Free A Woman Named Damaris by Janette Oke

wasn’t too far. But would the job still be waiting for her?
    “Wh—where is Dixen?” Damaris asked in a choked voice.
    “My husband says it’s another ten or twelve days—dependin’,” the woman answered. Then she brushed the hair from her face with a tired hand. “Don’t know how I’ll ever be standin’ it,” she spoke sadly.
    Damaris turned and walked away. She was afraid that tears were going to start to flow. She had never felt such disappointment in her entire life. She had to find some way to let Widow Collins know she couldn’t accept the job. Ten to twelve days! Ten or twelve more days on the trail. She didn’t know how she’d ever stand it either.

Chapter Eight
    In Camp
    Damaris awoke the next morning to a drizzling rain. As she listened to the patter on the canvas overhead, she wished she could turn over and go back to sleep. Edgar stirred and reached for her but Damaris drew back. Yesterday she had prepared herself to say farewell to Edgar. Knowing it would bring pain, she had steeled herself against it. Now she would need to repeat the procedure, and she didn’t know how her fragile emotions could endure any more. For the next ten or twelve days she would hold Edgar at a distance. He would not take possession of her devotion again.
    The fire needs to be built, she told herself as she snuggled beneath the blanket to gain as much warmth as possible before facing the coldness of the day. Damaris was thankful she had gathered extra wood and tucked it under the wagon where it would be dry.
    At last she crawled reluctantly from her bed and managed, in the tightness of the small wagon, to squirm out of her simple sleeping garment and into her much-mended petticoat and colorless dress.
    The morning was even colder than she expected. She wished she could bundle her shawl about her shoulders, but shawls were dangerous around morning fires. Back on the trail a woman had been badly burned when her shawl had dangled into the flames and caught on fire. Had not a man been passing by who quickly rolled her on the ground to put out the fire, her injuries might have been even worse. So Damaris left her shawl behind and shivered as she started the fire with trembling, cold fingers.
    At the other side of the camp there was already a lot of commotion and Damaris remembered, with an aching heart, that the wagon master and nine wagons from the train would soon be off toward the south.
    It reminded her again of the job that awaited her in town.
    “I could just run off,” she murmured to herself. “I could hide until the Browns have left—and then go into Poplar Creek and take that job the captain found for me.”
    But even as she whispered her thoughts, Damaris knew she could never do such a thing. She had made a promise. She owed the Browns for her passage west.
    The fire was going and the coffee boiling when Mr. Brown appeared. He looked about as cold as Damaris felt and she could see by the wetness of his woollen shirt that he had been up for some time. He looked miserable, and Damaris concluded that he had been out in the rain caring for the horses and other chores about camp.
    “My missus is gonna lay abed,” he said to Damaris, pouring himself a mug of coffee from the pot. “Baby kept her awake fer most of the night.”
    Damaris nodded.
    “I’m goin’ on into town fer supplies. We expect the new wagon master about noon an’ we need to be ready to roll soon as he gives the order.”
    Damaris didn’t even nod. She knew what duties needed to be done before they would be ready to roll.
    “Anything you needin’ from town?”
    His question surprised Damaris. She hadn’t expected him to think of her. She shook her head slowly, admitting to herself that she needed just about everything.
    Then she raised her eyes slowly, drawing a quick breath so she wouldn’t lose her courage. “Are you going to the mercantile?” she asked.
    He nodded, looking at her over the cup of coffee.
    “Would you—could you