A Tailor-Made Bride (24 page)

Out of options, she did the only thing she could. She let go of the pole and allowed the river to take her.

C
HAPTER 22

J.T. peered out the back of the livery, across the corral, and down the road that led out of town. She should have returned by now.

Dark clouds were converging from the north. The light rain that had arrived ahead of them a few minutes ago had sent him out to gather the horses. Now that they were all stabled and dry, he couldn’t tear himself away from the open doorway.

Where are you, Hannah?

Surely if something had been seriously wrong with Ezra she would have driven back to town for help right away. So what was keeping her? Maybe she decided to wait out the rain at his place. Or she could have taken a wrong turn.

His gut told him there was more to it.

“Tom!” J.T. spun around and marched through the stable.

The boy stuck his head out of one of the stalls, a currycomb in his hand. “Yeah?”

“Saddle up the gray for me while I get my slicker. I’m going for a ride.” Trusting that his order would be obeyed, he strode on without stopping.

“In the rain?” the boy called out after him.

“Yep.”

He had just retrieved the oiled raincoat from the nail on his office wall when the pounding of hoofbeats set his heart to racing. He dashed out to the street. The roan ran past him, straight into the livery.

Hannah
.

J.T. shoved his sleeves into the arms of his slicker but didn’t bother with the buttons as he sprinted toward the gray’s stall. “Tom! I need that horse. Now!”

“I got him. I just need to cinch him up.”

J.T. ran a calming hand over the roan’s heaving sides. “It’s all right, boy,” he murmured. “You’re safe. But where’s Hannah, huh? You didn’t throw her, did you?” Tension crept back into his voice at the thought of Hannah injured or lost out on the road somewhere. The horse sidestepped, and J.T. backed away.

“Tom,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.

“Here, J.T. He’s ready.”

The second Tom emerged from the stall, J.T. grabbed the reins and swung into the saddle. “Take care of the roan.”

Tom eyed the animal, then turned a panicked look on J.T. “B-b-but where’s Miss Richards and the buggy?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.” Not taking the time to offer any more explanation, J.T. nudged the gray forward and sped out of town.

He held the gelding to a moderate pace so he could scan the brush for signs of Hannah. But as each consecutive section he passed yielded no sign of her, the tension in his gut wound tighter. J.T. rounded the bend that preceded the bridge, a thicket of pecan trees blocking his view of the river. Through the branches, however, he caught a glimpse of a large black object. He reined in his mount and approached with caution.

When his view cleared, his heart dropped to his knees. It was the buggy, all right, but it lay broken and tipped against the railing. Debris cluttered the bridge, and J.T. knew at once that the dripping planks had been drenched by something more sinister than the drizzling rain that fell now.

“Hannah!”

He jumped off his horse, grabbed the lariat from the back of his saddle, and ran onto the bridge. His boots slid on the damp wood, but he didn’t slow his pace. Praying that the only reason he didn’t see her was because she was huddled inside the carriage, J.T. climbed between the lopsided horse shafts and thrust his head into the buggy’s interior.

Nothing.

He punched a fist into the side of the carriage.

Lifting his head, he searched the banks, the water, the brush. No sign of the pretty pink outfit she’d been wearing that morning. Where was she?

Lord, help me find her. Alive. Please, alive.

J.T. scanned the carriage for any clue it could offer. He spotted her purse jammed into the seat cushion and jerked it free. Opening the front of his slicker, he tucked it inside his vest. Something stiff and hard poked him in the chest, but he welcomed the discomfort if it meant having a piece of her close.

He looked back at the empty rigging. The roan would never have been able to free himself without her aid. Therefore, she must have survived the flash flood. At least initially. But he hadn’t passed her on the road or seen footprints in the muddy earth. That didn’t bode well. Surely she wouldn’t have walked back to Ezra’s place. Not when the buggy was closer to the town side of the bridge. So where was she?

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted her name loud and long. “Hannnnahhh!”

He waited, straining to hear some kind of response. Anything. But all he heard was the rush of the angry river.

She must have been washed over the side. J.T. ground his teeth. Hannah was strong—stronger than any woman he’d ever known. Physically. Mentally. The buggy had collapsed near the bank. Despite the fast currents, she might have made it to shore. That’s where he’d start the search.

He angled his arm through the coil of rope and shoved the lariat up to his shoulder. Leaving the bridge behind, he sunk into the mud lining the west bank. He wove around trees and brush, grabbing limbs and roots to maintain his balance as his boots continually slid out from under him. Twice, he nearly ended up in the river himself.

About a quarter mile from the bridge, he spotted a snippet of color in the distance. There, where the river dipped slightly to the right, a fallen tree stretched out over the edge of the water. Something pink lay in its arms. Pink!

Heedless of the risk, J.T. rushed toward the log. Thornbushes scratched his face and hands. His downhill leg throbbed with the effort of keeping him upright. Mud sucked at his boots and dragged him down, but he charged on.

When he reached the uprooted tree, he lodged himself behind the circular base and unwound his rope. A small cedar stood nearby. J.T. looped the end of the rope around the cedar’s trunk and knotted it. He shrugged out of his slicker, folded it up to keep the inside dry, and then tied the free end of the rope around his waist. Taking a deep breath, and petitioning God for an extra measure of strength and agility, he climbed onto the log and began making his way to Hannah.

The log narrowed the farther J.T. went. Not trusting his footing, he lowered himself to his belly and crawled.

He could see her now. Pale hands lying outstretched and limp, alarmingly white against the dark, wet wood. Her face down. Yellow hair strewn every which way, tangled with twigs and soggy leaves. She wasn’t moving.

Please be alive. Please.

He inched closer, the river now licking his knees. Nearly there. He could almost touch her. Then the rope snagged, halting his progress. With a growl, he grabbed the cord and yanked. A stub of a broken branch held the rope captive. He yanked again, harder. “Come on!” Finally the branch snapped. J.T. turned back to his goal.

“Hannah?”

She was less than a foot away, but she gave no sign that she heard him.

“Hang in there, darlin’. I’m coming.”

The log split into a
V
with Hannah wedged in the middle. J.T. reached for her hand and clasped it. The coldness of her fingers chilled his heart. He folded her hand inside his palm and squeezed. His eyes closed on a wordless prayer, then burst open as determination gripped him. He would compel the river to relinquish its prize. Hannah was not dead. Only unconscious. She could still be revived.

Clinging to that bit of faith, he released her fingers and latched on to her wrist. Once he found a grip on both of her arms, he dug his heels into the side of the tree and pulled. A groan tore from his throat as his muscles strained against the river’s hold. Hannah’s lower half was still submerged, her skirts weighing her down. He managed to lift her only a short distance before he had to stop and rest.

He needed more power.

Slowly, without releasing his grip on her arms, J.T. scooted his hips forward until he was sitting upright. His balance teetered, but the grip of his legs kept him from falling. Once secure, he unclenched his knees, lifted his bent legs forward, and locked the heels of his boots onto the branches on either side of Hannah.

J.T. kicked at the wood to make sure it would hold, then with a mental count to three, he leaned back and pushed with all his might. His legs straightened little by little as Hannah came to him. He dragged her higher until he could tuck her lolling head onto his shoulder and wrap his arms around her middle. With a final thrust of his legs, she was free.

He wiggled out from under her and drew her backward until he could reach an arm around her knees. Carefully, so as not to throw them both into the river, he lifted and twisted her position until she sat sidesaddle across the log in front of him. He cradled her to his heaving chest and, with a shaky hand, combed the hair out of her face.

“Hannah? Can you hear me? Open your eyes.”

He felt along her throat for a pulse. A weak vibration tickled his fingertips. Hot moisture pooled in his eyes. He blinked it away and gathered her close, rocking her back and forth, for his own comfort as much as hers.

“Thank you, Lord.”

Turning her body so her back lay flush against his chest, he wrapped an arm around her middle and started shuffling back toward the base of the tree. Once there, he laid her along the length of the log, collected and recoiled his rope, then tried one more time to rouse her. He pillowed her head with his arm and lightly slapped her cheeks.

“Hannah, wake up,” he demanded. Too frightened to cajole, he ordered her to comply. “This is no time to be stubborn, woman. Open your eyes.”

Her lashes fluttered, and his breath caught in his chest. Then they stilled. He gave her a shake. “Look at me!”

Blue eyes peeked through tiny slits beneath her lids.

“That’s it. Come on, Hannah. Look at me.”

She blinked and her lashes parted a little more. “J-Jericho?”

He decided in that moment that he loved the sound of his given name. “I’m here, Hannah.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You’re safe.”

“I’m c-c-c-cold.” Her eyelids drifted closed again.

J.T. frowned. She needed a hot bath, dry clothes, and a doctor before she came down with some kind of lung fever. Hadn’t Cordelia told him she’d had weak lungs as a child? What if she had a relapse?

He wrung as much water from her skirts and petticoats as he could while still preserving her modesty, then retrieved his slicker and wrapped it around her. He doubted it held any residual warmth from his body, but it would block the wind. After buttoning her in, he took her in his arms and started the muddy trek back up to the road.

By the time he made it to his horse, it had stopped raining. J.T. eased his precious burden down to the ground to give him a minute to regain his strength. He knelt behind her so she could lean against him. To keep her head from flopping forward, he cupped her jaw in his hand. His thumb stroked her cheek.

“You’re not going to like this next part, darlin’, but it can’t be helped.” J.T. plucked a twig from her hair. “I’m hoping you won’t remember it. If you do, I promise to let you upbraid me as much as you like. I won’t even frown while you do it. Okay?”

Being as gentle as he could manage, he hoisted her onto his shoulder and pushed to his feet. Then, with a whispered apology, he slung her facedown across the saddle, climbed up behind her, and headed toward town.

C
HAPTER 23

“Delia! Open up!”

J.T. kicked at the front door, his arms full of a still-unconscious Hannah. It was probably for the best that she hadn’t awakened during the bumpy ride back to town, but he would’ve felt a lot better if she had.

As soon as Delia unlatched the door, J.T. pushed his way in.

“What on earth are . . . ?” The question died on her lips, a horrified gasp taking its place. “Hannah?”

J.T. didn’t stop to offer explanations. He strode into his bedroom, ignoring the caked mud that clung to both him and his charge, and set Hannah down on his bed. Delia dogged his steps.

“What happened, J.T.? Where’d you find her? Is she alive?”

“Yes,” he snapped. “She’s alive. I’ll tell you what I know later, but right now we need to get her warm and dry.” He opened the chest at the foot of his bed and started tossing every blanket he owned onto the floor. “Get one of your flannel nightgowns for her to wear and heat some water for tea in case she wakes and can drink something. I’ll fetch the doctor, and while I’m gone, I want you to strip every piece of wet clothing off of her. Everything. Understand?” He waited for Delia to nod. “Good. Dry her with a towel, and tuck her into my bed. If she stays overnight, I can sleep on the cot at the livery.”

Delia scrambled from the room to do his bidding, and J.T. stole a few seconds to just look at Hannah. In his bed. Wrapped in a man’s bulky coat, her skin smeared with mud, her hair matted and dripping river water on his pillow, she wasn’t exactly a picture of feminine enticement. Nevertheless, his heart ached with tenderness.

He hunkered down beside the bed and clasped her hand. “You will not sicken, Hannah Richards. Do you hear me?” His throat clogged as he spoke. Then, before his sister could return, he pressed a kiss into Hannah’s palm and returned her arm to her side.

Delia met him in the doorway carrying a steaming basin of water, a nightdress, and two towels slung over her shoulder. The shock that had dulled her eyes when he first arrived had sharpened to a gleaming fortitude. Hannah would be in good hands.

“Take good care of her, sis.”

“I will, J.T. Now go get the doctor.”

After one last glance at the delicate woman in his bed, he did just that.

Hannah came awake slowly. Flashes of remembered sounds and touches penetrated the fog of her mind. Delia’s concern and gentle hand as she combed out Hannah’s snarled hair. A man’s no-nonsense voice and blunt fingers prodding her ribs. Jericho’s arrogant demand to get well and a mysterious softness in her hand. They were no more than vague impressions, yet they lingered with a sense of reality no dream could instill.

The overwhelming weariness that had ruled her lifted. Awareness of her surroundings seeped in little by little. She noticed the quiet first. The angry roar was gone. But so were the voices she remembered. Was she alone? She didn’t want to be alone.