"I'll be damned. Congratulations, Colt," Ridge said with a wide grin. "Or should I say Major Rivers?"
Colt appeared dazed by the rapidity of the events. "What the hell just happened?"
"Cullen's gettin' his due and you just got promoted," Dr. Winters replied curtly. His old face creased with a smile. "And I didn't even have to sew anyone back together again."
Ridge grinned and met Colt's gaze. Things were finally looking up.
Chapter 22
"Goodness gracious, the dress will never be ready on time. Why on earth couldn't the wedding have waited one more week?" Martha Hartwell chirped in agitation.
"Because Ridge couldn't wait that long," Sarah replied, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
Emma managed to smile despite the headache that had plagued her since the early morning when her dreams awakened her. She patted her mother's shoulder. "Don't worry. Everything will work out."
"Easy for you to say. You just have to state your vows and look beautiful," her mother chided with an affectionate smile. She sighed from her place at the dining room table where they'd been finalizing the wedding details. "i have to talk to Mrs. Wright about the food and make sure she has everything she needs." Still muttering to herself, her mother and her list disappeared into the kitchen.
Emma propped her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. But closing her eyes only made her remember the dream visions with more clarity.
A hand settled between her shoulder blades. "What's wrong, Emma?" Sarah asked with quiet concern. "Are you having nightmares again?"
Emma raised her head and peered blearily at her sister. "How did you know?"
"I've heard you cry out, but every time I go to your room, you get quiet again." Sarah's eyes clouded with worry. "What are your nightmares about?"
Emma waved a hand. "Just nightmares."
Sarah leaned closer. "I don't believe you. There's something you're not telling me."
"There might be a good reason I'm not telling you."
"You're scaring me, Emma. What's wrong?"
Emma slumped back in her chair and stretched out her arms on the table. She stared at a framed picture of the mountains on the wall, although her vision was directed inward.
The dreams always began the same way, with the owl flying out of the night to land in an oak tree. The wolf cub played innocently below on the ground until the mountain lion pounced, batting around the cub with malicious amusement. Sometimes Emma thought the lion's face changed shape to something more human, but she could never see the details clearly. And always, when the female wolf arrived, the lion attacked her. The fight would be brutal, but the cat would gain the advantage. That's when the eagle would swoop down and Emma woke.
Over the last two nights the dreams had changed subtly. Emma now had a sense of another creature in the shadows, but its intentions were unclear, which worried her even more.
She blinked back to the present and found Sarah's troubled countenance in front of her. Emma smiled and patted her sister's hand. "It's probably just wedding collywobbles. I'm sure all brides have them."
The furrows in Sarah's normally smooth brow remained. "Do you love him?" she asked.
Emma considered lying, but found she couldn't do that to her sister who'd been nothing but supportive since Emma had returned with Chayton. "Yes, but it's not returned."
Sarah's mouth gaped. "Any fool can see he's head over heels in love with you."
"I'm not a fool, Sarah," Emma said with a pained smile. "He has feelings for me, but not those kind."
Sarah clucked her tongue. "Think what you will, but the only fool here is you, Emma Hartwell." She stood and shook the wrinkles from her skirt. "I'm going to see if Rory is tired of Chay following him around."
Folding her arms on the tabletop, Emma laid her cheek on them and closed her eyes. She didn't want to think about weddings or love or the future. She just wanted to sleep without dreams.
The sound of her father's office door opening and closing brought Emma's head up from her uncomfortable position. She hoped he was only going outside, or to talk to her mother. Although he'd been more civil toward her and Chayton lately, she wasn't ready to lower her guard.
He entered the dining room and appeared surprised to see her. "Emma, I'd like to have a word with you."
"What about?" she asked suspiciously.
He joined her at the table. "I think it's time your son started learning how to ride."
Her wariness didn't fade. "He's been riding since he was old enough to stay on a horse by himself."
Her father's eyes widened. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You never asked." She failed to keep the bitterness from her voice.
He dropped his gaze and twined his fingers together. Emma stared at his hands. She'd always assumed they were smooth, but there were numerous small scars and his fingers had obviously done more than hold a pen.
"I'd like to give him one of the new foals after it's weaned," he said. "I know you'll be living with Madoc, but I wouldn't mind coming by to help the boy work with it."
"The boy's name is Chayton, or Chay, whichever you prefer to call him," Emma said sharply.
He stood and glared at his daughter. "If you don't want Chayton to have a horse, that's fine. He's your son."
Emma's anger died as quickly as it flared, and she said quietly, "He's also your grandson." She thought about what he'd said. "Are you serious about helping him train the foal?"
"I wouldn't have offered if I wasn't."
Emma noticed the flush in his cheeks and the uncertainty in his face. This was the man who'd embraced her and shed tears when he'd seen his daughter for the first time in seven years after she was believed dead.
Emma rose and walked up to him. "I think Chayton would like his own pony, and he'd like his grandfather to teach him."
Her father's eyes glimmered suspiciously, and Emma reached out and hugged him. "Thank you," she said, her throat tight.
He returned the hug, enfolding her within his arms. "You're welcome, Emma."
His voice was as husky as hers.
The day before the wedding Emma awakened with a scream trapped in her throat. She gasped and panted as her heart beat a harsh tattoo against her breast. The dream had been so real—she could almost smell the lingering feral scent of the mountain lion and the wolf.
The dim light in the room told her it wasn't even dawn, and she could sleep another hour or two, but the dream's memory was too vivid. She leaned over to glance down at Chayton, assuring he was safe. His mouth was open as he snored softly in his trundle bed. Smiling, Emma rose quietly and peeked out her curtain. The fat moon hung high in the sky—tonight it would be full.
Just as in her dreams.
Her smile disappeared and her stomach clenched. She had to talk to Ridge. He was the only one who would believe her.
After donning a split riding skirt and plain tan blouse, Emma tiptoed out of her bedroom, carrying her boots. She wrote a short note telling her family where she'd gone, then pulled on the boots and a jacket in the foyer. Tightening the chinstrap of her wide-brimmed hat, Emma stepped out into the morning's tranquillity, a sharp contrast to the dream visions which continued to haunt her.
Even Rory was still asleep when Emma saddled Clementine. By the time she led the mare out of the barn and mounted her, a rose tinge was dusting the eastern sky. As she rode to Ridge's, she watched the mountains transform from dark blue to coral and pink, and by the time she arrived at his place, the sun peeped above the horizon. The cabin's door opened and Ridge stepped out wearing brown trousers, moccasins, and an unbuttoned undershirt, with a pair of suspenders hanging down the side of his lean legs. For a moment, she could only stare as her mouth grew dry at the tempting sight.
"Emma, what're you doing here?" Ridge demanded, hurrying over to grab Clementine's bridle.
She smiled, already feeling the crushing weight of her nightmare easing. "I know it's early, but I need to talk to you."
> Ridge's hands spanned her waist as he helped her to the ground. "I just put some coffee on. It should be ready in a minute or two."
He took her hand and she curved her fingers around his. Despite her exhaustion and fear, the intimacy warmed her and reassured her that she'd made the right decision in agreeing to marry him, even if he didn't love her. Once inside the cabin, Ridge urged her into a chair and she thankfully sank down onto it.
As Ridge retrieved two cups and poured the coffee, Emma took the time to examine the one-room cabin that would be her home after tomorrow. A ladder led up to the loft, and she envisioned Chayton climbing up to his bed every evening. It was a cozy, homey picture.
An Atlantic Box stove, used for heating and cooking, sat in the center of the cabin. A table and four chairs had obviously been made by Ridge's meticulous hands, and smoothed by his sensitive fingers. They were solid and steady, much like the man who'd created them.
Her attention wandered to the bed. The cot that had been there was replaced by a store-bought four poster bed, large enough for two to sleep—and make love—comfortably.
"Coffee?" Ridge's voice broke into her musings.
Startled, she jerked her attention back to him and accepted the cup with a murmured "thank you."
"I know this place ain't much, but I already have plans to make it bigger," Ridge said awkwardly.
"No, it's fine, truly," Emma assured, then grinned mischievously. "It's bigger than a tipi, and the bed's not on the ground."
An endearing blush stained his cheeks and he sipped coffee to cover his embarrassment.
"You bought a new bed," she commented.
A roguish grin stole across his lips. "I thought you'd like it."
"I do," she said softly. "But you didn't have to do it."
"I wanted to." He shrugged. "I had some money left after buying the bull."
"But you were going to start buying your land back from my father."
"I will someday."
Emma blinked back tears and wished she dared confess how much she loved him. "Thank you," she whispered, clasping his hand across the table.
Ridge brushed his thumb across her knuckles. "Tell me why you rode over here so early."
Emma gathered her thoughts, reluctantly setting aside the infinitely more pleasant ones involving Ridge and the new bed in the corner. "Remember when I had the dreams?"
"You were worried about Chayton. You thought something would happen the night of the full moon."
"I-I'm having those same dreams again, but this time they're even more frightening." She went on to describe them and was relieved when Ridge listened without comment, his expression somber.
"What do you think it means?" he asked as he continued to caress Emma's hand.
"That something will happen to Chayton tonight," she replied unhesitantly.
Ridge frowned. "And maybe you, too. But who's the mountain lion?"
"I don't know." Frustration laced her voice. "i don't know who the eagle is either."
"Easy, Emma. Last time, nothing happened. Maybe it'll be the same this time."
She shook her head vehemently. "No. This feels different, more real and more menacing."
Before Ridge could say anything, the sound of an approaching horseman broke the morning's quiet. Emma exchanged a puzzled glance with Ridge, and they rose together and went out to face the visitor.
Preston Wylie galloped into the yard and reined sharply in front of the shack. The usually fastidious officer's uniform shirt was misbuttoned and untucked. He spotted Emma and his eyes widened slightly in his dirt-streaked face.
"Where's the fire, Pres?" Ridge asked.
The lieutenant dragged his gaze away from Emma and replied, "Cullen's escaped. Whoever helped him killed the guard."
Emma inhaled sharply.
"Is someone watching Colt?" Ridge demanded.
"Sarge."
"Where's Nyes?"
"Back at the post. General Mason's questioning him now. The general wants you to track down Cullen."
"Cullen and whoever got him out of the stockade," Ridge said grimly. "I'll grab some supplies and ride over."
Pres touched the brim of his hat and said to Emma, "Ma'am."
Emma managed a nod and the officer rode away.
Ridge grasped her shoulders. "I have to go, Emma."
Again she nodded, unable to speak past the irrational fear lodged in her throat.
"Are you all right?" Ridge asked, ducking to peer into her face.
"Yes."
Ridge didn't appear convinced, but he drew back, his reluctance obvious. "I have to see if I can track down Cullen before his trail gets cold, but I'll come back to the ranch before nightfall so we can figure out your dreams."
"All right."
Although Ridge was anxious, he remained with Emma. "I'll escort you back to your place before I ride over to the post."
Emma mentally shook herself. "No. That'll add eight miles. You need to find Cullen and lock him up again before he hurts someone else."
She could see the fiery determination in his expression, but his eyes were uncertain. She gave him a little shove. "Go! I'll be fine."
After another moment of indecision, Ridge kissed her. It was brief but fierce—a promise he'd return to her as soon as he could.
He walked her to Clementine and gave her a boost into the saddle. He laid his hand on her leg and gazed up at her anxiously. "Are you sure?"
She leaned down and feathered a touch across his whisker-roughened jaw. "Yes. Now go."
He grinned, a crooked, wry grin that never failed to arouse Emma's passion. Stifling a moan, she tapped her heels to the mare's flanks and the animal sprinted away.
Ridge hunkered down, tipping his head from one side to the other as he tried to make out the footprints in the dirt. He had no trouble distinguishing Cullen's from the soldiers' since the scout wore moccasins. Except there was a second set of moccasin prints, slightly smaller than Cullen's. Ridge's first thought was Cullen's squaw had broken him out, but the prints were too big for a slip of a gal like her.
"Anything?" Pres Wylie asked, standing a couple yards away from the tracker so he wouldn't mess up the ground with his own boot prints.
"I'm not sure," Ridge replied. "It looks like whoever killed the guard and busted him out was wearing moccasins."
"There aren't many so-called civilized folks who wear them," Pres remarked.
Ridge glanced at his own comfortable, knee-high moccasins. "Yeah. Me, Cullen—" he broke off as a stray thought struck him. "Did you have any trouble getting into that village a couple weeks ago?"
Pres blinked owlishly at the change of subjects. "No, not that I can recall. Cullen led us through a serpentine trail that cut through rock. I remember thinking it was an opportune place for an ambush."
Ridge pushed himself upright. "While Emma and I were in the village they always had sentries stationed up there."
"So where were the sentries?"
"That's a damned good question." He strode back to Paint, his mind racing with possibilities. "Who's coming with me?"
"General Mason's authorized ten men for the search. I'm the ranking officer."
"Is someone guarding Colt?"
"Sarge is in charge of the guard detail."
Despite the gravity of the situation, Ridge smiled. "Betcha Colt's having a fit. Being out of the action is going to do what Cullen didn't—kill him."
Pres laughed. "I don't know about that, but Sarge is threatening to bind and gag him."
Ridge shook his head in amusement, but the moment passed and he sobered. "I'll meet you and your contingent outside the gate."
By late afternoon, Ridge was using every trick he knew to find the trail. At first the stolen horses' tracks were easy to follow. But as Cullen and his accomplice moved into rockier terrain, the prints disappeared. Ridge had to search for darker soil spots, which were exposed when a stone was disturbed; or a metal-gray slash on a rock from the graze of a horseshoe; or the fr
esh break of a twig. It was time-consuming and laborious.
Ridge gripped his saddle horn and shifted his stiff backside on the unforgiving leather saddle. He rubbed his eyes, which were sore from intently studying the ground for hours on end.
"Any ideas?" Pres Wylie asked, setting his horse beside Ridge.
"Yeah, but I don't like any of 'em."
Pres pushed his hat off his forehead. "If it wasn't another white man wearing moccasins, it was an Indian."
Although it wasn't a question, Ridge replied, "Yep. And I've got a bad feeling I know who it was."
"Who?"
"Hotah. He was from the village you attacked." He couldn't hide his simmering resentment.
Pres's gaze hardened. "We were under orders to recapture the natives and return them to the reservation. It wasn't our intention to do battle."
Ridge took a deep breath to dispel his anger. "It was Cullen, who somehow got Hotah to help him get the detachment into the camp without being seen."
"Why would this Hotah assist Cullen in murdering his people?"
"Revenge, maybe. The chief banished him from the village the day before the attack. Hotah didn't like that the chief wanted peace, not war." A lead ball settled in Ridge's stomach. "I could be wrong. I ain't never heard of an Indian turning on his own before, but if Hotah is hell-bent on stirring things up, this is a good way to help it along."
"Maybe Cullen offered him some incentive."
"What kind?"
"Half a dozen repeating rifles and boxes of shells were stolen from the armory the night before Colt was stabbed."
"Shit," Ridge swore. "Those would kill a lot of soldiers and settlers." He stiffened his backbone. "Let's get back to it. If Hotah and Cullen have those rifles, we need to stop them."
Determination driving him, Ridge led the small group of soldiers and hoped he was on the right trail.
Emma trudged downstairs after trying on her wedding dress for the umpteenth time. This time, however, it fit perfectly, much to her mother's relief. Mrs. Wright was frying chicken and Emma's stomach growled, reminding her she'd eaten little during the day. Between her nightmares and her fear for Ridge with Cullen on the loose, she'd simply been unable to force food into her rebelling stomach.
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