"At this rate, we'll never get out of camp," Uncle muttered. Nellie noticed that he said it so softly that Mr. Bradley didn't hear.
The ride to the site where she had found the plant took well over an hour, for the way wound through dense forest and climbed a steep, rocky hill. They had to cut back and forth, avoiding enormous boulders, sometimes scrambling through thick brush and seedling conifers. Several times they dismounted and led their mounts across fallen logs.
They finally achieved the ridge, from whence they could see across the lake and beyond the hills on its opposite side. From this vantage, Nellie could see the rugged mountains beyond the foothills that were the Sawtooth Valley's eastern boundary. At the foot of the ridge where she stood, the lake was a deep, pure blue, its surface as smooth as a mirror. Motion caught her eye, and she saw a raptor gliding through the cloudless sky. Its wide wings were dark, but its head and tail were pure white. A Bald Eagle! Instead of sharing the sight with the men, she simply stood silently and watched as it circled away and disappeared behind the ridge across the lake. I could live here, she thought, or somewhere like this. Some high place where I could look out for miles and see only more mountains.
The fourth time they faced a difficult obstacle, Uncle said, "My word, Nellie, you should have told me this would be such an arduous journey." He was puffing as he crawled across the log, the thickest one they had encountered. Mr. Bradley led the horses uphill some thirty or forty feet, to where the log tapered to a slender, well-branched tip, and managed to get them across. Sheba, as she had the day before, simply jumped atop, then down on the other side, doing so without any urging at all. Nellie had to laugh at the amazed expressions on both her companions' faces. "She's done this before. Mr. Creek says she's part cat."
The small glade beyond which she had found the flowers was only a few hundred yards farther on, its location marked by a scrap of cloth Mr. Creek had tied to a branch. They turned off the faint trail they had been following. Once in the trees, passage became difficult. "You will have to dismount, Uncle," Nellie said when they had penetrated a short distance into the woods. "It's only a little ways now."
He grumbled, but did so, letting loose of his reins so that they trailed on the ground. Nellie saw Mr. Bradley pick them up, and was surprised when he made no comment. Uncle was, of course, used to his well trained horse back home. Old Pliny would never move once his reins had been dropped.
They entered the glade. It was a circular clearing perhaps fifteen feet across, moss-carpeted and cool. Somewhere nearby water trickled, and unseen birds called in voices so high-pitched as to be at the edge of audibility. For a moment, Nellie wished she were alone, so she could enjoy the peace, the natural music. Then her uncle caught up with her.
"Well, is this the place?"
"Just a little farther." Yesterday she had very nearly stopped here, but something had called her to go a little farther, to push between the low branches of young firs into a clearing at the base of another steep hillside.
In sharp contrast to the magical glade, this was a harsh place with sparse vegetation. A few young pines struggled to maintain their foothold on the loose, rocky slope. Clumps of last year's grasses showed only a little new green among their dead leaves, and most of the herbs were low, matted, or still in the rosette stage. But here and there, among them, were tiny plants with one or two or three deep pink flowers, each standing above lacy green foliage on slender, leafless stems.
Nellie knelt before the flowers, touched them with a gentle finger. "See, Uncle. Aren't they unusual?" The plant's leaves and flowers somewhat resembled those of the bleeding-heart she was familiar with, but she was certain it was not the same species. With a little imagination, these peculiar flowers might be thought to resemble a cow's head with curled horns.
He bent forward. "Humph. They look like Dicentra to me. Or some other fumitory."
"But you don't recognize it?"
"Well, of course I do. I just said it was a fumitory."
"What species?" she insisted. For some reason it was of great importance that she know if Uncle recognized the plant.
"Good God, Nellie, I don't know! I can't remember the specific epithet of every plant I've ever seen. When we get back to camp, you can look in my notes. It's undoubtedly there, somewhere."
"Shall I collect it, then?" She hadn't, last night. It had been late, and the light had been failing. As it was, she and Mr. Creek had not reached camp until nearly full dark.
"If you need to ask, you've forgotten everything I've tried to teach you." He turned and stalked away, going back toward the glade.
Before he disappeared among the trees, Mr. Bradley said, "That's far enough, Dr. Kremer. I don't want you out of my sight."
Uncle seemed inclined to argue for a moment, then, with a sharp exhalation, sat himself on a boulder and turned his back.
Mr. Bradley came to stand beside her. "Collect your plant. I want to get started back."
Nellie reached into her pack and pulled out the trowel. Quickly she dug five specimens, half of all she saw, and placed them into the vasculum. She would have like to collect more--Uncle would probably have taken all of them--but she had strong feelings about leaving some behind to provide seed for the next generation.
"Is something wrong?" she said as she worked. "You sound worried."
"It's probably nothing."
When she glanced up at him, she saw that he was rubbing the back of his neck.
A singular sensation flared in her belly. "You think something's watching us, don't you?" Quickly she placed the last plant in the vasculum and closed its lid securely. "The same creature that watches the corral?"
"I don't know." He rubbed his nape again. "It's probably nothing," he repeated. "Are you ready?"
All the way down off the ridge, she watched him watch their back trail. His uneasiness never seemed to increase, but neither did it appear to subside. She was quite happy to see the familiar shapes of their tents and hear the raucous bray of a mule as they approached the camp.
* * * * *
They weren't more than a stone's throw from her as they came out of the woods. Gertie had looked for a way in so she could see what they'd been up to. Last night the girl had gone in there and stayed almost an hour. Now she'd come back.
Had she found gold?
There was a spring back in there somewheres. The trickle of water from it made a muddy streak across the game trail just ahead. Maybe the gal had just wanted a drink.
Nope, she'd wanted more than that. Nobody drank for an hour at a stretch. That Injun had been with her. Maybe they'd been--
Her mind balked at the thought. "Not My Girl," she whispered. "She wouldn't do nothin' like that."
They were out of sight. She stepped into the trail, then realized that Buttercup was nowhere around. Damn that cat! Well, nothin' would do but to leave him behind. He knew his way home. 'Sides, he never waited for her when he was goin' somewheres on his own.
Staying just far enough back to be out of sight, should the good-lookin' feller turn, she followed them all the way back to their camp.
Buttercup caught up just as they got there. He was carryin' a fresh-killed quail in his teeth.
"Good kitty," she told him, scratching behind his ears. "Let's go home. It's suppertime."
* * * * *
"Did your uncle figure out what that flower was?" Malachi asked Miss Sanders that evening after supper.
"No, he didn't. And I can't either, even though I've practically memorized the list of species he collected on previous expeditions."
"So it's a new one?" He actually sounded interested.
"I doubt it. But I won't know until I go back to Ohio and check the literature. And even then I can't be certain. "
"So you might have found your new plant species?"
She kept her face lowered as she shook her head. "No," she said. "It will be Uncle's new species. I only collected it for him."
Like Willard and Murphy and the kid are doi
ng his collecting all over the place. That doesn't seem right to me. He's a healthy old coot, for all he's a stone or two heavier than he ought to be. "Seems to me," he said, keeping his voice low and gentle, so she wouldn't hear the contempt he felt, "that the person who found the plant should be the one to get the credit. Your uncle wouldn't have ever known about that little flower if you hadn't taken him up there."
Her chin came up and her eyes flashed at him. "And it seems to me, Mr. Bradley, that you have too little knowledge of the ways of the botanical world to censure those who work in it. My uncle is a respected and renowned botanist. I wouldn't presume to criticize him."
She spun around and stalked off. Something inside Malachi cheered as she did, for he'd heard more than a hint of hesitation in her defense of her uncle.
* * * * *
The next day it rained, postponing the planned expedition to the upper end of the valley. The Professor refused to travel in the wet.
"Wonder what he done in Colorado," Murphy said as they sat under a canvas lean-to after breakfast and watched the rain drip from its edge. There was a small fire between them, and the coffeepot sat on stones at its edge. "Summer's the rainy season there. I've seen weeks where the sun never came out."
"I've never liked summer rain," Malachi said. "It always makes me think of women weeping."
"Hell, Mala--colm, that's downright poetic." Murphy pulled out his pipe. "You and the lady make up?"
"Nothing to make up for. It's not like we had a fight or anything."
"It's not like you wasn't doin' your best not to look each other's ways, either. More'n once I near to laughed my fool head off, the way you'd look toward her, then see her lookin' toward you. You'd both practically break your necks, you looked away so fast."
"If you can't talk about something worthwhile, you can shut up," Malachi told him, but without heat.
"Don't guess I'll have anybody to talk to in a minute. Here she comes."
"Good morning, gentlemen," Miss Sanders said, not looking directly at Malachi. "Since you obviously have nothing else to do, Mr. Creek, I would like your company while I seek a way up that narrow valley behind the ridge."
Murphy winked at Malachi, then said, "Sorry, ma'am. I'm assigned to your Uncle this week. Malachi here will have to take you."
"Murphy--"
"Besides,' I'm goin' huntin'. Saw some deer sign down by the river this morning. We're a little low on meat, so I'll go out later on and see how I can do."
"Very well. Mr. Bradley, can you be ready in an hour?"
He looked up at her, and wondered how he'd ever thought there was warmth in those eyes. They were the exact same color as the lake, and probably just about as cold. "Yes, ma'am, I reckon I can."
"Good. I will expect you at my tent." She walked away.
"Thanks, Murphy, you're a real friend." Malachi watched her go, admiring the way her skirt swung with her every step. There was something about a woman's skirt that just naturally drew the eye and put thoughts into a man's mind. Hungry thoughts of hot, damp flesh and soft skin and a mouth as sweet as honey.
Great God! The woman was driving him to madness. He'd had more bawdy thoughts since he met her than he'd had in the rest of his life. She's not for you, he told himself for perhaps the hundredth time.
As he rolled to his feet, Malachi was aware of a strong feeling of lassitude. Maybe it was time he had a day of rest. According to his pocket almanac, today was Sunday. He wondered if Miss Sanders knew that.
She wasn't inclined to rest, so he couldn't either.
Boots changed, rifle and belt gun checked, ammunition pouch full, Malachi walked back to the lean-to just under an hour later. Despite the rain, the day was warm, and his slicker held the heat against his body, so that sweat was already trickling down his spine. At least it covered his belt gun. Now that a coat was unnecessary, he needed some other way to conceal it. His vests were too short.
I guess I could strap on my Colts. That would solve a couple of problems at the same time, as soon as Ernst saw them.
As if he'd been summoned, Tom Ernst stepped out of his tent. "It's sure funny how some women don't recognize a man when they see one."
Malachi ignored the loud remark. It wasn't the first the kid had made in the same vein. Sooner or later he was going to have to take Ernst down a peg or two, but the longer he could put it off, the better he'd like it.
"The kid sure's got a big chip on his shoulder," Murphy observed. He glanced over toward Ernst, almost as if hoping the younger man had heard him.
Malachi watched Ernst swagger across to the corral. "He's no worse than you or I were at that age. The first time I met you--"
"I tried to shoot you, and made a piss poor job of it." Murphy chuckled. "Good thing you're a forgivin' man."
"No sense in fighting if you don't have to," Malachi said. He picked up the coffeepot, half-filled his cup. "There's a little left. Want it?"
Murphy held out his cup, nodded his thanks. "Yeah, well, sooner or later you'll have to. He's not gonna stop badgering until somebody draws on him."
"I should have left him in Boise City. But I figured when we got here, where there wasn't anybody he could challenge, he'd straighten out." Sipping the coffee, Malachi grimaced at its bitter strength. "Maybe he would have if there wasn't a woman around for him to strut for."
"Or if he was the one to play bodyguard." Murphy looked across the camp toward the smallest tent. "Come to think of it, that's a body I didn't mind guarding."
A swift stab of anger flashed through Malachi's gut. "She's a lady, and don't you forget it."
"Me? I ain't likely to, the way she calls me 'Mr. Creek.'" He relaxed against the tree behind him. "In all my born days, I can't recall anybody--man or woman--callin' me 'Mister.' Guess I never met a real lady before." He looked straight at Malachi, raised one eyebrow. "Seems to me I ain't the one you should remind to treat her decent. That uncle of hers, he acts as if she's his maid."
"He treats everybody that way, like we're servants. Maybe, to his way of looking at things, we are." Standing, Malachi tossed the dregs of his coffee onto the smoldering embers. "I'm supposed to be at her tent right about now. Guess I'd better report for work."
"Posy-pickin' again, huh? It's a hard life you lead, Malachi...uh, Malcolm."
"Watch your mouth. All I need is for young Ernst to find out who I really am."
"You could take him."
"Could, yes. I don't want to. I'm sick of having to prove who's the better gunman."
"How many have you killed? A dozen? Twenty?"
"Too many," Malachi said, and turned away. It was time to go pick some flowers.
Chapter Thirteen
I've never wanted a woman as I do you.
Nellie still hadn't allowed herself to think about what Mr. Bradley had said, not in the almost three weeks since. At least once a day, his words sounded in her mind, and as soon as they did, she quickly banished them. He had been speaking from pity, not desire. Or if he had, that moment, desired her, it was in the generic way--a man for a woman--and not in a specific way.
Handsome, dangerous shootist Malcolm--no! He was Malachi Breedlove--had not wanted Nellie Sanders, plain and disfigured spinster.
Her uncle's party was about ready to depart. They were already almost two hours past the time originally set, because Uncle had personally wanted to supervise the packing of his equipment.
"Let's get going, man!" The big, rangy gelding skittered sideways as Uncle jerked on the reins. It bumped one of the mules, who cut loose with a loud bray.
Nellie didn't hear what Mr. Willard said, and decided it was probably just as well. Although the old muleskinner did his best to avoid profanity when she was present, he wasn't always successful. She hated being a source of embarrassment to him.
The four men rode out of camp single file, Mr. Willard in the lead, then Mr. Beckett, followed by Uncle. Behind a string of a dozen mules and one packhorse, Mr. Creek brought up the rear. Nellie waved until they ha
d disappeared beyond the trees, but only Mr. Willard and Mr. Creek waved back.
Mr. Bradley also watched, but he didn't wave. When they were gone, he walked to where she stood. "What are your plans?"
"I have to finish drying the last plants we collected, then I want to go up there." She waved a hand in the general direction of the mountains beyond the big lake. " Up high. We were never able to get far from camp when we had to be back every night."
She paused, for his mouth had tightened and his brows had lowered.
"Please, Mr. Bradley. Uncle will only explore the valley floor and a little ways up the slopes. And I just know there are some very different plants in the high places."
"I'm not against it," Miss Sanders, he said. "I figured you'd want to go higher. I just don't see how we can be away from camp for more than a couple of days. Young Tom can't watch all night and all day too."
"Oh! Of course not. I hadn't thought..." Nellie turned away, not wanting him to see the tears in her eyes. It was silly of her to be so disappointed. She should have known she would never get an opportunity to realize her dream. Chewing her lip, she stared at the mountains, so close, yet so out of reach, and willed the tears to subside.
He touched her arm. A light touch, yet it seemed to burn through the layers of cotton and wool. "Let me give it some thought. There might be a way."
Unable to speak, she nodded. After a moment, she heard him walk away. She went over to the corral, where Sheba was nosing at some grass just outside the fence. Leaning down, Nellie pulled it and fed it to the faithful little donkey. "We'll just have to go as far as we can every day, won't we?" she whispered, still not trusting her voice. "There are many places nearby we haven't been, so we'll just have to make sure we get to all of them."
She went to her tent, there to study the copy of Uncle's map that Mr. Willard had helped her annotate. It was far more detailed than it had been when they first arrived. The rest of the day, she alternated between studying it and working with the specimens they had already collected. She wanted to make sure that if Mr. Bradley found a way for them to be away from camp overnight, she would not be shirking her duties to do so.
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