Читать книгу Rocky Mountain Widow - Jillian Hart - Страница 11

Alive. Barely. Joshua cursed the Hamiltons. Who else would have done this to her? The fierce weather would reveal no clue of where they were.

What was the good in finding her if they were lost? Already, he knew she was too cold. She might very well die before General could take two more steps. And the realization forced fear into his veins, then a calmer determination.

He’d not failed her yet. Strong with purpose, he gave General his head. The gelding had good horse sense. “Shelter,” he told the animal, although he knew the wind snatched the words away so that the horse could not hear them.

Cold coiled tight in Josh’s guts as he cradled the widow against his chest. He’d will warmth into her cold body if he could. He’d will life. If they could find a place to weather the storm, perhaps he could save her. Warm her up and tend her wounds and…Who was he kidding? he thought bitterly as General came to a dead halt. They were lost on the open prairie.

Now what? Joshua looked to his right and then his left. Saw only a gray-white shroud. Ahead he could not make out the General’s head—his dark neck rose up into the swirling whiteness and disappeared.

Behind them, he knew Claire’s Clydesdales were there, obediently following their mistress, but he could see nothing of the great animals. If the wind stopped, then they’d have a fighting chance. But as the blizzard raged, there was no change. No way to be sure of a direction.

Their survival was up to him. The horse was confused, and that had been Josh’s last hope. Now, he had to pick—right or left, not knowing if it was north or if it was any other bearing. It won’t matter, he thought sadly, as he lifted one hand from Claire’s limp body to break away at the ice massed over his muffler.

As he rewrapped his muffler, he was intensely aware of the woman in his arms, her weight almost as nonexistent as her life. He brushed the accumulating snow from her head, shoulders and face, and turned the horses right. These efforts might be in vain, Joshua figured as he urged General to a faster pace, but he would not be like some who curled up into the snow to let the blizzard win. He would not go without a fight.

His will was iron strong as he bowed his head into the wind.

Awareness came to her in small pieces.

Claire heard the wind first, the eerie, alive sound of a winter wind at full force. This was the vicious wind that came from the far north and rode the glaciers of the rugged Rocky Mountain Range and swooped down gaining speed on the prairie below.

She recognized, too, the wild shriek of the blizzard as it drove snow in an impenetrable shield. Snow pellets hammered into the ground. The sounds confused her, because she could not remember where she was as she struggled toward consciousness.

But it was too far a length to reach, caught as if in a dreamlike place she feared Ham would find her. The wagon had broken apart, she remembered that clearly enough. The falling. The ruthless pain as she struck the earth. The lash of a whip against her flesh.

That must be why I hurt. She felt it suddenly as if she was slipping into a hot bath—although it was not water that rushed up from her toes and through her legs. Burrowed into her abdomen and raked upward until the backs of her eyes burned. Fiery sensation that was more than pain. Beyond pain.

Images returned. Of Ham drunk, towering over her, cursing and blaming her. She could smell the alcohol and his rage. Memory gripped her and it was good, because she at least knew what had happened. A wagon wreck. She’d fallen and was trapped, unable to move, because there was no way she could make her limbs or fingers stir. And the pain from his steel-toed boots hitting her ribs.

The baby. I must protect my child. She had to regain consciousness before the next blow struck. Her eyes could not see. Her lungs seemed unable to draw in enough air to speak with. She could not seem to make her mouth or tongue form a single word. Ice pellets struck her face as she clawed her way through the darkness of unconsciousness, struggling with all of her strength so that she had a chance. So her babe had a chance.

Fight, Claire. Fight. With all the strength in her soul, she struggled toward a single spot of grayness so far away in the darkness it was like the head of a pin.

But her will was strong and she focused on that single speck until it grew closer and larger still. Until it was the size of a tea saucer and she could see the hail of iced snow shooting from the gray heavens, feel the sharp, cold pricks on her face.

Then a shadow moved over her, shaped like the curving brim of a man’s hat. Ham? Was it Ham?

Panic pummeled her heart and it flapped in her chest. She was not yet strong enough to move. She was groggy, her body unresponsive, heavy and floppy like a rag doll’s. Terror rushed into her blood and she could feel it turn her veins to ice. Feel it drain the strength and the light. Her vision dimmed, and her entire being shouted at the injustice of it. The unfairness.

No! She had to fight. But the darkness was taking her, leaving her helpless as she awaited Ham’s next blow—by whip or fist or boot.

And then a man’s face moved into the fading circle of her sight. It wasn’t Ham’s face. This man had a strong square jaw, unshaved and rough with a few days’ growth. Brackets etched into the corners of his tight, almost harsh-looking mouth. High cheekbones and eyes the color of steel.

Joshua Gable. Realization lifted her up and she was floating away into the void again. Awareness faded even as she dared to hope that he’d come to save her.

I can’t take this anymore. Joshua gritted his teeth, although he couldn’t actually feel them. He was quaking all the way to the core of his bones.

He’d been this cold once—when he’d been hauling hay to the livestock and got caught in a blizzard with Pa. They’d made it home by luck and by good old common sense. He was using his best judgment, but that was no reassurance.

He could have been riding for ten minutes or two hours. He couldn’t tell. Time meant nothing. Distance meant nothing.

If the storm didn’t let up soon, the horse was going to freeze out from beneath him. General’s gait had slowed. There was no sense in even hoping the woman in his arms would live. The pale skin above the scarf he’d covered her face with was a deathly gray.

This was not the way he wanted it, either, he thought, unable to feel even her weight against his chest, her soft presence, her wool scarf. He couldn’t feel the horse beneath him. Or his feet—and to keep the blood flowing, he’d have to start walking soon. But no man had the strength to carry a woman through the foot-high drifts and against the pounding wind. He’d have to leave her on the horse—unprotected from the brunt of the storm.

He needed just a little help, a moment of intuition. An unmistakable landmark that he could make out through the thick curtain of ice. Anything, because chances were he’d missed the road. He’d missed any chance of finding shelter and was heading to the Canadian border, largely unsettled and uncharted.

Death. He’d never figured it would come for him this way. He’d been knocked upside the head by an angry bull a few times. That ought to have sent him into the afterlife, but he’d come out of it with nothing more troubling than a headache.

He’d been pinned against a barn wall by an irate stallion and kicked in the guts by an ornery mare. He had slipped on an ice patch trying to put out a chimney fire one winter years back. Those close calls had taught him he’d likely meet the same end doing his daily work.

He’d lived his life for his family. He did not regret it now, he thought as he brushed snow from Claire’s hood—she felt diminished more than she had earlier, as if something essential within her drained away with every minute that passed.

I’m sorry I couldn’t do better, he said silently to her, his thoughts weighed down by a passel of regrets. You deserved better. He leaned his cheek against her head, a gentle pressure, but the contact somehow tugged at his empty heart.

General stumbled, pitching forward. Joshua’s reactions were slow. He saw the horse going down and he knew what to do—he was kicking his foot out of the stirrup and swinging down, hauling Claire’s body against his chest, but not fast enough. His legs held no strength. His sluggish leg barely cleared the saddle. His knee wobbled as he tried to stand in the remaining stirrup and he couldn’t kick clear.

He went down with his horse, holding Claire up even as his ankle wrenched, caught in the stirrup, and snapped. His knees hit next, and the impact jarred through him like a body blow. He sank into his left hip, Claire unharmed but his body silent with shock.

He was too numb to feel the pain of whatever had happened to his ankle, but his body somehow knew and was reeling. A sick feeling built in his gut.

With the way his luck was going, he’d broken the damn thing. He couldn’t move it, and it was twisted nearly all the way around and stuck in the stirrup. He grabbed hold of his trousers at the knee and wrestled his foot free—and considering it came away at an odd angle only confirmed what he’d already guessed. He’d broken it—and good.

Hell. What else could go wrong? Couldn’t a man freeze to death in peace? Was it too much to ask for a moment of peace in this life, damn it!

Not that he planned to sit here and freeze to death, but a second without misery or disaster would be appreciated. He felt his temper lifting him up and he gave thanks for the tight laces on his boots. It served as enough of a splint to let him move forward one dragging step at a time.

A smart man would accept that he was licked and give in to it. But no, not Joshua Gable, he thought as he settled the woman’s weight against his shoulder.

Not that he’d ever been a smart man. He’d lived with his mother and his sister long enough to have endured numerous insults about his intelligence. You are simply a man, Betsy’s soft alto voice rang in his mind along with the huff of frustration.

You think just like your father, may he not rest in peace! Mother’s shrill drill-sergeant manner actually brought a smile to his hard and decidedly frozen face. He’d miss them the most, he decided as the storm swirled around him, breaking apart to give him a glimpse of the mighty snow-shrouded Rockies towering to his left—before the downfall curtained him again. As for Granny—

Was it his imagination, or was that her red plaid scarf he saw? There was a spot of color hovering in midair, but he couldn’t figure out why he could only see the corner of what looked to be a scarf.

The storm thinned, and he saw it more clearly. A red flannel saddle blanket on a gray horse. A man in a gray wool coat perched atop the saddle.

“Gable? Is that you?” Doc Haskins called out as the snow shrank back and a blinding light seared his eyes. The storm had broken.

Joshua’s knees hit the earth in disbelief, because it wasn’t from weakness or pain. See? He was one tough son of a bitch. Not even a blizzard could best him.

Even if it was a near thing, he admitted more truthfully to himself as he breathed deeply, battled off a wave of dizziness and took time to feel the sunlight wan on his face before he handed over the woman in his arms.

He knew by the look on the doc’s face that it was too little, too late.

She’d hovered like this before in the dreamworld of darkness. The only sense left to her was her hearing; all else had faded. She heard voices. Two men, talking low. Not Ham. She tried to remember what had happened to him, how drunk he’d been, how violent. She couldn’t recall. Only that she’d feared for her baby’s life and then someone had come—Joshua Gable—and driven him away. Shot the gun out of his hand, disarmed him and knocked him to the ground.

She remembered in a distant way how Mr. Gable had knelt at her side, his tentative touch to her shoulder meant to comfort her, to let her know she needn’t be afraid of him.

He’d protected her when she’d needed it the most. And while she’d witnessed the violence he was capable of, she saw too the kindness as he moved the broken piece of wood from the wagon that was pinning her down. Noticed the round of her stomach no longer disguised by the thick fall of her skirts, for the fabric was in disarray, and saw his pity.

Pity she did not need but knew this babe in her womb deserved. Consciousness had bled away as he’d gathered her into his arms and carried her. She’d remembered the last sounds of his boots crunching on the thick ice before silence reigned. And then awakening to an awareness of men’s voices.

Yes, that was what had happened, she figured out now. Mr. Joshua Gable had returned with the doc in tow.

The voices faded and returned and warmth came with it. Like a fire hotly burning. She could hear the crackling of the seasoned cedar popping in the stove. And water, hot, sweet, seeping into her bones, lighting a river of pain in her midsection that made her afraid for her babe.

She would endure any pain, any hardship, any loss. As long as her little one remained safe beneath her heart. Fierce love filled her and she held on when the clawing pain returned. Then the doctor laid something bitter on her tongue and the blackness reached out to imprison her. But nothing—nothing—could diminish this love for her baby.

Just when he thought the chilblains couldn’t get worse, they did. Joshua growled like a hungry bear fresh out of hibernation and he knew he was about as surly as one. He gulped down the bitter concoction Haskins had steeped for him. Nasty. The chalky, acrid taste clung to his tongue like ice to a roof and didn’t let go.

That didn’t improve his mood. The traveling pain in his feet and both hands could have been spikes being driven into his flesh over and over without end. Hardly pleasant. If it had been any other circumstance, he’d have roared in fury at the unrelenting pain, but the truth was, watching Claire Hamilton’s life fade had silenced him.

“She lost too much blood. Some women do after a miscarriage,” Doc said, his examination through as he washed up in the Hamiltons’ tiny kitchen. “I can’t imagine what she went through out there all alone. It’s lucky you found her when you did.”

“Luckier that you found us both when you did.”

He poured two fingers of Ham’s Jack Daniel’s into a cup and tossed it back. The fire in his stomach took some of his attention away from the pain in the rest of his battered body. If he kept working and living at this pace, it would be time to put him out to pasture before General, who he’d best go out and check on.

Better than trying to imagine what Claire Hamilton had suffered alone in the storm before he’d found her. Since it was all he could think about, a change of scenery might help. Because as bad as this pain was, it wasn’t enough to keep his gaze from wandering toward the front room, where a fire blazed in the big stone hearth and, on the other side of the brushed-velvet sofa, he knew Claire lay motionless.

An odd feeling burrowed into his chest. Figuring it for pity, he jumped off the chair with a groan, the chilblain pain spiking new and his ankle tormenting him enough to chase away the hollow of feeling deep in his chest. He wasn’t a man with feelings. He had one feeling—anger. And it drove him now as he lifted his jacket from the back of a chair.

But he hadn’t taken two limping steps before he swung northward to where he could see the widow on her back with her knees elevated, draped in heated blankets. The blood stilled in his veins. “My grandmother will come sit with her, if you think there’s time for that.”

“It’s hard to say why she’s lasted this long.” Haskins dried his hands on an embroidered towel and hung it back up on the dowel over the basin. “Are you gonna let me take a look at that ankle?”

“Maybe. When I get back from the barn.”

“You just keep walkin’ on it. That’s sure to make it better.” The doc rolled his eyes, as if he knew better.

Joshua had no time for a broken ankle. He had the last of the work to get done before the midwinter storms hit in earnest. Until Thanksgiving, a man could expect a lot of sunny days—not warm, mind you, but bright enough the snow would melt and give him plenty of time to finish up with leaky roofs and surprise chimney problems. Livestock moving and hauling in enough grain for the barn and supplies for the house. All of that required hard physical work. None of it would get done if he was favoring his ankle.

Why he didn’t head straight to the door between the front room and the kitchen, Joshua couldn’t explain. He found his boots heading north when they ought to turn east and the roaring heat from the hearth burned against his outer leg as he stared down at Claire.