Prairie Storm Read Free

she performed the familiar motions of slipping apart the row of buttons, untying her camisole ribbon, and nestling the baby close. The moment the child began to nurse, all crying ceased, and the tiny legs curled into a ball.
    â€œAbigail was famished!” Rosie said with a laugh. “Goodness, I don’t believe she’d been fed for hours.”
    â€œ Whisht , Rosie,” Caitrin murmured. “The lady’s still weeping, can’t you see? There now, madam, you’ve got your baby once again. The wee thing will forget all about her hunger in a moment, and the pair of you can have a good night’s rest.”
    Lily tried to stop crying. Truly she did. But as the baby drank milk meant for little Abby, her pain and longing only intensified. All around her, the world drifted away—the two caring women, the rough blanket, even the preacher, whose voice droned like the hum of a lazy bee. The baby’s fingers were splayed across the bodice of Lily’s dress, and she knew they were not Abby’s fingers. The tiny head wreathed in a cloud of dark curls bore no resemblance to Abby with her golden wisps. The face was smaller, the cheeks sunken, the skin wrinkled. Abigail had been plump and round, at four months the picture of health. This was not Abby.
    â€œShe’s still crying,” Rosie whispered to Caitrin. “I hate to leave her alone like this.”
    The Irishwoman glanced over her shoulder. “The preaching’s nearly finished for the evening, so it is. Sure, we’d best get back to our men.” She laid a hand on Lily’s arm. “Are you all right? I know you’re not from one of the homesteads around Hope, so you must have come traveling our way. Perhaps Rosie and I could have a look in the crowd for your husband.”
    â€œMy husband is dead,” Lily whispered as she cupped the baby’s tiny head. The child was still nursing as though every drop of milk must be drained into her tiny, shrunken stomach. Lily shifted the baby into her other arm, and the child began to suckle again. “Three days ago. He’s buried near Topeka. My daughter lies beside him.”
    â€œYour daughter?”
    Lily brushed her damp cheek. “I buried her in a wooden box.”
    â€œOh, dear,” Rosie said. “I’m so sorry. No wonder you’re upset—a husband and a daughter both gone. I couldn’t imagine how any woman could forget where she’d put her baby, but now I see you’ve been through a terrible trial. If I lost Seth and Chipper, I’d be just wild with grief. I couldn’t bear it. Oh, honey, do you and little Abigail need a place to sleep tonight? I hate to think of you out here on the prairie with nothing but a blanket and that old horse. Seth and I have a great big house, lots of space, and we’d be glad to put you and your daughter up for the night.”
    Lily could feel that the baby had finally drifted off to sleep, warm and content at last. “No, no, you don’t understand,” she murmured, drawing the tiny form out from beneath the purple cape and gazing down at the child’s blissful face. “This is … this is going to be all right. In a moment, I’ll leave.”
    â€œLeave?” Caitrin exclaimed. “But ’tis almost fully dark now. You’re a nursing mother and a frainey one at that. Sure, you can’t be tramping down the road in the middle of the night.”
    â€œHey!” The preacher’s voice pealed out like a clap of thunder. “What’s going on here?”
    Lily’s head snapped up. Just beyond the blanket stood the two men who had accompanied Rosie and Caitrin. Between them, his boots planted a pace apart on the prairie grass, towered the preacher. He swept off his Stetson, took a step toward the women, and punched the air with his forefinger.
    â€œLook here, lady,” he snarled at Lily. “I don’t know who you are or what