Wildflower Harvest: Includes Bonus Story of Desert Rose

by Colleen L. Reece

  By common consent, campfire talk turned to singing. Civil War songs and ballads gave way to hymns, and circled around the final embers of their fire, their hands joined, the Birchfields bowed their heads and Nat offered a prayer.

  Love for her God, her family, and her country swelled within Rose. She could hear Columbine’s quick intake of breath and feel Nate squeeze her fingers in a way that told they felt the same. Through the open flap of the tent Rose saw stars that looked close enough to touch, and she fell asleep snuggled against Columbine with a prayer in her heart and her fingers against a letter that had come the day before.

  Sometime in the night the drum of heavy rain on the tent awakened her. Columbine slept on, but Rose slipped out of her blankets and let down the tent flap, then mused for a time before falling asleep again. The second time she awoke the rain had stopped and she heard her father calling.

  “Get up, everyone! We have to get out of here.”

  Fear clutched Rose, and she shook Columbine awake.

  In record time the campers got dressed and hurried out into a gray dawn. “What’s wrong, Dad?” Rose asked, trying to rub sleep from her eyes.

  “I don’t know and neither does Uncle Nat, but we don’t like it.”

  Rose followed his gaze to the stream nearby that had purled its welcome the day before. Now it looked muddy and sullen.

  “With all this rain there should be more water in it,” Adam explained. He looked up the stream to where it vanished around a bend. “Something is holding that water back: beaver dams, downed trees, maybe debris. When or if that something gives way, a wall of water will race down the stream bed and our trail is right alongside of it.”

  “What about going up and over?” Nate asked. Rose saw the concern in his face.

  “Not enough food and no guarantee what the weather will be,” his father said. “Hurry and get packed and mounted. Laurel, Ivy Ann, don’t stop to cook. Do the best you can with whatever we can eat while we ride. Nate, Sam, girls, saddle the horses while Uncle Nat and I pack the ponies. Wait!” He stopped them. “First we must pray.”

  This time fear ran through the circle even though Nat’s calm petition for God’s help restored Rose’s normal heartbeat. After the Amen each person ran to break camp, and in far less time than expected, the line of eight riders and two pack ponies had begun their descent of the mountain.

  An hour later, the deluge came. Hastily donned slickers protected the riders to their knees, but hats soaked through allowed streams of water to trickle down their necks. The winding trail became treacherous and slippery with mud. Even the horses so carefully trained to pivot and withstand obstacles found themselves sliding. Only the expert horsemanship of the riders kept them going.

  The rain went on and on. “Think we should stop and build an ark?” Nate muttered.

  Rose stifled a nervous giggle and Columbine sniffled. But the stream next to the trail continued to flow its even, muddy water. How long could this cloudburst continue and not sweep away even the firmest, most immovable obstruction?

  “If we can make it five miles more, we leave the stream and go up,” Adam encouraged. “From there we have a series of slopes and don’t have to worry about a flash flood.”

  Down the trail they climbed, one mile then another. The rain didn’t let up. Three miles, then four elapsed. Drop by drop the downpour lessened until Rose’s heart beat high with triumph. Just one mile more! She patted Mesquite and the roan snorted and stepped over a slippery rock in the trail.

  A half mile from the junction where the trail and stream parted company they came to the narrowest place in the canyon. Rock walls on both sides frowned down on the wet riders even though the capricious skies had long since turned a deceptive blue shade.

  “Watch the horses, ride as fast as you can without sacrificing safety, and God help us all,” Nat ordered. He drove the pack ponies ahead at a fast clip. Laurel and Ivy Ann followed, then Rose, Nate, Sam, and Columbine, with Adam bringing up the rear.

  Boom! The sound echoed down the canyon, and Rose tasted raw fear.

  Chapter 10

  Of all the miserable times to get caught out a thousand miles from nowhere, this beats everythin’!” Joe Perkins turned his coat collar up around his neck and glared at Mike Carey. “You an’ your dumb idea to go huntin’ while Sharpe’s in Rock Springs.”

  “How did I know it was going to rain?” Mike defended himself and poked at the little fire in front of them that sputtered its protest against the storm. “Cookie said he sure could use some fresh venison, so I told him we’d get some.”

  “An’ dragged me along with you.” Joe grunted. “We could have gone courtin’ instead of spendin’ the night out here.” He waved at the blackness around the complaining fire.

  “They aren’t home.” Mike didn’t have to identify who they were. “One of the boys who rode in for the mail said he met Nate Birchfield at the post office and Nate said his folks and the girls and their folks were going camping in the high country for a couple of days.”

  “Why’d they want to do that this late in the year?” A little worry line crossed Joe’s face and sent a quiver through Mike’s veins.

  “They probably didn’t know it was going to rain, either,” he reminded Joe.

  “Who does in this country?” The worry line didn’t go away. Joe tugged off his boots, turned them upside down over stakes he had driven in next to the fire and stretched his feet toward the little blaze. “Looks like the rain’s letting up some. If we can get our socks dry maybe we can also get a little shut-eye. The tarps’ll help.” He waited until the drizzle stopped for a time and spread his tarp on the ground, waterproof side down. He tossed down the blankets that had been wrapped inside the tarps and finished by covering the hard bed with Mike’s tarp, waterproof side up. “I hope you don’t snore.”

  “Only when I’m pretending to be asleep,” Mike reminded, stifling a grin at the memory of the day Sharpe stormed into the bunkhouse spitting death and destruction.

  Never in his entire life had Carmichael Blake-Jones, alias Mike Carey, spent such an uncomfortable night. He went to bed cold, stayed cold, and woke up a dozen times, still cold. It didn’t help that Joe slept like a hibernating bear and only roused himself long enough to yank the tarp over their heads when the rain increased.

  Along with his physical torment, Mike couldn’t help remembering the worry that creased Joe’s forehead. When the gray dawn came, the stiff cowboys struggled into their boots. The fire had dried the inside a bit, but the downpour in the night had soaked them again. “Why didn’t you stick them under the tarp?” Joe asked. A trace of his permanent grin lightened the mood. “I’d have done it myself but I guess you noticed once I fall asleep it takes a lot to wake me up.”

  “I noticed,” Mike let it go at that. Then he said, “Joe, uh, you don’t think the Birchfields would get into trouble, do you? They’ve lived here a long time.”

  “Only a fool or newcomer tries to predict Wyomin’ weather this time of year,” Joe spit out. “Everythin’ looks all bright an’ beautiful like yesterday. Then along comes these innocent-lookin’ puffy clouds that get their heads together an’ the first thing you know, bang! You’ve got a storm.” He eyed the sulky sky. “There’s more to come. Did Nate say where they were headin’?”

  Mike started to shake his head no then stopped. “Wait, I believe he did. Our rider said something about the gulch trail being the prettiest place around, what with all the color.”

  Joe jerked erect. His apple-red cheeks lost their color. “Saddle Peso.” He ran to Splotch, the pinto he liked best of the Circle 5 horses. “I reckon we’d better mosey along an’ meet them comin’ out.”

  Something in Joe’s voice stilled the million questions knocking in Mike’s brain. He forgot the rain, his growling empty stomach, everything except the fact the Birchfields might be in danger.

  “Now’s the time to pray to that God of yours,” Joe said as he climbed into the saddle, wheeled Splotch, and
touched him with his boot heels. “Come on, will you?”

  Mike mounted Peso and in two jumps came even with Joe. “All right, pard, let’s have it. It’s worse imagining things than knowing how they really are.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the steady drum of the horses’ feet.

  “Couldn’t be worse if they get caught on the gulch trail an’ a wall of water comes racin’ down.” Joe’s fixed gaze on their own trail didn’t waver an inch. “It all depends on how far they went, how fast they started out this mornin’ an’ if they got past the point where the trail leaves the creek.” A steely gleam that crept into Joe’s eyes when he glanced at him confirmed Mike’s fears.

  “How far are we from there?”

  Joe grunted. “Far enough, but we’re a darned sight closer than if we’d had to come from the Circle 5.”

  “Just maybe God knew we’d be needed and that’s why we got caught out last night,” Mike reflected.

  “Maybe.” Joe’s lips set in a grim line and Mike lapsed into silence, pouring out his concern in an unspoken prayer.

  An eternity later Joe called, “One more hill.”

  Panting from their run, Peso and Splotch scrambled to the top of the rise and plunged over, sliding on wet needles and grass.

  Boom! A distant reverberation chilled Mike and Joe swallowed hard. Heedless of possible danger, they urged their horses down the slope.

  Before the echoes died in the narrow canyon, Nat bellowed, “Ride for your lives and don’t spare the horses!” He whacked the pack ponies with his leather quirt until they whinnied in terror and bolted down the trail. The others followed, slipping, regaining their balance.

  How much time did they have before churning waters poured toward them? Rose wondered. She expertly guided Mesquite, conscious of Columbine’s half-sobbing breath behind her and Nate’s encouraging, “Steady, Piebald, easy.” The half mile to safety dwindled to one-fourth of a mile. The trail widened slightly and Rose’s death grip on her reins loosened. The pack ponies were out of sight. Nat swerved his stallion to one side, close to the cliff, and motioned Laurel and Ivy Ann past, then Rose.

  The vanguard of the flood waters reached them, a roiling, hungry monster seeking vengeance after being restrained miles above. “Go, Mesquite!” Rose screamed. He snorted, stretched out to his full length, and leaped away from the relentless tide. Laurel and Ivy Ann had reached the junction where the stream went one way, the trail the other, up an incline to a flat bench-like formation. Their weary horses forged ahead and stopped on top, trembling and spent.

  A wall of muddy water hit the others like an avalanche. Mesquite swayed but kept his footing and nimbly sailed over a rushing log, staggered, then stamped his way to safety.

  Rose turned and cried out in despair. Below her the other horses fought valiantly. Piebald made it to the junction and raced toward the bench high above danger. “Oh, dear God, please help them!” Rose couldn’t tear her gaze from the awful scene. Logs, some upright, rode down the gulch, smashing this way and that. Nat’s stallion stood braced against the rock wall, up to his knees in sucking water. “Head your horse this way,” he shouted to Columbine. Her face shone paler than the flower whose name she wore, but she tried to obey.

  The next instant a branch grazed her horse’s flanks causing him to rear. Columbine stayed in the saddle, but Rose could see that her sister’s strength had been tried to the utmost.

  Nat’s stallion went down. Adam’s horse attempted to swim but the current made it impossible. To Rose’s horror, her father disappeared in the sweeping torrent around the bend. Nat’s magnificent animal regained his precarious position.

  “Rose!” Columbine’s pleading voice beat in her sister’s ears but was replaced by pounding hooves and men shouting. Nat grabbed for Columbine and missed, and his wild cry rose above the tumult. Both Nat and Columbine went under when the big stallion and the girl’s mount stumbled and fell, to reappear, but unable to brace the flood.

  Something sang over Rose’s head, and she whipped around. Joe Perkins had thrown his lasso. It fell far short of Columbine but close enough for Nat to grab it and be hauled in. Regardless of her own safety, Rose stumbled toward the edge of the bench. She couldn’t just stand there and do nothing! Nate tackled her and brought her down. “You can’t save her, Rosy. Only God can do that. Look, look!” he shrieked.

  Mike Carey had urged Peso into the river. Strong and powerful muscles rippled in the quarter horse’s shoulders. With his knees and left hand clenched to keep in the saddle, Mike’s right hand readied his lasso. Then he, too, passed out of sight around the bend, leaving only the thundering flood to taunt the mortals shivering on the little bench of land.

  Mike only had time for a quick prayer before entering the now river-sized stream. The moment he and Joe saw the trouble no question arose as to their duty. Mike waited long enough to see Joe’s rope fall short of Columbine before he charged into the river, appreciating to the fullest the horse he rode. After that he had no thought for anything except getting to Columbine before a crashing branch knocked her out. When he surged around the bend and saw the girl clinging to the branch of a tree only God could have kept from crushing her, he gave a cry of joy. Yet Columbine remained in danger. How long could she hold on with the treacherous flood waters pulling at her?

  Mike cast a quick glance ahead and again cried out. Downstream a stumbling figure at the edge of the water showed Adam Birchfield and his soaked horse making their way to safety. The gulch widened at that point but Mike saw how it narrowed again into what had to be a drop-off. “Dear God, I have to get her out here or not at all.” His fingers tightened on his lasso. “Hold on, Columbine!” he yelled as loud as he could.

  For the second time in Mike’s life, another human being’s life depended on him, and he knew as surely as when he had saved Joe that he had to act at once. There would be no time to recoil his rope if he missed.

  Peso gained on the frail craft that supported the girl and finally drew even. Mike screamed into the heavens, “Give me Your help, oh God,” and threw the rope.

  The rope missed the girl but caught on the branch she held. With daring born of desperation, Columbine released one of her hands from the branch, lunged for the rope, and somehow got it over her slender shoulders. Mike saw her lips move while he tightened the lasso around his saddle horn. “Now, old man!”

  All the breeding that made Peso the best roundup horse on the range sprang into life. Inch by inch he fought his way until he swam close to Columbine. Mike clasped his knees against Peso’s heaving sides and, bending from the waist, scooped Columbine into his arms not a moment too soon. A purple bruise showed where floating debris had struck her. Her light brown eyes looked black with emotion.

  “All over but the shouting.” Mike tried to smile and saw her tears start. A few minutes later Peso gained the shore in spite of his double burden and Mike slid from the saddle, laid Columbine on his tarp, and hurried to where Adam lay gasping a few hundred yards away.

  “Are you all right, sir?” He helped the dazed man sit up.

  “Laurel, Rose, the others? Columbine? Oh, dear God, tell me they’re not all dead.” His prayer brought weakness to Mike’s knees, but he shook Adam until his eyes cleared.

  “God has saved every one. Every one,” he repeated. “The others are back at the junction of the trail. Columbine’s just below. Peso and I fished her out.”

  Adam still looked confused, and Mike shook him again.

  “I don’t know if Columbine’s hurt. She needs you to look at a bruise on her face.”

  The appeal for his God-given skills reached the doctor as nothing else could. With Mike’s help, Adam limped downstream and grabbed Columbine into his arms.

  Mike looked away, back at the flood waters that had already begun to abate until only muddy grass showed how they had spilled over their banks.

  “I’ll build a fire,” Mike said. “If I can find dry wood.”

  “Do you have dry matches?” Adam’s ex
pert hands checked over Columbine to make sure no bones were broken.

  “Always. A candle stub, too.” Mike found a sturdy branch from the flood, whacked open the trunk of a dead tree and scooped out the dry inside. Before long a tiny fire smoldered. A few soggy biscuits from the saddlebags offered sustenance.

  “I expect the others in a few minutes,” Adam said. “The water is down and they can pick their way. What did I tell you?” He pointed upstream to where horses and riders gingerly came between discarded logs at the edge of the gulch. “Good. The pack ponies didn’t get wet at all. We’ll have hot food before long.”

  Rose’s eyes looked like drenched brown velvet pansies when she saw Columbine sitting up against a saddle, bedraggled but safe. She gave a little cry. “We prayed so hard. Thank God. How did He save you? Joe Perkins dragged Uncle Nat out after his horse went down.”

  “He did?” The glory in Columbine’s eyes sent a sheepish grin to the cowboy’s red face. “Dad stuck on his horse and the flood swept him close enough to shore so he could get out. I thought I wouldn’t make it when I lost my stirrups and the current got me.” Stark horror returned and Rose hugged her, but Columbine bit her lip and went on. “I grabbed a branch on a log that came toward me. Just when I knew I couldn’t hold it any longer I heard a yell to hold on. Someone threw a rope and it caught the branch. I got it around me and then I don’t remember what happened.” Her dirty fingers explored the bump on her head. “I guess something hit me. Then I was in Mr. Carey’s arms and he got me out and—oh dear! I’m going to cry.” The tears she had held back so long threatened to drown Rose, who still held her close.

  “We couldn’t believe that you’d leap into that flood,” Nate told Mike. Color returned to his white face.