Montana Snowfall, page 5
part #7 of McCutcheon Family Series
Sally slowly walked forward, feeling the empty pain in her stomach from going so long without food. Her nausea had long since passed, and the pangs of hunger disappeared over an hour ago. Her insides felt like an empty cavern. She rolled her frozen lips over her teeth and struggled to lift her exhausted legs through the surprisingly heavy snowdrifts.
She glanced back at Dolly plodding along behind. “If there’s a cabin, girl, there has to be a lean-to for you. It must be around back where I can’t see it.” She studied the area. “And if there’s not, you’re coming in with me.”
The fresh snow was undisturbed, the shutters closed. The place appeared deserted.
If someone is in there, I’d see some light through the logs. They wouldn’t sit around in the dark waiting for cold, unsuspecting girls.
As Sally got closer, a guarded giddiness swirled within. Soon she’d be able to eat and warm up. With each moment that passed, she expected the door to fly open. For an outlaw to step out and give her an evil grin as he beckoned her inside. If a man did step out, she’d take him on. She was getting inside that cabin and no one, not even an outlaw, was going to prevent that from happening.
The thought almost made her smile, but that would take too much energy. Only the muted thud of Dolly’s snow-filled hooves and the wind’s howl in the trees disturbed the all-encompassing silence.
“It’s up to us, Dolly,” she said, the sound of her voice deadened by the snowstorm. “No one will even know if we live or if we die.”
Chapter Twelve
Cursing the storm and the clouds that looked as if they’d never stop dumping, Roady dismounted in front of the hunting cabin and peeled the wet leather gloves from his hands. Cramming them into his pocket, he clenched and unclenched his frozen fists and then held his fingers inside his mouth, blowing hot breath around them. Crystals of ice and snow fell from his whiskers. The howling wind drowned out the equally loud rumble of his empty stomach. A hot fire and warm food was all he could think about.
Fiddlin’ Dee dropped her head and waited to be unsaddled. Long torrents of breath streamed from her nostrils. Stepping to the door, Roady pushed it open. The welcome scent of musty air hit him square in the face, like the kiss of an old friend. Shelter. He couldn’t wait to get inside.
Back at his horse’s side, he slipped his rifle from its scabbard and leaned it against the cabin wall, leaving the second rifle in its scabbard. Lifting the carcasses of the four large grouse tethered together by twine, he tossed them in the snow next to the door, thinking how good they would taste once he cooked them up over a hot flame. Fumbling because of his stiff fingers, he unlaced the leather ties that held his gear in place, then hefted the heavy, snow-covered bedroll and saddlebags off his mare’s back and flopped them inside the dark interior.
With a swiftness born of repetition, he had his horse unsaddled in moments. He set his rig inside with the rest of his things and took up his rifle. He’d spotted wolf tracks twice since he’d reached the high country, as well as cougar, and wasn’t taking any chances. He and his horse waded through knee-deep snow as they headed around back to the small corral and lean-to.
At the gate, he stilled. The skin at the back of his neck prickled.
There was something in the lean-to.
He felt the presence, but in the darkness of night and with the low overhang of the shed roof, he couldn’t see. Had Behemoth come looking for food before he settled into hibernation?
Roady stepped back and raised his gun, thankful that even half-frozen, he’d had the presence of mind to bring it along. It was too dark to use the sight on the end of his rifle. He’d have to do this by feel.
Definitely not bear-like sounds. In fact, the thuds were familiar from the barn back home. He lowered the rifle and watched in disbelief as a horse—no, mule—emerged, clearly happy to have company. The animal’s large ears rotated forward, then it let out the most god-awful sound. Relieved beyond measure, Roady released his pent-up anxiety in a large cloud of white breath as the animal ambled over, eager to see who would be joining it in the compound.
Roady’s gaze darted to the cabin. Was the owner of the animal inside? Why hadn’t they made their presence known when he opened the door? He studied the way back to the front, now seeing places where the snow had been disturbed and then covered over.
Quietly, he opened the gate, pushed back the mule, and led his horse inside. He slipped off her bridle, exited, and closed the gate.
Whatever came to be in the next few minutes, he wasn’t leaving this cabin and going back out into the storm. That wasn’t an option. Lifting his rifle at the ready, he returned in his own tracks. Whoever it was might be outside by now, waiting to shoot him down.
He arrived at the half-opened door unmolested, then stood there with his back to the wall, listening. All was quiet except for the loud swish of blood in his ears.
Maybe they’d gone out to hunt for food. But wouldn’t there be a fire in the hearth, or at least the smell of smoke of one recently lit? Someone had put that mule in the corral.
Confused, he slowly inched inside. With the two windows shuttered tight, only a tiny amount of light from the cloud-covered moon filtered in through the door, and ended halfway across the room.
He didn’t feel any danger. In fact, didn’t feel anything at all except curiosity, the blessed absence of the frigid wind, and a burning desire to get a fire built.
Roady hoped he wouldn’t regret this, but he quietly set his rifle on the table, then dug inside his coat pocket for his matches. That took some doing through his damp clothes with frozen hands, and made plenty of noise. Confident now he was alone, he lifted the glass globe of the lantern on the table, and touched the wick with the small glowing flame.
Amber light chased away the shadows.
The one-room hunting cabin was vacant. He saw a saddlebag against the wall. As he stepped toward it, something in the shadows by the hearth shifted, and he pulled up short.
So much for not letting down his guard. A moment of panic had him thinking of the bear, even though the outline was much too small. He stood there and stared. Was it a child, engulfed in a large leather coat, asleep by the cold hearth?
Stepping forward, he squatted, then lifted the lapel away.
A woman! What? A thousand thoughts crashed through his brain. He stared, poleaxed, trying to figure out how and why a woman would be all the way up here—alone.
She was small-boned, and the profile of her face, beautiful. He wondered why it pulled at his heartstrings. Maybe it was the vulnerable way her cheek rested on her folded hands, as if she’d fallen asleep in prayer. She had thick, dark lashes and a straight nose. A smattering of very light freckles across the bridge reminding him of a quail’s egg. Her hair, still wet from being out in the storm, appeared frazzled. She must be exhausted to sleep through his arrival.
He glanced over his shoulder and up to the rafters at the cot and a stack of blankets cinched to the underside of a crossbeam, out of the way of any little critters resourceful enough to find a way inside.
Without another thought, he pulled the bench over, stepped up, and quickly released the cot and coverings. Setting them next to the wall, he scooped her into his arms. Even when he laid her down on her back, she didn’t awaken, but her head lolled to one side and she whispered something in her sleep.
He knelt by her side. “Miss?” Her lashes quivered against the flushed peach color of her face. At the sound of his voice, her brow scrunched momentarily, but she drifted back into slumber.
He needed to remove her wet clothes. The last thing he wanted was for her to come down with a fever. He’d seen a man suffer paroxysms once caused by a high temperature. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Not wasting a second, he carefully unwound the soggy scarf from around her neck, the scent of damp wool sweeping over his senses. Completely relaxed in sleep, she reminded him of a slumbering lamb in the arms of its shepherd as he lifted her limp body and removed the man-size leather coat. He tossed it to the side. Off came another damp layer that looked to be a castoff of some man’s shirt as well.
Finally, he stopped stripping her garments when he came to her fitted shirtwaist with puffed sleeves. The garment was dry and looked much too fine to have been homemade. Impossibly tiny buttons in narrow buttonholes fastened the two sides of her bodice together.
His gaze roamed lower. He hesitated at the damp pair of extremely baggy britches, held up by a rope, wondering if her dignity was worth the possibility of her catching the chills. He’d wait on those in hopes she woke up soon.
Was something other than the obvious going on here? Was she already sick? Passed out? He shook out several blankets and covered her
Who was she? And how did she make it all the way up this mountain by herself in such a hellish storm? A gust of wind buffeted the shutter over her head, reminding him he’d better get a fire started. It wasn’t all that much warmer inside. Was she alone, or would someone come crashing through the door at any moment?
Chapter Thirteen
Nervous energy raced through Amy when she heard Brandon and Charity’s laughing voices outside. In moments they’d come through the door. What would they think of Cade? Her brother had yet to come down from upstairs.
They knocked and then opened the door, calling out, “Hi, Amy, we’re here.”
Amy came out of the kitchen, forcing a smile. She hoped it didn’t look as fake as it felt. Brandon and Charity laughed and stomped the snow from their boots.
“You should see the weather out there.” Charity peeled off her gloves, then went about unbuttoning her coat with shaky fingers. “It’s going to be a whiteout before the night is over. I hope the girls and Mother arrive shortly, or it might just be you and me for your dinner party.” She looked around at the floor. “Sorry about this mess. I’ll clean it up.”
Amy brushed away the comment with her hand. “Don’t worry about that. How was the ride from town? Must have been cold.”
Cinder rushed for Brandon, who had already divested himself of his coat and hung it on the rack. Cinder held out her small arms, and he gently lifted her high. Bending his knees, he gave her a few dramatic swoops, eliciting a round of giggles.
“A winter wonderland—in September,” Charity gushed, watching her new husband swing Cinder. “This is the earliest storm I can remember. Now that I’m living in town, I appreciate the beauty of the land even more. It’s like I’m seeing it for the very first time each time I ride out.”
Amy clutched her hands together and glanced out the window. “It’s coming down pretty hard.”
“More please, more please,” Cinder jabbered between laughs each time she thought her uncle was slowing. Her cheeks turned a pretty watermelon pink, and her baby-soft hair flew away from her face, her eyes bright.
Amy appreciated Brandon’s astuteness. Although strong and healthy, Cinder was the smallest of the cousins and had a delicate frame. No one ever mistook her for a little boy, even when she was wearing hand-me-down britches from her male cousins. She was all girl, through and through.
“You’re heavy, Cinderella,” Brandon said with a chuckle, emphasizing the special pet name, “my arms are about to fall off. You must have gained a good two pounds and grown four inches since the last time I swung you. Now, hold on, here we go.”
Charity peeked into the kitchen area. “Your table is beautiful. I love all the fall-colored leaves in the centerpiece. Good thing you gathered them before the weather turned. Thank you for thinking of this evening. It’ll be fun with just us girls making party plans without the men around.”
Brandon looked at her. “What do you mean?” He slowed to a stop and set Cinder onto her feet, then patted her head. “Us men always come up with the best ideas. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Charity drilled him with a no-nonsense stare. “You want a shooting contest at every single event.”
He shrugged. “Can’t blame us for trying. Besides, you do well enough at shooting, Charity. Last July in Rio Wells makes my point quite nicely.”
She buffed him playfully on the arm, unaware that her nose, red from the cold, made her look like a child who’d gotten into some paint. She shivered. “Maybe so, but this is a Christmas barn dance, Brandon. Maybe we’ll have a singing contest, or poetry recital.”
When he scrunched up his face, everyone laughed, including Cinder, although she clearly didn’t know what they were talking about.
“Or a marathon waltz,” Amy added, trying to get into the spirit of things.
Charity’s eyes brightened. “I like that idea. I love waltzing in my husband’s arms. Even better if it’s for hours, and a prize is involved.”
“Her competiveness rears its ugly head. But did you say hours?” Brandon looked between the two women, his expression crestfallen.
“What? Don’t you like waltzing with me?”
“Of course I do. But I like shooting contests too.”
Amy shook her head. “You’re outnumbered, Brandon.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be outnumbered if Mark were here.”
Amy couldn’t stop a laugh. “You may as well get your dancing boots all spit-shined now. Only about three months to go.” She put her hand on Brandon’s arm and nudged him toward the door.
“Won’t you miss me, darlin’?” he said to Charity. “We’ve been hitched less than two months. I was disappointed when I heard the invitation was only for the women.” He cocked his eyebrow at Amy as he put his arms around Charity’s waist, pulling her close.
Charity pushed away when he nuzzled her neck. “You behave! You and Pa have an evening planned at the bunkhouse, playing poker to your hearts’ content. And you’d best be on your way. The others are probably anxious to ante up.”
“I’d rather stay here and have supper with you. Whatever you have cooking smells real good, Amy. What time should I be back to fetch you, charming wife?”
She crossed her arms. “How about I fetch you when my night is over?”
He tweaked her nose. “No doin’. You stay put until I ride into this yard. I’ll stable your horse before I leave.” Brandon shrugged back into his coat.
“I hope this weather doesn’t delay the boys’ return from Waterloo,” Charity said.
Brandon hoisted Cinder one last time. “The first storm of the year usually doesn’t last long. It’s Roady I’m thinking about.” He set Cinder down and finished buttoning up, then pulled on his gloves. “If he failed to make it to the hunting cabin in time, he’ll have to find shelter somewhere to wait out the worst of it.” Brandon chuckled. “He’s not going to like that one bit.”
A shout sounded from outside.
Recognizing Francis’s voice, Brandon yanked the door open. The women followed. Francis rode up through the wall of white.
“What’s wrong?” Brandon shouted before the cowhand could even dismount.
“Nothing. Just wanted to get here before you left. Mr. and Mrs. McCutcheon want all the women and children to bundle up and come over to the big house for a night or two because of the weather.”
“Why?” Amy asked from the doorway, the cold air biting her face and hands. “It’s just some snow.”
Francis rode closer to the door, his hat and shoulders white. Charity ran back into the house and stood by Amy, clinging to her arm to stay warm.
“They feel antsy because Mark and the other men are gone.” He glanced around at the snow that was coming down thicker by the moment. “No telling how long this’ll last. They want you and the grandkids under their roof.” He sat there looking at them. “And I was told to tell you, there is no discussion on this, so please come.”
Amy lifted Cinder into her arms when the child wandered over to the door.
“Frans,” she said in her childish voice, and bumped up and down in excitement.
“But I’ve cooked dinner for everyone,” Amy said, looking back at the kitchen where the chicken was ready to come out of the oven. “What am I supposed to do with all the food?”
“I’ll take care of that, Amy.”
Everyone turned at the unfamiliar voice. She wondered again what had prompted Cade’s unexpected visit.
Brandon came back inside. “Who’re you?”
“This is my brother, Cade Morrow. Cade, meet my sister-in-law, Charity Crawford, and her husband, Brandon Crawford, the sheriff of Y Knot. That’s Francis out on the horse.”
Thank goodness Cade had cleaned up, combed his hair, and looked presentable. His face was clean-shaven, and his guns weren’t anywhere to be seen. She couldn’t miss Brandon’s suspicious perusal of her brother.
Brandon put out his hand and Cade grasped it. “Mr. Morrow. Good to meet you.”
Amy went over and stood by Cade, giving her unspoken support. “I haven’t seen Cade in years. This is his first time to our home.”
A few uncomfortable moments ticked by.
“You’re not coming with us?” Brandon directed his question to Cade.
“Naw, it wouldn’t feel right bargin’ in on Amy’s in-laws since I don’t know anyone yet. ’Sides, I can surely take care of myself here alone, if Amy needs to go.” He looked around the room, at the sturdy beams running the ceiling, the warm woolen throw lying across the back of the settee. “It’s the best place I’ve ever seen. But it’s understandable the others are worried about Amy—her being in the family way and all. I’ll be happy to set up here and watch over the place, keep it safe. That is, if you trust me, Amy. It’s a sight better’n campin’ outside.”
What could she say? That she didn’t trust her own brother in her home? Anything of real value was locked away in Mark’s safe.
“Of course you can stay, Cade,” she said quickly, mad at herself for such thoughts. “Eat supper and make yourself at home.”
