The photograph had not done her justice.
Mike Carey carefully withdrew from his pocket the well-traveled photograph Nate had sent of Desert Rose and the duplicate she had mailed to him at his request and studied them. The spiritual quality of her face, the glistening auburn braid, the tanned skin, and her taunting dark brown eyes Mike Carey had just seen for the first time.
Neither had the photographs shown the litheness of her body, the charm of her smile, or the strength of hands that held her horse’s reins lightly but yet with total control.
Burdened by his guilt, Mike’s face contorted. If he had realized the power of her glance to penetrate his soul, would he have agreed to Nate Birchfield’s mad scheme? His mobile mouth stretched into a wide smile that seemed to lessen the guilt. “I’m afraid I would have answered even sooner,” he confessed to Peso, who obligingly whinnied in agreement. Mike carefully rewrapped the photos in the little square of oiled silk that fit in his breast pocket and kept them free of sweat and dust just above his heart.
August had become a series of memories. The hard work continued, as did Mike’s battle of wits against Sharpe, who seemed determined to make him quit. A few encounters with the Birchfield cousins on the range had resulted in an invitation to the Double B with a lovestruck Joe Perkins who stared at Columbine the entire time and announced on the way back to the Circle 5 that he intended to marry her as soon as he could!
By mid-September, fall roundup was underway as well as plans for Columbine’s sixteenth birthday. With the starting of school, she and Sam had gone back to their parents’ home in town, but Rose and Nate continued to spend a great deal of time on the Double B. Mike and Joe had been invited to the party in the big white frame house outside Antelope that Dr. Birchfield had built for his family several years earlier, but neither had been able to attend. Black-faced with rage, Joe privately branded Dan Sharpe with several choice names when he sent the two out on night duty the afternoon of the party.
“Can’t stand havin’ competition,” Joe said bitterly and slammed one fist into the palm of his other hand. His shoulder had healed quickly and his splendid strength put him back in the saddle long before Mike expected it.
Mike managed to hide his disappointment. “Which girl is he after? He’s more than old enough to be their father.”
Joe’s jaw set and his blue eyes flashed fire. “Besides, there’s stories about him and a woman in Rock Springs—” He broke off and dull color rose in his already-red cheeks. “He can play the gentleman all he wants but it don’t make him one. As for which girl he’s after, I’ve been figgerin’ it out. ’Pears to me he wants Miss Rose but she acts like she ain’t interested even when she’s bein’ friendly. Now her sister’s different.”
“How?” Mike couldn’t help smiling at his cowboy philosopher friend.
“I know she likes me,” Joe said without conceit. “But there’s somethin’ in her eyes when she looks at Sharpe that plumb scares me. I once saw a little girl look that way when she faced a rattlesnake, kinda fascinated-like in spite of herself.”
“What happened?” Mike demanded.
“Why, I just up and shot the snake to save the girl.” Pure devilment replaced the shadows in Joe’s eyes and Mike threw up his hands but didn’t forget the story and its ending. He couldn’t blame his partner for being attracted to Columbine. At sixteen, her fragile beauty matched her name. Yet Mike suspected the same hardiness that permitted wild columbine to survive the elements and still raise its beautiful head existed in the budding woman.
“Any more words of wisdom in that noggin of yours?” Mike asked. He wanted to add especially about Desert Rose but held back. If Joe Perkins once got onto him, Mike’s peace would “vamoose” the way Joe complained the ornery cattle did at roundup time.
Joe cocked one eyebrow and grinned. “I hear this party won’t hold a candle to the one Doc and his wife are throwin’ for Miss Rose in early November.” Satisfaction brightened his face. “Roundup will be over an’ everythin’ snugged down for winter. We’ll be right there with shinin’ faces an’ our company manners to help ree-joice that Miss Rose is eighteen.” He heaved a long, deep sigh. “Before then, though, we’ve gotta round up some critters. Can’t understand why Sharpe’s sellin’ now. The way I heard it, the new owner wanted to get more cattle, not less. Sharpe’ll probably buy in the spring, but it smells funny to me.”
A thrill of danger and warning kept Mike from giving away that the owner of the Circle 5 couldn’t understand, either. Should he contact his Rock Springs lawyer? Mike shook his head in answer to his own question. He’d watch and wait.
Nothing had prepared Mike for autumn in Wyoming. Although he came from an area of hardwoods that put on a spectacular and colorful show in the fall, it no way overshadowed the spectacle he now rode through daily.
It’s hard to describe, he wrote to Mercy. Maybe it’s the distant mountains that make the difference or the shining streams I never dreamed I’d see anywhere as wonderful as New England when the leaves turn, but Wyoming is just as grand.
Mercy’s reply came in a few weeks. I’m so glad it’s beautiful there, too. How’s our house—and my room—coming? I’m already working on Father and Mother. By spring I hope to have worn them down to where they’ll wire you and beg you to take me so they can get some rest.
Mike laughed over her letter but thoughtfully considered her question. He could find no fault with Sharpe’s management of the Circle 5 except so far nothing had been done toward replacing Old Man Turpin’s cabin with a more substantial house. The cabin had been reroofed and chinked against the coming winter. The bunkhouse offered comfort and warmth. The barn and corrals and fences stood in mute evidence to hard work. Once Mike casually asked Joe, “Isn’t the boss going to build a house? Seems to me I heard rumors the eastern owner might visit come spring. I doubt he will want to bunk with Sharpe.”
Joe just grunted. “I saw some plans stretched out on the table in the cabin when I had to see Sharpe one day. He musta noticed me lookin’ at them ’cause he said someday the Circle 5 would be the finest ranch with the biggest an’ best home on it anywhere near Antelope.” He tapped his thumbnail against his teeth. “After roundup we’ll probably get stuck with cuttin’ trees if Sharpe plans to get a house started before the snow flies.”
As if on Joe’s schedule, the day after the roundup ended, Sharpe called the hands together. “You all know there aren’t enough cattle left on the Circle 5 to keep you on over the winter.” He paused and Mike glanced at Joe, glad his friend had told him how things were on the range in wintertime.
Sharpe shoved his hands against his hips and continued. “I can use any of you who want to quit for the winter and come back in the spring when I rebuild the herd. Now’s the time for a nice, long vacation if you want one.” His smile held little real amusement.
“I’ll keep on those who are willing to cut and haul logs, lay floors, and play carpenter.”
The men looked at each other and one older man said, “Not me, boss. I’m a cowpoke and it about killed me just fancying up the barn and fence and corral.”
“Same here,” others agreed.
“Fine. Pick up your time and I’ll see you back in the spring.” Sharpe stood waiting, his amber eyes half closed. “Any takers on my building offer?”
Mike shoved a sharp elbow in Joe’s ribs. Joe glared at him, caught the silent signal in Mike’s face, and in an offhand voice said, “I don’t mind stayin’. I’ve got kinda used to my bunk.”
A few others grudgingly muttered they’d stay, mostly older men who had wives and kids in town and rode in when they could.
“How about you, Carey?” Sharpe’s question came just a shade too casual. “I suppose you’ll want to look elsewhere for a winter vacation spot.”
He might as well have added, and don’t come back, but Mike chose to ignore the underlying message. His response was typically cheerful in the way he had learned stuck a saddle burr under his boss. “I’m with Joe. Say, Cookie’s staying, isn’t he?” Mike grinned at the rotund cook who served as the best advertisement of his culinary skills. Cookie grinned right back and nodded.
“I always hankered to see a house built out of logs that had to get cut down,” Mike finished and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from roaring at Sharpe’s barely concealed fury.
“Decided.” Sharpe yanked his gaze away from Mike and jerked his head toward the cabin. “I’ll pay off you who are leaving.” He led most of the men away and the others dispersed, leaving Joe to grumble.
“How come you done volunteered me to cut trees? You know anythin’ about it?”
“Not me.” Mike threw back his head and laughed a ringing laugh that brought a scowl to his friend’s usually cheerful countenance.
Joe looked toward heaven as if seeking patience and help, then hissed, “Are you up to somethin’?”
Mike stopped laughing. “Look, pard, if we light out we’ll have to hole up somewhere for the winter. How much of your wages have you saved?”
“Some.” But Joe’s scowl disappeared.
“If you’re going to impress Dr. and Mrs. Birchfield as a suitable candidate for their youngest daughter’s hand you can’t do it broke,” Mike said. “Chances are if we wintered in town you’d end up hanging around the saloons playing cards, maybe getting shot up, certainly broke by spring. Staying on the Circle 5 means good food, a warm bunkhouse, and wages all winter.”
“But I hate choppin’ an’ cuttin’ an’ poundin.’” Joe turned a tragic gaze on Mike and spread his hands out helplessly.
Mike fired his strongest shot. “Think what a good impression you’ll make on the Birchfields. How can they, especially Columbine, resist a sober, hardworking cowboy who turns his back on idleness and evil and proves himself worthy to call on them when we aren’t snowed in?”
“You shore paint a pretty picture,” Joe said sourly. He shoved his hat down over eyes gone speculative and added half under his breath, “Might not be so bad at that.”
“We’ll be riding in to church and—”
“Church! I ain’t set foot in a church since I got to the Circle 5.” Joe suddenly shoved his hat back and stared at Mike.
“Then it’s time you did.” In a single heartbeat Mike knew one of the finest things he could ever do would be to lead this wild, loyal rider to God. “Look, I don’t say much because no one wants to get preached to in the bunkhouse, but if you want a pardner who’ll be there even when I can’t, One who won’t let you down no matter what, you’ll start getting acquainted with Jesus. I’ve heard you tell a dozen times about someone you know who fit your description of ‘someone to ride the trails with.’ ” Mike took a deep breath, then released it. “Try asking Jesus to ride the trails with you and I tell you, you can get through anything. I’ve never told a soul in Wyoming, but last spring both of my parents were killed in a railroad accident.”
Mike ignored Joe’s little movement and rushed on. “For weeks I took it out on God, blaming Him for not saving them. They were the emptiest weeks of my life. God hadn’t turned away from me; I’d left His Presence behind me. It took a long time, and I still don’t know why He let my folks die, but I know this: He loved me and you and everybody enough to send His only Son to die for our sins. He took our punishment, Joe, and I’m going to keep Jesus as my trailmate as long as I live.”
Joe stood there thunderstruck. Mike half turned and said hoarsely, “Think I’ll go for a ride.”
Joe’s quiet voice stopped him. “Think Sharpe will let us off Sunday?”
Mike nodded, too filled for words. He swung back and held out a work-hardened hand and grasped Joe’s. Something in the steady blue eyes told him his witness for Jesus Christ had taken hold in the albeit rocky soil. Given time and patience, watered by friendship and prayer, God grant that it would grow and bloom.
**
Rose restlessly drummed her fingers on the table in the Birchfield living room. When Columbine, Adam, and Laurel all looked up inquiringly she burst out, “It’s been ages since we went camping. Dad, can’t you take a little time off? If we wait much longer it will be too late in the year.”
Her father laid aside the medical journal he had been reading in a rare time of relaxation at home. His dark eyes thoughtfully reflected the maturity of all the years on the frontier. “Let’s see, I don’t have any mothers due to bring new life into the valley for a week or so. All the broken bones are healing well and, as far as I know, no one has scheduled any emergencies for a few days. Laurel, would it hurt Columbine to miss a few days of school?”
“Of course it won’t.” Columbine flounced herself closer to Rose. “I’m way ahead on my lessons.”
Her mother’s eyes sparkled. “I wonder if Nat and Ivy Ann and the children are free. Remember how wonderful it was when our families went into the mountains two years ago?” She glanced out the window into a perfect October day. “Rose is right. If we go it has to be soon. Look how low the snow is on the peaks, even though this is an unusually warm fall.”
“This is Wednesday.” Adam stood and stretched. “Why don’t I walk over and see if the other Birchfields are interested? We can ride into the hills tomorrow and set up camp, stay over Friday, and come back Saturday in time for Nat to finish his sermon.”
Laurel still gazed at the mountains. “I rather suspect Nat will be preparing his sermon the whole time we’re gone—and what better place to feel close to God than in His beautiful creation!”
Adam couldn’t resist teasing, “What if Sam isn’t way ahead on his lessons?”
“He will be. He always is,” Columbine said confidently. In the past few months she had begun to appreciate her quiet but fun-loving cousin and to develop a kinship with him similar to that shared by Rose and Nate.
Early the next morning the two families set out. In the years since Laurel and Ivy Ann came to Wyoming, their riding skills had become even more accomplished than when they rode the fields and hills near Shawnee, West Virginia. They stopped at the Double B just long enough to tell Thomas and Sadie where they were going and how long they would be gone, a frontier precaution. Wyoming in her gentlest mood still concealed a darker side waiting for those who failed to respect her many faces.
What a day to remember! Rose was in her element. Columbine left behind her airs and reverted to a simple girl who loved her family and the unexpected treat. The boys and their fathers talked of fishing and setting up camp, while Laurel and Ivy Ann shared the simple joy of being together.
By midafternoon the little band reached the spot Adam had selected after consulting with Nat. Few places among the crags offered such natural beauty, good water, and grass for the faithful horses. Soon eight pairs of hands had erected what Rose called HIS and HERS tents, spread bedrolls, started a fire, and begun preparations for a hearty camp supper. The sandwiches they had brought from home and eaten on the trail were only a memory as sizzling steaks, potatoes roasted in the ashes, canned peaches, and the cookies Columbine had found time to make before leaving Antelope were eagerly devoured.
By common consent, campfire talk turned to singing. Civil War songs and ballads gave way to hymns, and circled around the final embers of their fire, their hands joined, the Birchfields bowed their heads and Nat offered a prayer.
Love for her God, her family, and her country swelled within Rose. She could hear Columbine’s quick intake of breath and feel Nate squeeze her fingers in a way that told they felt the same. Through the open flap of the tent Rose saw stars that looked close enough to touch, and she fell asleep snuggled against Columbine with a prayer in her heart and her fingers against a letter that had come the day before.
Sometime in the night the drum of heavy rain on the tent awakened her. Columbine slept on, but Rose slipped out of her blankets and let down the tent flap, then mused for a time before falling asleep again. The second time she awoke the rain had stopped and she heard her father calling.
“Get up, everyone! We have to get out of here.”
Fear clutched Rose, and she shook Columbine awake.
In record time the campers got dressed and hurried out into a gray dawn. “What’s wrong, Dad?” Rose asked, trying to rub sleep from her eyes.
“I don’t know and neither does Uncle Nat, but we don’t like it.”
Rose followed his gaze to the stream nearby that had purled its welcome the day before. Now it looked muddy and sullen.
“With all this rain there should be more water in it,” Adam explained. He looked up the stream to where it vanished around a bend. “Something is holding that water back: beaver dams, downed trees, maybe debris. When or if that something gives way, a wall of water will race down the stream bed and our trail is right alongside of it.”
“What about going up and over?” Nate asked. Rose saw the concern in his face.
“Not enough food and no guarantee what the weather will be,” his father said. “Hurry and get packed and mounted. Laurel, Ivy Ann, don’t stop to cook. Do the best you can with whatever we can eat while we ride. Nate, Sam, girls, saddle the horses while Uncle Nat and I pack the ponies. Wait!” He stopped them. “First we must pray.”
This time fear ran through the circle even though Nat’s calm petition for God’s help restored Rose’s normal heartbeat. After the Amen each person ran to break camp, and in far less time than expected, the line of eight riders and two pack ponies had begun their descent of the mountain.
An hour later, the deluge came. Hastily donned slickers protected the riders to their knees, but hats soaked through allowed streams of water to trickle down their necks. The winding trail became treacherous and slippery with mud. Even the horses so carefully trained to pivot and withstand obstacles found themselves sliding. Only the expert horsemanship of the riders kept them going.
The rain went on and on. “Think we should stop and build an ark?” Nate muttered.
Rose stifled a nervous giggle and Columbine sniffled. But the stream next to the trail continued to flow its even, muddy water. How long could this cloudburst continue and not sweep away even the firmest, most immovable obstruction?
“If we can make it five miles more, we leave the stream and go up,” Adam encouraged. “From there we have a series of slopes and don’t have to worry about a flash flood.”
Down the trail they climbed, one mile then another. The rain didn’t let up. Three miles, then four elapsed. Drop by drop the downpour lessened until Rose’s heart beat high with triumph. Just one mile more! She patted Mesquite and the roan snorted and stepped over a slippery rock in the trail.
A half mile from the junction where the trail and stream parted company they came to the narrowest place in the canyon. Rock walls on both sides frowned down on the wet riders even though the capricious skies had long since turned a deceptive blue shade.
“Watch the horses, ride as fast as you can without sacrificing safety, and God help us all,” Nat ordered. He drove the pack ponies ahead at a fast clip. Laurel and Ivy Ann followed, then Rose, Nate, Sam, and Columbine, with Adam bringing up the rear.
Boom! The sound echoed down the canyon, and Rose tasted raw fear.