Chasing the Sun

by Kaki Warner

  For what? But Daisy hadn’t the courage to ask. Knowing Molly was right, she forced herself to take a spoonful. Then another. She managed to finish half the bowl before pushing it away. “We should have heard by now,” she said, speaking aloud the thought that kept circling and circling in her head.

  Jessica gazed anxiously at the window, a spoonful of oatmeal suspended in her hand. “Not necessarily. These things take time.”

  Kate grabbed at the spoon, spilling a glob of oatmeal down the front of her nightgown. Kate was never patient where food was concerned.

  “Have you checked?” Daisy persisted. “Maybe they came back and we—”

  “They’re not back,” Molly cut in gently, sharing a worried look with Jessica. “They’ll send word as soon as they have news.”

  Daisy watched Kate finish her meal, grateful her daughter seemed unbothered by the ordeal, and also grateful these kind women had temporarily taken on the task of tending her. Daisy doubted she would have had the strength.

  Molly cleared the table of dirty dishes, setting them outside the door to take to the kitchen later, then returned and began pulling jars from her medicine satchel and setting them on the tabletop.

  “He’s a good swimmer,” Daisy said. “He used to swim in the bay even though the water was cold and—” Her voice faltered. She waited for the tightness in her throat to ease, then continued. “And he would have made it to the bank. I know he would. Don’t you think he would have made it to the bank?” She looked at Molly then at Jessica, seeking agreement.

  Instead, she received forced smiles.

  Molly spoke in a calm voice that belied the worried crease in her brow. “I’m sure he did. But he may have been carried miles downstream before he was able to. It will take the searchers a long time to cover so much ground, so we must be patient.”

  Patient? He could be dying. Dead. How am I to be patient about that?

  Pressing a hand hard to her forehead as if that might drive out that terrible thought, Daisy said, “Yes. You’re right. They could already be on their way back.”

  God, let it be true. Let him be alive.

  “Well then.” Sinking down onto the vanity stool, Molly reached for Daisy’s arm. “Let’s tend those cuts, shall we?”

  Daisy stared into the fire as Molly spread ointment on the dozens of cuts and abrasions crisscrossing hands and arms. None needed stitching, although a few were deep enough to require bandaging. After tending the blisters left on Daisy’s feet by her wet boots, Molly smeared a sharp-smelling salve on a long scratch up Daisy’s left shin.

  Jessica rose, Kate still bundled in her arms. “Finally asleep, poor dear.” She swayed gently back and forth, smiling down at Kate’s round face. “Shall I put her down in her crib, Daisy, or would you prefer to keep her in here with you?”

  When Daisy hesitated, unable to make even that simple decision, Jessica added, “I can send one of the Ortega girls to sit with her, if you’d like.”

  “Yes, please.” Daisy gave a weary smile. “Thank you.”

  After Jessica left, Molly recapped the salve and began moving the various jars and bottles back into her satchel. “I know what you’re going through.”

  Daisy glanced up from the fire. How could anyone know the terror that consumed her? The utter helplessness, the anguish of waiting until it was too late to acknowledge the feelings that had been building within her? How could anyone feel this pain and survive?

  “I almost lost Hank,” Molly went on, without looking up from her satchel. “Twice, really. The first time to injury. The second, to my own hardheadedness. And pride, I suppose.”

  Daisy heard the hesitation behind the words, and suspected it was difficult for a person as reserved as Molly was to reveal such personal things.

  “He was injured in a train derailment,” Molly explained. “He wasn’t expected to survive. In fact, the doctor tending him had already given up. But I wasn’t ready to abandon hope. Faith never hurts.”

  Daisy was trying desperately to have faith. She wouldn’t give up on Jack. She wouldn’t. But she remembered the look of fear on his face, and the sound the tree had made when it hit the bridge, and how from one minute to the next everything had simply washed away. It was hard to remember that and have faith.

  The fire crackled. Rain tapped gently at the windowpanes, and the air in the warm room smelled of carbolic ointment, beef soup, and the gardenia-scented soap Daisy had used in her bath. Rain at the window, a fire in the hearth, footsteps in the hall. Odd, how things could sound so normal even in the midst of such turmoil.

  “The second time was after a misunderstanding,” Molly continued. “I broke his trust, and in his anger, Hank treated me badly. I almost gave up on him then.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  She looked up and smiled. Molly’s smile was a revelation. It always started hesitantly, moving gently across her well-defined features until it burst from her face like a bright beam of sunlight on a cloudy day. She was attractive without it, but when she smiled, she was beautiful. “Because he deserved a second chance,” Molly answered with a distant look in her hazel eyes. “We both did.”

  Daisy wondered why Molly was telling her this. Did she think Daisy wouldn’t give Jack a second chance? She would do so without hesitation if she thought he no longer held Elena first in his heart. At this moment, she might even overlook that, if he would just come through that door.

  Tipping her head back against the chair, Daisy closed her eyes and wondered if it was already too late for second chances. “Do you think Jack still loves Elena?” When no answer came, she opened her eyes and looked over.

  Molly’s expression was perplexed now, and Daisy could almost see the wheels turning in her head. Molly always thought before she responded. She considered and reasoned and plotted her words carefully, giving a question her full attention before answering. “Yes. I believe he loves her, but perhaps not in the way he once thought he did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Molly gave a half-shrug. “It’s all mixed up with the land, I think. Perhaps the brothers thought if they could protect Elena from her brother, Sancho, and give her a home here with them, it would make everything all right.”

  “Make what all right?”

  “How they got the land and what they did to keep it.” At Daisy’s questioning look, Molly made an offhand gesture with one graceful hand. “Oh, their father obtained it legally,” she assured her. “He paid the back taxes and filed the claim just as the law required. But I think it smacked of trickery, and that never sat well with his sons. And whether it was because of guilt or their innate sense of fairness, they’ve continued to protect and look after Elena ever since.”

  That still didn’t answer the original question of how Jack felt about Elena now. Perhaps there was no answer. Perhaps it no longer mattered.

  “He’s alive,” she whispered. “He’s got to be alive.”

  Molly buckled the strap closure on her satchel then rested her hands across the top. She studied Daisy, her expression one of kindly concern. “I’m new to this family. I know neither Jack nor Elena very well, and you even less. But I believe Elena is content with her choice to become a nun. And I think Jack is coming to accept that, and perhaps question what his feelings for her truly are. I also think you’re not a woman who makes commitments lightly, so at one time, you must have cared about him a great deal.”

  Tears threatened, but Daisy blinked hard to hold them back. “I did,” she admitted in a strained voice. “I still do.”

  “Then does it truly matter now whether he once loved Elena or not? Can you not give him the benefit of the doubt? And maybe one more chance?”

  God, she wanted to. Leaning forward, Daisy propped her elbows on her knees and pressed the heels of her hands against her stinging eyes. She loved Jack—still and forever—and right now, all she truly wanted was for him to survive and come back through that door.

  A commotion downstairs brought her head up. Voi
ces, then heavy footfalls coming down the hall. On shaking legs, Daisy rose just as the door swung open.

  Hank. Only Hank. Looking wet, exhausted, discouraged. And behind him, Elena, her face ashen, her rosary in her grip.

  God . . . no. Daisy clasped her hands over her heart in a futile attempt to slow the thunderous rhythm within. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  “Did you find him?” Molly asked.

  Hank shook his head.

  Not dead. Daisy thought her legs might buckle. Somehow she managed to stay upright. “Nothing?” she choked out, her whole being begging for a different answer. “You found nothing?”

  “A boot. His jacket.”

  Daisy stared at him, her mind unable to grasp the significance of that. A boot and a jacket? How could he lose his jacket? And why only one boot?

  “Where?” Molly asked.

  “About four miles down. Caught in some brush on the bank.”

  “Four miles?” Molly looked thoughtful. “They wouldn’t have floated that far on their own, so he must have been wearing them at least that far.”

  Hank’s gaze fastened on his wife’s. Daisy sensed silent messages bouncing between them, messages she didn’t want to know.

  “That’s what we figure,” Hank agreed. “There’s a log pileup there. He might have lost them trying to get past that.”

  Daisy pressed a hand to her mouth as terrible images rose in her mind—Jack being impaled on branches, splintered planks—Jack being dragged down in a swirling backwash—Jack being crushed by tumbling logs.

  Be alive. Please, God, let him be alive.

  “We’ll start farther downstream tomorrow. At least it’s quit raining.” Hank turned toward the door. Picking up her satchel, Molly followed after him.

  “Wait,” Daisy cried, panic rising again. “You can’t stop looking. He could be hurt—”

  “It’s too dark,” Hank cut in with weary patience. “We could miss him.”

  “But—”

  “The men need rest, Daisy. We’ll start again at first light. I promise we’re not giving up.”

  Knowing he was right, Daisy choked back her pleas and nodded.

  Hank and Molly left. As their footfalls faded down the hall, a voice said, “God will keep him safe.”

  Daisy had forgotten Elena. Turning toward her, she saw the same terror she battled mirrored in those dark, slanted eyes. She wanted to believe Elena’s words. She wanted to believe this holy woman had the ear of God, but hope was starting to fade. “Do you think so?”

  “Sí. I do.” Elena came toward her, her long black skirts swaying with her lurching gait, the silver cross bouncing against her thigh. “He will come back to you. He must.”

  Stopping before Daisy, she reached out and brushed a tendril of damp hair from Daisy’s brow. Despite her reticence with this woman, Daisy felt a sense of peace move through her at the gentle touch. A connection almost.

  “I love him,” Daisy whispered, finally saying aloud the words she had kept hidden, even from herself, for so long.

  “Lo sé. I know.” Elena smiled, her dark eyes bright with unshed tears. “That is why God sent you to him, mi hermana. To heal him. To calm his restless spirit and give him the love he deserves.”

  “Do you think he’ll ever love me back?” Even as the words came out, Daisy wondered why she had asked them, especially of the woman who had held Jack’s affection for so many years. But wounded pride was a paltry thing when death loomed close. And somehow she knew Elena would understand, and perhaps even empathize with the pain and yearning that gripped Daisy’s heart.

  “Love you back?” The question seemed to amuse the beautiful nun. She laughed softly, her smile serene and untroubled, despite the tears glistening in her lovely eyes. “He already does love you, querida. Do you not know that? Can you not see it in his face when he looks at you and little Kate?”

  Anguish squeezed Daisy’s chest and long-suppressed tears flooded her eyes. Tears of love, of gratitude, of a longing so desperate it seemed to burn inside her. She wanted so badly to believe Elena’s words were true.

  “God will send him back to you.” Tears coursing down her own cheeks, Elena opened her arms. “I swear it.”

  Feeling her brittle defenses crumble, Daisy stepped into that comforting embrace. And as the rain stopped and moonlight broke through thinning clouds, the two women who most loved Jack held each other and wept.

  JACK AWOKE SHIVERING AND DISORIENTED. HE BLINKED into darkness that was as dank and cold as a cave, wondering why he was so wet and sore and thirsty. He tried to swallow, but his tongue felt alien in his mouth, and when he licked his lips, he tasted dirt and blood.

  Memory came flooding back.

  Water rushed nearby. The creek. The bridge had failed and he’d been swept downstream. To where? Wincing at the pain in his ribs and side, he tried to sit up then fell back when his head collided with something rough and hard that hung just above his face. He reached up and felt a tree trunk, the bark wet and gritty. More timbers pressed against his shoulders. A blowdown.

  He remembered crawling, trying to find shelter, but he’d only made it to this tangle of downed trees because of his leg.

  His leg.

  Reaching down, he touched the belt around his thigh and the gash below it. The belt had come loose and the wound was seeping again, but not as badly as before. He needed to find moss to plug it and stop the bleeding. Clean water. Something to eat.

  A snuffling noise at the back of the blowdown caught his attention. He froze and listened. Then a rank, animal smell assailed him.

  Bear.

  Fear shot through him. Groping frantically in the dark, he found a stick. Cursing and shouting, he banged it against the logs, making as much noise as he could. With a snort, the bear retreated through the brush, its claws digging up a clatter of loose stones as it lumbered up what sounded like a steep slope rising behind the blowdown.

  Jack sagged back, his body shaking, his mind spinning. He’d been so worried about finding shelter and tending his leg, he hadn’t thought about predators. What if they were after Daisy and Kate too?

  In sudden terror, he yelled for them again and again, but heard nothing over the roar of the creek.

  Maybe they’d made it off the bridge. Maybe they were safe and back at the ranch.

  He wouldn’t consider any other alternatives.

  He must have dozed off. When next he opened his eyes, bright light filtered through the snarl of limbs overhead and the roar of rushing water didn’t seem as loud as it had in the night. Leaning up on one elbow, he peered through the logs.

  A line of debris on the far bank indicated the creek had gone down at least a foot, although it was still a churning froth of sticks and branches. He wouldn’t be able to cross it any time soon, especially if more rain came. He needed to find a better shelter and water that was safe to drink while he figured out where he was and what he should do. But first, he had to assess the damage in his leg and find a way to stop the bleeding.

  To cushion the wound when he crawled through the logs, he made a pad from pieces of his shredded shirt then buckled the belt around his thigh to hold it in place. He peered through the logs, but didn’t see the bear, nor did he hear anything but the rushing creek.

  He hoped it was a black bear and not a grizzly. A grizzly was unpredictable. Once it had you in its mind, it wouldn’t give up until it had you in its mouth. And a grizzly would be strong enough to pull apart this blowdown if it wanted to.

  Careful not to drag his injured leg over the rough bark, Jack pulled himself out of his log shelter. Once clear, he lay gasping on the muddy bank and waited for the pain to ebb. His leg burned. His ribs ached with each breath, and dozens of cuts and bruises protested every movement he made.

  But he was alive. And it had stopped raining. His lucky day.

  Grabbing a nearby branch, he used it to pull himself up onto his good leg. He tested the injured one. Despite the pain, it moved when he told it to. I
t looked straight, and it didn’t fold when he put a little weight on it, so he figured it wasn’t broken.

  He could also move his torso and breathe without bringing up blood, which told him his ribs might be cracked but not broken enough to puncture a lung. But since they were bruised on the same side as his injured leg, it would make using a crutch difficult, as well as painful. But he’d do it. He had no choice. Daisy and Kate might be out there somewhere, waiting for him.

  Using the stick for balance, he hopped over to a boulder and leaned against it, his leg outstretched so he could assess the damage. Carefully, he unbuckled the belt and lifted the pad.

  The gash was maybe an inch deep, eight inches long, running up the outside of his right thigh. It looked fairly clean—the seepage had probably kept it that way. But he couldn’t afford to lose any more blood. He felt weak enough as it was.

  With the stick, he dug around the base of the boulder and nearby tree trunks until he found a spongy spot with moss growing on top. Moss was supposed to stop bleeding and prevent festering. He hoped it would work. Pulling up a wad, he rinsed it in a nearby puddle, and gingerly laid it over the gash.

  A shock of pain arced through him. The moss looked soft enough, but the prickly surface hurt like hell against his raw flesh. With shaking hands, he replaced the pad he’d made from his shirt and buckled the belt over it.

  Air hissed through his clenched teeth as he waited for the pain to ebb. Once it did and he could think again, he looked around to see where he was.

  A high-walled canyon. One he recognized. And one that ended with the aptly named Dead Horse Falls. He would have laughed if he’d had the strength.

  Except for the muddy patch where the blowdown was, there was no bank, either upstream or down, just sheer rock walls funneling the swollen creek into a forty-foot-wide chute of boiling rapids that roared over the cliff onto rocks fifty feet below. The only reason he hadn’t gone over himself was because of a huge logjam perched on the edge of the falls just a few yards from where he’d washed ashore. From what he could see, the only ways out of this canyon, other than going over the falls to certain death, would be across the logjam—a dangerous undertaking for a whole man, much less one with a wounded leg—or up the sharp incline rising behind him. The one the bear had taken.