Rocky Mountain Widow (Historical) (5 page)

Had it been the Hamiltons? Had they done something to her?
Did they suspect the truth?
Is that why they'd followed her? But how could the boys have gotten ahead of him on the road, when he'd left them behind arguing things out with the deputy? Well, they could know a shortcut.

The road was the long way around—there was no telling how fast they could have caught up with her had they disregarded property lines and ridden their horses through pastures and grazing land? What had those ruffians done? And to a helpless woman? Agony was torn from his chest as he swept the snow from her motionless form. She lay facedown, with her hands clutched beneath her as if she'd died in agony, her legs akimbo, her face turned away, her soft woolen outer wrapping iced stiff.

It took him a moment to realize the sheen of dark crimson staining the skirt and seeping upward through the snow was blood. A whole lot of it.

I'm so sorry, Claire.

She didn't deserve this. No woman did. To be struck down and left alone to die. Misery coursed through him.
I should have been with you. I should have protected you.
He'd played a hand in the course of events. And he knew what the Hamilton brothers would do if they figured out the truth.

That made him responsible for her death, too. Sickened, he let the storm's fury batter him. He'd failed. It had been a long time since he'd failed someone. He put his face in his hands and closed his eyes.
I didn't want this.
Grief left him as cold as the blizzard. As the vicious winds rocked him, he vowed to take care of her now. The past couldn't be changed.

Life once lost could not be brought back. And he couldn't think of how he'd go on, knowing he'd failed to protect her. Knowing that his suspicions had been right.

The big Clydesdale nickered, nudging his mistress
with his nose, an affectionate gesture. His head hung low and stayed there, his sadness palpable.

I can't leave her here.
Joshua gathered his strength. He'd take care of her from here on out. Too late, his conscience mocked him, as he leaned over her and caught sight of her face in profile, her skin nearly translucent, lying as still as an angel. With her dark lashes long and curled and the ethereal cut of her fine cheekbones and chin, she could have been a snow angel taken form. She'd been such a sweet thing, he thought, though he'd hardly known her.

Maybe it was just his wishful thinking that somewhere in this world there could be a kind and gentle woman, instead of one out for her own gain. Maybe it was how vulnerable she'd been that night he'd come to her aid and how small she seemed now as he gathered her into his arms.

Her lifeless body was still supple and as he adjusted her against his chest, he swore he felt a soft exhale of breath against the underside of his jaw, where his muffler had fallen away. But no, that had to be the feathery snow, for the sensation was cold, not warm.

He just couldn't believe she was gone, that he was clinging to false hope. The Clydesdale lumbered at his side, his nostrils wide and sniffing over his mistress. An eerie trumpet of a neigh sounded from the big boy's throat—one of pure sorrow.

General stood at attention, the good horse he was, and he did not balk or sidestep at the scent of blood and death. Joshua supposed some men would think it prudent to strap her body to the back of her horse, but he couldn't bear it.

She'd died alone. She felt as cold as the wind against him, and seemed to seep a deeper cold into him, but he didn't care. He wasn't going to leave her alone. Hell, he was sick with regrets and grief. He hefted her onto General's back—she didn't weigh more than a hundred-pound grain sack, and it saddened him as he climbed up behind her.

He gathered her into his arms, her weight falling softly against his chest. He fought a powerful thrust of emotion. His heart felt as desolate as the frozen plains as he turned General and struggled to find their tracks in the wild haze of falling snow.

General's hoofprints were nearly swept clean. After a few yards, they were gone completely. He was alone with a dead woman and three horses, and no idea which way to safety or the open prairie.

He wasn't a praying man. He'd lost faith in most things long ago. But a little help wouldn't be unappreciated, he thought, as he tried to gauge if the wind had a direction—if it was coming from the mountains, west, then he could keep the wind straight at his back and he'd eventually come upon homesteads and, finally, town.

But no, fate wasn't about to lend him a hand. The wind was twisting and swirling as the blizzard hit its momentum. A clap of thunder echoed overhead—a sure sign the storm was worsening. Even if he could find the road, the temperature was dropping. Well below zero, Joshua figured. He couldn't sustain his body temperature long enough to reach town.

As for a homestead, there weren't many on this des
olate part of the Montana plains for this very reason. The winters were so brutal few could stick it out.

The only hope he had was to keep going. He'd climb off and walk if he had to. This would keep his blood pumping for a while. But it would only delay the inevitable. If he was as far from town as he figured he was, then he was a doomed man.

Maybe it was justice, he figured, as he brushed snow from Claire's face, an eye for an eye. One life for another.

She relaxed against his throat and he felt it then, the faintest tickle.

Claire Hamilton was as still as the dead, but one thing was sure. It was impossible. He didn't believe it even as he ripped off his glove and felt her pulse again—nothing. His fingers were too frozen, that's what he told himself, even as he figured she had to be gone.

Then he felt it: a weak feathering against his wrist. She was breathing.
She was alive.

A
live. 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.