Sophie's Daughters Trilogy

by Mary Connealy

  “Reckon they ran into trouble.” Buff stared down through the rugged country the colonel had said they were riding through to get a look at some of the scenery along the trail Lewis and Clark had ridden so long ago.

  “Only reason for ’em to be this late.” Luther folded the map and kicked his horse forward, his stomach stomping on his guts as he thought of all that could go wrong in country this wild.

  Five

  Logan barely paid attention to where they rode. The horse knew the way after all. Instead he focused on the woman in his arms.

  They’d been riding for hours when they finally reached the carefully concealed trail that led home. He still had a long stretch to go, but now they were on the final leg, climbing to the heavens. Logan’s heart beat harder as he thought of what was waiting up there—the glory of God’s creation.

  He looked down and saw Sally’s eyes flicker open. Blue eyes. Magnificent. Like God had mixed the colors Himself and taken long hours to get a once-in-a-lifetime shade of pure, vivid blue.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Logan.”

  “Logan?” Confusion dimmed her expression for a moment.

  “Logan.” He smiled. “Logan McKenzie. Don’t you remember from earlier?” Logan tried to think how to ease her worry. “You fell. I found you unconscious, but you woke up for a while. Long enough to tell me your name is Sally. I’m taking you to Wise Sister, the Shoshone woman who cooks for me and looks after my house. She knows medicine. We weren’t safe back there.”

  “You’re the mighty wolf shooter.” She frowned and her eyes slid to his shoulder where she could no doubt see the butt of her rifle. He wore it just as she had, strapped across his back.

  Since he’d deliberately missed the wolf, Logan didn’t take offense. “Yes, I scared off a pack of wolves. Can you tell me if anything hurts particularly? I’m no doctor.” Something he’d never regretted until now. “I couldn’t leave you there, so I’m taking you to Wise Sister.” He spoke slowly, clearly, hoping she could remember this time.

  Sally pushed at his shoulders and tried to sit up. She cried out in pain. Her well-tanned skin turned an alarming shade of gray.

  “What?”

  “Something’s wrong. My—my—” Her left arm was tucked between their bodies, but her right arm was free, and she clutched her chest with a gasp of pain.

  “You fell a long way. I couldn’t see any obviously broken bones, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “And my leg. My right leg.”

  “I’m sure being moved is agony, but I couldn’t leave you and you needed care. Lie still.” He lowered his forehead so it rested on hers, trying to soothe her. “We’ll get there.”

  He didn’t say it would be a long time yet. He’d set out yesterday and intended to stay out overnight tonight and maybe longer. He wanted to do a thorough sketch study of the crimson rocks he’d found in that area. He’d planned to sleep out. He’d never expected to turn around and ride all the way back home only an hour after he’d perched in his tree. “Can you go back to sleep? That would make the trip pass more quickly for you.”

  “I—I don’t think so. My leg is on fire. God, have mercy.”

  Logan pulled away from her to look at her leg, completely covered by her buckskin pants and, below that, the heavy Western boots she wore. He carefully reached down and lifted a bit of her pants leg. The pants weren’t overly tight, and he could see that her boot was firmly in place. He inched the pants leg up with one hand until he found the top of the boot and his stomach twisted.

  Her leg, right below the knee, was swollen until her skin sagged over the top of the boot. It had looked fine during his early inspection for wounds, but now it was an awful sight. There was no sign of bleeding or a protruding bone, but the boot had to be cutting off her circulation.

  He prayed silently as he lowered the buckskin. God, give me guidance. Speak to my heart, put wisdom in my head.

  Overhead the scream of an eagle drew his attention. Logan looked up, not to watch the magnificent bird, its white head gleaming against the blue sky, but to reach out for God and acknowledge man’s lowly place and God’s ruling hand.

  He looked at her and saw she had a knife in a sheath at her waist. A knife to slit the boot? Though he felt pressed to get to Wise Sister as soon as possible, he had to do something about that constricting boot.

  Urging his horse forward, he sought a likely place to dismount. When he found it, he stepped off onto a stirrup-high, flat stone and lowered Sally to the rock.

  She gasped as he eased his arms from around her.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “My chest feels like it’s being chawed on by that pack of wolves you missed.”

  Logan controlled a smile. Which wasn’t hard. All he had to do was think of her leg.

  “I’m going to cut your boot.”

  “No, don’t touch me, please.” Sally made a single forward motion then gasped in pain and subsided.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve got to loosen it. Your leg is so swollen I’m afraid the circulation is cut off. You could lose your leg.”

  The pretty jawline firmed. Her teeth clenched so hard, Logan was afraid she’d grind them down flat. She kept her eyes wide open, looked straight up at the sky, and gave a single nod of her head. “Do it.”

  “I’ll be as gentle as possible.” He raised her pants leg just past the top of her boot and pulled his knife out of his boot. He kept it razor sharp at all times, but boot leather was tough.

  “Is it broken?” Sally stared at his face but stayed flat, making no attempt to see her leg.

  Logan thought that was more because it hurt to move than a sign she had any faith in him. “It must be, Sally. I’m sorry to say that, but it, well, it’s bad, broken or sprained, either one.” Logan couldn’t imagine a sprain swelling like this. “I’m going to have to”—Logan swallowed hard—“get my finger between your leg and the boot.”

  “Quit talking and get on with it,” Sally said between her teeth.

  Sliding his finger in was a terrible business. He had to do it or he’d cut her. He got the slightest fraction of an inch pulled away and touched the boot with his knife. The tough leather cut, but not easily. He fought it, inch by inch, doing his best not to move her leg. Sally wore a heavy, manly sock under her boots and that gave her a bit of protection against a slip of the blade.

  The swelling didn’t let up; in fact, as they got to what Logan hoped would be a slender ankle, the boot only seemed tighter. Sally cried out when he touched her ankle and then went limp. He looked at her quickly. She appeared to have fainted, which was a mercy for her. Hadn’t she asked for God to have mercy?

  Still careful, even with her unconscious, Logan cut all the way to a thick seam near the boot heel. It wasn’t so tight there, and with a sigh of relief, he decided it was enough. It gave him a partial view of her stocking-clad leg, which showed no signs of bleeding; and it didn’t look like the bone was displaced. What was left of her boot made a good support for her ankle, so he didn’t remove it.

  His stomach twisted as he took one careful look at her gray complexion. He’d hurt her terribly. Unable to resist, he ran a finger down the soft curve of her cheek, drawn to the delicate beauty in the buckskin outfit. The combination spoke to his artist’s heart. How he’d hated hurting her.

  Sheathing his knife, moving as cautiously as possibly, he gathered her back in his arms, climbed on his horse, and rode on. After three years out here, he’d learned to be savvy about a trail, leave no tracks. He’d never felt threatened—until today—but Pierre and Wise Sister were knowing people and he took their advice to heart, if for no other reason than because a man being out here in the wild might scare off wildlife and he didn’t want that.

  Now he approached the well-hidden trail to his cabin on rocky ground where no hoof prints would show. His sure-footed horse had taken this same path many times, and he did most of the work, picking his way up the steep, rocky path.


  When Logan finally crested the top of the mountain, he breathed a sigh of relief to see Wise Sister walking up to her cabin from the west, her bow slung over her shoulder, a quiver of arrows on her back. She spent time hunting many days, and he’d feared he might wait hours for her to come home and help.

  It wasn’t the first time that she’d been exactly where he needed her at a crucial time. He’d never really figured out how she did that.

  Wise Sister wasn’t one to let someone ride up on her by surprise. From the moment he saw her, she was watching. He couldn’t even see her expression from this distance, but she must have taken everything in, his unexpected return and the woman in his arms, because she rushed to her cabin. By the time he rode the rest of the way home, smoke was streaming out of her chimney and he could smell something herbal in the air.

  Then Wise Sister came out of the cabin, her long hair, more white than gray, in two braids that hung down her back. She came to him and reached up her arms. Logan knew she was uncommonly strong for a round, old woman.

  “She fell. Mind her leg. I think it’s broken. Her ribs, too.”

  “Hush.” Wise Sister gave him a look that would have shut him up without the single word.

  Wise Sister spoke broken English and Logan knew a lot of Shoshone words. They managed somehow. When Wise Sister’s husband, a French fur trader, Pierre Babineau, had been alive, he’d interpreted for them. Babineau had also, working with Wise Sister, built a cabin just for Logan and hunted food. Logan paid them generously, one of the perks of having a good market back East for his paintings. They all got along well.

  But this year, when Logan had come back in the spring, as he’d done each year while he worked on sketching the scenery in the area, Wise Sister had been alone and there’d been a grave dug beneath a towering pine tree marked with a rustic cross. Since then she’d quietly and competently seen to Logan’s needs alone.

  The honest truth was, though he trusted her with his life, Logan considered her a formidable woman and a little scary. So he handed Sally over without protest.

  She took Sally into her arms and, in her quiet way, took complete charge. She hurried into the cabin, leaving Logan to tend to the horse.

  Six

  Logan turned his gelding loose in the rough corral Pierre had built. The horses Logan used to pack in all his painting supplies in the spring looked up and snorted at their friend as it trotted into the pasture.

  He hung up the saddle and bridle in a little shed with quick, practiced motions, his mind on Sally. He’d grown up with horses. Saddling a Western animal was a bit different, but it came easy.

  Rushing in the gathering dusk, he headed straight for the small cabin behind his, but he realized with a pang that it bothered him that Wise Sister had taken Sally into her cabin rather than his. Of course she had. It made sense. It would be improper to care for a woman in his house, since Sally might well be laid up for a long time. But Wise Sister’s cabin was half the size of his. The women should live in his cabin and he should take the small one. And besides, knowing it was ridiculous, Logan couldn’t help but feel like Sally was his.

  As he reached Wise Sister’s door, he paused, not wanting to burst in and catch a glimpse of an exposed limb. Swallowing hard as the exposed limb notion flickered through his head, he admitted that he hadn’t thought much about women since he’d started working on painting the scenery in the Rockies. He picked the wilderness and there weren’t any women here, so he didn’t bother thinking about them.

  But right now, there was no denying he had himself some thoughts. A woman, whose limbs might be exposed, had been dropped from the heavens into his arms. That made her a gift from God straight to him, and he was strongly inclined to accept that gift. With a grin, he decided he probably needed to consult Sally on that. Then he knocked and waited a moment.

  “Come.” Wise Sister wasn’t for saying a sentence when a word would do.

  Logan entered the cabin, always amazed at the lifetime of beautiful things Wise Sister had gathered. She was above all a practical woman, but her home wasn’t practical. It was beautiful … and rich in sentiment.

  The artist in him loved the beaded dresses, furred window covers, woven baskets, and dyed and knotted wall hangings. The one-room cabin sang to Logan’s heart. He always wished for time in here to touch the textures, study the vivid colors, learn this different kind of art than what he was used to.

  All of it soothed his soul, but none of it pleased him as much as the picture Wise Sister hung in a place of honor. He took one second to look at the portrait he’d painted of Wise Sister and Babineau. He’d done well with that one, capturing Wise Sister’s calm and her deep, dark, patient eyes. And he’d found the wild man in Pierre Babineau and put him on the canvas. He was a perfect match for Wise Sister’s quiet strength. The contrast between the two shone out of his picture, and Wise Sister had honored him indeed to hang it among her lifetime gathering of precious, beautiful things.

  Logan moved to the foot of the bed where Sally lay flat on the large bedstead in Wise Sister’s cabin, wearing a nightgown he recognized as his housekeeper’s. It covered Sally from neck to toe. No limbs exposed anywhere.

  Sally’s gaze rose to his as Wise Sister stood beside her, tearing a sheet into strips. “I reckon I’ve got you to thank—” She stopped, obviously not remembering his name. He’d told her twice already, but she’d had a bad day.

  “Logan.”

  “Thank you for seein’ to me, Logan.” She spoke as if moving her jaw was painful. Logan suspected there was nowhere on her that didn’t hurt. “Wise Sister says I have a broken leg and some badly cracked—if not broken—ribs.”

  “Wrap leg now.” Wise Sister lifted the cloths she was tearing.

  “Let me help.” Logan stepped forward, closer to pretty Sally.

  Wise Sister pointed to a thin, flat board, about four inches wide and ten inches long, lying on the floor by her feet. “Cut in half.” Wise Sister reached for the board, lifted it, and drew a finger across the board.

  If Logan cut it correctly, it would be two boards, each five inches long. He took the wood outside to the chopping block and whacked it in half with a single, well-placed blow.

  When he got back, Wise Sister shoved two socks at him. “Wood in socks.”

  He understood her order. It made no sense, but he understood.

  As he covered the boards with the socks, Wise Sister set aside her pile of cloth strips and turned her attention to Sally’s leg. Sally lay with her eyes closed.

  Logan noticed two boots on the cabin floor, one cut nearly in half. On a chair next to the boots he saw Sally’s clothing. Chaps—of all things for a woman to wear. A fringed leather coat. Broadcloth pants and a shirt with an ugly splatter of blood across it. There was also her chemise, bloodstained and ruined. It lay in a heap on the floor and looked as if Wise Sister had cut it off. He noticed a feminine pink bow on the front of that chemise. It looked almost silly lying amidst the mannish clothes. There was no blood on the ribbon. He didn’t know that much about women, but his mother had liked frills and ribbons. He was glad this bit of frippery had survived for Sally.

  Wise Sister gently eased a long sock onto Sally’s badly swollen foot.

  Logan turned to watch Sally’s expression. His teeth gritted in sympathy for her pain.

  Sally’s neck arched back, pressing her head against the pillow. She never made a sound, but the color leeched out of her face. Her eyes closed and cords stood up in her throat. Her clenched jaw told Logan she was in agony.

  “I’m going to pray while we work, Sally.” Logan lifted her hand and saw white knuckles and an iron-hard fist.

  Sally nodded almost imperceptibly. “God, have mercy.”

  He was surprised she could get words through her tight jaw. Logan spoke aloud to God, asking for the pain to end. Asking for healing and safety from those men, whoever had attacked her. He felt God come very near, as so often happened out here.

  Once he ended the
prayer, he began to talk, hoping the sound of his voice would be a comfort or at least a distraction. “I feel as if the mountaintops put me close to God. This corner of creation is God at His most miraculous. I think of this place, especially Yellowstone—I go in there for a few weeks every year—as being a gift from an artist God.”

  “I need your hands, Logan.” Wise Sister gently positioned the sock-covered slats on the sides of Sally’s terribly swollen ankle. “Hold.”

  Letting go of Sally wasn’t easy, but Logan slipped his hand free and helped Wise Sister.

  Sally swallowed hard and her jaw relaxed just a bit.

  Hoping it distracted her, Logan went on while Wise Sister began her wrapping. “At the creation, the heavenly Father used these mountains as His canvas,” Logan continued, trying to express in words what he couldn’t get so many people to understand. Why he spent his life out here painting. “When I ride into Yellowstone, I paint the waterfalls and rugged canyons, the blasting geysers and primordial woodlands, the boiling mud pots and steaming hot springs. To me, all of that is an expression of God’s love for the world He created.”

  Her tight jaw relaxed just enough for a smile to creep onto her face.

  “There are pools of water in Yellowstone that are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s so colorful, like a rainbow in the water and sometimes in the air above the water, too.” Logan was doing his best to help Wise Sister and pay attention to Sally’s expression at the same time, to call a halt if she appeared to hurt past what she was able to bear. She seemed to be listening, so he went on. “The geysers are so strange and beautiful. It’s hard to believe they even exist. I’ve never seen anything like them before. Water, just spouting right up out of the ground. And there are a whole bunch of them. Some of them just come and go whenever they want. One they call Old Faithful.”