Mary Connealy (72 page)

“She’s not by
herself,”
Sarah said with narrowed eyes. “Emma helps. And I do sometimes.”

“I
told
her to leave that for me.” Silas’s temper snapped. “I know when winter comes up here, and I could have managed. I told her I had something important to do first, and she said she didn’t mind waiting.”

“You weren’t going to help, Silas!” Sarah jerked her chin free of Silas’s grip. “Me and Emma figured that out the day after you started disappearing in the morning and not coming back until suppertime.”

“You decided I wasn’t going to help over a month ago?” Silas couldn’t believe it. They’d all been so nice. So loving. And they were thinking terrible things about him.

“I don’t rightly think Ma
ever
expected you to pitch in.”

“She didn’t expect it? After the cattle drive?” Silas fought to keep his temper from cutting loose on a little girl. She wasn’t who needed to hear hollering. It was Belle.

“We don’t care that much. We’re used to no-account husbands.”

Although if Sarah wasn’t careful, she might hear a cranky word or two.

“And you’re a sight friendlier than Gerald who was drunk most days or Anthony who was always off somewhere and had a mean mouth towards Ma. So it don’t matter none except for the amount of potatoes I have to peel.”

Silas felt like Sarah had just plowed a fist into his belly, only her words packed a mighty big wallop for such a little tyke.

“We’ll get over being disappointed. It’s just that at first we had hopes you’d help is all. The only thing you did wrong was to get our hopes up.”

They’d gotten Silas’s hopes up, too. But being disappointed by women seemed to be his lot in life.

“Ma says that’s just part of being a man,” Sarah added. “It’d be right nice if we don’t have to have any babies though, and babies seem to go with husbands. I love Betsy and all, but branding was right hard on Ma when she was almost due to have a baby.” Sarah shrugged again. “It don’t matter. When it happens, she’ll manage. She always does.”

“I don’t intend to be a no-account husband.” Silas thought of the baby most likely already on the way, and he thought of the hard work Belle had been doing, most of it on horseback. He thought of that nasty blazed-faced steer that had almost gored her on the trail. She’d be facing dozens of contrary longhorns out on the range. Even if she didn’t get herself killed, she was going to manage to lose his child, but it didn’t appear that taking care of his baby was as important as rounding up her herd.

Sarah shrugged. “Reckon no one intends to be no-account.”

“I’ve been working real hard on something that…well, I wanted it to be a surprise. I’m not hiding out. Can’t you tell I’ve been working?”

“On what?” Sarah asked.

A well of stubbornness rose up in Silas. It made him mad to have to answer to this little girl. She should just take his word for it that he was working hard and trust him. “I want to tell you when you’re all together.”

Sarah gave him a look like she didn’t much care what his excuse was. “We’ve got to find Ma. We don’t have time to talk right now. You do care enough about her to want her to be okay, don’t you?” The way Sarah said it landed another blow. “I mean, you need her to do the chores, right?”

Had it gotten this bad that the girls didn’t think he cared if they lived or died except for the work they could do? And it looked likely that they didn’t much care if he lived or died either. There was still a side of the Husband Tree lacking a grave, after all.

Sarah pulled on her reins and Silas let go. He fell back in line behind her, and the two of them picked up the pace as they headed into increasingly rugged, cold timberland. Silas studied the vast, trackless woods in the night and didn’t know how he could ever find the woman he loved in the midst of all this. And when he did find her, which he would or die trying, he didn’t know how he was going to fix things back to the way they’d been when he first married her.

He thought of the unkind, disrespectful things Sarah had said and knew they came straight from Belle’s mouth. While he’d been breaking his back trying to make things better for them, she’d been poisoning her children’s minds against him.

As he rode on, he began to wonder if he did want to fix things.

B
elle woke up so groggy she thought for a while the warmth in front of her was Silas.

Reaching out her hand, she felt heat but no man. It was the fire, burned low, barely casting any heat. She was out on the trail.

She’d done it again. She’d fallen asleep. She didn’t jump up because she could feel another roiling bout of nausea. She didn’t have morning sickness much when she was carryin’. Th ere just wasn’t time for such nonsense.

She threw up from time to time when she was first expecting, often just leaned over so she missed her horse and cast up her food on the ground as she rode on. But she didn’t count that as morning sickness because it didn’t always hit in the morning. Besides, somehow morning sickness sounded like some big event that changed the pattern of your life, like needing to stay in bed of a morning until it passed. Belle didn’t have a prayer of getting to do that, so why bother paying attention or naming the condition?

She rolled onto her back, cradled her sleeping baby in her arms, and stared up through the tree limbs at the stars. She could see it was really late. The girls would be worried, but they knew her days could stretch long. She’d just lay here another minute to let her stomach quit crow hopping around; then she’d grab up her horse and head home.

Silas would probably have to know what she was up to today, because heaven knew he’d be tucked up safe and warm in bed right now. She’d tell him and he’d fuss at her and tell her to leave the fall work for him. Then she’d protest that winter came early and he’d moan about his
idea
and fuss at her, then look sad that she had to work so hard. But Belle was all out of sympathy for him.

She finally felt up to moving and sat up slowly. Her head didn’t start spinning and her empty stomach seemed willing to hold itself steady, so she stood and doused the last of her fire. With the fire gone, Belle realized just how cold the night had grown. It was going to be a hard ride home. She tucked Betsy in her pack, careful to make sure the baby was well bundled. Then she walked over to where she’d hitched her horse.

He wasn’t there.

She leaned against the gnarled oak tree for a long minute, feeling as if the world had shifted and up was down all of a sudden. Then she looked around, trying to see another twisted-up tree that could be the one she’d picked for a hitchin’ post. She looked at the sky again, and she thought of the horse she’d ridden. It was one of her best mountain horses and it was blue blazes as a cow pony. She knew as sure as she was standing here that somehow the contrary beast had broken loose and headed for the barn.

The minute she realized that, she started walking. The girls would be frantic. She had no way of knowing how long ago the horse had taken off, but it would beat her home. Emma and Sarah would assume the worst, and Emma would head for this timberland, leaving Sarah at home in case Belle showed up from an unexpected direction.

Emma was probably out on the trail hunting for her right now, afraid that the hard world had caught up with one of the Tanner women for a change—instead of a husband. Belle heard the distant howl of her wolf pack and knew it wasn’t safe for her girls to be out afoot on the range.

Belle pushed hard. Knowing better than to try and run in her pointed-toed boots, she hiked along at a good pace. Every minute she got closer to the ranch was one minute less the girls would worry. The wolves howled again, and she wished for her rifle, gone along with her horse. She took off one of her work gloves, slipped her hand inside her buffalo coat, and rested her hand on the pistol at her hip. The hard, cold steel comforted her.

There was snow and ice in the air. Belle shuddered as the wind sliced at her face and neck. She knew to stay to the main path, because that’s the way Emma would be coming. She thought of those baying wolves, their eerie, unearthly howls closer now than they’d been. She walked faster. She didn’t want Emma to meet up with the pack alone.

She pulled Betsy around and strapped her onto her front inside her buffalo coat without breaking stride. Pushed faster by the sound of wolves, she heard a change in the tone of their howls and knew they’d picked up the scent of prey.

She hoped it wasn’t Emma.

Her hand went to the sleeping bundle in her arms. She hoped it wasn’t her and Betsy.

God, take care of my family tonight.

She thought of the baby she carried inside her and said a prayer for that wee little one, too.

Protect all of us, Lord, and please let this new baby be a girl.

The path wound into a particularly thick clump of trees. The branches almost reached out and grabbed her when she passed. Unmindful of her own comfort, Belle let the windswept branches whip across her face as she picked up her pace to a run.

The wolves were closer now, and a chill that had nothing to do with the weather raced up her spine. They’d found something for their supper—her.

With two babies to care for, she ran faster. She saw a lighter area ahead and knew she needed to make that so she could have a field of fire. In the woods, the wolves could be on her before she knew they were coming. She needed to find a tree to climb or a rock wall to cover her back with a good open area in front of her.

Suddenly the baying of the wolves stopped. She felt the evil in the silence. She knew they were coming.

Now.

Quiet.

Stalking her.

The heavy shroud of trees thinned, and she saw the sky for the first time in a while. There was enough light for her to see a ponderosa pine with branches low enough to grab ahold. The back of her neck prickled as she waited for the first wolf to pounce.

She sprinted for the tree. She heard the nearly soundless rush of something behind her, and she whirled and stared into wicked yellow eyes and bared fangs already airborne. Her hand was on her pistol. She fired without making a conscious decision to shoot.

The noise and the smashing bullet knocked the wolf back. Two wolves behind this one whirled back into the cover of the trees, breaking off the attack. Belle saw eyes glowing in the moonlight. Staring at her. Hungry.

She backed to the tree. Glancing behind her, she holstered her gun and caught the first branch. She swung up. The wolves came at her with a rush. She clung to the branch with her arms and legs. She had surprising speed for a woman with a baby on her chest.

One of the wolves caught her dangling buffalo robe in his teeth. The weight of the wolf almost knocked her to the ground. Belle knew it was hang on or die, and she had the grit to hang on.

Another snarling wolf caught at her coat. With frantic clumsiness she jerked at the leather belt that held her coat on and untied it. She shrugged it off, wrenching her shoulders as the wolves tried to drag it down. The wolves dropped back to the ground and attacked the robe with vicious snarls and ripping jaws.

Belle levered herself up to a sitting position and stared down at a pack of huge gray wolves, at least ten of them. She’d been thinning this pack for a month—probably already killing half a dozen. Her absence for a month because of the cattle drive had made them bold. She had ten to contend with instead of sixteen. That gave her some satisfaction.

Swinging up to a safe height, she pressed her back solidly against the tree, held tight to Betsy with her left arm, and took careful aim with her revolver. She shot two of them, including the one that looked like the leader of the pack. Betsy cried with fear at the loud noise. The wolves ran, and Belle managed to wound a third before they vanished into the woods.

“I’m sorry, baby girl.” Belle bounced Betsy as she reloaded. “Don’t cry, honey. I know it’s loud. Mama has to get rid of these nasty old wolves so we can get home.”

Betsy responded to Belle’s voice, and like a good little cowpoke, she got ahold of herself.

Belle heard the beasts moving swiftly, circling her from the cover of the trees, just out of her sight. She didn’t dare get down. But if she stayed here, she was leading Emma right into the middle of seven savage wolves.

Without the coat, the cold bit into her arms. Betsy, calm now, had a blanket over her, but it wasn’t enough to keep her warm for long.

Belle looked down at her coat on the ground, a dead wolf carcass stretched out on top of it. Did she dare climb down for the coat?

The gunshots would warn Emma and make her ride cautiously. They would also bring her running no matter where she was, because the shots carried for miles in the high thin air.

Belle watched the woods with intense concentration, waiting for a shot. She had to thin out the pack before Emma and maybe Sarah, too, rode into it. One foolishly bold wolf stuck his nose out of the brush. Belle shot him dead. Six to go.

They all dropped back, but Belle heard them out there, pacing, circling. She coddled poor little Betsy who was fretting again. Belle tried to identify the wolves’ locations, but they moved like ghosts.

Belle began to shiver, only a little at first, but the cold crept into her muscles, and the shivers started to come from deep inside. She had a glove on her left hand. Her right-hand glove had been in the pocket of her buffalo robe. Even though it didn’t fit, she put it onto her right hand. She worked the cold, stiffened fingers of her shooting hand, knowing her gun would save her, but she couldn’t shoot with the glove on, so as soon as her hand felt better, she switched the glove back. She held Betsy close and used her body heat to keep the baby warm.

After long minutes, a second wolf emerged with a chilling, low growl. Belle cut down their number once again. Five left. Only five.

This time they seemed to vanish. She didn’t hear a noise. She didn’t even sense their presence. She doubted very much they’d run off, but maybe they’d been driven back far enough that she could get that coat.

Belle’s shivering was becoming so uncontrollable that she soon wouldn’t be able to handle her gun. She couldn’t sit up here all night. Betsy wouldn’t survive it. Her baby started to whimper and fret against Belle’s chest, from cold or hunger or fright. Belle had to do something.