Margaret Brownley (12 page)

He blinked in disbelief. “Mrs. Summerfield, there’s no way those clothes could have been soiled. Not with the layers of grease I put on them. Dirt rolls off quicker than an old maid can crawl under a bed.”
“The dirt might roll off,” she said with a haughty toss of the head, “But I can assure you that the smell stays behind. It’s a wonder there weren’t any vermin’s hiding in the things.”

“If its vermin’s you’re worried about, then all you had to do is lay the clothes over an anthill.”

She frowned. “Did you say anthill?”

“And I’ll say it again. Anthill, anthill, anthill! There’s no better way to rid yourself of vermin.”

She looked taken back. “I never in all my born days heard of such a thing.”

“And I never in all my born days heard of anyone boiling the daylights out of perfectly good buckskins.”

He plopped down on his chair and found much to his horror, that the only thing between the floor and his sore posterior was thin air. Sprawled on the floor with his legs straight up, he gritted his teeth against the pain that shot up his spine.

She hurried over to him, gasping with concern. “Mr. St. John! Are you all right?”

“You moved my chair!” he growled.

“I was just organizing the cabin for you….I thought….” She looked close to tears. “Are you all right?” she asked again.

He was hurting too much to feel sorry for her. Instead, he rose to his feet and rubbed his lower back. “No, I am not all right, Mrs. Summerfield.” He reached for her hand and pulled her to the nearest chair. “Do me a favor. Sit there and don’t move until I get back.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m going to inquire as to when the stage will resume its run.”

Her face lit up. “I do hope it’s soon. I would feel so much better knowing that a doctor was nearby.”

Logan rubbed his aching back and limped toward the door. “So would I, Mrs. Summerfield. So would I.”

*****

He staggered back into the cabin late that night. He looked in no better mood than when he left.

She closed her Bible and tugged at the shawl around her shoulders to ward off the cold air he brought in with him. “Did you find out about the stage?”

“It’s not expected to resume running until the first of next month.” He lumbered around the room. “Just think, Mrs. Summerfield. You are stuck in Deadman’s Gulch for another couple of weeks.”

She stared at him.
God, please don’t let that be true
. “But there must be another way to Centreville.”

“The stage road was washed away.” He demonstrated with his hand. “The entire mountainside decided to relocate to the valley below.” He grimaced as a pain shot through his knee. “Drat, where’s the soothing salve.”

She reached for a little brown vial and handed it to him. “Do you want me to help you with that?”

“No.  This stuff is as useless as a bucket under a bull. I need mullein leaves.”

She waited for him to sit down. “I was thinking that I could rent a horse and ride to Centreville.”

Logan rolled up the cuffs of his trousers and rubbed the balm onto his knee. “By yourself?”

“I could hire someone to accompany me.”

He set the bottle on the table. “I don’t think so. Not in your delicate condition.”

But my baby is due next week. On the twenty-eighth. There’s got to be a way to get to Centreville.”

“On the twenty-eighth?” His mouth went dry. “You mean you can figure out a baby’s birth to the exact date?”

“More or less.”

“What do you mean more or less?”

“The baby could come before or after that date.”

“Well, now. Isn’t that a fine kettle of fish? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I told you that it was due at the end of the month. Besides, I thought I would be in Centreville by now.”

He grimaced. “Do me a favor. Don’t do any more thinking.”

She gave him an icy glare.

He stared into the fire in grim silence, but only one solution came to mind. “Start packing. Tomorrow morning we’re leaving for Centreville.”

Not a cloud marred the azure-blue sky that Friday morning when they began their journey. The air was fresh with the scent of pine, its icy edge nipping at the skin like a playful puppy.

Logan had rented two mules, one for Libby and the other for her valise. After helping her onto the more passive of the two mules, he mounted his horse.

Libby clung to the pommel with both hands. The animal started forward, stopped, and then turned in the opposite direction. “Whoa,” she cried.

He turned in his saddle and reached back for the reins of her mule. “Don’t look so worried,” he said. “Crazy Sam here won’t do you any harm.”

“Why…why do you suppose he’s called Crazy Sam?” she stammered.

“Probably for the same reason all mules are named. It suits his personality.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I insist upon riding the other mule.”

“You mean Man Killer?”

“Never mind!” she snapped.

Grinning, he urged his horse forward and braced himself for the journey ahead. It was a journey he had made numerous times, but never under these circumstances.

Still, he was ready—more than ready—to be rid of her; like it or not, he felt responsible for her.

He hated having to go to Centreville. He hated the crowds and all those highfalutin’ city folks who gawked at him like he was some sort of unearthly creature. Still, the leaky, drafty cabin was no place to give birth.

Logan forced his horse up a narrow dirt trail that would take them over sixteen miles of rough terrain to Centreville. Mrs. Summerfield and the mules followed close behind.

Depending on how much damage the storm had done, he estimated that they should reach the city by nightfall at the latest. The trail switched back, allowing a clear view of the valley they’d left behind.

Logan stopped for a moment to watch a half dozen or so cattle walking in a line.

“Is something wrong?” Mrs. Summerfield called from behind.

He pointed to the cattle. “Cattle always walk toward the wind. They just changed direction and are heading north.” He glanced ahead, his eyes narrowed in concentration. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but his instincts told him that another storm was on the way. However, if the wind continued on its present course, the storm shouldn’t reach the area until late that night or possibly the following day.

“Let’s go,” he said, tugging on Crazy Sam’s reins.

Their progress was slow; landslides and uprooted trees from the recent rains impeded their progress. To make matters worse, Crazy Sam needed constant prodding.

Even so, they would have made better time had Libby not had so many nature calls. No sooner would they start up again than she was tugging at the reins for him to stop. In between times she kept him duly informed of her uncensored opinion on the difficult and sometimes dangerous trail.

“Heavens!” She gasped during one particular hazardous section where they were forced to follow a narrow shelf jutting out from a sheer rocky cliff.

“Don’t look down!” Logan called during yet another dangerous area. His warning was unnecessary as he discovered when he glanced back to find her eyes squeezed firmly shut. 

As they rose higher, the air grew thinner and colder, and snow spread over the landscape.

Ahead, glints of golden sunlight danced upon the snow-cloaked slopes, glittering like newly polished silver upon sparkling white linen.

Measuring the depth of the snow, Logan sensed the wind velocity increase. No sooner had the wind picked up than ominous dark clouds began to drift over the northern peaks. Worried now, he chided himself for not turning back when he first noticed the wind change.

His patience worn thin he considered his options. It had taken them three hours just to reach the summit. He’d counted on it taking them no more than an hour. But then he had no idea the trail would be so bad. On more than one occasion, the ground had begun to slip beneath them. He dreaded the return trip.

Logan reined in his horse and held his palm up. Snow! He caught another icy flake and grimaced. He dismounted and walked back to help Libby off the mule.

“What? No aches and pains?” he asked. “No more complaints?”

She cast him a withering look. Her face was pale. Her lips trembled. Feeling a rush of sympathy, he led her over to a fallen tree trunk.

“We’re going to have to travel faster,” he said. “No more stopping.”

She fell silent and he took that to mean she agreed with the plan.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said at length.

He studied the clouds now directly overhead. “You won’t want to hear the alternative.”

“Nor will you.”

Something in her voice made his hackles rise. “Would you care to explain?”

She started to say something and then stopped. A shadow crossed her face. Her hands flew to her swollen waist.

Logan’s mouth went dry. He wasn’t a religious man, but suddenly he had the urge to pray. “Mrs. Summerfield?” He slipped his arm around her bent-over body. “You…you aren’t thinking about having your baby today. You wouldn’t be thinking about that now, would you?”

She looked up at him like a child about to admit to some inexcusable offense. “I’m afraid, Mr. St. John, the thought had occurred to me.”

*****

Logan paced in a circle, telling himself to calm down. He’d been in difficult situations before and he’d managed to handle them. Most of them, at least. So why should this time be any different?

He glanced at the ever-darkening clouds, and searched around for possible shelter. No caves were visible, but providing the wind didn’t change directions they could take shelter beneath the rocky headland jutting from the upper cliffs.

As he considered the possibilities, it suddenly occurred to him that Mrs. Summerfield was unusually quiet.

He spun around. She looked pale, anguished, her attention focused inward. He rushed to her side and dropped to one knee. “Mrs. Summerfield?” He squeezed her hand and held her until her tense body began to relax.

She took a deep breath and gave him a grateful smile. “Oh, my. That was a strong one.”

“We’re going to have to go back.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think there’s time.”

He inhaled. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He considered ways to shorten the return trip. But even if he took her back on his horse, leaving the mules behind, the rain could wash away more of the dangerously unstable ground.

When it appeared she had recovered from the last contraction, he walked to the edge of the cliff. A funnel of smoke rising from the valley floor pinpointed the town of Deadman’s Gulch below. As the crow flies, the town was probably no more than thirty minutes away.

His gaze followed the wooden flume that carried water from Centreville to Deadman’s Gulch. Wooden stilts rose several hundred feet or more into the air, supporting a foot-wide canvas-lined channel filled with rushing water. Halfway across the canyon the flume sloped downward until it reached Deadman’s Gulch. The flume had been built last summer to solve the water shortage. Without water, gold mining had practically come to a standstill. Everyone agreed that the flume was a mighty fine engineering feat. It saved the town, and it might very well save a young woman’s life.

He walked back to her and helped her through yet another contraction. Should the pains be this close together? Wasn’t there a way to help her through them? He cursed his own ignorance.

“I have an idea.” He helped her to her feet.

She looked so profoundly relieved he was almost afraid to tell her what it was for fear of shattering her hopes.

“I want to show you something.” He led her to the edge of the cliff and lifted his voice to be heard over the rushing water. “See that flume?  Did you ever see a more welcome sight?”

Mrs. Summerfield raked him over with the same look of distrust she had earlier accorded Crazy Sam. “I could think of a few sights that would be more welcome. Now tell me, what is your idea?

“We’re crossing over.”

Her eyes widened. “You want me to climb down this mountain?”

“No, I want you to walk across the flume.”

Her gaze followed his pointed finger and her mouth dropped open.

She glanced back at him in disbelief. “You want me to walk across that?”

“Have you a better idea?” he asked.

“Are you out of your mind?”

Their voices continued to rise, as they stood face-to-face, glaring at each other.

He pointed upward. “Have you noticed that sky?”

She pointed downward. “Have you noticed that drop?”

“We can’t go back the way we came. It’s too dangerous.”

“It can’t be more dangerous than…”  Pain suffused her face and he quickly took her in his arms.