Chasing the Sun (31 page)

Bear.

Fear shot through him. Groping frantically in the dark, he found a stick. Cursing and shouting, he banged it against the logs, making as much noise as he could. With a snort, the bear retreated through the brush, its claws digging up a clatter of loose stones as it lumbered up what sounded like a steep slope rising behind the blowdown.

Jack sagged back, his body shaking, his mind spinning. He’d been so worried about finding shelter and tending his leg, he hadn’t thought about predators. What if they were after Daisy and Kate too?

In sudden terror, he yelled for them again and again, but heard nothing over the roar of the creek.

Maybe they’d made it off the bridge. Maybe they were safe and back at the ranch.

He wouldn’t consider any other alternatives.

He must have dozed off. When next he opened his eyes, bright light filtered through the snarl of limbs overhead and the roar of rushing water didn’t seem as loud as it had in the night. Leaning up on one elbow, he peered through the logs.

A line of debris on the far bank indicated the creek had gone down at least a foot, although it was still a churning froth of sticks and branches. He wouldn’t be able to cross it any time soon, especially if more rain came. He needed to find a better shelter and water that was safe to drink while he figured out where he was and what he should do. But first, he had to assess the damage in his leg and find a way to stop the bleeding.

To cushion the wound when he crawled through the logs, he made a pad from pieces of his shredded shirt then buckled the belt around his thigh to hold it in place. He peered through the logs, but didn’t see the bear, nor did he hear anything but the rushing creek.

He hoped it was a black bear and not a grizzly. A grizzly was unpredictable. Once it had you in its mind, it wouldn’t give up until it had you in its mouth. And a grizzly would be strong enough to pull apart this blowdown if it wanted to.

Careful not to drag his injured leg over the rough bark, Jack pulled himself out of his log shelter. Once clear, he lay gasping on the muddy bank and waited for the pain to ebb. His leg burned. His ribs ached with each breath, and dozens of cuts and bruises protested every movement he made.

But he was alive. And it had stopped raining. His lucky day.

Grabbing a nearby branch, he used it to pull himself up onto his good leg. He tested the injured one. Despite the pain, it moved when he told it to. It looked straight, and it didn’t fold when he put a little weight on it, so he figured it wasn’t broken.

He could also move his torso and breathe without bringing up blood, which told him his ribs might be cracked but not broken enough to puncture a lung. But since they were bruised on the same side as his injured leg, it would make using a crutch difficult, as well as painful. But he’d do it. He had no choice. Daisy and Kate might be out there somewhere, waiting for him.

Using the stick for balance, he hopped over to a boulder and leaned against it, his leg outstretched so he could assess the damage. Carefully, he unbuckled the belt and lifted the pad.

The gash was maybe an inch deep, eight inches long, running up the outside of his right thigh. It looked fairly clean—the seepage had probably kept it that way. But he couldn’t afford to lose any more blood. He felt weak enough as it was.

With the stick, he dug around the base of the boulder and nearby tree trunks until he found a spongy spot with moss growing on top. Moss was supposed to stop bleeding and prevent festering. He hoped it would work. Pulling up a wad, he rinsed it in a nearby puddle, and gingerly laid it over the gash.

A shock of pain arced through him. The moss looked soft enough, but the prickly surface hurt like hell against his raw flesh. With shaking hands, he replaced the pad he’d made from his shirt and buckled the belt over it.

Air hissed through his clenched teeth as he waited for the pain to ebb. Once it did and he could think again, he looked around to see where he was.

A high-walled canyon. One he recognized. And one that ended with the aptly named Dead Horse Falls. He would have laughed if he’d had the strength.

Except for the muddy patch where the blowdown was, there was no bank, either upstream or down, just sheer rock walls funneling the swollen creek into a forty-foot-wide chute of boiling rapids that roared over the cliff onto rocks fifty feet below. The only reason he hadn’t gone over himself was because of a huge logjam perched on the edge of the falls just a few yards from where he’d washed ashore. From what he could see, the only ways out of this canyon, other than going over the falls to certain death, would be across the logjam—a dangerous undertaking for a whole man, much less one with a wounded leg—or up the sharp incline rising behind him. The one the bear had taken.

He was trapped like a rat in a maze.

Strength deserted him. He sagged against the makeshift crutch, his head hanging in despair. How would he get to Daisy and Kate now? They could be out there, needing him, but all he could do was wait for the creek to go down, or sit here until help came, or try to find a way across the logjam.

Lifting his head, he stared numbly at the twisted pile of shattered timbers that had probably saved his life by keeping him from going over the falls. He could never cross that. Not without guide ropes and two good legs.

Then recognition came, and he laughed bitterly.

Caught in the logjam were ropes and splintered planks and shattered two-foot diameter logs. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten that far from the bridge after all. But maybe there was something in that pile he could use to find another way out.

He scanned the steep walls for a place to attach the ropes. Instead, he saw water seeping out of a long split in the rock face, and suddenly he was so thirsty he could hardly swallow. Hobbling over to it, he brushed away grit with his tattered shirtsleeve, then pressed his open mouth to the fissure and greedily sucked up the trickling water. After drinking his fill, he turned and studied the steep grade rising behind the blowdown, wondering if he could climb out that way.

Deep gouges scored the muddy soil where the bear had clawed its way up the slope. A big bear, by the looks of the tracks and depth of the gouges. A sense of defeat moved through Jack when he realized even if he could scale that incline with his bad leg, the bear could very well be up there waiting for him.

Or maybe it wouldn’t wait. Maybe the scent of blood that had attracted it the previous night would bring it back again tonight.

He checked his pocket and was relieved to find he still had his folding jackknife. Small, but it might do some good. With painful slowness, he hobbled over to the logjam, intent on salvaging anything he could use to defend himself or strengthen his blowdown shelter in the event help didn’t come today and he had to spend another night.

Help didn’t come.

But long after dark, when the moonlight spilled silvery bands of light through the gaps in the logs and planks Jack had tied over the blowdown, the bear did.

Eighteen

BRADY AWOKE WITH A GASP, HIS HEART POUNDING IN HIS chest. Not sure what woke him, he listened but heard nothing unusual ... the tick of the day clock on the mantel, a coyote howling down the valley, Jessica breathing softly at his side, her arms and feet flung wide in an attitude of careless abandon she allowed herself only when asleep.

Gently removing the arm thrown across his chest, he rose and padded across the thick rug to the window that overlooked the front of the house. Pushing the drape aside, he looked out.

The sky had cleared except for a few wispy clouds moving east ahead of a three-quarter moon. A pale gray wash highlighted the landscape, creating odd shadows but giving some visibility. Across from him the barn was a dark, looming mass, its sharp angles and long, flat planes softened by moonlight. In the paddocks, horses rested quietly. No dogs barked. Nothing moved.

Then what had woken him? Awareness burst into his mind.

Jack.

Not an image, or even a fully formed thought—but a feeling, a certainty—that Jack was alive and in trouble and needed him.

Now
.

He quickly gathered the garments he’d thrown over one of the wingback chairs by the cold fireplace and slipped into the dressing room. Without taking time to light the lamp, he hurriedly dressed, the sense of urgency so strong it made him clumsy, and his shaking fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt.

They’d searched all yesterday from dawn until full dark. Still no sign. The nights were cool, too cool for an injured man or one without shelter or dry clothes. If they didn’t find Jack today ...

No!
He wouldn’t even consider that possibility. They would find him. And Brady had an idea of where they should start looking. It was a long shot, but with the creek running as fast as it was, Jack might have drifted that far. It was the only place he could think of that they hadn’t already searched.

A moment later, he stepped back out of the dressing room to find the lamp lit and Jessica sitting up in bed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, as unerringly attuned to him and his moods as he was to hers.

He considered lying to her. Not just to shield her from worry, but because he didn’t want to waste time in explanations. But lying to Jessica had never come easy, so he decided to go for partial truth.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said, avoiding her eyes as he sat in one of the chairs to pull on his boots. “Thought I’d get an early start.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“There’s plenty of moonlight yet.”

“Brady.”

Clenching his teeth in impatience, he lifted his head and looked at her.

“What’s wrong?”

He continued pulling on his boots, speaking hurriedly, his tone daring her to argue. “He’s alive, Jessica. I know he is. I have to go.”

“Can you not at least wait for daylight?”

“No. He’s in trouble. I feel it. And he’s running out of time.”

He stood, lifted his gun belt from the hook behind the door, and slid it around his waist. As he buckled it on, he could feel her watching, could feel the press of all her unasked questions and her doubts and fears for both him and Jack.

“I won’t give up on him, Jessica,” he said curtly. “I won’t lose another brother. By God, I won’t.”

When she didn’t respond, he looked over to find her studying him, her eyes dark, luminous pools in her worried face.

“Then what can I do to help?” she asked.

Gratitude flooded him. He loved her for that—for understanding, for letting him do what he had to do without pulling him down with her doubts and worries. Crossing the room in two strides, he cupped her face in his hands and gave her a hard, quick kiss. She tasted of sleep and her hair smelled like flowers and his love for her was like a living, breathing thing lodged in his chest.

He straightened and gave her a look he hoped would reassure her. “I can’t wait on Hank. Tell him I’m going to Dead Horse Falls. Have him bring the wagon of supplies and meet me there. I’m sure that’s where Jack is.”

“Find him then, Brady. Bring him home.”

“I will.” He left the bedroom and hurried down the hall. As he came around the curve of the staircase, he saw a figure silhouetted against one of the moonlit entry windows. Daisy.

She turned to watch him come down the last of the stairs.

Even with the dim light, the woman looked like she’d been dragged behind a horse. But despite her haggard, scratched appearance and the terror he saw in her eyes, he sensed within her the same unyielding resolve that seemed to afflict all the women in his family. He and his brothers were lucky that way.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked as he stepped onto the entry landing.

“Why aren’t you?”

He paused and looked down at her, thinking again his brother would be ten times a fool to let this woman get away from him. “I’m going to get Jack.”

Hope trembled in her voice. “You know where he is?”

“I think so.”

Air rushed out of her. Reaching a shaking hand into her pocket, she brought out something that glinted in the shaft of moonlight coming through the window. “When you find him, give him this. For luck.”

It was a silver cross. Nodding, Brady took it and slipped it into his pocket. As he started toward the coat hooks on the other side of the entry, she reached out and caught his arm.

“You bring him back to me, Brady,” she said in a wobbly voice. “Promise me you won’t come back without him.”

“My word.”

STANLEY ASHFORD DRESSED CAREFULLY. HE HADN’T SEEN Jessica Thornton for almost four years, and it was important to him that he looked his best.

Not
Thornton,
he reminded himself. Wilkins now.

Stupid woman.

Careful to avoid looking at his face in the mirror, he made sure the points of his collar were perfectly straight and aligned, then reached for the new tie he had bought expressly for this occasion. Slipping it around his neck, he lined up the loose ends before tying it.

Wilkins Cattle and Mining, he called himself now.

Pretentious bastard.