Chasing Adventure

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  “Now can we go, Mama?” Josie’s blue eyes shone.

  “Not until the dishes are washed. If you help, the chore will be finished quicker.”

  Thora looked between the two. “Go where?”

  “Apple picking.” Josie bounced in her chair.

  The girl’s enthusiasm brought a smile. Thora turned to Laura. “May I come along? I’ve never been fruit picking before.” The activity sounded tame enough—of course, that’s what she thought about last week’s walk.

  “I’m not one to turn down help. We’re going into the foothills in search of wild crab apples.”

  “I didn’t think crab apples were fit for eating. Or maybe a different type grows out west.” Thora sipped the last of her lukewarm coffee.

  “They’re not for eating, but my cookbook has a receipt for making preserves from the pressed juice. Bertha made a batch a couple weeks ago, which turned out so delicious the jar she gave us is already gone. I want to try my hand at the process.” She glanced at her daughter and smiled. “So far since our arrival, we’ve put up Saskatoon berry jam and syrup.”

  Nodding made the little girl’s braids bob. “I get to help.”

  Thirty minutes later, the three gathered on the porch. Laura left a note on the hotel door, explaining her absence.

  Thora followed Laura and Josie down the steps, a large woven basket hanging from the crook of her elbow. The scabs left behind from her bull escape had disappeared, but the pink skin was still tender.

  At the dressmaker’s shop, they turned left toward the mine. Thora spotted Cinnia hanging a garment in the window and waved, receiving one in return. “Walking through town always makes me smile because everyone is so friendly.”

  “So different from where we came from, right?” Laura nodded.

  Thora shot her a quick glance but didn’t comment on Laura’s mention of their shared hometown. I don’t want anything to spoil this outing.

  Josie skipped ahead, swinging her basket.

  The air held a crispness that chilled Thora’s cheeks. Fall was making itself known. Soon, she’d need to dig to the bottom of her trunk for gloves and scarves.

  As she reached the top of the rise, Thora held a hand to her stomach and sucked in several deep breaths. The view across the valley was worth a long look. In the distance swirled a dust devil. On the northern horizon, clouds with gray at their flat bottoms lingered. “Do those clouds look like they hold rain?” She immediately thought of Harte and of traveling across open country.

  “Could be.” Laura extended her hand toward her daughter. “I’ve only been here since the summer so I don’t know about spotting the bad weather signs.” She resumed walking, swinging hands with Josie.

  On her way past the mine entrance, Thora couldn’t help but look at the guard, hoping to see Harte. But the man with light hair and a paunch leaning against the mountain was unfamiliar.

  The stranger tapped a finger to his hat brim.

  Thora nodded then sighed. Perhaps Harte would return tomorrow. Minutes later, she walked into a small meadow where scrubby trees stood. Dotted along the branches almost bare of leaves hung groupings of red orbs. “They are smaller than I thought.” She plucked one from its twig, and an apple fell into her palm. “Only a couple inches across.”

  “That’s why we need lots.” Laura stretched an arm and pulled down a branch several inches.

  Good idea. Thora noted how the three of them were of different heights and could do a thorough job of harvesting. She watched Josie stretch on tiptoes to reach a crab apple. “I’ll save the lowest ones for you, Josie.” She wandered to the next tree and plucked at the middle range, adopting Laura’s method. The fruit might be small but the trees produced lots of crab apples.

  Not far away, a songbird chirped an unfamiliar tune.

  The notes caught Thora’s attention, and she wondered what the bird looked like. A glance at each nearby tree produced no sighting. Up a small rise, a tree sagged with fruit and she walked away from the others toward it. To add to the fun, she challenged herself to bring back the fullest basket.

  The oddity of an apple-picking competition made her smile. She’d never been in a wilderness orchard, and being in nature since coming to Montana Territory amounted to more days outdoors than she’d spent in her whole life combined. At least, I don’t have to worry about a cantankerous bull.

  ~**~

  The trip to the smelter proved a success, but it also was one of the most boring experiences Harte ever had.

  The driver, Arnie, hummed and chewed tobacco instead of making conversation.

  Harte spent the days in silence, taking note of the passing landscape. Once they’d delivered the ore, he was anxious to return to Morgan’s Crossing. Not because of a specific red-haired lady who probably waited impatiently to conduct her danged interview. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t keep all thoughts of Thora from filtering though his mind.

  The path along the river where Harte trotted Blaze was used often, providing firm footing. Glancing around, he recognized a lightning-struck tree here and an unusually shaped boulder there from the outbound trip.

  In a rare comment, Arnie told him they’d reach Morgan’s Crossing by midday.

  As Harte rode alongside the rumbling wagon, he scanned the area ahead, contemplating how long he could stick with this job. Granted, he’d wanted a change in his life that held lower risk to life and limb, his and especially others. What he hadn’t anticipated was working long-term in a position that offered no challenge to his brain. Every recent moment of high excitement had nothing to do with his jobs, and everything to do with Thora and her antics. Too bad keeping a petite redhead out of trouble didn’t pay wages.

  Two hours later, he caught the scent of wood smoke on the breeze and stretched tall in the saddle. Through the trees, he spotted rail fencing and a ranch house in the distance. Civilization. “Is this place on the northern edge of Morgan’s Crossing?”

  “Yep.” Arnie spat out a stream of tobacco juice then swiped a wrinkled hand across his chin. “That’s the Harper Ranch, owned by a whole passel of women. One’s the lady vet who arrived last year. Missouri’s her name, and she’s being courted by Doc Rawlins, who works in the mine.”

  “Yeah, I’ve talked with him a time or two. Ranch is a nice-looking one.” Once, long ago, he and his younger brother, Burke, had visions of making enough money to buy land and run a small herd of cattle. After they were orphaned, the dream was often the highlight of their miserable days in the Colorado children’s home.

  Sadly, Burke died at fourteen years young. Unable to deal with the pain, Harte had ran away, turned his back on anything that reminded him of his previous life, and lied about his age to enlist in the Army. Now after years in the saddle, the allure of riding all day to move the animals that made him money withered away that notion. He’d decided he didn’t want to work as a rancher, a soldier, or a marshal. Maybe his rootless life was another form of running away.

  Harte straightened in the saddle. He wasn’t running away…he was choosing a new life. I wish I knew where I’m headed.

  He rolled his shoulders to shake off the sadness and guided Blaze over the plank bridge at the east end of town, riding past the encampment of Chinese tents. Right now after four solid days of riding, standing watch at the mine entrance sounded real good. He’d bet Gardner wouldn’t care if he finished out his shift. During Harte’s absence, the guy had to take on extra hours in. When Gardner guarded the shipment Harte would work the long shifts.. But he wanted to do nothing until he’d eaten a plateful of Bertha Brungar’s tasty cooking.

  A scream filled the air.

  Pivoting his head to locate the source, Harte slapped a hand to his hip and drew his Colt, scanning the area for the source.

  At the top of the hill at the other end of town, two figures dashed into sight. A woman and a girl swatted at the air near their heads and brushed at each other’s clothes.

  Gut tightening, Harte leaned forward, urging Blaze in
to a canter. By the time he reached the females, he spotted Bill Simms running from the mine entrance. Harte holstered his weapon and dismounted.

  “Laura, what’s happening?” The day mine manager rested his hands on her shoulders, his dark eyebrows wrinkled in a frown.

  “A swarm of bees chased us from over there.” She pointed into the trees then winced and rubbed at her neck. “Josie, are you all right?”

  The little girl whimpered and clung to her mother’s skirts. “I got stings on my hand.”

  “Sweet pea, did you throw rocks at the hive?” Bill bent low to look into the girl’s face.

  “Not me. I know better.” Josie shook her head so hard her blonde braids flapped against her cheeks. “I was just picking crab apples like Mama did. She picked high and I picked low and Thora picked in the middle.”

  Harte froze and spun to look into the trees. “Where’s Thora?”

  Laura’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t seen her for the past ten minutes or so. We just moved from tree to tree.”

  “Which trees?” He vaulted into the saddle and spun Blaze to face the hotel manager.

  Bill straightened and pointed. “Follow the trail for about three minutes then you’ll see a path that leads downhill. Don’t use that one but take the next one that heads uphill. The group of trees is about three rods along that path. Good luck.”

  Before he heard the last words, Harte was in motion, urging Blaze into a fast trot. His heart raced, and he fought to keep calm. Bees! The pain his brother suffered before his death filled his thoughts, and he almost missed the break in the forest marking the trail. With a jerk, he steered Blaze between the trees.

  Bill’s directions led Harte to a meadow with fruit trees. But he didn’t see Thora, only two overturned baskets and small apples spilled on the ground. “Thora, where are you?” Not knowing what to expect, he dismounted and tied Blaze to a pine then walked forward, gun drawn.

  Only an occasional buzz sounded. Birds twittered, and a squirrel chastised Harte’s approach with high-pitched squeals. So, the animals didn’t sense danger. That situation was good.

  The meadow narrowed into a wide path, and he rounded a boulder into a smaller area of trees. A couple bees buzzed him, but he ignored them. Around another boulder he spotted a smashed hive on the ground with bees crawling over its surface. What caused the hive to drop?

  Skirting the area, Harte crept forward until he figured he was far enough away to risk another call. “Thora?”

  Rustling sounded off to his right, and he whirled.

  About twenty feet away, a small cinnamon-colored bear sat licking its paws. Past it another ten feet on the left lay a body with skirts tangled around legs.

  His throat clutched tight. Thora. The bear didn’t look old enough to be on its own, so he knew a mama bear was somewhere in the vicinity. He crouched and picked up a stone in his left hand. The toss wasn’t a direct hit but landed close enough to startle the bear, who rolled to a stand. A few more rocks sent him on his lumbering way.

  Fanning his gun toward the trees, he walked close, praying she wasn’t badly hurt. The idea she could be dead didn’t even register. “Thora.” He pitched his voice low.

  “Is it gone?”

  Relief made his body sag, and he grabbed for a nearby tree trunk. “For now. But we need to leave.”

  She sat up and brushed dirt and leaves from her face. “Well, that encounter was closer than I ever want to be with another bear.”

  “Are you hurt?” He glanced away looking for the mama bear, and then back, needing a longer look to verify what she claimed. No red spots marred her creamy skin.

  “Not at all. I’ve read enough adventure stories to know I’m supposed to play dead.” She stood and shook out her skirts. “But that animal was curious and kept sniffing me.” She shuddered. “The beast was huge and even licked my hands.”

  The fact she hadn’t panicked was admirable. He didn’t have the heart to tell her the bear was less than a year old, and, as small as Thora was, she outweighed the cub by at least fifty pounds. “Let’s go.”

  Thora bent over and scooped up the handle of a full basket. “I’m quite done with this apple-picking experience. Are Laura and Josie all right? I heard a scream. I’ve laid there helpless and been so worried.”

  He reached out to grasp her elbow and swallowed hard. “Swarmed by bees, but they’ll be fine. Stay behind me.” Keeping his body facing the trees, he edged them away from the spot he’d last seen the cub.

  “You think the bear will come back? After being pelted by rocks?”

  Harte waited until the boulder stood between the broken hive and them before diverting his attention. Looking into her teasing gaze relaxed the ball of nerves knotting his gut. “I did not pelt the animal. I merely encouraged the cub to move along its way.”

  “A baby bear was here, too?” She looked back over her shoulder.

  “What do you mean too?” He tightened his grip on her elbow. “I scared away a seven-or-eight-month-old cub, not grown enough to be independent.”

  “The animal I saw had a back that was this high”—she held out her hand level with her chest—“when walking. I didn’t stay vertical long enough to wait for the animal to rear up on its back legs.”

  Goose flesh rose on his skin. The mama bear. He hauled her close in a tight embrace and breathed in her flowery scent. “I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.” Finally, he felt her arm encircle his back and wished for this special moment to imprint on his soul.

  “You could just say you missed me.”

  Even if I undeniably did, I’m not admitting that fact aloud. Not yet. He chuckled. “What did I tell you about staying out of trouble?”

  Wiggling away, Thorae jutted up her chin and glared. “How is this situation my fault?”

  “I concede you had no control over hungry bears. But Missus Fitzhugh mentioned you didn’t stick with the group.” Seeing her eyes narrow to a thin slit convinced Harte he wouldn’t win this argument. “We need to let everyone know you’re all right.” He waited for her to walk forward before turning and walking backward to guard their back trail, giving quick glances around the area, until they reached Blaze.

  She bent to right the overturned baskets and refill them.

  “Thora, we should get back.” Ready to respond, Harte faced the trees, listening. The natural sounds of the animals reassured him the danger had passed.

  “I’m not leaving these apples behind. Can’t let our work be for naught.”

  Frowning, he squatted and helped as best he could with one hand while keeping his gun and his gaze aimed at the forest. Three baskets and two people will not fit on one horse. “If you ride with one basket, I’ll carry the others.”

  “I’ll walk.”

  Does the infuriating woman go out of her way to make things difficult? He gritted his teeth to keep quiet. Then an idea hit. “Do you know how to ride?”

  “No, but I can drive a two-horse buggy and a four-horse carriage.”

  Harte had to holster his weapon to carry the baskets. They set out walking with Blaze’s reins tied to his trouser belt loop. By the time they reached the mine, he’d somehow agreed to eat dinner at the hotel and sit for the interview afterward. Part of his agreement was because he let Thora’s chatter roll through him, the relaxed sound assuring him she hadn’t been hurt by the bear or bees. The other part was he wanted to get the interview done.

  After dinner, Harte settled into a sofa near a window overlooking the river. He couldn’t have named an item in the meal he’d just eaten except to say the food was hot and filling.

  Thora hurried across the room, notebook in hand. “I’m so glad we’re finally doing the interview.” She riffled through several pages, and then looked up, eyes bright. “My questions have expanded since coming to Morgan’s Crossing and meeting you.”

  “But we met in Sweetwater Springs.” Wondering what she’d ask, he leaned back and rested an ankle on the opposite knee.

  “At first, I was c
urious about your training.”

  “Good as any place to start. I served in the Army and picked up tracking skills.” He’d already decided he’d satisfy Morgan’s requirement, but he wouldn’t reveal his whole sad past.

  “What else did the army teach you?”

  “How to hit my target.”

  Her head jerked up, and her lips parted. “That statement sounds so cold.”

  “A man shouldn’t carry a gun if he isn’t willing to use it.”

  “I don’t think I know anyone back home who could ever say those words and make me believe them. But you just did.” Thora shivered then again focused on her notebook. “Any other training you attribute to the army?”

  He shrugged. “Camping out, making shelter from natural materials, marching. Did a lot of marching.”

  “Practice drills?”

  How much did she want to hear? “Marching to battle.”

  “Oh.” Frowning, she nibbled on the end of her pencil. “But the Civil War was long over.”

  A common mistaken belief most people held about war being the last armed conflict. “I fought in the Battle of Powder River, an attempt to relocate Indians back to their reservation.”

  More than ten years had passed, but he still remembered the freezing cold of that 1876 campaign, even in March. “I resented command’s decision to leave behind wounded soldiers in field hospitals. So I left at the end of my enlistment, ignoring the offer of a pay raise.” He rubbed suddenly damp palms on his trouser legs.

  Her eyes rounded, and she tapped the pencil on the notebook.

  Sitting forward, he studied her shocked expression. Harte sensed he’d upset her, and for that, he was sorry. “But my battle experience doesn’t relate much to what you’ll need for your stories. A big part of being a marshal is using common sense. If you think you know where suspects are hiding, you hunker down nearby to watch. They have to come out for food at some point. You just hope you outlast them.”

  Thora scribbled notes without looking up.

  Harte waited until her pencil slowed. “An unexpected action can make the difference between an arrest and an escape. I’ve climbed on top of cabin roofs and blocked the stovepipe then captured the outlaws when they stumbled outside.”