Debra Holland - [Montana Sky 02] (21 page)

Jack pressed his knees against Brownie’s sides, urging the horse forward a few steps, to slacken the rope stretching from the pommel of his saddle across the water to Thompson. Between them, the river flowed by, slick and black, the current splashing over rocks. The fat moon overhead whitened the frothy bubbles, like lace on obsidian.

The lantern Thompson carried cast only a fuzzy illumination around the island, but it was enough for Jack to see the man take two strides and drop to his knees.

Christine.

Was the young ’un dead? He swallowed. The guilt wrapping around his spine ever since Thompson said she had disappeared tightened until he thought his bones might snap. He’d refused to have much to do with her. He weren’t that interested in little gals. She were Dan’s friend. Yet, from time to time, something about
her spunkiness had caught his attention, and he’d joshed Tim when his brother had mentioned she were a pretty ’un.

They’d done wrong in keeping her visits secret. He knew that now. Never gave it no mind before—weren’t none of his business what Christine did. He preferred to let others go their own way, like he wished people would leave him alone. None of their damn business what he and Tim did. Too many do-gooders poking their noses in where they didn’t belong. He’d ignored the opportunity to be a do-gooder hisself with Christine, and now look where that had got ’em.

“She’s alive.” The man’s voice echoed across the water, hollow somehow, as though his daughter might be hurt bad or somethin’.

Remorse squeezed Jack’s ribs against his lungs.

Thompson straightened with Christine bundled in his arms. The big man mounted his horse and headed toward the water.

As the rope slackened, Jack backed Brownie, keeping the line taunt. He squinted through the moon-splashed darkness. Thompson had left his lantern on the island, and Jack had to strain to watch their progress while continuing to slowly back Brownie.

Frowning in concentration, he gritted his teeth, determined to maintain a steady watch. If Thompson’s horse went down, it was up to Jack to keep the man and Christine from being swept away.

In the river, Bill slipped.

“Back, Brownie, gal.” Dread sharpened Jack’s words; he softened his tone. “Back, now.”

Time slowed worse than when he had a bellyache from eating green apples, and his insides pushed and pulled with the movement of the horse fighting the powerful current.

Bill scrambled for purchase, then slipped again.

Jack’s heart thumped like a carpenter driving home nails.

The horse recovered its footing, and finally Thompson reached land. Jack released his breath in several deep pants. They’d made it.

Miz Samantha nudged her horse to meet them. Lifting her lantern high, she leaned over and touched Christine’s cheek. “She’s as cold as ice.” She handed over a blanket. “Wrap her in this.”

Thompson folded the blanket around the girl.

Miz Samantha draped a second around Thompson. “Let’s get her to my house. It’s closer.”

In the lantern light, he caught a glimpse of Christine’s face. Shock and fear cut into him. Usually the gal had pink bloomin’ in her cheeks like the roses in Widda Murphy’s garden. But now she was paler than the ghosts he’d heard about in stories.

Is that how people look right before they died off? How his mother had looked?
His pa had done chased the twins off when she was a dyin’, so he didn’t know.

Thompson looked over at Jack. “Go for Doc Cameron. Have him come to the Rodriguez place.”

Jack nodded, the responsibility jerking him upright in his saddle. “The rope?”

“Untie me.”

Jack reached over. Under the blanket, he ran his hand over the rope around Thompson’s waist until he reached the knot. As he fumbled with the stiff twine, he sensed the man’s impatience. The bellyache feeling cramped his guts. “Loosen, damn you.” He muttered a half curse, part plea. As if in response to his words, the line slithered free. His stomach unknotted.

Jack coiled the rope, lashing it to the saddle. Then he aimed Brownie in the direction of town. He wanted to gallop like a gang of outlaws with the sheriff after them, but settled for a steady lope, knowing he couldn’t flounder his horse. The doc might not even be home, and then he’d have to ride on and find him.

Could the doc help Christine? People sure did say powerful good things about the man. Happen if his pa had let the doctor tonic his ma, she’d still be alive. Bitter sadness panged, and he had to brush away the moisture in his eyes with his coat sleeve.
Can’t be a sissy boy now.
But even so, the memory of Christine’s ghost-like features haunted him.

Doc Cameron would help her. Had to. And the sooner he fetched him the better.

Please, God, let Doc be home.

The words slipped out of his heart before he knew he’d thought them.

A prayer!

He hadn’t prayed since his ma had died—not even when they was searching for Christine. Wished a lot, but not prayed. But now…maybe ’cause of the duty Thompson had entrusted him with…it weighed on a boy…made him think different somehow. What if the do-gooders were right and there really was a God? One who might help the little gal. If so, he might as well jump into the whole damn pond instead of just sticking a toe in.

Please God up there. Make the gal be well. Make her
…He remembered her playing with little Bella earlier in the day. Sunshine had sparked off her golden hair, and happiness had fair danced across her grinning face—and those little gal squeals…He winced at the memory. Why gals made those damn shrill hollers when they was havin’ fun were beyond him.

Make her be able to squeal again, God. Just like before.

Something inside him warmed, like a torn place in his chest seaming together, mending some of the tatters of his soul and bringing a soft kind of comfort. He relaxed in the saddle, but didn’t slacken his pace.

Caught up in his musings, he soon reached the outskirts of town. When they’d stayed at Widda Murphy’s, he and Tim had slipped out often enough to know how the night shrouded the buildings. They knew how to flit from one end to the other without even making a dog bark.

Luckily Doc Cameron’s house stood near the edge of town, and Jack slowed Brownie as they drew nearer. He had always secretly admired the two-story white frame building with its generous porch and twinkly clean windows above flowers and ivy spilling out of green-painted boxes. The garden had been an envy of his ma’s. More than a few times she had commented on Mrs. Cameron’s way with growing things.

Jack had vowed that he would get her a house like that when he grew up, complete with roses growing on a picket fence. The familiar bitterness circled his heart, dimming the God-warmth there.

He’d just wait and see if the doc were home before he’d give a nod to the Almighty.

Arriving at the white fence surrounding the doc’s house, he slid off Brownie and wrapped the reins around the top rail that held the fence together. He trotted up the brick path, rushing the stairs in one bound. In three steps, he’d crossed the porch. Raising his fist, he pounded on the green door, waited a few seconds, then knocked again.

After a minute, the door flew open. Doc Cameron stood outlined in the doorway holding up a glassed candleholder. The doc
must have jumped out of bed to answer the door. He’d shoved his nightshirt into his trousers, because the cloth bunched up on one side, and his hair, rusty in the candlelight, spiked out wilder than usual.

He didn’t wait for the man to speak. “Christine Thompson done fell in the river. She’s in a awful bad way. Come quick, will ya, Doc?”

“Run to the livery stable and get my buggy. You know my horse, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, laddie. Go, then. Hitch it up, drive the buggy here, and I’ll be ready.”

Leaving Brownie, Jack turned and ran down the street, relief giving bounce to his tread. Doc would help the gal.

Maybe there is a God.

But then again, maybe he’d wait till he saw what happened with Christine before he’d completely make up his mind.

Still wearing Juan Carlos’s pants and white cotton shirt, Samantha watched from her bedroom doorway. Tension pinched her stomach. She clenched her hands, praying while awaiting the physician’s diagnosis of Christine.

Dr. Cameron bent over the child tucked into the big fourposter bed. The glow of the three oil lamps she’d placed around the room glinted on his rumpled auburn hair and cast his black frock coat in amber light.

He manipulated Christine’s limp limbs, his long fingers gently prodding for broken bones; the lamplight magnified and shadowed every gesture onto the wall behind him. In his gentle Scottish brogue, he soothed the little girl’s teary protests.

Wyatt leaned over the other side of the bed, one hand fisted into a green velvet patch of the wedding ring quilt as though restraining himself from grasping his daughter to him. His haggard gaze followed the physician’s every move. He hadn’t left his daughter’s side, except for a few minutes when Samantha had insisted he change into some of Ezra’s clothes.

Under other circumstances, Wyatt would have made a comical sight, wearing Ezra’s old clothes. The tan pants only came down to his shins, exposing gray woolen socks. His muscles strained against the too-small faded blue shirt. The blanket she’d wrapped around his shoulders kept slipping.

Although Wyatt hadn’t voiced any discomfort, Samantha didn’t like the way the skin tightened around his face from
weariness, nor how his lips had remained blue tinged with cold. But she understood no amount of persuasion on her part would keep him by the fire downstairs. If it had been Daniel, she wouldn’t have left his bedside either.

Wyatt had remained silent on the way home, and at the house while they had tended to Christine. Her initial relief at finding Christine alive had been supplanted with the fear of her having a serious illness. Added to those feelings was a nagging concern that Wyatt blamed her. He must. She blamed herself.

Finally, the doctor finished his examination and pulled the covers up over her still, pale form, tucking them under her chin. Sapped of her usual vitality, Wyatt’s daughter lay looking little and lost in Samantha’s big bed.

The doctor straightened, running his hand through his hair, causing it to stand on end. “She’s a lucky lassie. Bruises, but no broken bones. I do na think there’re internal injuries.”

Samantha released the breath she’d been holding.

Doc Cameron lifted his hand to caution against optimism. “She’s na out of the woods yet, mind. She’ll probably have a nasty cold, and I’m worried about pneumonia.”

Wyatt’s chin whipped up. “Pneumonia!”

Pneumonia,
Samantha silently echoed.

“But she’s a strong lass,” he said, obviously trying to reassure Wyatt. “Healthy as a horse. You’ve na needed my services for her since the day she was born.”

Wyatt reached down to brush a stray wisp of Christine’s hair off her forehead. “When will we know?”

“Should have a good idea by tomorra. I do na want her moved, and she’ll need careful nursing.”

Wyatt looked over at Samantha, concern in his gray eyes.

This was her chance to make it up to him—to both father and daughter—for her earlier errors. “That won’t be a problem.”

Dr. Cameron raised an auburn eyebrow. “I know you have your hands full, Mrs. Rodriguez.”

“I’ll be fine. The boys are bunking at Manuel and Maria’s. Tomorrow they’ll be in school. Mr. Thompson can sleep in the boys’ room. I’ll stay with her tonight.”

Wyatt shook his head. “No.”

Samantha’s stomach twisted. He didn’t trust her to nurse his daughter. Shame heated her cheeks.

Dr. Cameron frowned at him, his kind blue eyes turning stern. “I do na like the look of you, mon. You’ve done enough tonight. It won’t help the lass for you to become ill too. I’m ordering you off ta bed.”

Wyatt shook his head.

Cameron placed a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder. “There’s naught you can do right now.”

Wyatt glanced down at Christine, then up at Samantha. “All right. But only if you’ll wake me if I’m needed.”

The doctor pulled a brown glass bottle from his bag. “If the lassie does wake and become restless, give her a teaspoon of this. I’ll return in the morning.”

Samantha stepped forward. “You’re welcome to sleep over.”

“I thank you kindly for the offer. But I’d best be getting back in case I’m summoned elsewhere.”

Wyatt and Samantha accompanied the doctor downstairs and out the door. While Samantha held up an oil lamp to give him light, the physician climbed into his buggy. He snapped the reins and drove away.

Once back inside, Wyatt sagged a shoulder against the doorframe. “I don’t want to burden you, Samantha.”

Samantha set the lamp on the shelf of the hall tree and placed a hand on his arm. Through the worn cotton of Ezra’s shirt she could feel Wyatt’s muscular strength under her palm, even though she knew how exhausted he must be. Her heart went out to him. “It’s not a burden. I’m grateful she’s alive.”

He wiped the back of one hand across his eyes. “It’s been a nightmare.” The dullness in his tone hinted at pure physical and emotional depletion.