She raised her head, looked at him walking so strong and sure before her. She had to stop misreading his intentions. When he had leaned toward her she had thought—
Foolishness! It was Hope who Mitchel cared about. As well he should. She slammed the door on the image floating at the edge of her will and focused on the trail, the crunch of snow beneath Mitchel’s boots. He had no hat. She poured over a mental list of the items in the pillowcase, puzzled over a way to fashion him a hat of sorts. It was a fruitless effort, but it kept her from thinking about the sudden yearning in her heart.
The cold air made his lungs burn, snow squeaked with his every step. His worry had become reality. Mitchel stopped at the edge of the trees, shivered with the lack of motion.
“Mitchel, I’m w-worried about Hope. The cold—”
“I know.” Anne’s teeth were chattering. He frowned. The cold would be even worse when they left the protection of the trees to cross the open valley. He set the pillowcase down, reached inside and drew out a blanket. “I’ll put this around you—”
She shook her head. “Take off my c-cloak. Put it inside. Where I can h-hold it on.”
He jammed the rolled blanket between his thighs, fumbled with the loop and button at the neck of her cloak, his fingers thick and awkward with the feminine fastenings.
She lifted her chin to give him freer access. “Is that b-better?”
He looked down, met her gaze and sucked in a deep breath. Frigid air invaded his lungs. He broke into a coughing fit, then returned to his task, kept his gaze firmly locked on his hands. The button came free. He lifted the cloak from her shoulders.
Hope whimpered, burrowed closer to Anne’s neck.
“D-don’t put it in the s-snow.”
He glanced around, frowned and pulled the hood over his head, let the cloak hang down his back. He shook out the blanket, folded it in half, stepped close and draped it over Anne’s shoulders, pulled it forward, crossed the ends over Hope, pulled up enough to cover her small, hooded head.
“G-give me the edge s-so I can hold it.”
He nodded, pulled the blanket over the top of Anne’s hand and tucked the edge into her palm where her fingers could grip it. He snatched her hood off his head, swirled her cloak over the blanket around her shoulders and fastened it at the neck, eased the edges around Hope’s neck and finished fastening the loops and buttons down the front.
“Thank you, Mitchel. That’s b-bet—” Anne pulled her head back, stared up at him. “What are you d-doing?”
“Letting your hair down to protect your ears and neck.” He slipped the combs from her hair.
“No! I—”
Russet curls fell over his hands, tumbled down her back and shoulders. His gut tightened. He sucked in another breath, coughed, dropped the combs in the pillowcase and slid his hands along her neck, captured the silky mass of curls and held them prisoner against the nape of her neck. His heart thudded. He freed one hand, reached over her shoulder and grasped her hood, pulled it far forward to protect her face, stepped back and cleared his throat. “That should help keep you warm.”
“And what of you, Mitchel? What will protect your neck and ears? What will keep you warm? It will do us no good if you sicken.” Her voice sounded tight and small.
“This will do.” He pulled the other blanket from the pillowcase, tossed it around his back and shoulders, pushed the edge high around his ears, then rolled the edges together at the base of his throat, snatched up the pillowcase in his other hand and led the way out into the valley.
“Walking downhill is as hard as walking up. I thought it would be easier.” Anne gave Mitchel a rueful smile, wiped a small dry stick clean on her petticoat and stirred the dried apple and water heating in the cup. A poor excuse for dessert. “If you hadn’t held my arm and supported me, I would have slipped many times.”
“It’s the least I can do, Anne. You’re carrying my daughter.”
She heard the frustration in his voice, read it in the way he snapped a branch over his knee and added it to the fire. The warmth caressed her skin, the comforting crackle and snap coaxed her to rest.
She shook her head to fend off her weariness, looked at the large, heavy branches that slanted from the trunk of the evergreen to brush their green-needled tips against the ground.
The abundant boughs encircled and sheltered them, masked their presence and held in the heat from the fire. A thick layer of fallen needles provided a soft, dry carpet, with only here and there a clump of snow that had toppled off one of the branches.
She watched the smoke rise, weave in and out through the spaces between the limbs and drift away.
“Eat your biscuit, Hope. It’s time for you to go to sleep.”
“Me want honey, Papa.”
“There is no honey, Hope.” Pain, frustration and anger flashed in Mitchel’s eyes. How hard it was on him to see his child suffer.
“Oh, but we have something much better than honey!”
Mitchel shot a look her way, raised a disbelieving brow.
She took Hope’s biscuit, broke it open, used the stick to cover it with some of the gooey, cooked apples and handed it back. The toddler took a bite.
“Me like it.”
Anne smiled at her, split open another biscuit, smeared it with some apple and handed it to Mitchel, summoned up the energy to give him a saucy look, then prepared one for herself. She took a bite, chewed slowly, her body warmed by the fire, her heart warmed by the surprised grin on Mitchel’s face.
Anne’s eyelids fluttered and slid downward. Mitchel shoved the last of his biscuit in his mouth and lunged for her as she slumped sideways. He caught her in his arms, rolled to a sitting position and pulled her onto his lap.
“You tell Anne aminal story, Papa?”
His heart lifted. The warmth of the fire had cheered Hope. He smiled and shook his head. “Anne is sleeping.” He pulled the cover from Hope, lifted Anne in his arms and laid her on the pallet. “Time for you to go to sleep, too, Hope.” He kissed his daughter’s warm cheek, snuggled her close beside Anne and pulled the cover over them.
“Thank You, Almighty God, for the blessings of this day. Thank You, for—”
“You play…whisser game wiff God, Papa…”
He smiled and nodded. “Every night and every morning, Hope.” And lots of times in between.
His face tightened. This journey of escape wasn’t over yet. He thought one more day of travel, perhaps two. He moved the cup holding the apples away from the fire, pulled the pistol from his belt and leaned against the tree trunk, the Colt Paterson ready in his lap.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mitchel moved into the thick growth of pines at the base of the mountain. “We’ll camp here today.”
Anne nodded, glanced up toward the sky. Dawn was approaching, announced by the gray light that filtered down through the branches. But it had stopped snowing.
He held back a branch for her, stopped, tilted his head.
Her heart stumbled, raced. “What is it?”
“Water.”
The tension fled, her pulse slowed. She firmed her trembling legs, listened. A river rushed and chuckled over rocks somewhere close by.
“That’s the river I’ve been aiming for, Anne. We must be getting close to the emigrant town. We’ve only to follow the river now.”
There was relief in his voice. Their journey was almost over. Tears stung her eyes. She forced her weary body to move, trailed through the pines after him watching for stones or raised roots in the murky light. The river’s song grew stronger. “How far is the town?”
He glanced over his shoulder, smiled at her. “Perhaps another day’s journey. We’ll make camp today and—”
He stopped, touched his fingers to his lips.
Her mouth went dry. She put her mouth on the hood over Hope’s ear. “Do not talk. Be very, very quiet.” She held the toddler close, put her chin over top of her little head and looked at Mitchel.
He stood, eyes
narrowed, face taut, the pistol ready in his hand. The pillowcase sat at his feet.
A hoof struck a stone. Her heart jolted. She jerked her gaze back toward the edge of the pines. The hoofbeats were coming from the direction they had traveled. A Cayuse following them? Her stomach roiled.
No! We’re almost there! She released her hold on her cloak, lifted her hand to cup Hope’s head, to hold her safe.
The hoofbeats stopped. A horse snorted. Something brushed against a pine branch. Bile pushed into her throat. She pressed Hope close, looked at Mitchel. Protect him, God. Protect us—
The horse nickered, snorted.
“Horsey!”
She clapped her hand over Hope’s mouth, looked at Mitchel. He was standing, pistol pointed, a puzzled look on his face. He motioned her to stay, started toward the spot where they had entered the woods.
She turned, heart pounding, and looked through the trees. A horse stood in the small clearing, nose thrust their direction, ears pricked forward. A large roan stallion with spots on his rump.
Comanche!
Her heart soared. “Mitchel, wait!”
He spun at her urgent cry, dropped into a crouch, pistol held steady.
She shook her head. “There’s no danger, Mitchel. That is Mr. Thatcher’s horse. He will run off if you go near him.”
He rose, stared at her, shock written all over his face.
“The horse won’t let anyone but Mr. Thatcher and—” her voice broke, tears welled “—and Emma touch him.”
A sudden longing to see her sister overwhelmed her. She blinked the tears from her eyes, cleared the lump from her throat. “Hello, Comanche.”
The horse tossed his head, whickered.
“Horsey!”
“Yes, sweetie.” She patted Hope, kept her attention on the horse. “Where is Mr. Thatcher, boy?”
The roan snorted, pawed the ground.
She glanced over at Mitchel, fought to keep her voice calm. “Mr. Thatcher must be somewhere close by. He was going to build a trading post somewhere in the mountains.” Tears stung her eyes again. She swallowed hard, took a deep breath. “Mr. Thatcher was our wagon master. He will be able to lead us to Promise.”
He looked doubtful. “Thatcher may be injured, Anne. Or worse. Otherwise the horse would be with him.”
She shook her head. “Comanche always runs free. If we follow him—” She took another breath, fought down her expectation lest she be disappointed. “Go home, Comanche. Take us to Mr. Thatcher.”
The horse snorted, moved down the hill.
Hope wiggled in her arms. “See horsey, Papa!”
Mitchel looked up at the lightening sky, frowned. “All right, we’ll follow the horse. But only until dawn fully breaks. Then we make camp and wait until night to travel on. He’ll leave tracks.” He picked up the pillowcase, kept his pistol in his hand.
She nodded, took a firmer grip on Hope and started after Comanche, the hope of finding Zachary Thatcher’s trading post giving her strength to continue on after their long night’s trek. The big roan wove in and out of pines in a winding path down the hill.
Mitchel looked down, frowned. “Maybe the horse will lead us to your friend, Mr. Thatcher. He seems to use this path often. There are a lot of tracks going both ways, and they all appear to be the same. I don’t see any tracks of unshod horses.”
There was relief in his voice. She looked up at him. “Do you suppose that means Mr. Thatcher’s trading post is near?”
“I don’t know, Anne. It could—”
He gripped her arm, rushed her off the path, pushed her behind a tree and stood shielding them with his body. She listened to the thunder of Comanche’s hoofs against the ground. Her heart thudded. Comanche was running off. Had something startled him? Indians?
Time froze. She stood motionless, her back against the tree, Hope in her arms, Mitchel in front of her facing the path. She could feel his warm breath on her cold cheeks, see his pulse beating in his temples. Comanche’s hoofbeats faded. Silence descended broken only by the twittering of birds welcoming the day.
Mitchel stepped back, motioned her to stay put and moved off through the trees, following the direction the horse had taken.
She closed her eyes.
“If you are praying, your prayer has been answered.”
She snapped her eyes opened, looked at Mitchel’s grinning face. “You found Mr. Thatcher’s trading post?”
“Better.” He took hold of her elbow, led her onto the path and walked her around a curve. “We’re safe, Anne. There is Promise.”
She stared out over the snow-covered rolling hills stretching from the mountain to a plain that reached as far as she could see. Her breath caught at the sight of log cabins clustered along the river that crawled out of the mountain and snaked its way through the hills and the plain. One log cabin stood alone on this side of the river, its only company two barns, and the horse and man standing in front of one of them. Zachary Thatcher.
Mitchel tightened his grip, led her out into the open, lifted his other hand and waved it through the air.
Zachary Thatcher waved his hand, leaped onto Comanche’s bare back and raced toward them.
They were safe.
The trembling started in her shoulders and arms, traveled through her body into her legs. Darkness hovered, swirled. She handed Hope to Mitchel, sighed and collapsed in a heap at his feet.
Mitchel grasped the reins and saddle horn in his left hand, tightened his right arm around Hope and swung down from the saddle.
“Go on in and warm yourself and the little one by the fire, Mr. Banning. Emma will be with you as soon as she takes care of her sister.”
Mitchel glanced at the man taking hold of the horse’s reins. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Thatcher. And please, the name’s Mitchel.” He held out his hand. It was taken in a strong grasp.
“No thanks needed, Mitchel. People have to help each other out here in Oregon country if we want to survive. And the name’s Zach.”
Mitchel nodded, took the pillowcase Zach handed him and hurried up the steps and across the porch. He reached for the door latch, caught a glimpse of Zach leading the horse toward the barn, Comanche plodding after him. He would forever be grateful to that horse. But he would never forget the feeling of having his heart wrested from his chest as he watched Zachary Thatcher take Anne in his arms and ride away on him.
The knot of worry in his gut tightened. He opened the door, stomped the snow from his boots and stepped inside. Warmth from a fire rushed to greet him. His cold flesh tingled from its touch. He stepped to the hearth of the stone fireplace, looked at his sleeping daughter. Let them be all right, God. Please let them both be all right.
The memory of the prayers he’d said for his wife’s healing, for Paul’s safe return haunted him. The actions of men have consequences. Yes. Isobel and Paul had joined him in his missionary work and both had died. Isobel for lack of a doctor’s care after Hope’s birth, and Paul at the hands of the Indians he had come to minister to. Would he lose Hope and Anne, as well?
He tightened his hold on Hope, smaller, frailer now for the lack of nourishment. Anne was in the same condition. He’d watched her beautiful face grow thinner, the fine bones become more pronounced over the days they’d walked the hills and mountains.
Please, Almighty God, please! Let me have gotten them here to the doctor in time. Please let them live. Please heal them, and let them live.
The silence of the empty room answered him. He closed his eyes, grabbed on to his remaining faith and released it in prayer.
A latch clicked. A door sighed open, closed with another soft click.
He braced himself, opened his eyes. A brown-eyed, blond-haired woman walked toward him. Anne’s sister, Emma. The knot in his gut twisted. He wished with all his heart it was his blue-eyed, red-haired Anne coming to him. His. No. Only in his heart. Forever in his heart. He took a breath, forced out the question gnawing at his very soul. “How is Anne, Doctor Allen?”
“She will be fine, Mr….Banning?”
“Yes.” Thank You, God. Thank You that Anne is all right.
Her lips curved in a warm smile. “May I call you Mitchel? William speaks of you so often, I think of you by your given name.”
“Of course, Doctor—”
She gave a quick shake of her head. “Emma.” Her smile widened. “But back to Annie. She slipped from being unconscious into natural sleep without waking—” her brown eyes took on an assessing glint “—from exhaustion I’d guess, judging by her appearance…and yours.” Her gaze dropped to the blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms. “And who is this?”
Emma’s a good doctor. She saved a toddler on the wagon train. He cleared his throat. “My daughter, Hope. She’s two years old, and she’s…not well.”
“I see.” The look in her brown eyes sharpened, her entire countenance changed. She held up her arms. “Why don’t I take a look at her, while you tell me what’s wrong, Mitchel?”
Please, God. He placed his daughter in her arms. “She is often fevered. And her joints pain her. Cold bothers them, makes them hurt more.”
“Then we shall keep her right here in front of the warm fire.” She laid Hope on a blue settee, knelt on the floor and unwrapped the blanket from around her. She stared at the hooded cloak, the footed pants. “Very clever. The rubber sheeting must have kept her dry and warm in all this snowy and windy weather.”
“Anne made them.”
She shot him a look of astonishment, dropped her gaze and untied the fastenings on the cloak and pants.
Hope opened her eyes, blinked, stared up at the strange woman. Her lower lip quivered. “P-pa-pa!”
“I’m here, Hope.” He leaned over the back of the settee, smiled down at her. “This nice lady is Anne’s sister. She’s a doctor and is going to try and make you better.”
Hope’s lower lip, pouted out, tears flowed into her eyes. “Me w-want Anne.”
Frontier Father Page 17