“Is Lilly around? I hoped to have a quick word with her.” He wiped his clammy hands on his trousers.
“Can’t see her today.” Aunt Pearl turned from the stove and started loading bowls on a tray.
He scanned the room. Where was she? And Dahlia, too? “I know you’re busy. Would you be able to ask her if I can come back later this afternoon?”
Aunt Pearl finally stopped and looked at him, propping a hand on her hip. “Can’t do that, ‘cause she ain’t here.”
He felt his brow wrinkle. “Is she sick? Or Dahlia?” His pulse raced. Had their outing in the cold yesterday been too much for the child? If he’d endangered her, he’d never forgive himself.
Spinning around, he started to close the door behind him to sprint toward Lilly’s shanty.
Aunt Pearl’s voice trailed him outside. “Not real sure what’s wrong. Claire just came by this morning and said Lilly wouldn’t be here for a few days. Got my hands full now, that’s fer sure.”
Claire knew? Marcus adjusted his direction and sprinted north toward his sister’s house. Claire would only be involved if Lilly had come to Bryan for medical care. Something was definitely wrong.
Snow fell thicker now and coated the ground except the deep ruts in the center of the street. As he ran, his mind raced through possibilities. Had Dahlia’s burn become badly infected? Maybe even now she lay feverish at the clinic, fighting for her life. Or anything could have happened to Lilly traveling through the Cabbage Patch district after dark. A drunken man might have seen her as an easy target. Lord God, help her.
Should he go to the clinic first? But he was already at Claire’s home, so he leapt onto the porch and pounded on the door. “Claire!” He thumped it again, and almost turned away before a female voice sounded inside.
The door opened to Claire’s pert face, eyebrows raised. She propped a hand on her hip. “You don’t like my door, Marcus?”
Impatience flashed through him. “Where’s Lilly? Is she all right? And Dahlia?”
Claire grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. “They’re fine, Marcus. Come in and catch your breath.”
He turned on her, jerking his arm from her grasp. “They’re fine? Why isn’t Lilly at work?”
“Marcus.” Claire’s voice held a mixture of patience and reprimand. “Lilly’s fine. She just…needed a few days.”
A knife to his chest. She needed a few days…away from him. He met Claire’s gaze. “Is she at home? I have to talk to her.”
“Marcus.” Pure frustration in her tone now.
“Claire, I need to.”
She studied him for a long moment. Then she sighed. “Something frightened her, so she came to us for help. She’s fine now. In a safe place until things are better.”
He wanted to scream. Turning away from Claire, he ran fingers through his hair and clenched tight. Had he done so much damage, she’d felt she had to escape him? God, what have I done? I’m so sorry.
A powerful weight settled over his shoulders, and he slowly turned back to Claire. “Where is she? I have to talk with her.”
“Marcus.”
Enough with his name already. “Please, Claire.” He met her eyes and poured every ounce of pleading into his gaze that he could.
Her dark eyes narrowed. “She and Dahlia went to stay with Leah and Gideon for a few days.”
They’d gone up into the mountains? He’d never been to the Bryant ranch, but knew it was about a half day’s ride over some very steep and winding trails. And in the snow? The weather was probably much worse in the hills.
“Thanks, Claire. If I’m not back in time, post a note at the church saying services will be postponed.” He tossed the words over his shoulder as he strode out the door. Then he took the stairs in a leap and sprinted toward the livery.
Chapter Thirteen
EASY THERE, boy.” Marcus’s tightened the reins as his horse stumbled in the almost-knee-deep snow.
They were an hour into the ride, and the snow had grown to over a foot deep, with big flakes still falling all around them. Were Lilly and Dahlia out in this weather? How had they traveled into the mountains? If only he’d asked Claire for more details.
He ached to kick the horse out of its plodding walk, but the snow-covered terrain was too dangerous. According to Jackson’s directions, it would be another three hours until he reached the Bryant Ranch. Maybe four at this achingly slow pace. He pulled his wool coat tighter, pressed his hat farther down on his head, and then flexed his fingers in his leather gloves.
The trail crested a hill and dipped down steeply before climbing again. Marcus leaned back in the saddle as the horse descended, helping to balance his weight so the animal could find footing.
Suddenly, the gelding slipped. As if in slow motion, the animal floundered, fighting to keep its footing. It landed hard on its knees, listing to the right, and then falling to its side.
Marcus scrambled to pull his right foot from the stirrup, and barely escaped being trapped under the chestnut gelding’s massive side.
The animal scrambled to regain its footing. Marcus rolled away, out of reach of the flaying hooves. Freezing, wet snow touched his neck, sinking below his collar.
Cold.
His breath fled in a gasp as he struggled up to his knees. The icy moisture sank through his trousers. He stumbled to his feet.
The horse stood several paces away, legs braced against the steepness of the hill, and breathing hard.
“You all right, boy?” Marcus shook the last of the snow from his collar, then leaned over, hands on his thighs, to catch his own breath.
A motion flashed in the woods to his right. Marcus and the horse both jumped to alert.
Three deer, about thirty feet away, stood perfectly still, watching them. They were majestic against the background of snow, one with a mid-sized rack of antlers, and all three with patches of white fur at their tails.
The horse snorted, eyeing them with all his attention.
One of the deer leaped backward, and suddenly all three were bounding away.
The gelding pranced a few steps up the hill, tail raised and nostrils flaring.
“Whoa, boy. Easy.” Marcus extended his hand and stepped toward the animal. The last thing he needed was a loose horse on his hands.
The animal eyed him, nostrils still wide. When Marcus was a few paces away, it snorted again. Then the gelding turned and bolted up the hill, lunging through the snow.
No. No, no, no!
Marcus watched the horse’s tail flying high as it crested the ridge and disappeared from sight. Taking his saddle bags and all his supplies with it.
He scrambled to climb the hill behind the animal. Maybe it would run a short distance and stop. The gelding had seemed calm and placid until the deer unnerved it. Surely it wouldn’t run far.
When Marcus topped the hill, he stopped to catch his breath and study the scene before him. The horse was just disappearing through the trees, lunging through the snow at a hard canter.
His heart sank to his toes. No! He would have fallen to his knees if there hadn’t been so much wet, freezing snow on the ground, already soaking through his trousers.
What was he going to do now? Out here in the middle of the mountains with nothing. No blankets. No food. No matches. Only the coat on his back and some already damp clothes.
He leaned against a tree for support. “God, what are you doing out here?” The Lord never made a mistake, but this? How could this be right?
Marcus looked down the trail he’d come up. Should he hike back to Butte for a fresh horse? An hour on horseback meant it would probably take two on foot, trudging through the thick snow.
He turned to gaze in the direction he’d been going. Snow piled everywhere, and giant flakes still fell. Were Lilly and Dahlia out in this mess? He hadn’t passed any homes in the mountains where they might have taken refuge.
An image seared in his mind of Lilly’s willowy frame trudging through knee-deep snow, carrying her tiny da
ughter. But surely she wasn’t on foot.
Still, purpose flooded his chest, and he pushed away from the tree. Onward and upward.
~ ~ ~
THE SNOW was halfway up Marcus’s thighs, with a paper-thin layer of ice on top that broke through with each step. His muscles screamed to rest, but he settled for only a quick break whenever he couldn’t force another stride.
He paused to lean against a tree. Dusk was coming quickly, and the walking had been all uphill for a while now. His stomach rumbled again. At least he’d had the forethought to grab a loaf of bread from home before he’d started out on this trek. Although the single slice he’d eaten before the horse deserted him hadn’t stayed with him very long with all this climbing.
How much farther? He scanned the trail in front of him. Darkness limited his vision to shadows after the first twenty feet. It wasn’t a road anymore, just a wide path, as far as he could tell. If he had to guess, it was maybe another hour or so further to the Bryant Ranch. He could make it that far. Surely.
It had to have been at least an hour later, with no sign of lights or any civilization that might signal the Bryant ranch. In fact, the trail had narrowed even more, with low branches slapping at him. This couldn’t possibly be a wagon road, as Jackson had said.
Marcus paused and gripped a birch tree for support. Had he made a wrong turn? Lord, help me here. What was he doing in this place? Stranded in a snowstorm, looking for a woman who didn’t want to be found. He should be home in his warm house, spending the last few days with his parents before they returned home.
But an image of Lilly flashed through his mind, when they’d been at the livery and she smiled at Dahlia’s reaction to the donkey. He had to find them.
Should he retrace his steps and look for a fork where he might have lost the road? Or keep going in this direction? Neither looked like a good option.
At last, he pushed off the tree that had been bearing his weight and trudged on the direction he’d been going. His eyes kept drifting shut as weariness did its best to take over. At least the snow had stopped falling a while ago.
Something caught Marcus’s foot and brought him to his knees. Frigid snow touched his face, shocking him wide awake. He lay planted in the snow, but at least it had been a soft—if wet—landing. He forced his arms and legs to untangle themselves, pushing up to a kneeling position.
What had he tripped over? Marcus worked to clear away the snow and found the scrubby brown branches of a fallen cedar tree. The needles were so thick, the snow had only touched the outer covering. The inner layers looked to be perfectly dry.
Could they possibly be dry enough to catch fire? Heat right now would be almost the best gift God could send. Second only to Lilly.
Marcus pulled off his damp gloves, and tucked them in his waistband to dry. Just a little while longer and, Lord willing, he’d have a warm fire to dry them with. Pulling out his pocket knife, he was, oh, so careful not to let snow fall on the dry branches as he cut them off, one by one.
The ground under the fallen tree was only a little damp, not covered in snow like the rest of it. If he built a platform with some of the larger pieces, he could keep the tinder completely dry. But would the cedar needles be enough to bring a spark to life, if he was finally able to rub one into existence?
Marcus sat up as a memory grabbed him. The tree he leaned against last was a birch tree. Mama always preferred birch kindling because the bark caught fire so easily, even if it was still wet.
Adrenaline finally pumping through his veins again, Marcus retraced his tracks to the birch. He hadn’t traveled as far as it had felt like at the time. He peeled sheets of the long bark off until he’d removed everything he could reach. Lord, please let this work.
As he circled the tree, his foot struck something hard. Marcus kicked the snow away from it, and the piece shifted under his pressure. It was…a pile of rocks?
Dropping to his haunches, Marcus sorted through them. Why were they stacked around the base of this tree? Some kind of tiny grave? But why way out here? Indians had roamed these mountains for years, and it was said there were still some tribes that traveled through occasionally. But why pile rocks?
One of the stones was darker than the others, and flat on the top and bottom with sharp edges around sides. Marcus’s chest began to hammer. Could this be what it looked like? “Oh, Lord, please.”
With the dark rock in his grip and the bundle of birch bark in his arms, Marcus stood and traipsed back to his cedar tree. The trail was getting easier between the two areas.
Once he’d finished his platform of dry logs, he laid the bed of kindling inside a tent of larger sticks. Then Marcus tucked several pieces of the birch bark under the edge of the tent. With another prayer, he pulled the knife from his pocket.
He gripped the flint-like rock in his left hand, the knife in his right, then flicked the two hard against each other. A scraping noise sounded, but no spark. He tried again, holding the flint so the two kept contact a little longer. A tiny spark shot from the blade.
Thank you!
The spark died out within a second, but Marcus tried again, aiming the flint so the sparks would fall on the birch bark.
Another spark. It died almost as quickly as the first.
Another and another, some lasting longer, but none took hold of the birch bark. Maybe it was too wet. Mama had always said birch would burn wet or dry, but maybe this had been too saturated by hours of snow.
He sat back and looked around. Maybe if he tried the cedar needles? But if the birch wouldn’t catch, surely that wouldn’t either. He needed something very flammable—and dry.
He looked down at himself. Of course.
Feeling of his clothes, Marcus assessed their dryness. His trousers were damp to his thighs, but the front was dry above that. His shirt wasn’t too bad since it’d been somewhat protected by his coat.
He fumbled the buttons on his jacket, then ripped the tail of his shirt from where it tucked in his pants. With shaky hands, he cut several strips of dry cloth from his cotton shirt. If anything would work, this had to be it.
After making a tidy nest of the cloth inside the birch bark, Marcus picked up the flint and knife again.
Five tries and three sparks later, one finally smoldered into the cotton cloth, sending up a plume of smoke. Marcus dropped lower and blew small breaths into it.
The smoking died away.
He wouldn’t give up, though. He was too close to a fire. And warmth. And if he could make a way to stay here the rest of the night without freezing to death, he just might be able to find Lilly in the morning. He had to.
~ ~ ~
WHEN DAWN rose through the trees overhead, Marcus pocketed his knife and the wonderful little black rock God had sent him. Flint. Who would have thought he’d find it up on this mountain? Only by God’s provision.
The ashes of his fire lay in a small heap beside the cedar tree he’d spent the night propped against. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to scatter the remains of the fire in the snow. He’d worked so hard to build the blaze. And what if he needed to come back to it?
With all the snow around, there wasn’t a chance the woods could catch fire. It’d truly been an act of God he’d been able to build the flame he had. Enough to keep him from freezing to death in the night, although he’d only been able to doze a little between feeding the fire.
After rising to his feet, Marcus raised his arms in a long stretch. If only he could find food somewhere. His stomach was gnawing at his backbone, and none too quietly, either. But even if he found berries or was able to catch a squirrel, he wasn’t skilled enough in the ways of the mountains to know which flora would be safe to eat, or how to skin the squirrel and separate the meat from the mess. Not unless he was desperate.
So that meant his real job this morning was to reach the Bryant Ranch. If he could get on the correct road, he shouldn’t be too far away. Surely only an hour or two.
Marcus took in his surroundings.
Trees everywhere. He could still see his tracks to this point from the night before, but they wove around saplings and stout trunks. Certainly not a straight line like a trail or road. Somewhere he’d gotten off track.
He started off following his own steps, keeping his gaze scanning the area so he wouldn’t miss the trail again. While he walked, Marcus kept up a steady conversation with the Lord, praying for safety, for guidance, and most especially, for Lilly and Dahlia.
Chapter Fourteen
IT’D BEEN at least two hours since Marcus had started. Maybe half that since he’d found the road again and turned north toward the Bryant Ranch.
He had to be close.
Occasionally, he’d come across animal tracks. Deer seemed to be the largest, along with lots of smaller forest creatures. The dark line of prints ahead seemed to be another deer, based on the spacing between hooves. Maybe a herd of them as dark as the prints were.
But as he neared, his pulse began to race. Horse tracks. And fresh, too.
He sloughed through the snow and stopped to examine them. The trail of prints seemed to fork here, the tracks coming from the left fork and heading toward the right. He looked around. Could the left fork be the entrance to the Bryant Ranch? This sort of looked the way Jackson had described. As much as his excitement craved following the prints to the right—maybe finding a human being—he had to see if the left trail led to the ranch.
Taking the left, Marcus jogged several steps with high kicks to clear the snow. That was too much work, even in his excitement. His muscles had grown ridiculously weak from lack of food, and he’d long ago stopped being able to feel his toes, which made controlling his feet a little harder.
The trail opened up into a huge clearing and the most beautiful sight he’d seen in days—a cabin, smoke curling from its chimney.
Emotion poured through Marcus, sapping most of his remaining energy. He dropped to his knees as something warm and wet dripped down his face. He’d made it. Oh, Father, thank You!
The Lady and the Mountain Promise (Mountain Dreams Series Book 4) Page 9