Though it was not as if he knew much of their lives, his family. They had never been a family to him, casting him out along with his father upon his mother’s death. He had only finished his fourth winter when this had occurred, and it was that event which had inspired his father to take his son into the mountains and make a home there. Away from the tribe, and away from so-called proper civilization as well.
Neither group had served Angus well, and Roan could understand as a grown man why his father had made this decision.
For neither the tribe nor so-called proper society had ever done him any favors.
Roan could scarcely imagine banishing a child in his fourth winter, much less if the child in question were his grandson. He did not even know his grandfather’s name, as Angus had refused to speak it. He knew next to nothing about his people, or rather they who would be his people, had they accepted him.
Exactly what would this Holly Reed of Carson City, Nevada understand about that? She was ignorant of such matters. Unaware of the way even innocent questions could sting when one had suffered under scrutiny their entire life. When they had been left out, even spat upon more than once.
It was so easy for these civilized people to behave so, yet they certainly benefited from the furs which he trapped for them, did they not?
Even the most strong-willed, ornery animal knew better than to bite the hand which fed it, but most men and women never learned this.
Part of him wished he could explain this to Holly in a way which she would understand, but that would mean she would first need to be in possession of a true desire to learn about him. He knew she did not possess this desire. She was merely curious, an onlooker who would forget him the moment she returned to the bosom of her family.
She might even look back in shame at the quiet moments they’d spent together. Or, rather, moments which would have been quiet had she been able to hold her tongue.
She stirred, groaning as she returned to wakefulness. He could not help but watch as she awoke, holding his breath so as not to disturb her.
Why he felt the need to do this was a mystery to him. As so many things were.
She stretched a bit, her long, thick eyelashes fluttering over her eyes.
She seemed not to remember her circumstances for a moment, and when she did, her eyes widened. Her body tensed, her breath caught in her throat.
He recognized this. This was how animals reacted when they were spooked.
This, he could understand.
“Have no fear,” he murmured. He did not dare draw near, knowing instinctively that she would pull away.
He studied her, noting the way her eyes appeared clearer than they had been before. Her cheeks were no longer as flushed, either. The small, fine hairs around her forehead and the nape of her neck were damp and matted, telling him her fever had broken while she slept.
This was a relief, though it also meant the need to take greater care than ever. Any lingering dampness in her hair or on her skin might lead to a terrible chill or worse if she was exposed to the blizzard which still raged beyond their shelter.
She appeared to gather herself, the panic with which she had awoken smoothing into something closer to grim understanding. “I see it is still snowing,” she murmured, her brow creased in frustration.
He nodded, crouching close to her. “I gathered snow inside the canteen,” he explained, handing the thing to her. “Drink.”
She did, tipping her head back. He could not tear his gaze from the sight of her throat working as she swallowed. Why did it interest him so? He turned away, his attention moving to the horses.
“How is he?” she asked, a softness in her voice now as she turned to the gelding.
“Better, like yourself.” He poured more oats for the gelding and watched with amusement as the horse ate with great zeal.
“He isn’t my horse,” she admitted, sounding almost ashamed.
“I never thought he was.”
“Truly?”
“I assumed you’d taken him as a means of escape.”
“Oh. Yes. That is precisely what I did. I’ve become quite fond of him.”
“As have I.” He smiled down at her and found her smiling in return. To his surprise, this pleased him.
He cleared his throat, averting his gaze. The fact of her gentle femininity was not lost on him, and he felt deeply uncomfortable now. What woman would want to spend time with him in such close quarters?
He looked out at the storm, where the snow had begun to slow, though only a bit. The wind had calmed somewhat as well, giving him the chance to see further than he had before. This was a positive development.
“We ought to go,” he decided on the spot.
“We ought to what?”
“Go. Soon. During this break in the storm. It might not last long, as we cannot stay here for much longer and hope to survive.”
“You want to guide me down the mountain now? While the snow still falls?”
He sighed, still unable to turn to her. He’d been cruel earlier, telling her she was not welcome in his home. The truth of it was, she might still have a great deal of travel ahead of her, and it could take the rest of the day—or longer—to even reach the foothills under such conditions.
He’d never intended to send her on her way. He’d only been tired of hearing her questions and had wanted nothing more than to silence her.
“I intend to bring you home with me for now. There is no descending in this weather. How you managed to make it this far up onto the mountain is in itself a miracle.”
“I admit, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“You wanted to escape. That was all you could imagine. I understand that.” He looked over his shoulder. “Worry not. We will make the climb together.”
How he wished her face would not glow as it did at that moment.
7
“You’re certain this is the best course of action?” she asked, frustrated by the tremble in her voice but unable to keep it at bay.
It was one thing to imagine making such a journey, but another to do it. The snow continued to fall, the wind continued to shift it to and fro.
And they were about to venture out into it.
He only nodded in response, his jaw tight.
“You have done this before? In such conditions?” She’d prepared herself as he’d instructed, using the warm blanket as a coat and hood. She pulled it tight over her head and draped it over her shoulders. It would have to do, for he needed a coat and also needed the use of his arms to lead the horses. The blanket lessened her ability to move freely and would do the same to him.
“Many times.” He looked at her, his eyes moving over her makeshift coat. “Do you not trust me?”
“I trust you. I do not, however, trust the storm.”
He had a nice laugh, rich and deep. It transformed his face, making him look youthful and warm. He should have laughed more often. “Nor do I. I believe your instincts are sharper than I allowed.”
“I suppose I ought to take that as a compliment.”
He finished packing the horses before handing her a coiled rope. “Carry this over your shoulder.”
“Why?”
“Must you always ask questions?” he hissed, shaking his head in disgust. He went from amused to disgusted very quickly.
She sighed. “I only wish to know what to do with it. If it is needed, of course.”
He pressed his lips in a thin line. “Naturally. I should not have… Eh, that is, should one of us fall. The rope is to be used then. Throw it up to me, and I will pull you up.”
“Or I might throw it down to you,” she reminded him with a smile.
He merely glanced her way, dismissing this possibility without a word.
“Are you ready?” He helped her mount the gelding. “Make certain you hold tight with your legs. Even it if seems the hooves are slipping, do not make a sudden movement that might startle him. That will only make the problem worse. A horse knows how to keep it
s balance and he ought to be able to right himself. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” She only hoped she would remember his instruction when the time came. How was she to refrain from acting on pure instinct should the horse threaten to throw her or should it begin to lose its footing? How would she know if the gelding would be capable of righting itself? She would not know until it fell.
And if it fell, it would pin her beneath it. And crush her. A great deal of good that we do, stranded in the snow with a crushed leg. Or worse.
She did what she could to pretend this was of no concern. Roan moved with confidence, and she could be confident, too.
Even if she quaked inside.
The instant the wind hit her, it chilled her to the bone. She tightened her grip on the pommel and tucked her chin beneath the blanket she’d wrapped around her head.
It was no use. The wind was devious. It managed to work itself in between every fold, every inch of space. It was determined to wrap itself around her and freeze her.
Roan tugged down the brim of his hat and fought against the driving wind, taking one plodding step after another. The snow reached his knees, forcing him to raise his legs high in order to clear the surface.
It was easy now to admire his strength and dexterity. To admire the way he fought the snow, the screaming wind. He moved headlong into it, leading the way. This struck her as heroic, especially when she could hardly see.
The gelding moved even more slowly than either Roan or his stallion, reluctant to venture far in the terrible conditions. She wished there was some way to comfort the poor beast and to encourage it. All she could do was hold on as tightly as she could with her legs and try to remember not to react suddenly should the horse lose his footing.
Roan stopped, surprising her, and cupped his hands around his horse’s nose and mouth. She wondered what he was doing before he then turned to her gelding to do the same. He appeared to be scraping ice from the poor animal’s face. It was so cold, the snow falling so thick and fast, that its very breath was freezing and smothering it.
She leaned down, drawing as deep a breath as she could to make him hear her. “It would be better if I dismounted!”
He looked up at her, his eyes barely visible, and she nodded her head violently. She had to make him understand. They would move much more quickly if she could clean the gelding’s face, rather than making him do both by himself.
When she made it clear she was not about to change her mind, he reached out to take her arm. She leaned on him, dismounting, and took the reins.
My, but this was much more difficult. She told herself if he could do it, so could she. All it took was placing one foot in front of the other, lifting her knee as high as she could to clear the snow before placing her foot down again. Taking enough steps would mean reaching shelter.
All that mattered was the next step, and the next. Not the screaming mind, not the cold that brought tears to her eyes and made every bit of exposed skin on her face feel like it was burning.
She glanced up from time to time to find the stallion’s tail not far from her face, and just beyond it was Roan. He was more surefooted than she, though even he slipped from time to time.
He had marvelous grace, however. He would have made a fine dancer.
And how amusing would he find it were she to share that with him? Not very, she would wager.
Strange to be thinking of that now, though she supposed it was just as good a thing to think about as anything else. Far better than to bemoan the wind which stole the breath from her lungs.
The more she thought of that, the more difficult the climb.
A muffled shout came from up ahead, and her head snapped up in time to find Roan sliding away.
“No!” she screamed, reaching for him as if there was a chance of reaching him, and if she did, she would not have been able to prevent him from falling.
Rather than coming toward her, he slid off to the left and out of sight. There must have been a drop-off of some sort there, and he had been unable to see it due to the snow.
She called out his name, praying he would answer, but the wind stole the sound. She plunged ahead, still holding the gelding’s reins, taking hold of the stallion before moving as near as she dared to the point where Roan had toppled over.
He was down there, holding onto a rock. There was no telling how much longer he would be able to maintain his grip. It looked rather slick, icy and snow-covered, and his hands would so cold.
She looked around, frantic, asking herself what to do. She couldn’t let him die, and he surely would if allowed to hang there much longer. The only thing that came to mind was the rope over her shoulder, but she had no chance of pulling him up.
Instead, she tied one end of the rope to the stallion’s saddle. Her fingers were stiff with cold and almost unusable. It took a great deal of concentration even though there was not a moment to lose.
What would she do if he continued to fall and she was unable to stop him? She would surely freeze to death out there, and the horses beside her.
She cinched the knot tight, then turned and found him still dangling. His feet scrambled in the snow, but it was to no avail.
She threw the end of the rope down there, doing the best she could to make certain of its landing close to him.
“Take it!” she screamed, wrapping it around her arm several times to make certain he did not pull the horse down with him.
She patted the stallion's flank, guiding it forward, and the rope went taut an instant later. It bit into her arm, making her scream in protest, but she would not let go for anything.
Between his climbing and the stallion’s pulling, Roan made his way up the steep incline after a breathless minute. She’d never been so glad to see anyone in her life, not even Cate after she’d run away from the ranch. He was snow-covered but alive.
He clamped a hand on her shoulder, looking her in the eye. He said not a word. Besides, she would not have been able to hear him, and there was nothing to be said. What words could they exchange that might truly explain what they’d accomplished?
They continued then, with Roan insisting she hold onto the rope he had left tied to the stallion. In case she fell, too.
She did not fall.
By the time they reached the shack, she was certain she would die there in the snow. Certain that she had not an ounce of strength left to her. That he would have to leave her there and dig her out once the storm passed.
In the end, he extended a hand to her and she took it gladly, allowing him to pull her the last few steps before opening the door and shoving her inside. He did not follow. She assumed this meant he was going to tend to the animals.
Then, she collapsed onto the floor. She had not even the strength to remain standing before she unwrapped the snow-caked blanket. The thing was nearly frozen stiff, crackling and dropping chunks of ice onto the floor as she peeled it away.
Staring at the ceiling, she offered up every prayer she had ever learned. Prayers of thanks for safety, prayers of petition. She asked God and her mother and even her father if they would please watch over her and keep her safe, warm, and dry.
Roan found her that way, still on the floor, once he’d finished caring for the animals. He dropped his coat to the floor, then removed his hat and even his moccasins before turning his attention to her.
“You must remove your boots, stockings, anything that has gotten wet. It is important that you get warm, but you cannot be warm if you are not dry.” As he said this, he worked frantically to build a fire in the hearth against the wall opposite the door.
She fought her way to a sitting position, but her fingers could not seem to work the laces on her boots. She struggled, nearly on the verge of tears with frustration and exhaustion.
He turned to her once he finished with the fire and made quick work of the laces, then took her hands in his and rubbed life back into them. He was not gentle or comforting in the least. She supposed there was no time for that at the pre
sent. Not if she wished to keep her fingers.
He did the same for her feet. “The stockings,” he grunted, rubbing hard enough to hurt.
“I can’t,” she whispered, her teeth chattering.
“You have no choice. To the devil with modesty, unless you want to lose your toes.” He lifted the now sopping blanket from the floor and draped it over her legs. “Quickly.”
She had no choice. Beneath the blanket, she worked the stockings down to her ankles and over her feet, after which he rubbed harder than ever to get the blood flowing in her cold flesh. She bit back a groan of agony, certain this would kill her. She had never known such pain. But it subsided, until she was able to move on her own.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
“You will need to remove your dress, and do not tell me you can’t do it. It needs to dry. Here.” He thrust a sheet at her, then turned his back. “It will dry quickly by the fire, but you need to remove it and dry yourself. I will not offend your modesty, I promise.”
This was certainly the greatest indignity of all, but she was uncomfortable in the cold, wet garments. Her fingers made quick work of the buttons down the front of her shirtwaist, then of those at the waistband of her skirt. She dropped it all to the floor, quickly followed by her petticoats.
All that was left was her shift and, beneath that, her stays. She would simply have to leave them on. There was a limit to her daring and besides, they were hardly even damp.
Wrapping herself in the sheet several times, she announced that he could now turn to face her. Even so, her body flushed as she suffered greater embarrassment than she had ever known.
He hardly seemed to care, going about the business of hanging her clothing and stockings near the fire. It was a matter of mere moments before steam began rising from them.
“I must do the same for myself,” he informed her once he finished, sounding rather apologetic. “I will undress in the lean-to.”
He did that while she sat by the fire, holding her hands out to catch any bit of warmth she could. While he tended to his needs, she looked around herself.
An Inconvenient Bride Page 5
