“I willna cower in the rocks while you face them alone.”
Carson swore in frustration. He should have thrown her from the saddle when he’d first spotted the warriors.
He had a fleeting wish for one of those new repeating rifles, then there was no time for thought.
The crashing and scrambling drew nearer, grew louder. Winter Fawn’s arms around his waist hugged tighter.
Carson’s finger slid to the trigger of his Maynard. His palms were damp, but his hands were steady. His hands were always steady during battle. That, at least, had not changed, and he was grateful.
The brush before him parted.
He sighted down the barrel. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Innes’s pack mule burst through the brush.
Carson slipped his finger off the trigger and jerked the rifle barrel into the air. “Hail Mary.” He wasn’t sure if it was the mule’s name he was saying, or a prayer. “She’ll either keep us alive with the supplies on her back, or get us killed by trailing behind and adding to our tracks, making us more visible.”
The mule snorted, then ambled over and lipped the gelding’s muzzle. It looked like a kiss.
“She will not trail behind,” Winter Fawn said, her voice thin. “I have heard my father say many times that she is faster than the horse.”
“What’s this?” Carson nudged the horse until he could reach the pouch that had been tied on top of one of the packs. It hadn’t been there before. He snared the bag and opened it.
“Bless that Scotsman’s red head. He sent us his binoculars.”
“This is good?”
“This is damn good.” They weren’t out of trouble by a long shot. The warriors were still back there, and probably getting closer by the second. But for the first time in a long while, Carson felt as if perhaps the situation was not quite as hopeless as he’d feared. “How are you holding up?” he asked Winter Fawn.
“Holding up what?”
He smiled to himself. “How are you feeling? How’s your wound?”
“I am all right.”
Carson doubted it, but there wasn’t much he could do for her at the moment. They needed to put more distance between themselves and the warriors. It would be dark in a few hours. This was not the type of terrain in which a man wanted to ride horseback in the dark. All they needed was for the horse to stumble on a rock and break a leg.
“Come on, then, Hail Mary. Let’s get out of here.”
They climbed ever upward, using stream beds where possible to conceal their tracks. Hail Mary followed directly behind the horse like a trained pup. The sun wasn’t quite down yet, but the air was cooling rapidly. Mountain peaks loomed ahead, treacherous, forbidding, their tops covered in snow.
Carson had a great respect for mountains. Their majesty was awe-inspiring. He loved their wildness, their strength. He just wished he had more experience in crossing them.
He’d be a fool to head for the peaks. He knew next to nothing about traveling in mountains this early in the year. It would be too ironic to escape the Arapaho warriors, only to die on the mountains due to his own ignorance.
Junipers and scrub oak gave way again to pines. The sun set, shadows lengthened. The air chilled. Against Carson’s back, Winter Fawn shivered harder each minute. It wasn’t really cold enough for her to be shivering that hard. It had to be caused more by her wound than the weather. He needed to warm her. She needed rest.
In the shelter of some pine trees, he drew the horse to a halt. “Wait here.” Taking the binoculars, he swung his right leg over the horse’s ears—he was getting damned good at that, he thought with a touch of humor—and slid to the ground.
Hail Mary was right there with them. She hadn’t fallen more than a few yards behind since she’d joined them on this trek. Carson unstrapped the buffalo robe and wrapped it around Winter Fawn.
This was the first good look he’d gotten of her face all day. Her paleness shook him. She was nearly as white as Bess or Megan. Even her lips were pale. In the dim light of dusk, the dark, heavy circles under her eyes stood out like half circles of black paint on a warrior’s face. She tried to smile at him, but couldn’t quite pull it off, and it hurt him somewhere deep inside.
“Can you move up into the saddle?” His voice was huskier than it should have been. “Or do you need help?”
Winter Fawn pulled the buffalo robe snugly around her shoulders, grateful for the sudden warmth, and bit her bottom lip. It stung her pride to realize she probably had not enough strength to accomplish something so simple as slipping up over the back of the saddle and into the seat, but she feared it was true. Yet the thought of him putting his hands on her waist to help her made her want to try the move on her own. In touching her waist, he would not be able to avoid touching her wound, and she feared she would faint if the pain grew any worse.
When she didn’t answer or make a move, Carson settled the matter by grasping her gently but firmly by the hips and lifting her over the cantle and into the seat of the saddle.
Winter Fawn sucked in a sharp breath, but he hadn’t touched her wound, and the pain had not been nearly as bad as she’d feared.
He placed the reins in her hands. “I’m going to take a look at our back trail. I’ll be right back.”
Carson forced himself to turn away from the pain in her eyes. He slipped through the trees as quietly as possible until he came to a rocky outcropping that overlooked the narrow valley below. Through the binoculars he studied the area. He knew the warriors were there somewhere. He wanted to know where. If his efforts at disguising his trail were not slowing the Indians down, he would stop wasting his time and just go for speed.
There. What was that? A flash of movement. He lowered the binoculars to gauge the distance and figured it to be a couple of miles. If that was them, he had successfully put a little extra distance between them, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
He raised the glasses to find the spot of movement again. There. That was it. They were about to break through the tree line and into a small clearing barely visible over the next grove.
Deer.
Carson swore in frustration and relief. Frustration that he hadn’t found the warriors, relief that they were not so close as two miles. Unless he was just missing them.
Dammit, where were they?
A hawk flew through his view, close enough to appear huge through the binoculars, close enough to startle him.
Great. Now he was jumping at birds.
There. Another half mile back. One, two, three, four riders. Either the other two had turned back, or he’d simply missed them.
Two and a half miles. Not far enough. Not nearly far enough.
Carson jogged back to the horse and mounted behind Winter Fawn. “Are you warmer?”
“I am fine.”
He snorted in disbelief. “I think you’d say that if you were half dead.”
“Did you see them?”
“I saw them. Less than three miles back. I’m sorry. I want to build a fire to warm you and make more willow bark tea, but if we stop now, they’ll catch us.”
“Do not stop,” she urged. “Not for me. I am fine.”
He didn’t believe her, but he did not argue. There was no choice. They kept traveling. Carson pushed the horse as fast as he could over the trackless hills and into the mountains themselves before he found a good—well, not ideal, but acceptable—place to stop before full darkness had him leading them right off the side of the mountain into some deep ravine somewhere.
He found a spot where the land creased between two ridges. Something had happened there a long time ago, some natural disaster. There were a dozen or more uprooted trees, long since dead, scattered like forgotten toys, leaning against each other here, piled one on top of another there. It looked like the aftermath of a small hurricane along the Atlantic coast. Eerie. Solemn.
But it would provide shelter, and, best of all, the arrangement of roots and limps sticking up in the air would le
t him rig the canvass, or better yet, the rubber ground sheet, as it would better shield the glow of a small fire from the view of anyone behind them.
At the lower end of the crease, about a hundred yards north, a small creek trickled down the center of an intersecting fold in the land.
Carson wasted no time. It was almost full dark. The sooner he started the fire, the sooner he could put it out. He slid from the saddle, then pulled Winter Fawn down into his arms, buffalo robe and all, and sat her on a fallen pine, the branches of which had been stripped away by time and the elements, leaving a fairly smooth surface.
Next he turned his attention to the mule and stripped her packs, stacking everything inside the perimeter of a triangle formed by three fallen pines. A fourth tree—he couldn’t think of them as logs, not with dead roots and branches still attached—lay across two of the others, forming a shelter of sorts that would keep Winter Fawn out of the wind for the night.
While he was unpacking the mule, Winter Fawn stood and left the buffalo robe on the tree. He watched as she made her way across the clearing and into the tree line, where she disappeared in the undergrowth of small pines. Knowing she needed privacy, he said nothing and finished unpacking the mule.
After unsaddling the horse, he led both animals down the slope and watered them, filling the canteen and the coffee pot while there, then picketed the horse and mule near the trees so they could reach the grass there, even though it was still winter-dry. He poured out a handful of grain from Innes’s pack for each animal and rubbed them down. They had sure done their work today, and tomorrow would certainly be as bad, if not worse. Mountains in spring could be unbelievably unforgiving.
When he returned to camp Winter Fawn was back and had gathered a good pile of twigs and small branches.
“I would have done that. You should be resting.”
“I will rest when you do.”
Now what, he thought wryly, was a man supposed to say to that?
He changed his mind about using the rubber ground sheet to shield the fire. With the trees stacked the way they were, not to mention the slope of the land, the canvass tarp would work nearly as well. He doubted the Indians would come up the side of the mountain in the dark. They didn’t strike him as complete fools. No matter how familiar they might be with the area, traveling in the mountains at night was dangerous in the extreme.
Using strips of rawhide and refusing Winter Fawn’s attempts to help, he tied the corners of the canvass to dead branches so that the tarp shielded them from view from the south. While he lit a small fire that allowed only a tiny wisp of smoke to rise, she started rolling out the ground sheet.
“Would you stop?” he said, exasperated.
She looked at him, puzzled and surprised. “Why?”
“Because you’re hurt, you’re exhausted, and you’re feverish.”
“Aye, I am all of those things, but helpless I’m not.”
“You will be if you don’t sit still and get some rest.” He braced three sticks to form a tripod over the fire and hung the coffeepot there by a hook, then reached into one of the packs for the willow branches. “As soon as I get this tea going I want to have a look at your wounds.”
Winter Fawn sighed. She knew he was right, she should rest. She was nearly at the end of her strength, and her wounds did need looking at, probably needed a new bandage. The wound in her back felt as if she had pulled it open again.
But it rankled, this new vulnerability and sense of helplessness. She was used to taking care of others, not being taken care of. She was used to doing rather than sitting idle. She was used to feeling well and strong, yet now she was so weak she could barely stay upright, and the pain in her side every time she moved drained her even more.
“I am sorry to be so much trouble,” she whispered.
Looking up from shaving willow bark into the coffee pot, he smiled slightly. It changed his entire face, lightening it, softening it.
Oh, she did like that smile.
There was a look in his bright blue eyes that she’d never seen before. It reminded her of the teasing looks shared by young couples just before they disappeared into their lodges for the night.
“I don’t doubt,” he said slowly, “that you could be trouble if you wanted to.”
A new fever, unrelated to her wound, heated her deep inside, flustering her, shocking her. What did he mean by that?
“But so far,” he said, turning back to his task and releasing her from whatever spell had held her breath locked in her chest, “the most troublesome thing you’ve done is save my life. I find it impossible to complain about that.”
He left the willow bark water to heat, then spread the ground sheet out and added the bedroll on top. As he moved, she noticed how he favored his side.
“You should let me look at your injuries.”
He retrieved the buffalo robe and added it to the bedroll. “Right after I look at yours.”
Winter Fawn shook her head. She was very much afraid that after the ordeal of having him rebandage her wounds she would be incapable of seeing to him. She was, as her father would say, nearly done for.
“Please,” she said, hoping that a soft tone would gain her her wish. “You have been taking care of me for two nights and a day. Let me see to you first.”
“Winter Fawn, you look like a slight breeze would knock you flat.”
“I am tired, aye, but it willna take long to see to your injuries. Then you can see to mine.”
Carson gave in because it seemed to matter to her. Maybe it would ease her mind to see that his wounds were nothing compared to hers. After all, she wouldn’t be able to see the pounding he felt in the back of his skull.
He gave her a slight smile. “Be gentle with me.”
She frowned, then smiled. “You tease me.”
“I’m begging you,” he said, still smiling as he pulled the tail of his undershirt from his pants. “I don’t care a lot for pain.”
Winter Fawn checked his bandage and found it to be as clean as could be expected considering the day they’d spent. There was no sign of fresh blood, no telltale streaks of red to indicate poisoning. Only the bruising around the entrance and exit wounds, and a slight seepage, which was typical.
“I know it hurts when you move wrong,” she told him, “but it looks good. Now I’ll see your head.”
He turned and sat with his back to her.
“One of us,” she said, “is the wrong height.
He peered at her over his shoulder. “How’s that?”
“Either you are too tall, or I am too short.” She braced her hands on the ground to push herself to her knees so that she could see the back of his head better.
“Stay,” he said. “I’ll get shorter.” He stretched out in front of her where she sat on the buffalo robe and propped himself up on one elbow. “Better?”
“Hmm,” she murmured, reaching for the back of his head. Gently, with the tips of her fingers, she eased thick strands of black hair aside to get a look at the gash. “How did this happen?”
“A bullet creased me. Your father said it was Crooked Oak. That’s two I owe that bastard,” he muttered, barely loud enough for her to hear.
He had laid the bedding out close to the fire. It was a small fire, but enough to heat the water and give off light. The sky was turning from deep purple to true black. Dozens of stars were already visible. On the mountainside, everything was black. She pulled one of her father’s packs close, tilted it toward the light of the fire, and pulled out a rag she hoped was clean. Wetting it from the willow bark tea that was not yet warm enough to steam, she brought it back to Carson’s head.
Carson sighed despite the pain of having the gash washed. The warm dampness felt good, but not nearly as good as her fingers stirring his hair. He couldn’t remember the last time someone, a woman, had stroked his hair. She laid her palm against his head and he felt a different warmth, stronger, deeper. The pain seemed to ease as if by magic. If she promised to keep at it
for another hour, he just might be willing to die for her.
But she needed looking after worse than he did. With a great deal of reluctance, he bit back a groan and pushed himself up and turned toward her.
Light from the small fire sent flickering shadows alternating with dancing light across her features. In this light she didn’t appear so pale, but the dark circles stood out beneath her feverish eyes. He pressed the backs of his fingers to her cheek.
“Damn. Your fever is worse. I should have been taking care of you instead of the other way around.”
“You are making tea for me.”
“I’m also checking your bandage.” He reached for the fringed bottom of her doeskin tunic. One look at the fresh blood soaking the pad over her wound in her back had him swearing. “Dammit, why didn’t you say something?”
“What was there to say? We couldna stop for a wee trickle of blood.”
“Turn your back toward the fire so I can see better.” When she did, he unwound the bandage from around her waist. The soaked pad fell away. “You’ve pulled a stitch or two loose.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine with a fresh bandage,” she offered quickly.
“If I thought that would do the trick, I’d be the first to agree. But I’m going to have to stitch this again, and neither one of us is going to enjoy it. Do you want me to dig out your father’s bottle of whiskey?”
“Nae,” she said quietly. “Just be gettin’ it done.”
Easy for her to say, he thought sourly. She wasn’t the one who was going to have to poke a needle through bruised and torn flesh.
No, you idiot, she’s just the one whose flesh you’re going to poke another hole in.
It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to do. He’d stitched a wound or two in his day. Hell, he’d even sewn himself up once during the war. But this was different. This wasn’t some battle-hardened soldier with skin like leather. This was a woman with skin as soft and smooth as silk. Her flesh was tender.
It was on the tip of his tongue to say that this was going to hurt him worse than it was her, and the thought nearly made him laugh out loud. His father used to say the same thing to him right before he took a switch to his backside for skipping out on chores, or some other transgression, when he’d been a kid. Believe me, son, this will hurt me much worse than it hurts you. Humph. One of the more outrageous lies that fathers told their children.
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