Tate smiled warmly at Gretchen. He saw a sudden delight shimmering in her eyes. "That's how I feel every time I'm out here," he explained. Gazing up into the sky he sighed. "It's hard not to feel something deep inside when you look at beauty like this," he added. Tate glanced at her, wondering to himself if he'd only been talking about the sky.
Gretchen nodded. "When you live in the city most of your life you don't really get to see this."
Tate figured he'd been right to decide never to live in a big city. He'd already made his mind up that he never would. Tate wasn't used to being cooped up. He always hated the feeling of being hemmed in. Contained. He liked his freedom too much.
Tate figured it had something to do with growing up on the ranch. He still had many fond memories of his early years growing up on the ranch. Memories of working with ranch hands, riding horses and learning everything there was to know about living off the land. Working cattle was something he might return to, he told himself. One day. Once he'd finished with bringing justice into the world. Once he'd turned his back on putting bad men behind bars. A familiar sadness awakened in Tate's middle. He drew in a deep, calming breath.
As if sensing his growing sadness Gretchen turned to face him. "You know that I'm really grateful for all you've done for me," she said evenly.
Tate lifted a brow. He shrugged and then grinned. "All part of the service ma'am." He hoped it sounded friendly.
Gretchen narrowed her eyes and shook her head. He could tell that she knew he was trying to be playful. That he was trying to deflect attention from how he was feeling.
"I'm serious, Tate," she insisted. "You saved me from a whole lot of trouble. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there."
Now he felt embarrassed. "Maybe it was God's will."
Her eyes widened. That remark had taken her aback. Narrowing her eyes at him, she asked, "Did you say you were a churchgoer?"
Tate shifted on his heels. "I was when I was younger. Back in Laramie, my uncle tried to make sure I went to church." Tate shrugged. "Let's just say I wasn't a regular."
Gretchen nodded thoughtfully and turned her attention back to the arching glory of the night sky. "You should think about that. Going to church saved me from a whole lot of trouble back in Philly."
"What kind?" Tate asked.
Gretchen folded her arms and paused for a long moment. He could tell she was about to clam up again. "The kind you find in cities." She looked at him. In the soft light from the nearby fire he could see hidden pain behind her eyes. "City folk aren't my kind of people, Tate. That's one reason why I came out to Montana. I'm looking for a better kind of life. A better kind of people. And Inspiration sounded like just the place for me."
Tate gazed into her eyes. He felt his heart pounding faster. "I hope you find what you're looking for, Gretchen," he said softly.
For a while, they both stood and simply enjoyed the sight of the sky. Tate let it fill his heart, making him feel a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time. Not since he'd decided to become a marshal.
Finally, Gretchen turned and made her way to the bedroll. She stood over it. "I've never slept on the ground before," she admitted.
"Never? Not even when you were a kid?"
Gretchen shook her head.
Tate squatted down and did his best to make the bedroll neat and comfortable. Lifting his head he saw Gretchen watching him carefully.
Tate felt a chill breeze sweep softly through the trees. "I'll get you a blanket from my saddle bag."
"No need," Gretchen said sharply. "I'll be fine. It's not too cold."
"But it'll get colder during the night," Tate objected.
"I'll be okay, Tate," Gretchen insisted, a sharpness appearing suddenly in her voice.
Tate stood and faced her. "If that's what you want."
Gretchen nodded.
Tate pointed to his bedroll. "If you need anything, just holler."
"I will," she said and smiled at him. "Goodnight, Tate."
Tate nodded and started across the clearing toward his bedroll. It was ten paces way from hers. A sensible distance, he figured, that would reassure her while he kept his distance. He turned his back to her as he listened to her getting settled. Then he lay down, facing away from Gretchen. Within minutes he heard her breathing become softer and more rhythmic. She was probably exhausted, he told himself. No wonder. It had been a tumultuous day.
He thought about her refusal to accept an extra blanket. The temperature would drop. Gretchen just didn't know how cold it could get here, even in the summer. Tate resolved to do what he thought best. Gretchen might have to learn how to start listening to him. Now was as good a time as any, he told himself. He waited a few minutes and then rose from his bedroll. He went to the saddlebag, slipped out the gray blanket and walked carefully across to where Gretchen was sleeping. Carefully, he draped the blanket over her sleeping form. Thankfully, she didn't stir. Tate smiled appreciatively as he gazed down at her and then made his way back to his bedroll.
A short time later, sleep claimed him. As it did so, he asked himself what tomorrow would bring.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gretchen knew there was something wrong when she awoke. Opening her eyes, she saw the beginnings of dawn's early light on the trees around her. She heard the soft singing of birds. A new day was beginning.
But it wasn't what she saw that most affected her. Memories of the dreams she'd had during the night drifted back into her mind. In one, she had been back in her aunt's home in Philadelphia. Her aunt had complained of the cold in the sitting room. In the dream, the fireplace had roared into life, turning the room into a furnace. Gretchen had started to sweat. Then the fire had died and the room had become icily chilled. Snow fell on her shoulders as she sat on the sofa. Like many dreams it had been perplexing and confusing.
Gretchen had awoken at some point in the middle of the night. She'd felt the chill of the Montana night biting into her. Tucking herself deeper in the bedroll, she'd played with the thought of going to Tate's saddlebag and getting the blanket he'd mentioned. But she had decided against doing that, partly because she didn't want to awaken Tate, and also because she wasn't going to admit she'd been wrong in refusing his offer before she'd gone to sleep.
Now, though, she regretted her decision. Shivering on the bedroll, Gretchen felt every muscle in her body ache with cold and with the beginnings of something more worrying. Maybe she'd caught a chill, she told herself. Lifting a hand to her brow, she felt her skin. It was clammy and damp. She was burning up. There was no doubt about it. And out here, in the Montana wilderness, the last thing she needed was to become sick.
Scolding herself for her foolishness, Gretchen sat up and peered in the half-light across at Tate. He lay on his bedroll, with his back to her. His steady, soft breathing told her he was still asleep. Gretchen shifted off the bedroll, pushing aside a gray blanket. She squinted at the blanket. That hadn't been there when she'd gone to sleep the previous night. Tate must have put it over her when she had been sleeping. Gretchen imagined him sneaking over to her after she'd fallen asleep and carefully draping it over her. She'd tried to refuse his offer, but it seemed he'd found a way to do what he thought best for her. She tried to smile as that realization hit her. But, she was feeling so bad, the smile wouldn't come.
She gazed down at the dark embers of the previous night's fire. Maybe she could start it herself, without waking Tate. Taking a step toward the dead fire, Gretchen stepped on a twig. The crunching sound cut through the air.
Tate shifted quickly, dragging in a deep breath. Turning, he peered at Gretchen. "Are you awake so early?"
Gretchen tried to reply, but her throat was painful. All she could do was nod wordlessly. Tate moved his powerful frame from out of the bedroll and came to her. He paused and she saw his eyes narrowing as he examined her. He knew something was wrong, she told herself.
"Did you sleep okay?" he asked.
"Yup," Gretchen said. "It was cold, thou
gh. Colder than I thought it would be."
The sound of her croaking voice made Tate take a step closer. "Are you feeling sick?" he asked, urgency in his voice.
Gretchen shook her head. "No. I'm fine."
Abruptly, and without warning, Tate reached out his hand toward her. She flinched and took a step backward. Her boots scraped against the remains of the night's fire.
Undeterred, Tate touched his hand to her forehead. "You're burning up," he exclaimed. His eyes widened and he gazed at her with obvious concern.
"I'm fine, Tate. Really, I am," Gretchen complained. She knew her words didn't sound in the least convincing.
Tate shook his head and sighed. "You should have woken me up."
Gretchen waved a dismissive hand. "I'll be fine."
Tate's brows lifted in a straight and very skeptical line. "Let me get this fire going."
Tate strode across to his bedroll and retrieved his own woolen blanket. He came back to Gretchen and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. His hands rested for a moment on her arms. Gretchen felt herself shiver. Tate's brows furrowed in visible concern.
He led Gretchen to her bedroll and guided her down onto it. As she sat there, she gazed up at him. He ran a hand through his tousled, dark hair. "I'll make some coffee. You need to warm up. And fast." There was an urgency in his voice now.
For the next few minutes she watched as he got the fire going and made the coffee. Soon, he came to her carrying a metal cup filled with the hot liquid and one for himself. Gretchen inhaled the aroma of the coffee and felt the heat against her hands. It felt instantly reassuring. And, as she sipped the coffee, she felt the warmth ease its way down into her stomach. But, in spite of the heat from the fire and the warmth of the coffee, she was still shivering.
That wasn't a good sign, and she knew it. If she'd been back in Philadelphia she would have spent the day in bed, keeping warm, drinking plenty of fluid and sleeping all day. But, out here, that simply wasn't going to be an option. She wondered whether Tate would suggest they make their way back to Refuge. Back in the hotel, she might be able to recover quickly. Then they could resume the journey. But, she'd heard the determination in Tate's voice yesterday. He'd talked about getting out of Refuge quickly. He really wanted to her to reach Inspiration as soon as possible. She didn't even think to ask herself why he would feel such urgency to be out of Refuge. She intended to ask him. But, for now, all she could think of was the fever, the aching sensation in her body, and the unstoppable shivering which had taken hold of her.
Tate sat alongside her, drinking his own coffee. He seemed thoughtful. No, she told herself as she peered at his even features, his furrowed brows, the thin line of his lips. He was more than thoughtful. Tate looked worried.
Tate turned to her. "I'll make some food."
"More beans?" she joked.
Tate ignored her feeble attempt at humor. "I think I can find something else. You'll need your strength. We have to ride this morning."
"Can't we just go back to Refuge?"
"Do you want to?" he asked cautiously.
Gretchen frowned. She thought about the spartan conditions in the hotel. The basic facilities would hardly be comforting, she told herself. "I don't think that's a good idea."
Tate seemed relieved. "I think you're right. We'll keep going." He lifted a brow. "I'll keep a close eye on you."
For some reason she couldn't understand, the thought of Tate watching out for her was appealing. "You're the expert," she told him.
Tate frowned, clearly embarrassed by her compliment. "We'll take it slowly. Hopefully, that fever of yours will just be an overnight chill. It'll pass soon enough."
Gretchen took a long drink of the coffee. She could feel energy tingling to life inside her. Maybe he was right. This would pass once she'd eaten and they were back on the westward trail. "I'm just a soft city type," she said. "One night outside, and I can't take it."
To her shock, Tate leaned closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "That's not true. It's normal for someone who hasn't camped outside before to feel like you do. Its the first time you've done it. Its bound to affect you." She felt him squeeze her shoulder gently. She did nothing to discourage his attention. In fact, she felt curiously comforted by his touch. He was only trying to be kind. Only trying to help her. Just like he'd done since the moment they'd met back in Refuge.
Tate spent the next while preparing the food. She ate as much of the meat and dried fruit as she could. It was an odd combination, but after she'd eaten she felt her energy levels lift noticeably.
The sunlight filtered through the trees casting a beautiful glow across everything. Delight filled her heart as she walked into the clearing and gazed out across the distant valley. Just seeing God's handiwork was enough to lift her spirits. She still didn't feel right. And, as she stood gazing out across the landscape, she felt light-headed for a moment. Not wanting to worry Tate, she casually went back to her bedroll and sat down.
Tate was busy packing the saddlebags onto the horses. As he fitted her saddle back onto her pinto, Tate turned and peered at her. "You okay?"
Gretchen nodded. "Fine. Are we leaving so soon?"
Tate turned. "You want to rest a while?"
Gretchen saw how eager he was to be getting back on the trail. "No. Making an early start makes sense."
Tate went back to his work, apparently satisfied with her answer. Soon they were mounted and riding out along the trail again. She noticed that Tate was taking it slow, just like he'd said he would. The pace was even slower than it had been yesterday, she realized.
"Do you know where we're headed today?" she asked him.
Tate nodded. "This trail leads to a place where there are some homesteaders. I was thinking maybe we could get some supplies. If they have any to spare."
"You think they'd do that for strangers?" she asked.
Tate smiled. "Most folks who live out here know what it means to be short of things. They live with that reality every day of the week. That makes them more generous than you'd expect of city folks. Especially when they see someone in need."
Gretchen frowned. "I'm not sick," she objected. Right now, hanging onto the reins of her horse and with the sun starting to get warmer, she felt the truth was something different.
"I'll be the judge of that," he retorted.
She sat up straight and pursed her lips. "Well, I'm certainly not someone in need. That's for sure."
"I didn't mean to offend you," Tate replied. "Sometimes you have to know when to accept the help of others.' He quirked a brow. "Seems like you've been used to living life on your own terms. If you don't mind me saying so."
Gretchen rounded on him. "But I do mind. That remark is very presumptuous."
Tate's brows furrowed. "What does that mean?"
"It means you should think before you speak. You might hurt my feelings."
"I think I've already seen how easy it is to do that," he replied and smiled.
Gretchen frowned at him. "You don't know me, Tate. You don't know me at all."
Tate shook his head. "I thought we were getting acquainted. I mean, real friendly. Seems like you think different."
She squinted at him. "You can think what you like," she retorted sharply. "I simply accepted your kind offer of help. And that's as far as it goes for now."
"For now?" Tate said quickly. Gretchen felt her cheek flush with heat that had nothing to do with the chill she'd caught last night. She sighed abruptly and turned away from him.
Tate laughed quietly. He looked like he was enjoying getting under her skin. Gretchen told herself she'd have to work harder to make it more difficult for him. This journey would feel interminable if all he was going to do was find ways to test her patience.
CHAPTER TWELVE
They'd been riding for a few hours when Tate saw the two riders. Tate halted his mount and stretched out a hand to bring Gretchen's pinto to a stop. Up ahead, on the other side of a sharp drop, riding down into a na
rrow valley, Tate saw two riders coming toward him and Gretchen. Tate saw one of the riders look straight at him. The man gestured to his partner who fixed his gaze on Tate. The men exchanged words, paused a long moment, and then started to advance toward Tate and Gretchen.
Whatever the men had decided, Tate wasn't about to assume it would be completely innocent. He felt a chill settle on his spine. Reaching down, he opened his saddlebag and slid out the Colt .45 which he'd kept there ever since leaving Refuge. He tucked it inside his belt. Then he reached his hand down to the rifle scabbard hanging on the horse's side. At least he was prepared for trouble, he told himself.
Glancing across at Gretchen, he saw her eyes widen as she looked at the gun tucked into his belt. "I didn't know you had that," she said.
"You stay close to me, Gretchen," Tate said and looked across at the two advancing riders. "Maybe they're just passing. I just want to make sure they don't get any funny ideas."
"What do you think they might do?" she asked.
"If I have anything to do with it, they'll just move along. If not, then I'm ready to deal with whatever they have in mind."
Tate saw the beads of sweat on Gretchen's face. She'd been battling hard for the last few hours. Now, though, he could see signs of tiredness on her pale face. He'd planned on stopping soon, but now he had something else to deal with. He'd learned the hard way that encounters in the wild needed to be handled properly. In the only way he knew. As a marshal would.
The riders crested the rise, emerging out of the low valley and up onto the trail where Tate and Gretchen were moving along at a slow pace. Now that the men were close, Tate could see his instincts had been right. Both men wore rough-looking coats and jeans. Both were unshaven and had the brims of their Stetsons tucked low, as if they wanted to hide the dark eyes which peered at him. There was a look in those eyes. One with which Tate was all too familiar. Trouble was brewing, and Tate was ready to act. He'd given his word to Gretchen that he'd keep her safe, and he was going to do that.
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