Free Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 by Victoria Murata Page A

want to stay with her,” she said quietly.
    “Brenna, you’ll have to stay awake all night. You’re already exhausted. We’ll all take turns,” Kate suggested, glancing around at the others for confirmation.
    “No! I want to take care of her. I can do it, Ma.” The strong set of her jaw convinced the others that it would be futile to argue. Ruth Benson took the aconite tincture from her medicine bag and showed Brenna how to mix the drug. Then she gave Mrs. Mueller the first dose and watched her swallow the medicine weakly. Her eyes were tightly closed, and her body shuddered with the chills.
    “Keep her warm, and in one hour give her the next dose, and then four more doses, one each hour, after that.”
    Thomas Benson gave Brenna a pocket watch, and Brenna opened it and watched the second hand slowly tick away the seconds.
    “It’s very important not to give her the next dose too early,” Ruth admonished.
    “Don’t worry, Mrs. Benson. I’ll take care of her.” As the others returned to their wagons and settled in for the night, Brenna got comfortable in the wagon with Mrs. Mueller, but not too comfortable—she didn’t want to risk falling asleep. Reverend Mueller looked at his mother. His face showed worry.
    “You’re a godsend for doing this, Brenna. I won’t forget it.”
    “My grandmother had a saying. She used to tell me that people live in one another’s shelter. I want to take care of her.” Brenna took Mrs. Mueller’s hand gently. “She’s going to be all right, Reverend Mueller. Go to bed. I’ll be right here.”
    A look of relief passed over the reverend’s face. He bowed his head and said a quiet prayer for his mother’s quick recovery. Brenna bowed her head too, and together they said, “Amen.”
    “Please call me if there’s any change.” He slipped into the darkness, and Brenna was alone in the quiet with Mrs. Mueller. A single candle illuminated the dark interior of the wagon. Brenna looked at the old woman’s face. It looked pinched and strained, and Brenna dipped a cloth into some cool water and bathed it gently.
    “There, now, that should feel a wee bit better.” The truth was that Brenna was very worried. Mrs. Mueller was so small and frail. How would she weather this storm? Brenna’s thoughts went back to Ireland and to her grandmother. Brenna had been a young girl when her grandmother had passed away, but she remembered that night as if it was yesterday. It was a night much like tonight.

     
    The day had been dreary, but it had cleared and the night was chilly. Her grandmother had been suffering from a fever for three days. There had been no medicine except for Godfrey’s Cordial, a children’s medicine, but the laudanum in it, an opium tincture, made her grandmother rest a little easier. Brenna was the only one awake when her grandmother passed. She had gone to bed while her grandmother seemed to be resting, but she couldn’t sleep. After a while, she crept over to where her grandmother lay in her narrow bed. Her eyes were open and she was looking out a small window at the stars. She turned her head when she heard Brenna. Her eyes were unusually bright as she looked at her granddaughter.
    “Do you know that I saw a shooting star the night you were born?” Brenna nodded, a lump forming in her throat. “That’s a sure sign, a gra’. You have always been special to me, and I know you will make a difference in the lives of others.” She took Brenna’s hand and squeezed it feebly. Then she closed her eyes. Brenna sat with her grandmother until the small hours of the morning and she was holding her hand when her grandmother took her last breath.

     
    Tears stung her eyes as she remembered her grandmother’s words. She looked down at the small form of Mrs. Mueller. If only she could make a difference here, but the tiny woman was pale and unresponsive.
    “Have I ever told you the stories of the Good People?” Brenna asked the old woman. Mrs. Mueller’s chest