by Joyce Armor
She heard a splash in the creek and cautiously looked over there, hoping it was a fish jumping and not a mountain lion about to devour her. Staring for a minute or two, she saw nothing, just ripples in the water. After that, she tried to assess her condition. Her dress was torn. She should have worn Carmen’s son’s breeches. So much for her clever planning. She had several scrapes on her arms and legs and no doubt quite a few bruises but otherwise seemed remarkably unhurt now that she had caught her second wind. Then she stood and nearly screamed in pain when she took a step. There was definitely something wrong with her right ankle. Damn!
She sat back down heavily. What next?
A weaker woman might have cried or swooned, but Libby had not traveled across the country, evading her dastardly pursuers, to collapse because of a few hardships and a throbbing ankle. Perhaps she should thank Elias Parminter for his cruelty and her mother for her indifference if that’s what gave her her strength. She believed she was within a half-mile of the line shack and would get there if she had to crawl on her hands and knees or slither on the ground like a snake. Carefully she stood, placing barely any weight on the offending ankle. She realized she could not reach her valise and the food bag and sat back down, crawling to where they were.
She was afraid to look at the ankle and hoped it wasn’t broken. There was no way she could remain where she was, so she had to move no matter what. It would only serve to upset her if she looked and saw something awful. Still, she felt like a child who thought if she couldn’t see you, you couldn’t see her. If she couldn’t see the injury, it wasn’t there. Once again, mind over matter. Securing the valise strap over her shoulder and clutching the pillowcase, she stood again and started to follow the creek, hopping on her left foot and dragging the offending ankle.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” she hissed as she limped along, putting the least amount of pressure on her ankle as she could. The trees were too far off to find a heavy stick to use as a cane. She didn’t think the ankle could be broken if she could put any weight on it at all. Still, every step she took sent shooting pains up her leg. It took more than an hour, but blessedly, at last, she finally spotted the line shack in the distance. She would have to cross the creek and climb a little hill to get there.
“Lord help me,” she intoned. After a brief rest, she decided to walk through the creek rather than try to navigate slippery stones across it. The sky was just turning pink as dawn approached. She would have stopped to appreciate it under different circumstances. The cold water only came up to her knees and actually felt rather soothing on her ankle, but the trek uphill was impossible. She finally ended up negotiating it on her hands and knees. If the folks in St. Louis could only see me now.
She practically cried when she reached the rudimentary little cabin. Thank goodness it wasn’t locked. She would not have had the strength to break in. She hopped through the door on her good foot and could see a potbelly stove, a simple bed and a table. Shelves held canned beans, flour, coffee and other foodstuffs. Libby thought it would be safe to light the lantern for a few minutes, and she used a match from the shelves to do so. Then, wearily, she sat down on the bed to assess her ankle.
Taking off her shoe, which was painful and a struggle since the ankle and her foot had swollen, she looked at the massive swelling and discoloration, almost as if it was on someone else. She slowly rotated her foot, and while it hurt, it convinced her the ankle was not broken. It was obviously badly sprained, however, and there was a rather nasty cut just above the ankle bone as well. She hadn’t even felt that. Hopefully walking through the creek had cleaned it out, because Libby was too exhausted to do it now. Taking off her cloak and setting it on the table, she placed the lantern next to the bed, lay down and pulled the blanket over her, then leaned over and blew out the lantern. Her head had barely hit the pillow before she was sound asleep.
* * *
Garrett could tell it was afternoon by the bright sunlight streaming in his window. It took him a moment to figure out that a commotion in the hallway had awakened him. He sat up quickly, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder, and was trying to get out of bed when Jackson burst into the room.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting up. What’s going on?”
“Lie back before you fall over, Garrett.”
He didn’t want to, but that’s about all his body would allow. Jackson gently pushed him back down and fixed his pillows so he could sit up. He poured his young foreman a cup of coffee and handed it to him.
Garrett took a quick drink. “What’s all the commotion?”
Jackson sat down. “You’re not going to like it.”
“What happened? Is it the stock?”
Jackson sighed. “No. Libby’s gone.”
Garrett jerked, trying to get up again, and Jackson pushed him back down.
“Ouch”
“Stay put.”
“What are we going to do about it? Where would they take her?”
“She wasn’t kidnapped. She left on her own, to protect us.”
He sat up again, gasping. “Jesus. What is wrong with that woman?”
Jackson’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “I imagine she’s wondering the same thing about you.”
“Well, we’ve got to find her.” He slowly rotated his shoulder, trying to hide his pained expression as he tried to assess his condition. He definitely was sore. And weak. He hated being weak.
Jackson sighed. “I’ve got the men out looking. She didn’t take a horse, wagon or the buggy, so she’s on foot unless someone picked her up.”
“When did she leave? Who would pick her up?”
“She left sometime last night or early this morning, and I don’t think she’s made any friends in town yet, so I suspect she’s on her own. She left me a note, basically saying she wanted to lead the danger away from us.”
“Wandering around the countryside with killers after her. Christ!”
“We’ll find her.”
Garrett tried to get up yet again and Jackson pushed him back yet again. “For God sakes, Garrett, you’re not going to help Libby by killing yourself. You couldn’t sit a horse if you tried, so just stay there and heal, dammit.”
“If anything happens to her…”
“We’ve all become pretty fond of her, and she’s been treated so unfairly.”
Garrett thought about that. He sighed. “By me, too.”
“I think that’s a case of protesting too much.”
His eyes narrowed. “Whaddya mean?”
“I think you didn’t want to be as drawn to her as you are, so you tried to push her away.”
“What are you now, one of those head doctors?”
Jackson rose. “Get some more rest. Carmen is bringing up your lunch shortly.”
“Let me know what’s happening. If you don’t find her today, I swear I’m going out tomorrow.”
While Garrett ate his lunch, Jackson went to the stables to saddle his horse. He was tightening the cinch when Carmen hurried in.
“I just remembered something,” she said.
“What?”
“Last evening, after la comida, Libby asked if she could take some food to her room. She had never done that before. I thought it was good that her appetite was returning.”
“So she planned her exit and knew she would need food. I’m betting she thought of someplace to stay as well.”
“Please find her, señor.
Jackson patted her arm and then mounted his black stallion. “We will,” he promised.
As he trotted off in search of Libby, Jackson didn’t believe she would walk to town, as that’s most likely where her pursuers were, although he had sent men there looking anyway. She had probably walked either north, south or east. The nearest ranch was more than ten miles away, and he did not believe she would go there and put anyone else in danger. Just to be sure, though, he had sent men to neighboring ranches. He was impressed that she hadn’t left any tracks. Their young h
ousekeeper was not acting like a tenderfoot. Why that should make him feel proud, he had no idea.
There were four line shacks on the Butterman property, and Jackson determined to check each one. As he rode over the hills and valleys of the Montana spread, he felt great pride in the expanse of land that encompassed his holdings and his massive herds of cattle. He could not be prouder of the ranch and his accomplishments. He knew he had not succeeded alone, and he knew his success had come at a cost, specifically two good women that he had lost.
Elinora had been too citified. She was a beautiful and vibrant lady, although young and selfish, but she couldn’t abide the solitude and peace of the country, not to mention the hard work. Those were the very things that gave Jackson his strength and sense of fulfillment. Reenie had been enthusiastic about the land and understood his connection to it, but her constitution was weak. Ranch life in Montana Territory could be a harsh existence, and it was even more so in the early days.
Although Reenie lasted nearly 10 years, she was never hardy and almost seemed to just fade away over the years. She was pregnant three times, but never strong enough to carry a baby to term. Elinora had stayed less than three months, not long enough to start a family. For a long time, Jackson’s family had been Garrett and Carmen and her husband, Hector, as well as Joss and the other ranch hands. And he could not have asked for a better, more competent or more loyal group. Garrett was like a son to him. He didn’t know it, but he would inherit the Butterman ranch.
Jackson didn’t quite understand how Libby had become so important to all of them so quickly, but she had. She was not a simpering Easterner, that was for certain. She brought an energy to the household that he hadn’t even known was missing. He was so impressed with how she had traveled across the country alone and how she had handled the crisis of Garrett’s shooting. Libby was definitely a force to be reckoned with. He admired her courage but not her foolhardiness. Even a brave young woman was no match for men intent on harming her. Good always had a disadvantage against evil because evil didn’t play fair. And Libby was definitely good.
Jackson had checked out three of the line shacks and found them empty. He was heading toward the fourth one, not holding out much hope, when the clouds opened and a downpour began. Turning up the collar of his slicker, he decided to head back to the ranch house and take up the search again in the morning.
* * *
As Jackson was cantering back to the ranch house, Libby was awakening from a fitful sleep. It didn’t take long to get her bearings. And comprehend her crisis. Her ankle was killing her. If she had wanted to put her shoe back on, she couldn’t have, it was so swollen. And worse yet, she felt feverish. She sat up and tried to focus on her wound and realized it was red and angry. Obviously infected, but not as infected as her brain. She was a big fat idiot. There was no way she could make it back to the ranch now. She would have to get better or die out here on her own. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
Maybe she was impetuous because she had never had the opportunity to be so before. She was testing her wings and was bound to make some mistakes. Well, she would try to clean the wound and get something to eat before she gave in to defeat. There was no point in trying to disguise her presence anymore, since she badly needed rescued, so she painfully hobbled over to the potbelly stove, pulled some kindling from a nearby box and lit it with one of the matches she had set atop of the stove. When the fire was going sufficiently, she added a couple of logs a former resident had kindly supplied.
Then it was an arduous and even more painful 30 yards down to the creek, where she gingerly rinsed off the wound and filled a tea kettle with water. After another grueling trip back to the shack, she placed the kettle on the stove and sank gratefully onto the bed, already spent. She nodded off and started awake when the tea kettle began whistling. Looking around for something she could use as a bandage and finding nothing, Libby lifted up her shift and looked at her pretty chemise, sighing. Then she began ripping strips off the bottom of it.
Next, she dragged herself over to the stove and picked up the teapot, almost dropping it because it seemed so heavy. Sinking gratefully to the bed, she poured some hot water from the kettle onto a folded strip and put it on the wound, trying to draw out the infection, while hissing at the pain the heat caused. After the cloth cooled, she dried the angry wound and then wrapped a dry strip around the offending skin and tied it. She had planned to get something to eat, but she was so tired and miserable, she sank down on the bed and drifted off to sleep. As she slept, the infection grew, as did her fever. By the following morning, she was burning up and delirious.
* * *
Garrett was dressed and eating breakfast in the dining room when Jackson entered.
“What are you doing up?”
“I feel fine. I’m going out to search.”
“No, you’re not.”
Garrett put down the sausage he had just forked. “You’re not going to stop me, old man.”
“I’ll old man you if you so much as try to saddle a horse.”
Garrett scoffed. “What if it was Reenie?”
Now it was Jackson’s turn to stop eating. He held Garrett’s gaze for several moments. “Are you saying you have feelings for Libby?”
“I’m saying I’m going.”
Jackson blew out a breath. “All right, but I’m going with you.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Twenty minutes later, Garrett struggled to get his horse saddled before Jackson took pity on him and finished the job. The young cowboy did tend to heal fast, Jackson remembered from previous injuries, but he was as bullheaded as they came. Jackson just shook his head as he helped boost Garrett into the saddle.
“I could have made it on my own, you know,” Garrett said.
“Sure.”
Jackson vaulted into his saddle, still all cowboy at age 44. “I checked three of the line shacks yesterday but didn’t get to the north one. Let’s go there first.”
“Okay. And while we’re up there, let’s check out the woods again where the shooter was.”
“Good idea.”
As they headed off, Jackson kept a close watch on Garrett to make sure he would stay in the saddle. While his foreman’s expression was somewhere between stoic and a grimace, he seemed to be in control, and the older man breathed a sigh of relief.
As they approached the north line shack, Garrett felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Something was wrong. He could feel it. He looked at Jackson, who seemed to have the same thought. They slowed and walked the horses in, drawing their guns as they dismounted and approached the rough cabin. Jackson looked around the perimeter while Garrett cautiously entered the cabin. When he saw Libby, in obvious distress, thrashing feverishly on the bed, his heart thumped. No!
He rushed over to her and did a cursory check of her body, quickly finding the swollen and bruised ankle. He unwound the bandage and gasped. The wound was gaping, seeping pus and virulently infected. He shook Libby and realized two things. She was hot as Hades and she was insensible.
“Shit!” he spat out as Jackson entered. “We’ve got to get her to the doctor.”
“What’s wrong?”
“She hurt her ankle and has a bad cut and infection of top of that. She’s got a high fever and is unconscious.”
“Dear Lord. Can you pick her up?”
Garrett just gave him a look.
“We’ll put her on your horse.”
Jackson opened the door and bent to wedge a stick under it when a shot rang out, whistling above him and lodging in the far wall. He slammed the door as he and Garrett dove to the floor, Garrett taking a limp Libby with him. Both men had their revolvers out as they hit the floor. Another shot came in through the door, pinging off the stove. They heard the horses pulling free of the hitching post and running off.
“Jesus!” Garrett said. “This woman can’t get a break.”
“You can’t say it hasn’t been exciting since Libby arrived.”
“She’s not going to live through a siege. We need to end this now.”
Jackson looked around the cabin. There was a window above the kitchen counter big enough for a man to crawl through. He pointed to it and Garrett nodded. “Inside or outside?”
“I’ll take outside.”
“Are you sure? Is the shoulder holding up?”
“I’m sure.”
He moved Libby as close to the bed as he could get her, covered her with the blanket and then slithered toward the kitchen on his belly, willing himself not to feel the pull on his tender shoulder.
Jackson made his way toward the tar-papered window at the front of the cabin and carefully rose by its side. Garrett hoisted himself onto the kitchen counter, carefully untacked the tarpaper covering it and gave Jackson a nod. Jackson leaned toward the front window, removed the tarpaper and started firing. At that moment, Garrett dove through the kitchen window, rolling in the dirt and landing in a crouched position. Wincing at the throbbing in his shoulder, which had begun bleeding, he quickly hurried toward the tree line behind the shack.
Jackson was still shooting sporadically but must be running low on ammunition. Whoever was firing at the shack was still going at it as well. It sounded like rifle fire. Garrett made his way toward the front of the building under cover of the trees. He couldn’t see the shooter but saw the rifle from behind a tree. He only saw the one rifle, and was happy about that. Carefully, oh-so-quietly, he worked his way behind the shooter. When he was about 20 feet away, he stopped.
The man looked like a thug. He was heavyset, with long, greasy black hair. His clothes looked fairly clean but well worn.