The Promised Land (Destiny's Dreamers Book 2) by Kathleen Karr Page B

daring during the buffalo hunts and bravery over that Indian business?
    Maggie ignored the remarks she caught. It was easy to be the hero for a day. As soon as the ice melted in all those buckets the same folks would be complaining again as they wiped their brows~castigating Johnny, or anyone else at hand, for not coming up with another miracle for their comfort.
    Still, she was refreshed by the incident. Refreshed enough to assay an attempt at making it all up with Johnny. Cutting up little chunks of ice for the baby to suck on and play with, Maggie glanced around to where her husband was tending their oxen. Her mouth was forming into a smile to welcome him back into the fold when Annabelle Lorcum sashayed into view, wringing her petite, lily-white hands. Without even a glance at his wife, Johnny dropped everything to inspect the widow’s ailing stock. Maggie shut her lips into a thin line that was both unbecoming and habit forming.
    On the far side of the marsh was good grass, and a final halt was called for the day. It was necessary for the oxen who had survived the bad piece of water. For the dozens whose stomachs were yet swelling beneath the sun there was no longer any hope. For Maggie, too, hope was wearing thin.
    She was trying to grind together some pemmican in a mortar when she received a rare visit from Ruth Winslow. Maggie looked up in surprise. Her fingers dropped the pestle that had been pulverizing jerky with an anger that would have destroyed any living thing beneath her hand.
    “What is it?’’ Her voice came out more aggressively than even Maggie had expected. She tried again as she saw Ruth flinch. “Excuse me. I fear my mind has not been harboring Christian thoughts.’’
    The preacher’s wife took a very tentative step forward. “If this is an ill-conceived moment~’’
    “No . . . No.’’ Maggie sat back, her work forgotten. “I only feared for the continued existence of the entire male gender if they had been beneath my hand a minute past.’’
    “It happens to you, too? I thought it was only myself. The . . . the anger that wells up, unwanted. I have tried so hard to fight it. Surely God could not countenance such feelings~’’
    “And why not? They say He made them all in His image. That presupposes that He approves of their swaggering, their womanizing. Lords of the earth! Just think for a moment if He had been a She. Think of the revenge we women could have!’’
    Ruth Winslow was taken aback at the thought, but not as much as Maggie might have expected. Perhaps blasphemy had a natural place in the barren landscape of earth they were currently traversing.
    Ruth settled next to Maggie, anxious for a continuation of the most fascinating conversation she’d had in months. Her husband could not castigate her for this. This was theology , and she was but continuing his work.
    “I cannot understand these sentiments from you, Mrs. Stuart. You, whose husband shoulders more of the communal work than any other man in both trains. Even now I saw him walking with your children. Had my husband been taking our children in hand, or some of the chores, I would praise God whilst it lasted. Instead, he be in hiding, trying to meditate on the mysteries of the Donner Party . . .’’ She stumbled to a halt.
    Maggie cut in quickly. “You’ve noticed something? Tell me, please!’’
    Ruth pulled back. “It’s nothing. Just the Reverend’s natural inclination to look for the bad before seeing the good. His feelings lie strongly with an Old Testament God.’’
    “Meaning do unto others before they can do unto you? An eye for an eye?’’
    The preacher’s wife sighed. “Something like that. I often wonder at the incongruity of it from a Christian minister’s mouth. He would have fared better in the days of blood sacrifice atop a burning pyre. He’ll not forget, and believes that no one else will, either.’’
    Maggie’s mind was churning at top speed. “Is that why he carries his hatred