Emmet held his plate before him but didn't touch the food upon it. Instead he watched her expectantly.

Remembering, Hattie filled her own plate and sat across the chest from him. Only when she had taken a quick bite did he spoon food into his own mouth. Again Hattie smiled to herself. Fancy her, Hattie Holmes that was, finding herself a real gentleman to wed. Karl would have though she was stepping out of a woman's place had she sat with him at table instead of hovering ready to provide more food or drink. Emmet treated her like she was something precious, someone important.

Already she was beginning to care for him, fight it though she might.

Emmet did not stay close as they traveled through the rolling, sagebrush-covered land, to Hattie's disappointment. Most of the time he was scouting the route, having been hired by the colonel who wasn't one to waste an able bodied man. She rarely saw him between breakfast and supper, no matter how often she found herself looking for him.

Aside from scouting the road ahead, he did his part on guard duty and brought in game when he found it. She found the venison, faintly flavored by the sagebrush over which she grilled it, not at all unpleasant. It was more dry than buffalo, but equally tasty.

She didn't know where he slept, only that he was at her wagon each morning when she arose. She felt pampered, awaking to hot coffee. His insistence on fixing breakfast was even more of a kindness, since the smell of burning sagebrush seemed to upset her stomach in the early mornings.

Salmon Falls was behind them. She'd found the pink flesh of the salmon, so delicious to many of her fellow travelers, dry and strong. The Indians who were camped around the falls had been eager to trade and Emmet had advised her to do so. The salmon, dried over sagebrush fires, would keep, would feed her through the winter if game was scarce.

Hattie had never given thought to what she and Silas would eat once they were in the Willamette Valley. For the first time, she wondered if Karl's gold was enough to keep them until they could harvest their first crop. Were the trading posts at her destination better than those she'd encountered so far, or would flour and coffee and bacon be so dear that by spring she would be destitute?

Once again they were rolling down a long slope to the Snake River. This time they would cross it, although some of the men had advised staying on the south side. Emmet had sided with those advising the crossing, saying that water was often scarce on the southern route. Hattie was amused when the colonel, wavering until then, had elected to go across after her husband offered his opinion.

It was early afternoon when they arrived at the river's edge. They had made better time than anyone expected to the Three Island Crossing, almost as if the oxen and mules had been looking forward to reaching the river once more. Hattie assumed they would make camp and cross in the morning, but Colonel Whitehead immediately ordered them to make ready to cross. There was another train about half a day behind and he said he wanted to leave the south shore clear for them, in case they arrived tonight.

Hattie knew better. He didn't want to take a chance on the other train's passing them, somehow.

She and Silas guided their wagons into position and unhitched the teams. Her oxen would be used at least once before they pulled her wagons across, doubling up with other teams for safety. It would be a good two hours before she was called to make the crossing, hours she could spend making sure her wagons and their cargo would arrive safely on the far shore.

She hoped Emmet would be back from his scouting before it was her turn.

She finished stuffing cloth into the cracks of her freight wagon just as the first Stone wagon, three places ahead of hers, rolled into the river. She left Silas to spread tar over the last few newly caulked cracks and went to the household wagon. It was in better shape, having kept most of its caulking since the Green River crossing.

Regretfully she tore the soft pink calico into strips. Annie had loved this little dress, even though it had become almost too short for modesty. She'd been so happy when Hattie had surprised her with it, her first brand new dress, not cut down from one of her dead mother's. Hattie wondered if she would ever have a child, though Annie had been as good as hers. She'd been scarce three months old when Hattie married Karl.

The colonel rode by, halted beside her wagon. "About ready, Mrs. Lachlan?"

"Just about," she said. "Have you seen Mr. Lachlan?"

"Not a sign." From his tone and expression, the colonel wasn't in any hurry to see the man she'd married. She had a feeling needing her husband to guide them over what she'd heard called the most difficult and dangerous part of the road to Oregon grated on Colonel Whitehead something fierce. "But don't fret," he continued, "we'll get you across just fine, whether he's here or not." His reassurance was easily given, with no real feeling behind it, and meant about as much to her as wind in the sagebrush.

Hattie finished stuffing the wagon's seams with rags. While Silas was applying the last tar, she fixed fat sandwiches, using the rest of the roast venison and some bacon grease to moisten them. She wrapped them in oilcloth, against a busy afternoon. Heaven only knew when she'd get a chance to fix supper, or if. She detached the chicken coop from the side of the freight wagon and set it inside, followed by the churn and the bucket. When the rooster began squawking, she tucked her Aunt Nettie's Sunburst quilt around the coop.

Finally everything was ready for her crossing. She looked around for something more to do, wondering why she felt unprepared. Ever since Emmet had disappeared into the distance this morning, she'd been apprehensive, as if she were waiting for some dread event.

She sat on the wagon tongue, grateful for a moment's rest. It was hot again today, although the river seemed to release some of its coolness into the moisture-sucking breeze. She wondered at the Indians who dwelled in this god-forsaken land. No civilized person would ever chose to live here.

Silas brought four yoke of her oxen back across from the far bank. She would ride the household wagon across, as she always had. Karl had not wanted his wagons ridden by folks who wouldn't care what happened to them. Eli Stone and the oxen would return afterward to help with another wagon while Silas brought her freight wagon. She mounted the seat, waited until Eli touched Odin's shoulder with the goad.

The wagon moved and Hattie almost called out for Eli to stop the team. There was something wrong, and she didn't know what.

"Nonsense," she told herself under her breath. "You're being silly." She held to the edge of the seat as the wagon tipped and swayed its way down the bank and into the water. Another wagon was just ahead of her, a little upstream.

The first channel was easy. Eli swam beside the lead yoke, giving Odin his head as often as not. Jeremiah Thomas and one of the herders were on either side of the second yoke, but had little to do, so well trained were her oxen. They swam strongly, fighting their way upstream even as the current carried them down. But their feet found bottom soon and in moments they were pulling the wagon up the low slope to the center of the first island.

Hattie climbed down and helped the men check the wagon and harness. Everything seemed secure, and she remounted. The emptiness was still lodged in her belly, a cold hollow of dread, but she was determined to ignore it. The worst was over.

The second crossing went even more smoothly. They drew a little ahead of the other wagon, the old, battered one, she realized, belonging to Elizabeth Coonrad. Water was draining from several cracks in its sides, showing that it hadn't been properly caulked. Hattie hoped it would get safely across.

She counted her blessings as Odin's feet splashed into the water for the third, and last, crossing. At least she hadn't had to marry a man like Wilbur Coonrad, crude, profane, and unwashed. Poor Elizabeth, too meek to say boo to a butterfly, and trapped with a man who, Hattie suspected, was as cruel as he was lazy. She watched as Mr. Coonrad cracked the whip over the oxen pulling his wagon. One was her Loki, the speckled ox with the split hoof. She wondered if Silas' pitch applications had improved its condition. She must remember to ask him tonight.

Even as she watched, the whip touched Loki's back and he bawled, jerking his head upwards and pulling his yokemate, a smaller ox, to one side. Silas should have warned Mr. Coonrad that Loki didn't take well to the whip. But would the man have listened to a mere boy? She doubted it.

Her own team lost its footing and the wagon bobbed in the swift current. Unlike the other two channels, the water here was roiling and churning, with undertows and eddies, a dangerous reach indeed. She held tightly to the seat, gasping when a wave broke across her feet.

Her gaze glued to her swimming team, Hattie didn't see what happened to the Coonrad wagon. She only saw its tangled team, struggling to free themselves of the drifting, overturned wagon, sweeping towards her.

Then she was in the water, fighting to stay afloat, as her own wagon loomed over her. Tipped. And slowly rolled to smother her in the folds of its canvas.

Chapter Three.

Emmet's horse topped the hill, giving him a view of the crossing. The colonel hadn't wasted any time. At least half of the wagons were across, the rest lined up ready for their teams. But what was the fool thinking of? Letting two wagons cross side by side.

Even as he watched, the upstream wagon began to drift, its team having lost its footing all at once. Some of those holes in the far channel were big enough to drown an elephant. He kicked his horse into a run. The bonneted woman on the seat of the second wagon was in mortal danger. As soon as those oxen got tangled....

He wove through the herd, placidly grazing the bottomland. With a yell, he tossed his rifle to the ground and forced his horse through the camp, cursing when men, women and children didn't get out of his way fast enough. As his horse splashed into the water, the one wagon collided with the other, tipping it, throwing its passenger into the water. The teams fought to hold both wagons against the river's inexorable pull, but they rolled together, one on its side and the other completely upside down.

Where were the drovers?

And where was the woman?

Splashes and shouts mixed with the bawling of the oxen. At least some of the drovers were safe and attempting to bring order out of the chaotic tangle. He forced his horse downstream of the wagons, seeking some sign that the woman had been able to swim free.

Nothing.

Then he saw a billow of fabric, a white limb, caught against a still turning wheel, held just under the water's surface. He slid from his horse, swam strongly toward the wagon. Diving, he sought whiteness in the clear water.

The woman's leg was twisted into the wheel, held between a spoke and the wagon's bed. Her body floated back under the wagon, a mass of dark hair concealing her face. From somewhere higher on her body, a pink cloud of blood spread in the water.

Emmet surfaced and gulped great gasps of air before he returned to the woman.

Feet braced against the wagon bed, he managed to turn the great wheel, releasing her leg. But she was unconscious--or dead?--so he had to pull her free.

His lungs were near to bursting when he finally broke the surface, her limp body held against him. He stroked downstream, away from the confusion of men and horses that now surrounded the tangled wagons. Once a sufficient distance away, he aimed himself and his lax burden toward the shore. Finally, despite the current's grip on them, he was able to pull her into the shallows. That was when he finally saw her face.

Hattie's face.

Willing hands drew them both from the water and took her lifeless body from his arms. He crouched, breathing deeply, on the shore. After a few moments, he followed the men who'd carried her away. He was almost certain she was dead.

There had been no tension in those drifting limbs, no life in the body he'd held against him as he swam.

The women who worked over her were silent as Emmet approached. He was turning away, without hope, when he heard a choking cough, the painful sound of retching.

"Thank the Lord!" a woman cried.

Another said, "Don't touch her leg!" just as a thin scream sent shivers up his spine.

"There's blood," a third said, unnecessarily, he thought.

Without thinking, Emmet thrust his way among the women. The way they were going, they'd kill her with kindness.

He dropped on his knees beside the still form of his wife. Her face was white, her eyes closed. A bruise shadowed the side of her face; by tomorrow it would be red and swollen. But she breathed. Great God, she breathed!

Blood stained her skirt, which someone had pulled decently around her legs.

Without thinking, he lifted it, ignoring shocked gasps from the surrounding women. A wicked wound marred her calf. Sluggishly seeping blood stained the pallid, cold skin. A jagged end of bone protruded.

Bitter bile rose in his throat. He had seen injuries like this before--and the men who'd suffered them had died, more often than not.

Falling on his knees, he touched her face, cold and still. She was so fragile, he thought, and so small.

A hand reached to pull her skirt down again. Just as Emmet opened his mouth to forbid it, another voice sounded. "I've had some experience settin' bones, and I'd be glad to help out."

Gratefully Emmet moved out of the way and let the other man kneel beside Hattie.

He watched, his throat still tight with fear and suppressed anger, as thick fingers gently probed the wound. He'd set a few bones himself, but he'd never before felt this weakness at the very thought.

The big man--someone whispered he was a blacksmith--worked at Hattie's leg until the bone slipped back below the lacerated flesh. Emmet kept his eyes on her face, not able to watch, even though he'd never quailed at the sight of wounds far more serious, far bloodier. He smoothed tangled, wet hair from her face, grateful she was unconscious.

When someone laid a blanket across her upper body, he reached to tuck it around her.

"Her arm!" one of the women warned, and Emmet finally noted the unnatural angle of her shoulder. Gently he probed, finding what he expected--a sharp end of bone lifting delicate skin.

He manipulated her arm, pressing on the bone until he felt it slip into place.

Without letting loose, he said, "I need something to bind her arm to her--a scarf or a shawl."

"But her dress," one woman objected. "She's all wet."

Before he could open his mouth to curse silly conventions, a linen towel was thrust into his hand. He used it, doubled, to wrap around her, holding the arm tight against her body.

"But she's wet." The protest came again.

"So cut her clothes off," he commanded, "but don't touch that arm. And keep her warm." He forced himself to look at her leg.

Strips of cloth bound two thick willow sticks to her at ankle and knee. The awful wound, its edges now pulled together but still seeping, was uncovered.

"I've done all I can," the blacksmith said, sitting back on his heels. His face told Emmet all there was to tell.

Hattie's chances were not good.

Feeling helpless, wanting to curse and yell and hit someone, Emmet stood. "I've got to see what I can salvage of her wagon. Take care of her."

He took two steps, turned back to face the blacksmith who was wiping blood from his hands onto the bib of his blackened leather apron. "I'm obliged. I... ah, thanks."

It was a godawful mess. Three of the oxen were dead, drowned as they were dragged downstream by the wagons. He wasn't sure whether they were all Hattie's, but no matter. It was a loss the company could hardly afford.

Someone had gotten a rope on the wagon and pulled it to shore, but it was wrecked. Two wheels were gone, just the hubs and a few splinters of spoke remaining. He would have thought the canopy would have prevented the wagon's turning over in the water, but the splintered hickory staves showed why it hadn't. The impact with the Coonrad wagon had been at such an angle that the entire side had been broken free, the bent staves sprung straight and the canvas ripped loose.

Emmet cursed when he saw the empty wagon bed. This had been the household wagon, full of clothing, food, and bedding. Even the water barrel, lashed to the side, had been torn away.

"It's a shame," Eli Stone said, laying a comforting hand on Emmet's shoulder.

"Some of the men are downstream, trying to catch whatever's floating."

"Good luck to 'em," Emmet replied, knowing the treacherous currents of the Snake. "Did you see it happen? Why did she try to cross with another wagon in the channel?"

"We though the colonel was going to hold Coonrad back. He must have got impatient. He's never taken kindly to waiting in line."

"He's not going to take kindly to a beating, either," Emmet snarled. "He damn near killed my wife." He shook off the restraining hand and strode in the direction of the other damaged wagon.

It had suffered less from the collision than Hattie's. Emmet held his temper in check while he listened and watched, wanting to catch Coonrad alone. The bastard was uninjured, but two of the other men who'd helped with his team were battered and half-drowned.

"Your goddamned wagon!" Coonrad shouted at his cowering wife. "I don't know why I bothered with you, taking on a worthless woman and her snot-nosed brats. If you'd kept your wagon in repair, we wouldn't be in this mess now. Look at this!

We ain't got another wheel, and it's not likely anybody's gonna lend us one, either. How you expect us to get to Oregon, with only three...."

He said no more, for Emmet's fist hit him squarely on the chin. With a quiet sigh, he measured his length on the ground, unconscious. Emmet nodded reassuringly at Mrs. Coonrad. "He was a mite upset, ma'am. Don't you let it bother you. After he's had a little nap, he'll be in a better mood." He concealed his grin until he was out of Coonrad's sight. It wouldn't do to let her know how good it had felt to hit her husband.

All afternoon, Emmet worked with some of the men, salvaging what they could.

More than once he heard Coonrad swearing at his bad fortune, cursing the fact that their few chickens had drowned, their possessions had been soaked. Later, when he inventoried the few barrels and chests that they'd been able to save, Emmet felt like doing a little swearing of his own. Except he'd learned long ago that cursing fate did little good and only wasted time.

Silas found him as he was pulling linens from a trunk, draping them across the willows to dry.

"Is she gonna be all right, Mr. Lachlan?" the boy said, his fear showing in every line of his stiffly held body.

"I hope so," Emmet said, not stopping his labors. "She's hurt pretty bad." He wouldn't lie to the boy, but at the same time, he wasn't going to tell him how worried he was. Hattie lay like the dead, her breathing slow and shallow. Her face was a grotesque mask, with red and purple bruises all across one side and half the other. Both eyes were swollen shut, even if she were to wake up and try to open them. And already her leg was red and swollen.

"I got her other wagon across," Silas said. "Didn't even get wet inside."

"Good lad," Emmet praised. "You had supper?"

Silas shook his head.

Emmet was sure his chin trembled, but he would not shame the boy with noticing.