He was halfway across when a low roaring sound met his ears. He jerked his head up to see a wall of water advancing on him, with debris caught in the floodwaters. He spurred his mount with a “hiyah!” but it was too late. The water swept against his horse. The animal lost its footing, and Matty managed to get his feet out of the stirrups just before he was thrown from its back.
Immediately, he got dunked and inhaled a mouthful of muddy, foul-tasting water. He coughed and spluttered when he was able to kick his head above the water. He couldn’t get his bearings, and then the creek turned a curve and he saw a tree growing right smack in the center of the creek—or maybe the waters had just risen that much that it had surrounded the tree.
He scissored his legs, but then a huge branch with lots of small, twiggy offshoots rolled over him in the water. He went under, and then the branch and the water combined and it was too late—he was shoved into the standing tree with bone-shattering force.
*
From her position downstream, Catherine Poole saw the stranger, dressed as a cowboy, get swept up in the flooded creek and then crash into the tree. He didn’t resurface.
Her grandfather “Pop” Poole had cautioned her time and again to stay away from strangers.
And she well knew the danger of those who called themselves friends.
Men meant danger, and that’s why she’d run when she’d seen the rider. At first glance, she’d thought he was her neighbor Ralph Chesterton.
But what if the man died? Even though he’d been chasing her, she couldn’t leave the man to drown, could she? There was no harm in checking on him.
She wouldn’t have even been out here—there was plenty enough to do around the homestead with the damage the storm had inflicted—but the mule had broken out of its stall in fright from the thunder and she’d had to track it down.
She left her mule behind and moved away from the creek’s edge, where she’d used some wild plum bushes to camouflage their presence. As she ran alongside the swirling, dangerous waters, she was careful not to slip on the muddy banks. If she tumbled in, who would rescue her?
This was when her habit of wearing men’s clothing—trousers, shirt and boots—was beneficial. In a long-skirted dress, she would have been hampered, but her trousers made it easier to run.
Even as she watched for the man, she kept her wits about her. He could’ve pretended injury when he’d fallen into the water and be waiting even now for a chance to grab her.
She caught sight of him floating facedown, yards ahead of her, still being swept away. Worry spiked through her like one of the bolts of lightning that had split the sky this morning. Was he dead?
Her boots slipped on the muddy banks.
How was she going to fish him out of the water? If she had rope, she could form a lasso, but there wasn’t time to run home and get some.
She knew this land. She’d been raised here and survived off the farmland and what nature provided. She knew that the creek made another twist up ahead and she put on a burst of speed. If she could get to the dogleg, she could possibly snag the cowboy when he passed.
She was panting, her chest clutching, but she didn’t slow down. The sudden fear for him overshadowed her own concerns. She couldn’t let this man die.
Her sleeve caught on a blackberry bramble; it scratched her cheek. But she dismissed the stinging pain.
She slid down the slight incline, scrambling for purchase, and nearly fell headlong into the rushing waters, but caught herself before she would have pitched into the water.
There he was! Still yards away but coming in her direction and quick.
She stretched out her arms as far as they would reach, arching out over the water, but she could see that it wasn’t going to be enough. She wasn’t tall enough to reach him.
He was going to float right by her.
She scrambled frantically, but there was nothing to help her, no branch, no rope…
The cowboy was upon her and there was nothing for it. She let her legs slide into the cold, murky water, up to her calves. Its chill made her gasp. Behind the small hill of land that made up the dogleg, water eddied. It pulled at her, but the slight protection of the shape of the land kept her from being swept away herself.
She caught the man around the waist, locking her hands together, bracing her feet against the muddy creek bottom. The water made him buoyant, but the weight of his wet clothes and boots dragged him down. She wobbled, almost losing her balance, which would have been a disaster for both of them, and threw herself backward. Her momentum was enough to land her backside on the bank, the rest of her following. The cowboy landed on top of her, stealing her breath with a whomp of his weight atop her.
He wasn’t breathing.
She shoved at his shoulders—he was much bigger than her—and finally rolled him up the bank and off her.
She pushed herself up to kneel at his side. His face was ashen, his blond hair matted to his head. A large bump and gash near his temple worried her, blood trickling from it down into his ear.
“Hey,” she said, shaking his shoulder. “Wake up.”
Nothing. He made no response.
Fear twisted through her, giving her hands force. She beat her fists against his torso. And he coughed. A burst of air and water expelled from his mouth. She turned his head to the side so he wouldn’t choke as he gurgled and spit liquid.
She was leaning over him as he finally gasped an inhale. His eyes cracked open. If she’d thought about it at all, she might’ve expected them to be blue given his fair coloring and blond hair, but they were a warm brown, just like her mama’s had been.
“You’re all right,” she said, and her voice was breathless with relief. He was the only one around to hear.
“Can you sit up?”
He didn’t answer, his eyes remained open but narrowly, as if he was perhaps holding on to the edge of consciousness by a thread.
She put her hands beneath his shoulders and nudged, hoping that he would take the hint and sit up. She’d rescued him, and now he needed to move on, before Pop caught wind that he’d been trespassing on their property.
But as she pulled on his shoulders, he gave a horrible groan. One hand went to his chest, and then he promptly passed out.
Face flushing at the intimacy, she unbuttoned the top of his shirt and found ugly purpling bruises covering his upper chest. And he was breathing funny. Even passed out, his mouth was a grimace of pain.
He wasn’t going away anytime soon.
What was she going to do now? Pop was not going to be happy about this.
Chapter Two
Matty regained consciousness in a haze of pain, lying flat on his back in a dimly lit room that smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke. Where was he?
Every breath hurt, like fire streaking across his chest.
He moaned. “Pa?”
Where was Jonas? If his pa would come, he’d help Matty. He knew it.
“Easy.” A cool, dry hand rested on his forehead.
“Ma?” He tried to turn his head and see who’d spoken, but throbbing pain pierced his skull and he cried out.
“Be still,” the voice said, but it wasn’t Ma.
There was movement at his shoulder, and he again tried to turn his head.
Blinding pain changed his mind.
“I told you not to move,” the voice came again. “You’ve got a gash on your head, and I’ve just about got it to stop bleeding.”
The voice was calm. A midrange contralto.
“Wanna see you,” he mumbled, the effort costing him in the pounding of his head.
A shadow fell across his face and he opened his eyes. An adorable pixie face, capped with dark curls and bright blue eyes fringed with inky lashes. It was too hard to focus on the darkened room beyond her.
“Who’re you?” his voice emerged more of a growl than he had intended, but he didn’t apologize. Where was he? Who was this?
“A friend,” came the implacable answer. “And thi
ngs will go better for you if you’re as quiet and still as possible.”
The part of him that had taken lessons in suspicion from the local sheriff sent prickles of awareness down the back of his neck. What did that warning mean? Had he been set upon by a gang of bandits? How had he gotten here? What had happened?
Why couldn’t he remember?
His breathing quickened as those panicked thoughts swirled in his mind, and that was painful, too. He forced himself to slow both the thoughts and his breathing until his pain eased slightly.
“I’m an officer of the law—” he started.
“Ssh!” Something soft touched his mouth at the same time as she shushed him.
Her fingers, he realized, when his eyes flew open. When had his eyes closed? He needed his wits about him. The blinding pain continued, but he forced his eyes to stay open.
She took away her hand, which was really a shame, because her fingers were soft as a dandelion puff, and leaned close. He got a whiff of sweet woman and sunshine and then coffee as she spoke again, this time from much closer. Close enough for him to see the light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
“I’ve taken your gun belt,” she whispered. “And hidden it somewhere safe.”
That didn’t sound innocent.
He tried to reach for his shoulder, where he kept a silver star pinned, but trying to move his arm wrenched awful pain across his chest and he gasped.
“Be still,” she said, censure in her tone. “You’ll injure yourself worse. You may have a broken collarbone.”
“What…what happened to me?”
“Do you remember trying to cross the creek? Getting swept up? Nearly drowning?”
At her words, memories flooded him. Chasing the young man who’d run. His horse caught by the rushing waters and a floating tree. And then blackness.
Where was the young man?
How had this young woman come to rescue him? And why had she taken away his gun belt? His intuition shouted that danger was still present.
“My ride?” he demanded, his voice hoarse.
“I didn’t see,” she said, her voice soft with what might be empathy. “Maybe your horse climbed out downstream.”
The water had been rushing with such force that Matty didn’t know if the animal would have been able to recover, not with the floating debris that made it so dangerous. The buckskin had been a good mount, a trusted friend. It was a difficult loss.
“What’s your name?” the voice asked.
“Matty. Matty White.”
There was a soft intake of breath.
“Do we know each other?” he asked, watching the play of emotions as she ducked her head.
She shook her head minutely. “I’m Catherine.” Her eyes flicked to the side, as if she wasn’t being entirely truthful that they weren’t acquainted, but he would recognize her if she’d been at any church socials or town functions in the past couple of years. There was no flicker of recognition within him at all.
“Thanks for fishing me out of the creek.”
It had been a guess, but he saw the quick flare of pride in her eyes before she stood up. “You should rest.”
*
Catherine stood up and turned to stoke the fire in the short stove across the room. The dugout she shared with her grandfather was small, this distance not far enough for her to catch her breath.
She was deeply unsettled by the cowboy’s nearness. The deputy.
A deputy shouldn’t be an immediate danger, but that discounted this particular deputy.
Matty White.
She hadn’t recognized him until he’d said his name.
Back in their school days, she’d known him as Matty Standish.
Why did it have to be him?
They’d known each other for all of a week when she’d been eight years old. That had been nearly fifteen years ago now.
Her hands were busy with supper preparations, but she couldn’t keep her mind from whirling back to the past.
He’d been one of her tormentors. He and Luella McKeever. That first day in the schoolhouse, they had poked fun at her homespun dress and her bare feet and lack of a bonnet, though it had been late fall and she really should have been wearing shoes by that time of year. She’d been unbearably shy, coming to school for the first time at age eight. She’d been behind the other children in lessons, and they’d made fun of that, too.
It had only grown worse from there.
But now it looked like he’d grown up. He’d been skinny to the point of being scrawny back then. Now his shoulders had broadened, and he’d filled out a tall frame. His jaw was firm and forehead strong. God had certainly blessed him with handsome features.
She’d had a hard time hauling him back to the soddy. She’d constructed a litter out of two long poles and a few branches she’d found, and gone back for the mule. Luckily the contraption had held until they’d reached the dugout, several hundred yards from where the cowboy had fallen into the creek.
She’d pretended that the exertion had made her face flush, but she feared it was a reaction to the man. She wasn’t used to being near someone so comely.
Or maybe she’d been isolated on the homestead for too long. Hopefully that was the true explanation.
She had no use for men—other than Pop—and didn’t trust a one of them. She needed to figure a way to get the cowboy off her property, but he could barely move from his injury.
He was silent. She’d seen the stark emotion cross his face when he’d learned his horse had been lost, and something inside her had responded with a corresponding surge of grief. She knew loss, didn’t she?
But she didn’t know the cowboy. A previous acquaintance over a decade ago did not a friendship make. And even though he cared for his animal, it didn’t mean he was a kind man, did it? She needed to tread carefully, for if he was still as cruel as he had been in the past, she wanted none of it.
And then there was Pop to consider. She’d sent him to the garden they kept out back of the soddy to see what damage the storm had wrought. She needed to prepare him before he came in and saw the bedridden cowboy.
And then she needed to check the barn, the second, open-sided soddy they used to house the mule, milk cow and few chickens and their winter supplies. It was closer to the creek, and she thought it might have suffered damage in the storm but had been too busy with the cowboy to check.
The work never ended, out here on the prairie.
“Miss?” The word and then a gasp had her whipping toward her bed in the corner.
Matty had rolled his head on the pillow and was looking at her, though his eyes were narrowed and lips pinched with pain.
“Where’d she go?” he asked.
“Who?”
“Catherine. She was just here.”
She froze; words died on her lips. He was looking right at her, and she knew what he must see. A teenage boy.
The clothes were a protection. As she’d blossomed to adulthood, Pop had convinced her of the need to dress like this, but she’d never considered that up close, someone would mistake her for a male.
Her cheeks flamed.
“I guess it don’t matter,” he mumbled. “I need someone to get word to my family. They’ll come for me.”
She was shaking her head before he’d finished speaking. “I can’t.”
Her grandfather couldn’t handle having folks around, not with his delusions. And though he still roamed their property, he couldn’t be left on his own due to his failing memory. She checked on him often during the day, couldn’t work long distances from the house. A few weeks ago she’d come in from milking the cow to find he’d let water boil over on the stove and flooded part of the floor in that corner of the dugout. Before that, it had been him running out in the field wearing his long johns with a bedsheet tied around his neck, flying like a cape behind him.
And she also couldn’t take Pop with her to town. Not only did he refuse to go, but his aversion to people could t
ake a violent turn sometimes. He still thought strangers were Rebel soldiers, ready to kill him.
It wasn’t possible.
“I’m real sorry, but you’re stuck here for now.”
The cowboy laid out on the bed tried to sit up, groaning with the effort. He got one elbow under him before he collapsed, groaning in pain.
“That ain’t acceptable,” he growled—growled!—to the ceiling. “I’ve got folks that’ll be worrying for me. And they’ll take me off your hands—doctor me up at home.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I can’t leave the homestead.”
She left it at that for now, knowing he was still in deep pain, knowing he was likely exhausted and addled from his ordeal and nearly drowning.
She did feel bad for him, but she was virtually on her own out here. If it was just her, she would do what he asked, but she had Pop to think about. She would nurse Matty here until he could leave on his own. It was the best she could do.
It wasn’t as if she wanted him here, either. Once he got his wits about him, he’d see that she was Catherine, dressed in men’s clothes. No telling what censure he would show then. Would he make fun of her as he had when she was a child?
The thought made her breath catch, even now.
“I’ve got to go check on my grandfather,” she told the cowboy. “Stay in that bed and don’t hurt yourself. Further.”
She found Pop standing near the edge of the garden plot. Their plot took up more than an acre, the brown earth that she and the mule had tilled earlier this spring. Around a bend in the woods was the wheat field they’d cultivated for years.
Standing at the edge of the plowed dirt field, it was easy to see the damage that the storm had done.
Hail had ripped through the delicate leaves of her tomato plants, had decimated the cornstalks. Her okra was ruined. A few of the hardier plants had survived with only minimal damage.
Pop stared at the horizon, lost in thoughts she would never be able to guess.
“We’ve still got time to replant, Pop,” she said, winding one arm through his elbow. He felt more frail than he had even six months ago, felt as if his bones themselves were lighter. And the knowledge pierced her heart, made her breath catch.
Love Inspired Historical October 2015 Box Set Page 2