His ma sighed. “Your grandpa was right, LeRoy. When you finally give you whole heart to someone, you’ll understand.”
“But . . .” LeRoy pushed the words out past the lump in his throat. “If you love someone that much, you know you’re gonna hurt when you lose them.” His pa’s face filled his mind, followed by the image of his ma’s grieving body hunched over his grave. Suddenly LeRoy saw him so clearly—the pale-green eyes and bushy eyebrows, the light-brown hair tucked under his wide-brimmed hat, trailing down to his shoulders, his encouraging smile and voice as warm as a lazy summer day. This time LeRoy couldn’t hold back the tears. They dribbled onto his face, and he quickly swiped them away.
“We all lose everyone we love . . . someday,” his ma said quietly, smoothing out her deerskin skirt. “Does that mean we should hide in a cave and never take the chance our heart will be broken? LeRoy,” she said, her firm tone making him look at her, “this life is a brief passage, a stopping point on the way to Ma’heo’o and Seana, where all who have died reunite.”
She looked up into the sky as if seeing the path among the stars the Cheyenne believed all spirits traversed after death. But LeRoy wasn’t sure what he believed with his feet mired in the mud of two worlds—the white man’s and the red man’s. Most of the time he felt he didn’t fit in either.
His ma sighed wistfully. “If you love, you will know pain and loss. But if you never love, you will never be whole. Your longing will grow like a prickly bush and pierce your heart.”
“I like being alone—”
“Pshaa!” His ma puckered her face. “It’s the men who say that who least mean it. It’s not good for a man to be alone. You seen ’em—those old crotchety geezers who never had a wife. You want to end up like one of them? With a shriveled-up heart and an ornery personality?” She snorted and took his hand. Her earlier tenderness disappeared like a ripple on a lake. “You’re smart not to rush into marrying. But don’t let your fear hold you back. Listen to your heart, my ka'ėškone. It will tell you when the time to love has arrived.” She added with narrowed eyes, “It may be sooner than you think—”
Suddenly an eruption of horse squeals shattered the afternoon calm. Across the pasture dozens of mustangs reared and screamed as they bolted in all directions.
“What the . . . ?” LeRoy took off running toward the split-rail fencing, the sound of animals in pain stabbing his heart. He glanced back upon hearing men’s shouting. A half dozen of Whitcomb’s ranch hands raced behind him. LeRoy hoped a few had grabbed their guns. They’d seen mountain lion sign just last week, and LeRoy had spotted tracks up on the southwestern ridge, near the river. But it wasn’t like a cat to come this close to so many folks, and not in daylight. Or in the fall, when game was plentiful in the mountains.
Plowing through the knee-high grass of the unfenced pasture tired him quickly, and he nearly busted the buttons on his snug shirt, breathing as hard as he was. Now that most of the horses had hightailed it to the farthest corners of the fence, LeRoy could see unobstructed to the back fence line, maybe fifty yards yonder. And what he saw caused a burst of rage and anguish to race through his veins.
Three horses struggled on the ground, kicking legs in the throes of death. Their mournful screams of pain wrenched LeRoy’s heart as his keen eyes took in every inch of the land spread out before him. Behind the fence to the west, the hogbacks rose up steep and melted into thick conifer forest swallowed in darkness cast by the web of overhead branches. Two other horses pranced in place, turning tight frantic circles, blood streaming down their necks and flanks, their eyes wide with terror.
Men shouted behind him, then a rifle sounded. LeRoy heard the whistle of two shots—likely .44 gauge—zip past his ear. He wheeled around and saw Whitcomb’s son, Andy, level a rifle at the woods.
LeRoy leaped over the fence, his heart hammering his ribs. He moved cautiously among the injured and dying horses. They hardly noticed him in all their fear. Now, close enough to see the wide gashes streaking down their necks, LeRoy knew what had attacked.
Vóhp-ȧhtse-náhkohe. Grizzly.
“There!” someone called out. LeRoy turned as another two shots thundered in the air. He saw where the man was pointing, and now LeRoy spotted the creature too.
“Don’t let it get away!” Andy yelled, then screamed out a string of cuss words. “It’s got one of the mares!” Another rifle shot sliced through the air. This one sounded like a Big Fifty—a Sharps buffalo gun.
Cursing that he was without a gun, and wearing all this finery that was soon to be blood-soaked, LeRoy stood and watched Whitcomb’s men scramble over the back fence and head into the trees. The grizzly lifted his head as if a thousand rounds of bullets couldn’t concern him in the least, then left off dragging his quarry and ambled into the shadows of the woods, which swallowed his massive bulk.
LeRoy started humming softly and took slow steps toward the mustang with a white blaze down her bark-brown head. She eyed him wildly and reared up as if to pound him into the ground. Then she dropped her front legs and stepped in agitation akin to a tribal war dance.
“Whoa, whoa,” he said quietly, then resumed his humming. Finally he was able to lay a hand on her neck. The other horse near her calmed a bit in response.
“What’re ya doin’ in there? Fool Injun!”
“You wanna git yerself kilt?”
LeRoy ignored the men standing back from the fence glowering at him. He looked over at the three horses lying prone on the blood-splattered grass. Two were dead, their eyes open and glassy. The other lay panting with her stomach ripped open.
Andy merely stood at the fence, cussing with every foul word he could come up with.
LeRoy rested his hand on the horse’s neck, kept up his humming. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone clamber over the fence and come toward him.
Lucas Rawlings.
His friend had doffed his hat and party coat, and his sleeves were rolled up. He carried his vet bag in one hand and a Colt pistol in the other.
Lucas blew out a hard breath as he stopped ten feet from LeRoy and assessed the situation. LeRoy saw the heartache in Lucas’s eyes. Lucas loved horses more than anyone LeRoy had ever known, and that was saying a lot. So he knew what the man was feeling when he lifted his gun with a pained frown on his face, took aim at the last living mare lying on the ground, and shot the suffering animal in the head. His aim was steady and true.
The mare’s head thumped dead on the grass, and her legs stopped paddling. LeRoy swallowed.
“What do ya think?” he asked Lucas in an almost whisper, making Lucas pull his gaze away from the dead mare. LeRoy nodded for him to come over as he kept up the gentle patting and stroking of the mare’s neck, saying soothing words to her.
Lucas looked her over, then glanced at the other injured horse. He took a slow walk around the both, and the men watching grew quiet. LeRoy spotted his ma hurrying across the pasture, carrying a satchel. Upon Lucas’s arrival, the ranch hands climbed up on the fence to watch in silence. Further back, dozens of party guests stood in a crowd just off the porch. No doubt Whitcomb had told them to stay put. LeRoy grunted. He could just imagine what grief Eli was giving his host—and his new bride. He was sure Clare had Eli nailed to the floor by now with him doing his own brand of squealing. Eli was not one to stand back and let anyone else jump headfirst into danger. At least not without him by their side. But it wouldn’t be proper for the groom to get all dirty and bloody on his wedding day, would it?
“That one’s got some surface bruises and scratches,” Lucas said, coming alongside LeRoy and rubbing a hand on the mare’s rump. “More’n likely hurt when the horses panicked.” He pulled a halter and lead rope out of his bag. “Let’s get her back to the barn. She’ll probably be fine once I stitch her up, although”—he took a good look at the exposed muscle in her shoulder without touching it—“that bear tore her somethin’ deep. She may end up with a limp.”
“She may be bad hurt, but at least
she’s got her life.” LeRoy looked sorrowfully at the three dead horses and thought about the one the grizzly had hauled easily over the split-rail fence. He’d encountered grizzlies on occasion—thankfully never close up—and they were fearsome creatures. They could wrench off the side of a barn in one swoop. Plenty of tales were told about men who’d faced a grizzly and barely lived to tell about it. He hoped Whitcomb’s men had killed this one, but it wasn’t easily done. Some bears had dozens of bullets in their pelt and flesh and kept on going. And killing. And there were few things more dangerous than an injured and suffering grizzly.
LeRoy took the halter from Lucas and gently slipped it over the mare’s head. With a quiet clucking, he got her to take a few steps. Lucas crouched down and took a jar from his bag.
“You go on ahead; I’ll meet you at the barn.” He dabbed some ointment on the other mare’s leg. She stood still, eyeing Lucas suspiciously, but she gave no indication she was about to bolt.
Lucas added, “Tell Emma where I am. I disappeared on her, and she’ll be worried.”
See, pardner, that’s what happens when you marry. You end up with someone worrying about you all the time. And ya gotta answer for everything you do.
LeRoy snorted as he led the mare back across the pasture at a slow walk, the scattered horses now taking a cautious step or two away from the fence. Calm once more drifted into the valley, as if the bear had never attacked.
LeRoy glanced back and saw men gathered along the back fence line. He made out Andy and two of the men who had gone off after the bear. He’d heard no more shots. Well, the bear was either dead or had run off. It could have been worse. LeRoy exhaled hard as his ma walked toward him. He stopped and looked at the deerskin satchel she held out to him. It was one of her medicine pouches. Why was she giving this to him?
“You want me to give this to Lucas?” He figured she had some special ointments or tinctures in here. Maybe something to calm the horses. Not like Lucas needed anything though. He kept his own medical bag well stocked. And the barn had all the typical ranch supplies—for both animal and human injuries and illnesses.
“No,” she said, an intense look flaring in her eyes.
LeRoy’s nerves jangled. His pulse quickened, and he swallowed hard. He knew just what that look meant. It was the same look she’d given him and Eli the night those murderous ranchers had attacked them and ended up dead—when she put the everlasting powder on them to prepare them for battle. And it was the same look as when she’d told them to go to Fort Collins to offer to help Sheriff Eph Love track those outlaws. She urged them to be careful, that blood was going to spill.
“What is it, Ma?” LeRoy asked on papery thin breath. He gripped tight the lead rope as she handed him the satchel. He really didn’t want to hear her answer.
“It’s not for Lucas. It’s for you.” She added solemnly, “You’re going to need it.”
All LeRoy could do was nod.
Chapter 2
Geneviève Champlain stood at the threshold of her cabin, looking out at the overhanging boughs of the pines casting a patchwork of shadows onto the ground as evening descended and darkness snagged in the trees. The smell of venison stew drifted out the door behind her, mingled with the heady aroma of yeasted bread baking in the stove, but it brought her no comfort. Yes, the wood box was overflowing with kindling and pinecones. Two stacks of aged pine, spruce, and aspen flanked the front door. Tomorrow she’d take apart the two rifles and the pistol, clean and oil each piece, then put them back together—the way she’d been taught to do and routinely did every fall. She’d done all she could to prepare for another winter alone, but it wasn’t enough. It never was.
She smoothed her hair back, letting the cool air dry the perspiration off her forehead, listening for wolf howls on the far ridge. Her hands shook at her sides.
The air was choked with the kind of silence Gennie dreaded most. A silence just this side of madness. Every winter she busied herself as the walls of her cabin closed in on her, more a cage than a refuge from the fierce storms that rolled relentlessly in, burying her in a white tomb from which she’d emerge in the spring, like a she-bear shaking off its long slumber. If only she could sleep away the tortuous, unending months. She’d long ago lost count of the winters she’d endured in these mountains.
She stepped down from the stoop and circled the cabin. A glance up into the Ponderosa pine above the smoker showed the haunches of the deer hanging undisturbed. The sight gave her some relief. She cracked open the small smoker door and stuffed in two more wet pine logs. Smoke billowed into her face until it canted back upward to chug out the roof hole. The side of meat was almost done, and with this other batch of venison jerky, she’d have enough meat to last the winter.
She turned the strips of meat with the long prong, working efficiently and quietly, the way Old Bill had taught her. Old Bill. So much time had passed since he’d died, she hardly recalled his face. No longer did the thought of him make her bristle, but she would never forget his mean scowl and the harsh way he’d ordered her around, his one good eye always fixed on her, like a hawk eyeing its prey.
The relief she’d felt upon his death, though, had been quickly replaced by fearful loneliness, which made her glad the old man had let her keep Peluche when Virgil Gaines—another mountain man, who used to trap beaver with Old Bill and lived south near Longs Peak—had dumped her at the cabin. More nights than she could count, she lay with her arms wrapped around her only companion, inhaling the comforting earthy scent of fur as snow pelted the windows and a fire raged in the hearth and in her heart.
He was right—she knew he was. No matter how many times she’d argued against it in her heart, truth was truth. She had no other choice but to isolate herself. No one would ever want her. “You’re spoiled goods, girl. No man’ll have you. You want to go live in town? Go right ahead. The only life awaitin’ you is the brothel. And men will jes keep usin’ you and throwin’ you away, like the piece of trash y’are. Use you up until you’re dead. You’re better off alone.”
Better off? She clenched her teeth and picked up the axe lying against the cabin siding. With a hefty swing and perfect aim, she split the round that sat on the old stump. The two halves flew across the yard, propelled by her pain.
She picked up another round of pine and placed it on the stump, then swung again. With a thwack, the wood sliced as easily as a warm knife through butter. Old Bill had continually nagged her about keeping the axe blade sharp, the guns oiled, the pantry full. “You never know how long you’ll be trapped up here. Could be months afore you can git out the front door.”
There had been plenty of months like that over the years. With and without him. She thought of the two of them, alone in the cabin, day after day, night after night. She’d grown to loathe his stench and his night grumblings. The way he made her feel like a grub in a log, worthless. Only good for fixing a meal or sweeping the floor. She’d been nothing less than a slave for him since the day he found her half-dead alongside the trail. How many years ago? She couldn’t say. But she had grown up, from girl to woman, in all this time. He had saved her life, but there had been plenty of times when she’d wished he hadn’t. Today was one of those times.
Something wet fell on her face, and it wasn’t until she rubbed her cheek that she realized she was crying. Her throat tightened like someone was choking her, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t swallow back the tears. When was the last time she’d shed tears? Even when that rock had crushed her foot in the spring and she’d had to set her broken ankle, she hadn’t done more than emit a whimper. Bill had pounded into her a toughness so thick, she didn’t know if she could feel any real pain anymore. “You have to be tough to survive. Quit your girly whinin’. You want to live? Then you’ll do exactly as I say. I’ve spent a lifetime in the mountains, and seen plenty a fool die from stupidity and lack of preparation.”
She hefted another round of pine and sucked in a breath as she set it on the stump. As she swung t
he axe again and again, she cracked open the door to memories she’d long ago smothered. They came barreling into her heart uninvited, but she no longer had the strength to keep them out and let them ride roughshod over her. Her mother’s smile. Her father’s hands tickling her ribs, making giggles erupt. Her little brother’s small hand in hers. All those sweet memories that had turned sour in a sudden attack.
How she longed to linger over those pictures in her head. But they quickly slid away—as they always did—replaced by the ones she feared. The ones that still set her entire body trembling. The horses galloping toward her, her mother’s scream, her father fumbling for his gun as a bullet smacked into his chest before he could bring the rifle up to his shoulder. The Injuns in their skins and feathers, whooping and waving their arms. Her brother yanked from her protective arms, a line of blood gushing from his throat after the Injun slashed him with a knife. And then . . . And then . . .
Gennie set down the axe, breathing hard. She squeezed shut her eyes. No more, please. No more.
A wellspring of love and pain burst from her chest, as if she’d been pierced by one of the Injuns’ spears. So much love she had trapped within her. So much pain. The two inseparable.
She’d been twelve, just shy of thirteen, when Old Bill found her, her clothing torn and drenched in blood. He’d lifted her up from where she lay draped over her brother’s cold, stiff body, racked with chills and fever from days and nights of exposure, her mind nearly gone. In time, her body healed of its wounds, and to her great relief, the baby that had been planted in her never made it to term. In an explosion of blood, she’d expelled the dirty thing not long after Bill had taken her to his cabin, oh so many miles away from the Overland Trail. She had nary a clue where she was. She still didn’t rightly know—Bill had never told her and she’d never asked. Not of him or any of the mountain men she’d met over the years in a rare encounter.
Wild Secret, Wild Longing: A Sweet Historical Western Romance Novella (The Front Range Series Book 3) Page 2
