Glory (31 page)

God has his eyes on his children.
Glory knew that accepting God’s Word meant she had to believe that, no matter what, but she wondered if even Ruth could hold on to her faith tonight.

Clamping her eyes shut, she whispered between chattering teeth,
I believe, Lord. I just hope you’re not off tending business elsewhere.

Gradually, she felt changes taking place in Jackson’s body. At first, they were small, barely perceptible: a relaxing of his muscles, an inability to answer her shouted questions. Then the changes became more pronounced. He slumped, weakened from the loss of blood. Her fingers rested in warm blood pooling on the saddle. Through the faint light reflected off the snow-covered ground, she detected the gaping wrist wound, and it looked bad.

“Jackson!” Fear choked her. If he lost consciousness, he would be too heavy for her to lift. “Jackson! Answer me!”

Stirring, he tightened his grip on the reins. “I’m all right.”

But he wasn’t all right; he was still bleeding. Worsening weather rapidly deteriorated into blizzard conditions. Wind shrieked through the boulders, and snow piled up on pine branches.

Reaching around his waist, she took the reins and pulled the horse to a stop.

“I’m all right,” he protested. “Just got to find shelter before the storm gets any worse.”

“You’re in no shape to do anything.” All the times she used to climb all over her mule, Molasses, gave her the courage to try a desperate move. She shifted her weight to one side, stood up in the stirrup, and swung out, easing her slight weight around his frame. Grunting, she climbed in front of him and landed just behind the saddle horn. She wrapped his arms around her waist and called over her shoulder, “Hang on.”

Fumbling in her pocket, she pulled out a handkerchief. She twisted it into a rope and tied it around Jackson’s hand. Gathering the reins, she tapped the mare with her heels and set off again.

Snow came down in heavy, wet sheets. Inching forward in the saddle, Glory strained to make out the road. She kept the mare to the far left and slowed her to a walk when they entered a narrow ledge.
Don’t look down,
she chanted under her breath as the mare picked her footing through the narrow, rutted trail.
For heaven’s sake, don’t look down.
She didn’t need a full moon to warn her of the two-hundred-foot drop-off on the right.

Reaching back, she grasped hold of Jackson, who was slumped over her shoulder now. “Hold on. I’ll get us there.” Wherever that might be. She had no idea where she was going or how to get there.

She couldn’t feel her face. Frigid wind whipped around her head, and her lips were numb. She had to find shelter—but where? This mountainous terrain was so different from Missouri’s gently rolling hills.

The mare cleared the narrow pass and plodded into a valley. Here, the snow whirled across the exposed land, piling to frightening depths.

Glory shook her head, trying to clear her vision. Jackson leaned on her shoulder, unconscious now. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ear. Everything began to blur; she was becoming disoriented.

Dear God, help me.

Reining the mare through another snowbank, she tried to think, but her mind was slow and unresponsive. Wind tore at her coat and seeped though her wool dress and leggings.

The horse stumbled and nearly went down. Flanking it hard and lifting the reins, she sent it surging back to its feet. At the same time, she fought to keep hold of Jackson.

We’re going to die.

No! She wouldn’t let Jackson die. She had to keep moving.

Ahead would be shelter somewhere: in a grove of aspens, or in a cave, maybe in an abandoned mine.

She couldn’t see three feet in front of her. The mare thrashed about, trying to wade through the drifts, snorting with fear.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a faint light appeared in the distance.

Bolting upright, Glory whispered to Jackson, “It’s all right. Somebody’s coming.” Relief flooded her as the light bobbed closer.

Oh, thank you, God. Thank you for hearing my cries.

The light stopped in front of her. The stranger lifted the lantern to reveal his face. It looked like Poppy standing before her, moving the lantern slowly back and forth.

“Poppy?” she whispered. Grabbing hold of Jackson’s hand, she tried to squeeze it, but her hand wouldn’t close. “It’s Poppy,” she cried.

“Go back!” The figure waved the lantern in warning. “Go back, Glory. You’re going to die if you don’t.”

“Go back where?” She twisted to look back over her shoulder at the swirling void. “Poppy, I can’t go back!” Tears slipped from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. The wetness froze in seconds. This couldn’t be Poppy; Poppy was dead. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She turned to look again.

“Go back! Turn around!”

She obeyed. She turned the mare around, and when she looked back at the figure, he and the light had disappeared.

Leaning in the stirrups, she strained to locate him. “Poppy? Poppy!”

A howling wind caught in her throat and choked off her pleas.

Guiding the mare, she waded the animal back through the fresh tracks. She was losing her mind. Poppy was dead; Poppy wasn’t here in Colorado in a blinding blizzard, holding a lantern and warning her to turn back.

The horse could barely clear the drifts. Snow swelled to the mare’s belly and dragged against the stirrups.

The narrow ledge. She couldn’t make it back over the tight pass. The snow was getting too deep. She wouldn’t be able to keep far enough over, and they’d drop over the side.

She suddenly turned the mare, veering to a sharp left. The path tapered, then widened to a small pine grove. Slowing, Glory listened to the wind shrieking through the boughs. The pungent scent of pine mingled with the awful cold. She was so frozen the scene felt surreal, and she wondered if she was imagining it like she’d imagined Poppy and the light.

Holding tight to Jackson’s gloved hand, she closed her eyes, barely able to think.
Are you going to let us die, Lord? I sure would appreciate it if you didn’t.

“Jackson,” she whispered, tired now, so very tired. “This might not be a good time to tell you this, and I know you can’t hear me anyway, but it’s one of those things I’m fairly bursting to say. If I don’t say it right now, I might never have the chance again.”

Swallowing, she gathered her strength and her nerve. It was possible that they wouldn’t make it through the night; that’s why she had to tell him now.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I know you don’t want me to love you, but I love you anyway. I’ve loved you from the moment you found me sitting on the trail and offered me a ride. I loved you when you shouted and blustered at me; I loved you when you were kind, and I loved you when I couldn’t get a bad word out of you.”

His heartbeat was faint against her back.

“If I were as pretty as Lily or as smart as Ruth, I know that you would love me back. But I’m not. Don’t suppose my looks would scare a man, but I don’t have Patience’s grace and beauty. You don’t like my boyish ways, but Poppy raised me to take care of myself, and that’s what I have to do. There’s nothing wrong with a woman being able to take care of herself—you might even be grateful to me for saving our lives—if it turns out that I have.”

Right now the prospect didn’t look so good.

“What I’m trying to say is that someday, if we make it out of this, you will meet a woman you love as much as I love you right this moment, and I will envy her with all my heart. Hard as I’ve prayed about it, I’m still jealous when you pay attention to other women, not that you do that often, but sometimes you do. I’m sorry. I suspect we’d have to always deal with that . . . if you were to ever love me back.”

A noise caught her attention. A soft, mewling sound. Opening her eyes, she looked around, trying to identify the source. Bear? Her heart accelerated, and her hand slowly searched for the rifle. What should she do? If she left the saddle, Jackson would slide off, and she wouldn’t be able to lift him again. That would mean death for both of them.

Clucking softly, she eased the mare a step forward. If it was a bear, he had the advantage, but it couldn’t be a bear. Bears were in their dens this time of year. Her hand closed tighter around the rifle, shifting it to the saddle horn. If she had disturbed a bear’s winter sleep and he charged, she would shoot by sound and pray the bullet found its mark. She’d shot a black bear once, but it had been in broad daylight, and she’d had her wits about her. Unable to feel her fingers in her gloves, she wondered if she could squeeze the trigger.

Kneeing the mare another step, she waited, ear cocked to the wind. There it was again, louder. A snort. Heavy breathing.

Bring the rifle to your shoulder, Glory.

In slow motion she brought the Winchester into position. It was there—not twenty feet away on the right, in the bushes.

Why didn’t it charge?

If it wasn’t a bear, what was it?

The mare took another step.

Bushes rustled.

You can do this, Glory. It’s either whatever is out there or us. Jackson can’t help. You have to get Jackson’s wound dressed . . . Maybe he’s already dead.

No! He’s not dead; you can feel his breathing. He’s weak, awful weak, but he’s alive.

Fresh blood—the bear—the animal, it smells fresh blood.

Her heart thumped against her rib cage.

It was so close now; she could feel its presence, hear its ragged breathing.

The mare took yet another step.

A thrashing in the bushes. There it was. Dead right.

Straining to spot the enemy, Glory kneed the mare closer, positioning the rifle against her right shoulder. Jackson’s weight mashed her against the saddle horn. Her shoulders shook from the weight of the gun, and she strained to hold the barrel level.

The bushes moved and against the ground’s pristine backdrop, she finally saw it. An elk, with a four-by-four rack, wounded and hurting, lying on its side in the snow. Pain-glazed eyes stared up at her.

“Sorry, ole fella,” Glory whispered. The animal had probably tangled with a mountain cat and lost. “I gotta do us both a favor.” Taking careful aim, she willed a steady hand and slowly squeezed the trigger.

The explosion startled the horse. Rearing, it catapulted Glory, the rifle, and Jackson onto the ground. She landed with a thud in the softly packed snow. The Winchester went one way, and Jackson flew the other.

Glory lay for a moment, too tired and too cold to care anymore. “Jackson,” she finally murmured after long moments, “I think the Lord is busy elsewhere.” She paused, biting her bottom lip. “I’m real sorry, but I think we’re going to die.”

Searching the ground beside her with her right hand, she felt for him. “Jackson?”

Instead of Jackson’s powerful build, she encountered something furry. Startled, she drew back. The elk. Struggling to her knees, she crawled to the dead animal. Breaking into sobs, she laid her head against the carcass and bawled with relief.
Thank you, God, thank you!

Crawling back to the mare, she grabbed a stirrup, pulled her stiff body upright, and fumbled in the saddlebags for Jackson’s skinning knife.
Jackson. Where was Jackson?

She jerked the knife free, then dropped back to her knees and inched back to the elk. Within minutes, she’d cut through sternum, muscle, cartilage, and entered the stomach cavity. She worked methodically, scooping armfuls of entrails onto the ground. The knife sliced cleanly through hide, blessed substance that could save their lives.

“It’s all right, Jackson. The Lord has sent us help,” she called over her shoulder as she gutted the animal. “We’re not going to die.”

When the elk was field dressed, she crawled back to the mare, her hands blindly searching for Jackson. She found his unconscious form lying near the animal’s hooves.

Struggling to her feet, she grasped him under his arms and pulled.

Pulled.

Pulled.

Straining and pulling, she edged him only inches with each step. His weight resisted her slim frame and threatened to undo her.

Pausing.

Pulling.

Finally she had him beside the carcass. Digging into the snow, she scraped a round ball into her hand, then pressed it against his wrist wound, praying that the cold would stop the bleeding until morning light. Summoning her last shred of strength, she rolled his still form inside the elk and crawled in beside him.

Lying spoonlike in the warm hollow space, Glory wrapped his arms around her waist and shoved, inching them farther back into the life-saving warmth before she, too, lost consciousness.

Chapter Seventeen

Ruth paced the mercantile porch, keeping an eye peeled on the edge of town. The soles of her boots scraped the planked floor as she strode back and forth, wringing her hands.

The mercantile door opened, and Dylan McCall came out. He paused when he saw her state, a slow grin spreading across his rugged features. Ruth saw him and turned to stare in the opposite direction.

Pulling the door closed behind him, Dylan joined her. “You still fretting? Jackson knows how to survive in the wilds.”

She spared him the briefest of glances, then returned to her vigil. She’d been edgy and cranky all day, worrying herself to death about Glory and Jackson.
Lord, I trust you’ve held them in your care, but why don’t they come?
“It’s been a week. They should have been here by now.”

The marshall calmly adjusted the brim of his hat. “Not necessarily. Snow could have held them up. We just got to Denver City a couple of days ago ourselves.”

She paused to face him. Hands on hips, looking vexed, she spouted, “We started from the same place at the same time. Snow delayed our arrival a few days, but not a week. We’re here; Jackson and Glory aren’t. They could be lying out there dead, for all we know.”

“Not exactly at the same time. Jackson took off in the opposite direction. No telling how far he rode before he caught up with Glory and Amos.”