A Grand Teton Sleigh Ride: Four Generations of Wyoming Ranchers Celebrate Love at Christmas (9 page)

by Lynette Sowell

Jackson’s Hole, Wyoming, November 1919

T
he whistling wind bit into Emily Covington’s cheeks; she squinted against the snow pelting her face at the same time. Her muffler had crept away from her nose and chin, but the urgency of her mission didn’t allow her the luxury of stopping.

Mother would be horrified when she saw Emily’s chapped skin.

The thought almost made her smile, but childish notions wouldn’t help her right now. Focus. She had to keep focused on the trail as she and the others raced back to Jackson.

The fool they’d all headed out to rescue claimed to have been going for a simple hike in the foothills. Simple and hike didn’t go together in the Teton Range, which towered above them in the gathering dark.

Her six sled dogs surged ahead, pulling, as their momentum carried her and the sled closer to the ranch. They knew a hot meal awaited them, along with a towel-dry, and pats and kisses from Emily. They’d earned any of the scraps she managed to procure tonight.

Because of them, Billy Adams would live.

Somewhere nearby on the trail, he lay wrapped in a blanket on a flatbed sleigh, a contraption made by Sven Olsen and used for pulling everything from hay to firewood, and now, frostbitten humans who’d been stupid enough to go for a hike.

She’d lived here in Jackson her entire life and couldn’t imagine calling anywhere else home.

Billy Adams had left when he was about nine years old, his mother exchanging the shadow of the mountains for the security of the city and family. His sudden absence at their schoolhouse left an empty desk. She’d missed her onetime schoolmate. But the lawyer who’d hung his shingle in Jackson before October’s first dusting of snow wasn’t the young boy she once knew.

Faint lamplight glowed here and there in the valley as the team drew her closer. When she was but a little girl, the homes were much farther apart and more sparse.

“A man’s losing his breathing room,“
her Pa liked to say. The Covington spread, over six hundred acres now, seemed like the entire world to her, and she didn’t understand what he meant by the saying.

Now she knew, as she saw the town growing. Once Jackson got electricity, Pa would likely lose what breathing room he had, save for the acreage. More people all the time got the urge to try their hand at life in the once-wild West.

The grayness descended along with the snow, and the increased cold helped take the edge off Emily’s aggravation with going to rescue Billy Adams.

She almost scolded herself for her attitude. Billy was someone’s son, someone’s family. She’d done her share of foolish things without considering the consequences. Thankfully, she hadn’t nearly died or been in as bad a spot as Billy.

No, her mood wasn’t because they’d had to leave the supper table and go on a rescue.

The dogs slowed ahead of her. Sven Olsen had reined in his team and glanced over his shoulder at her. She could barely make out the shape of Billy Adams, covered in blankets and lying on the rear of the open flatbed sleigh.

“Emily!” Sven’s voice rang out against the trees. “Billy wants to talk to you.”

“Whoa, whoa!” Emily stepped from the runners to slow the sled’s forward motion, and the dogs skidded to a stop. “We really need to get home, Mr. Olsen. The temperature’s dropping every minute.”

“Please, Miss Covington,” came the voice from the back of the sleigh. “I must apologize.”

Trying not to sigh, she left her sled and hiked over to Mr. Olsen’s sleigh. “Billy …”

“It’s Will,” he said. “I don’t go by Billy anymore. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for how I treated you just now. You were trying to help, and I was being …”

Emily bit her lip. She thought of several adjectives.
Condescending. Pompous. Hurtful
.

Relax. He had no idea who she was at first, and in her trousers and long coat, how could he not assume she was a man, although a bit on the short side?

“Apology accepted, Will. You … you didn’t know. You were delirious with cold, or something. It’s …” She glanced at Mr. Olsen, who sat patiently waiting for them. “It’s getting late, and you need to get indoors as soon as possible.”

Billy rolled onto his side and reached toward her. He caught hold of the sleeve from her fur overcoat. “Miss Covington, I promise you our next encounter will be more pleasant. I am in your debt, and Mr. Olsen’s, and everyone else who went out to search for me.”

“Thank you. I … we really should go. It’s almost too dark to see very far down the trail anymore.” The dogs knew the way in the dark, but even she was starting to feel the chill through her coat and layers.

“Until next time, Miss Covington.”

“Until next time, Mr. Adams.” She stepped onto her sled’s runners and called out to her team. Mr. Olsen urged his own horse team along, and they continued on their way.

At last she and her team arrived back at the Covington Ranch, where the stately home stood, welcoming her. But first she headed for the barn along with the dogs. It had taken some begging and convincing for Pa to let the dogs have their own area. But she’d paid for everything herself, their pen and shelters.

She wondered how long she ought to wait in the barn, caring for the dogs. Perhaps her pa, or maybe Sam, would take Billy back to Jackson. If Mother had her way, and often she did, Billy Adams would likely be thawing out by their fireplace in no time, instead of in his room behind his office, in town.

Will Adams fought against the drowsiness threatening to overtake him on the Olsens’ makeshift sleigh. He ought to have known better, getting himself into this kind of a pickle. He’d only been a child when he left Jackson, but he still remembered the tales of at least one man who’d gone off on a trek in the foothills and never returned. They hadn’t found his body until spring, frozen solid.

He’d stood with the others on the muddy main street of Jackson and watched as the rancher who’d found the man toted his body, laid out on the back of a wagon, all the way through town, to his widow’s doorstep. The women’s gasps and the men’s murmurs echoed in his ears, and Emily Covington whispered into his ear.

“Think we can get a look at the body? I’ve never seen a frozen person before.”

The wagon had rolled past, with a tarp covering the frozen corpse.

He had glanced at Emily, who looked prim and proper as her mother from hat to boots, save for some strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail, and a sparkle in her blue eyes. Her eyes reminded him of the sky above the Teton Range. He’d never seen a blue like that in all his years back East.

Those same blue eyes crackled tonight when she spoke to him.

He should have known better than to remark about the “short blue-eyed musher fellow” who’d nearly plowed over him when pausing under the tree, where Will had taken cover behind a makeshift windbreak. He hadn’t intended to sound irritated when the sled nearly ran over him. He should have sounded more grateful.

All these thoughts tumbled through his head while he fought to remain conscious. Or he could succumb to the weariness, the exhaustion borne of being out in the elements for hours. He’d already lost enough face in front of everyone.

Another stray thought jolted him awake.

The election. With him considering a run for city council come spring, what would the locals say about him being so foolish? He had a few of the men backing him, hoping his good sense would help steer the town of Jackson into the twenties.

No worries, though. He’d heard a rumor that some of the women were discussing the idea of running for office—he had nothing against women running for office—but the local men might shy away from voting for a woman instead of someone like him.

Their pace slowed, and Will found himself able to roll over on one side to see if they’d arrived in town. No, not town. A ranch, and he couldn’t quite make out the signage. It was somewhere warm, and that was all that mattered. He sank back onto the sleigh. Soon he’d have something hot to drink and hopefully sit by a roaring fire.

Oh, Lord, surely You’ve preserved my life tonight. Thank You…

He listened to the wind, whipping in a gust now, the creak of harness and the whoosh of runners on snow, and Sven Olsen murmuring to his team in Swedish.

At last they pulled up before a home with light spilling onto the snow. Shouts, banging doors.

“You found him, then?” a female voice asked—not Emily’s.

The sound of barking and bells nearly drowned out the woman’s voice.

“Emily did, just in time. If she’d arrived moments later, he might be dead.”

“All right, Mr. Adams. See if you can sit up.” Sven stood beside the flatbed sleigh. Will braced himself, trying to put his numb legs over the side.

“I can manage.” He glanced from Sven to the older woman, about his mother’s age, her dark hair streaked with silver, her blue eyes narrowed. He’d seen that expression before. This had to be Emily’s mother.

“Let’s get you inside. I’ve stoked the fire, and we’ve kept back some supper for you.” The woman tugged on his elbow, her shawl slipping off one shoulder. “Can you walk?”

“I can.” As soon as he stood, his legs turned to the consistency of breakfast mush, but he fought against gravity. He’d had enough humiliation for one evening.

“Watch your step.” Sven nodded while Mrs. Covington stepped aside to let him enter.

“Ah, there goes Emily.” She shook her head. “She’ll be seeing to those dogs before she even enters the house.”

Which suited Will fine, for now. “I’m much obliged, Mrs. Covington, for you and Mr. Covington allowing me to stop.”

“You are most welcome, Mr. Adams.” She turned her focus outside. “Thank you, Mr. Olsen.”

Will realized he hadn’t adequately thanked Sven for his help, nor had he thanked Emily or any of the others who’d gone out searching for him that evening.

“What … what time is it?” He scanned the walls, one of which sported several mounted elk heads, for a clock.

“Nearly eight,” said Mrs. Covington. “Now we’ll give you some privacy. I’ve brought some of my husband’s clothes, and I have coffee on the stove. You change, and I’ll be back in a few moments with your supper. You’re not going anywhere this evening. My husband is in the study and will be out shortly.”

A pair of trousers and a flannel shirt were shoved into his hands. “Yes, ma’am.”

She turned on her heel with a swish of skirts, and marched from the parlor.

Well, if he was going to jump into Mr. Covington’s clothes, he ought to get a move on before someone came waltzing in. No sooner had Will removed his outercoat, along with his hat and muffler, and dumped them on the hearth, than a young man clomped into the parlor. Sam Covington.

“You’re the one they went off to search for today.” Sam strode over to the nearest wing-backed chair and plopped onto the cushion.

“Yes, that was me.” He tried not to shiver, now that he’d dumped off his coat, and picked up the clothes Mrs. Covington had offered him.

“You don’t look like an idiot greenhorn to me.” Sam crossed one leg over the other and rested his elbow on the armrest, using his hand as a convenient chin prop. “Not a greenhorn, anyway.”

“So I look like an idiot?”

“Not my words. That would be my sister’s. You’re the lawyer from back East.” Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock gonged the hour.

“Yes. My father was William Adams. Died back in ‘01.” After that his mother had sold off quick as anything and bustled him back East.

“So why’d you come back here? I’ve seen ya at church meetings but never got the chance to ask.”

“It’s the mountains. I always remembered them. Too much going on in the city. Too much noise. And I want to make sure the good people here are served legally in the way they ought to be, by someone with real credentials.”

“You know you’re in for a campaign, running against my sister.”

“I know. She’s always been quite the, ah, character.” Another flashback to her impishly saying she’d never seen a frozen body before. What kind of a girl asked questions like that?

But he reminded himself that Emily Covington wasn’t a girl anymore. Under all those layers and manly garb, she was most definitely a woman.

S
omeone, probably Pa, had left food scraps out for the dogs, who dashed straight for their feeder as soon as Emily removed their harnesses. She sank onto the nearby pile of straw and watched Niki, her lead dog, nudge Felix out of the way. No matter that he outweighed her by a good ten pounds. All the dogs knew Niki ate first, just as she broke the snow first along the trails.

Emily’s stomach grumbled, but she didn’t move to head for the house. Not quite yet. How long would Billy—or Will—Adams be there? She suspected he’d be fed a hot meal, and if Mother didn’t have a bath drawn for the man (which likely wouldn’t be entirely proper), she’d at least offer him dry clothing.

Her own ire at Billy’s earlier treatment of her waned. She glanced down at her trousers, formerly owned by Sam, who’d shot up in height and had left them behind several inches ago. Mother had long ago become resigned to the fact that Emily wore trousers around the ranch, and even to town on occasion.