Chapter 22
SE border of Wyoming - May 1874
The gentle melody of Abigail's hymn drifted through the air, carried on the warm spring breeze. Her voice, blending with the chirping birds and gurgling river, painted a picture of idyllic serenity. Seated beside her sister Sarah in their horse-drawn cart, Abigail swayed rhythmically, her wide-brimmed hat casting a cool shadow on her face.
"More, Abigail!" Sarah tugged playfully at her sister's braid, urging her to continue the sweet melody.
Abigail chuckled and resumed her verse, the hymn's words echoing through the tranquil landscape. "Sacred songs, beneath, above, Have one Chorus, God is love. All the hopes that sweetly start, from the fountain of the heart—"
Suddenly, the hymn died on Abigail's lips. Her eyes, scanning the picturesque scene, caught a glimpse of something disturbing by the riverbank. A splash of pale against the vibrant green – a figure, unmoving, half-submerged in the water.
"Father!" Abigail cried, her voice laced with alarm.
Luke Peterson, their father, reacted instantly. "Stay in the wagon with your sister," he commanded his voice firm.
He leaped from the wagon seat and raced towards the riverbank. Wading into the water, Luke reached the figure and gently assessed the situation. It was a woman, unconscious and tangled in the branches of a fallen tree. He carefully disentangled her, his heart sinking as he felt for a pulse. The faint flutter beneath her skin offered a sliver of hope, although her condition remained precarious.
Luke hoisted the woman onto his shoulder and carried her back to the waiting wagon. Sarah, her eyes wide with fear, watched as her father deposited the stranger on the floorboards.
"Is she dead, Father?" Sarah blurted out, unable to contain her worry.
Luke knelt beside the woman, his calloused fingers brushing against a faint flutter of breath. "No, Sarah, she's alive," he murmured, relief flooding his features. "At least for now."
The woman looked a mess, her clothes ripped and muddied. It was clear she'd gone through a harrowing ordeal. As Luke carefully examined her leg, a grimace contorted his face. It was broken, twisted at an unnatural angle.
"What happened to her?" Sarah asked, her voice hushed in the face of the stranger's suffering.
Luke sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I have no idea," he admitted. "But she's hurt badly. We'll get her back home and see what we can do to help."
Abigail watched intently as her father fashioned a makeshift splint from flour sacks and other supplies from the wagon.
"What are you doing?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"She's broken her leg, Abigail," Luke explained patiently. "We need to keep it still, so it doesn't get worse."
"What do you think she was doing out here all alone, Father?" Sarah pondered, her gaze filled with concern for the unconscious woman.
Luke smiled gently, ruffling his daughter's hair. "We can ask her when she wakes up," he said, hope glimmering in his eyes.