Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  In time he would admit she was right about Frazier Foxe and settle that matter of the ore refinery, so the Englishman would leave them both alone. And she did want to be alone with Barry! Memories of his caress made her so giddy she bent three nails before she finished preparing the sled that would carry him.

  A low nicker made her look up to where Buck and Calico were watching her. The horses stood close together for warmth, absently chewing wisps of hay as she pulled the toboggan over to the shed wall. “What do you think?’’ she asked them cheerfully. “I’m betting we’ll have to tie that master of yours down, Buck, bullheaded as he is. He swears you’ll throw me. But we know better, don’t we, boy?”

  The stallion stomped a foot, rumbling a reply. Lyla removed a glove and slowly reached over to stroke his head, letting him get accustomed to her scent. He was a majestic animal, his buff-colored coat set off by a black mane and tail. Buck nuzzled her hand, as though expecting a treat.

  “I’ll bring you both carrots next time I come out,” she assured the two horses. “And I might as well adjust your saddle, boy. My short legs’ll never reach the stirrups.”

  Four eyes followed her to the corner where she’d stashed the blankets and tack. The marshal’s black saddle sat proudly on its hay bale. Its braided decoration and silverwork attested to its fine quality, and even in the cold it remained supple as she shortened it. The leather creaked cozily in her fingers, emitting an earthy, masculine scent that reminded her of its owner.

  “Let’s see what the marshal’s got in his saddlebags,” she commented to her two observers. “This one seems awfully full.”

  Lyla glanced inside and pulled out a tan leather pouch with drawstrings, large enough to hold a day’s provisions. She didn’t consider herself nosy, but the bag’s metallic clatter got her curiosity up. It obviously held something besides food.

  And when she looked inside, her mouth fell open. Pocket watches, cuff links, glittering rings…the booty from the raid at the Golden Rose.

  Her heart fluttered erratically. She’d watched the three thieves carry these items off, so how had the

  jewelry ended up here? No one had seen her approach the clearing where Barry was shot—she was sure of it. The marauders had left the marshal for dead, probably to pursue the rest of the posse.

  “And they circled back to town when they realized a blizzard was blowing up,” she murmured slowly. “Saw the shed, and stashed their loot here, figuring Thompson would never ride his horse out, and they could come back when the weather cleared to claim it.”

  Lyla’s mouth went dry as she imagined this scenario, because she’d assumed they were so safe here, and—

  “But they saw Calico, too,” she corrected herself in a strained voice. “And they would’ve noticed the smoke from the chimney…lights in the windows.” Had they peered inside the cabin to watch her cut the bullet from Thompson’s leg?

  She dumped the pouch’s contents onto Buck’s blanket and pawed feverishly through the pile of valuables. Miss Victoria’s tiara, Emily’s wedding ring, a gold money clip inscribed FF, which still contained its folded bills, and countless pendants, pocket watches, and cufflinks she couldn’t readily identify.

  Barry’s aquamarine ring was missing. So was her silver shamrock.

  “Mary, Mother of God, they did see us!” Lyla whimpered. She stuffed the jewelry back into the bag with quaking hands, her thoughts racing. Today’s bright sunshine meant the thieves might come calling any time now. By tomorrow—or this evening!—they could arrive to reclaim their take. And Lyla was certain the bandits had plans for her and Marshal Thompson, too.

  They would have to leave tonight.

  Chapter 8

  “Easy, boy. Settle down, now,” Lyla crooned to the stallion beside her. Buck was prancing nervously, champing at his bit as she led him from the shed with the toboggan trailing behind him. “We’re doing this for Barry, remember. We’ve got no time for nasty pranks.”

  Eyeing the way the sled followed him in fits and starts, she wondered if the harness straps would hold all the way to Cripple. The gear had been salvaged from a trash heap and was suitable for Calico to plow her small garden with, but in this deep snow, the ride to town might take several hours, through drifts and over uneven trails. Lyla sighed and patted the horse’s shoulder, trying to accustom the skittish stallion to her touch. If they didn’t leave now, under cover of the night, the thieves might find them. If Buck threw her, or if the toboggan broke loose, she or Barry might not make it to town alive anyway. Nothing about this trip seemed promising, but it was better than holing up here, imagining various methods of sudden, violent death at the hands of strangers.

  Now that the horse was in front of the door, Lyla pondered her next problem: could she get Barry from the bed to the sled and keep him in it? He continued to protest about her riding Buck, and he would hurt himself struggling against her. She hadn’t told the marshal about the jewelry. She’d stuffed the pouch in Calico’s saddlebag instead, figuring Thompson had enough to stew about—and to boss her about.

  Lyla checked the provisions one last time: bread, water, whiskey, laudanum, bandages. A thick padding of quilts lined the sled. Her fingers found the marshal’s heavy pistol in her coat pocket, and a handful of bullets. Calico stood a short distance away, waiting patiently. She had to move quickly, before Buck galloped off to rid himself of the sled, and she prayed that her plan to get Thompson outside worked.

  Draping Buck’s reins around the top of the harness collar, she talked firmly to him. “You’re going to stand still,” she instructed, “and you and I will prove to the marshal that we can do this. Understand?” She took the stallion’s head between her hands, gazing purposefully into his large, liquid eyes. “Understand, Buck?” she repeated in a low, steady voice.

  The horse rumbled at her, and then nuzzled her hand. His breath rose around them in transparent puffs of vapor, white against the night sky. After a moment Lyla stroked his jaw, smiling. “Good boy. When this is all over and we’re safe, he’ll forgive us for tricking him.”

  With a final pat on his shoulder, Lyla strode into the cabin. As she’d hoped, the herbal potion Barry drank earlier had left him snoozing, still sitting up against his pillows. Guilt prickled her conscience for sedating him, but it was for his own comfort. And how else could she insure this giant’s cooperation, now that things had to proceed like clockwork?

  She picked up his clean clothes from the hearth and then set her deception in motion. She’d soaked two balled-up socks in kerosene, and when they landed in the fireplace the flames leaped ominously. “Fire!” she yelled as she ran toward the bed. “Fire, Barry! Wake up!”

  The marshal came to with a jerk. His disoriented expression reflected the glare from the blaze, and then his survival instinct moved the huge body Lyla couldn’t possibly have budged by herself.

  “Wrap your coat around you! We’ll go outside!” she hollered. Hugging the jacket to his broad shoulders, Lyla continued to talk with loud insistence. “Lean on me—you’re doing fine, marshal!”

  With a grunt, Thompson swung his bare legs to the side of the bed. His thoughts were jumbled, all senses blurred by a curious lethargy that didn’t mask his wrenching pain, which tore through his left arm and leg with a vengeance. He moved anyway, aware only of the leaping flames and the petite figure kneeling before him.

  “Step into these pants!” Lyla called out. “Can’t have you freezing anything off!” She tugged the denim legs over his feet and up past his knees, then hurriedly put his socks on. Knowing his longjohns, shirt, and boots would be impossible, she’d already stashed them in Calico’s bags.

  Barry was doing amazingly well. He stood up to lean on her while she gingerly fastened his fly. His breathing was punctuated by frightened groans. “Will your coat fit over your bandaged shoulder?” she asked urgently. “We may be outside a long while.”

  With a valiant groan, Thompson allowed her to draw the sleeve over his wounded arm, and then he shrugg
ed into the other half of the jacket. They started toward the door at a teetering limp, and Lyla hoped to God she could support him all the way to the sled. Every breath he took was a pained wheeze; his face was contorted in a grimace that tore her conscience in two. She vowed that if they arrived in Cripple alive she’d never, ever cause the marshal another problem as long as she lived.

  Luck was with her: just as Lyla wondered how to ease Barry onto the railed toboggan, his knee buckled. Gasping, she broke his fall by succumbing to his weight, shoving him toward the thick blankets as she went into a sudden squat. Pain shot through her thighs, but she chuckled softly. Thompson had landed on his back, padding bunched around him, and he resembled an overgrown baby in a huge cradle. Before he could realize what she was doing, Lyla laced a length of rope across his chest and around the toboggan rails, securing it on both sides.

  A quick check of the cabin satisfied her: the fire had died back, she had their supplies and clothing, and her passenger seemed content to lie very still. Remorse made her take the whiskey flask from Calico’s saddlebag. “Drink up, love,” she said near his ear. “Well make it—you’ll see. This’ll keep you warm.”

  He drank gratefully, taking quick breaths between gulps. “Fire! Hurry!” he gasped.

  “It’s all right now. Buck’ll take us to safety,” she replied as she capped the bottle. Tucking the blankets in on all sides of him, and then around his head, Lyla kissed him lightly. “Rest now, Barry. We’ll have you feeling better in no time.”

  Thompson nodded, and with a moan he either dozed off or passed out—Lyla couldn’t tell which. She walked slowly to his horse’s left side, praying the animal continued to behave like a gentleman. “Good boy, Buck. You’re doing fine,” she said in a soft singsong. “You’ve got to be the man now. Just do what I ask. Easy, boy…hold still.”

  She took his reins, and then realized the stirrups and saddlehorn were too high for her to reach. But she had to ride him! Lyla glanced frantically around the drifted clearing. She could step on the stump where Mick had split firewood, if this skittish stallion would cooperate. “Come on, boy —over here. Don’t tromp on my feet, now,” she commanded in a low voice.

  Buck laid his ears back, eager to be free of the strange collar and his awkward load. He tossed his on head, sending vapor clouds around them as he snorted his reluctance.

  “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a woman— especially a half-pint like me,” Lyla chided gently. “Get on up here. We’re leaving whether you like it or not.”

  With another toss of his head he complied, but he was too dangerous an animal to ignore the warning signs. She stopped him beside the stump, hoping he wouldn’t sense the fear coursing through her as she stepped up to mount him.

  Buck pranced, his front feet leaving the ground. Lyla hesitated, clutching the reins…if she fell and broke her neck, or got trampled to death, she wouldn’t have to worry about Thompson anymore, would she? Inhaling the brisk night air, she stroked the horse’s pale neck and sang softly. “Silent night…holy night…”

  Buck’s ears lifted. He whickered, listening.

  “All is calm…all is bright,” she continued, and then repeated the tune on the words, “Buck is…Buck’s all right.”

  He was standing steady, so she slipped a foot into the stirrup and swung over him. The stallion reared immediately, nearly knocking her out of the saddle before she was in it, and Lyla clutched his neck. “Whoa, boy! Silent night, you’re all right,” she crooned desperately.

  The marshal’s horse danced on two legs again, his shrieks piercing her eardrums. “All is calm…all is bright,” she rasped “Damn it, Buck, if you dump Thompson before we even get started—easy, now! Put ‘em down, that’s the way. All is calm…Buck’s all right…”

  The stallion tossed his head, prancing in place, but he was nickering now, attentive to the tune she sang so close to his ear. Lyla was still hanging on to him with both arms, and she continued the hymn until he let out a long sigh and stood absolutely still. Cautiously she eased off his muscled neck, stroking him as she sat upright in the saddle. “Good boy, Buck. We’re friends now, right? That was Mick’s favorite carol, too, when he lay dying in the hospital.”

  The remembered agony of her brother’s death nearly choked her; she nudged the horse with her heels, reminding herself that tears would freeze on her face if she gave in to them. They circled around the stump in a wide arc, toward the trail that led to the canyon, and she whistled to Calico. The mare fell into step behind the toboggan. They were finally on their way.

  The night was in her favor, at least. A high, white moon beamed down on the foothills, which slept beneath coverlets of iridescent pearl gray. Evergreens kept watch in their lacy nightgowns; icicles hung over the far canyon wall like pointed doilies, glimmering softly. Had she not been so intent on finding the trail, Lyla would’ve reveled in the pale, unspoiled splendor around her.

  Buck, too, settled into the silent harmony of the snowscape. He plodded carefully along, apparently sensing his important role in getting their unwieldy yet precious cargo to Cripple Creek. Behind them, the mare’s muffled footfalls kept a steady rhythm. Lyla congratulated herself on working so diligently with Calico: she’d been on her way to the rendering man because her wealthy owner’s children were bored with riding her around a small corral. The horse had shown her gratitude by learning everything Lyla taught her. That mare would follow you to the fringes of hell and then pull you out of the pit, Mick had said, and he was right.

  Hearing a moan, she turned to look at Barry. The toboggan balked when it passed between drifts, making the leather harness straps creak and groan with its weight. Buck was pulling steadily despite the double burden of being both harnessed and saddled; the sled lurched, causing its passenger to protest weakly. “Does it hurt too terribly?” she called over her shoulder. “Do you want some more laudanum?”

  Thompson groaned. He struggled briefly against his bindings before letting out a ragged sigh. “I’ll live. You riding Buck?”

  “Damn right I am.”

  The marshal snorted. “Helluva woman. But you’ll pay for lying…about that fire.”

  Lyla smiled smugly. “You don’t scare me, Thompson. Rest now. Are you warm enough?”

  His only reply was a grunt, and when she glanced back, he was snuggling deeper into the blankets. A rich sense of accomplishment tingled inside her: she’d put them on the path to Cripple, just as she’d said she would. She’d avoided the thieves by traveling at night, and she planned to hand the jewelry over to Thompson’s deputy right after she got the marshal to the hospital. Great odds and obstacles had been overcome, and as long as she remained alert, they should have no trouble reaching town before daybreak.

  Lyla leaned forward in the saddle, helping Buck ascend a rise in the path. The stallion chose his footing with care; his breath came in soft, steady snorts, a duet with the creaking of the leather saddle and harness straps that stretched behind him. He was straining, pitting himself against a weight that challenged his mighty strength. When they topped the rise, she would dismount and let him rest. Judging from the trees she used for landmarks, they were a little better than halfway to town now. He plodded on, stepping, pulling, struggling to heave himself onto the plateau.

  With his final surge, Lyla heard a dull snap. One of the harness straps broke, sending the sled into a sideways skid that would’ve pulled them over backwards had the other strap not snapped with the sudden, uneven weight. Buck lunged to keep from losing his balance, and as she grabbed for his neck, Lyla feared he’d gallop wildly over the trail, glad to be free of his load and wanting to toss her, too. Instead he pranced, tossing his head, and then turned as though he sensed something was terribly wrong behind them.

  Lyla’s heart stopped. The toboggan, bouncing askew against boulders and drifts, had turned until its curved front end was pointed down the slope they’d come up. She watched in horror as the sled went speeding along the path it had just packed down, a path that
glistened with heart-rending slickness in the moonlight. Faster it went, ricocheting off rocks and groaning when it hit curves, until it bounced over the edge of the cliff. Barry was now hurtling into Phantom Canyon head first, toward certain death, and she couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  “Mary, Mother of God…I’ve killed him.” Lyla shoved a gloved fist against her mouth to stifle a scream. She could see the sled diving toward the drifted canyon floor. For endless minutes the sight riveted her, although she knew it was happening in mere seconds. Like a bullet speeding into a target of white, it struck. Then it bounced, ran raggedly along the snowy wall, and came to rest against a huge mound. Puffs of white shimmered in the wind and then settled in the silent night.

  Lyla stared doggedly, but what was there to see? A healthy man probably wouldn’t survive that plunge; if he had, he’d be too stunned to loosen the ropes and signal to her.

  It was over. The burly, boyish marshal she’d come to love was lying lifeless below her. The torment of laying yet another dear friend to rest…she’d watched Mick do battle with his burns and demonic hallucinations, struggled to save Barry from two bullets and thought she’d won…

  But the pain would have to wait. “Come on, Buck, we’ve got to get down there somehow,” she murmured. “Can’t leave him for the scavengers. Can’t let those thieves find him this way.”

  Lyla wiped her eyes against her coat sleeve and then blinked. She heard muffled steps and a long snorting breath, and Calico shuffled up the trail toward them. Lyla had been too terrified to think of her poor horse when the sled had broken loose, and the fact that Calico had somehow saved herself from being swept over the canyon wall sent large drops dribbling down her face.

  “Come on, girl. We’ll give Buck a rest,” she croaked. Swinging one leg over the saddle, she jumped to the ground on quavery legs, her fall cushioned by the snow. Lyla stuffed the long leather harness straps into Buck’s saddlebag. Then she hugged her mare and mounted, happy to be in her snug, familiar saddle again.