Harriet hoped her mouth shaped a smile and not a grimace. “I’m fine,” she managed to stammer out. “It’s such a beautiful day, I’m contemplating taking a walk.” There, she’d gotten words out. She hoped she sounded normal.
Samantha smiled, her blue eyes warm with understanding. “A peaceful walk sounds lovely.”
Understanding? How can Samantha Rodriguez understand what she doesn’t know?
Out of the corner of her eye, Harriet could see Nick and Elizabeth approaching them. Pretending not to see, she said to Samantha, “Mrs. Cobb is waving me over. Good-bye, Mrs. Rodriguez.”
“Good-bye, Miss Stanton.”
Harriet hastened away from the Sanders, diving into the crowd. She wiggled through the congregation, nodding and attempting to smile at anyone who greeted her. The Cobbs stood with their backs to her, engrossed in their conversation with Doctor Cameron and his wife. She veered away from them, away from the rest of the people, and headed toward the schoolhouse. If anyone saw her, they’d think she had gone there to do some work.
Once she reached the steps of the white-framed building, she walked past, rounding the corner and heading toward the back. She passed the lilac bushes screening the new privy. The stink mixed with the smoky smell left over from the fire Ben Grayson had set to the old outhouse last week. She didn’t even glance at the tiny building. Just a few days ago, she’d watched Nick Sanders and Wyatt Thompson rebuild the privy and had secretly allowed herself to enjoy Nick’s company.
Shame seized her, quickening her pace. Her feet carried her over the familiar path trod into the dust by the children who lived in the mountains.
Harriet could no longer avoid facing her feelings. She longed for a married man, a happily married man. She’d promised herself at Nick’s wedding that she’d barricade away her love for him. And for months, she’d thought she’d succeeded. She’d even accepted the admiration of the local cowboys, although without encouraging their advances.
Harriet fingered the gold pin at her throat. Being around Nick last week had cracked her defenses, allowing her true feelings to seep back through her barriers and into her heart.
Today’s news had been dynamite thrust into the chinks in her walls, exploding them to bits. Now the rubble lay shattered around her heart, leaving her raw, exposed.
She passed a stand of pine trees that stood between the town and the wilderness. Knowing no one would see, Harriet hitched up her skirts, increasing the length of her stride. The heaviness in her chest forced her ever faster, uncaring of the branches that reached out to rake her straw bonnet and catch the material of her best Sunday dress. She ran a long way, feeling sobs building in waves, their intensity pressing against her throat.
The path forked. Harriet chose the left. A grassy glade beckoned, and she headed toward its shelter, ready to sink down and release her emotion.
Unseeing, she stumbled over a fallen branch, twisting as she fell. Pain shot up her ankle. The momentum carried her forward into the trunk of a tree.
Her head collided with the rough bark. Dark sparkles hazed her vision, and she collapsed into an unconscious heap at the base of the tree.
* * *
Harriet’s consciousness returned in layers. Blackness faded to purple, then to gray, which in turn lightened to awareness. She vaguely realized she lay on the ground, half on her back, half on her side. The scent of loam and pine needles clogged her nose.
Without opening her eyes, she groped toward the ache in her forehead. When she touched the lump, the pain spread. She moaned and opened her eyes. One ray of sunlight, escaping the sheltering boughs of a pine tree, stabbed into her right eye. She turned her face to avoid the piercing light, only to have the ache in her head increase from the movement.
She made a sound of disgust. She’d have bruises to explain to the Cobbs, not to mention the ruin of her bonnet and Sunday dress. She’d been so careful with her salary, saving for a house of her own. Now she’d have to spend some of her precious funds for a new outfit. Annoyance blended with the pain in her head.
She tried again to shift her head and winced, a fresh wave of dizziness speckling her vision, and making her nauseous. Wooziness deadened her limbs and weighed down her thoughts. Harriet let herself drift for a long time without moving, hoping when she next awoke, she’d be better able to face her circumstances. The air chilled. She wrapped her arms around herself, refusing to stir.
Cold drops of water splashed on her face and brought her into full consciousness. The sunshine had given way to angry, dark shadows.
Gingerly Harriet sat up, her body sore all over. Even with a storm starting, she couldn’t bring herself to move with any speed. She started to tuck her feet under her in order to rise; a spasm of pain racked her ankle. Gasping, she flopped her legs back down.
It can’t be that bad, she told herself, trying to believe her own words. But still, she took the deepest breaths her corset would allow before she made the attempt again. Keeping her foot extended, she scooted closer to the tree. She braced both hands on the ground and lifted up her body. Using the trunk, she struggled to stand without putting weight on her foot. As she inched herself higher, the rough bark of the tree cut into her palm.
Once upright, she panted for air, trying to catch her breath. Her corset constrained her ribs. The lack of oxygen increased her dizziness, threatening to topple her to the ground.
Harriet slumped with her back against the tree, fighting to stay upright. Her head throbbed. Long moments passed before she nerved herself to take an experimental step.
The deluge increased, trickling through the pine branches. Her straw bonnet began to droop, and the gingham of her green dress quickly became saturated. A fresh rain scent sprang out of the grassy earth and trees. She shivered.
Her stays blocked another attempt to deeply inhale. A flash of frustration penetrated her growing fear. When I return home, I’m burning this corset and never wearing one again.
But first she’d have to get home somehow.
Harriet stepped forward with care. Fiery pangs shot through her ankle. She cried out, falling back against the trunk, almost fainting from pain. Frantically, she looked around for a stick to use as a crutch. But the only branch close by was the one she’d tripped over, and it was short and stubby.
She knew some families lived not too far away, surviving on hunting and small garden plots. They were probably snug in their cabins, but maybe someone else had been caught in the rain and was within earshot.
“Help, help,” she called, the words little more than a croak. Harriet swallowed, trying to clear the helplessness clogging her throat.
She called again, louder. When no response came, she wanted to cry.
The wind whipped through the trees, scattering more drops across her body. One more time she called out. Only the sound of the storm answered.
Under another pine about twenty feet away, she could see some sticks. One of them looked as if it might be long enough. Harriet dropped to her knees and began to crawl, trying not to jar her ankle against the ground.
It seemed to take her hours to go inches. Every couple of yards, she collapsed, panting and dizzy, allowing the waves of pain to wash over her. Once she caught her breath, she forced herself onward. Fat raindrops pounded on her back, her skirt became sodden, seeming to develop a life of its own, tangling her legs. After a few feet, her skirt bunched up underneath her, trapping her in place. She rolled to her side and jerked the material above her knees, tucking the hem into the waistband. She inhaled a fortifying breath, trying to block out the pain, and then resumed her crawl.
Finally, she neared the tree. Flopping onto her stomach, she walked her fingers forward, straining to reach the nearest branch, which turned out to only be a few feet long. She tossed it aside, then slithered another few inches toward the next one. When she grabbed the wood, it crumbled to pieces, too decayed to use. The one closest to the tree looked the most likely. But when she picked the branch up, using it to help her stand,
it snapped in two pieces, just as she rose to her feet. She cried out from the pain when her foot jarred against the ground.
Too exhausted and discouraged, Harriet sank back to the ground. She huddled against the trunk, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her head dropped to rest on her arms, and she began to pray.
Her wet, muddy garments weighed on her, little protection against the night. Her body numbed. By tomorrow, she knew the Cobbs would have people out searching for her. But rescue was long hours away.
I can’t stay here. I might not be alive when they find me.
Just let me rest … gather my strength.
Harriet took a few bracing breaths. She uncurled her limbs and began to crawl down the mountain.
CHAPTER TWO
The path crested the mountain pass, and Ant reined in Shadow. The big black stallion tossed his head, seeming as eager as Ant to reach the town spread out below them. From this distance, Sweetwater Springs appeared storybook sweet. Tiny buildings, probably stores and other businesses, clustered along one main street, with some houses scattered behind. A steepled church looked to be one of the tallest buildings and was bound to mean there were several nearby saloons. A miniature train depot resided near railroad tracks thin as pins.
A glance at the thunderheads darkening the sky made him realize the storm that had been building up for the last several hours would soon break. He should find some shelter. But the impatience that had been brewing inside him didn’t allow for that sensible choice.
Instead he urged Shadow forward. The sooner he arrived in Sweetwater Springs, the sooner he could reclaim David. He’d fulfill his vow, avenge his sister, and go home. The two-year quest would be over.
He could return to his former life, especially his newspaper reporting. The only difference would be in having a nephew to raise. And how difficult could that be? David had always been a good boy. Ant’s many years spent covering news in Europe had precluded his spending much time with his nephew, but when he’d been home, they had a good relationship.
Ant headed down the trail, lost in memories of the childhood he’d spent with his sister, Emily. Always close, he and his gentle sister shared a love of literature and writing. Both children’s early poems had showed promise, but their stepfather’s taunts and beatings had driven any poetry out of Ant’s soul. Emily, being a lowly female in his stepfather’s eyes, had escaped the worst of his attentions, and she’d continued to write her poems and stories. Then she had married Lewis.... Ant thought of the book of poetry tucked at the bottom of his saddlebag. Emily’s poems. Unopened since her murder.
The late afternoon gloom deepened. Sprinkles of raindrops scattered across his hands, bringing him back to the present.
Ant sighed and fastened the front of his slicker. Best light the lantern before it gets much worse. He halted the horse and slid off. He rummaged through his gear to find the lantern, his hands moving with the ease of long practice. Once he’d lit the lamp, he climbed back into the saddle.
The rain increased. Distant thunder rolled. A summer storm. Mild enough for the sustenance of growing crops, but not the chill rain of early spring which burrowed cold down to a man’s bones.
Shadow flicked his ears, showing his displeasure.
Ant leaned over and patted the horse’s damp neck. “I agree, old boy. Won’t be much longer now. I promise you a dry stall and a bucket of warm mash.”
Seeming to understand, Shadow nickered.
Ant tilted his head forward just enough for his wide-brimmed hat to keep the rain off his face and not far enough for water to drip down his neck.
A faint cry reached his ears. A human sound. He jerked his head up, listening. The call wasn’t repeated. Came from down the path a ways. He raised the lantern up and slowed Shadow, not wanting to run over anyone. Narrowing his eyes against the gloom, he scanned with all his senses. Nothing. Just rain tapping through the trees.
A slight movement ahead and to his right caught his attention. He raised the lantern and saw a person crouched on hands and knees. What the hell was anyone doing out on the mountain in the midst of a storm? Concern seized him. The person must be hurt.
Ant guided Shadow in that direction. On closer inspection, he saw a sodden dress and drooping straw hat. A woman, a bedraggled one, not even a coat to keep her warm. She maneuvered to a sitting position, staring up at him.
His concern increased. If she didn’t get to shelter soon, she could become ill.
“Howdy, ma’am.” He rode close to her.
She gasped, scuttled back to press against a tree.
He dismounted and stepped forward, holding up the lantern so he could see the woman. “May I lend a hand, ma’am?”
She was small, he could tell that much. With her ruined hat sagging around her face, it was difficult to see her features. Except her eyes. The fright in their depths brought him up short. He’d once pulled a drowning kitten out of a pond. He remembered the terror in the big gray eyes, how the brown fur plastered to the thin little body, the weight of the rock tied around the skinny paw. The pity he’d felt for the scrawny creature had helped the animal wiggle her way into his heart.
Old compassion surfaced, urging he move toward the woman. But he kept his boots planted. His great height and dark features often intimidated females. He’d learned to use charm and humor to diffuse their apprehensions. But now, he cursed the necessity.
Ant made his tone light. “Anthony Gordon to your rescue.” He swept off his hat and bowed. Rain splattered his hair and dripped down his neck. Had he thought the temperature was mild? He changed his mind, replacing his hat. “Knight errant to your damsel in distress.” He waited for her response. She still looked shell-shocked, although he thought he could see her teeth chattering. “The answer to your prayers?” he quipped.
That did it. Her shoulders relaxed. A corner of her mouth pulled up. Not quite a half smile, but heading there.
He unstrapped his bedroll, pulling out a blanket. Moving with deliberate slowness, he approached her, trying to show with his gaze and movement that he was safe—that she was safe with him. Her body felt chilled. He’d touched dead bodies warmer than hers. Ant draped the blanket around her shoulders.
“I’ll have to get you out of here.” As he wrapped the blanket tight around her, the vulnerability in her gray eyes caught him in a tender heartspot.
Ant winced. He hadn’t thought he had any softness left for a woman. He’d better be careful. Get her home and leave her be.
* * *
When the stranger on the big black horse loomed through the gathering darkness, Harriet had gasped. She’d never seen such a huge man, almost as if one of the surrounding trees had become human and mounted a mythical beast to gallop among the mountains. Clad in black from hat to boots, his sinister appearance spiked panic through her. Terrified, she wanted to flee for her life, for her virtue, but trapped by her injuries, all she could do was back away.
The dark man dismounted, the movement strong, yet fluid.
She scooted against a tree; the bark dug into her back. Everything in her hesitated, waiting.
The man stopped; the angular panes of his face stilled. In the lamplight, his wide-set brown eyes mesmerized—a snake charmer playing with his cobra. Then his right eyebrow peaked in an upside down v. He swept off his hat and bowed. Brown hair tangled the tops of his shoulders.
Pinned against the trunk by his menacing presence, Harriet barely registered what he’d said.
He replaced his hat. He spoke some more, then paused, waiting for her response.
Fear held her frozen.
“The answer to your prayers?” He held up the lantern in one hand, the other raised in supplication, fingers splaying wide as a dinner plate. That last line broke through her fear. He was the answer to her prayers. Just not quite what she had in mind when she prayed for a rescue. The man’s playful tone contrasting with his ominous appearance disarmed her. His voice sounded gravelly and deep as if he hadn’t spoken much.
> When he tucked the blanket around her, she shivered in relief.
“I think it’s safe to talk to me. At least tell me what’s wrong.”
What’s wrong? My whole life’s what’s wrong.
Harriet forced words through the paralysis in her throat. “I tripped and fell, hit my head against the tree, twisted my ankle.”
“We need to get you to shelter.” His voice took on an English lilt. “Good thing my noble steed, Shadow, can bear us both to yonder town.”
The last vestiges of her fright fled. She doubted any man who deliberately tried to sound like a hero from a poorly written Arthurian novel would mean her harm. Even if he did seem bigger than a barn.
From somewhere inside herself, she found a bit of humor to match his. “Did you say your name was Gulliver?” She referenced her favorite book.
He grinned. “Only if your name is Lily.”
“Lancelot perhaps?”
“Guinevere?”
“Ivanhoe?”
“My lady,” he said, exasperation edging his humor. “Will you allow me to get you out of this wet?”
Harriet hesitated.
“I see I’ll have to forcibly abduct you.” He set the lantern down. Placing one arm under her knees and one behind her back, he scooped her up.
Harriet gasped and slipped one hand around his neck. A thrill shot up her backbone, setting butterflies to wing around her stomach and almost masking the pain of her ankle and head.
“Little bit of a kitten, aren’t you?” he murmured.
With a lift, he set her aside the saddle, making sure the blanket remained mummy-tight around her. He pulled the rest of his bedroll apart, spreading it like a cape over her. Picking up the lantern, he balanced it on her lap.
She lifted her blanket-shrouded hands to cup the base. Peering at him from under the hood created by the blanket, she said, “I’m sorry. I really didn’t catch your name.”
“Anthony Gordon. But everyone calls me Ant-a university nickname.”
Debra Holland Page 2