Margaret Brownley (3 page)

His leg grew progressively stiffer with each passing hour, until, at last, he was forced to hobble. But neither the piercing leg pains nor biting cold air diminished his satisfaction upon feeling her forehead or touching his knuckles to her now warm cheeks.

Who was she? He wondered. Where did she come from? And why, with all the man-made structures in town, had she found her way to his?

She was dead. It was the only explanation that would explain the feeling of weightlessness Libby felt upon opening her eyes to the strange, unfamiliar surroundings.

Afraid to move, she let her gaze roam freely about the small, cluttered room. The word coffin came to mind as she stared up at the low wood ceiling. The room had no windows and only a single door.

Pieces of canvas were stuffed between the roughhewn planks that made up all four walls. Even so, cold air blew through the cracks, and glimpses of the dull cloudy sky could be seen through tiny openings in the roof. The one bright spot in the room was the orange glow from the slow-burning fire.

Little by little, her senses awakened. She smelled burning cedar and coffee. It was the latter that convinced her that perhaps she was only half-dead.

A flutter at her side just below the waist, a tiny movement of hand or foot, and the events of the past began to come back.

She turned her thoughts inward; the precious life she carried was now letting its presence be known in the most comforting way possible. Relief flooded through her, followed quickly by a sense of urgency. She couldn’t stay here; it was imperative that she reached Centreville before the way was blocked by snow.

Her head felt heavy as a lead ball as she lifted it from the pillow and pushed the covers aside. Moving with uncharacteristic caution, she inched her legs across the fur that lay in valley and peaks beneath her. She felt stiff, disjointed, so unlike herself.

Her feet firmly in place on the fur rug, she pushed forward.  Standing upright, she stared down in astonishment at her clothing.

Cripes! She was dressed like an Indian!

She ran her hand along the soft deerskin tunic that fell loosely from her shoulders. It was far too big for her, even with her swollen belly. The shoulder seams fell halfway down her arm, the fringe at the cuffs reached beyond her fingertips.

She straightened and although the bulk of her abdomen prevented her from seeing her toes or even her feet it was clear to her that the fringe at the hem barely covered her knees. She added indecent exposure to the growing list of things to worry about.

Not that there was anyone around to see her bare legs. But the room was rather masculine. Extremely masculine. It was the sort of room that made a woman think twice before exposing her limbs or anything else for that matter.

She tried to remember how she got there. She recalled running down a dark street. Remembered feeling fear and panic—desperation. Then something strange happened; a vision of warmth and softness washed over her.

Where was she? Whose cabin was this? Her parched mouth soon took precedence over curiosity. She needed a drink of water.

The room began to spin. Planting her hands firmly on the whiskey barrel that served as a table next to the bed, she waited for the dizziness to pass before venturing to the part of the room that served as a kitchen.

She found a bucket of water and ladled some into a tin cup. The water was fresh and tasted cool and sweet in her mouth. Drinking her fill, she took in her surroundings with renewed interest.

The single room of the cabin was no more than ten feet by twenty feet long. A large stone fireplace dominated one wall. A crude wooden table flanked by two birch wood chairs served as the only barrier between the kitchen and the rest of the living quarters. A bearskin was centered in the middle of the dirt floor.

Her gaze lingered on the dark fur rug for a moment before she perused the rest of the room.

Without warning, the door flew open revealing a tall bearded man holding a blood-covered knife. Once again she feared for her life.

*****

Logan St. John gave the woman a quick once-over, surprised to see her on her feet. “What are you doing out of bed?”

His voice was rough, sharp, a deep bass designed for wild towns and rugged country, not for polite society. He was a loner, not used to having company. Not since…

The name that came to mind startled him. Silently, he cursed the woman. How dare she intrude into his life? Making him remember things he didn’t want to remember, think thoughts no man should have to think. The sooner the woman had recovered and was on her way, the sooner he could forget the past and concentrate on getting his leg back to normal so he could head up north to set his traps before it was too late.

He slammed the door shut behind him. It was already too late! Winter was the time to trap beavers when furs were thick and colors rich. That’s when they brought the best prices.

Apparently thinking the anger on his face was directed at her, the woman shrank back, pressing herself against the cook stove.

He limped toward her and stopped in front of the table. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light inside the cabin. Seeing her clearly now, he was ill-prepared for the fetching way his fringed buckskin shirt looked on her. He let his startled gaze drop to the unlaced neckline that had fallen in such a way as to reveal one arresting white shoulder. The shirt was large enough to hide the fullness of her waist and short enough to reveal her bare legs and feet.

Gasping softly she tugged at the sleeve and pulled it back over her shoulder, but her attempts at modesty only went so far. And hard as she tried, there was nothing much she could do about her lower limbs.

He was sorely tempted to throw a blanket around her, cover her up so he didn’t have to be subjected to so much feminine flesh, but she was so wide-eyed with fear, he thought it best to avoid any sudden movement on his part that might further alarm her.

“You’d better lie down,” he said. He gave a curt nod toward the pallet and concentrated on keeping his gaze riveted to the relative safety of her beguiling face. But she wasn’t making it easy.

“I…I have no intention of lying down.” Her pale lips trembled as she spoke.

“Suit yourself.” If she didn’t lie down she would probably fall down and that might make the baby come. The thought sent cold shivers down his spine. That was the last thing he needed.

He took a step backward thinking she’d relax with more distance between them. He suddenly realized he was holding his Green River knife, its blade dripping with fresh blood from the rabbit he skinned for supper.

No wonder the poor woman was half out of her wits with fear. “Supper,” he said by way of explanation. He set his knife down by a wash basin and he sensed rather than saw her relief. “I’ll make you a bite to eat.”

Lifting her chin, she stood ramrod-straight as if intending to make the most of her five-foot-four-height. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

His gaze dropped to her waist, or at least to the area that one would normally expect to find a waist. “I can see that,” he said lightly.

Anger flared on her face. “For your information, my name is Libby Summerfield.
Mrs.
Libby Summerfield.”

She was married? If that was true then where was her husband? “If you’re a married woman than I reckon you won’t have any trouble taking orders.”

She narrowed her eyes. Now that he no longer carried a knife she’d grown downright militant. “I don’t take orders!”

“I guess that explains your present predicament.”

“It explains nothing of the sort!” she retorted. “Now if you would be kind enough to give me back my own clothes. I have a stage to catch.”

He scratched his head “I hate to be the bearer of bad news but the stage left over an hour ago.”

“An hour…” She swayed lightly and he reached out to steady her. She slapped away his hand. “Don’t touch me!”

He was startled by her outburst. Her fragile appearance was deceiving. “I won’t hurt you.”

The woman remained stubbornly in place while he debated how best to convince her to lie down. He wasn’t used to bargaining, especially with a woman. Normally, he wouldn’t be all that tempted to do so now. But given the woman’s circumstances, he was willing to allow her some leeway. Long as she didn’t move around or shake up her innards the baby should stay right where he or she was supposed to. At least he hoped so.

“I’ll give you exactly thirty seconds to get back in that bed or…”

“Or what?” she squeaked out, her bold blue-green eyes making up for any failure of voice.

Finding her open defiance surprising, if not altogether disconcerting, he clenched his fists. Why was she challenging him? He might be going about it all wrong, but he only wanted what was best for her.

“I’ll put you there myself.” When his warning drew no more than a reproachful glare, he began counting. “One…”

It amused him to watch her act so nonchalantly. His height alone made him an imposing figure.

“Five…”

She never as much as flinched.

“Twelve…” Fool of a woman. Why couldn’t she just climb back into bed? He kept counting, hoping she would accept the inevitable. “Twenty-seven…”

He never had a chance to get to the final count—whatever that might have been— for she practically swooned before his very eyes. Intent on grabbing her before she reached the ground, he pushed a chair out of his way and lunged forward.

She moved with a speed of a wild animal. Grabbing the Green River knife she raised it over her head, its lethal blade pointed straight at him.

“My clothes.”

He stopped mid step, flabbergasted. How was it possible for someone to recover so quickly? Gathering his wits, he tried another tactic. “Is this the thanks I get for giving you shelter?”

The knife lowered. “This is
your
cabin?”

He scowled. What a nuisance she was turning out to be. It riled him that she had him over a barrel. If she were a man, she’d be flat on the floor by now and thinking twice about ever trying to get the best of him again. But a woman, especially one with child… how was a man supposed to defend himself against such a combination?

“I think you’d better put the knife down.” He held his hands out, palms up. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“And I don’t want to hurt you,” the woman countered.

He almost laughed aloud. Did she really think that a possibility? “I’m mighty relieved to find we’re in accord.”

“Just tell me where my clothes are.”

“What’s left of your clothes will be of no use to you. They’re wet and muddy and bloodied from your wound.”

The knife lowered another notch.

Suspicion crossed her face. “What wound?”

“The one on your shoulder. You were shot.” Her eyes rounded in disbelief and he hastened to reassure her. “It was just a graze. You were lucky. It was your left shoulder or you’d have more of disadvantage than you do now.”

She felt her shoulder with her free hand, her fingers lingering on the square of buckskin covering her wound.  Apparently satisfied that he spoke the truth, she set the knife down.

“Who s-shot me?” she stammered.

He shrugged. “Someone with a gun, which pretty much covers everyone in town.”

“I-I can’t stay here,” she said. “Is there a hotel?”

“”fraid not,” he said. “The only one we had burned down. Like it or not I’m all you got.”

She swayed slightly but remained stubbornly in place.

His patience spent and with one sweeping motion he lifted her in his arms.
i

“Let me go…” Before she had time to spew out more than a half-dozen choice names, he whisked her across the room and laid her on the pallet.

“You can’t hold me against my will,” she said indignantly, and he held back the urge to point out he was doing exactly that. In fact, he was on the bed, straddling her.

“Quit moving before you stir things up. The cabin ain’t big enough for three of us.”

She stopped fighting him.

Biting back the pain in his leg, he grimaced and adjusted his weight. “If you promise to stay put, I’ll let you go.” He couldn’t believe it. He was bargaining with her. His only salvation was that there were no other trappers around to witness his disconcerting predicament. He’d never live this one down, that’s for sure.

Wanting to give her every opportunity to comply with his wishes, he waited with patience foreign to him. It wasn’t altogether an unpleasant wait, despite the added discomfort to his leg. His head was so close to hers, he could feel her warm soft breath against his skin.

He’d all but decided he was going to have to tie her to the bed for her own good when she nodded ever so slightly. Relieved that he would not have to resort to such drastic tactics, he immediately released her wrists and stood.

He grabbed a chair and set it down next to the bed, straddling it backward. It felt good to get the weight off his leg. He laid his arms across the back.