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HOLIDAYS IN MOUNTAIN HOME
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Hannah’s Hero
Margery Scott
Copyright © 2017 by Margery Scott
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.
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Chapter 1
Hannah Blakely tugged her knitted shawl tighter around her shoulders. The mountain air had grown cooler in the past hour or so, but she’d been so engrossed in the sketch of the waterfall that she was working on that she hadn’t really noticed until now.
Earlier in the afternoon, she’d filled two buckets with wild raspberries from a patch a mile or so down the trail and hung them from the saddle horn with a strap, making a mental note to ride slowly and carefully so they didn’t get too badly bruised before she got home. What her sister didn’t need, she’d sell to the mercantile in Rocky Ridge. Mr. Todd was always pleased to have fresh fruit and berries to offer his customers.
Then she’d ridden farther up the trail, and for the rest of the afternoon, she’d been sitting on a rock near the riverbank, her sketch pad on her lap, the sun warm on her face, the scent of pine and cedar filling the air around her. Nearby, a waterfall of ice-cold water crashed down from an outcropping in the rocks a hundred feet up into the rocks at the base, then flowed out into a deep pool where she’d spent many summer afternoons as a young girl.
Late afternoon was her favorite time of the day, when the light and shadows became more dramatic as dusk approached. Now, the sun that had warmed her earlier in the day had disappeared, hidden in the dark clouds scudding across the sky.
Seconds later, the first raindrops fell and a sudden gust of wind whipped up, swirling the dried leaves on the ground around her into a small whirlwind.
Quickly, she closed her sketchbook and bounded to her feet, annoyed with herself that she hadn’t paid attention to the weather. Now she’d be cold and very wet before she got back to the small ranch where she lived with her sister, her brother-in-law and their two children.
As she hurried to where Dixie, her mare, was tethered to a tree branch, the rain increased, falling harder and faster. The wind drove the rain sideways, lashing at the skin uncovered by her shawl and dress. By the time she stuffed her sketchbook and pencils into the saddlebag and mounted, it was coming down in sheets.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. She flicked the reins to urge Dixie to move faster, but at the same time she knew she couldn’t allow the mare to go faster than a walk without risking injury. Hannah had been in the barn the day Dixie was born, and she’d fallen in love with the foal immediately. She’d been thrilled when Archie, her sister’s husband, had given her the foal to raise as her own. She’d never do anything that could hurt the gentle animal.
The trail was treacherous, a river of mud that squelched under Dixie’s hooves. Loose gravel and stones slid away with every step. Thunder boomed again, closer now. A streak of lightning split the sky a few seconds later.
For a few moments, she considered stopping and sheltering under a tree until the storm passed. Then she remembered hearing about one of her family’s neighbors when she was a girl. Caught in a freak summer storm, the Scotsman had been waiting under a tree for the rain to stop. He’d died when lightning hit the tree he was standing under. She’d never quite understood how lightning hitting a tree could kill someone, and when she’d asked at the time, she’d never gotten a real answer. All she’d been told was never to stand under a tree during a storm.
No, she decided, she’d have to keep going. Getting home as quickly as she could was the only choice she had. It would just take much longer than usual to reach to the warmth and safety of the Circle J ranch house.
Dixie faltered, slipping in the mud, and Hannah’s heart leapt into her throat. She noticed her knuckles were white from holding the reins so tightly, so she forced herself to loosen her grip, letting the mare pick her way down the mountain trail at her own pace.
Suddenly, thunder cracked directly overhead. Startled, Dixie let out a snort and a sound Hannah knew meant the horse was terrified. A split second later, she reared up.
Before Hannah had a chance to tighten her grip again on the reins, she felt herself being tossed out of the saddle.
She heard herself scream as she flew through the air. Moments later, twigs and brush clawed at her skin as she hit the ground, landing in a heap on the side of the trail.
Her breath whooshed out of her lungs and pain ricocheted through her. Her vision blurred and faded until the world went black.
Marshal Kirby Matheson swore. The ache in his knee that morning had warned him rain was coming, but he’d ignored it and ridden out anyway. Abel Cooper’s trial in Denver wasn’t scheduled for a few days, which would give Kirby a day or two to stop and visit with his brother’s family before he continued on. He’d known there’d be rain at some point during the ride, but the way his knee acted up when it was damp didn’t tell him when or how much rain there would be. He’d looked at the sky and figured if there was going to be a real storm, he’d at least get as far as Rocky Ridge before it started. He’d been wrong.
He hadn’t ridden more than a few miles when the sky had darkened to the color of slate. The breeze had picked up to a raging wind, and torrential rain jabbed at his skin like tiny spears as he rode.
Thunder rumbled nearby and lightning streaked across the sky. He tensed. He’d never liked storms. He’d almost been struck by lightning once when he was a boy. He remembered how terrified he’d been, and his insides still clenched tight whenever he was caught outside during a lightning storm. It had happened a few times over the years and even though he could feel the tension in his body when he had to go outside in a storm, his own feelings had never stopped him doing his job. Didn’t mean he’d ever gotten over it, though, and if he had any choice, he stayed inside until the storm was over.
He’d taken this trail once or twice before, and if his memory was as good as it usually was, he guessed there should be a ranch house just over the ridge ahead.
Anxious to get himself and his horse out of danger, he urged the horse forward. Sure enough, as he crested the ridge, he saw a house in the valley and the faint glow of a lamp in the window.
A few minu
tes later, he slowed Gypsy, his bay gelding, in front of a log house with a wide porch. He hadn’t even really reined the horse to a stop when the door flew open and a woman rushed outside onto the porch.
“Hannah—” She stopped suddenly, her dark blue eyes widening when she saw him. She tucked a few strands of reddish-blonde hair into the knot at the nape of her neck. “You’re not Hannah.”
Kirby dismounted. “No, ma’am, I’m not. The name’s Kirby Matheson. I’m a US marshal from Cedar Valley, on my way to Denver when I got caught in the storm. Mind if I step onto the porch out of the rain?”
“Oh … of course ... I apologize for my lack of manners …”
Kirby dismounted and climbed the stairs, then took off his worn brown Stetson. Reaching out into the rain, he shook off the small pool of water that had settled in the brim of his hat before putting it back on his head. Raindrops clung to his hair and dripped down his neck inside his duster.
“Who’s Hannah?” he asked, taking note of the tension in the woman’s eyes and the fear he’d heard in her voice.
“My baby sister,” the woman replied. “I’m so worried. She went out early this afternoon. Her horse came back without her an hour ago.”
Kirby scanned the empty pastures around the house. There was no sign of the missing girl. He wasn’t surprised the woman was worried. When a horse returned by itself … that usually meant the rider was either hurt or dead.
Tears formed in the woman’s eyes, and she wrapped her arms across her chest, her fingers digging into her opposite arms. “I can’t leave the children to go and look for her, and Archie … my husband … he went into town this morning to get supplies. I’m not concerned about him. I’m sure he’s perfectly safe in town. But Hannah—”
The storm was worsening. Kirby’s heart was thumping in his chest, but he tamped down his own fear. The girl was obviously in some kind of trouble, and if somebody didn’t go and look for her, she could die out there. If she wasn’t dead already, he couldn’t help thinking. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Kirby said. “I’ll go find her.”
“But you’re already soaked right through—”
“Can’t get any wetter,” he commented, plastering a smile on his face he didn’t feel. “What was she wearing?”
The woman seemed to think for a few moments. “Yellow,” she said finally. “Yes, she was wearing a yellow dress.”
“Good,” he commented. “A bright color will be easier to see in this dim light.”
“I—”
“One thing, ma’am,” he interrupted. “I’m about half frozen. If you have any hot coffee handy, I’d sure appreciate a cup before I go.”
Her face calmed now that she had a mission. “Oh, yes. Come in and I’ll get you a cup.”
Kirby followed her inside, stopping on the hand-hooked rug by the door and letting the heat from the fire burning in the fireplace wash over him. He was tempted to move closer so he could soak up its warmth, but he’d likely leave puddles all over the woman’s floor if he did. He doubted she’d mind under the circumstances, but he stayed where he was anyway.
A boy he figured was about six or seven years old was sitting in a chair, a book open in his lap. He glanced up when Kirby came inside, but he didn’t speak. A girl who looked like a small version of her mother sat beside him. She gave him a tremulous smile, then turned her attention back to the book.
“Here you are,” the woman said, crossing back from the kitchen and handing him a pottery mug filled with hot coffee. “I have cream, too, if you prefer.”
“Black’s fine, ma’am. Thanks.” He blew on the coffee before he took a sip. It was strong, just the way he liked it.
He drained the mug as fast as he could without burning his insides, then handed it back to her. “That helped,” he said. “Now, I’ll be going before it gets dark. Which direction did your sister go?” he asked.
“She said she wanted to draw the waterfall over by Miner’s Pass. Do you know where that is?”
He did. “Then she shouldn’t be too hard to find since there’s a trail that runs up that way.”
“I can’t thank you enough for braving the storm to go and look for her,” the woman said.
“No problem, ma’am,” he replied. “All part of the job.” He tried to force a smile to his lips, but by the worried frown creasing the woman’s forehead, he wasn’t sure he succeeded in making her feel any better.
The storm was worsening. Thunder roared overhead. Jagged bursts of lightning streaked across the sky. If Kirby didn’t find the missing girl soon, it would be too dark to see anything. And if she was left out there overnight … He refused to let his mind go there.
The waterfall can’t be much further, he thought, wiping the rain off his face with his hand, a useless gesture. He still hadn’t seen any sign of the girl. Any hoofprints had been washed away by the rain, so there wasn’t nothing to track. Had he missed her? Or had she even taken this trail? There was no way to know. He glanced up at the sky. He had maybe another half hour or so before he’d have to give up, but until then, he’d keep going.
Even over the wind bellowing along the trail, he heard the rush of water as it crashed against the rocks at the bottom of Miner’s Falls. The trail was nothing but mud now, and several times Gypsy slipped, almost throwing him off as the horse struggled to keep his balance.
Kirby rounded a bend, and a flash of yellow almost hidden in the brush beside the trail a few yards away caught his eye.
He couldn’t tell at that distance if what he was seeing was a piece of fabric, but he hoped he’d gotten lucky and it was the girl he was looking for.
In an instant, he dismounted. He hated to take the extra few seconds to loop Gypsy’s reins around a tree branch, but it was necessary. Gypsy had come by his name honestly, and there was no doubt in Kirby’s mind that the horse would wander away if he got the chance.
And if that happened, and assuming Kirby had found Hannah, they’d both be in trouble.
He raced toward the sliver of color, stomping through the mud and dead scrub until he reached a mound of yellow fabric half-buried in the brush that could only belong to Hannah.
She was lying on her stomach in the dirt, her head turned to the side. If she’d landed a few inches over, her face would have been submerged in a puddle and she would have drowned.
She could still be dead, though, he reminded himself. She sure didn’t look like she had any life left in her.
A strange sensation filled him as he crouched beside her. The woman had called Hannah her “baby sister”, and Kirby had assumed she was much younger than the woman lying here in the dirt. Hannah was no girl, and even though she was splattered with mud, she was still a beautiful woman. Twigs and pine needles were entwined in her wheat-colored hair. Mud splattered her ghostly-white face and a few freckles dotted her small upturned nose.
She was soaked through, and the thin yellow fabric clung to her breasts. Even the petticoats he knew she’d be wearing under the dress were plastered to her, revealing all her curves. No, Hannah was definitely not a girl.
It occurred to him that he didn’t know her last name. In fact, he hadn’t even gotten her sister’s name. It wasn’t proper to address a woman by her given name without permission, but under the circumstances, he didn’t think she’d mind too much. “Hannah?”
There was no response. He touched his finger to the side of her neck
Her skin was cold, and as he searched for the pulse point, he braced himself to feel nothing. But then he felt it – a soft pulse beneath her skin. She was alive!
“Hannah! Can you hear me?”
Her eyelids fluttered and finally opened. She gazed up at him with eyes the color of , but there was no sign that she was aware of him. Any woman in her right mind would panic at waking to find a strange man bending over her.
Her eyes closed. He waited, and a few moments later, they opened again. This time, they narrowed and a frown formed between her dark blue eyes. “Who …?” she asked, her
voice trembling. “What happened?”
“You must have fallen off your horse,” he told her. “He came back alone.”
“She. Dixie’s a mare … “Is she okay?”
He had to admit it intrigued him that a woman who’d been lying in the rain and mud for what could be hours was more interested in her horse than in her own condition. But right now, he was more interested in her. “Are you okay?”
“I think so,” she replied. “But Dixie … she got spooked by the thunder and threw me. That’s never happened before.”
Well, at least her brains didn’t seem to be addled. That pleased him.
Kirby shrugged. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about it other than your sister said he … she … came home. I’m sure she’s fine, and the sooner we get you home, the sooner you can see for yourself.”
She nodded.
“Did you hit your head?” he asked. He hadn’t seen any blood, but since she’d been out cold when he arrived, it was possible she had a head injury even though there was no bleeding.
She slowly moved her head from side to side, then looked up at him. “It doesn’t hurt … I don’t think so …”
“Well, that’s good,” he said. “You probably fainted from pain or shock.”
“Or getting the wind knocked out of me,” she added. “I remember hitting the ground. Hard. And I couldn’t catch my breath.”
“That might do it, too. Can you feel your toes?” He was worried she might have broken her spine in the fall, in which case she’d be paralyzed for the rest of her life.
She frowned. “I’m not sure. I’m so cold they might have frozen and fallen off. You didn’t happen to see them anywhere, did you?”
She tried to smile, but it ended up looking more like a grimace. Kirby couldn’t help thinking this was a woman who didn’t let bad luck get her down. He didn’t know many women like that. Hell, he didn’t know many men like that either.
Gunsmoke and Gingham Page 29
