Mountain Angel Page 13

  There was a long silence. “All right,” Holt said, “we’ll stop at the first town come morning and you can send a telegram back to him.”

  “Thank you.”

  Angel’s gratitude was punctuated with a hug she felt him return. But, over her head, Holt’s eyes narrowed as he stared off across the moonlit landscape.

  MORNING FOUND ANGEL SNUGGLED in Holt’s arms. Her breathing matched the rhythm of his heartbeat, and they were pressed together so tightly when the stage came to a halt, they both slid to the floor.

  It was a rude awakening. Angel heard Holt’s oath the same moment she felt the hard floor hit her backside. She scrambled up beside him and ruefully rubbed her eyes.

  “What now?” Holt grumbled, opening the door to peer out into the settling dust. The cool morning air hit Angel like an icy blast, and she shivered.

  “Gil?” Holt called out warily, seeing no sign of the burly driver. He pushed Angel back. “Stay here. I want to see what’s going on.”

  He left the stagecoach and Angel sank back down on the creaky seat. She was only half awake, though the cold air was doing its best to revive her. She heard the men’s voices outside and relaxed enough to yawn. Obviously nothing was wrong.

  But outside the coach Holt hunkered down and stared in dismay at the front foreleg of the horse Gil was showing him.

  “She’s got a bad leg. Can’t push her no more,” Gil said, and spat a juicy wad of tobacco out of the side of his stubbled cheek.

  “How far are we from Denver?”

  “Shoot, ’least thirty miles. Mebbe forty.” The driver shook his head to discourage Holt from any crazy ideas about walking. “An’ a bad storm headed this way, that’s for sure.” He jabbed a callused thumb in the direction of heavy gray clouds in the west.

  “Maybe it’ll pass us by,” Holt said.

  “Nope. We’ll have snow a’fore morning.”

  Holt had known Gil for years and trusted his judgment. “Could we keep going with just one horse?”

  Gil squinted and considered the suggestion. “Without the coach, sure. But not with all those whatnots you’ve got stored under there.”

  “I can’t leave those behind,” Holt muttered, with a glance at his precious cargo, securely wrapped and stored beneath the stagecoach. He rose and dusted off his buckskin trousers with a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “Is there a place we could shelter a couple nights?”

  Gil chewed the wad in his cheek and grunted. “Passed an old prospector’s dig on the creek a few miles back. Looked deserted, but the cabin was still standin’.”

  Holt nodded. “Then here’s what I want you to do.”

  He explained his plan, pressed some coins on Gil with the promise of more to come, and then returned to the coach to inform Angel of his decision.

  She stared at him in disbelief and mounting suspicion. “Walk a ‘few’ miles? This isn’t anything like walking up Mount Elbert, I suppose?”

  Holt chuckled at the memory she evoked; of a straitlaced, genteel young lady struggling up the side of a rugged peak, determined to save every last frilly under thing she owned. “I promise you won’t get blisters this time,” he said with a grin. “But we’d better hurry, because snow’s on the way.”

  Angel reluctantly joined him outside the coach, and didn’t turn down the offer of his jacket to keep her warm. Gil was busy unhitching the horses and saddling the uninjured mare.

  “What’s going on?” she asked the men.

  Holt looped a piece of rope in a slipknot around the other animal’s neck. “This mare hit a chuck hole before dawn. She’s too crippled to go on. I’m sending Gil on ahead to fetch help. You and I will take shelter in a cabin we passed a ways back.”

  “Are there settlers there?” she asked hopefully, with wistful thoughts of a hot breakfast and wool blankets.

  “’Fraid not,” Gil said. “Looked empty to me.”

  Angel set her shoulders, determined to make the best of a discouraging situation. “Are we going to leave the stagecoach here?”

  The men exchanged looks. Then Holt said, “I’ll take some things with us for safekeeping. Likely nobody will bother the coach. Not many travelers out this time of year, right, Gil?”

  The driver grunted, which apparently indicated an answer in the affirmative.

  Angel walked to stretch her cramped leg muscles while the men busied themselves with something under the coach. She was too busy gazing at the incredible landscape to pay much attention to the cargo they hauled out and strapped to the back of the injured horse.

  The pale morning sun revealed a lush green valley ablaze with wildflowers. Larkspur, mariposa, and blue columbine dotted the mountains as far as she saw. Lodgepole pine rippled along the rim of the valley like blue-green flame. A nearby cluster of firs reminded her of soldiers in green uniforms, waving a welcome in the brisk morning breeze.

  Angel knew she should be frightened, but she wasn’t. The cold air was invigorating and her blood pumped faster with the excitement of the challenge they faced. Suddenly the gentle hills of Belle Montagne seemed very far away.

  WHEN HOLT JOINED HER a short time later there was a tender tone in his voice that surprised her. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  Angel gave him a wry smile. “What are my choices?”

  He looked chagrined. “I’ll make it up to you somehow. No lady should have to endure conditions like this.”

  Something was definitely amiss, Angel thought. He’d had no qualms about forcing her to work the mine or live in a crude cabin. Now for some reason he was trying to please her. It was working.

  Angel was silent and thoughtful after Gil said a brisk farewell and rode ahead on the other horse. She and Holt turned southwest and started to follow the tracks left by the stage.

  They had to go slowly to accommodate the limping horse and stopped several times for Holt to examine the animal’s leg. Each time he rose with a grimmer expression than the last. Finally he said, “It’s bad. I’m afraid I’ll have to put her down.”

  “Oh, no. Let me look at it first.” Angel stilled his hand as it moved to the holster at his waist. She knelt, heedless of her skirts pooling across the dirty ground.

  “Easy, girl.” Angel spoke soothingly when the mare shuddered at her touch. “I just want to feel your leg.”

  Angel’s slim white fingers moved expertly inch by inch up the sorrel’s leg. She located the injury at the joint and gently felt the swelling.

  “I don’t think it’s a fracture,” she said after a thorough examination. “Likely a bad sprain. Some cold compresses would work wonders.”

  She rose, her gaze fixed on the shady ground beneath the firs, where patches of early snow still lingered. “If we can get her to the cabin, I think I can do something for her.”

  Holt gazed at her in frank amazement. “I didn’t know you knew anything about horses.”

  “My father raised trotters. I grew up around them,” she said absently, already looking ahead to see how far away the cabin was Gil had seen. “This load on the mare’s back doesn’t help any, either. Let’s take it off and ease her burden.”

  Her hand was intercepted as it moved to uncinch a strap. Holt’s palm came down on hers with enough finality to make Angel uneasy.

  “No. We have to keep my cargo safe, and it’s too heavy for either of us to carry.”

  “Now what’s so important you’d ruin a fine horse to protect?” Angel demanded, reaching with her other hand to try and pluck up the tarpaulin covering the mysterious box.

  He captured her other hand as well. “Don’t try it, sweetheart,” Holt said in a low voice, made more ominous by the sudden narrowing of his eyes. “It’s better for everyone if you don’t know.”

  Angel drew herself up. “You could permanently cripple this poor creature. I won’t allow it.”

  “Then we’ll go slow, even if it takes all day to get to the cabin.” He cast a glance skyward. “But I’m afraid Mother Nature intends to p
ush us.”

  Holt was right. By the time they spotted the abandoned homestead lazy white flakes began to fall. The small log dwelling was built in a grove of quaking aspen, beside a gurgling creek. Fall had turned the aspen leaves to various beautiful shades of red, gold, and orange, and whenever the wind gusted, the leaves rustled softly like starched petticoats.

  But Angel was soon too busy to admire the scenery. She told Holt to secure the horse underneath the sheltering trees while she tore off a loose piece of the canvas tarpaulin to use as a wrap. Within a hundred yards she found a patch of old snow and, as new flakes fell ever faster, she scooped up handfuls and made a crude cold pack.

  While Holt steadied the mare’s leg, Angel wrapped the injury and tied the canvas pack in place. She rose and stepped back with a slight frown. “It’s the best I can do.”

  “Where did you learn that?” Holt asked.

  “Like I told you, I was practically raised with horses. I liked to hang around the stables and watch my father work. I’d give anything to have him here now.”

  They both went silent, while the snow fell and melted in their eyes and hair. Then Holt turned toward the cabin, extending a hand to her.

  “Come on. Let’s see what we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

  The dwelling was hardly more than basic shelter. Unlike the cabin Arthur and Royce had built, this one was hastily and sloppily constructed, and huge chinks in the logs allowed a cold draft to flow through the room. Oil tarps served as glass for the windows, flapping forlornly in the wind. A couple small animals had burrowed in for the coming winter, and the place had a musty, unpleasant smell.

  Angel shivered and drew Holt’s warm jacket closer around her as she inspected their potential lodgings for the night. A lumpy, mouse-ridden mattress was left behind, including a rough chair hewn from a piece of tree trunk. Filth dominated the place, and she couldn’t bring herself to stay inside. Holt looked like he felt the same way.

  “Well,” he said as he joined her back outside, “let’s see if there’s anything better nearby.”

  They found an old covered wagon as well, but it offered little more in the way of shelter than the cabin. Together they walked down to the creek and along the shore for a while, but they didn’t go too far. The snow started to fall faster, blanketing the landscape with a harsh white warning of a devilish winter to come.

  Angel was shivering, even wearing Holt’s coat. Her black patent leather shoes weren’t made for walking in snowstorms. “I suppose it’s that awful old cabin or sleep outside,” she bemoaned their fate with a shudder.

  “Wait.” Holt stopped and peered ahead through the snow flurry. “Do you see something over there?”

  At first she saw nothing against the blinding snow. Then, gradually, Angel could make out another cabin, half hidden by a row of stately pines. As they watched, a lazy curl of smoke rose from its chimney and drifted away in the wind.

  Holt had to restrain her from bolting ahead. “We don’t know who’s living there.”

  “It’s worth the risk. We’ll freeze out here if we don’t find decent shelter soon.”

  Angel’s argument soon won him over. Holt was cold and hungry, too. They trudged on with hope in their hearts and wariness in their eyes.

  Both were reassured upon seeing a single mule tethered under a shelter near the cabin. It was probably a prospector working the creek for gold. Just the same, Holt took the lead and approached the cabin. He decided to be forthright and boldly knocked upon the door.

  For a long time there was only silence. Then they heard the soft tread of footsteps behind the door. Holt knocked again. The door inched open.

  Angel gasped. A young Indian girl peered out at them, her huge onyx eyes glittering with apprehension. She couldn’t be over fifteen or sixteen years old. Her dusky skin was like rich cream, and her oval face was framed by two oiled black braids. From what Angel could see, she wore a doeskin dress similar to the one Holt’s mother had owned, only this one was golden-buff in color and relatively plain.

  Holt’s gaze went to the bone choker around the Indian girl’s neck. Then he spoke to her in her native tongue, in a soothing singsong rhythm. The girl relaxed and nodded.

  She hastily gabbled something to Holt and pointed off in the direction of the mountains. Then she looked at Angel, and the two young women studied each other curiously for a moment.

  “What did she say?” Angel asked Holt.

  “She says her man has gone hunting. She’s worried about him in this storm.”

  “Her man? An Indian?”

  Holt shook his head. “No. A white. She’s his Indian wife.”

  Angel concealed her surprise and dismay, aware of the girl’s keen black eyes watching her. “Wife? She isn’t old enough.”

  A chuckle escaped him. “Tell that to her. She looks pretty mature to me.”

  “Yes, but —” Angel trailed off, feeling a sense of outrage both for the young girl and her own plight. “Would she let us take shelter here?”

  “She’s already invited us inside. I told her we were lost in the storm.”

  With relief Angel followed him across the threshold, studying the clean and cozy lodgings, where a fire blazed merrily in an open hearth and the delicious smell of something cooking wafted through the cabin. A cradleboard was propped against one wall, and Angel let out a soft cry when she spied the black tuft of an infant peeking above the blankets.

  “Why, she has a baby, too.” Angel glanced at the Indian girl again and returned the tentative smile she was offered. Then the girl babbled something to Holt, and he interpreted.

  “She wants to know if you like babies.”

  “Oh, yes. I love children,” Angel’s enthusiasm escaped her in a rush, and her cheeks grew warm when she felt Holt studying her.

  The girl gravely listened to his response and then asked something else.

  This time Holt gave Angel a mischievous wink. “She also wants to know where your children are.”

  “Where my — oh, dear. Can’t you tell her we’ve only been married a short while?”

  “I’m afraid she still won’t understand.” Holt was laughing at her openly now. “She’ll only assume you’re barren, and pity us both.”

  A slow flush rose on Angel’s cheeks. “Tell her they’re staying with my mother while we travel.”

  This was relayed and the girl nodded, as if accepting the explanation. Then she invited Angel with hand motions to come over and admire her baby boy.

  It wasn’t hard to delight in the chubby infant, who curled a chubby finger around the larger one Angel offered him. Then he yawned hugely and snuggled back to sleep in his blankets. He seemed perfectly content to remain strapped in the cradleboard.

  The Indian girl was fairly beaming with pride. Angel asked Holt to find out her name and the baby’s.

  “She says her name is Okoka. It means ‘raven’ in Cheyenne. Her baby is Nahqui — ‘bear.’ “

  “Tell her he’s beautiful,” Angel said. “And so is she.”

  When this was translated Okoka reached out and touched Angel’s hand. The two women exchanged open smiles.

  “I wish I could talk to her,” Angel said.

  “She probably knows a couple English words. Why don’t you work on it while I go back and check on the horse.”

  Angel was too intrigued by her new friend to argue. She kept both herself and Okoka busy for an hour trying to find a common word between them. Whenever Angel would point at an object in the cabin and say its English name, Okoka would shake her head, her black eyes dancing with mischief, and substitute the Cheyenne word.

  Finally they agreed upon one thing. Angel made as if to touch the burning coals in the hearth, and like a natural mother Okoka snatched her hand back from the flame.

  “No,” she scolded clearly, in English. “No fire.”

  The two of them laughed at the tiny bridge of communication they had made. They sat facing each other on the sod floor and gabbled back and forth in th
eir respective tongues. Angel didn’t understand a word of what the Indian girl said, but she understood the contentment in Okoka’s lovely doe-like eyes, the happiness in her voice. Maybe her white husband wasn’t so bad. Okoka didn’t seem to have any complaints.

  Holt returned just as Okoka was dishing up big bowls of a thick, meaty stew. They joined her, eating Indian-style on the floor, instead of at the small plank table, where an empty bowl still awaited her husband.

  The meal was simple but delicious. Angel had two big helpings and then sat back enjoying the warmth of her insides. Outside it continued to snow, building up a thick barrier around the cabin. Holt had brought the horse up to the cabin, where he could check on its leg more easily, and it had the mule for company. He reported the swelling had gone down. Both animals had sufficient graze for a couple days underneath the shelter, and it took one burden of worry off Angel’s mind.

  But now there was the matter of Okoka’s missing husband. She said he was gone three days now, and he had intended to return in two. She had enough firewood and food for several weeks. But with the baby, she couldn’t leave to look for him.

  After the meal the Indian girl went to feed her baby. Holt and Angel quietly discussed the problem.

  “Tomorrow morning I’ll take the mule and go look for him,” Holt said. “It’s the least I can do to repay her hospitality.”

  Angel agreed. “But what if the snow doesn’t stop?”

  “Then we’ll be stuck here for the winter. It could be worse. We could be back at the inn down the road, you know.”

  She shuddered at the thought of the other dilapidated old cabin. “I wonder who lived there.”

  “I’ll ask Okoka. Maybe she knows.”

  It turned out the other cabin had belonged to a lone prospector who had died a year ago. Okoka and her husband had buried him up on the mountainside. She told Holt he had gotten sick with the “white throat.”

  “What’s that?” Angel asked, after he translated the girl’s reply for her.

  “Diphtheria.” Holt looked grim. “Sometimes it runs like wildfire through the settlers. Especially children.”