Here Comes the Bride (14 page)

“This is where I belong. You and Rosa are the only friends I have left in the world, except for Charlotte, but she’s back in Boston, and I
am not
going back there.”

“Why not go back to Boston? You’d be taken care of there, you wouldn’t have to scrape and scrounge for every penny. . . .”

“No,” she said resolutely. “I’d rather die than go back there. Now let’s not talk about it anymore and please, Bart, don’t mention this to Gabriel; he’s sure to try and stop me.”

“Tess . . .”

“Please, Bart.”

He nodded hesitantly and dismounted.

“Come on then,” he sighed. “Let’s get these animals watered. I think Rosa tucked some food in your saddlebag there.”

Tess dismounted beside him and led her horse down the gentle slope to the pond’s cool water. As the animals drank, she reached into her saddlebag and withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle. Inside was a piece of dried apple pie, some bread, and a handful of jerky.

“This is delicious,” she marveled through a mouthful of jerky. “Want some?”

Bart laughed right out loud. “Try living on it for a week or so and then tell me that again.”

She sank down in the soft grass under the shade of a huge pine and removed Gabe’s hat—one of a cowboy’s most prized possessions. He might never admit to that, but she’d read enough about the west to know there were three things a rancher was most proud of—his horse, his boots, and his hat. And here she sat with his hat in her hands, leaving his head bare—unheard of for a rancher.

Her heart squeezed in anguish knowing Gabe must feel something for her—he couldn’t kiss her the way he did and not feel something—but it wouldn’t make any difference. He would never let himself give in to those feelings.

The magnificence of the herd took Tess’s breath away. In all her imaginings, she never considered a herd of cattle to be a beautiful sight, yet there they were, twenty-five hundred longhorns, give or take, milling over acres and acres of prime Montana grazing land. It did not seem possible the thin needle grass and balsamroot scattered throughout the sagebrush could possibly contain enough sustenance to support any living creature, but the cattle devoured it as if it were manna from heaven.

From their viewpoint atop a dry, grassy butte, Tess and Bart remained a safe distance from the herd.

“Just ask Beau how smart it is to get too near the herd,” Bart scoffed.

She marveled at the animals, struck by the mere size and number of them.

“What happens to them?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“Gabe holds an annual contract with the army where they buy a certain percentage of the herd every year and of that, ’bout half goes to the Indians and the other half goes to feed themselves.”

“Does Gabriel drive the cattle to the forts himself?”

Bart chuckled. “Gabe ain’t that stupid. There ain’t nothin’ more ugly than a cattle drive. Oh sure, you read all that crap ’bout how a cowboy comes to know life once he’s been on a drive, but that’s a load of malarkey. Cattle drives ain’t nothin’ but back-breakin’ hard work and headaches.”

“So how do you move them?”

“The army sends a trail boss to town and he hires on however many hands he wants. Then they come and drive the herd themselves.”

“It sounds like a smart plan,” she murmured.

“Like I said, Gabe ain’t stupid.” Bart grinned. “A little thickheaded maybe and not too bright in some areas, but when it comes to cattle . . .”

They stared out over the herd for a while, Tess’s thoughts whisking her back to the grassy bank of Porter Creek, Gabe’s arms wrapped around her, his heart pounding in rhythm with hers. If she never felt that again in her entire life, at least she had the memory—one glorious moment when everything was perfect; her dream had taken life, in the form of Gabriel Calloway, and she was loved, protected, and cherished.

“Tess?” Bart’s look was of genuine concern. “You okay?”

“Yes,” she answered, a little too quickly. “I’m fine. Why don’t you tell me more about this Collette Langman?”

“Ah, yes.” He smiled lazily. “The fair Collette. She’s as close to perfect as I ever seen, Tess.”

“Close to perfect?”

“Well, she
is
a Langman. But I reckon that ain’t her fault. Just dumb luck.”

Tess studied Bart’s face. A peaceful calm fell over him, his nut-brown eyes crinkled at the corners. He was obviously quite taken with the girl, despite her one shortcoming.

“So why is it, according to you, her entire family is pretty much worthless, yet she is not?”

“You’ve never met the fair Collette,” he sighed happily. “She’s the only one out o’ the whole knothead bunch who got any schoolin’. She’s quick as a whip, that girl, and that there’s one girl who’s got pluck; she ain’t afraid of nothin’.”

“And?” she prompted.

“And,” he chuckled, “she’s ’bout the prettiest thing I ever seen in my life.”

Tess couldn’t help but smile. Her heart yearned for Gabe to look at her that way, to feel that way about her, to think her being brave was a good thing, but she was happy for Bart. He was such a likable man, so easy to talk to, so easy to be with.

“Have you told her any of this?”

“Hell, Tess, I only got to town yesterday. For all I know, she’s up and married one of the other gawkarses here in town already.”

“So what are we doing here when you have a lady’s heart to win? You just get yourself over to the Langman place right this instant, Bart Calloway, and make your intentions plain.”

Bart’s eyes laughed as he shook his head.

“You’ve been reading too many of them silly books,” he said. “That ain’t exactly how it works, you know.”

“Why on earth not? It’s obvious you love her, so why not tell her? For goodness’ sake, Bart, life is far too precious to waste time playing coy with each other for months on end. Women prefer a man who states plainly how he feels.”

“An’ I’d be happy to do just that,” he answered, “if I could get past her brothers. They don’t let nobody near her, and what with the old man’s history with Wyatt, I ain’t expectin’ them to be terribly welcomin’ when it comes to me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “You had nothing to do with what happened—you were still a child.”

“Don’t much matter,” he shrugged. “Far as they’re concerned, it might as well a’ been me or Gabe.”

Tess pondered the predicament for a moment, her brain grappling for an idea until suddenly it hit her—it would be the easiest thing in the world.

“I’ll go.” She stood up and unwound the horses’ reins from the tree branch. “I’ll tell them I’m new in town and I heard Collette was about the same age as me so I thought I would introduce myself.” She smiled at her own ingenuity. “It’s not even a lie! I’d truly love to meet this girl.”

“Tess.” He laughed, starting after her.

The two horses nickered nervously. Hera stamped her hooves and pulled back, rearing slightly. It was in that instant Tess heard it—a sound so frightening it stopped her heart dead in mid-beat. She dropped the reins and the horses both bolted, leaving Tess standing frozen to the spot. She had never heard the deadly rattle before, but it was unmistakable.

“Stop, Bart!” she cried in a hoarse whisper. “Where’s your gun?”

“My gun?” he repeated. “What the hell d’you . . . ho-lee shit, Tess, don’t move!”

“I’m not even breathing!” she snapped. “Shoot it!”

“I can’t,” he whispered back. “My gun’s in my saddlebag.”

Cold beads of sweat dripped down Tess’s brow. The huge snake lay less than two feet away, coiled and ready to strike, its rattle waving menacingly in the air.

“What do I do?” she asked, trying to steady her voice.

“Don’t move!”

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” she muttered.

“I’ll try to get it from behind.” The sound of Bart’s voice moved to her left side and then stopped. Tess fought back the scream that welled in her throat—after all she’d been through, she’d be damned if she was going to let herself die this way.

He crept toward the snake, lowering himself enough to reach out and grab its back end. The moment that followed was without question the slowest one in Tess’s life. The snake whirled away from her and struck at Bart, its fangs piercing through the skin of his right forearm. In the same instant, Tess had it by the rattle and hurled it into the valley below, not giving a thought to what effect a rattlesnake could have on a herd of cattle.

“Oh, Lord,” she prayed out loud. “Please don’t do this.” She was already ripping Bart’s shirt from his arm. She pushed him backward to the ground and removed the belt from her waist.

“Tess,” he said, his voice already fading.

“Shut up!” she ordered. “Lay still and keep quiet.”

She wound her belt around his arm, just under his elbow, and cinched it as tightly as she could. A knife—she needed a knife. Her hands moved down the pockets in Bart’s shirt and jeans, propriety be damned, and came up empty. A soft nickering answered her prayers—Bart’s horse, Meg, had returned and stood pawing the ground just feet away. Tess inched toward her, careful not to spook the animal further.

“Good girl,” she murmured. “I need into that bag you’ve got there. Good girl . . . steady . . . steady . . . that’s it.” She took the reins gingerly in one hand and moved to the saddlebag, clawing desperately through the tobacco pouch, past the Colt .45, under a handful of jerky and a thin metal container until her hand closed around a small knife at the bottom of the bag.

“Thank you, God,” she prayed. The reins still clutched in her hand, she tugged the horse back to Bart, threw the reins over a branch, and dropped back down to her patient. Bart’s eyes rolled back in their sockets, but he did not make a sound. Tess tried to believe that was a good thing. She knew better.

“This is going to hurt,” she said, warning herself more than him. She held her breath as she pulled the knife down his already swelling arm. Then she leaned over, put her mouth over the angry red wound and sucked for all she was worth, spitting and sputtering every last drop of poison to the ground beside her. She had no idea how many times she repeated the procedure, but she was drenched with perspiration and fear by the time she stopped.

Bart had long since faded in unconsciousness, his head rolled to the left. Tess wanted to scream in frustration. Should she leave the tourniquet in place or should she remove it? Damn it—she couldn’t remember.

“Better to leave it there,” she reasoned aloud. “If I missed any poison, it’ll have a harder time getting through. I hope.”

She sat for a moment, staring at Bart, willing him to give her some idea of what to do next, not knowing whether she should ride back to the ranch and get Gabe, or stay here.
Stay,
she decided quickly. She couldn’t leave him here—what if there were more snakes lurking nearby, or God only knew what else. Someone would have to come and check the herd eventually, wouldn’t they?

Whiskey! Tess hurried back to Meg and pulled the saddlebag right off the mare’s back. Her right hand went immediately to the thin metal container at the bottom—a flask!

“Thank you, Bart,” she said. “You might have saved your own life.”

She twisted open the flask and poured the amber liquid directly over the wound, offering a silent prayer of thanks he was not conscious, for certainly the pain of the alcohol would have driven him over the edge. She saved the last bit of whiskey and tipped a tiny bit gently into his mouth. If ever there was a time a man needed a drink, she reasoned, this would be it. At that moment she almost wished she were a drinker herself.

Before her hand even touched his brow, she knew he had a raging fever. Her eyes flew back to the horse, her prayers answered once more. The full canteen hung loosely from the saddle horn. She pulled the bandana from around her neck, soaked it with the cool liquid, and mopped Bart’s burning brow.

It had little effect, and for the first time Tess realized how close Bart was to dying. She needed to get him home, to a doctor.

She hurried back to the butte where they had sat moments ago and scanned the valley below. It was so huge, so vast, there was no way she would be able to pick out a horse from a steer. Nevertheless, if she didn’t try . . .

“Hello!” she bellowed as loud as she could. “Hello! Is anyone down there?”

No answer.

“Hello! I need some help up here! Hello!”

Nothing. She returned to Bart, mopped his brow again with more water, and then hurried back to the edge.

“Hello! Hello!” Her throat ached, her head pounded, but she could not—would not—give up. “Hello!”

Below, the herd began to move, all at once, brawling and snorting. She opened her mouth to yell again, doubting she would be heard above the rising din, but willing to try anyway, when she saw something move. A rider!

“Thank God!” she whispered, then let loose again with another whoop. “Hello! Up here!” Her arms waved frantically above her head, the bandana flapping in the air.

The closer Joby came, the more defined his expression became, and it was not a friendly one.

“Lord A’mighty, Miss Tess,” he scolded, “yer spookin’ the cattle. What in tarnation is all the . . .”

His eyes zeroed in on Bart lying motionless in the shade.

“What the hell?”

“He’s been bitten by a rattler,” she quickly explained. “I need you to ride back and get Gabriel and a wagon or something to put him in so we can get him home.”

“Jumpin’ jehoshaphat! Did you tie—”

“Yes,” she answered impatiently.

“Did you suck out—”

“Yes! For the love of God, Joby, would you please just go?”

The man made like he was to dismount. “Why don’t you ride home? I’ll stay here with Bart.”

“No! You can ride faster and you know your way better. Go!”

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

He threw his leg back over his saddle and turned the horse toward home, kicking it into a dead run. There was nothing to do now but wait. She tried to calculate how long it would take them to return. She and Bart had taken their time riding out to the herd, in fact, their horses had walked most of the way, and they’d only arrived about midday. If her luck held, Gabe and Joby would be back in a couple hours.

She lowered herself into the grass beside Bart and mopped his brow over and over again.

“Hold on, Bart,” she ordered. “You have unfinished business with Miss Langman. You’ve just returned home—Gabriel can’t lose you now. He needs his brother. You’re the only family he has left in the whole world.”

Bart remained motionless and Tess knew that was not a good sign. The longer he remained unconscious, the worse it was.

“Come on, Bart,” she pleaded. “Wake up. Please please please. Do it for me—you know your brother is going to blame me for this, and I could really use you on my side when he gets here. Please?”

She took his hand in hers and rocked back and forth, at first humming softly, and then outright singing. She’d read somewhere even unconscious people could hear voices. She began with the Twenty-Third Psalm but quickly decided that might get him to thinking he was already dead, so she immediately switched to “Amazing Grace” and every other song she could think of, from “Battle Hymn of the Republic” to “Oh! Susannah” and “Camptown Races.” When she ran out of songs, she started back with “Amazing Grace” until her throat became too parched and sore to squeak out another sound. She didn’t dare take a sip from the canteen in case Bart needed it.

She mopped his brow for what seemed like the hundredth time, dribbled the last of the whiskey down his throat, and stood to stretch her aching muscles.