Читать книгу Rocky Mountain Man - Jillian Hart - Страница 8

Chapter Two

Duncan noticed the fork and the strawberries gleaming bright red in the middle of the grassy road and took in the scent of fried, crispy salt pork. Women. Most of them didn’t have a drop of common sense. Not that he cared.

He’d done the right thing in coming to her rescue, but it only made him more annoyed. He was doing fine alone. It was other people that brought misery. Today, he’d been content enough to work on his winter supply of wood. But a woman comes along and, by getting herself nearly killed, forces him to become involved.

He hadn’t run full-speed through the forest because he’d been concerned about her. Nope. He simply couldn’t let a pretty woman get hurt, because she was bound to be missed and someone would come looking for her and blame him for whatever happened.

Really. He was just acting out of his own best interests and not some noble code to protect the weaker. He didn’t care about her at all, even if her big blue eyes were wide with fear and her softly ample bosom rose and fell as she gasped for air. He steeled his feelings against her, because it was the only thing he could do. Women came with a cost. He’d paid with his life, his future and his family.

It had been too much.

She was safe now. What he ought to do was leave her heaving for breath in the road and let her find her horse on her own. Maybe that would teach her a lesson, he reasoned. What he really wanted was to get away from her before any misunderstandings occurred. You could just never tell what a woman was plotting. Even with something as innocent as this.

He pushed the panic rising within him away and headed for the downed bear. Fine, a bear had attacked her, but even this could get twisted around. All anyone might see was a horse and empty buggy fleeing the forest, the pretty young woman missing, and it would start all over again.

The images raced through his mind like a river at flood stage, speeding and fingering into little eddies so that more memories came to life. The noise of the crowds, the jeers of hatred, the cold metal encircling his wrists and the final clank as the marshal closed them.

He could feel the agony in his mother’s broken heart and, in bleak devastation, felt as lost as the darkness in the cell’s blackest corners. The rank odors of the windowless holding cell filled his nose, where he could not sleep because he couldn’t see the sky. He’d lain awake waiting for the night to pass.

Waiting to see if they would hang him come morning.

No, that wasn’t going to happen again. Never again. Rage made him as hard and as cruel as the mountains behind him. He refused to touch the woman. Her skirts were askew and her bare knee was showing. He made sure he kept his distance as he knelt so they were eye level. Her porcelain features crinkled as she fought to breathe. She looked at him with the question clear on her face. Help me?

Only so much, lady. He checked to make sure the bear was good and truly dead. No pulse beat in his throat and his chest was as still as the earth. Good. Now he could think about what to do with the woman. “Just relax. Try to breathe in slow. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Her gaze latched on to his, and he felt the impact as if she’d reached out with her soft dainty hands and grabbed hold of his throat. More panic zipped through his system as if he’d been struck by lightning. He felt her fear, and he understood. She’d had a pretty good scare. That could unsettle a person.

He’d done time as a soldier in the Great War between the states and had come across enough wounded there, in prison and in these mountains that he knew by looking she wasn’t hurt. Just scared. Fear could be a living thing, he knew, seizing up a person.

“C’mon now, you just got the wind knocked out of you.” He simply needed to get her thinking about something besides the dead bear beside her. “What did you think you were doing, eating in these woods? It’s feeding time for the bears. You know they hibernate, right?”

The fear glazing her eyes was fading. Air rasped into her lungs.

Being angry with her was working, so he kept on going. “Bears eat a lot before they hibernate. That means they are hungry. Any person with a speck of sense knows to stay away from hungry bears. But not you. You open up a salt pork sandwich and strawberries. Strawberries.”

He hated to think what would have happened if he hadn’t gone against his principles and come running when he’d heard her gunshot.

She was breathing nearly regular now and the color was back in her face. He fought the urge to help her up and to treat the cut bleeding on her hand. It was the same protective instinct that had gotten him in trouble long ago, so he straightened and began to back away until he’d put a few more yards between them.

Now what should he do? Her horse and vehicle were gone, and there was no telling where he’d find them. She was female, and they were alone together. He didn’t like her, he didn’t trust her and he didn’t want her anywhere near him.

He couldn’t leave her alone.

She was a little thing. He’d never studied her this close before. A tiny blanket of freckles lay on her nose and cheeks. Her eyelashes were thick and dark, and there was something so vulnerable in the way she sat up and wiped the grass seeds out of her hair with a shaking hand.

Something moved deep down within the iron weight that had replaced his heart. It wasn’t a feeling—he didn’t have feelings. He’d found no need for them, but he couldn’t rightly say what hurt where his heart used to be.

It was probably indigestion. That’s what he got for running hard through the forest right after his noon meal.

The problem was still before him. The woman. What should he do with her? “Can you stand?”

“I think so.” She smoothed her skirts as if gathering up her strength, but she didn’t get on her feet.

Fine, he’d carry her, saddle up a horse and make sure she was able to sit in the saddle—

Branches broke with a snap-snap in the woods behind him. The woman’s eyes flashed wide and utter fear twisted on her lovely face. Duncan pivoted, hauled his rifle up by the stock, but the big black bear was moving fast.

Too fast.

He got off a shot—missed the heart—and cocked, but that was all before the bear pushed away the smoking rifle barrel with the mighty swipe of one sharp claw.

Oh, hell. Duncan watched his favorite rifle crack apart and fall in two pieces to the rocky ground. Good thing he was prepared. He drew so fast, he got off a shot, but two bullets in the chest didn’t stop this bear. He charged, and both foot-wide paws scraped deep into Duncan’s shoulders.

Claws sliced him like a dozen razor blades. He was a dead man. Duncan tried to fight, but the bear was twice as strong and clawed through both shoulder muscles and downward, breaking ribs. Duncan fell to his knees as the bear knocked him to the ground and bent to sink his teeth into Duncan’s neck.

It’s over. Just like that. Duncan met the bear head-on, fighting even as the animal’s jaws parted for the death bite. He saw the woman out of the corner of his eye. She had climbed to her feet and was shouting and throwing rocks at the big animal, but the hunks of granite didn’t harm the bear. Or stop him. Still, Duncan appreciated the effort as his left hand groped along the top of his boot.

The first prick of incisor drilled into Duncan’s throat, but his fingers closed around the knife handle. He was dying, fine, but he’d take the bear with him. He’d make sure the pretty laundry lady with her sunshine and freckles would live.

With a roar, Duncan slid his bowie knife into the bastard’s ribs. He ignored the spray of blood as he twisted and turned the blade deep. He felt death come in a swift black wave that drained the light from his eyes and the strength from his body. He was falling. Vaguely he felt the brutal impact of hitting the rocky ground, knew blood was gushing out from his neck and chest, but the bear was dead. That was all that mattered.

He was drifting like a dying leaf on the wind. Her voice was the last thing he heard. She was speaking his name, calling to him, but he was already floating away.

When he looked down, he saw her huddled in the road, flanked by two dead bears, cradling a bloody man with his head on her lap. Her hair had tumbled free and her dainty yellow dress was stained crimson.

It was the sound of her tears that drilled deep into his steeled soul.

She was crying for him.

Betsy held on to him. She didn’t know what else to do. Blood was everywhere and her nightmare was happening all over again. Times she’d rather forget rolled forward and she couldn’t squeeze off the rush of memories. Years ago she’d held another dying man in her lap just like this and watched the blood drain out of him. The doctor had worked frantically but couldn’t save her husband.

How on earth could she hope to save Mr. Hennessey? Despair overwhelmed her. Trembling, she wiped blood from his face. His was a strong face, with high and sharp cheekbones and a profile like the Rocky Mountains that soared so strong and unfailing into the cloudy sky. But Duncan Hennessey was not made of granite, no, he was as vulnerable as any human. No growling demeanor and intentional rudeness could make him more immune to death.

Blood. There was so much of it streaming from the open tears in his flesh. Panic threatened to overtake her, but she couldn’t let it win. She couldn’t sit here, holding his head and fighting off a case of the vapors when she had to try to save him. She had to think. She had to remember what the doctor had done for Charlie.

She had to stop the bleeding, she knew that. But how? There were so many wounds, and the buggy was long gone. All she had were her petticoats, so she yanked them off and tore at the fabric. As fast as she could, she bunched wads of muslin into the wounds. The white material quickly wicked up the blood, turning red even as she pushed more into place.

Okay, that wasn’t going to work. Her fingers felt clumsy as she pulled her little sewing pack from her pocket. The needle was small, but she had enough thread to sew the worst wound.

She pressed her hand against the curve where shoulder met neck and the bleeding slowed. She broke off a length of thread with her teeth, working quickly. She couldn’t let him die. She wouldn’t. But she knew it was hopeless as she licked the end of the thread to stiffen it. She could feel his pulse quicken as she threaded the needle.

Crimson continued to pool on the earth beneath him, staining them both, making it impossible to see as she probed the gaping wound. Her stomach went weak and her knees to water at the sight of torn muscle and exposed bone. As if she were basting a collar, she nudged the edges of jagged skin together, fitting them as a seam and took one stitch deep. Then another.

Her heart beat as fast as his. A creature in the shadows howled. She couldn’t see it through the dense ever-greens, but she could feel it. A wolf pacing and waiting for the right moment to strike.

She’d stopped the most profusely bleeding wounds. Encouraged, she kept going. He lay as if dead, but he was still breathing. It wasn’t enough. He was going to die, just as Charlie did. This time there was no doctor nearby. There was no one to help. Shelter was over a third of a mile through the woods where the brisk winds were quickly spreading the scent of fresh spilled blood.

If meat and strawberries had brought a hungry bear and his mate, then what would this bring?

Fear shivered through her. The forest had gone quiet and it felt as if the trees had eyes. Had every predator within a five-mile radius come to hunt?

Mr. Hennessey lay as limp as a rag doll, all six-feet-plus of him. The hue had washed out of his face and he looked ashen and lifeless. His chest barely rose with each breath. His pulse fluttered wildly in the base of his throat.

Death. It hovered close, waiting for him. Betsy knew. She had felt it before. She’d been there when it had stolen her husband away.

But this man, he had no woman to mourn him. He lived alone. If he were to die, then how sad that was. With no one to miss him, then it would be as if his life never was. He didn’t deserve that. Nobody did. She brushed her fingertips along the stubbled curve of his jaw. She stared into the shadows that were growing darker as the sun sank in the sky. The silence seemed to grow and lengthen. The small animals of the forest were hiding from the hungry creatures that watched and waited.

She had to prepare for the worst. She retrieved the handgun from where it had landed in the tall grass and checked the chambers. Five shots were left. She closed the chamber and cocked it.

Thank goodness she’d grown up with four brothers. She’d been around guns all her life. She took some comfort in that. The weapon was ready to fire and she was confident she could use it. If only she felt as confident with her aiming ability.

“Don’t worry.” She let her hand brush across his hairline and along his temple. She hoped if he was somehow aware of what was happening, that she could give him some comfort. “I promise, whatever happens, I’ll stay right by your side.”

There was no answer. She didn’t expect one.

Because the sun was slipping behind the tall trees, it felt as if the day were almost over. Long shadows crept across the ground, chasing back the scant amount of sunlight. The wild sunflowers with their petal faces began to bow.

It was as if the entire mountainside waited.

She had to move him, but memories haunted her—of the doctor and Charlie’s brother moving him from the barnyard to the house. That’s when the wounds had broken open again and there’d been no stanching the blood loss. Charlie had been dead less than five minutes later.

She thought she spotted a movement in the shadows. The glint of luminous yellow eyes behind a fern leaf, and then only shadows.

She had a small length of thread left. She’d work until it was gone and then she’d have to move him.

He didn’t know how it happened, but he was back in the quarry. The sun blistered his skin and burned through flesh and bone until he was on fire from the inside out. His eyes stung from the salty sweat pouring down his face and pain was a living enemy that could not be killed. The places where his flesh gaped open from the lash of the foreman’s whip throbbed fiercely. He was beyond exhaustion and thirst. Hunger and hope.

He heaved the rock from the ground into the wagon behind him again and again. Minute after minute, hour after hour without end. The sun was motionless in the cloud-streaked sky.

It was his second day as a guest of Montana territory. His second day serving time. The prison clothes were scratchy and too tight at the shoulders. His stomach twisted in nausea from the morning’s gruel. Although nearly ten hours had passed since he’d eaten, his breakfast remained a sour lump in his gut.

He left bloody prints on the twenty-pound boulder he heaved into the wagon. As he stepped back, his chains jangled and tore at the raw flesh above his ankles. The boulder, gaining momentum, rolled over the pile, bounced off the railing on the other side and sailed over the edge.

The quarry silenced. Duncan read the faces of the men surrounding him, chained as he was, and saw the knowledge of what was to come. He was not surprised by the piercing sting of the bullwhip or the burst of pain spraying across his shoulders. He stumbled beneath the force of the next blow; sagged against the wagon, clinging to the rail boards as the whip snaked and hissed and sliced.

“Maybe that’ll teach ya,” a hate-filled voice growled out. “Now git back to work.”

His vision was hazed. Dark spots swirled before his eyes and shock rolled through his body. He fought nausea and dizziness to kneel and heft another boulder into the wagon.

Across the rails, there was a hard thud. The boulder that had fallen was back in the pile, as it should have been, lifted into place by a man who was also bleeding. Duncan realized that he’d not been the only one punished for his mistake.

A week ago at this time of day, he’d been getting ready to close up his shop. He’d have been thinking ahead to getting supper over at the hotel—it was usually fried chicken on Fridays with fluffy biscuits and fresh buttered peas and mashed potatoes. As he did every evening, he would have followed the meal with coffee and a slice of pie and, content with his life, he would have settled down at his lathe to work before bedtime.

It seemed impossible that he’d lived that life, that it had ever been real. Now it seemed like a dream, Duncan thought hours later, when twilight fell. His old life was as if it had never been.

At the workday’s end, when the last light was wrung from the sky and it was nearly ten o’clock, Duncan stumbled along the path through the quarry and into the prison yard, where he lined up among the other men waiting to enter the dining hall. How was he going to eat feeling the way he did?

“Hey, you.” It was the man who’d returned the fallen boulder to the wagon. The whip’s lash across his forehead had clotted and left a rough black-red streak between his eyes.

Duncan didn’t see the first blow. It had come from another direction. The second punch had his knees knocking and he fisted his hands, but it was eleven men to his one, and he didn’t have a chance. He choked on blood as he fought off one blow after another until he caught a right hook beneath his jaw and landed face-first in the dirt. A kick struck him in the gut. The beating continued until the line moved forward, and he was left to huddle, bleeding and vomiting.

The young man he’d been had died in the dark prison yard that evening, wearing prisoner’s garb and a convict’s ankle cuff. The man who’d risen from the ground and wiped the blood from his eyes was someone else. There’d been no softness or emotion in the cold-eyed figure that took his place in line. Who’d turned his back on the small glimpse of sky above the high walls.

Like a dead man, he’d had no feelings, no dreams, no needs.

He was made not of flesh and bone, but of iron and will.

It was that iron will that remained as the pain changed and he fought to open his eyes. It was twilight. He was bloody and hurting. But he was not trapped in the nightmare.

He was in a forest, gazing up at a woman. Her features were blurred because he couldn’t see clearly. He hurt everywhere, as if he’d been lit on fire, but that didn’t bother him nearly as much as the woman. Who was she?

“Don’t you dare die on me, do you hear? Not that men ever listen to a woman, no, they wouldn’t dream of doing that, but don’t let me down, Mr. Hennessey. Stay alive for me, all right?”

Lustrous curls tumbled around her face, tangled and wild, and her sweet heart-shaped face was familiar. Worry crinkled the corners of her eyes and emphasized the dimple in the center of her delicate chin. She was a petite thing, and she smelled good. Like sunshine and clover and those little yellow flowers that used to grow on the fence in his mother’s backyard.

Pain scoured his chest. His thoughts cleared and he knew where he was. The dark shadows were his trees and it was his laundry lady kneeling over him with her riot of dark gold curls bouncing everywhere, thick and lustrous and rippling from the wind’s touch.

Another wave of pain crashed through him. He was here, in the present, the past vanishing like fog.

Her eyes, so blue and gentle, gleamed with an unspoken kindness. “Oh, thank Heaven. I knew you were too ornery to die on me.”

But the way she said it wasn’t harsh. No, it was tender, as if she didn’t think he was ornery at all. And he was. All he could think about was how he despised women like her, so delicate and soft and sheltered. She wanted something. All women wanted something. A woman like that had ruined him. Maybe it was bitterness, or maybe it was just his broken spirit that made him believe a woman could be no other way.

“What do you want?” he snarled as she whipped out a needle and stuck it into his neck. “I don’t have a lot of money.”

“Money? I might charge you a fee for doing your washing and ironing and mending, Mr. Hennessey, but I’m not about to bill you for patching you up. Not when you saved my life as you did.” She tugged the thread through his skin, quick and tight.

Agony drilled through him. He lifted his head and tried to get up, but his body wouldn’t move. He was wet with his own sweat and blood, and he began trembling. She leaned over him, giving him a perfect view of her white chemise. Lace edged the top where the soft creamy curves of her full breasts strained at the fabric.

Panic overrode pain. He was alone with a woman in her underclothes. That couldn’t be good. Memories rushed into his mind and he was too weak to stop them. Memories of another woman in her lace-edged chemise, memories of a pack of men shouting and beating down his door. The splinter of wood breaking. The rage of the crowd as it crashed through his shop—

“No!” He heaved to the side, but his body felt distant and wooden. His strength was gone. Gone. No, that wasn’t right. He had to move, he had to get away from her—

“Wait, oh, no! You’re tearing up my work. Please, Mr. Hennessey.” Her cool hands grabbed at him and pushed him back down. Her face hovered over him, full of concern, like an angel of mercy. He didn’t believe in mercy. “Please, you have to let me do this. You have to. I can’t watch another man die. So you have to let me help you. That’s all I want to do.”

“I don’t want your help. Get away from me.”

“You’d rather bleed to death, is that it?”

“Yeah, now get off me.”

“No. I’m going to save you whether you like it or not.” She rose over him and sat on his waist. Silver tears filled her eyes but they didn’t fall, and he could only stare.

Were those genuine? He remembered how it had seemed he was looking down on her and she’d been crying over him. He could see the faint tracks on her cheeks.

She meant to help him, he could read that plain enough on her face. But she would bring him harm, just the same. Whatever it cost him, he had to get up, he had to find her horse and buggy and send her on her way. She’d bound him with her dress and petticoats, and while any fool could see the yellow gingham wrapped around his wounds, it didn’t change the fact that she was alone with him—in her undergarments. And with his past—

He had to get up. He tried. He really did. His left arm moved and his left hand scrabbled along until he seized on something. He turned toward it. The low branch of a tree. It looked sturdy enough. He pulled, dragging his body along the gritty earth. Rocks jabbed into his spine, but he was moving. Something hard slid off his chest and poked him in his ribs.

His Colt. 45. Relief made him forget about the woman trying to hold him down, talking a mile a minute as she kept on stitching. He pulled on the tree branch with all his might. The tree shook, the limb groaned as if on the breaking point, but he was sitting up. Now if he could just stand—

“No, hold still, I have to knot it.” Her words came in and out, fading along with his vision.

Duncan fought the blackness. Breathing hard, as if he’d worked a sixteen-hour shift in the quarry. He fought to stand. And then he saw movement in the shadows. A wolf leaped through the trees.

He let go of the branch and grabbed the Colt. Missed. His reflexes were too slow and his hand was no longer working.

There was a shot, a flash of fire, and the last thing he remembered was his laundry woman kneeling beside him, protecting him with her body, as she fired off a second round.

The darkness stole everything—his sight, his hearing, his thoughts, and even the pain. There was nothing but blackness taking him down like deep water.

But he wasn’t alone. He felt soft fingertips brush his brow. It was the woman.