Through Rushing Water Read Free Page A

decisions?
    If she had been patient, or tolerant, or even deaf to Annabelle’s constant babbling, Sophia might have waited for the Mission Board to send her to China. Instead she had accepted their first assignment, and now, less than a week later, here she was in the Dakota Territory.
    The frontier would offer no opportunity to be a woman of influence. Perhaps God was disciplining her for her ambition to marry a congressman.
    Very well then, she had learned her lesson. God could recall her from the Wild West and send her to China anytime.
    At the tiny washstand Sophia poured water from an ironstone pitcher onto a cloth too thin to be called a towel, and washed the unclothed parts of her bruised and insect-bitten body. Considering the heat and humidity, the effort was woefully inadequate. She pinned a sachet to her neckline and consoled herself with the thought that she was not the worst-smelling person on the Benton IV . Unfortunately there was plenty of competition.
    She gave herself a shake. “Think on whatsoever things are lovely . . .” or however that verse went. She must work harder for God’s approval or she’d never be called as a missionary to China. Morning prayers would be appropriate.
    In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen .
    What came next? Unfortunately she had packed her prayer book. How could she forget the prayer that began every morning of her twenty-eight years?
    Sophia retied her corset, buttoned her skirt, and attempted to smooth out the wrinkles. She had altered her navy dress, turning the bustle into a pleat so that it would fit the confines of a rail car and stateroom. But she never imagined herself sleeping in it.
    With a sigh of frustration, Sophia swept her hair into a knot and tied on a straw hat. Armed with Miss Beecher’s book, she made a foray into the thankfully deserted dining salon. She managed to consume most of her biscuit and tea and read three pages before her peace was invaded.
    An officer, whose mustache would do a Cossack proud, clomped in on mud-caked cavalry boots. “How do, ma’am?”
    Sophia gave a pointed stare at the black felt flopping on his head. He snatched it off, revealing matted blond waves. Could this be the famous General Custer?
    Sophia extended her hand. “Miss Makinoff.”
    â€œLieutenant George Higgins, at your service.” He piled a plate with ham, biscuits, and gravy, and poured coffee into a chipped mug. “So where you hail from?”
    Sophia never knew how to answer the question. Russia? France? “Lately, New York.”
    He tilted his head, studying her as if she were an exotic species in a museum. “New York, eh? You one of those society ladies taking tea with Mrs. Astor?”
    â€œHardly.” Sophia suppressed a laugh. “I am not Dutch or English, nor do I live on inherited wealth.”
    â€œSo what brings you out this aways?”
    â€œI am to be the missionary teacher at the Ponca Agency.”
    He raised his eyebrows and mug in a toast. “I’ll be your neighbor, up the river at Fort Randall.”
    Hopefully not close enough to become a regular nuisance. “How far away is the fort?”
    â€œTwenty-five, thirty miles or so.” He refilled her tea. “Lucky for you the Dakota Southern laid tracks Sioux City to Yankton, else you’d be steaming twice as long.”
    His evaluation of improved travel conditions in Dakota Territory did little to encourage her. Sophia had embarked from the railhead with the hope of arriving within hours. Now she wondered if they would reach the Agency before Christmas.
    The officer gestured with his utensils, leaving a spatter of gravy on his dark-blue uniform shirt. “Good thing you came out when the river’s high, or this would be a real slow journey. My first trip out west just after the War, I rode the Missouri all the way up from St. Louis. Took seventy-five—”
    The boat