Mountain Angel Page 14

Angel’s gaze flew to Nahqui, now back in his cradleboard and gurgling contentedly. She shivered. “I knew there was something about that place I didn’t like.”

  “It’s just a sorry old cabin, Angel. Places don’t have memories.”

  She bit her lip to keep from telling him otherwise. The Irish half of her always seemed tuned to places, and she sensed bleak despair and hopelessness in her single foray into the old miner’s abode.

  Now she forced herself to concentrate on her new friend and the baby instead. She stayed up a few hours, oohing and aahing appreciatively over garments Okoka had made and proudly displayed, and trying to communicate with hand gestures about the long journey she had made from Missouri.

  Finally the sun slipped behind the mountains, and sheer exhaustion took its toll. Angel gratefully slid into the furs and blankets Okoka offered for their use. The Indian girl also slept on the floor in a pile of furs. Holt stayed up for a while longer, going outside periodically to check the animals and return with firewood.

  Angel slept heavily, awakening only once when Holt slipped into the makeshift bed beside her and curled an arm around her. She woke in the morning to the sound of the baby’s hungry whimpers. She climbed out of the furs, noticing with dismay Holt had already gone. She went to the window and saw the mule was gone as well.

  Okoka soon came up beside her. Together the two young women looked out at the falling snow, which was already several feet deep in every direction.

  “Snow,” the Indian girl announced gravely in perfect English.

  Angel clapped her hands in delight. “That’s right.”

  “Snow,” Okoka repeated, and this time the word was ominous. “No good snow.”

  Chapter Eleven

  BY LATE AFTERNOON THE cabin was the centerpiece of a huge Rocky Mountain blizzard, and Angel and her new friends virtual prisoners inside. The snow was blowing so hard it came in through the cracks of the walls and drifted up against the door almost to the eaves.

  Angel fought her rising panic and tried to stay calm. By comparison, Okoka appeared relatively unconcerned, but who knew what thoughts drifted behind her dark eyes? She seemed sensitive to Angel’s discomfort, for she insisted with hand gestures and nods for the other woman to accept the heavy buffalo robe she offered. Angel had to admit though the robe smelled slightly gamey, it was deliciously warm against the bitter chill of the coming night.

  Night fell quickly, and with it Angel’s hopes. At best, Holt must be lost in the storm, and at worst … she didn’t want to finish the thought. A shiver coursed through her frame as she imagined him lying frozen or dying somewhere in the deep snow. She simply couldn’t accept the possibility. He had beaten worse odds before, hadn’t he?

  Angel’s pensive mood increased as the night wore on. The baby, as if sensing her restlessness, woke every hour and fussed while his mother rocked him in her arms and crooned a soft, soothing chant. Even though Angel didn’t understand the words, the peaceful melody soaked gradually into her conscious mind and she found herself relaxing.

  When morning came, both Angel and the baby were fast asleep. Okoka rose and quietly set about preparing breakfast, retrieving pemmican cakes and dried fruit from storage. Her moccasins made no noise upon the sod floor, and Angel slept later than she had expected. When she awoke she was angry with herself for sleeping so blissfully when Holt was in grave danger.

  Okoka coaxed Angel to eat, though she wasn’t hungry. Her stomach was in instant knots upon seeing instead of lessening, the storm had worsened overnight. The wind howled around the cabin, and Okoka was hard-pressed to keep a fire going. Snow fell down the chimney and hissed as it met with the pitiful fire. The Indian woman hunkered down by the hearth, steadily feeding a stream of dry tinder and wood into the coals. Angel relieved her for a while, glad to be able to huddle near their only source of warmth, while Okoka fed her baby.

  So passed the second day, and the third. Okoka ventured outside only to feed the horse and return with firewood.

  Angel awoke with a violent start on the fourth night and found the fur robe wrapped around her drenched with her tears. She was crying in her sleep, too cold to sob aloud and too grief-stricken to voice her fears.

  Okoka wouldn’t understand anyway, she thought miserably. But Angel found she was wrong. Moments after she awoke, the Indian woman padded over to the bed where Angel lay and sat beside her, taking Angel’s ice-cold hand in her own.

  Sandwiching it gently between her warm palms, Okoka held Angel’s hand until she went back to sleep. When Angel woke again she found Okoka gone from her side, but the sun had appeared in her place.

  Throwing off the buffalo robe, Angel hurried to the window to stare out at the vast, glittering white. The storm was over. As if the previous days had never existed, the sky was clear and glacier-blue, and not a hint of breeze stirred the drifts reaching the lower boughs of the snow-flocked pines.

  “Okoka,” she called out, wanting to share her excitement with the other woman. Angel motioned the Indian woman up beside her and chucked the baby under his chin as she spoke in careful English. “Look. Snow stopped. Good, yes?”

  Okoka nodded, but she didn’t smile. There was something troubled about her expression, but Angel couldn’t question the other woman.

  Angel was too anxious to eat, no matter how delicious biscuits tasted when slathered with wild honey. Even the normally taciturn baby crowed and waved his chubby fists in the air, and Angel communicated her wish to carry Nahqui to the window to show him the new day, too.

  Okoka suggested something better by going to fetch the buffalo robes and two pairs of snowshoes for the women. While Angel strapped on the additional footwear, Okoka bundled the baby up so snugly only his face showed and tucked him in the cradleboard, easing it onto her own back by means of two loops over her shoulders.

  Soon the little expedition bravely forged outside. Angel gazed around with quiet wonder at the frozen stillness surrounding them. In the distance white-capped peaks soared to a sky of blazing blue, and in every direction the snow sparkled and glistened beneath the warming sun. Even the stream nearby was silent, frozen solid.

  Angel glanced back at the tiny cabin and realized how insignificant it was against the stark backdrop of nature’s majesty. How much smaller was Holt against the brutal reality the blizzard had left behind?

  A shiver sliced through her, and she turned in slight distress to find Okoka watching her with knowing eyes. The two women exchanged sober looks. Now Angel understood why the Indian woman wasn’t jubilant about the ending of the storm. It might only mean the beginning of other problems.

  Seeking to distract herself, Angel moved toward the lean-to where the horse was sheltered. The mare was adequately watered and fed, thanks to Okoka, but Angel knew it was time to check the leg again. She soothed the animal while she ran her hands up and down the injury. To her relief, there was no sign of swollenness now, and the mare didn’t flinch at her touch. It had only been a bad sprain after all.

  Angel rose and shook out her damp skirts with a sigh. If only she felt more confident about directions, she might go in search of Holt herself. Of course that would mean leaving Okoka alone, and though the Indian girl was doubtlessly capable of looking after herself, Angel didn’t think it would be wise for them to part company until the men were found. In case neither man returned, the two women would be completely dependent on each other.

  Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, Angel turned to head back to the cabin. She was the first to spot the distant figure struggling through the snow, halfway up the nearest mountainside.

  “Okoka,” she cried, and pointed at her discovery. The Indian girl echoed her excitement. But there was something wrong. Both of them sensed it immediately, and as the man gradually neared they saw the shape of another figure slung across his back.

  Angel pressed her hand to her mouth. The man was too far away yet to tell if it was Holt or Okoka’s husband. But in either case, one of them was seriously hurt or dead.
Chills of foreboding washed over Angel. Don’t let it be Holt, she prayed. Then she felt guilty for Okoka’s sake.

  The Indian girl had moved to the lean-to where the horse was sheltered and was wrestling with something on the ground. Angel turned back to help her, not understanding until Okoka unfolded a rectangular piece of frozen hide upon the ground.

  “Travois,” Okoka said. She motioned to the man struggling down the mountainside with his human burden, and then indicated the sorrel. “Horse pull travois.”

  Angel nodded eagerly. “I’ll help you.” She steadied the mare while Okoka slipped the crude harness in place. The horse acted jittery at first, dragging something unfamiliar behind it, but calmed enough for Angel to lead it forward. Her heart beat faster when she saw the approaching man stumble, fall, and slide a few feet down the mountain. Luckily, he didn’t drop his burden, but Angel could sense his exhaustion from a distance.

  She clicked to the horse for speed, pulling it by the cheek strap, careful to keep her clumsy snowshoes from being crushed. Okoka trailed behind them, having stopped at the cabin to deposit Nahqui and retrieve blankets.

  The snow was so white it hurt Angel’s eyes. She paused to wave her arm vigorously to catch the man’s attention and then resumed her slow, clumping walk across the snow. If Holt is dead, I don’t want to live. The thought struck her with surprising force. She scrunched her eyes shut, feeling the tracks of frozen tears drying tight on her cheeks, and pushed on.

  Then she heard the man’s harsh breathing ahead of her. Angel looked up as the hood of his buffalo robe fell back to expose his agonized, wind-burned face.

  “Holt,” she cried, surging forward and falling to her knees in the snow. The horse stopped and didn’t move. She threw herself forward at the deep barrier of snow again and sank down beside Holt.

  “Got to get him inside,” Holt gasped, stopping to shift the burden of the man he carried over his shoulders. His knees threatened to buckle and take them all down in the deep snow.

  “Of course.” Angel realized now was not the time for tearful reunions. She got up clumsily and managed to retrieve the horse again. “Okoka made a travois.”

  Holt carried the unconscious man to the makeshift sling and lowered him in place. He had wrapped strips of buffalo hide around his hands earlier, but now they shook with the cold as he tried to tie the other man in place.

  Angel hurried over to his side. “Here. I’ll do it.” Her own gloveless fingers were already blue from exposure, but she was outside for far less time. She forced herself to secure the leather thongs around the unknown man’s wrists and ankles without looking at his face. Was he dead?

  As if reading her mind, Holt rasped, “Found him shortly after I left. But the storm hit and I lost the mule. Found some shelter in a cave. I managed to keep a fire going, but I couldn’t do much for his injuries.”

  Okoka reached them now and let out a strangled cry. She hurried forward to the man stretched out on the travois, her hands reaching out to tenderly touch his bearded face.

  Angel picked up the pile of blankets the Indian girl had dropped. While Okoka hovered over her husband, Angel covered the unconscious man. She was relieved to see the man’s eyelids tremble in his unconscious state; he was not dead after all.

  Holt himself looked ready to drop where he stood. Angel went to him and pulled the snowshoes from her feet. “Here. Put these on.”

  He started to protest, but she silenced him with a finger across his lips. “Put them on, Holt. It’ll make the walk back to the cabin easier for you.”

  For once Holt didn’t argue. He slipped on the snowshoes and Angel adjusted them around his larger feet. She saw the soaked condition of his boots and rightly suspected his feet were numb with the cold, too. If they didn’t hurry, frostbite could make things worse.

  Angel urged Okoka to lead the horse back while she brought up the rear of the little party. The going was slow in knee-deep snow, and she had to struggle to drag her skirts free of the heavy stuff. She slipped several times but managed to save herself from falling. Thankfully, it was only a hundred yards or so back to the cabin.

  Okoka drew the travois up before the cabin door, and both she and Angel untied it from the horse, each of them taking one end in order to drag the man in the sling inside.

  Holt tried to help, but Angel ordered him out of the way. Then she and Okoka finished hauling the other man to a choice spot before the crackling fire. Both of the woman gasped for breath and straightened at the same time. Just then Holt stepped across the threshold.

  “So c-cold,” was all he said, and the word was uttered so strangely Angel’s head turned with alarm in his direction. She was just in time to cushion the fall of his body with her own.

  The jarring impact sent them both tumbling to the floor. Angel felt her elbow slam against the sod as she attempted to break her fall, but all she gained for the effort was a pain that sent her senses spinning. Seconds later her agony doubled when Holt’s fur-clad figure knocked her flat. He landed next to her, his outstretched arm flung across her.

  Angel forgot her own pain and struggled to her knees. “Holt,” she cried, bending over him and only faintly reassured to find he was still breathing. She looked frantically toward Okoka, but after seeing the other couple was all right the Indian girl had turned to tending her own injured husband. Angel could expect no help from that quarter; she was on her own.

  “Oh, Holt,” she repeated, framing his cold jaw with trembling hands, “what can I do?” Again she looked around the cabin for answers. Extra furs and blankets remained on the floor where she had slept during the last few days.

  Rising as quickly as she could manage, Angel unfurled her tangled skirts and hurried to retrieve an armful of coverings. She returned to drape them over Holt’s prone figure, and then peeled off her own buffalo robe to cushion his head.

  Kneeling beside him again, she took his hand this time. It was still wrapped in old hide, which she unwrapped and set aside. Working with precise strokes, she sandwiched his icy palm in her own and briskly rubbed it back to life. Holt made no protest. He didn’t so much as stir.

  When his first hand was a healthy pink again, and her own were warm from the friction, Angel repeated the action on his other one. Then she eased off his frozen boots and did the same for his feet. His toes were literally blue from the cold and she hoped it wasn’t too late for them. She decided she had done all she could and tucked him all around with the furs and blankets and stood up.

  Angel saw Okoka had gone a step further for her man. The Indian girl had unobtrusively stripped and slipped naked beneath the furs beside her husband, in order to warm his entire body. She had also settled Nahqui on the other side, and the baby gurgled happily and played with his unconscious father’s beard. When Okoka met Angel’s surprised gaze, she gestured for the other girl to do the same.

  Angel shook her head. She wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing for modesty’s sake. As if sensing her thoughts, Okoka frowned sternly at Angel. Her dark eyes seemed to be saying that in a crisis, you must do anything to save the one you love.

  Biting her lip, Angel glanced back to Holt. He did look terribly cold, and he had begun shivering violently in his unconscious state. A moment of indecision passed before Angel started to unbutton the bodice of her gown with shaking fingers. A swift glance around assured her no one was watching. She turned her back as the dress puddled at her feet, and she was reduced to her chemise and petticoats.

  Angel decided that was good enough; she had gotten rid of the damp clothing that would only chill him. Tentatively, she knelt and lifted a corner of the blankets, then slid beneath the edge, as close to Holt as she could manage. She ruefully realized she would have to undress him, as well.

  The buckskin ties were frozen stiff, and Angel struggled for a long time to pull off his shirt and trousers. Holt’s skin, when she inadvertently brushed it, was ice-cold. She could hardly bring herself to press against him in order to transmit some of her meager w
armth.

  Holt groaned, and Angel wondered if she was helping or hurting him. The ice crystals on his hair and eyelashes melted as she anxiously watched his face. Shyly she reached up to brush a damp lock from his forehead. He shifted in his sleep, rolling lengthwise against her.

  For a long time Angel heard nothing but the sound of breathing in the little cabin, and the rising howl of the wind outside. Cold drafts seeped beneath the furs, and she huddled closer to Holt, surprised when his arm curled around her waist and pinned her close. He was definitely warming up now. She was curled up against him, her back curved against his hard stomach and lean thighs. She was almost asleep when she felt his hands begin to wander.

  Angel bolted awake, eyes huge in the darkness. Was Holt conscious? She felt a callused palm casually inching up her thigh, then slowly rucking up her petticoats to expose the bare flesh underneath.

  “Holt,” she whispered, reaching back to tug down the petticoats but instead encountering the silky-smooth hardness of his male member. He had pinned her petticoats beneath his leg, and Angel’s frantic squirming only served to encourage him further.

  “Wake up,” she hissed, but Holt didn’t reply. Instead he neatly cleaved her thighs apart with a knee, and his hips picked up a rhythm that was insidiously familiar to her panicked brain.

  Dear heavens, not now, Angel thought, shooting a glance across the room, where the trapper and his family slept peacefully in their furs. Holt’s other hand toyed with a nipple through her chemise, and she stifled a groan at the piercingly sweet sensations slamming through her.

  So much for keeping him warm. Holt didn’t have any problems his hot-blooded body couldn’t handle. Angel discovered struggling was useless, so she concentrated on keeping her legs clamped shut and her arms folded across her breasts. She was sure she could frustrate him.

  But Holt had different ideas. Angel soon found herself on her back. She opened her mouth to protest and his mouth captured hers, staking a fierce claim of its own. She saw he wasn’t asleep. His silvery irises reflected the moonlight from the window. He straddled Angel so his hard male flesh pressed into the softness of her belly, his need for her unmistakably clear.