He wondered what else she had in there besides the salve—which he planned to use on his ripped-out stitches as soon as he got a moment. When he dumped the contents of the pouch on the floor, he noted there were only two other items—a small corked bottle of dried herbs and a piece of smooth carved wood the size of his palm. LeRoy’s eyes widened upon recognition as he fingered the smooth shape of a wolf made from manzanita. His pa had made this, and given it to LeRoy one Christmas. The Christmas before he died.
A lump grew in LeRoy’s throat as he stood there looking at the carving that he’d long-ago forgotten about. Somehow he’d lost it on the road from childhood to adulthood. It was one of the few things his pa had whittled for him. The other was a bear, he now recalled with a wry grin. A bear and a wolf. He glanced at Peluche, who raised doggy eyebrows at him in question.
LeRoy shook off the niggling sadness and got to work steeping the herbs in the hot water. They gave off a pungent sweet smell, and LeRoy recognized many of the plants his ma had used.
He then turned his attention to Dan, untangling him from the blanket to better assess the man’s condition. With a warm wet kitchen cloth, he gently cleaned Dan’s face, studying the features up close. His skin pinked from the rubbing, and as LeRoy pulled bits of branch and pine needles from the man’s short red-brown hair, an uneasy feeling came over him. The man’s face was so smooth—not a hint of hair or any sign that he’d ever shaved. Was he really so young, not even into puberty? That would make him, what—thirteen at most?
The windows let in scant light in the snowy afternoon, so LeRoy lit the oil lantern and brought it alongside the man laid out before him. The care lines lightly etched into Dan’s face caught the light and confirmed his suspicions—this was no young boy. He had to be in his twenties. It wasn’t unheard of for a white man to lack facial hair, but he’d never seen it. Yet he knew that nature sometimes passed out delicate features to some men. LeRoy grunted. This one could almost pass for a woman . . .
LeRoy pulled back as the thought struck him. But as soon as he’d thought it, his uneasiness congealed into understanding. The soft skin, the slender neck that lacked an Adam’s apple, the narrow shoulders. LeRoy drew in a long breath, recalling how Dan had kept his coat and hat on in the cabin, often shaded his eyes with the brim of his hat. And when LeRoy had been attacked by the bear and lay on the ground, Dan’s voice had sounded different. LeRoy’d thought he’d imagined it, but now he realized he hadn’t. The voice had gone soft, from gruff to tender.
From male to female . . .
LeRoy unbuttoned Dan’s coat and opened it. He didn’t have to unbutton the plaid wool shirt for proof. The swell of a woman’s chest rose and fell, and the tapered waist and wider hips told him all he needed to know.
He whistled and shook his head. A thousand questions flitted through his head at once, but the one that kept pestering him most was why this woman was living alone up in the mountains pretending to be a man. Something terrible must have happened to her, for he couldn’t imagine any woman choosing such a lonely, difficult life.
LeRoy rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. How had he missed this? Some keen tracker he was. The woman had surely pulled one over on him. Just as she’d cleverly snuck up on him in the woods. But, he reasoned, she’d probably been pretending to be a man for years. She’d perfected her secret.
He looked around at the sparse but neat cabin missing a woman’s touch. Her self-sufficiency was admirable. No doubt she’d lived here alone for many years, and seemed none the worse for wear by it.
He knew he had to check her over to see if she had any obvious injuries he could tend to. Whether she had internal ones, only time would reveal. He let his hand rest on her forehead. She wasn’t feverish or sweaty, and her skin color looked good. He pulled off her boots and then checked her legs and arms, touched her with respect but in enough places to ensure she had no broken bones. From what he could tell at this juncture, she’d merely been knocked out. How long she’d be out, he had no idea. But this afforded him time to do a little snooping to get a better picture of her life. He knew it wasn’t proper, looking through her things, but something compelled him. He wanted to understand why she’d choose a life of isolation.
He took a closer look at her face, listening to her deep, even breathing. In the lamplight, her skin took on a rosy glow, and he noted how fetching she was with those high cheekbones and full lips. He imagined that, at one time, maybe, she’d worn her hair long. It was thick and straight, but presently choppy and shoulder length. He pushed back a strand of hair that stuck to her cheek and tucked it behind her ear, taking in her delicate features.
She seemed so fragile and soft to him now, lying peaceful like this. Yet, she’d shown him a toughness and courage he’d seen in few men in his life. In fact, he could count on one hand the men he knew who had the inner strength and resolve to be able to do what this woman had done—live alone for years, face the harsh elements of the Rockies, the unbearably long winters snowed in. Face down a killer grizzly to protect what little she had.
He had saved her life, but she’d saved his too. Stitched him up and lugged him back to her cabin. How had such a slight creature summoned that kind of strength? She could’ve just left him to die, but she hadn’t. She had a heart—despite her going to great lengths to hide it.
LeRoy stood and put his hands on his hips, astonished and perplexed. He listened to the snow falling, burying the house one flake at a time. His desire to hurry on his way waned, and the earlier restlessness and sense of urgency drained away in his exhaustion and pain. Who would have thought such a simple lone cabin up in the mountains would hold such secrets? A woman living life as a man, with a tame wolf-dog her only companion. Did anyone else know her secret? Where did she get her supplies? How did she pay for them?
Now the questions flooded in, and LeRoy pondered each one, although answers failed to materialize. He took some moments to check his stitches, noting the dozen or so that had pulled away from flesh. The bleeding was minimal, and after cleaning and applying more of his ma’s salve, he found a stack of clean folded rags under the sink pump and reaffixed bandages. He’d heal just fine—thanks to the woman’s fine work. Already, sipping that tea, his limbs felt invigorated with new strength, and his exhaustion melted to mere tiredness.
An ice box revealed some old hard cheese and the half loaf of dark bread they’d eaten earlier, and the cupboards were bare of all but the essentials: coffee, sugar, molasses, flour, beans, and the like. The sparseness of her stores gave him pause. Was this all she had stocked to face the long winter? It would hardly see her through half. Maybe she’d planned to get more before she was snowed in for the long haul. But from where? Did she trek all the way to Fort Collins with that mule? LeRoy couldn’t fathom her doing so. Maybe someone brought her supplies.
The half-empty pot of stew sat cold off to the side of the stove. He slid it over on the warmer. LeRoy smelled it and determined it was unspoiled. Once it had warmed, he ladled some into two bowls and gave one to the wolf. She swallowed it down in three gulps. He’d have given her more but figured to leave some for Dan when he—she—awoke.
Wonder what her real name is, and why she calls herself that. After licking out the bowl, the wolf nudged a low cupboard door with her nose. LeRoy opened it and found dried venison jerky wrapped in brown paper—about two pounds worth. His mind thought on the smoker around the back. He broke off a small piece and fed it to the wolf. “That’s all ya get.” The wolf grimaced in what LeRoy concluded was her style of pout.
He thought about this woman, on her own, hunting, killing, and dressing deer, smoking the meat, tanning the hides and using it to make those cushions on the chairs and the soft boots sitting by the door. She was plenty capable, with skills like his ma, like the Cheyenne. Where’d she learn to do all this? Had an Indian taught her?
Then he remembered her slight against him being a half-breed. She’d made clear her hatred. Where’d that come from?
He
took his time looking through the cabin, and slowly a pictured formed. She hadn’t always lived alone. There were traces—like telltale animal tracks—of a man’s presence. Although the manly clothes hanging on the pegs and in the drawers were hers, LeRoy picked up a lingering scent that wasn’t. The one chair by the hearth in particular carried this scent, and it was no doubt a man’s smell. He found nothing that indicated this man had lived there recently, but the whole cabin had his imprint. She’d either taken up the cabin after he’d gone, or they’d lived together for a time. Her father?
When he came to the small table next to the ratty armchair, he picked up a picture frame that lay facedown. Inset in the gilded frame was the photograph of a family. LeRoy instantly saw the likeness. The little girl, about ten—in the frilly dress with her hair up in curls and an innocent smile on her face—was Dan. She sat all prim and proper on a chair next to a younger boy—her brother, no doubt. And behind her stood her parents. A closer look showed how much the girl resembled her mother, who was quite beautiful. And the man with his thick moustache and long side whiskers had thoughtful eyes as he looked into the camera.
A twinge of sadness settled over LeRoy as he gazed at the photo. The glass was old and cloudy and the frame worn smooth from years of handling. LeRoy imagined Dan spent many long, lonely hours looking at this photograph. He knew without a doubt she had lost them—or they had lost her. Where had that innocent little girl disappeared to and why?
He pried the photograph carefully from the frame and slipped it out from under the glass. On the back, scrawled in faded ink, were the words “Canton, Ohio. 1862.” He rubbed his chin, wincing at a new throb of pain rippling his stomach, and he dropped down in the chair and drew in a wobbly breath. He guessed Dan would have been about nine or ten when this was taken. Which made her about twenty-four or thereabouts. That seemed about right. He grunted at the mystery. How had a girl from Ohio ended up hiding as a man in a cabin in Colorado Territory?
A sound made him turn his head. Dan’s arm was moving. LeRoy slipped the photograph back in its frame and set it back the way he’d found it. He went and knelt by Dan’s side, pushing Peluche away. “Go lie down,” he told the wolf. Peluche narrowed her eyes but obeyed. She trotted over to her blankets and plopped down with a loud exhale. LeRoy had to chuckle.
“What’s . . . so . . . amusin’?”
Dan’s eyes fluttered open. She looked into LeRoy’s face and sucked in a breath, then swiveled her head and looked around, all the while squirming to get up as if she wanted to flee from his sight.
“Whoa, there. Take it easy. You were knocked out.” LeRoy put a hand on her shoulder to calm her, the way he often did with horses. “Shh, shh, it’s all right. You’re safe.”
Her wide eyes flared with fear. LeRoy stepped back to give her room. She was acting like a cornered wild horse, and he wanted to stay out of kicking range. He couldn’t tell if she was afraid of him or that he’d discover her secret.
With a grunt, she made to sit up, keeping her head down, looking around. Probably for her hat, to hide her face.
“What about the bear?” she asked suddenly, daring a glance at him.
“Shot dead.”
Her eyes narrowed on him in disbelief. “You sure?”
A smile inched up his face at the way she questioned him. Now that he knew her secret, he found her attempt at being tough a mite endearing. He cleared his throat. “One shot through the throat. The other ’twixt the eyes.” He added. “When you’re better”—he looked over at the window—“and this snow lets up, I’ll show ya. That is, if’n we can find him under all this snow.” He walked over to the stove and poured her a cup of that healing tea. “And don’t worry. I recall what you said. The pelt and the meat are all yours. I’ll be glad to help you skin that beast. In fact, I’m sure I’ll take a right pleasure in doing so—after what he done to me.”
Dan regarded LeRoy thoughtfully, saying nothing. LeRoy handed her the tin cup of steaming tea. “Here, drink this . . . Dan.”
She took the cup and sat up better to sip it. “Smells good.” Her eyes questioned him. “Where’d you get this?” She held up a hand. “No, let me guess. Your mother. The Injun medicine woman.”
LeRoy nodded and tried not to stare at her. Something about her now, seeing her this close and animated . . . his insides fluttered a bit. He wondered at the feeling. He felt suddenly self-conscious as she scrutinized him. “She always pack your things when you go off bear huntin’?”
“Yep.” LeRoy chuckled and noticed her cheeks flush pink. “Though, bear huntin’s not somethin’ I ordinarily do on a given day.” He straightened as a spark of affection ignited strange stirrings inside him. He sure liked her spunk, and despite her attempt to seem mean and rough, her gentleness and kind nature seeped out. Without the cover of darkness and a hat brim shading her face, she could little hide who she truly was.
“You want some of that stew you made?” he asked. “Your wolf wanted to lick the pot, but I told her no.”
Dan looked at the wolf sitting on her blankets, and LeRoy sensed she wanted to call her over and wrap her arms around her. He understood now how much that animal meant to her. The wolf was Dan’s only friend in the whole world, but she was a good one to have. It came in handy having a loyal friend with such sharp teeth. LeRoy went over and rubbed the wolf’s head, and Dan’s eyes shone with amazement.
“I can’t believe she’s lettin’ you do that,” Dan said, keeping her voice low like she’d done before.
LeRoy smiled. “We’re friends now. She watched me dig you out from under those branches and drag you back to the house. Plus, there’s that bowl of stew I gave her . . .”
Dan’s mouth shifted into an uneasy smile. LeRoy guessed she was having a hard time maintaining that tough manly appearance. The events of the last two days were enough to wear anyone’s resolve thin. Again he admired the way she’d held up under such dire and dangerous circumstances.
“So, you want that stew?”
Dan hesitated, then nodded. “And a piece of that bread, in the ice box.”
LeRoy went over and fetched the food. When he handed the bowl to her, he asked, “What’s the name mean—Peluche?”
She tucked into the stew, dipping the bread in with one hand and taking hungry bites with a fork in the other, eating the way a man would. “Means something like furry, or fur ball. It’s French.” She added, “She was just a ball of fur when Virgil gave ’er to me.” A little chuckle escaped. “I never thought she’d grow to be so big.”
LeRoy nodded, adding this piece to the puzzle that made up this woman. A French family, coming from Ohio, settling in Colorado Territory. Best guess—they’d died of a disease, or were killed somehow. And she was . . . what? How would a young girl survive on her own? Someone must’ve taken her in. Did she end up in an orphanage? Why wasn’t she sent back to Ohio, to other kin? He let the questions simmer in his mind as he watched her eat.
“In Cheyenne, she’d be called something like . . . heevaho or he’kova. Fur or soft fur. It’s a good name for her.”
Dan made a noise of agreement, then looked uneasy again. After a few minutes of silence, she said, “How’re those stitches of yours?”
“They’re fine. You did a proper job.” He wondered if they’d hold up until he made it down the mountain. But when would that be? The amount of snow that had fallen gave him pause. What if he were stuck up here for weeks? He knew his ma wouldn’t worry about him. He’d found ways to hole up in snowstorms before. There were always places to hunker down in the mountains, so long as you had warm, dry clothes and means to making a fire. He’d once lasted out a month-long storm just north of Longs Peak with only the clothes on his back and a knife and tinderbox. He’d built traps and hunted snowshoe rabbits, and kept a tidy fire going under a large rock overhang. In the long, lonely hours he’d whittled, like his pa had taught him, but he was sure glad when the weather let up and he’d made it back to the ranch.
He looked at
Dan, who was staring thoughtfully out the window at the fat flakes coming down from the dark sky. How had she managed, for years? Most men would go plum crazy. He shook his head, unable to fathom the strength of her determination. But why did she hide away like this? He suddenly needed to know, to understand what drove her to such a life.
He walked over to the window by the door and peered out. Clearly he’d be stuck here awhile. Maybe by then he’d get his answers. But he doubted they would be easy to come by.
Chapter 10
Feeling about to crawl out of her skin, Gennie busied herself around the cabin while LeRoy napped by the hearth. He’d offered to make a fire, so while he stacked up the kindling, she’d gone out to the porch and brought in an armload of wood. The mountain lay in dead quiet as she looked off into the snow-covered woods, and her body went limp with relief, knowing that bear would never again be a threat. Now a fire blazed, filling the cabin with delicious heat that seemed to melt the last vestige of fear and worry from her bones. She knew the peace she felt wouldn’t last, but for the moment indulged in it.
As she heated water on the stove to use to wash the dishes and pots she’d let pile up, she stole glances at her guest. Unlike before, his presence comforted her—she had to admit. He’d turned out to be nothing like she’d expected when she first spotted him—taking aim at her wolf. She’d considered killing him in that moment, and she would’ve if she’d had to. Although, she’d never killed a man before. And now, here he was—a half-breed lying on her rug, at ease in his sleep, looking for all the world like he lived here, like he felt right at home. What a puzzle he was.
She looked at Peluche. The fool wolf was curled up against LeRoy, belly up, paws paddling the air, a soft snore making her cheeks puff in and out. Another puzzle. Not even Old Bill could get within a foot of her. She’d snarl and bare her teeth at him if he even lifted a hand in her direction. But Bill had hated Peluche and only tolerated her because Gennie had made such a fuss over keeping her. She smiled recalling the way the wolf pup had weaseled under her covers on many a cold night and slept up against her neck, paws draped over her shoulders. Until, of course, she got too big. Then she slept on the floor beside her bed.
Wild Secret, Wild Longing: A Sweet Historical Western Romance Novella (The Front Range Series Book 3) Page 8
