Malachite

  The old man lifted the heavy basket of meat that Carmelita had prepared and headed toward his chuck wagon, calling out orders to one of the wranglers as he walked. By the time Carmelita had banked the fires and pulled on her heavy serape, Millie joined her on the porch.

  The older woman shivered. “Even after all these years, I am never prepared for these storms.”

  Millie nodded. “I guess I won’t see you again until the snows melt.”

  The two women hugged. Carmelita climbed up beside her husband, who saluted Millie before flicking the reins.

  “Goodbye, Carmelita, Rosario,” Millie shouted into the wind before settling herself on the hard seat and picking up the reins.

  As the horse and wagon moved out at a fast clip, she turned to watch the cluster of wranglers who were saddling their mounts and securing bedrolls. The tall, muscular figure she’d hoped to see wasn’t among them. Perhaps he’d gone ahead to search for the mustangs. Or maybe he was just eager to be gone.

  She wondered if he was thinking of her. Missing her as she was missing him. Or had he already swept her from his mind?

  She guided the horse and wagon across the swollen waters of Poison Creek and fought the feelings of gloom that had settled like a dark cloud over her thoughts. What was wrong with her? After all, she’d been the one to order him to leave. And it had been the right decision. Any respectable woman would have done the same. Their situation had become impossible. They couldn’t continue to live in such close quarters and be expected to deny their growing attraction.

  When the wagon rolled to a stop, the schoolhouse door was flung open and her three daughters raced outside.

  “Miss Pearl was hoping you’d come for us soon,” April said as she helped her younger sisters into the back of the wagon. “She’s worried about those storm clouds over Widow’s Peak.”

  Millie turned to see angry black clouds churning across the sky, covering Widow’s Peak like a shroud. “Snuggle under the quilts, girls.” She flicked the reins. “We’ll be home in time for supper.”

  The horse and wagon bumped across the swollen creek once more, then started up the hill at a fast clip. Soon they had left the Jewel ranch house behind as they rolled across mile after mile of rich pastureland.

  Millie drew her shawl close, struggling in vain to stay warm. The snow was nearly blinding, stinging her face, freezing on her lashes. She could no longer feel her hands.

  The ground was already completely covered. For as far as she could see, there was only a limitless expanse of white. The wet, heavy snow dragged down tree branches until some of them snapped, sounding like thunder in the eerie silence. And still the snow fell, blowing, freezing, until the horse had to struggle to pull its burden through the drifts.

  “Mama, look,” April cried. “It’s Diablo.”

  Millie turned, following the direction in which her daughter pointed. The black stallion stood on a nearby hillside. Dusted with snow, veiled in a curtain of white, he appeared to be a ghostly specter. As she and the girls watched, he reared up, blowing and snorting.

  “He’s cast his evil spell on us,” April shouted.

  “Nonsense,” Millie cried. But even as she spoke, she felt a shiver pass through her. “Huddle close together, girls. And burrow deep into the straw for warmth.”

  Just as Millie was turning back, she felt the wagon lurch, then begin to tilt at a crazy angle. She cried out a warning to her daughters as the wagon fell on its side and the terrified horse reared up in the traces.

  The three little girls were tossed about like rag dolls before landing in the snow. Millie struggled to let go of the reins, but they were twisted about her hands and wrists. The frightened animal continued to run, dragging the damaged wagon seat, with Millie still aboard, until the harness snapped. The horse, free of its burden, raced off, sending Millie flying through the air until the leather reins were ripped from her.

  “Mama! Mama!” April, May and June gathered around the still figure of their mother, who lay facedown in a snowbank.

  “Don’t die, Mama,” April cried, shaking Millie’s shoulder. “Please don’t die like Pa.”

  “I’m ... not... dead.” Slowly, painfully, Millie sat up, struggling to clear the stars that were dancing before her eyes.

  “Are you girls all right?” She took in the three worried faces peering down at her. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “We’re okay, Mama. But look at your hands.”

  At May’s words, Millie held up her hands and was astonished to note that they were raw and bloody. But she couldn’t feel any pain. In fact, her hands were so numb she couldn’t feel anything at all.

  Pushing herself to her knees, she shook her head, fighting a wave of nausea. Then she forced herself to stand. Thankfully, nothing seemed broken. She could support her own weight.

  “Come on, Mama.” April tugged on her coat. “We have to get away from Diablo before he stomps us into the snow.”

  “Hush, darling. That horse is the least of our worries.” Millie looked around. The mustang was nowhere to be seen. “You see?”

  She circled the area until she located the quilts that had fallen from the back of the wagon. Then she gathered her daughters close and wrapped them in warmth.

  “My feet are cold,” little June whispered.

  “I know, honey. Here.” Millie lifted the little girl in her arms. At once burning, searing pain shot through her hands and arms and she was forced to set her back down.

  Kneeling, she said, “Climb up. I’ll carry you piggyback.”

  The little girl wrapped her chubby arms around her mother’s neck. Millie draped the quilt around her, then said, “It looks like we’ll have to start walking.”

  “Which way?” April asked.

  Darkness was already falling. And the blowing snow had obliterated familiar landmarks. Millie refused to give in to the first wave of panic. Once they reached higher ground, she vowed she would get her bearings.

  “This way.” She reached her hands to her daughters. With April on one side of her and May on the other, she set off.

  * * *

  “I have to stop, Mama.” May tugged on her mother’s hand.

  “We can’t, honey. We have to keep moving.”

  “I can’t go another step.” The little girl dropped to her knees in a snowdrift and began to cry.

  Exhausted, Millie dropped down beside her and gratefully slid June from her shoulders. The little girl lay as still as death. For a moment Millie’s heart stopped. Then she realized her daughter was asleep.

  She started to draw the quilt tightly around the little girl, when her hand scraped something in the snow. When she lifted it up, her heart fell.

  Straw. The straw that had been in the back of their wagon. They had been walking for what seemed hours. And they were right back where they’d started.

  She fought to keep the tears from her voice. “Come on, girls. It’s time to get started again.”

  “I can’t, Mama.” May’s tears were freezing on her cheeks.

  “You have to, honey.” Millie lifted June to her back, wrapping the little girl’s arms around her neck. Then she dragged May and April to their feet.

  Holding tightly to their hands, she forced them along by her side.

  In places the snowdrifts came up to their knees. Millie fell so many times she lost count. One thing kept her going. The knowledge that if she allowed them to stop, they would all die.

  It was black as night now, and she peered in all directions, praying for a light to guide her. But all she saw was darkness. Even the moon and stars were obliterated by the heavy curtain of snow.

  “I heard a gunshot, Mama,” April said excitedly.

  “It was only a limb falling from a tree.”

  “No. There it is again.”

  Millie stiffened. “Yes. I heard it.” She turned. “From that direction.”

  They stumbled through the snow, straining for another sound. Finally there was a third gunshot. This one was much cl
oser.

  “Over here,” Millie called, cupping her hands to her mouth.

  “Help us,” April shouted. “We’re over here.”

  A short time later there was another gunshot. This one was very close.

  “We’re here,” Millie shouted at the top of her lungs. “Over here.”

  A shadow loomed out of the darkness. As it drew close Millie saw that it was a horse and rider.

  “Oh, thank heaven.” She watched the rider slide from the saddle and start toward her. In that instant she recognized the silhouette.

  “Malachite. Oh, Malachite.” She sank to her knees, tears streaming down her face.

  “Are you hurt?” There was such ferocity in his voice she actually pulled back.

  “Malachite...”

  He dragged her to her feet, hauling her close, his hands biting into her shoulders. “I asked if you’re hurt.” His eyes blazed with barely controlled fury.

  She was too overcome to speak. All she could do was shake her head.

  “The girls?”

  “They’re just cold and frightened. How did you know we were out here? How did you find us? Oh, Malachite. I’d begun to think...” The words shuddered from trembling lips. “I’d begun to think no one would miss us. And we wouldn’t be found until...”

  “Sh.” He gave a long, deep sigh and wrapped his arms around her. “We’ll talk later. Right now, let’s get you home.”

  “Home.” At that word she found herself weeping harder. Just having his strong arms around her made her feel that she’d come home.

  He lifted June from her back and placed the little girl in the snow, with the quilt wrapped firmly around her. Then he lifted Millie to the saddle of his horse. Behind her he placed May and April. He untied his bedroll and wrapped the blankets around them. Then, lifting June up to her mother’s waiting arms, he caught his horse’s reins and began trudging through the snow.

  “Don’t cry, Mama,” May whispered. “Malachite’s here. We’re safe now.”

  “I know, honey.” Somehow she felt comforted by those words. Despite the fact that they were miles from town, despite the fact that night had fallen and the snow was still coming down, she felt safe, secure. She knew, without any doubt, that she could entrust her life, and the lives of her daughters, to this man. As long as he was with them, they would make it.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Here we are.” In the bitter cold and swirling snow, Malachite’s calm, deep voice was reassuring as he brought the horse to a halt.

  Dazed, confused, Millie peered into the darkness. “This can’t be Hanging Tree. There are no lights. No buildings.”

  “We were too far from town. You needed shelter immediately.” He helped the little girls down, then reached up for her.

  She sank gratefully into his arms.

  For the space of a heartbeat he held her close and pressed his lips to her hair. Then he set her on her feet and led the way through the drifts.

  Millie stared in surprise. “Why, we’re back where we started. This is the Jewel ranch house.”

  “That’s right.” He leaned into the door and forced it open, then reached down and picked up little June, who had dropped onto the steps, too exhausted to walk.

  Inside, he gathered them around the fireplace and began to stir the dying embers. Soon, with logs and kindling, he had a roaring fire started.

  “I’ll find some blankets.” He turned to Millie. “See that the girls strip off those wet clothes.”

  When he returned with the blankets, the three girls were bundled into them and settled comfortably in front of the fire.

  “You, too.” With a stern look he held out a blanket to Millie.

  “I’d like to fix them something to eat first.”

  “I’ll see to it. Now strip off those wet things or I’ll do it for you.”

  She knew, by the roughness of his tone, that he meant it. Too tired to argue, she did as she was told.

  A short time later she sat huddled near the hearth, surrounded by her daughters. Even talking seemed too much effort. And so they sat, staring at the flames, allowing the warmth to slowly seep back into their bones.

  The air became perfumed with the fragrance of coffee and biscuits and something wonderful bubbling over the fire.

  Malachite summoned them to the table and began ladling stew into bowls. He filled two cups with coffee and sat down beside Millie.

  “This is delicious,” she said. “What is it?”

  “Plain old rabbit stew.”

  Malachite glanced toward the three little girls, who were making a valiant effort to eat. But after only a few bites, weariness won out over hunger. Their little heads bobbed. They rested their cheeks on their hands and closed their eyes.

  “I wonder if this says something about my cooking,” he muttered.

  “Poor things.” Millie studied them with a look of love. “They were trying so hard to be brave.”

  “Like their mother.” He brushed a lock of damp hair from her cheek, allowing his hand to linger a moment.

  It was an achingly sweet gesture that had her wanting to clutch his hand and hold it to her. Instead she sat very still, absorbing the tenderness of the moment.

  “Come on.” He shoved back his chair and got to his feet. “You know this house better than I do. Show me where you’d like them to sleep and I’ll carry them to bed.”

  He lifted little June and trailed Millie up the stairs.

  “Let’s put them in Diamond’s old room.” She opened a door and set a lantern on the dresser before crossing to the bed to fold down the covers.

  She turned. It gave her a start to see Malachite carrying her daughter. It was a painful reminder of what her children were missing in their lives.

  He deposited June in the big bed, then went back downstairs for May. When she was snuggled beside her sister, he returned for April.

  As he started to lift her, the little girl stirred. For a moment she sighed, wrapping her arms around his neck, snuggling close. Suddenly, her eyes opened and she realized what she’d done.

  “You’re not my pa. Put me down,” she commanded in a trembling voice.

  “I was just going to take you up to join your sisters in bed.”

  “I can walk.”

  He set her down. On trembling legs she climbed the stairs and gratefully crawled in beside her sisters.

  “Good night, honey,” Millie whispered as she pressed a kiss to her cheek.

  “’Night, Mama.” April flicked a glance toward Malachite, who was standing slightly behind her mother. Without another word she closed her eyes and settled into sleep.

  Millie led the way from the room, closing the door softly behind her. Downstairs she draped the children’s wet clothes over the backs of the kitchen chairs, then began clearing the table.

  “Leave that,” Malachite said.

  She shook her head. “I can’t ignore this mess. Carmelita...”

  He took the dishes from her hand and set them down. “I said leave it.”

  For the first time he caught sight of her hands. “God in heaven.” He lifted them, palms up, and studied the raw, bloody flesh. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “It wasn’t nearly as important as the girls.”

  “Sit here.” He pressed her into a chair by the fire and stormed outside. He returned moments later with his saddlebags flung over his shoulder. From one of the saddlebags he removed a small, slippery pouch. “Hold out your hands,” he said gruffly.

  Very gently he spread a thick yellow ointment over her palms. Almost at once the pain began to subside.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  He nearly smiled. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Another one of your Comanche potions? What does this one contain? Bear grease?”

  He met her look. There was a gleam in his eye. “The pouch is made of deer innard. The ointment is made by grinding up the heart of a buffalo, the tongue of a wild boar and the eye of a mountain cat.” r />
  She pulled back in alarm. “I wish you hadn’t told me.”

  “You asked.” Then, unable to keep a straight face, he burst into laughter. “In truth, I bought it from a soldier at a military post. It was concocted by a doctor in Boston.”

  “Oh, you.” She lifted both hands as though threatening to smear the ointment on his shirt.

  With a laugh he caught her by the wrists. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. You make it so easy to tease you.”

  “You can apologize by getting me a cup of coffee,” she said with a laugh.

  He poured a cup of hot coffee and held it to her lips while she sipped.

  “Sit here quietly,” he muttered, “and warm yourself.”

  Too weary to argue she sat back, warmed as much by his teasing as by the coffee and the fire.

  “Now, tell me what happened out there on the trail.” He stood by the fireplace, his arm resting along the mantel.

  “I don’t know. One minute we were heading home. The next April spotted Diablo. I turned to look. The wagon jolted, then tipped over. The horse broke free of the harness and ran off.”

  The warmth was gone from his eyes. His words were deadly calm. “You didn’t pass anyone along the trail?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t see anyone or anything. Just Diablo. He looked...” She swallowed and forced herself to go on. “He looked like the devil himself, watching us as we approached, then rearing up as though determined to stop us. I know you think I’m foolish but—” she shivered “—that horse is evil.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  She refused to be silent. “Oh, Malachite. Don’t you see? It’s as though that evil horse planned it. It was growing dark. And so cold. The worst part was knowing that no one would miss us. Folks in town would think we were still safe out here. And there was no one left here at the ranch to come looking for us.”

  She turned wide, questioning eyes to him. “How did you know something had happened to us?”

  “I saw Diablo, too. And his herd. And while I watched, I caught a glimpse of a horse in the distance, dragging a harness. I recognized it as yours.” He fisted his hand by his side, the only indication of the depth of his emotion. “I told Cookie I had to get back to the ranch.”