Harris Channing (2 page)

Dear God, she didn't like that
sound of that. And even though she knew his meaning, she needed to hear him say
the dastardly words. "Intact?"

"Yes. Frostbite has some folks
losing fingers and toes like lepers."

He lifted her unyielding body into
his arms, cradling her in his embrace. She feared his words, but why was it,
she didn't fear him? Why? He was absolutely a fright to look at, like a big,
hairy troll from the children’s books Ma used to read.

"Frostbite?"

"Yes, I have some salve but
mostly we need to get you warm." He set her gently upon the bed and
covered her with two more blankets. Despite the heaviness of the quilts she was
still beyond cold. Would she ever feel warm again?

She rolled to her side and curled
into a tight ball, fighting the sting of tears. The straw mattress poked at her
hip, but it still felt wonderful to lie down in a real bed. A chill raced over
her sluggish flesh and had her shivering. Looking to the man, she watched him
stoke the fire and hang a kettle of water to boil.

He leaned against the wall beside
the fireplace, staring in the direction of the fire, his dark hair shining in
the orange glow. She supposed to most he'd look like a demon straight from
hell, but in the bright light, she saw glimpses of the man hidden by the grunge
and hair. He would be perfectly presentable clean and shaved, maybe even
handsome, but she wasn't quite ready to make the assumption. But his eyes,
that's what she liked about him. For despite the deep down sadness that lived
within them, there was a kindness, too.

As he started toward her with a pan
of steaming water, she quickly averted her gaze.

"Your gloves did little to
protect your hands." He set the pan on the floor before aiding her into a
seated position. Carefully, he propped her up against the rough-hewn headboard,
cushioning her with pillows and a patient hand.

Settling beside her, he placed the
pot on her lap. "Girl, I want you to soak your hands."

"I'd rather n-not."
Damnation but the chill never ceased to go away, her jaw still bounced and her
lips tingled. "I know it's going to burn."

"Burn? It's going to be
excruciating when the warmth gets to the nerves." He brushed her hair from
her face. "But you have to do it, you understand? You don't want to lose
your hands."

"Lose them?"

He lifted the blanket and taking
her by the wrist, exposed her fingers to the light. They were blood red and
swollen. He was right, they were a terrible sight, but they didn't hurt.

"Can you move your fingers at
all?"

She tried, but her effort offered
only the slightest motion. Fresh tears stung her eyes. "I have no choice,
d-do I?"

"You can keep them under the
blanket, but that may or may not work." He gave her wrist a gentle
squeeze. "This water is not very warm. I'll gradually add warmer and
warmer water to it and once you've gotten some movement back, we'll wrap your
hands and hope for the best."

"And the salve?" she
asked, praying he had some sort of miracle cure in mind.

"That'll be for later when you
blister and the blisters turn black."

Her thoughts sped to a future with
no fingers, no hands. How would she cope? Do simple things like button a button
or tie on her bonnet. "Is it that grim?" she asked, her voice
hitching in her throat.

He shrugged his broad shoulders.
"I hope not, but why not do what you can."

She nodded and closing her eyes,
lowered both of her hands into the heavy, cast iron pot.

At first, she felt no change, but
slowly her fingers began to tingle. With each drop of hot water he added to the
pot, the more the burn increased. Yet she kept her hands still, determined to
do whatever she could to keep every single finger. But it was an agonizing
venture, one that had her writhing and fighting to keep her hands submerged.

With the pot filled up to her
wrists, he sat by her side, stoic and silent. The only noise in the cabin was
the occasional pop of the fire that mingled with her miserable sobs.

"How long must I do
this?" she asked, desperate for some notion as to when she could end her
despair.

He leaned over the pot, his neck
bent, his dark curls cascading over his shoulders. Pulling her hands free of
the water he looked up at her, his gaze softening.

"You did really well, girl.
Can you bend them?"

She swallowed her tears and made a
loose fist. Relief flooded through her. "Yes."

"Good, you got a name?"

She sniffled. "Of course I do.
What sort of question is that?"

He stared at her expectantly and
when she didn't answer he scowled and blew out an impatient breath. "Well
girl, what is it then?"

A small laugh popped from her
mouth, her split lip protesting the sudden movement. She could taste the fresh
blood on her tongue. "Bobbie."

He stared at her a moment.
"Your father mistake you for a boy?"

Her mouth fell into a scowl. It
wasn't that he had mistaken her for a boy, it was that he wanted a son and she
disappointed. "No, it's short for Roberta. I'm named after my father. But
I think Bobbie suits me."

"All right, Bobbie. We'll wrap
those hands and then move on down to your feet."

She closed her eyes and inhaled a
deep breath. "Are they in as bad a condition as my hands?" Once again
fear twisted her guts.

"I don't know, I've not really
looked at them as closely. I can tell you, your shoes weren't meant for this
sort of weather."

"Neither were any of us.
Mister…will you look for my folks in the morning? They wouldn't leave me
behind. They must be lost in the storm."

"My name's David, and let's
take care of you and worry about your family later."

"David, please."

He frowned beneath his shaggy
beard. "You ask an awful lot from a stranger."

"Sir, you're all I have."

Chapter 2

He followed what remained of Bobbie's
trail but there wasn't much. The falling snow and blowing winds very nearly
obliterated her tracks. But he persisted, fairly certain he knew what direction
she had traveled. She had mentioned a creek and the closest one was less than a
half mile away. So, he had a vague idea as to where she had been. Judging by
the conditions of her body, she hadn't been wandering all that long. She hadn't
fallen into unconsciousness and God knew she was talkative. And her frostbite
was bad, but it wasn't the worst he'd ever seen.

Still, he worried over her hands
and feet, but what worried him more was how long he'd have to play nursemaid to
the urchin. He didn't like the distraction to his mourning. He didn't like her
lying in the bed he shared with Sarah and he really didn't like the fact that
he'd be rummaging through his beloved's belongings to find something suitable
for the girl to wear.

Pulling the refilled flask from his
pocket, he took a long swallow and continued to trudge through the newly fallen
snow. Squinting against the bright sun on the whitest of whites he reached the
edge of a scraggly group of pines. Spotting a bright yellow bit of yarn hanging
from one of the branches, he knew his assumption had been correct. Her woolen
scarf had left the telltale sign.

He ducked beneath the low hanging
branches as he entered the thicket and quickly scanned the area for human life.
The place was deathly quiet.

"Hello?" he called out.
No one called back, not even a bird. He stumbled forward trying desperately to
see any sign of a camp. Nothing, only trees and snow. Damnation.

Cold wind whipped and tugged at his
fur coat, but once the booze hit his system, he was immune to it. That's what
he liked most about the drink, the way it deadened him, both on the inside and
out.

***

Despite the throbbing in her hands
and feet, the warmth of the bed, the warmth of the cabin, and the warmth of the
man who saved her all cradled her in sleep's comforting embrace.

"David," she whispered
his name. He was her filthy hero, her soft spot in a harsh, cruel world.

She slowly opened her eyes, the dim
light that filtered through the room, still strong enough to make her wince.
Rolling over to present her back to the window, she listened to the howling of
the wind that battered the small oasis in the middle of a snowy nowhere.

The sound of the wind buffeting the
cabin, the only sound she heard. Her eyes popped open and a surge of worry had
her sitting up.

"David?" she said his
name, her voice tentative despite the anxiety that pulsed through her. Had he
gone? Left her alone in this god awful wilderness? Surely, he wouldn't do
that…but where was he?

"David!" she shouted this
time, her alarm sending jolt after jolt of fear cascading through her.

Her feet protested hitting the
floor, yet she catapulted toward the front door. She swung it open and stared
out across the bleak horizon. Only the white and grey starkness of the Rocky
Mountain landscape met her panicky gaze.

No sign of him save the boot tracks
trailing off to nowhere.

"David!" her voice echoed
across the rugged terrain.

The cold air greedily attacked her
warm flesh and with tears filling her eyes, she slammed the door in the wicked
wind's ravaging face.

"You are no coward," she
reminded herself and limping back to the bed, she sat down, pulling the covers
over her shoulders. "He hasn't left forever, and he does not answer to
you." She lowered her gaze and prayed that he would soon return and
despite the comfort she took in prayer, she longed to see his face and to know
that she was not all alone in this cruel place.

When once again the door swung
open, she welcomed the sight of the fur coated mountain man. Without thought of
modesty or warmth, she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms tight about his
waist, relishing the feel of human contact.

With her still clinging to him, he
pushed through the open doorway and pulling his arm free, closed the door.

"Easy girl, what spooked
you?" She felt his arms encircle her, felt the tremor in his mittened hand
as he stroked her hair. "Everything's all right."

"I thought you'd left me here
alone."

He pushed her back and let out a
grumble. "I did. I went searching for your folks."

Excitement rocketed through her and
she set her hand to her breast. "Did you find them?"

He lumbered past her and toward the
fireplace where he removed his gloves and held his hands out before the small,
licking flames.

"No, but I did run across Reg
Crocker. He lives near the creek where you cracked your skull."

Her joy plummeted. "Did he see
them?"

"Said not and set out looking
for them along the Whitman Trail. We rendezvoused back at his place. There's no
sign of wagon or horses, or anything like that."

"Can you look somewhere
else?"

He pushed back his furry hood and
scowled. "Bobbie, they either made it through the pass or they didn't. If
they didn't we won't find them till spring."

She crossed her hands over her
chest, the chill that raced across her body more than just the cold. "So
we give up? We don't look? I survived, they could too. What if they're just
hurt like I was? What if we can find them and save them?"

"No sign of a camp, no sign of
a wagon, horses, or even an accident. Every trace is obliterated by the
snow."

She stumbled toward the small
drying rack that held her damp clothes. With her hands trembling she started
awkwardly trying to dress herself.

"What the devil are you
doing?" He came to her side and snatched away her petticoat. "You're
as weak as a new born calf. You think that your willfulness with save
them?"

"I can't not know, David. They
may need me. Maybe I can help them." Tears slipped from her eyes.

"Another storm is coming. I
won't be caught as unawares as they were."

"Please, won't you help
me?"

He dropped her undergarments and
set his hands upon her upper arms. "I would love to help you. But. I
traced the road to the pass, no wagon tracks. I found only small evidence of a
camp near the creek but couldn't find hide nor hair of the folks who camped
there. I have been searching since sun up. Reg walked the other direction back
toward Henry's trading post. Nothing there either. We'll hope they made it
through the pass early and that the blizzard didn't follow them."

"Hope? How is that supposed to
sustain me?" But the truth she had been hiding from pummeled her with
reality. "David, if they live, they left me to die and if they died, I am
still lost."

He reached up and touched her cheek
in the gentlest of fashions. "No, Bobbie. I found you. I'll see you cared
for."

She closed her eyes and envisioned
her family. She could almost see her pa, standing in the Illinois fields, tall,
fair-haired and proud. How she longed to gaze into Ma's eyes and witness once
again her sweet smile. So desperate, she would have welcomed young Robert's
trickery. The boy was a red-haired ball of fire who they all reckoned would
either do great or wicked things.

Through her tears she stared up at
David. His expression offered no solace, his green eyes nearly blank.

"We were going to California
to homestead. It's supposed to be warm there and Ma needed to be warm. She's
always so cold." A sob escaped her throat. "Pa teased her, said she
needed a sweater in July." Tears washed over her cheeks. "I imagine
she's so very cold now, David."

"Try not to think about
it," he mumbled and fishing out his flask from his coat pocket, he offered
it to her. "Have a swig or two of this to calm your nerves."

***

She wiped her tears away and stared
at him, the disbelief in her eyes unnerving. "I don't want that vile
poison," she said.