by Angela Scott
Caroline glanced at Trace with fear in her eyes, knowing Wen must have told him their secret. "I'm sorry." She self-consciously tugged at her apron. "I didn't mean for this to happen."
"Don't be sorry," he said. "Like I told Wen, it'll be okay. I'll do everything in my power to ensure that you all stay safe. You have my word."
Caroline relaxed a little, but continued to grasp the apron in her fist. "Maybe Red's in the barn checking on the animals. Did you look there?"
"I'll do that now. If you need anything, let me know."
He slipped outside and shut the door behind him. The snow fell more heavily, dusting everything in white and making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. He flipped up the collar of his coat, pulled it tight against his neck, and tucked his hands inside his jacket. It was a good thing they'd picked all the remaining fruit off the trees and pulled the last of the carrots and potatoes out of the garden a few days before. They wouldn't have made it through the winter otherwise.
The animals paid him no mind when he entered the barn, but simply ate the handful of feed allotted to them. The small quantity of food wouldn't satisfy their hunger, but it would keep them alive. They all had to make do so their stores would last until spring. That was the hope, anyway.
Trace noticed boney ribs beginning to peek through the fur and hair on some of the animals, and wondered just how many they'd lose before then.
Red wasn't in the barn. Although the compound of the fort was rather sizable, one couldn't really become lost. With its central, open courtyard, he would've crossed paths with Red at some point. He checked Ira's room, thinking she might have decided to visit with him. The old man read a book by the fire, alone. He attempted to ask Ira whether he'd seen Red, but the old man's hands, though firing rapid messages, told him nothing. Trace still found it difficult to read his signs, though he tried.
He checked several outbuildings where Red might be, but she seemed to have just vanished. He stood in the middle of the courtyard, fighting a storm that brewed in intensity with each passing minute. It rolled over the plains and threatened to drown the fort with it.
"Red!" He heard the desperation in his own voice. "Red!"
No response. He cupped his hands around his mouth and tried again. "Elisabeth!"
Wen appeared next to him and pulled his hat down over his eyes to block out the snow. "What's going on?"
"Have you seen Red around?"
"No, not today."
Trace knew Wen had been avoiding her, so his answer was no surprise.
"I'll help you look," Wen offered. "You take the rooms on the south, and I'll go check everything on the north side. If I find her, I'll let her know you're lookin' for her."
Trace flung open door after door, continuing to call out her name. A horrible panic settled in his chest as each opened door offered nothing more than emptiness. Where the hell is she?
He entered their shared room, taking a moment of reprieve from the bitter wind and sleet to put some perspective on the situation. She must be there somewhere. Maybe Wen had better luck than he did.
He made for the door to look for Wen, when he saw it—the glimmer of light on metal. The firelight caught its smooth surface and set it shimmering in the darkened room.
In the center of the wooden table, deliberately positioned on top of the wrinkled wanted posters, sat the metal cigar band he'd slipped on her finger weeks before.
He spun on his heels and threw the wardrobe doors open, hoping he was wrong. Just as he feared, the wardrobe stood empty. His knapsack no longer hung from the wooden peg. His pistols and hunting knife had disappeared. She'd removed part of the bedding, a small blanket, and the kerosene lantern from the bedside table.
She'd taken whatever she could get her hands on, but Trace knew it wasn't nearly enough, not in this weather. Did she even take any food? Something to make a fire? The animals were all accounted for, so if she truly left, she'd done so on foot—a death walk.
She was going to die out there.
***
Red knew that continuing to walk the plains in the midst of a snowstorm would kill her. With nothing to shield herself from the fierce wind, she turned toward the mountains. Though equally dangerous, it was her only option as the snowfall turned violent.
She fought against the wind and snow one aching footstep at a time and scanned the horizon for a tree line—something to put a cross-break between her and the weather. Too much hung on the line to die now.
The wind blew horizontally and snow slapped her bare cheeks with frozen claws. A feeling of physical and emotional numbness took over. She pulled her scarf over her nose and lips in a pitiful attempt at protection, but left her eyes vulnerable to the stinging crystals that pierced her sight. Soon she'd be blind to everything around her.
Originally, she'd set out toward the north, but she no longer knew which direction her footsteps carried her. She could very well be walking in circles.
Going back wasn't an option—not with a large bounty on her head and a deceitful bounty hunter for a husband. So she kept moving forward. Much as she wanted to drop to her knees and close her eyes, if she even took a moment to rest, she'd die.
She held the lantern with her fingertips and it rocked back and forth. The flame clung to life behind its glass enclosure—hope in the form of a flicker. If it went out, she'd be lost in the dark, so she held it close to her chest.
A few trees rose from the earth like giants amid the sagebrush and low-lying bushes. Tired and numb, her hands shook in response to the cold creeping into her core. She reached forward, took hold of a branch, then another, and crawled near the trunk. With her back against the rough bark, she set the lantern aside and gathered her frozen fingers to her mouth. She blew warm air over them with shivering lips and rubbed them together. She felt nothing.
The tree didn't provide much protection from the elements. It certainly wouldn't be enough to tide her over until the storm ended. Even though she desperately wanted to rest, to sit beneath the tree and do nothing more, she forced herself to rise and continue moving. She snapped off some low hanging branches, thick with needles, and piled them on the ground near the base of the tree. Her frozen fingers bent and broke branch after branch. Satisfied, she began to scoop snow, creating a mound first on one side of the trunk, then on the other. She laid the branches across the top to bridge the mounds and create a roof—minimal and gaping. It would have to do.
She dragged herself inside the tiny shelter and drew the lantern in behind her. Without the blaring wind beating down on her, she turned the flame higher and pressed her hands to the glass. Warm them. Warm them.
Her teeth knocked against one another and her body shook. A fire would be impossible to build and maintain, so she didn't even try. The lantern would have to create the impression of warmth to see her through the long, cold night.
She took the quilt out of the knapsack, wrapped it around her shoulders, and tucked it beneath her to provide a barrier against the hard, frozen earth. Her body pleaded with her to close her eyes and give in to sleep, but she kept telling herself it would be over soon. At some point, every storm ended.
She just needed to hold on until then.
Chapter 29 – The Truth
"I'm goin' after her." Trace adjusted the saddle on his horse and cinched it into place. He gently rubbed the stallion's neck, knowing full well he would put both of their lives in danger, but he couldn't think of an alternative.
"You're going to get yourself killed," Wen argued. "The storm's at its worst right now, and who knows when it'll let up. Besides, you don't even know which way she's headed."
"She's heading north," Trace announced with certainty. He continued to prepare his horse, wasting no more time than was needed. "She's trying to get away from me, and she's goin' after her brother and John Gatherum. I can almost guarantee it."
"Trace." Wen placed his hand on the horse's back. "I can't let you go. I can't let you do this."
"You don't ha
ve a choice." Trace tied two bedrolls into place behind the saddle. "She's on foot, Wen. She can't have gone very far. I'll find her. I have to. I have to set things right."
"What if you can't?"
Trace's hand hovered momentarily over the saddlebags—a visual crack in his resolve. He pushed past the doubt and weaved the leather straps through the buckles. "I need you to open the gates and let me through." He took the reins and led the weary horse out of the stable. "I'll find her. And once I do, I'll bring her back." He looked at Wen. "Unless you'd rather I didn't."
"Damn it, Trace." Wen let out a frustrated breath. "Of course I want you both here. We're family and I need you here with the kids, Ira, Caroline—I can't do this on my own. You have to come back, or we ain't gonna make it. So you promise me you will."
Trace put his hand on Wen's shoulder and nodded. "You have my word."
"Then you go get her. Go find her and bring her back."
***
The storm hit him in the face, quick and painful. Each intake of breath stung his lungs as he bent his head against the blizzard. His horse did the same as ice crystals clung to its puffing nostrils. The animal struggled to keep its balance, stumbling more than once, and Trace knew they couldn't continue like that for long. The horse could fall, trapping him beneath the one-ton animal, killing them both.
He dismounted, held the reins in his gloved hands, and led the exhausted beast forward one agonizing lurch at a time.
With each step forward, the wind threatened to blow him back two. The storm refused to let up, and Trace could hardly see where he stepped. Finding Red under these conditions would be nearly impossible. She might be four feet to the right or four feet to the left, and he'd pass her by without even knowing it.
He called out her name, but the blaring wind and vicious howling engulfed the sound of his voice. It didn't stop him from cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling for her over and over, until his throat stung from the bitter cold and he became hoarse. Her name was nothing more than a whisper on his lips, but he refused to give up.
"Elisabeth!"
***
"Elisabeth." Trace's breath warmed her ear, her cheek. "Don't fall asleep."
His body pressed against her, and his arms and legs snaked around her own, shielding her from the fierce cold that caused her body to tremor. He brushed the snow from her face and hugged her to his chest.
"Don't sleep," he whispered again. "Not tonight."
"Okay." Her voice cracked, barely audible. He lay beside her in the makeshift structure. Nothing about it made sense, but in her delirium, she didn't care. Red clung to him regardless. If death wanted to play tricks, she'd gladly participate.
He felt real, and nothing else mattered. In this place between reality and fantasy, she forgot about his blatant lies and trickery.
"It's almost over," he said. "It's almost done."
The night. The storm. Her death. Which did he mean?
Death and sleep took turns pressing down on her. Each time she nearly succumbed, he shook her back to consciousness.
"Don't sleep."
She fluttered awake, disoriented, and then the cold settled in and she remembered her hopeless situation. Of all the ways to die, she preferred this one—wrapped in his arms, falling asleep never to wake again. She'd been dragged to hell numerous times, but this time she felt calm and at peace. No fear.
It was perfect.
"Let me go," she whispered. "Just let me go."
"Don't sleep."
"I'm too tired."
"It's almost over. It's almost done."
"Let me go."
"Not tonight."
The same words, repeated over and over without variation. She'd argue for release, and he'd say the same phrases again and again, his tone unchanging.
Red knew then he wasn't really there. He'd never been there, and as her mind rolled over the reality of it, his arms fell away and the length of his body disappeared. In its place, the sound of the howling wind increased. It filled her ears for persistent hours on end—humming and blowing that began to sound like a beautiful lullaby, as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Numbness crept over her limbs and sleep drew her eyelids down.
***
Red blinked her eyes, breaking the fine line of frost and sleep that sealed them. She stared up at the sky, mesmerized by the sudden change in the weather and the fact a new day welcomed her. The cold remained, but the meanness of the storm had vanished and been replaced by the peek-a-boo of blue sky and sunshine that trickled in through the gaps in the branches above her.
The sun shifted ever so slightly overhead and blinded her as its light danced across her face. She rolled her head to the side and lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, not quite ready to leave the snow shelter and face another day of frigid weather and the long journey ahead. Another hour of rest wouldn't change anything. Besides, she needed a moment for her frozen body to get used to the idea of getting up and moving. So far, her limbs refused to budge.
As her hand moved across her vision, she flew to a sitting position, ignoring the physical protests of her body, and stared at the tiny gold band encircling the ring finger of her left hand. Transfixed by its presence, she found it hard to breathe. Why—how—was the tiny band on her finger? She raised her hand and turned her wrist first to the right, then to the left, to see if her mind continued to play tricks, but the band reflected the light, illuminating its existence.
Impossible.
She blinked, running the tips of her fingers over the tiny piece of metal. Smooth. Cool. Real.
The sound of crackling wood and the faint smell of smoke rose to meet her other senses. She found it impossible to comprehend the sight of the cigar band, the sound of the fire, and the smell of burning wood.
She pushed back the blankets. Blankets? First her quilt, and then two blankets she hadn't brought with her. She lifted the edge of the rough material to her nose, closed her eyes, and breathed in the scent she recognized all too well. A sob threatened to burst through her ribcage, but she held it back and choked it down. She released her grip on the blanket and scrambled on hands and knees to the opening of her rudimentary shelter.
A small fire sent plumes of lazy smoke into the clearing sky. Her fingers begged for the heat, but she couldn't move.
He looked up at her and smiled. "I was just about to wake you."
Red fell onto her backside, stunned. Her breath caught in her throat as he approached her and pressed a cup of warm liquid into her hands. She took it without question while her brain fought to catch up with her actions.
"Here, drink this. It'll help warm you up."
She just stared wide-eyed at Trace, incapable of anything more.
He wrapped his hands around hers and helped guide the cup to her lips. "Be careful, it's hot."
She hardly felt the coffee slide down her throat, her attention focused solely on him. How? Why?
She made to speak, but he pushed the cup to her lips once again. "Keep drinking. It's too darn cold not to." He draped the blankets across her shoulders and over her lap, tucking her in. "Feelin' any warmer?"
She narrowed her eyes, still focused on the unbelievable fact of his presence, and ignored his question. "You shouldn't be here."
Trace didn't answer right away, but made her sip from the mug a third time. "You're right, I shouldn't. Neither should you. But we're both here, aren't we?"
"No." She shoved the mug at him. "I don't want you here."
He stared into her eyes with a relentless expression.
Red refused to back down, and held the intense stare.
"I figured you wouldn't." He lifted her left hand to indicate the band. "But that's not how this marriage thing works. You make promises. Then you stick with one another for the long haul."
She jerked her hand free and slapped him across the face, shocking them both. The action stung her frozen fingers, but didn't keep her from slapping him again.
"I'm not i
nterested in your promises." She kept her eyes on him and worked her way to her knees. Somewhere behind her in the makeshift shelter, her pistols waited. "You're nothing but a liar and a cheat, and if you think I'm gonna just follow you peacefully to the next town, you better think again."
"Do you really think I came looking for you, in the worst damn storm I've seen in all my life, just to make a profit on your head? You can't possibly believe that."
"I don't know what to believe anymore." She searched behind her and her fingers came upon the leather holsters encasing her guns. "I saw the posters hidden under your bed."
As she waited for him to defend himself and his actions, she slid her hand comfortably into place around the pistol and drew it forward, cocked and ready, aimed squarely at his chest.
He simply watched her and said nothing. He didn't even bother to draw his own gun, or put his hands up in an act of surrender. It seemed he'd accept the outcome, whatever she chose to do.
"Does Wen know about the posters?" She raised the gun slightly when he didn't speak. "Does he?"
"Yes," Trace said. "He does."
Her shoulders slumped as the weight of this knowledge bore down on her. She'd trusted them both. They'd lured her in, befriended her, pretended to care for her, and she'd foolishly let her guard down—something she swore she'd never do again. Not after what John had put her through.
Only this time it was worse—she'd actually fallen in love with the man who deceived her. It would be far more difficult to put the pieces back together this time. She didn't know if she could.
"And Caroline? Did you tell her? Was she in on it, too?"
He shook his head. "I figured she didn't need to know."
They stared at one another over the barrel of her gun, neither saying a word. He sat on his haunches, apparently resigned to the fact she might shoot him. Red didn't understand his behavior, but continued to hold the gun steady. Uncertainty kept her from actually pulling the trigger and being done with it.
