Until Spring (2 page)

He would have called her name, only he'd never asked her what it was. Finally, when ice started to form on his eyelashes, he decided to cut his losses and give up the search.

"Dumb broad," he muttered with a quickly passing regret as he walked back to the rig. He'd offered a meal and a bed, and if she was too stupid to take him up on it, she could just freeze to death out there. Serve her right, too.

* * *

A snow-covered log reared up to trip her when she started down the embankment beside the road, and when she fell, she hit her head on something hard. She rolled to the side to avoid crushing Amos. She lay stunned for a minute or two before using one of the branches on the log to help pull herself to her knees.

Amos the cat, who had somehow stayed snugly bundled inside her coat when she fell, stirred and sank his claws into her midriff. She winced but clutched his scrawny body even closer. She was determined to hold on to him at all costs. Amos was all she had.

She waited until the obnoxious truck driver who had picked her up at a gas station near Elmo climbed back into his truck and drove away. Then she swayed light-headedly to her feet.

She should have known that the guy would be a problem. He was young and cocksure and his eyes shone with a predatory gleam. She usually rode with older more settled types or married couples if possible. At the time, though, she had seized upon his offer of a ride as a refuge from the frigid January gale that had roared unexpectedly out of the north.

It was so cold that her feet were numb, so cold that she couldn't feel her nose. Her right shoulder and hip ached where they'd taken the impact of her fall.

The terrain here was deceptive. Previous snowfalls had filled in the hollows, and sometimes her feet crunched through the thin surface layer of ice so that she found herself wallowing in knee-high drifts. It was hard getting up, but she knew that she couldn't lie there even for a minute. She had to find shelter, and soon.

She paused, trying to establish a sense of direction in the darkness. The sleet and snow were turning into a blizzard, she realized with a pang of apprehension. She saw no welcoming lights in the distance and understood bleakly that the truck driver had been right. There wasn't anybody here to help her, perhaps not for miles around.

She turned back toward the highway. Under the circumstances, it would be better to hitch a ride with anyone who happened along. The truck driver wouldn't be back, so intent was he on a hot meal and whatever other warmth he might find in Rock Springs.

But where was the highway? She blinked, but her eyes refused to focus in the whiteout conditions. She didn't hear any cars or trucks passing, but maybe there weren't any. Why would anyone go out on a night like this?

"We'll make it, Amos, don't you worry," she said out loud to the cat, cradling him close. He didn't answer, and his warmth felt like a deadweight in her arms. With a feeling of dread, she opened her coat to make sure he was all right. Suddenly Amos, feeling the full impact of the cold, struggled to free himself.

"Amos," she said, but he fought her restraining arms and leaped down into the snow.

"Amos!" she called frantically. She couldn't lose Amos! Where was he?

She stood uncertainly, not knowing which way he'd gone. Although she called him repeatedly, she heard no plaintive meow in reply.

Stupid animal! Why had he chosen this time and this place to wander away? Didn't he realize that she needed him? Didn't he know he was all she had?

She cast about, taking a few steps this way, a few steps that way, all the while calling his name. She headed in what she thought was the direction of the highway but soon realized that she was hopelessly lost. Her knees gave way beneath her, and she sank into the snow.

It wasn't smart to rest, she knew that, but oh, how wonderful it felt. If only she were warm, sitting in front of a fireplace perhaps, or a wood stove, or beneath an electric blanket. She tried to imagine the heat spreading upward from her frozen toes to her equally frozen legs, fanning out through her body like a warm little blue flame, heating her from the inside out.

She startled herself awake, knowing that she had to get back on her feet if she were to survive. She fought to pull herself to a standing position, but all she could manage was to push herself to her hands and knees in the snow. She wasn't wearing gloves, and her fingers ached.

"Amos?" she called, her voice barely a whisper now. "Amos?"

All she heard was the howl of the wind.

She thought she saw a flick of his ginger-colored tail out of the corner of her eye and oriented herself toward it, bowing her head in deference to the cutting wind. Slowly she crawled toward the cat, listening for his plaintive meow.

She was conscious only of her own plodding determination to propel herself through the snow. Tears froze upon her cheeks, and sleet gathered on her eyebrows, but still she pressed on.

Amos ran just ahead of her, the little imp, twitching his whiskers in that sassy way of his. Funny, but he, who had looked so bedraggled and forlorn a month ago, now sported a luxuriant coat, and he feinted and scampered playfully in the snow.

Amos, you crazy cat, I'm going to catch you now,
she thought gleefully. Then she lunged for him and fell through a doorway into a place where it was blessedly warm and dry.

Chapter 1

"You're not planning to go out tonight?" Rooney asked skeptically.

Duncan Tate pulled the saddle cinch tightly around old Flapjack's middle. "You bet I am," he said.

Rooney walked around the horse and stood watching Duncan as he checked the contents of his saddlebag.

"I wouldn't if I was you," Rooney said. "There's a storm brewing."

"I want to find Quixote. I've got a feeling that this is a real bummer of a winter storm." Duncan didn't add that if Rooney's ten-year-old granddaughter, the incorrigible Mary Kate, hadn't left the door to Quixote's stall open, he wouldn't feel compelled to go anywhere in this weather. He'd stay home by a crackling fire instead.

"Quixote can take care of himself. Llamas are used to the cold."

"All I need is for my prize stud to fall and break a leg, and there goes my herd."

"All I need is for
you
to fall and break a leg, and that leaves me to manage this llama ranch all by myself. You're our most valuable asset, Duncan, not Quixote."

Duncan ignored this and heaved himself up into the saddle. "I'm not going to take any chances with the weather, Rooney. You know me better than that. I'll just ride down valley a bit and try to get a feeling for where Quixote might be. I'd like him safe and warm in his stall on a night like this."

He urged the reluctant Flapjack out into the night, knowing that once they were free of the barn, his reliable old mount would get into the spirit of things. He was right. Flapjack headed down valley, exactly as Duncan wanted him to. They'd take a look at the far pasture, then aim toward the highway. Maybe they'd even manage a look-see around the old mine, if the snow held back a while longer.

No sign of Quixote in the far pasture, so they proceeded toward the highway. Duncan would give almost anything to find Quixote tonight. With his woolly coat, the llama was well protected, but Duncan didn't like to think of him wandering around the ranch. He was almost ridiculously attached to each member of his llama herd, and he knew that Quixote had a tendency to be too adventurous for his own good.

During a previous escapade, this one also engineered by Mary Kate, the llama had turned up on a neighboring spread. Somehow Quixote had managed to cross two streams and a small mountain all by himself, and during the four days it took him to do it, Duncan had given up all hope of ever seeing Quixote again.

A few snowflakes sifted from the sky, and then the wind picked up some bite. Duncan reined in Flapjack before deciding to check out the area around the abandoned mine. If he didn't, he knew he wouldn't sleep all night for worrying.

Before he was halfway there, he knew it had been a mistake to go on. Sleet stung his face, and the wind began to howl like a coyote on the prowl. Maybe that fool llama had managed to get inside the old mine. The door had been hanging from its hinges last time Duncan had been there, and he'd meant to have it repaired. As long as he'd come this far, he might as well check it out.

He dismounted in front of the ledge of rock that sheltered the mine entrance, slapped Flapjack on the flank by way of reassurance, and mentally chastised himself for not repairing the door before this. The wind had torn it from two of its hinges so that it hung crazily to one side, and the mine was open to the elements. He unclipped a flashlight from his belt and trained it inside the opening. His nostrils twitched at the familiar smell of the mine, musty and dank and still faintly scented from Duncan's boyhood camp fires. This had been one of his favorite camping places.

"Quixote?" he hollered as loudly as he could, thinking that the animal could have wandered down the long curving tunnel far from where he stood.

His voice echoed, but there was no answering movement within. He was about to turn and head back for the ranch when a cat, blinking warily at the bright light, detached itself from a bundle of rags on the floor.

Surprised to find a cat there, Duncan stopped and let the animal rub against his hand. It was a skinny creature, scarcely bigger than a kitten, and an ugly ginger color. Still, it had a winning way about it, butting against his hand and purring loudly.

"Guess maybe I'd better take you home with me," he said. "We could probably use another cat around the barn." Rooney would have a fit, he knew. If there was one thing they didn't need at Placid Valley Ranch, it was another cat. He started to pick up the cat, and then, from the bundle of rags came a soft moan.

It might have been the wind, but Duncan played the flashlight beam over the rags and they moved. Not much, but slightly. It was enough to make him forget the cat and spring into action.

He knew immediately that he was dealing with a serious situation. He saw a hand, white and wet, so he turned the pile of clothing over to discover a small, pale face framed by wisps of wet blond hair that were escaping from a felt hat pulled low over the forehead.

It was a female. No boy had ever had such fine bone structure or such long eyelashes.

Her eyes opened slowly. They were blue and void of expression. She tried to speak but couldn't.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of you," he said gently, but at the sound of his voice, the look in her eyes turned to panic and she tried to pull away from him. It was no use, though. She was too weak.

He didn't stop to wonder why she was in the abandoned mine. All he knew was that he had to do something for her—and fast.

She was conscious. That was a good sign. From the look of the melting snow around her, she hadn't been in the mine for long, maybe less than a half hour.

He always kept a small survival kit in his saddlebag, and he headed outside to get it.

"Please," she said in a faint voice. She coughed a deep, wracking cough.

He knelt immediately. He should have let her know that he wasn't going far.

"I have to get something," he told her, stroking the wet hair from her forehead. He realized suddenly that she had thought he was leaving and not coming back.

She managed a small nod of her head, and seeing that she understood, he went out to Flapjack, who was leaning stoically into a rip-roaring wind. When he realized the strength of the blizzard, Duncan began to have serious doubts about heading back to the ranch tonight.

The least he could do at the moment was to get Flapjack out of the wind. "Come on, fella," he said, leading the horse inside the mine. The opening was narrow but tall, and Duncan had an idea that they'd be grateful for the added warmth of Flapjack's body heat in the small space.

When he returned, he saw that the girl had tried to pull herself to a sitting position and that her hat had fallen off to reveal a mass of pale curly hair. She slouched motionless as he checked her hands for frostbite. Miraculously there was none, although they were pretty scraped up. He quickly removed her shoes, which were only a pair of old running shoes, and her socks, of which there were two pairs. No frostbite on the toes, either.

"You sure picked a rotten night to go out for a stroll," he told her.