Larson lay back, stunned. Isaiah’s dark eyes were black with fury, along with another emotion he couldn’t define.
Isaiah’s lip trembled, almost imperceptibly. A small frown crossed his forehead. “I’m sorry, but you don’t know what you’re asking. I’ll tend your wounds. I’ll help you gain your strength so you can walk and return to your life again. Everything Abby and I have is at your disposal.”
The fear etched in Isaiah’s rugged face hit Larson like a physical blow.
Isaiah walked to the door, shoulders weighted, head bowed, then turned back to face him. “Even if I could make it across those passes, which I’m sure I couldn’t, this thing you ask comes at too high a price. It would cost more than riches. Last time I went back to that town, it nearly cost me my life.”
CHAPTER SIX
KATHRYN REINED IN THE chestnut sorrel mare as she crested the top of the ridge. She reached down and rubbed the horse’s sleek coat. Chestnut had been a gift from Larson five years earlier and was a faithful mount. Kathryn looked east to the miles of snow-dusted prairie stretching as far as she could see, gentle waves of land swelling and dipping as it raced to greet the sunrise. Divine brushstrokes of pastels swept the horizon and reflected off the snow, proclaiming the Master’s touch.
A sense of peace moved over her, displacing her apprehension and fear in a way she’d be hard-pressed to explain to Matthew Taylor, who rode beside her. Her breath puffed white in the numbing March dawn. She pulled her scarf up over her nose and mouth for added warmth.
Matthew turned back. “Mrs. Jennings, we need to keep these cattle movin’ if we’re to make Jefferson’s ranch by noon. We can’t afford to leave the rest of the herd with just two men much longer than that.”
She nodded, recalling his protests at her coming along at all. “You and Mr. Dunham go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you.”
Matthew Taylor gave her a look that said he wasn’t keen on leaving her. She returned it with one of confidence.
He sighed. “Follow my path when you come down the ridge. And mind you, stay to the middle.” With a last look of warning, he shook his head and prodded his mount over the ridge.
Despite the doubt and grief plaguing her in recent days, the unmistakable sense of God’s presence stoked to life the dying embers of hope inside her. Kathryn recalled the words she’d read that morning. The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?
Following her heart’s lead, she glanced behind her and scanned the snowcapped peaks shrouded in mist and cloud. In two more weeks, if he did not return by then, Larson would have been gone for three months. Winter’s hand was harsh in the Colorado Territory, but she reminded herself of Larson’s knowledge of and respect for this land. Surely he’d found his way through the storm that night. Tempted to trust in that thought alone, Kathryn fixed her hope on heaven instead. Father, I entrust Larson to you. Again.
Breathing in the earthy scent of cattle and winter and fresh fallen snow, she urged Chestnut forward. As they started over the ridge, Kathryn leaned slightly to the side and searched the plowed mass of snow and earth for Matthew’s exact path. Not spotting it, she reined in sharply. Chestnut whinnied, and the horse’s footing slipped. The animal strained at the bit, edging closer to the right side.
Kathryn secured the reins, careful not to jerk back. She spoke to Chestnut in low soothing tones, as Larson had taught her, and tried to coerce her back from the edge. A frantic, primitive cry pierced the air just as the sorrel’s legs buckled.
Kathryn hit the icy slope face down and started to slide. A sharp blow to her ribs forced the air from her lungs. She gasped for breath and grabbed for anything to slow her slippery descent. Frozen scrub brush slipped through her gloved hands. Bits of gravel and rock bit into her cheeks. The further she slid, the less pain she felt.
Until she finally felt nothing at all.
A rush of cold air chilled her skin and brought the hovering voices closer. Hands moved over her bodice and down her sides. Kathryn tried to restrain them and cried out at the pain streaking across her chest.
“Keep still, Mrs. Jennings. Just keep still.”
Recognizing Matthew Taylor’s voice, she did as he said. She opened her eyes, blinking against the bright sunlight. Another man stood above her. Harley Dunham.
He slanted a look at Taylor. “I told ya calicos have no place on a cattle drive. You shoulda said no to her comin’, boss.”
“Stop talkin’, Dunham, and go see to the horse.” Mr. Taylor leaned close. Kathryn could feel his breath on her face. “Mrs. Jennings, can you hear me?”
She nodded, her mind still humming from the pain that exploded in her chest when she moved.
“Don’t move, okay?”
“Don’t worry,” she whispered, trying to manage a smile. It hurt even to breathe.
“I think you may have cracked a rib or two.” Taylor bit his lower lip.
A shot sounded, and Kathryn tensed. Chestnut. Tears burned her eyes and her throat ached.
Taylor jerked off his hat and forked a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jennings. Looks like this wasn’t such a good idea after all. I never should have said yes,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. He searched her face. “We’re still at least three hours away from town. Do you think you can ride?”
She nodded, wondering if she could bear the pain.
“It’s just like when I saw that white owl, boss.” Dunham came back into view, shouldering his rifle. “I tell ya, a woman runnin’ things is just bad luck.”
Taylor’s jaw clenched tight. He stood and grabbed Dunham by the shirt. “Go mount up. Mrs. Jennings will ride point with me. You take the drag and follow behind.”
Dunham strode off, mumbling something beneath his breath.
Kathryn stared into the cloudless, ethereal blue above and wished for only one thing—for Larson to be by her side.
Mr. Taylor knelt down beside her. His eyes darted to hers, then away again. “I’m sorry. This is gonna hurt, but I can’t leave you here alone. And Dunham can’t drive this herd by himself.”
Kathryn nodded again and took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
Taylor slipped his arms beneath her and drew her to his chest. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. She tasted blood and her head swam. As they passed, she caught a glimpse of Chestnut’s massive, still body.
As though reading her thoughts, Taylor whispered, “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll come back and take care of her for you. She was a good mount. A lady-broke horse if I ever saw one. Real gentle. I remember the day your husband bought her for you. He had a real eye for—” Taylor heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jennings. I didn’t mean to sound like . . .”
Kathryn shook her head. “No, that’s all right.”
He lifted her to the saddle, then mounted behind her. Her head swam again, and she clenched her eyes in an effort to endure the pain. As they reached the front of the herd, her voice sounded like it was traveling through a tunnel back to her. “Let me apologize in advance, Mr. Taylor, if I pass out on you.”
“You just go ahead and do what you need to, ma’am.” His voice grew dim, but Kathryn felt his grip tighten around her waist. “And I’ll do the same. . . .”
With perspiration beading her forehead, Kathryn managed to button her shirtwaist and fasten her skirt behind the screen in the doctor’s office. The bandages tightly binding her midsection were uncomfortable but had eased the pain considerably. She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt, wincing at the already purpling bruise on her midsection that lay hidden beneath the folds. She was fortunate to have suffered only two broken ribs and a few bruises and scrapes in the fall.
Foolishness swept through her again as she thought of what she’d done. Her pride stung.
She had pressed Matthew to let her join them on the cattle drive when clearly he’d been set against it. But she’d wanted so badly to be part of seeing the ranch succeed.
Larson’s dream, and hers now. She bowed her head as her confidence shed a layer of hope.
Even if Larson failed to return to her, by keeping the ranch she would somehow still have a part of him. Though she’d resisted the idea that he’d intentionally left her, a seed of doubt still clung at the base of her resolve and was slowly taking root. Lord, if he does not come back, for whatever reason, please help me see his dream, our dream, to fruition.
The aging doctor rinsed his hands in a basin of water and peered at her over his spectacles. “Mrs. Jennings, what you attempted was foolhardy. You’re a fortunate woman, indeed. You could have sustained a serious injury in a fall like that.”
The way the doctor dipped his head toward her, piercing her with his gaze, made Kathryn feel like a small child again. She nodded, the weight of her choices of recent days sagging her shoulders. “I’ll be more careful in the future, I assure you.”
“Have you fared well the past few weeks?”
She frowned at the odd question, then quickly realized that Matthew Taylor must have confided to the physician about her situation. She tried not to feel a bit peeved that he would have shared something so personal. It had been uncomfortable enough when the doctor had done a personal examination for internal injuries, but this too. . . .
“My appetite has suffered, and I’ve been a little more tired than usual.” Recalling the last two and half months and the burden she’d carried—still carried—Kathryn knew she had a right to be weary. She retrieved her coat and gloves from the chair, eager to be done. Though thankful for the doctor’s attention to her injuries, she didn’t appreciate his gruff manner.
“Well, you should get over that quickly enough. You’re a healthy, strong young woman.”
His callousness left Kathryn speechless. She took coins from her coat pocket and deposited them on the desk.
The doctor nodded toward the money, indicating his thanks, then followed her to the door. “And don’t let old wives’ tales stoke fear inside you for something that’s been going on since the beginning of time.” He lightly patted her back. “Women have been having babies since the Garden of Eden. You’ll do just fine.”
Kathryn stilled, then felt the blood drain from her face. She turned back. “What do you mean?” she whispered.
The doctor touched her shoulder. “Are you all right, Mrs. Jennings?” Then his eyes went wide. A frown crossed his face. “You mean you didn’t know?”
Kathryn felt her knees go weak. She reached out and clutched his arm. He stayed her with a strong grip and led her to a chair. She sank down, the soreness from her broken ribs and bruised body nothing compared to the equal parts of pain and joy now flooding her heart.
She was with child. Larson’s child. Finally. After all these years. She swallowed against the bittersweet truth of it.
“When?” Her voice sounded so small.
The doctor lifted his shoulders. “My guess would be September, maybe October. Hard to tell this early.”
Tears wet her cheeks. Kathryn didn’t bother to wipe them away. She smoothed a hand over her abdomen, over the gift of life blossoming within her once-barren womb. If a son, would he have Larson’s blue eyes and thick mane of dark hair? Or would their daughter claim her own coloring? Long-awaited fulfillment pricked her heart, and she gave thanks to God for the child she and Larson had always wanted.
A child that Larson might never hold.
Larson lay awake during the night and stared into the darkness, sleep a distant companion. The muted tick of a clock marked off the seconds, reminding him both of time’s brevity and its anguishing slowness.
The bold finality of Isaiah’s response to his request over a week ago still thundered inside him. Had he really asked so much of the man? With every faint tick, tick, tick Larson imagined the swing of the pendulum and could feel the last decade of his life and all he’d worked so hard for being wrenched from his grasp.
At the familiar creak of the door, he turned to see Isaiah’s formidable shadow filling the entry. Having spoken little to each other in recent days, Larson found that the seed of their last conversation had taken bitter root inside him. And not until that moment did he realize how lonely he was for companionship, someone to talk to.
Thinking of what Kathryn’s reaction would be if she knew tempted him to smile. She was always trying to get him to talk more.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Isaiah’s deep timbered voice came out a whisper. “Sun’ll be coming up soon. I was wondering if you’d like to join me.”
“It’s been forever since I’ve seen a sunrise,” Larson finally answered. He sensed Isaiah’s smile, though darkness obscured it.
Isaiah drew back the covers and assisted as Larson painstakingly lowered his legs over the side of the bed. When the soles of Larson’s bare feet met the cold wooden floor, shivers shot up his spine. Isaiah draped a heavy blanket around his body, and Larson braced his hands on the side of the bed. He managed to stand but felt his legs giving way beneath the unaccustomed weight.
Isaiah lifted him in his arms, and Larson clenched his jaw tight as shame poured through him. The extent of his injuries hit him all over again, and anger at his dependency momentarily saturated his self-pity. No doubt Isaiah felt his discomfort, yet the man said nothing. Larson purposefully kept his face turned away as his esteem for Isaiah grew.
Isaiah carried him from the bedroom directly into another room—what looked to be the only other room—of the cabin. The promise of coffee layered the room’s warmth, and Larson took the chance to inventory his surroundings.
Sparse was the first word that came to mind. A scant arrangement of furniture dotted the small space. An amber-orange fire glowed from the fireplace, radiating warmth. And in the shadows in front of the hearth, he made out a small bundled form lying curled up on one side on a pallet.
An unexpected lump lodged in his throat.
This couple had given so much to him. But why? He’d thought of little else besides his own predicament since awakening. A glimpse of his own selfishness barbed him.
Isaiah flicked the latch from the cabin door, and cold air rushed around them.
Surprisingly, it felt good against Larson’s skin. Glancing ahead of him, he quickly realized that this was no chance gathering. A cushioned chair sat catty-corner on the small porch, blankets piled on the floor beside it. Two mugs of what he bet was coffee sat atop a portion of porch rail that had been cleared of snow. Steam spiraled against the pinkish hues of the eastern horizon.
Isaiah lowered him into the chair and covered him.
“Couldn’t sleep, huh?” An apologetic smile tipped Larson’s mouth, and he wished he had the words to convey his gratitude— and his remorse.
Isaiah handed him one of the cups and their eyes met.
In that brief exchange, Larson knew that Isaiah was a man of unquestionable honor and kindness. Then, as though a mirror had appeared before him, Larson saw himself and lowered his gaze.
Isaiah leaned against the porch rail and looked out across the treetops. Moments passed. Thick stands of aspen and birch cleaved the small clearing around the cabin, and the faint rustle of awakening life stirred in the frosted brush. Larson looked westward over his shoulder and, gauging from the peaks in the near distance, figured he was a good fifteen or twenty miles farther northwest from where he’d camped in the ravine that night.
Isaiah turned to look at him. “How did Abby’s chicken and dumplings settle on your stomach?”
“Fine. It’s good to have solid food again. Your Abby’s a great cook.” He took a deep breath. “Look, Isaiah . . . I’m sorry about the other day. I don’t know your reasons, but . . . I know they must be important.” Larson wrestled the next words off the tip of his tongue. “So I won’t ask you again.”
Isaiah nodded and turned again to concentrate on a spot on the horizon.
Larson tracked his focus to a smattering of clouds in the east. They hung low in the sky, like tinted shreds of cotton on a blanket of gray, refl
ecting the coming dawn in soft wisps of purple and pink.
Larson took a sip of coffee and relished the warmth in his throat. “So what happened after the doctor won you? After you gained your freedom?”
For a moment, Isaiah just looked at the mug in his grip. “Well, at first Doc Lewis gave me work sweeping and cleaning his patient rooms. He was the first white man who ever looked at me like a man . . . treated me like a man. In time, he showed me where to pick the ingredients for his poultices and remedies, which plants they came from and where they grew. Which wasn’t foreign to me because my grandmother was a healer—she’d taught me a lot of that. But I’d never seen some of the plants and trees that grew out here. They’re different from down South. Doc showed me how to mix them, like my grandmother had.” The edges of his mouth tipped slightly. “So that became my job, which was better than harvesting cotton and pulling a plow for sure.
“People had been coming to the doc’s clinic for years. He cared about them. He had me deliver the medicines to families outside of town when he couldn’t go himself. Doc treated me well; he was my friend. Taught me how to read and write, how to speak suitably to the townsfolk.” The deep timbre of Isaiah’s voice accentuated the stillness. “I watched and learned from him, and for some reason, people kept coming to the clinic even after Doc Lewis died. I’d listen to what ailed them and then mix the remedy Doc would’ve given them.”
Larson saw a smile ghost Isaiah’s profile, then slowly fade.
“One day a couple of families new to town got sick. Folks around there found out they’d been to see me and figured I was the cause. That I’d poisoned them.” Emotion textured his hushed voice. “Some of the men in the town . . . visited me that night. When I woke up again, I was lying in the dirt, naked, with a noose around my neck. At first I thought maybe they just hadn’t picked a strong enough branch.” He shook his head. “But that limb looked like it had been cut clean through.”
Larson noticed the cabin door edge open slightly. Abby’s shadowed silhouette stilled.
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