested walls could hide danger as easily as keep it out.
She climbed carefully toward the front of the wagon. “If you know something that affects me, this is the moment to say it.”
Boon glanced back. “I know.”
“That sounded suspiciously like an apology.”
May you like
“Don’t get used to it.”
Despite herself, Martha smiled. Then she saw his gaze move toward the gate again, and the smile vanished. Whatever waited near Fort Laramie was not merely part of Boon’s past. Somehow, she was beginning to suspect it might belong to hers as well.
