Читать книгу Mountain Wild - Stacey Kayne - Страница 11

A soft swirl of snowflakes cold against her face, Maggie tugged her hood low and tightened her hold on the rope of her sled as she increased her stride through the soft powder. Her body ached to hunker down in her warm bed.

Two more miles.

The crunch of her snowshoes pressing through the soft ground echoed across the silent countryside. Dark clouds loomed to the north, telling her this was only a small reprieve in the blizzard. The late-winter storm had come on strong and without much warning the prior evening. Maggie barely had time to skin and dress the big buck she’d shot before having to bury her kill in the snow and seek shelter. Huddling in a dank alcove near the river had been no way to pass a frigid February night.

Despite the inconvenience, her hunt had been worthwhile. The frozen deer meat on her sled would last her the rest of winter, and then some.

A streamer of sunlight pierced the thick gray sky and glistened against an embankment of fresh snow up ahead. The silver sparkle captured her attention. As she drew closer she noted the metallic gleam was a spur. A spur attached to the vague outline of a boot buried beneath the snow.

Maggie slowed her stride. Her breath hit the cold air in a puff of white as her gaze moved across the long, lumpy mound.

Some fool cowpoke had gotten himself caught in the storm. He’d likely ventured up here looking for strays. High country weather was nothing like the lowlands. Lying on his side, the bulk of him was covered by a foot of snow.

The storm hadn’t been that bad—nothing like the freeze two winters back. The deadly cold had caught beast and man in its clutches for miles around, reaching deep into the plains. The stench of death had lasted long into the spring. Any cowboy worth his salt would have learned from such disaster, and sought shelter or at least dug himself in to wait out the blizzard.

She shook her head and pressed on. As Ira used to say, she’d leave it to God to have sympathy for the men too stupid to save themselves. The world could get by without another cowpoke. Hundreds littered the lowlands around her mountain, whooping and hollering at their herds of cattle. At the rate things were going, she’d soon be crowded out of her mountain home just as the Indians had been forced from theirs.

A whimper broke across the winter silence. The snow-covered mound shifted.

Maggie hitched her shoulder, slinging her rifle forward, into her hands. Caution prickled at her skin as she watched the long shape rise up near the center.

A dog stood and gave a vigorous shake. She recognized the mutt’s shaggy black fur and four white paws. Boots. The sound of Garret Daines calling after his dog was as familiar to her as a meadowlark’s song.

Oh, no. Maggie’s breath stalled as she cautiously approached the figure partially buried beneath a blanket of white. Something inside her softened at the sight of pale hair and familiar features.

Why did it have to be Daines?

She crouched beside him. He had the pallor of a dead man. Blood matted his pale hair. A dark bruise protruded on his forehead—suspiciously shaped like the blunt end of a rifle.

Someone had knocked him out.

She glanced around the clearing. Undisturbed snow coated the ground, blanketing wide-spaced shrubs and trees. Any tracks had long since been snowed over.

How long has he been here?

She brushed away some of the packed powder and noted the slight movement of his chest. Relief swamped her. Biting the fingertip of her glove, she pulled the lined leather from her hand. She slid her fingers along his stubble-coated jaw. The man didn’t so much as flinch. His skin was cold, but still soft. She didn’t see any blackening signs of frostbite. His dog had likely kept him from freezing, but his shallow breathing didn’t make even a slight mist in the frigid air.

He wouldn’t live long if he didn’t get out of the cold.

She reached for his coat and his dog barked, the sharp sound echoing through the winter silence. His master’s eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open.

She glanced at the dog prancing nervously beside her. The dog had distinctly different colored eyes. One deep green, the other pale blue.

Peculiar.

“Come’ere, Boots,” she said, holding out her bare hand.

The dog’s damp nose bumped against her palm.

“You stay friendly,” she said, scratching behind its ear, “and we’ll see about waking up your master.”

She fisted the front of Daines’s thick jacket and tugged him up, out of the snow. “Daines!” she shouted, giving him a shake. “Wake up, Daines!”

Pale lashes lifted. Glazed green eyes stared up at her.

“Ma’am?”

For being half-frozen, his vision was keener than most. Not too many folks looked at her long enough to determine her gender. “You’ve got to get up,” she said.

“Cattle…Duce…” His lids drooped.

“You don’t get out of this cold, you’re gonna lose more than cattle,” she said, certain she was talking to herself.

His head tipped back and Maggie fell forward, his dead weight dragging her down with him. She landed flat on top of him. Her bare hand plunged into the bite of ice-cold snow.

“Damn it, Daines,” she shouted, pushing off him. “Wake up!”

He blinked, but didn’t move another muscle.

He’d already been exposed to the cold for too long, addling what she knew to be an otherwise sharp mind. Ira had fallen into an icy river once and had emerged from the frigid water dumber than a rock and helpless as a babe.

Maggie sat back on her heels and knocked the snow from the cuff of her white fur coat. The cold breeze snaked inside her sleeve, sending a chill across her warm skin. She quickly pulled on her glove. Her gut burned as the true extent of his situation sunk in. He wasn’t going to make it.

He was too far from his ranch, at least six miles. The last thing she wanted was to take this Viking cowboy inside her home. There wasn’t a soul alive who knew the location of her cabin. She lived up in the dense wild country for a reason—she didn’t want to be bothered. The one time she’d had unexpected company she spent a whole spring and summer relocating.

The fact that her visitors had been relatives of Garret Daines didn’t ease her reluctance to help him. By her account, his relation to Chance and Cora Morgan made him more of a threat. Morgan and his wife knew too many of her secrets already and she knew too well how a helpful hand could turn to a threat in the blink of an eye.

Don’t trust your back to no one. Ira’s mantra was embedded in her mind.

Thanks to her run-in with Nathan a few months ago, wanted posters now hung in surrounding settlements featuring a poorly drawn sketch of a mountain shrew, announcing a five-hundred-dollar reward for the capture of Mad Mag.

Why should she put herself in further danger by helping a man she barely knew?

“M-m-ma’am?” His unfocused green eyes blinked up at her. “Are y-y-a…all right?”

Was she all right? She wasn’t the one lying half-frozen in the snow.

The blatant concern in his expression prodded at her usually silent conscience. Garret Daines seemed to have more charm than sense. Despite his intimidating size, he had a kindness to him that had struck her right off the first time she’d spied him in the low country. With his unusual pale hair and a deep laughter that could carry for miles, he was always easy to spot. Her Viking protector hadn’t been smiling a few months back—a vision that had been plaguing her dreams ever since. His gaze had been hard and focused as he had stood between her and the riled citizens of Bitterroot Springs.

He’d defended her. Her. Mad Mag, the local lunatic.

I can’t just leave him here to freeze. Unlike those who’d betrayed her, Garret Daines wasn’t a man who’d stand by while harm befell another. He’d do as Ira had done, taking on a burden he didn’t want to save the life of a stranger. She’d also been small enough for a grown man to toss over his shoulder and cart off into the woods. She couldn’t carry Garret Daines five feet, much less up this mountain through the snow. She had to get him up.

“Help me, Garret,” she said in her best damsel voice. “It’s so cold. I need to get home. Can you help me?”

He nodded, muscles bunching beneath his thick coat. He tried to push up, and groaned, his stiff body rebelling against the movement. She gripped his arms and helped to tug him up. Snow clung to his thick coat and buffalo-hide chaps—clothes that should have kept him warm. His hat lay crumpled in the top of the outline of his fallen form. She noted the creases pressed into his left cheek. His dog and his hat had protected those handsome features from hours of exposure. But the icy weather had taken a toll on his mind. He stared blankly at the ground before him.

He swayed, his eyelids drooping.

She reached for him, her arms sliding into his open coat. His shirt crinkled like a sheet of ice.

Alarm squeezed her chest. His clothes had gotten wet.

The rain from yesterday, before the heavy snowstorm had set in. No wonder his coat and woolly chaps weren’t holding heat—they were likely keeping him as chilled as an icebox.

“Come on, Garret,” she urged, trying to guide him toward her sled. “Stay with me.”

His expression contorted with pain. His boots barely moved in the deep powder. With a rumbling groan, he fell from her grasp and landed face-first into the snow.

Boots yapped at him and nudged his tangled hair with his nose.

“It’s no use, dog. We’ll have to get him on the sled.”

Working quickly, she pushed her supplies and the frozen meat wrapped in deerskin aside and rolled Garret onto the wooden slats. After shoving her supplies beneath his legs to keep his boots from dragging on the ground, she bound a strip of rope across his middle, pinning his arms against his sides. Finished, she fetched his hat, shook off the snow and tugged the dark felt over his white hair.

She glanced at his dog standing up to its chest in snow. She’d seen the cow dog jump onto the back of Garret’s horse more than once while roaming through the lower hills, settling in a spot behind the saddle as though curling up on a porch rug—one of the oddest sights she’d ever witnessed.

“Come on, Boots,” she said, patting his master’s coat.

That was all it took. The hound curled up on Garret’s chest and laid its head on his white paws, his two-toned eyes watching her as she grabbed the sled rope and slipped it over her shoulder. Using all of her weight, her leg muscles burned as she began to haul her heavy load toward home. She’d be drenched in sweat before she reached her cabin, creating a nice layer of ice between her skin and her clothes. Risking her life for a stranger only to catch her death with pneumonia.

She glanced back.

Bound and unmoving, Garret looked like a big prize buck strapped to her sled. The ache in her gut intensified.

“You better not die.”

By the time she spotted the gap in the stone leading to a secluded meadow, every muscle in her body burned despite the increasing chill in her skin. A freezing wind whipped at her back as snow swirled around her in a flurry of white. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. She hadn’t slowed to check on her cargo, but kept her focus on the mountainside rising beyond the trees.

She always missed her horse over winter, never so much as the past two hours. But she had no way to house and feed Star once the long freeze set in, forcing Maggie to leave her with the man who’d given her the mare. Chance Morgan’s generosity didn’t keep her from resenting having to depend on his services. Life had been so much simpler when she could keep to the rivers, bartering with only the Sioux and other trappers. Ira had warned her. It was past time to move on.

Barely visible through a thick forest, she spotted her cabin front built into the stone alcove. Home. Relief dragged a groan from deep within her chest.

She dragged the sled through the tight maze of trees then stopped before the snowed-in door topped by a stone overhang. After releasing the bindings on her snowshoes she cleared away the snowdrift then lifted the lock. Her cabin door squeaked open. The small dark space inside was no warmer than the brisk cold blowing through the trees. She hurried to the stove against the stone wall and reached for the matches.

Within moments flames licked over dry wood, illuminating the darkness. She’d expected to come home cold and had left her cabin prepared. She lit the lamp sitting atop her storage shelves beside her stove then moved her full teakettle to the warmest spot on the range top.

Movement beside her made her jump. Boots gave a vigorous shake, spattering a fine spray of melting snow across her cabin floor. She followed a trail of dirty paw-prints across the polished wood. Irritation burned through her.

You brought them here, she silently berated. You’ll have to deal with the messes. She turned and took a small throw from the foot of her bed. She tossed the thin blanket into the corner beyond the stove.

“Lay down,” she said, pointing to the rumpled fabric.

The dog went right to the corner and curled up.

Easy enough. She glanced through the open door at the lump of leather and man bound to her sled. Snowflakes swirled down from a storm-darkened sky.

Dread pooled in her belly and seemed to settle like a lead weight in her deerskin boots. She forced herself to move toward him. Despite her anxiety, she hoped she hadn’t endured that exhausting climb for two-hundred-plus pounds of dead cowboy. She stepped back out into the whipping wind and a shiver moved through her, the biting cold a prelude to the storm rolling in with the dark sky. She released the rope and brushed the fresh snow from Garret’s face. His eyelids fluttered, but didn’t quite open.

“Couldn’t just come home with deer meat,” she lamented, pulling her supplies and the bound venison from beneath his legs. His boots dropped over her threshold. She tossed her gear inside then carried the meat bound in fresh deer hide to the cold box buried beneath a foot of snow just outside her cabin. She dug up the lid and dropped in the whole hide-bound parcel. Salting and stewing would have to wait.

She pushed the sled up to the narrow door frame and climbed over Garret’s legs to get into the cabin. Gripping one of his boots just above the spurs, she pulled off the stiff leather. After placing his boots beneath her table she gripped him by the ankles and noticed a hole in the heel of each thick wool stocking. Either the man wasn’t married or his wife wasn’t worth the food to keep her fed.

“No gentle way to get this done,” she said, firming her hold.

Using all her strength, she hauled him inside. His head bounced against the hardwood floor, the sickening thud making her cringe. No time to worry about his bruised skull, she hurried past him to shut out the chilling wind and bar the door. Tossing her gloves onto the table against the front wall, she quickly shrugged off her fur coat and hung it from a hook beside the door. Cold stagnant air seeped through her clothes, but her heavy coat would get in the way of tending her guest.

Low moans sounded behind her as Garret began to rouse. He filled the space between her bed and the stove, leaving little room to walk around him. His eyes clenched tight, his face contorting with pain. She imagined the meager warmth of the stove was starting to penetrate his cold skin. She’d been on the verge of frostbite more than once. Flesh coming back to life felt like needles searing through bone.

She knelt next to him and pulled the leather gloves from his hands.

Greenish-blue eyes glazed with pain blinked up at her.

“Hurting is good,” she said, lifting one of his hands into the lantern light. “Means you’re not froze through.” She caressed each of his fingers, testing for frozen patches of skin. She didn’t feel anything but long, strong fingers and hard-earned calluses.

“You’ll get to keep your hide.” She pushed back the sides of his sheepskin coat and started working the buttons on his shirt. Ice melted beneath her fingers, saturating his two wool shirts by the time she had them unbuttoned. She pulled the thick layers back, his skin cold and damp beneath her palms as she tried to work the fabric over his shoulders.

“We won’t get these off with you lying down.” She eased back and tugged at his arm. “Garret, I need you to sit up.”

His expression contorted with pain. His big body didn’t budge.

“You think this hurts?” she said, moving over him, patting his pale stubble-coated cheeks, forcing him to focus on her. “Wait till the shivers set in. We need to get you out of these wet clothes before your muscles start to spasm.” She tugged on his arms. “Come on, cowboy, give me some help!”

He curled forward, groaning as she gripped his shoulders, pulling him the rest of the way up.

In a burst of movement, he shrugged off her hold. Wild, angry eyes stared deep into hers. He slurred words she couldn’t make out. Judging by his fierce scowl and harsh gaze, he was swearing at her.

Fighting her own fatigue, Maggie sat back on her heels and tried to assess his state of mind. She was in no shape for a bear fight. His narrowed eyes began to drift shut. His head tilted toward the cast-iron stove.

Maggie lunged onto him. Her knees banged against the floor as she straddled his lap. “Garret!” She gripped his shoulders and struggled to hold him upright.

His dog barked, likely startled by her quick movement. Her arms ached in her attempt to hold Garret steady. His chest pressed against hers like a block of ice.

Boots kept barking at her back, the sharp sound echoing across the high stone ceiling. She looked over her shoulder and glared at the mutt. “I skin bigger beasts than you. Lay down.”

Boots pranced for a moment then went back to the blanket, lying down with a whimper. The weight in her arms eased, muscles firming beneath her hold. Maggie looked back at Garret and found him staring at her. His face so close, she could see each tiny fleck of blue and gold in his green eyes. Her skin prickled, the rush of sensation awakening what felt like a field of butterflies in her belly, and suddenly she was startled by their closeness.

What the hell was she thinking to bring him here?

She eased back. Even with his complexion as pale as his shaggy white hair, he was a handsome specimen of a man, the finest she’d ever seen.

“We’ll get you warmed up,” she said. “Then you can get the hell off my mountain. All right?”

His eyes narrowed, as though he struggled to comprehend her words. She had to get him bundled in some warm, dry blankets.

She peeled his jacket and shirts from his arms. His thick muscles began to bunch and quiver. He remained silent as she removed his gunbelt and worked the buckle on his chaps. She tugged open his trousers and glanced up at his vacant stare. She smoothed his hair away from his face. His tremors increased as her hands cupped his stubbly cheeks, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“Garret, you have to stand up.”

He gave a slight nod and she eased back. His quivering muscles flexed in an attempt to do as she asked. The pain in his expression made her chest ache. Halfway up she wrapped her arms around his cold chest, giving him added support as he straightened his legs. His wet chaps and trousers fell to the floor in a heap. She slid her arms down to his bare waist, guiding him forward, helping him step out of the tangled clothing.

Trembling beside her, Garret stared down at his naked form then glanced at her, a look of sheer confusion on his face.

“This is no great thrill for me,” she said, and nearly laughed at the outright lie. Garret Daines in the buff, his muscles flexed and quivering, was a sight to behold. Long, lean, chiseled to perfection.

A startling stir of new sensation shimmered inside her. Maggie forced her gaze up to the startling view of his bare chest.

Good gracious. Heat flushed across her skin, and suddenly her damp clothes weren’t quite so chilling. She reached past him to pull back the quilts and buffalo hide covering her bed. Unnerved by her body’s reaction, she knocked him onto the feather-stuffed mattress and began pulling blankets over all that shivering brawn.

His gruff voice sounded in a slur of words. He growled with frustration and grabbed her hand.

Maggie froze, startled by his strong grip. His eyes burned with questions.

“It’s the cold,” she said, pulling her fingers from his grasp and tucking his hand back beneath the covers. “Addles the mind for a time. You’ve just got to warm up.”

As though she’d given the answer he needed, a sigh broke from his chest. His eyes drifted shut—which was how she preferred them, she decided. Unease swept through her at the thought of a fully conscious Garret Daines standing in her small cabin.

Oh Lord. She hadn’t thought that far ahead…and tried not to think of it now. Wasn’t anything she could do—he was here, shivering in her bed. The wood frame creaked with his violent tremors.

She stepped back. All she could do now was keep the fire stoked. His body needed to hold heat. She pulled her coat back on and grabbed her gloves from the table. She’d have to make sure the stovepipe atop the hillside hadn’t snowed over before she fetched an armload of wood.

By the time she returned to the cabin, her teakettle was steaming and she was trembling nearly as much as the man curled up in her bed. She shut the door against a fierce wind, the storm having fully arrived. She fed the fire another log then took a cup from the shelves beside her stove and opened her tea canister.

Exhausted, she dropped onto the only chair beside her narrow table with her tea and two shortbread cookies. Her shivers reminded her that her clothes were still damp. Taking a sip of tea to wash down the cookies, she told herself she needed to string a line to dry Garret’s clothes and start some stew. Her supply of meat needed to be thawed, cut and salted. She took another deep drink, the warm liquid soothing her chill. Completely worn-out, her mind and body balked at the idea of going back out into that storm to bring in the venison.

She watched Garret shiver in her bed and his dog sleeping soundly beside the stove as she drank the last of her tea. Suddenly she could barely keep her eyes open. Her tea no longer warming her hands and her belly, the chill crept back into her skin. Her own clothes needed to dry out, and she needed warming. All her blankets were wrapped around Garret. Lying on his side, he left just enough room for her to squeeze in beside him. A couple hours to warm up and regain her strength and she’d be ready to dry his gear and start a stew.

She lit the small lamp at the center of her table then dropped to her knees before her trunk at the end of her bed. Stacks of brightly embroidered shirts and dishcloths filled three quarters of the space—a winter’s worth of work. She didn’t have use for such colorful garb. Since Ira’s death, she bartered the fancy stitched dishcloths and clothing instead of animal pelts. She pulled out her flannel nightshirt and dropped the lid. Changing into the dry garment she hung her damp clothes over the chair and placed it before the stove. She’d be needing her clothes long before Garret would have use for his.

The fire stoked, her clothes drying, she stood beside the bed in her thick wool socks and nightshirt. She held her belt and sheathed blade, but was hesitant to crowd in beside Garret. Didn’t matter that she’d watched him in the lower hills more often than she should have in the past few years or that he seemed a fine man. She’d once been foolish enough to trust those who’d been ready to watch her die at her brother’s hands.

Ain’t enough of you to fight off man or beast. Ira’s gritty voice sounded in her mind. Don’t bed down without a weapon at hand.

If she didn’t get some sleep she’d be dead on her feet by the time Garret awoke. Not smart. His slow, jagged breaths assured her he was in a deep sleep just this side of death.

She went to the foot of the bed, stepped onto her trunk and eased into the sliver of space. She draped her belt over the bedpost and angled her knife so it would be within easy reach. She burrowed beneath the heavy blankets, lifting Garret’s arm to make room. The chill of his skin stole her breath as she settled beside him. Even so, her tired muscles rejoiced at the feel of the mattress beneath her.

Garret moaned. His big body shifted, his arms closing around her.

Maggie braced her hands against his cold chest. “Garret?” she whispered, forcing her voice past her constricted throat.

Several minutes passed. His eyes remained closed. The pressure of his hold didn’t change despite the tremors of his body. His heart thumped slow and steady beneath her palm.

The man’s practically an icicle, she reasoned. Instinc-tively he was trying to get warm.

She relaxed against his hold and tried to scoot into a more comfortable position. With every shift, her bare legs brushed against the coarse hair of his masculine body. She’d never lain with a naked man. The few times she’d snuggled up with Ira for warmth they’d been fully clothed and she’d been too cold to be bothered by Ira’s stench. Cleanliness wasn’t Ira’s way. He frequently grumbled about her sweet-scented soaps attracting bear. But he respected her way, making sure she had lye to make soap and seeking out a hot spring when she needed a long soak. She could use one now. So could Garret.

She yawned again, drawing in the musky scent of Garret’s skin. The hair on his chest tickled her cheek. Garret Daines didn’t smell bad, she noted. Her hand slid over his side to the smooth skin of his back as she settled against him. Despite his cold presence, a pleasing warmth spread through her as she gave in to sheer exhaustion.