Katherine O’Neal (31 page)

At her touch, he let out another gurgling cry
and convulsed onto his back. At once she saw why the sounds coming
from him were so strange. His throat had been cut by a wayward
hoof. Blood gushed from the wound.

Even as she moved to help him, she burst into
tears. Wadding her skirt, she pressed it to his throat in a futile
effort to staunch the flow of blood. As she did, she heard again
the pounding of hooves and looked up to see a handful of cowmen
galloping across the horizon in breakneck pursuit of their cattle.
Dropping her skirt, she leapt up and frantically waved to them,
screaming for help. But they passed her by as if she were part of a
landscape too familiar to glance at twice, racing past in a swirl
of dust. She wasn’t even sure they’d seen her. Within minutes, they
were out of sight.

She returned to Mace, dropping to her knees
beside him, pressing her skirt once again to cover his mangled
throat. He’d passed out by this time and was barely breathing,
dangerously pale, so badly beaten and losing so much blood it was a
wonder he was still alive. She knew if he didn’t have help, he
wouldn’t live for long. What could she do? She had no water, no
supplies, no knowledge of medicine. Alone in this terrible place,
she was helpless and desperate.

Taking his face in her hands, she rested her
forehead gently on his and let her tears bathe his battered face.
Her helplessness choked her, making it difficult to breathe. She
couldn’t even move him. The horses were dead, the wagons destroyed.
She didn’t even know where the nearest town might be. For all she
knew, it could be a hundred miles away. Frustration churned in her
heart, and with it an anger that blinded her to the landscape. She
was a woman who could think her way out of any situation with a
fellow human being. But against the forces of nature—against so
ravaging a circumstance as this—she felt small, insignificant,
defenselessly female in a vast and brutal world.

Then a small hope soothed the terror in her
heart. Perhaps the cowboys, having recovered their runaway herd,
would pass this way again. It was a bleak hope. The cattle had run
too many miles east off the trail to Dodge. Likely, the men would
steer them north and west and meet the rest of their party along
the trail. Still, it was possible that someone—the chuckwagon, the
scout, the trail boss—would ride by. It
was
possible, wasn’t
it? She looked up at the sky. It was already late in the day. Soon
it would be dark. Too little time to scour the countryside for what
might be left of their supplies. If someone
did
come by,
they might easily miss Mace lying alone in the endless terrain. She
had to stay with him and wait for someone to come, to comfort him
the best she could.

Unbidden, a traitorous thought flashed
through her mind. Nothing she could do would silence it, stamp it
out. No matter what she did, Mace would probably die. And if she
left him now, he would die alone, untended, in a strange land with
no comforting hand on his brow.
Just like her son
.

A chill of terror clutched her. Carefully,
she eased him into her arms and, mindless of the blood, held him
close. If Mace was to die, she vowed, he’d do so in the arms of
someone who loved him with all her heart and soul.

* * *

She didn’t sleep. There were too many terrors
to keep her awake. The howl of a coyote—or was it a wolf? The eerie
blackness of the night, the slither of some nocturnal creature in
the dry grasses that surrounded them like a sea of unknown dangers.
The thought, unbidden, that the visitor she was praying for might
prove the greatest peril of all.
Lance knew where they were
.
What if he came upon them, alone and helpless in this endless
night, and, hearing the death rattle in his brother’s ruptured
throat, decided to finish the job?

As the night wore on, and Mace’s breathing
grew more shallow with each breath, as he almost choked several
times on his own blood, she began to wonder if death mightn’t be a
mercy after all. As his shock wore off, he began to feel his pain.
She couldn’t touch him without his flesh convulsing in agony. He
wove in and out of consciousness, trying to speak at times, but
collapsing finally from the frustrations of his efforts. She
couldn’t seem to stop the flow of blood from his throat, though the
pressure of a bandage torn from her skirt had slowed it down. Even
if he survived, she wondered if he’d ever be able to talk
again.

What would a man like Mace be without a
voice? Without the power of a golden tongue?

She chided herself through the long night for
thinking such things. If he lived at all, it would be a miracle. If
he lived, she’d be so grateful, she wouldn’t care if he ever spoke
again. She’d do anything, sacrifice all she had and more, just to
know he wasn’t going to die.

By the time the first light of dawn began to
color the eastern sky, she was so weary she could barely keep her
eyes open. But she mustn’t sleep. She could scarcely hear his
breathing now. She had to put her ear to his chest just to make
certain he was still alive. She’d cursed herself all night for not
going out immediately in search of water. Her tongue felt thick and
parched in her mouth. If she was suffering, how must Mace feel? But
could he swallow? Perhaps a strip of her petticoat soaked in water
would help ease his suffering. Maybe if she was able to bathe his
throat, it would stop oozing blood, stop the painful gurgling when
he tried to draw a deeper breath.

She’d lied, cheated, and stolen for
everything she’d wanted in life. But now, in the middle of nowhere,
a cup full of water seemed the most precious, most unattainable,
treasure on earth.

As the sky lightened, she eased him from her
arms to lie prone on the hard ground. Looking at him brought a
helpless sob to her throat. His body, once so beautiful, so strong,
looked as if someone had taken a razor and slashed it
indiscriminately. He was bruised and swollen beyond recognition,
little more than food for the coyotes and the buzzards already
circling overhead.

She removed her bloodstained petticoat and
gently laid it over Mace to keep the sun from burning him while she
was gone. Then, with her heart aching at leaving him, she kissed
his cheek and slowly, painfully, stood. Her legs had fallen asleep
beneath his punishing weight, so it was an agony to walk. Sharp
needles prickled her muscles as the circulation began painfully to
flow. But she pushed on, thinking of Mace’s need, hoping to find
something—anything—in the wagons’ far-flung debris that might give
her lover a fighting chance.

She stumbled along, stooping to inspect a
shattered box here, a ragged piece of material there. She found
Lucy’s body being fed on by birds of prey and, sickened, screamed
at them, waving her arms. She should bury her, she knew. But the
living came first. She had to help Mace before he, too, became food
for the vultures.

In her weakened state, it took her most of
the morning to scour the countryside. The water barrels had been
shattered along with the wagons. She could locate none of the food
they’d brought along. Likely they’d been blown farther along the
path of the tornado. She did find one large piece of canvas tent
that would shield Mace from the scorching sun, so she draped the
heavy material over her arm and dragged it behind her. Then she
recognized a tin box that had been Flying Dove’s. Inside, she found
some unfamiliar herbs and salves. She had no idea what the
ointments contained. Some bottles had been broken in the crash, but
others had survived, and she hoped they contained something that
would help Mace heal. Hugging the box to her, she began to feel
hopeful for the first time. If only she could find some water.

After another hour of searching, she came at
last upon a trampled canteen half-filled with water. Wrenching open
the top, she drank several greedy sips of the warm water before
forcing herself to stop. If this was all the water they had, Mace
would need every drop.

Satisfied with her quest, she began the long
walk back. The vultures had moved to the horses now, flapping their
wings as she passed and cawing their dominion in the still noon
heat. She’d wandered so far off, she could no longer see the spot
where Mace lay. Perspiration dripped from her face and down her
back as her stomach churned, reminding her she hadn’t eaten for two
days. Still, she hurried along, concerned for Mace and fearful that
he might have succumbed during her long search.

At last she spotted the petticoat she’d left
behind to shield him. Dropping her supplies, she ran toward it with
a burst of adrenaline, then stopped in shock. Her heart rushed to
her throat as she stared, unseeing, at the petticoat lying flat on
the ground.

Mace was gone!

Saranda didn’t know what to do. She began
wandering in frantic circles, asking the same desperate questions.
What could have happened to him? Where could he be? He
couldn't
have just walked away.

She was in such a blind panic that she
couldn’t breathe. She had to force herself to stop, to take
measured breaths, to think this through. Could some wild animal
have dragged him away? No, it would have devoured him where he lay.
That meant someone must have taken him. But who?

Then she thought of Lance. Could he, or some
hired gun, have stumbled upon Mace while she was gone and carried
him away? She fought down her terror and tried to remember what Bat
had told her about tracking. He’d excelled at tracking horse
thieves others had given up for lost. Maybe if she concentrated,
she could use what little she remembered to her advantage.

But where could he be?
He’d been on
the threshold of death. How could he survive being thrown over a
saddle and carried off?

Would she ever see him again? Would he die
without her ever knowing what had become of him?

She couldn’t stand it. She had to stay sane.
Because she was so close to losing her mind, any small indulgence
into self-pity would push her over the edge. She couldn’t think
about the fact that she was alone in a wilderness she knew next to
nothing about, without food or means of travel. Mace could already
be dead. And if he wasn’t, he was likely suffering more cruelly
than he had when the cattle had trampled him and left him crushed
and unconscious.

She hadn’t felt this helpless desperation
since the time she’d known she must give up her child. It reminded
her of how painful it was to love someone so deeply. To want to
shield herself from those emotions, to deny their existence,
because it hurt too much to carry them in her heart.

She must do something, must face the terror,
but it was a reality she couldn’t bear to live with: that the one
she loved had died because she’d left him alone.

Trembling, she forced herself to scour the
dry land for signs. At first she could see nothing; the earth swam
beneath the welling up of tears. But eventually, by force of will,
she focused on the barren land and saw a chilling sight: Hoof
prints.

Someone had taken him.

But who? Why would anyone want to throw such
a wounded man over the back of a horse and carry him away? The
thought was horrifying. Under such rough treatment, Mace would
bleed to death in an hour.

She had to find him, to save him from such a
fate.

Numbly, she slipped the strap of the canteen
over her shoulder, and set out to follow the tracks. The sun was
high and hot, beating down in a pitiless glare. She walked and
walked as her skin began to burn and the path ahead blurred before
her eyes. She didn’t know how long she walked, losing the trail and
picking it up again as she traversed rocks and grasses and dry
river beds. When her stomach growled, she ignored it. When she was
so tired she fell to her knees in the dust, she picked herself up
and walked again. Only when she felt she couldn’t take another
breath of the arid air did she allow herself a sip of water. She
had no way of knowing how long her journey would take. She must
ration the water with care.

Eventually, as the sun began to sink in the
west, she fell and couldn’t bring herself to rise. Without sleep or
sustenance, with barely enough water to keep her alive, she was too
weak to continue. Even as she cursed her feebleness, she clung to
the thought that somewhere, at the end of this trail, Mace was
alive. Her cheek hit a smooth, warm rock, and she fell instantly
asleep, too fatigued even to worry about what might be lurking in
the desert night.

For three days she trudged, one step after
the other, following a trail she was certain, with the passing of
each minute, would lead to disaster. It was madness. Without a
horse, she’d never catch up to them. She didn’t even have the
strength. Her skin was so badly burned, it hurt to touch it. She
had two swallows of water left. And her legs, weakened by lack of
food and the endless motion, wobbled now when she walked.

Finally, it was over. She couldn’t coax
another step out of her burning feet. In a delirium, she kept
imagining different fates that might have befallen Mace along the
way—each more harrowing than the last. She shuddered at the
tortured pictures that flashed through her mind. More than water,
more than food, she needed rest.

But how could she give up? How could she not
do all she could to find him, discover his fate, no matter how
horrible it might be?

But she couldn’t. Without knowing how it
happened, she found herself on the ground. No matter how she
struggled, she couldn’t rise. She tried dragging herself a few feet
before falling back with a sob. Pressing her face into the dirt,
she cried racking, mournful tears for what might have been. It was
so unfair. Just when she and Mace had found each other, had
declared their love, to be separated like this. To die alone, never
knowing what had become of the other. She would gladly give her
life if she could save Mace. But to surrender like this—helpless,
defeated, without even a chance to try...