The horse shied, jerked the reins from Carole’s grasp, and lunged away, heading back to the ranch.
“Oh, God, no.” She took several faltering steps after the mare before coming to her senses. No way could she catch her. She could only pray the animal made it home without injury.
The mare crested the rise out of the small valley and disappeared from sight. Clouds threatened more snow to come, which would obscure the tracks.
She might be safe from her cousins for now. But was being stranded at this deserted homestead any better?
In spite of the shock of her situation, the freezing cold forced her to move. Picking up the carpetbag and bedding, she trudged up the three steps onto the porch.
After unlatching and opening the cabin door, she held open the door long enough to get her bearings. Matches in a Mason jar and an oil lamp sat on a table near the door. A bed was pushed against one wall.
Setting down her bag, Carole tossed the quilt and pillow onto the bed, and then lit the lamp. Once she had light, she shut the door and closed out the cold wind.
Chapter 5
He’d escaped. Again.
Hap rode down the steep incline into the small valley where his family’s original cabin huddled under a thick snowy blanket. The one-room, split-log cabin in the distance made a pretty winter landscape, but he knew the inside would be colder than the icicles circling the porch rafters. The well pipes were probably frozen solid from last night’s freeze. Thank goodness, the newest storm gathering in the distant sky held off.
Snowed in or not, he intended to hole up here until Christmas passed and the world returned to normal.
He’d been to Crenshaw and made a deal with Ben Hastings to use his newly imported bull next breeding season, leaving his foreman, Charlie, in charge at the main house. Although, ordering him to chop the current Christmas tree into kindling the morning of December twenty-sixth was not well done of him, it beat firing his wife.
For eight years, he’d told Addy not to put up a goldarn tree, and for eight years, she’d ignored him. By God, if she did decorated for Christmas next year, he was going to fire that stubborn woman, whether Charlie liked it or not.
As if sensing Hap’s annoyed thoughts, his chestnut stallion tossed his head.
“Careful there, boy.” He soothed Rustler with a calm voice and pats to his shoulder.
Picking a path down to the cabin could be treacherous in the snow, but Hap knew the route like the back of his hand, the same way he knew every inch of this ranch.
He was a careful man who paid attention. The snow covering the trail down the valley’s side lay undisturbed, unmarred even by rabbit tracks.
They reached the cabin, and he pulled Rustler to a halt in front of the porch. A faint white plume floated up from the cabin’s pipe chimney.
Smoke? What in tarnation?
“Hello, the cabin!” he called.
No one answered.
“Whoa, boy,” he said, dismounting. “Hold up a minute while I check out things.”
The chestnut stallion stamped a front foot and snorted, billowing breaths into the frigid air.
Rustler didn’t like to wait—being ornery, hard-headed, and mule-stubborn—also the strongest, toughest horse Hap owned. He intended to breed the stallion’s traits into his riding stock.
He strode to the small, lean-to stable attached to the side of the cabin and checked for a horse. None. Whoever had been here was long gone. There was no other access to this section of his land except by horseback, and he’d seen no trails or tracks wide enough for even a small wagon.
So, what jackass went off and left embers burning? Recent enough to cause even a shadow of smoke? Rude behavior, considering line-shacks were for anyone’s use who found themselves stranded or injured and in need of shelter. But the cabin was more than a shack, and he’d put out the word in town that he didn’t appreciate the disrespect to his property.
Returning to Rustler, he removed the packs and saddlebags and stowed them on the porch. He unsaddled the stallion, setting the saddle next to the packs. While he sat out the holiday furor, he could do some mending and polishing.
Hap found the pitchfork propped inside the stable door and cleared the dirt floor of debris and old straw. Three bales of hay were left in the storage bin. He pulled off two big flakes to fill the feeder and checked for mold and moisture.
The shed was dry, and the hay was in good shape. The water barrel was more than half full and hadn’t frozen over yet. It would be enough for now. He’d dole out the grain later. He turned to find the stallion crowding the doorway.
The horse lifted his head, wuffled a hot breath in Hap’s face and shifted to one side. As Hap moved to make room, Rustler pushed forward to the feeder.
Now safe from the bone-chilling wind, the stallion munched contentedly.
Hap used the leather chamois hung on a nail for that purpose to rub the stallion down and checked his hooves for possible stones.
Rustler kept chewing.
“Move over, big guy. I’m not sleepin’ out here with you.”
Patting the horse on the rump, he squeezed out and shut the barn’s door, heading for the cabin. There was a lot of work to be done before dark. Wood to chop, kindling to split, and well pipes to thaw before he could hunker down to a blazing fire and his current novel. He mounted the porch steps, grabbed a pack, and swung open the cabin door.
Warm air hit him in the face, and he inhaled the smell of cinnamon, apples, and fresh-cut pine.
What the devil happened here?
The smell was easy to figure out. A bushy little pine braced in a bucket stood in the corner, trying to pass itself off as a Christmas tree. Someone decorated the branches with holly berries, popcorn, and baby pinecones strung in garlands. A small, hand-painted tin angel teetered on the top.
Was this somebody’s pathetic idea of a joke? He failed to see the humor.
Ashes littered the fireplace. No one in his employ would leave without clearing the grate. Nor had he scheduled any of his men to ride fences this far out.
He dropped his pack on the floor and went across the room to check the hearth ash. Still warm to the touch, it confirmed what he’d already figured. Someone made himself right at home on private property. His private property.
He’d never begrudge the use of the cabin if a body got lost or stranded in bad weather. But to move in and have the gall to put up a Christmas tree? That pushed the bounds of hospitality. Hap intended to tell the son-of-a-gun to clear off and take his pitiful tree with him. That is, if the trespasser had the nerve to come back.
But where the hell is he?
Hap stood for a moment, examining the cabin’s interior. What else was not as he remembered? Short barrels of oats, rice, and flour stood under the dry sink counter. Canned goods lined the shelves above. The potbelly cook stove gave off heat enough to keep water warm, not enough to boil, and an empty mug sat on the table under the front window. Only one mug.
Hap lifted the lid on the pot that hung from the cooking rod over the cooling coals in the hearth. The cinnamon apple aroma made his mouth water. He stripped off his gloves and thrust them into his coat pocket.
The stewed apples in the pot looked delicious and, when he poked in his finger, were still warm. He ladled out a spoonful to taste—oh, yeah—the trespasser was a good cook. His mouth full, he turned to see what else the intruder brought along then left behind. How far could he have gone if the food was still warm?
The wood-framed bed braced against the far wall looked freshly made—with a quilt he’d never seen before and even looked ready for the holiday, all made up in a Christmas quilt of red-and-green plaid. A pine tree with bright yellow ornaments was stitched right square in the middle. A scarlet pillow sat plumped at the headboard.
He began to feel like the third bear in the Goldilocks story, asking, ‘Who’s been sleeping in my bed?’ Anger charged through him. Whoever the culprit was, when Hap got ahold of him, the man would think he’d
run into all three bears at once.
A carpetbag sat on a bentwood chair near the spindle-legged table butted up against the wall under the cabin’s only window. Maybe the contents would lend a clue to the squatter’s identity.
He didn’t normally rummage through someone else’s belongings, but in this instance, Hap felt he had a right to more information.
The carpet-bag was worn at the edges, and the colors were faded, the leather handles soft from long use. Hap flipped open the buckle and tugged wide the mouth to expose a small wooden harp with golden strings.
A harp? Really?
Who’d carry a tiny harp around with ‘em? Even a little one?
He very carefully pulled the instrument out of the bag. The edge of the buckle slid across the strings, making the most delicate sound he’d ever heard. The tinkling notes sparked a childhood memory—a Christmas memory—his mother’s laughter when he’d insisted she bake more cookies for Santa so he’d deliver the saddle he’d requested.
Had I ever been that young?
Then the memory of the final, fatal Christmas raked its claws across his heart, when happy smiles turned to never-ending sorrow. He set the harp on the table almost as fast as dropping an iron skillet pulled barehanded out of a cook-fire.
He reached back into the bag and tugged out a handful of brightly colored silk lady’s drawers. A cherry-red corset dangled by its strings from his little finger. What the…. The whole bunch smelled like rosewater and spice, enticing him to bend close to enjoy the feminine scent. He hadn’t smelled anything that sweet in a long time. Whoa, cowboy.
A female trespasser?
Out here?
He pulled out a few other corroborating items—a dress, a shirtwaist, a skirt. But where did she come from? How did she get to this cabin?
The nearest neighbor to this border of his property was the Houghten High River Ranch, about five miles east. Surely, the four brothers who’d arrived recently to take over after old man Houghten passed away some months ago, wouldn’t have let anybody, especially a woman, wander this far out.
But if she’d been here, where was she now?
Some instinct long suppressed made Carole snap up her head and search the horizon.
A rider appeared at the top of the pass heading into the little valley. The tall stranger on a chestnut horse picked his way down the far valley trail.
She swallowed a scream. Fear prickled her skin. No, no, no.
Oh my God, please don’t let them find me.
Keeping to the side of the house to hide her footsteps and scattering the armful of kindling she’d gathered into the slush, she ran. Once out of sight behind the house, Carole headed straight toward the tree line.
Thank God, she’d been outside, or she wouldn’t have known a man was there until it was too late to get out of sight. She raced in the opposite direction almost the length of the valley. Her heart beat like a drum in her chest, and she couldn’t draw a deep breath through the cold.
She forced herself to shinny up the incline where a narrow, animal-tracked trail angled its way up the valley wall. Intending to reach the top of the slope, she grabbed for the scrub growing along the path, pulling herself higher.
I need to hide. Wait him out.
At least, he wasn’t one of her cousins. He sat too tall in the saddle to be one of her runty, despicable relatives. But he could be a hired hand sent to look for her. All the men she’d seen at the ranch looked as disreputable as her cousins. She hadn’t dared ask any of them for help.
She grasped the next gnarled branch, wincing at the pricks on her bare hands, and pulled herself up the incline another few inches. The snow from the last storm blanketed the mountain in a thick white crush. For every step forward, she seemed to slide back two, but she wouldn’t give up.
Concentrate! Carole told herself. Ignore frozen fingers and the toes she could lose to frostbite. Gulping in the frigid air hurt with every breath she took, but she couldn’t go back.
If she made it to the top of the trail, she could make it over the edge of the valley wall and be out of sight from anyone searching the skyline. She’d find her way back to town. To Sheriff Granger. To safety.
Good God, I’m going to freeze to death long before that.
The cold viciously bit into her fingers, and the tip of her nose could fall off and she wouldn’t notice the loss. She’d never been in such freezing weather—never considered the danger involved.
If only she’d had time to grab Grandpa’s travel bag. She could have worn her extra socks and her grandmother’s wool mittens.
Carole slapped at her snow-caked pants so the ice wouldn’t slide into her boots.
She could feel the chill seeping all the way to her bones, and she was losing sensation in her toes. She needed dry socks. The boots she’d purchased for her trip were sorely inadequate. Designed for a stroll in the garden, not a trek through the wilderness.
I need to find cover. Soon.
Pushing the red, knitted scarf off her head, she scanned the rocky cliffs above where she perched, searching for a cave or even an overhanging ledge.
Maybe with shelter, she could outwait the tracker and her cousins, who were sure to be close behind.
Maybe they’d think she’d moved on. Maybe they’d forget about her.
Maybe she’d lost her mind. Or it was frozen.
Come on, you can’t just stand here until you turn into a giant icicle. Keep moving.
Carole plunged her left hand back into her pocket for warmth and used her right to balance her crawl up the rocky slope. She could hardly bend her fingers to grasp the next handhold.
The smell of pine was sharp in the bitterly cold air. The stillness, the silence, weighed on her.
Why couldn’t she hear birds? No small animals, no sounds?
The quiet before the storm? Some evil portent?
Carole paused to catch her breath and to see if anyone followed. Across the valley, the clouds gathered in an angry, black swarm. She could see the tiny cabin from where she stood and wished with all her heart to be there by the fire. She’d snuggle up in Grandmother’s Christmas quilt and eat cinnamon apples and wait for a Christmas miracle. That’s what she needed—-just an itty-bitty miracle.
Seeing no sign of immediate pursuit, Carole took several deep breaths before continuing to
pull herself farther up the steep canyon wall.
She reached for the long, thick root hanging out over the ledge where the dirt collapsed. She braced a foot and tugged, giving a push with her other foot. She had a good grip, levering herself halfway up until she could see over the edge.
The huge Ponderosa sitting on the canyon’s edge with half its roots exposed gave a shudder. First came a creaking, groaning sound, and then a tearing roar as the rock and dirt wall gave way. With a mighty shriek, the giant pine toppled crown-first over the ledge.
She released the root, but there was no way to scramble free to evade the tree’s knobby, scraggled roots scraping everything along with them in the tree’s descent. She covered her head and curled into a ball like a pill bug in a windstorm.
Caught and dragged by the tree’s tentacles, the scattering debris pelted her, stinging and bruising even through the coat’s thick padding.
She kept her face tucked, her eyes closed, and hung on for dear life, praying for the madness to end. The tree sledded down the steep incline until it jammed into the valley floor and lurched to a stop.
Dirt, rocks, and tree stubble covered her. She a sensation of being buried alive. The tree’s final shudder slammed her head against the trunk, and the world went black.
Chapter 6
A dull roar, like rolling claps from a cluster of thunderclouds overhead, tore Hap’s attention away from the carpetbag’s contents.
Landslide!
He tossed the clothing on the table, and in two strides, he was outside.
Rustler whickered and pawed the stable door.
Hap careened around to the back of the c
abin, almost tripping over some loose sticks. He looked toward the rear valley wall and stopped dead.
Oh. Great. God!
The mesa plateau seemed to have shed its top layer in the wake of an enormous Ponderosa pine. Like a giant’s runaway toboggan, the tree slammed down the mountain and hit the bottom, jamming top-first into the valley floor.
The whole wall of debris came to a slow screeching stop, tossing a cloud of snow and dirt in all directions. The air around the cabin, less than a mile away, thickened with the fallout.
Hap brought up an arm to shield his eyes and cover his nose. It was then he saw the boot-prints.
He bent to one knee and stretched a hand the length of the print. His hand was bigger. He’d found her trail.
Studying the footprints, he saw where she’d jumped from the porch, kept close to the house, and when she’d reached the back, made a path to the tree line. That’s why he hadn’t noticed the prints when he’d ridden in.
Had she gone hunting for more tiny pinecones and gotten lost? Was she looking for a little mistletoe? Surely, she hadn’t gone far enough from the cabin to be caught in the slide? A spike of dread pierced his gut. He had to find her.
Hap rushed back into the cabin and yanked on his gloves before pulling out field glasses from his saddlebag.
Back outside, he scanned the tree line in the direction of the disappearing tracks but saw nothing. No movement except for the dirt settling. How far could she have gone?
He’d have to go hunt for her. She was on his land, trespasser or not, and that made her his responsibility. He couldn’t let her get hurt, or worse—killed. He couldn’t have another death on his conscience.
Well, dang it to purgatory.
Just went to prove his point. No good ever came of Christmas.
Hap ran back to the stable, flinging open the door.
Rustler butted him in the chest, shoving his way free. He snorted and flung his head in an arc, looking for the source of the disturbance.
His Christmas Carole (Rescued Hearts Series Book 1) Page 3
