Rocky Mountain Widow (Historical) Page 4

  She wasn’t surprised Ham’s family turned into vultures, only that they were trying to take what they could so soon.

  Claire stepped up onto the sturdy tracing between the horses and, with a snap, yanked the leather straps from Annabelle’s kid-gloved hands. Ignoring her fierce, angry shouts and Opal’s sobs, she eased onto Thor’s back and sent him and Loki into a fast walk.

  Pain jolted through her. It was far too much pain. “You need rest,” kindly Doc Haskins had said. “Complete bed rest. No stress or strain. No housework and no ranch work. No upset of any kind.”

  She was only supposed to be up for the funeral. But now she wished she’d never come. She had thought saying goodbye to Ham would give her the chance to cast off the painful memories as well, but it had not worked.

  At least she could go home now. The thought of her own bed and the soft flannel sheets made her moan with longing. Exhaustion settled like lead into the marrow of her bones. She had to escape, not only her relatives, but everything.

  Sadness overwhelmed her, and to her disappointment, there was no quick escape. Already the swarm of the funeral crowd was buzzing close to the streets, and she drew Thor and Loki to a halt.

  Why was everyone stopping? She strained to see over the big covered surrey in front of her. A sled had skidded off the road into the ditch at the crossroads that made up the trading post, the only civilization aside from the church on this remote corner of the county. The vehicle and team had caused a blockage on the only place where the two main roads through the county intersected. They were already receiving help from others nearby, although the traffic wasn’t likely to begin moving anytime soon.

  Of course. Annabelle was still shouting, and she sounded closer. Claire didn’t have the energy to spare to look over her shoulder and in truth, she didn’t care. They could have the sleigh, but these were her horses. Hers alone.

  And my friends, she thought as she ran her gloved hand along Thor’s sleek neck.

  The warmth of him permeated the wool, reminding her of what mattered. She had survived. She was still here. Ham had not harmed the deepest part of her. Three years ago on a day more bleak than this, she’d become a bride and naive enough to believe she would be starting a wonderful new life.

  Looking back, it was hard to believe she could have been that dreamy girl. She closed her eyes, and she could almost see the young woman who had worked a double shift every day for two months at the boardinghouse, cleaning and doing laundry to scrape enough money together to buy fabric and notions for a beautiful wedding dress.

  That dress was the nicest thing she’d ever owned in her life or in her marriage since. She’d loved the delicate sage lawn with the tiniest little embroidered rosebuds of matching sage that looked as fine as anything the wealthier ladies in town wore. And the dainty pearl buttons hadn’t been real mother-of-pearl, but they’d looked as if they were. And that had been enough. She’d worn it for Ham, to mark the momentous honor of becoming a bride, his bride.

  As that young woman spoke the vows in the echoing chill of the sanctuary, she’d meant them with all her heart. She fully intended to love and cherish, honor and obey her very dashing husband.

  Obey—she hadn’t realized the impact of that one four-letter word until later. In the church holding Ham’s hand, her entire being had shone with happiness and hope for a good future.

  When the minister had proclaimed them man and wife, she’d nearly floated to the ceiling. She’d been an orphan and little more than a servant in her uncle’s home, but now she had a family. A home. A fine man to love.

  Claire’s heart wrenched with sorrow so deep and dark she could no longer see the present, only the past. The memory of that happy young woman seemed to ride by like a ghost and then became forever lost in the tenacious downpour of snow. If she listened hard enough, she could almost hear the joyful music of that doomed bride’s laughter.

  “Claire.”

  She instinctively turned at the sound of the rumbling baritone. Joshua Gable was nothing more than a hint of a shadow in the shroud of snowfall, and then a silhouette of horse and rider, confident and powerful as he rode closer, and then he was beside her, dusted with white, and flesh-and-blood real.

  What a man. How he had sneaked up on her, she didn’t know. She could feel his nearness like a summer’s wind against her skin. And now she could sense him like a whisper in her soul—a whisper she didn’t want.

  Like that night, he came to her out of a storm, and although she was free from her marriage, she was not free from her fear. Joshua Gable wanted something. He was a man. She’d learned the hard way there were no heroes left to believe in. True love did not exist except in fairy tales.

  She was no longer a girl of eighteen. She was a woman who’d learned the truth about life and marriage. She was a widow with experience and hard lessons learned. She would never believe in a man again.

  Not even in Joshua Gable, who was hardworking and sincere and had shown her kindness on a night without mercy.

  But that was over now, and they could never speak of it again. Before he could say another word, she shook her head, stopping him from saying whatever he’d come to her to say.

  With a twist of the reins, she guided the horses down into the fallow field siding the road and nosed them toward home, grateful for the storm that whipped around her in a swirl of white and haze, stealing her from Joshua’s sight.

  She didn’t look back.

  Chapter Three

  Claire didn’t know where she was or if the horses had been able to find the way, for the snow was falling so hard she couldn’t see the tips of Thor’s ears. She only knew the storm was worsening. And so was the pain knifing from her womb and radiating down her inner thighs. Unbearable ripping pain.

  I’m just tired, that’s all. She clung stubbornly to that thought as tightly as she gripped the leather top of Thor’s shoulder harness. She needed to get home and lie down. Rest, just like the doc said. And then she’d be fine.

  She was up too soon after losing the baby, that was all. She willed the pain to stop. Willed it with all of her strength, all of her being. The rock of the giant horse’s gait lanced through her midsection. If she could make it home, that’s what she needed. But how far?

  The prairie stretched out around her, lost in the blinding whiteout. She couldn’t tell exactly how far she’d already come. The snow scrubbed like ice at her eyes as the storm worsened. Gradually she could see nothing but endless white, whirling snow. Not even her own mittens in front of her face.

  Thor will get me home. The thought sustained her. Time had passed—how much she didn’t know, but enough that they had to be nearly home. And that meant rest.

  Her bed was waiting, the feather mattress would feel like a cloud after this hard ride, and the flannel sheets and thick goose-down comforter as warm as melted butter. She’d lay her head on her feather pillow and let her heavy eyelids drift shut.

  Thor’s pace seemed to pick up. Maybe he sensed her need. That would explain why the pain came more quickly. And if the pain changed from hurt to agony, from agony to killing, then it was because she was tired. And if she felt warm instead of cold and then hotter, it was her desperation.

  We’re almost home, she thought, surprised at how hard it was to breathe. Her pulse drummed in her ears and her head seemed to throb with it. Air rasped into her lungs. She couldn’t seem to get enough air.

  Maybe it was the storm. Or the cold. She didn’t know. Or the shock of seeing Joshua Gable at the funeral. Of having him act as if nothing had gone on between them, as if he hadn’t roped Ham like a steer and berated him for his cruel treatment of her. He hadn’t deserved Ham pulling a gun on him, and he’d defended himself. He’d defended her.

  Joshua Gable’s gunshot had been the cause of Ham’s death, but she wasn’t going to tell that to anyone.

  Thor’s gait became horribly jarring. It couldn’t be the pain was getting worse. No, she couldn’t allow that thought. Because she had to hold
on. She’d lost her baby, she didn’t want to lose her life.

  A pain clamped like a vulture’s claw and then squeezed. Talons dug deep into her insides, tearing. Ripping. Warmth slid from her body. No, after all she had survived—Ham’s treatment and beatings and the wagon accident, her miscarriage and now this, she would not give up now. She buried her face in the horse’s ice-caked mane and gritted her teeth, hanging on with all her might.

  She tried to hold back the next pain, but it was too strong, an enemy too big to fight or to placate. A sickening wave of nausea washed through her and she fought that down, too. She would not give in. She’d will the contractions to stop, the warm seep of blood to cease. She was going to be okay. She had to be.

  Agony seized her from the inside, the talons turning into something more monstrous. It was as if her entire abdomen was being vised from the inside out, and the torture blinded her. Seemed to enter every inch of her body until she was screaming helplessly.

  She was slipping, her arms and hands clutched Thor’s harness but her muscles turned watery. Her strength drained away and she was sliding down the horse’s flank, falling like the ruthless snow, tumbling until she hit the unforgiving ground.

  Someone help me. The vise within her twisted hard. There was only the bright flash of white sparks before her eyes and then she felt the vising gain strength. She lay helpless on the ground, shrouded by snow. Alone.

  The physical pain tearing like a hungry predator at her flesh was nothing, nothing at all. Her heart was shattering, and that pain was why she cried out in the worsening storm, why the icy crust of snow beneath her or the dangerous cold did not hurt her.

  Unable to move, lost and alone, feeling the life’s blood drain out of her, she listened to the storm rage on, cruel and lethal, as if there was no more hope in this bleak and bitter world.

  Joshua cursed the timing of the storm. No, it couldn’t blow over, not on this day when responsibility weighed like an anvil around his throat. The blasted storm seemed to be gathering speed for an all-out blizzard.

  It was too early in the year. He’d prepared for bad weather early. This was Montana Territory, and unforgiving storms were a possibility every year. He considered himself a top-notch rancher who accounted for every possibility, but not today. He had some things to say to Claire Hamilton and they needed to be said now. Today. Before Logan or Ham’s brothers decided to make good on their threats to find the truth.

  The truth would stay buried with Ham, and Joshua would make damn sure of it. But nothing had been that simple. Ham’s brothers had made it clear they didn’t like him, yet how did either of them know he’d been out Ham’s way that night? Claire. He had to talk to her. He had to know what she might have said—either intentionally or by mistake.

  The widow wasn’t his only problem. As Joshua pulled his hands out of his coat pockets to shake the thick layer of iced snow from his muffler and hat, he figured his brother and grandmother ought to have reached the shelter of home by now. His brother—that troubled Joshua, too.

  The boy had taken one of the horses, leaving the mare of the matched team to pull Granny’s sleigh to the family ranch. But his younger brother knew something was amiss.

  “I thought you had a fire beneath your britches to get chores done,” Jordan had observed, slouched as usual in the seat. “Now you’re headin’ off and orderin’ me to drive Granny home?”

  He had been too irritated, Joshua realized in hindsight as he jammed his fists back into his pockets. “I have things that need seein’ to.”

  “Things.” Jordan had sounded doubtful as he’d exerted enough effort to shake the snow from his hat brim. “Why in the hell are you watchin’ the road to the mountains? Maybe you could enlighten me, oh lord and master.”

  “At least you acknowledge my supremacy,” Joshua had ground out, his fury rising at his brother’s pesky questions. Of course he was in charge. Where would they be if Jordan had taken over the reins of the family? They’d all be starved, homeless and slouching. “Just follow orders and take Granny home. There’s something I gotta do.”

  “What? We’re heading into the mountains, eh? Agggh!” Jordan slugged the dashboard in frustration. “I can’t believe you’re doin’ this! I know where you’re going.”

  I should have left the conversation there, Joshua thought as he nudged his left spur gently against General’s flank, keeping him on the road that was nearly impossible to see. I should have let him think what he wanted instead of tipping my hand. And now…

  A hard gust of wind lashed against him, driving ice through the layers of fur, wool and flannel. Joshua shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. If Jordan guessed any of the truth, then an innocent woman would go to jail, for the simple fact of defending herself. For what other reason could gentle Claire Hamilton have killed her husband?

  He remembered the image of that night, when Ham had first come into sight with his arm back holding a whip ready to strike the fallen woman. Why, he should have killed the man himself and saved her the trouble.

  Bile filled his throat. Father had always been one to look the other way, not to get involved in other fools’ problems, and look where it had gotten him, shot in the back and left to bleed out in the far grazing fields. Playing it safe had not protected Father one bit. And yet, matters could not have been worse if he had taken aim and pulled the trigger instead of Claire. It was a mess.

  But like this blizzard, it would soon pass and be forgotten. What he had to do was make sure of it.

  General had veered off the road again, fetlock-deep in drifting snow. It wasn’t fair to drag the horse out in this. He’d put in a hard day hauling yesterday. Riding into the brunt of the storm was wearing on him. Joshua took his hand out of his pocket to pat the gelding’s neck, encouraging him. He’d make sure the horse got warmed mash as soon as they got home.

  “We gotta keep going, fella.”

  When the gelding didn’t respond to knee pressure or a flat edge of the spur, he lifted the reins from the saddle horn, shook off the caked snow, and added pressure to the bit.

  General sidestepped to a halt. His opinion was clear. He didn’t like the storm any more than Joshua did.

  “Sorry, buddy, we gotta—”

  Was it his imagination, or did the wind have a strange keel to it? He stopped and cocked his ear. There was something in the wind, a low note to the eerie howling of the wind. A horse? A rider in trouble? “General, you are a fine horse. You take me to ’em.”

  He gave the gelding his head, and the big animal stumbled in the drifts of snow and hidden clumps of dead buffalo grass. As if the storm were a living thing, determined to hold them back, the wind pummeled them, driving the snow horizontal, closing them off from the world.

  While he knew the grand rise of the Rocky Mountains ought to be jutting straight up from the prairie floor directly ahead, he could see only an endless curtain of gray-white that fell around him, draping him from the rest of the world.

  It was damn dangerous letting General wander off the road. More good men than he could count had become lost in weather like this. The sounds of the wind and the thickly blowing snow confused a man’s sense of direction and isolated him from every visual landmark. A man would wander off course and freeze to death, sometimes having come within a few feet of his own house or barn.

  But one thing was certain—if he didn’t help, then whoever or whatever was in trouble was facing a death sentence.

  He did his best to fix in his mind the position of the road. If he could find the road and keep to it, then eventually it would lead him to shelter. If he could survive the below-zero winds.

  General was a well-trained horse, a pure Morgan, strong, sturdy and smart as a whip. He had good horse instincts, and they served both of them well as he pricked his ears, listening. The wind seemed to be teasing them with its sound. It had become a living thing, a lethal force, allowing them a hint of sound and then blowing it away.

  But General was true—he halted abrupt
ly and stood. Whatever he found was at his feet.

  “Good boy.” Joshua dismounted, stiff from the cold, and without a saddle beneath him, slid easily to the ground. He sank into snow well over his ankles. He couldn’t see a thing. “What did you find, boy?”

  Then he heard it—a faint nicker. Not a nicker exactly, but it was some animal in trouble. Joshua trudged forward, keeping a hand on General to guide him along. A shadow moved in the endless swirl of snow. A big Clydesdale with his head hung low lumbered out of the shadows and bumped confused into Joshua.

  The impact nearly knocked him off his feet. Joshua realized the animal was panicked and suffocating. How long he’d been standing in this was anyone’s guess. And he was not alone. Another draft horse huddled behind him, looking even more frightened.

  All it took was a hand to the animal’s frozen muzzle and most of the snow that had iced to his warm nostrils broke away. The workhorse shook his head, his sides heaving in strong currents of air.

  I hate to think what would have happened to you, fella. Joshua prided himself on his no-nonsense toughness, but he couldn’t abide the thought of any animal suffering. He caught the Clydesdale’s thick reins and realized they were driving reins. He’d been harnessed to something but was loose now.

  With the shadows of the storm and the thick mantle of white on the animal’s coat, he couldn’t make out the color of the big boy’s coat, but there was something familiar. Neck-pricking familiar.

  “You’re not out here alone, are you, boy?” In the instant it took for Joshua to puzzle out the possibilities—a sleigh accident, a runaway animal, vandals—none of them felt right. The big horse sank his teeth in Joshua’s jacket hem and pulled.

  “Hey!” He lifted his arm to try to pry away, but then he realized the horse was deliberately pulling him along. What a loyal friend this horse was. Instead of running off to find shelter and survive, the big fella had stuck with his master. That meant someone was hurt—