Christy

by Linda Lael Miller

  It almost seemed that Caney read her mind in that moment; she stood, wrung out the bloomers she’d been washing, and turned to drape them over some bushes to dry. “I am goin’ to town,” she announced stiffly. “Don’t wait supper on me.”

  Christy offered no protest; in truth, she was glad of the promise of some time alone with her thoughts. She finished the laundry and got to her feet, her knees and back sore from hard work, her skirts wet through, her hair tumbling from its pins.

  Megan was crossing the footbridge, probably planning to pay Skye a visit, and Caney had saddled one of the mules and ridden off in a cloud of indignation and dust. Wearily, Christy began making her way up the hill toward the lodge. She planned to come back for the wash in a couple of hours; in the meantime, she would search the woods and fields for wild strawberries or perhaps a honeycomb.

  The bees were out in force, and she spotted a large hive in the crotch of a tree, but catching a glimpse of a black bear, far off in the distance, Christy decided against the enterprise and continued her search for berries. She’d wandered some distance from the lodge when she came across a patch and stooped to begin picking the small, tart berries, using the front of her skirt for a basket. She smiled as she worked, remembering a similar venture back home in Virginia during her early childhood, when Granddaddy had accused her of eating more berries than she brought home, then laughed and lifted her high by the waist and spun her around and around until she was swoon-headed with delight.

  It was the snuffle of a horse that made her realize she wasn’t alone; she had not heard hoofbeats or the jingle of bridle fittings. She looked up and saw a fierce-looking Indian woman, white-haired and wrinkled, glaring down at her from the back of a sleek buckskin mare. Dressed in worn leather, the visitor carried a spear in one hand, and her eyes were black, bright as a crow’s.

  Christy was so taken aback that for several moments she didn’t notice that the old woman was carrying something besides the spear. Her first thought was that she must be trespassing, and she was about to apologize, when the ancient rider leaned down from her horse and held out a squirming, whimpering bundle.

  “Make well,” she said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “White man’s medicine, make well.”

  Christy was at once attracted and repelled. Curiosity drove her forward; she held out her arms, forgetting all about the berries she’d gathered, and found herself holding an infant wrapped in a horse blanket. The child was barely conscious; heat radiated from its copper-colored flesh, and the thick head of dark hair was matted with sweat.

  “Wait,” she said when the spell was broken and she raised her eyes from the baby’s face. “I can’t—I’m not—”

  “You make well,” the old one reiterated, poking a gnarled and warning finger at Christy, knotty as the trunk of a time-twisted tree.

  “But—”

  The woman reined her horse around, spurred it with the heels of her moccasins, and was gone, her waist-length braid bobbing along the length of her rigid spine.

  Christy pushed back the blanket and gazed down at a round, glistening little face. She’d helped Caney with various doctoring tasks on the road west with the wagon train, set some broken bones, and even removed the occasional bullet from the leg or shoulder of some hapless traveler. But for all that, she didn’t have the remotest idea how to help this child.

  After turning around in a full circle, she finally got her bearings and started toward home. She was threequarters of the way there before it came to her that the baby might be—probably was—suffering from scarlet fever. That represented an acute danger to Megan, who had never had the dreaded malady, and of course to Bridget’s young son, Noah, and even her unborn baby. Christy could not rightly remember whether she had had the disease or not. If she had, she’d been very small at the time.

  She stopped. What should she do? She wouldn’t have been able to abandon a well child, let alone a sick one. But neither did she wish to put so many other people at risk. If only Caney hadn’t gone storming off to town, she would surely have had a practical suggestion to offer.

  She began walking again, cutting through trees and brush toward the road that led to Primrose Creek. There was no real doctor in the immediate

  area, as far as she knew, but with luck she might encounter Caney returning from her highly improper visit to Mr. Malcolm Hicks.

  Instead, she ran into Trace, driving a buckboard loaded with building supplies. Seeing Christy, he grinned and drew back on the reins, bringing the team of mismatched horses to a stop. He set the brake lever with a motion of one foot. “Hullo,” he said. His expression turned solemn when he realized she was carrying something in her arms, and he started to jump down in order to approach her. “There’ll be a fellow out to collect those army horses,” he said. “Name’s Charlie Brimm. He’s headed down Fort Grant way and said he’d be glad to take them back.”

  The two horses she and Megan had borrowed were the last thing she cared about just then. “Stop, Trace,” she said clearly and very firmly. “Don’t come any closer.”

  He frowned, pushed his hat to the back of his head. “What—?”

  She folded back the saddle blanket, at least far enough to reveal the baby. “He—or she—is very ill. I think it might be scarlet fever.”

  Trace let out a long, low whistle. “Good Lord,” he breathed. “Where did you get him?”

  Christy explained hastily. “Is there a doctor anywhere nearby?” she asked desperately, just in case.

  Trace shook his head. “Closest one is Doc Tatum, down at Fort Grant. And he’s not going to come near a baby with scarlet fever, in case of an epidemic on his own ground. You might try the Arrons, though—up at the mission. The reverend used to practice medicine before he took up preaching to the heathens.”

  “Doctor Tatum would turn an ailing child away? I’ll bet he’d tend a white child,” Christy said shortly. She knew she was being unfair, but frustration and fear had never had a worthy effect on her character.

  “That may be so,” Trace allowed, and he looked as stricken by the knowledge as Christy felt. “Best try the Arrons, though. I hear they did a lot of good a couple of years back when the diphtheria struck. Fact is, they’d probably take the little fellow in for good.”

  Would they? Christy wondered. Or would she and the child travel all that way, through unfamiliar and dangerous territory, only to be turned away? She had made the acquaintance of any number of dedicated missionaries in her travels up to then, but she had also run across a few who’d made her wonder if hellfire, or at least purgatory, wouldn’t be preferable to an eternity spent in their company.

  “You can’t go alone,” Trace said when she didn’t speak. “I’ll let Bridget know we’ll be gone a day or two and ride over there with you myself.”

  Christy was shaking her head before he’d finished making the statement. “And take a chance on infecting Noah or the new baby? Absolutely not.”

  “Then what?”

  “Caney and I will go. She’s bound to be back from town soon.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Trace replied with just the slightest hint of a grin touching one corner of his mouth. “I just saw her, heading out of town in a buggy with Malcolm. I believe they might be planning to have a picnic supper together somewhere private. Play hell finding them.”

  Only dogged determination kept Christy standing; she wanted to sit down by the wayside, the sick baby still in her arms, and wail disconsolately. As usual, though, she did not have that luxury. “I’ve got to do something,” she said, as much to herself as to Trace. “I can’t just give up and let this child die—”

  Trace was bringing the buckboard around in a broad, noisy circle. “I’ll head back and try to find Caney. Megan can stay at our place until you get back.”

  “Thank you,” Christy said with a long sigh. As Trace and his team and wagon disappeared into a dusty cloud, she found a seat on a fallen log and rocked the baby back and forth, back and forth, singing
a wordless lullaby.

  Considerable time had passed, though Christy never knew how much, before Trace returned, not with Caney but with Marshal Zachary Shaw. The lawman rode that magnificent brown-and-tan stallion of his and led a dappled gray mare, no doubt borrowed, behind him.

  “Where,” Christy demanded, standing up and then sitting down again, “is Caney?”

  “She’s a mite busy,” the marshal said, with a smile that was civil and no more. “Man cut his arm half off in Jake’s mill about half an hour back. Caney’s stitching up the gash.” He swung down from the saddle and came toward her, apparently unconcerned about the possibilities of contagion. “Anyhow, the way to the mission isn’t safe for a couple of women traveling alone.”

  Trace took off his hat, wiped his forehead with one arm, and watched the interchange carefully, like somebody staring up at the night sky on Independence Day, anticipating fireworks. “Bridget and I will see to Megan and Caney,” he said. “You two had better get started while you’ve still got a few hours of daylight left.”

  Had Christy not been wretched with worry over the child, she would have marveled at her ill fortune. First, she’d had to endure Zachary Shaw’s company during the long ride up the mountain from Fort Grant. Now, the two of them would be on the trail together again, for who knew how long, or under what circumstances, with only a very sick infant for a chaperone. It seemed to her that she had quite enough problems, thank you very much, without having to deal with this particular man on top of everything else.

  “Let’s see,” he said, and, to her surprise, reached out and took the baby from her arms as easily as if he’d already raised a houseful of them. He turned back a corner of the saddle blanket and spoke quietly. “Hullo there, buckaroo. I hear tell you’ve come for a visit. Feeling a little rough, are you?”

  Christy’s throat tightened with an emotion she couldn’t define. “I guess we’d better get started,” she said with resignation. Heaven only knew what this undertaking was going to do to her marriage plans. Jake was unlikely to approve of such a journey, no matter how noble her reasons for making it. It wasn’t as if she had a viable choice, though, given the circumstances.

  “I suppose he ought to have water,” she said weakly.

  Trace called out a farewell just then and rattled away toward home.

  “I’ve got a canteen on my saddle,” Zachary replied. “I’ll hold him while you mount up, then I’ll hand him over.”

  She gathered the gray’s reins in one hand and climbed easily onto the animal’s back. Zachary gave her the baby when she was settled in the saddle and then soaked what she hoped was a clean handkerchief in water from his canteen and passed that to her, too.

  Christy put the end of the handkerchief gently into the child’s mouth, and he whimpered fitfully and began to suckle weakly. Zachary gave her the canteen when she was ready to accept it and then reined his stallion toward the higher peaks to the west.

  “We might reach the mission around midnight,” he said, “if you can keep up.”

  Christy would not allow him to nettle her. She spurred the mare into a trot alongside Zachary. “Where did you learn to do that?” she asked.

  “Do what?” he replied. His eyes were so blue it hurt to look into them, the way it sometimes hurt to look up at a vivid sky.

  She kept the baby in a tight, careful grasp, controlling the reins with one hand. “You’re at ease around babies. Why is that?”

  He grinned, adjusted his hat. “I grew up in a big family. Five younger, five older. We all helped out.”

  She was grateful that the conversation had taken a relatively harmless turn. “Where? I mean, where did you live?”

  “We started out in Sioux City, then moved on to Denver when I was fourteen,” he answered. “Took two wagons just to haul us all. My father was a preacher, an undertaker, a blacksmith, and a sometime-dentist, too, when the situation called for it. We never had much, but we didn’t do without anything, either.”

  “Your mother?”

  “She’s still in Denver. Lives with my eldest brother and his wife. The rest of us are scattered from one end of creation to the other.”

  Christy was struck by the easy affection in his voice and expression. Whatever the privations involved, the Shaw family had obviously been a happy one. She envied him that. “What made you leave Denver?”

  They had reached a flat stretch of trail, and their horses moved naturally into a gallop. Zachary’s eyes turned thoughtful, maybe even a little evasive, but in the end he answered. “A woman,” he said.

  Christy wished she hadn’t asked. Had she truly imagined, for so much as a moment, that such a man might have reached adulthood without courting someone? Still, the thought of Zachary Shaw romancing anyone else was nearly intolerable, even though she most certainly didn’t want him for herself. “Ah,” she replied at some length. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “I don’t mind telling you,” he answered easily. “Her name was Jessie St. Clair. She and I were planning on being married. She went into the bank one day, to deposit the day’s profits from her father’s mercantile, and walked straight into the middle of a robbery.” He paused. Looked away. “She was shot. Killed instantly.”

  Christy felt ill, not to mention guilty for resenting a dead woman, taken long before her time. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “Wasn’t your fault,” he replied flatly. “You going to be able to hold on to that baby? Or should I rig up some kind of sling?”

  “I can hold him for a while,” she answered. “Did you love her?” Now, what— what —had made her ask such a personal question?

  He looked into her eyes, intensely and for a long time. “Yes,” he said. “I loved her. Now, tell me exactly how you came by this baby. Trace’s story was a little short on detail.”

  Christy explained how she’d been picking berries and encountered the old woman. “They’ll kill me if this child dies, won’t they?” she said. The realization, having nagged at her all along, finally struck home. “The Indians, I mean.”

  Zachary didn’t smile, but he didn’t look worried, either. “I reckon they’ll try,” he said.

  They traveled mostly in silence after that and stopped beside a mountain spring several hours later to water the horses. While they were resting, he asked for her petticoat and quickly made a sturdy sling in which to carry the baby safely and without undue strain on Christy’s arms and back. They had, by that time, discovered that the “little fellow” was a girl.

  “I’ve been wondering about something,” Zachary said when they were ready to move on. He had donned the sling himself, the baby couched comfortably inside, and mounted the stallion.

  Christy sighed. “What?” She was tired, sore, and terribly afraid for the infant girl fate had put in her charge. She lifted herself into the saddle and took up the reins.

  “Where did you learn to ride the way you do? You sit a horse like an Indian.”

  She smiled. Her eyes were hot with exhaustion, her heart ached, she was hungry, and it would be hours before they reached their destination. “I was raised on a farm in Virginia,” she told him. “I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t around horses—in fact, I was probably riding before I could walk. My daddy would have seen to that.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  It was only fair. He’d volunteered considerable information about his own family, and she had no good reason not to speak of hers. “My daddy’s name was Eli McQuarry. He was a rascal from the day he was born. He drank enough for himself and half the county and rode like the devil was after him most of the time. He and Uncle J.R. got into a duel over a woman, and right after that, Mama lit out for England with a man she met in Richmond. A baron. She dragged Megan and me right along with her.” She’d revealed far more than she’d intended, but there was no help for it.

  “Did you like living over there?”

  She shook her head. “I was so homesick for Virginia, and for my granddaddy, that somet
imes I thought I’d die of it.”

  His face and hair seemed gilded by the afternoon sunshine, and his profile glowed. He supported the baby girl, in her petticoat pouch, with one arm. “Are you still? Homesick, I mean?”

  Christy examined her heart and took her time about it.

  “No,” she said finally. “It’s not the same anymore.”

  He shook his head in acknowledgment and turned to look at her, but she couldn’t see his expression because most of his face was cast in shadow by the brim of his hat. “So Primrose Creek is home now?”

  She didn’t avert her eyes, though the temptation was strong. “Yes,” she said. “Primrose Creek is home.”

  Chapter 5

  Christy’s first glimpse of the lake, a sapphire in a setting of trees, mountains, and sky, quite literally took her breath away. She could not speak for a long time but simply stood in her stirrups, taking in the astounding vista before her. A sense of deep reverence came over her, and she wanted to weep, not from sorrow but from joy.

  As the sun set the horizon ablaze, splashes of silver and crimson, gold and purple danced over the otherwise placid surface of the water.

  Zachary, still carrying the baby, reined in beside her. “The locals call it Tahoe,” he said. “That’s a twist on a Washoe word whites can’t pronounce. To a lot of Indians, it’s simply ‘Lake of the Sky.’ ”

  Christy let out a long, tremulous breath. Indeed, the latter was a fitting description, for one might have thought the sky itself had come fluttering down to earth in silken billows of blue, to settle gracefully into the midst of grandeur. “I have never seen anything so beautiful,” she managed. “Never.”

  She felt his smile before she caught sight of it out of the corner of her eye. “Makes a person think there must be a God,” he said. “There’s no other way to explain something like this.”

  “I never want to leave,” Christy whispered, still spellbound. “I wish I could build a cabin right here and spend the rest of my life just looking.”