Mutely, she shook her head.
“Of course you don’t know,” he thundered. “I don’t imagine people in Boston have to worry about waterproofing their clothes. But us folks out here worry about it a lot.”
“I was only trying to h-help,” she stammered. “The clothes were soiled.”
He blinked in disbelief. “Mrs. Summerfield, there’s no way those clothes could have been soiled. Not with the layers of grease I put on them. Dirt rolls off quicker than an old maid can crawl under a bed.”
“The dirt might roll off,” she said with a haughty toss of the head, “But I can assure you that the smell stays behind. It’s a wonder there weren’t any vermin’s hiding in the things.”
“If its vermin’s you’re worried about, then all you had to do is lay the clothes over an anthill.”
She frowned. “Did you say anthill?”
“And I’ll say it again. Anthill, anthill, anthill! There’s no better way to rid yourself of vermin.”
She looked taken back. “I never in all my born days heard of such a thing.”
“And I never in all my born days heard of anyone boiling the daylights out of perfectly good buckskins.”
He plopped down on his chair and found much to his horror, that the only thing between the floor and his sore posterior was thin air. Sprawled on the floor with his legs straight up, he gritted his teeth against the pain that shot up his spine.
She hurried over to him, gasping with concern. “Mr. St. John! Are you all right?”
“You moved my chair!” he growled.
“I was just organizing the cabin for you….I thought….” She looked close to tears. “Are you all right?” she asked again.
He was hurting too much to feel sorry for her. Instead, he rose to his feet and rubbed his lower back. “No, I am not all right, Mrs. Summerfield.” He reached for her hand and pulled her to the nearest chair. “Do me a favor. Sit there and don’t move until I get back.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’m going to inquire as to when the stage will resume its run.”
Her face lit up. “I do hope it’s soon. I would feel so much better knowing that a doctor was nearby.”
Logan rubbed his aching back and limped toward the door. “So would I, Mrs. Summerfield. So would I.”
*****
He staggered back into the cabin late that night. He looked in no better mood than when he left.
She closed her Bible and tugged at the shawl around her shoulders to ward off the cold air he brought in with him. “Did you find out about the stage?”
“It’s not expected to resume running until the first of next month.” He lumbered around the room. “Just think, Mrs. Summerfield. You are stuck in Deadman’s Gulch for another couple of weeks.”
She stared at him. God, please don’t let that be true. “But there must be another way to Centreville.”
“The stage road was washed away.” He demonstrated with his hand. “The entire mountainside decided to relocate to the valley below.” He grimaced as a pain shot through his knee. “Drat, where’s the soothing salve.”
She reached for a little brown vial and handed it to him. “Do you want me to help you with that?”
“No. This stuff is as useless as a bucket under a bull. I need mullein leaves.”
She waited for him to sit down. “I was thinking that I could rent a horse and ride to Centreville.”
Logan rolled up the cuffs of his trousers and rubbed the balm onto his knee. “By yourself?”
“I could hire someone to accompany me.”
He set the bottle on the table. “I don’t think so. Not in your delicate condition.”
But my baby is due next week. On the twenty-eighth. There’s got to be a way to get to Centreville.”
“On the twenty-eighth?” His mouth went dry. “You mean you can figure out a baby’s birth to the exact date?”
“More or less.”
“What do you mean more or less?”
“The baby could come before or after that date.”
“Well, now. Isn’t that a fine kettle of fish? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I told you that it was due at the end of the month. Besides, I thought I would be in Centreville by now.”
He grimaced. “Do me a favor. Don’t do any more thinking.”
She gave him an icy glare.
He stared into the fire in grim silence, but only one solution came to mind. “Start packing. Tomorrow morning we’re leaving for Centreville.”
Chapter 11
Not a cloud marred the azure-blue sky that Friday morning when they began their journey. The air was fresh with the scent of pine, its icy edge nipping at the skin like a playful puppy.
Logan had rented two mules, one for Libby and the other for her valise. After helping her onto the more passive of the two mules, he mounted his horse.
Libby clung to the pommel with both hands. The animal started forward, stopped, and then turned in the opposite direction. “Whoa,” she cried.
He turned in his saddle and reached back for the reins of her mule. “Don’t look so worried,” he said. “Crazy Sam here won’t do you any harm.”
“Why…why do you suppose he’s called Crazy Sam?” she stammered.
“Probably for the same reason all mules are named. It suits his personality.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I insist upon riding the other mule.”
“You mean Man Killer?”
“Never mind!” she snapped.
Grinning, he urged his horse forward and braced himself for the journey ahead. It was a journey he had made numerous times, but never under these circumstances.
Still, he was ready—more than ready—to be rid of her; like it or not, he felt responsible for her.
He hated having to go to Centreville. He hated the crowds and all those highfalutin’ city folks who gawked at him like he was some sort of unearthly creature. Still, the leaky, drafty cabin was no place to give birth.
Logan forced his horse up a narrow dirt trail that would take them over sixteen miles of rough terrain to Centreville. Mrs. Summerfield and the mules followed close behind.
Depending on how much damage the storm had done, he estimated that they should reach the city by nightfall at the latest. The trail switched back, allowing a clear view of the valley they’d left behind.
Logan stopped for a moment to watch a half dozen or so cattle walking in a line.
“Is something wrong?” Mrs. Summerfield called from behind.
He pointed to the cattle. “Cattle always walk toward the wind. They just changed direction and are heading north.” He glanced ahead, his eyes narrowed in concentration. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but his instincts told him that another storm was on the way. However, if the wind continued on its present course, the storm shouldn’t reach the area until late that night or possibly the following day.
“Let’s go,” he said, tugging on Crazy Sam’s reins.
Their progress was slow; landslides and uprooted trees from the recent rains impeded their progress. To make matters worse, Crazy Sam needed constant prodding.
Even so, they would have made better time had Libby not had so many nature calls. No sooner would they start up again than she was tugging at the reins for him to stop. In between times she kept him duly informed of her uncensored opinion on the difficult and sometimes dangerous trail.
“Heavens!” She gasped during one particular hazardous section where they were forced to follow a narrow shelf jutting out from a sheer rocky cliff.
“Don’t look down!” Logan called during yet another dangerous area. His warning was unnecessary as he discovered when he glanced back to find her eyes squeezed firmly shut.
As they rose higher, the air grew thinner and colder, and snow spread over the landscape.
Ahead, glints of golden sunlight danced upon the snow-cloaked slopes, glittering like newly polished silver upon sparkling white l
inen.
Measuring the depth of the snow, Logan sensed the wind velocity increase. No sooner had the wind picked up than ominous dark clouds began to drift over the northern peaks. Worried now, he chided himself for not turning back when he first noticed the wind change.
His patience worn thin he considered his options. It had taken them three hours just to reach the summit. He’d counted on it taking them no more than an hour. But then he had no idea the trail would be so bad. On more than one occasion, the ground had begun to slip beneath them. He dreaded the return trip.
Logan reined in his horse and held his palm up. Snow! He caught another icy flake and grimaced. He dismounted and walked back to help Libby off the mule.
“What? No aches and pains?” he asked. “No more complaints?”
She cast him a withering look. Her face was pale. Her lips trembled. Feeling a rush of sympathy, he led her over to a fallen tree trunk.
“We’re going to have to travel faster,” he said. “No more stopping.”
She fell silent and he took that to mean she agreed with the plan.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said at length.
He studied the clouds now directly overhead. “You won’t want to hear the alternative.”
“Nor will you.”
Something in her voice made his hackles rise. “Would you care to explain?”
She started to say something and then stopped. A shadow crossed her face. Her hands flew to her swollen waist.
Logan’s mouth went dry. He wasn’t a religious man, but suddenly he had the urge to pray. “Mrs. Summerfield?” He slipped his arm around her bent-over body. “You…you aren’t thinking about having your baby today. You wouldn’t be thinking about that now, would you?”
She looked up at him like a child about to admit to some inexcusable offense. “I’m afraid, Mr. St. John, the thought had occurred to me.”
*****
Logan paced in a circle, telling himself to calm down. He’d been in difficult situations before and he’d managed to handle them. Most of them, at least. So why should this time be any different?
He glanced at the ever-darkening clouds, and searched around for possible shelter. No caves were visible, but providing the wind didn’t change directions they could take shelter beneath the rocky headland jutting from the upper cliffs.
As he considered the possibilities, it suddenly occurred to him that Mrs. Summerfield was unusually quiet.
He spun around. She looked pale, anguished, her attention focused inward. He rushed to her side and dropped to one knee. “Mrs. Summerfield?” He squeezed her hand and held her until her tense body began to relax.
She took a deep breath and gave him a grateful smile. “Oh, my. That was a strong one.”
“We’re going to have to go back.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think there’s time.”
He inhaled. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He considered ways to shorten the return trip. But even if he took her back on his horse, leaving the mules behind, the rain could wash away more of the dangerously unstable ground.
When it appeared she had recovered from the last contraction, he walked to the edge of the cliff. A funnel of smoke rising from the valley floor pinpointed the town of Deadman’s Gulch below. As the crow flies, the town was probably no more than thirty minutes away.
His gaze followed the wooden flume that carried water from Centreville to Deadman’s Gulch. Wooden stilts rose several hundred feet or more into the air, supporting a foot-wide canvas-lined channel filled with rushing water. Halfway across the canyon the flume sloped downward until it reached Deadman’s Gulch. The flume had been built last summer to solve the water shortage. Without water, gold mining had practically come to a standstill. Everyone agreed that the flume was a mighty fine engineering feat. It saved the town, and it might very well save a young woman’s life.
He walked back to her and helped her through yet another contraction. Should the pains be this close together? Wasn’t there a way to help her through them? He cursed his own ignorance.
“I have an idea.” He helped her to her feet.
She looked so profoundly relieved he was almost afraid to tell her what it was for fear of shattering her hopes.
“I want to show you something.” He led her to the edge of the cliff and lifted his voice to be heard over the rushing water. “See that flume? Did you ever see a more welcome sight?”
Mrs. Summerfield raked him over with the same look of distrust she had earlier accorded Crazy Sam. “I could think of a few sights that would be more welcome. Now tell me, what is your idea?
“We’re crossing over.”
Her eyes widened. “You want me to climb down this mountain?”
“No, I want you to walk across the flume.”
Her gaze followed his pointed finger and her mouth dropped open.
She glanced back at him in disbelief. “You want me to walk across that?”
“Have you a better idea?” he asked.
“Are you out of your mind?”
Their voices continued to rise, as they stood face-to-face, glaring at each other.
He pointed upward. “Have you noticed that sky?”
She pointed downward. “Have you noticed that drop?”
“We can’t go back the way we came. It’s too dangerous.”
“It can’t be more dangerous than…” Pain suffused her face and he quickly took her in his arms.
“Hold on tight,” he urged, feeling her body tense next to his. “Try breathing through your mouth.” This was the advice trappers gave to injured men. Whether the same advice applied under the present circumstances, he had no idea. But it couldn’t hurt.
She breathed as he’d instructed and soon the deep lines left her forehead. Taking a deep breath she pulled away from him, amazing him with her resilience. The argument resumed as if nothing had happened.
“I’m not walking on that flume!”
“You’ll do what I tell you to do.”
“Over my dead body!”
“Drat, don’t tempt me.”
The argument waged for several minutes longer before she slumped against him for a second time, both hands on her belly.
He held her steady. “Does it help if I rub your back?”
“It helps if I can hold on to something.”
“Hold on to my arm.”
She wrapped her finger around his forearm and squeezed. Her fingers pressed like steel through the sleeve of his coat clear down to the bone. Seldom before had he witnessed pain strong enough to sustain such a powerful grip.
Sweat broke out on his forehead as he absorbed her agonizing hold. He shared in her relief when at last the contraction subsided and she released his arm.
“Let’s go,” he said, hoping to make some headway before the next pain.
“I am not going!” she said stubbornly. A bullheaded look settled on her face as she pulled away from him.
The last time he’d witnessed such out and out obstinacy was on the face of a dead man. It astonished him that even while in the throes of labor she was a force to be reckoned with. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t have fazed him. He was accustomed to her obstinacy. But the cold affected his leg, and the sky looked downright ominous. The bitter bile of fear coated his mouth. He felt a moment of helplessness before rallying in anger.
The fool woman had been nothing but trouble since arriving on his doorstep. He’d stood about all he was going to stand from her. Besides, this was for her own good. With no further ado he lifted her in his arms. Gritting his teeth against the additional pain the physical burden brought to bear on his leg he carried her to the flume.
“Hold still!”
Screaming louder than a bull in a briar patch, she kicked her feet and pounded his chest. Underestimating her as usual, he was ill-prepared for the display of strength, and they both almost fell down the mountainside. If it weren’t for the fortuitous timing of a contraction, h
e might not have managed to ease her onto the flume.
She clung to him for dear life.
“Put your foot next to mine. Come on, Mrs. Summerfield. Now, the other one.” He breathed a sigh of relief. At least the frame was supporting her, which took some of the burden off his sore leg.
“Now when I say go, slide your right foot forward. And don’t whatever you do look down.”
“I can’t….” She glanced at the water that rushed through the narrow channel between her legs and cried out in terror.
“I said don’t look!” When she didn’t move, he nudged her foot for her. “Trust me. I won’t let go of you. All right, now the other foot.”
Inch by torturous inch, he forced her across the narrow flume. Flume walkers crossed these lofty channels on a regular basis. Until now, he’d not given a moment’s thought to the brave men whose jobs required them to check for debris or signs of wear.
At one point, he pulled off his fur coat and tossed it to the canyon below. Without the bulky garment he had more freedom of movement.
Each time he felt her body stiffen next to his, he stopped, knowing another pain was on the way. His arms around her waist, he grimaced as her fingers dug into his hands.
He pressed his body against hers. He could feel the ebb and flow of each contraction, the tempo and dissonance. Unwittingly, he began to anticipate each stage and relaxed or tensed his body accordingly, until it seemed that the pains were as much his as they were hers.
Although the air was freezing cold, heat poured out of his body. He was vaguely conscious of the strange rhythm that had seemed to develop. So many steps forward, pain, steps, pain.
Halfway across the snow turned to sleet and finally rain.
He looked down at the rugged tree-lined canyon below them and wondered what in blazes he was doing suspended hundreds of feet in midair with a woman about to give birth.
She kept her eyes closed but her lips trembled as if in prayer.
Before he knew it—before he even knew he’d made the decision to do it—he found himself saying a silent prayer. God, you may not know me, but you know her and she needs your help.
Margaret Brownley Page 9