Wildflower

by Lynda Bailey

  She squirmed. “I can walk.”

  “Maybe.” He whistled once and Sergeant trotted to them. Fortunately the seasoned cow pony had stayed clear of the charging longhorns. “But until the doc checks you out, you’re not doing anything.” In a single move, he mounted the gelding then nestled Matt across his lap, his arms holding her secure.

  “But my horse—”

  “Is right over there.” He clucked his tongue and Sergeant moved forward. Logan snagged Turk’s reins.

  “We need to round up the beeves.” Her objection would have sounded better had her voice not been so weak.

  “The men are handling that. I’m taking you back to the ranch so you can get tended to.”

  She resisted his grasp. “Don’t be ridiculous. There isn’t time for this. The herd’ll be all the way to Abilene.”

  He pulled Sergeant to a hard stop and tipped up her face so their gazes met. “I don’t care. Those blasted cows can be in Timbuktu for all I do care. I only care about you. You were shot and damn near trampled to death. I won’t risk you getting hurt worse.” He urged Sergeant forward again, her head tucked under his chin, ending the conversation.

  ~ ~ ~

  For all his high-mindedness, Matt was grateful Logan had insisted he take her back to the ranch. Pain ricocheted throughout her head and her stomach threatened to heave its contents.

  And she was cold. So cold, her teeth chattered and shivers wracked her body. Her husband’s arms tightened protectively around her. Keeping her safe. Every time she thought about how close they’d come to dying, bile thumped the back of her throat.

  She concentrated on the steady beat of Logan’s heart against her ear. It helped to soothe her misery and lulled her into a fitful sleep. The next thing she knew, she was being handed down into Chuck’s outstretched arms.

  Tender fret softened the cynical cook’s expression as he held her, waiting for Logan to dismount. The last time Chuck had looked so concerned, she’d fallen off Turk while breaking him to the saddle, busting her arm in two places. She wanted to say she was fine, but the words didn’t form. Her mouth was drier than dirt.

  Logan gathered her back into his arms then strode up the porch steps and into the main house. He carried her straight to their bedroom and laid her out on the bed. He removed her boots then pulled the quilt up to her chin. The mattress dipped as he sat beside her, his gray eyes filled with worry. She turned her lips up into a feeble smile.

  “I’m gonna head for the Applegate place,” he said. “Have Sam ride to town for the doc. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she stated on a frail whisper. “Can’t be lazing in bed anyway. There’re chores to be done and you need to check on the herd.”

  “The herd isn’t important.”

  “Not important?” She sat up and the room spun. With a moan, she crumpled back onto the mattress.

  He stroked her cheek. “No arguing. And no getting out of bed. You stay put or I’ll have Chuck hogtie you to the bed posts.”

  “Promises, promises,” she muttered, struggling to keep her eyes open. She finally gave up the battle. The last thing she remembered was the warm press of Logan’s lips on hers.

  ~ ~ ~

  As fast as he could, Logan rode to the neighboring ranch and back. It was mid-afternoon when he returned to find Chuck sitting at Matt’s bedside.

  Red-rimmed eyes looked up at him. “When’s the doc gonna git here?”

  Logan carefully sat on the bed, his gaze never leaving his wife. Chuck had cleaned and bandaged her head wound, but the ghastly pallor to her face sent a knife through his chest. “Soon as he can, I suspect. Sam rode out like the wind itself. She been asleep all this time?”

  With a sniffle, Chuck nodded and went back to staring at Matt. Logan knew the old geezer felt lost. Hell, he felt lost himself.

  No, he felt beyond lost. Helpless and powerless. He cleared the rock from his throat. “You best get started on supper. I reckon the boys will be coming in soon wanting some decent food.”

  Wordlessly, Chuck stood and left. He knew, as did Logan, that the men wouldn’t be coming in for supper tonight. Once the longhorns calmed down, they had to gather what critters they could find and take them back to the east pasture.

  Logan moved from the bed to sit in the chair. He took up where the old cook had left off. Staring at Matt. Willing her to wake.

  A nasty blow to the head caused a person to sleep. A sleep they might not ever wake up from.

  He cradled her hand with both of his and ran his thumbs across the palm. For some reason, her palms were a ticklish spot. One he exploited as best he could over the past two weeks.

  Had they only been married two weeks? Didn’t seem possible. As far as he was concerned, they’d been married forever. But they weren’t destined to stay together. He realized that now.

  Someone had deliberately shot her. She’d almost been trampled by the stampede. She wasn’t safe here. He couldn’t keep her safe. The agony of that fact seared his soul and made his heart bleed.

  Digging his elbows into the mattress, her brought her hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. As soon as she was recovered, he’d scrape together the money needed so she could go to Kansas City. He could face a life without her, but he couldn’t face having her dead.

  He looked at her ashen features. “You need to wake up, sweetheart. Snow’s nearly gone. It’s almost time for you to pack your bags and go to Kansas City.” He coughed the lump of pain from his voice. “I’ve never been there, but I bet it’s nice. Bet you’ll meet plenty of new people. You’ll take their breath away in that new dress of yours. Elisabeth said it right, you will be the belle of all the balls.”

  He didn’t notice the room growing steadily darker with the fading sunlight. He just kept talking in low tones to his wife about anything. Everything. He didn’t know what time it was when Bingham finally marched into the room. Late. A fire had been lit in the other room and Chuck followed behind the doctor, a lamp in each hand.

  “What happened?” Bingham asked in a brisk voice. He set his bag on the dresser, shed his coat and proceeded to roll up his sleeves.

  Logan stretched the kinks from his back as he stood. “Someone stampeded our herd. A bullet grazed her temple.”

  “All right. Let me take a look.”

  Logan took a lamp from Chuck and held it high so Bingham could see what he was doing. The doctor peeled off the bandage then prodded the injury and lifted each of her eyelids. He pulled a flexible tube from his bag, placing one end on her chest and the other in his ear.

  Impatience and worry stewed within Logan. But he held his tongue until the good doctor had finished his rewrapping his wife’s wound. “Well?”

  “She’s fine, except for the bump on her head.”

  “Will she wake up?”

  Bingham rolled down his sleeves. “I don’t know.”

  “What kind of answer is that?”

  “An honest one,” Bingham retorted with a scowl. “You know, just like I do, sometimes people recover from head wounds and sometimes they don’t.” He snapped his bag closed and shrugged on his coat. “Keep her comfortable. Nothing else we can do.” With that, he left.

  Logan scrubbed a hand down his face. Hopelessness bent his shoulders.

  “There’s somethin’ else we can do.”

  Though Chuck had spoken quietly, Logan almost jumped from his skin. He looked at the cook who seemed to have aged twenty years. “What’s that?”

  “Pray.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Matt thought she knew what pain was. She’d been tossed from the saddle more times than she could count. Had had her foot stomped by longhorns an equal number and took a good measure of pride in having nearly as many scars as some of the men. But the pain that splintered through her skull was on a level she’d never experienced.

  By slow degrees, she became aware of other things. Of a steady thumping in her ear. Of sunlight against her eyelids. Of the faint smell o
f leather and sweat. Of something hard and muscled beneath her cheek.

  Eyes still closed, she took stock of her own body. A bandage circled her head, pulling on her hair. Agony pounded from temple to temple, but otherwise she had no real discomfort.

  She cracked open her eyelids. Brilliant light sent barbed wire into her eyes. She squeezed her lids closed. She didn’t even have the energy to moan. After a dozen attempts, she managed to slit open her eyes.

  She was in her room with daylight brightening her curtains. Her befuddled brain ached as she recalled the events that led her to being in bed, in the middle of the day.

  The shots. The stampede.

  The rise and fall of her head focused her attention on what she was laying on. Or rather whom. Logan. His soft chambray shirt cushioned her face as his strong arm held her tight. She tipped her head up by inches to look at him.

  Her husband’s eyes were closed and dark blond stubble coated his cheeks. Haggard lines grooved his face. The rumpled appearance didn’t diminish his handsome features, though. She lifted a hand and traced his chin. Gray eyes snapped open, immediately alert.

  He cupped her cheek, anxiousness in his gaze. “Hey.”

  It took three attempts to get her voice to work. “Hey.” A croaking frog had to sound better.

  His palm moved to caress her hair. Moisture glistened in his eyes. “How ya feeling?”

  She cleared her throat. “I’m all right. Could I have some water, please?”

  “Sure.” He slid from the bed, careful not to jostle her too much, then placed a cup to her lips. “Not so fast, now. Easy.”

  The liquid coolness lessened the dryness in her throat. She settled back against her pillow. “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days.” He set the cup aside. “I’ll send Tom to fetch Doc Bingham. He came by earlier and said he’d be checking in on Elisabeth Applegate. He should still be there.”

  He stood, but Matt’s hand on his arm stopped him. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what, but she knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. “What happened?”

  He kissed her forehead. “We’ll talk after the doc looks you over.”

  This time she didn’t impede him. The grim set of his mouth crawled horror through her chest. “Logan?”

  He paused at the door.

  “Who died?”

  His gaze darted away for the briefest of moments as his Adam’s bobbed up and down. Someone had definitely died during the stampede. She recalled Roscoe checking out the herd. Misery clutched her chest.

  Logan opened the door. “Chuck made beef broth. I’ll be back directly with a bowl for you.”

  She stared at the closed door. Someone had died.

  And it was all her fault.

  ~ ~ ~

  She suffered through Doc Bingham poking and nudging her already sore head. As if that wasn’t enough, he then held a lamp so close to her eyes, tears burned in her eyes. They welled and fell down her cheeks. Logan stood by the door, arms cross over his chest, watching like a hawk while the doctor did the examination.

  “You’ll live,” Bingham finally stated.

  “No thanks to your manhandling,” she grumped.

  Bingham clenched his jaw before turning to Logan. “She’s to stay in bed at least a week. No exception.”

  “Understood,” her husband agreed.

  Being treated like an invalid further pricked her ire. “Well, I don’t understand,” she disputed. “There’s too much work to do for me to be in bed for the next week.”

  The doctor closed his bag. “Too bad. You’re to stay in bed. Period.” He walked to the door. “I’ll be back in a couple of days to check on you. And I will know if you’ve overdone, so I suggest you stay put.”

  She glared at the retreating back. Once the door was closed, she turned her attention to Logan. Her heart cracked at his weary, drawn expression. She extended her hand to him. He readily took it and sat in the chair by their bed. For several moments, he just studied her palm.

  “Who died?” she prodded on a whisper.

  It took him a while to meet her gaze. “Josh.”

  She had hoped no one was dead. Had hoped she’d been mistaken. But she hadn’t been. This time tears of grief sprang to her eyes.

  Josh had been so young, just a few years older than her. She worked to swallow the sob that crammed her throat. Her chest compressed with the knowledge the freckled-faced cowboy’s death was on her head.

  Logan squeezed her hand. “Accidents happen, sweetheart. It’s sad, but Josh knew the hazards of being a cowboy.”

  She shook her head, causing a few tears to slip down her cheeks. “N—no,” she hiccupped. “I could have stopped it.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “No you couldn’t have. What makes you think that?”

  “Dave and I saw Roscoe with another man. On the southern rise overlooking the herd. They were positioned so none of the drovers could see them while riding guard.”

  “When was this?”

  “A week ago. The day Dave rode to town with me.”

  “But how were you on the south side if you rode from town?”

  Heat stained her cheeks. “Because we went to the Applegate place first. I wanted to get the material to Elisabeth so she could sew my dress.” She gripped Logan’s hand with both of hers. “Dave wanted to tell you, but I said I would. Then I didn’t because I didn’t want you to know about the dress.” More tears pooled in her eyes. “Josh’s dying is my fault.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “If I hadn’t been so stupid...” Her voice cracked. “If I’d told you, Josh would still be alive.”

  Logan grasped her arms and shook her gently. “You can’t blame yourself for Josh dying. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “But you could have increased the guards. Could have made sure no one had the chance to stampede the herd.”

  “Increase the guards and leave the ranch vulnerable? Instead of stampeding the cattle, they could have burned the ranch.”

  “Josh might be alive then.”

  “Maybe, or maybe not. Maybe somebody else would have died. Maybe Chuck or you or me.” He pulled in a breath. “We can only do so much, sweetheart.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips across her forehead. “Get some rest like the doctor ordered. I’ll be back later to check on you.”

  He stood, but she tightened her grip on his hand. “Will you stay a while longer? Hold me until I fall asleep? Please.” She didn’t care she was begging. She needed to feel her husband’s strong arms around her, helping to take away some of her sorrow.

  He stared down at her, his expression unreadable. “All right.” He kissed the back of her hand then released it to unbutton his shirt. In a single, graceful move, he shucked off his Levi’s, but left his long johns on. He pulled back the quilt.

  She scooted over to make room, careful not to increase the pounding in her head. Logan stretched out on his back, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other holding her hand on his chest. Long minutes passed in silence.

  “When’s the Reverend coming out to do the service?” she asked.

  “Not sure. Maybe in a couple of days. The undertaker’s still building the casket.”

  “I don’t even know if Josh had any family ‘round here.”

  “I had Tom go through his gear. Josh had a mother and sister back in Fort Smith. Tom’ll head to town tomorrow and send a telegraph. Josh had twenty dollars saved.” His sigh sounded tired. Defeated. “The men took up a collection. We’ll be sending back an additional fifteen dollars. Not much. But the best we can do.”

  She nodded into his chest. Tears continued to burn her eyes, but she held them back. Crying wouldn’t help Josh now. If she had told Logan about Roscoe, that might have helped. Guess it was a good thing she was leaving. That way no one else would get hurt because of her.

  Despair made her head hurt worse. The rhythmic stroking of Logan’s hand on her arm
further fuzzied her mind. And soon she succumbed to the beckoning oblivion.

  ~ ~ ~

  Comfort enveloped her, kept her warm and safe.

  A light appeared before her. A small pinpoint light, like a faraway star in the night sky. Her body floated toward it. She couldn’t feel the bed beneath her nor the covers on top of her. It was like she was apart from everything.

  A panicked voice shouted her name. Logan’s voice. Something was wrong. She willed her arms to move, for her eyelids to open, to see what was wrong. Her body refused all commands.

  The light grew larger. Hypnotized her. She stopped thinking about Logan and focused only on that light. On getting to it. A blurry face slowly took the light’s place. The face of a petite woman with green eyes and black hair adored with wildflowers. The flowery scent glided on the air.

  Mama?

  Matt couldn’t remember what her mother looked like, but instinct said that was exactly who was coming closer. She tried to unscramble her thoughts. To think straight. How was this possible? Her mother was dead. If this vision truly was Grace Townsend, did that mean she was also dead?

  The image stopped arm’s length away and smiled. “Hello, Matilda.”

  “Who are you?”

  Her smile deepened. “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “My mother is dead.”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “But how are you here?” Matt’s voice caught. “Does this mean I’m dead? Is this my punishment for getting Josh killed?”

  Feathery arms came around her. Held her close. “No, no, darling. Hush.”

  Contentment crowded out fear. Matt no longer cared if she was dead. If she were, then she could stay with her mother. Stay within this circle of acceptance and love. Forever.

  Her mother rocked her side to side. “You’re not dead nor are you being punished. Is she, dear?”

  “No, she’s not.”

  Out of nowhere, her father stepped forward. But it wasn’t the father she had buried a few short weeks ago. This man was younger, more robust than the man who lay in the family graveyard. Matt shifted from her mother. “Pa?”

  “Hello, Mattie-girl.”

  A memory so old and so lost forged to the front of her consciousness. Mattie-girl.