Love's Sporting Chance: Volume 2: 5 Romantic Sporting Novellas

by Cynthia Hickey

  12

  Warren listened to Ruby’s repeated pounding against the door of the shack. It was stuck—probably frozen—shut. He willed himself not to shake. As a physician he knew the hazards of hypothermia, and he knew he was on the verge. But he was so tired. If he could just close his eyes for second. Rest. Just for a second.

  “Don’t even think about it!” Her words were sharp, slicing through his stupor. “Don’t you dare fall asleep on me now.”

  The snow she rubbed in his face was both shocking and invigorating. He didn’t feel the cold, just the friction of her rough woolen mittens against his skin.

  “I’m awake,” he sputtered, spitting snow out of his mouth. He heard her very unladylike snort of derision just behind his head. “Prove it. Get your sorry self into that shack.”

  He forced his bleary eyes to focus on her, hovering over him like an avenging angel, snow spattering his face, the bright light from her headlamp a lighthouse in the storm. She was pointing toward the shack, her breath puffing little clouds of mist through the scarf she’d wrapped over her nose and mouth.

  Had it gotten colder? He thought so. His limbs felt leaden, though the heavy, dull ache in his arm served as a reminder that he was, despite evidence to the contrary, still alive.

  “I’m going in there and lighting a fire and getting warm, with or without you,” she hissed. He didn’t quite believe her. She wouldn’t leave him here, lying on the travois. Would she?

  As if she heard his unspoken question, she turned and stomped through the snow­—it was deeper here—toward the shack. He blinked. She would.

  God, help me.

  He gauged the distance to the door. Less than five feet. Less than his own height. He started to roll himself off the travois, but the pain in his arm and shoulder exploded with all the power of a Chinese firework and he cried out, surprised the biting cold hadn’t totally numbed his nerves. Whether the cry was a prayer or an oath, the pain chased away the lassitude.

  Because he couldn’t find his balance, he adopted the same three-legged method of transportation that had gotten him off the road and under the tree, where he’d huddled in the snow and wondered how long it would take for his body to be found. She was holding the door open against the wind, and he crossed the threshold and collapsed on the floor inside. She disappeared, the door slamming shut behind her, and reappeared a few moments later, dragging the travois. It had to be turned on one side to fit through the narrow entrance. When it was inside, she slammed the door shut and latched it behind him.

  Panting, he lay on the floor, the cold seeping through the rough-hewn wood floor, through his coat, through his shirts, through the undershirt he’d put on before heading out, through skin and muscle and sinew and into bone. Would he ever be warm again?

  A few moments later, a flame sparked to life in the tiny pot-bellied stove in the corner, an orange-yellow glow that added additional light to the room, combined with Ruby’s headlamp and the lantern she’d carried. Not that there was much to see in the dilapidated shack. No furniture, no cupboards, no wardrobe filled with warm clothing and a train ticket to take him back home to Iowa, though he was currently cold enough to consider it. A row of wooden boxes was stacked haphazardly along one wall.

  Ruby plopped down on the lone room’s sole structure, a three-legged stool, and he turned his head to watch her tend the small flame she’d brought to life. Someone had left a decent-sized pile of split firewood and kindling in one corner. A tin bucket beside it contained lint and tiny twigs and scraps of paper for fire-starting purposes.

  “What’s in the boxes?” The exertion of moving and getting out of the wind had warmed him to the point his teeth had, thankfully, stopped chattering.

  “Blasting caps.”

  Warren flinched. He’d been hoping for canned goods. Or blankets. “You’re joking.”

  She turned, and he could see from the stern set of her lovely features that she was not joking. She aimed her headlamp at the boxes. He could just read the label stamped into the side of one box. DuPont Red Cross Blasting Explosives. Extra Strength. A shudder ran through him, and not just from the cold.

  She rose to her feet and inspected the boxes with greater interest. Warren squeezed his eyes shut and waited to be blown to smithereens. But then she dusted off her hands and said, in a cheerful tone, “Don’t worry, Doc. This stuff is new. Still pretty stable.” She glanced back at the fire. It was burning in earnest now, a few of the larger bits of wood beginning to pop and crackle. She reached up and flicked off her headlamp. Saving the battery, he assumed. The carbine lantern continued to glow, along with the fire. She closed the door to the wood stove and adjusted its various levers and flaps, then turned to Warren.

  “Can you get to the Beasley place tonight? Just leave me here,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid Amy and her baby are going to have to do without either of us tonight. The storm is picking up.” She shucked off her coat and started to roll up her sleeves. “Let’s see about that arm, shall we?”

  “I’m sure it will keep until I can get to a doctor.”

  She cocked her head. “You are a doctor.”

  “I can’t set my own arm!” He snapped, suddenly horribly aware of the pain now that he could feel his appendages again.

  “Well, of course not. But we should splint it, at least.”

  “Do you have any experience with broken bones?”

  She dragged the stool over to where he lay and sank onto it with a muffled groan. “Some. Doc Eby set my arm when I was ten. Millie Logan pushed me off a fence. And I’ve helped him with a few cases. I figure you can give me directions.” She pinned him with her gaze, eyes fierce with challenge. “That is, of course, if you can keep from passing out.”

  His temper sparked. “Why does everything have to be a competition with you?”

  She cocked that lovely head to one side, expression quizzical, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  He blinked. Looked at her again. There was no guile in her face, no teasing, no derision. None of her usual sass, which he suddenly realized he appreciated. The notion surprised him. He considered his response to her question with care, not wanting to break the spell of her rare, unguarded moment.

  “Because sometimes you have to work together, not against one another. Sometimes everyone has to forget their differences and work together so they can both win against a common enemy.”

  She stared at him. Then nodded. “Like marriage. Like my grandparents. That’s what they do, what they have between them. I can see that.”

  Warren exhaled, let his ire melt away. “Exactly.”

  She leaned back a little, pushed the cap off her head and ran her fingers through her short, glossy hair. The fringes brushed her cheeks and he found himself admiring her beauty, though he’d never anticipated finding such a modern woman so appealing.

  “I suppose that’s how you and Millie will be,” she said, matter-of-fact.

  He blinked. “Millie? What does Millie have to do with this?”

  “When you get married. You and Millie.”

  Warren opened and closed his mouth. Opened it again. Closed it. “Who said I’m marrying Millie?”

  “I saw you together at the hotel.”

  Warren cleared his throat, temper stirring again. “Since when does sharing a meal mean you’re affianced? I just met the girl.”

  In the glow from the lantern a flush mottled Ruby’s cheeks. She looked away. “I saw you kiss her hand. And…”

  Warren groaned and clapped his good hand over his eyes.

  “And what? You assumed I’d proposed?” Indignation spurred him upright, despite the stab of white-hot pain that shot through his arm. Seated, he was almost at eye level with Ruby, and he met her aquamarine gaze. “I’m certainly not marrying Millie Logan. I’m not interested in her. I’m interested in you.”

  Silence, thick and heavy, draped around them like a velvet cloak. Neither breathed. Neither moved. They just stared at each other.


  Warren’s thoughts swirled as if his mind and soul had been flung into a centrifuge, separating facts from opinions, feelings from falsehoods. What had he just admitted?

  Memories, suddenly bright and fresh, flashed through his mind as if they were on a motion picture screen. There was the moment when she opened the door to him at the store. Working alongside her in his office. The way she worked with her grandmother. Arguing with her—repeatedly—about the safety of women’s ski jumping. Watching her in church, eyes and voice raised in worship. His heart leaping into his throat when her skis left the jump ramp and she flew through the air like a graceful bird.

  And he knew his confession was true. He was interested in Ruby St. John. More than interested, in fact. The crackle and snap of a log in the wood stove made them both jump, breaking the tension.

  “You don’t even like me,” Ruby whispered.

  “That’s not true.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t like anything about me. You don’t like what I do for fun…” She held up one finger, then another. “You don’t like the way I wear my hair. You don’t like that I enjoy taking risks. You don’t like that I’m not old-fashioned or traditional.” She held up two more and extended her thumb. “Everything about who I am is the exact opposite of who you are, Warren. We have nothing in common.”

  “That’s not exactly true.”

  “You and Millie have all kinds of things in common.”

  “But I don’t like Millie.”

  Ruby jumped to her feet and stomped from one side of the shack to the other. “This is absurd. You’re just half frozen and in pain, that’s all. Once we get you back to town and your head’s clear you’ll realize how silly you’re being.” She stopped, fisted her hands on her hips, and glared down at him. “Right now we need to check your arm.”

  Warren frowned. He didn’t like the idea, but she was probably right. “On one condition.”

  “You’re not exactly in a position to barter.”

  “You promise to give me a chance to prove I meant what I said when we get back.”

  She ignored him, knelt beside him and began to unbutton his coat. He covered her fingers with one hand, stilling her movement. “Promise.”

  She peered at him from under her fringe of bangs. “I promise. But I think it’s folly. We might not make it back.”

  Warren smiled. They’d make it back, and he’d prove his feelings for her. If anything could get him through the pain and misery of their current situation, the thought of winning her heart would be it.

  13

  Ruby brushed Warren’s hand aside and finished unbuttoning his coat. Her heart thundered in her chest hard enough to shake her whole body, torn between the thrilling idea that the handsome doctor was even the least bit interested in her, and the knowledge that he was probably just delusional from cold and pain.

  Together they shrugged him out of the heavy coat.

  “Move that lantern closer. We’ll need more light.” He winced as he tried to unbutton his sleeve.

  Ruby reached for the lantern and brought it as close as she dared. “We’ll have to cut the sleeve, I think.” She flipped open her knapsack and withdrew a sheathed hunting knife. The blade glinted in the light when she pulled it out of the leather sheath.

  “You aren’t planning to amputate, are you?” Warren said, half-teasing. “There’s a scissor in my bag.”

  She ignored him, and with her usual grace and dexterity, slit his sleeve from wrist to shoulder with the knife. She gasped when she saw his upper arm. Swollen to three times normal size, it was already turning black and blue and purple. Warren wiggled his fingers, then pinched them with the other hand.

  “It’s not an open fracture, and I still have feeling and motion in my hand. That’s good.”

  “Can you move your shoulder? Your elbow?”

  A broken bone was one thing. A damaged joint was something else entirely, at least from a medical perspective.

  Warren took a deep breath and slowly extended his elbow.

  “Shoulder?”

  Tentatively, he lifted his arm with a groan, but the arm moved in the shoulder socket.

  “Not dislocated,” he said. “I suspect I’ve fractured my humerus.” He offered a wry grin.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I know.”

  “Stop teasing.”

  “The alternative is to lie down and cry like a baby. I’d rather poke fun at you.”

  Hot tears stung her eyes. There was every possibility his injury would leave him with a permanent disability. It was common with broken bones that didn’t mend correctly. She blinked back the tears. “Tease all you like. But tell me what to do.”

  “It’s unlikely that the bone is displaced. A sling will immobilize the fracture and allow the bone to begin mending.”

  She reached for her knapsack and opened it. “There should be something in here. Nona packed it.”

  The wind picked up outside, and he could hear branches beating against the low roof and walls of the shack. “I think my arm may be the least of our concerns.”

  She shrugged, pulling items from the pack. “We’ve got shelter, fire, food, and snow for fresh water. We’ll be fine for a day or two.”

  “We have food?”

  He sounded so hopeful she had to smile. “I’ve got chocolate bars, jerky, and a small jar of pickled eggs.”

  “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  “I was a little preoccupied.”

  “Can I have an egg?”

  Ruby pulled out a roll of gauze. “After we get your arm in its sling.”

  She unwound the roll and looked at him.

  “Run it around the back of my neck, then loop it under my elbow, just enough to support the arm.”

  She caught a whiff of his hair as she leaned in to wrap the gauze around the nape of his neck and inhaled pine and soap. His breath came in gasps as she looped the gauze under his elbow and she knew he was battling pain.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, knowing her ministrations intensified his discomfort.

  “Never apologize to a patient for helping them,” he muttered.

  “That’s stupid. Don’t you feel bad when you hurt them?”

  “Of course, but apologizing just makes it seem like you could avoid it.”

  Ruby tied the gauze in a knot. He shuddered and groaned and she knew a moment of sheer panic. What if he went into shock and died?

  “Hey, you want that egg now?” He didn’t respond for a moment and her terror increased.

  “Yeah. And a medium rare slab of prime rib, and some coffee, and a slice… no, a whole lemon meringue pie,” he muttered, good arm slung over his forehead.

  Relief flooded through her. Surely if he was capable of joking, he would be all right. “Sorry, sir, not on the menu. How about a piece of jerky, some tea, and a bit of chocolate? With a pickled egg for an appetizer.”

  “That sounds like an absolute feast.”

  From her knapsack she withdrew a small pot. Opening the door a crack, she scooped up snow from just outside the door, confirming her fears about the weather. A full-fledged blizzard was underway.

  She set the pot on the wood stove to melt and heat the water, and took one of the teabags from her emergency kit. Laying their supplies on the floor, she broke off a small square of chocolate, pulled out one piece of jerky, and set them aside. Opening the jar of eggs, she pulled one out with her fingers and used her hunting knife to cut it in half.

  “It’s not much, but we should probably conserve what we have.”

  Warren nodded, accepting the scanty provisions she passed his way. Before she could shove her half of the egg in her mouth, he bowed his head.

  “Lord God, I thank you and praise You for Your eternal mercy and kindness. Thank You for this woman’s courage, wisdom, and strength. And I pray for Amy and her baby, and ask You to send Your angels to minister to them both, Lord. Bless this food You have provided, and bless the hands that bro
ught it. In Jesus’ name I pray, amen.”

  Ruby flushed. It was odd to have someone thank God for her. But she agreed with his prayer for Amy and the Beasley baby, and she whispered an “amen.”

  They ate slowly, savoring the meager repast. Ruby lifted the pot from the stove and sniffed the fragrant tea.

  “We’ll have to share,” she said. “Once it cools.”

  Warren leaned forward. “You realize what this situation is going to do to your reputation, right?”

  Ruby leaned against the wall beside him and stretched her aching legs. “What? Spending the night with an injured man during a blizzard? If someone wants to disparage my reputation over that, let them. I don’t care.”

  “Ruby St. John, you are unlike any woman I’ve ever known.”

  Ruby flushed warm, despite the chilly room. “Maybe you’ve just had limited experience.”

  To her surprise, he laughed. “There’s my sassy girl.” He cleared his throat. “You’re special, Ruby. Not just different, you’re special. I will, of course, defend your virtue and honor, but there will be those who refuse to believe me.”

  Ruby’s mind whirled. Yes, she knew who wouldn’t believe him, who would say the worst, who would promote the gossip and the rumors. When she spoke, she meant her words. “I don’t care. What matters is what’s between me and God, not what anyone else thinks. I know what I’ve done, and what I haven’t done, and so does God. That’s all that matters.”

  Warren nodded. “You’re right, but that doesn’t make living with what others may say any easier.”

  “Life isn’t easy.”

  That gave him pause. She was right, of course. He picked up the half piece of jerky she’d laid out for him. “So tell me, Miss St. John, why you’re so very different from the Millies of this world.”

  “Am I so different?” Ruby gnawed at her jerky.

  “You’re very different. Millie and her ilk, in my experience, aren’t concerned about anything but marriage. You, on the other hand, don’t seem to give a whit about getting married or having babies or social status.” Warren raised a hand. “Not that I think that’s bad, I don’t, but I am curious.”