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McNeal Ranch, Near Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, January 1886
To say that Abigail was shocked to see her son-in-law come skidding into her kitchen, barely dressed in his night clothes and a panicked look on his face would be somewhat untrue. In fact, she had just finished percolating the coffee atop the stove when she heard John shout her daughter’s name before hearing his feet pound against the wooden floors above and down the stairs.
Her initial reaction was to make her way to the couple’s bedroom to find out what had happened but she had remained put, knowing full well that John was going to come to her and she didn’t fancy being bowled down the stairs so early in the morning. And while John’s sudden appearance did not surprise her, the look of absolute fear in his eyes did.
A man like John Baldwin doesn’t lose his calm over just any old thing, Abigail thought worriedly.
“Abigail!” John cried out, his chest rising and falling as he regained his breath. “It’s Maggie! She’s collapsed upstairs and running a fever like a smith’s forge!”
What started out as a feeling of worry for Abigail swiftly blossomed into something far more troubling as Abigail’s eyes widened in uncharacteristic panic as well.
Without so much as a word to John, she breezed past him at a hurried pace, her feet pounding the wooden floorboards and steps as mercilessly as John’s had. She was barely aware of the ranch boss tailing her as she vaulted down the hall to their bedroom.
As she turned the corner and entered the room, already growing warmer from the rekindled stove, Abigail blanched as she saw that John hadn’t been telling tales—not that she believed he had been in the first place. There, underneath the thick blanket, was her pregnant daughter sweating bullets and squirming like a worm on a hook.
Abigail was at her side in an instant, her hand reflexively moving to feel her daughter’s forehead to check her temperature. The onrush of heat against her palm nearly forced her to pull her hand back, clearly having underestimated Maggie’s fever.
Oh my poor daughter, she thought in a mixture of concern and sadness. Why couldn’t you have listened to John and me?
The redhead violently shook her head to empty it of such useless woes. The time for prevention had passed, and it was now time for cure. In addition to the fever, it appeared that Maggie was unconscious, her movements likely a result of her body attempting to make itself more comfortable any way it could.
She swiveled on her heels and fixed her son-in-law with an even stare. “John, I need you to go outside quick as can be and see how much water you can gather from the barrels. We need to get Maggie’s fever down if we’re going to have any chance of helping her and the baby. You’ll find buckets in the kitchen.”
John nodded silently and swung around to do as he was told, colliding with Leyla and Chase as he did so. John staggered backward and maintained his balance while Leyla was deftly caught by Chase, but the force of their collision sent Chase sprawling backward against the hallway wall, his body cushioning his lover’s fall.
John shook his head to clear his vision before blurting an apology to the two and leaping over them and practically clearing the stairs as he bolted to the kitchen.
Chase and Leyla moaned but both were unharmed. Once they were back on their feet, they strolled into the bedroom to see what all of the commotion was about so early in the morning.
Leyla gasped as she saw her sister in such a state as she was, her hand clasping Chase’s arm with an iron grip. “M-mama?” she squeaked out, her voice straining as she attempted to remain calm.
“It’s a fever, Leyla,” Abigail quipped, not even bothering to turn to face the two as her eyes continued to dart to and fro over her ailing daughter’s body. “John’s off to fetch some cold water and I need you to gather as many rags as we have.”
Even though Abigail remained facing Maggie, Leyla nodded silently and scurried off to do what was asked of her. Chase, however, remained where he was.
“Anything I can do, ma’am?” he asked, his voice laden with concern. “Just tell me what to do and I’ll see it done quick as a whip.”
I should send him into town in order to fetch Dr. Wilson, Abigail thought, but before the idea could reach her mouth, another concern leapt forward in her mind. Finally breaking her gaze from her daughter, she looked toward the panes of glass embedded in the window. Condensation from the warmth of the room and the cold outside of the home had built upon them, obscuring the view outside.
Rising from where she had perched over her daughter in order to examine her, Abigail rounded the bed and tentatively crossed the room to the window, her heart thundering against her breast as she slowly raised her hand. She placed her palm against the cold glass, feeling the moisture gather on her palm as she did so before swiping her hand back and forth across the pane to clear it. Once she had, her heart sank as she saw that the situation was far worse than she expected.
Through the glass she could see that the snow had begun to fall once again and dark clouds, undoubtedly full of even more snow and ice, were looming on the horizon, growing larger with every passing second.
***
JUST OUTSIDE THE MCNEAL Ranch, Near Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, January 1886
How in the name of Joseph and the shepherds did Peter talk me into following him out here again? Fergus wondered for the hundredth time as he attempted to pull his thick wool coat tighter around him as the snow and wind began picking up, swirling the frigid air around him. Then again, I can’t imagine I’d have been better off staying on the eastern shores where the winters are just as miserable.
The saloonkeeper had just passed beneath the sign that marked where the McNeal land began, mounted on a sturdy horse that he’d borrowed from Mrs. Shannon, the kind elderly woman who ran a hotel up the street from his saloon.
His rider up and vanished, Fergus, she’d said when she’d led him out to the stable she kept for her guests’ horses. He was a strange but sweet young man, but it’s been near two weeks and I can’t keep the poor, dear creature any longer.
Fergus reached a wool-gloved hand out and ran it along the horse’s plush cream-colored mane, earning himself an appreciative wiggle of the creature’s ears. Though the cream and chestnut speckled mount was built much like a draft horse, right down to his tree-trunk-thick limbs and feathered hooves, Fergus could tell the moment he’d laid eyes on the beast that he was nothing short of a warhorse.
Despite the scarf wrapped tightly around the lower portion of his face, Fergus smiled at the horse.
“Well Missus Shannon didn’t have a name for you, me stout fellow,” he said through the thick wool and wind, “and I’ve no mind to see a fair mount sent off to the knackers. How’s a new name and rider sound to you?”
The horse blew an excited gust of air from his flared nostrils, appearing to like the sound of the idea quite well.
“That a ways!” Fergus chuckled in delight, memories of his time in the Union Cavalry flickering in his mind. “Let’s see now. You’re a mighty brute to be sure, and you wouldn’t have gone amiss in the days of swords and sabers. How does the name ‘Ulster’ sound to you, me friend?”
A delighted whinnying was the horse’s response, the mount apparently enjoying the name immensely.
“Well that settles that then,” Fergus cheered through the snow and wind. “Ulster. A fine name for a fine warrior, says I. But I think we may want to put a slight hitch in our speed, my new friend. For unless I miss me guess, those clouds on the horizon are looking a might unfriendly, and the snow and wind seem to be growin’ a wee daft.”
Ulster seemed to agree with his new rider’s assessment of the worsening conditions and broke into a strong gallop as soon as Fergus pressed his spurs against the horse’s thick sides. Though the speed made visibility all the worse for the two, Fergus had been a seasoned cavalryman and knew well how to navigate in the midst of a snowstorm.
Though the McNeal ranchland was expansive, Ulster and Fergus swiftly made their way through the wind and snow and arrived at the homestead in the center. Moving around the homestead, Fergus guided Ulster toward the stable, intent on stowing his new mount there before making his way to the kitchen door.
The two were midway between the homestead and the stable when the sound of a door being flung open caught both their attention. Turning their heads in unison, they spotted a fellow dressed in nothing but a pair of trousers burst from the kitchen door with the handles of several buckets gripped in his hands, the weather apparently lost on him as he sprinted toward the windmill that pumped the ranch’s water and the storage shed next to it..
Fergus was ready to reach for the old pepperbox pistol he kept stowed in his hat when he caught a glimpse of long blond locks flowing in the winter wind before the snow obscured his vision again.
Johnny-boy? he puzzled as he gave Ulster a gentle spur and followed the mad bloke that was likely his young friend further into the snow.
Upon reaching the shed at the base of the windmill, Fergus could see that John had already gotten inside, leaving the doors ajar as he tended to whatever mad purpose had seized hold of him. Dismounting from Ulster, Fergus strode forward and poked his head inside to find that his eyes had not deceived him and that the figure was indeed John Baldwin, bare chested and desperately pounding at the accumulated ice in one of the water storage barrels with a hammer.
“John?” Fergus called, trying to catch the young man’s attention.
John whipped around to look at Fergus, but his wild eyes looked as though they didn’t recognize the old Irishman.
“Oy, right!” Fergus thought as he pulled the scarf down from his face to reveal his thick white chops.
“Fergus!” John called out, recognizing his friend immediately. “Fergus, grab a hammer! We need cold water and fast!”
The sense that his feeling of unease from the night before had proven true settled in the pit of Fergus’s stomach as he complied with John’s request, picking up a nearby hammer and swinging it down on the thick layer of ice that had settled on the barrel’s top.
“What’s all this about, Johnny?” he asked, timing his hammer swings to follow John’s in a rhythm. “And why the Devil aren’t you wearing a coat or boots for that matter?”
John continued to swing with all his might, desperate to break through. “It’s Maggie, Fergus,” he gulped. “She’s got a burning fever and Abigail told me to fetch water.”
“Oh, Sweet Mother Mary in Heaven,” Fergus groaned, pausing mid swing and forcing John to pause as well. While John was momentarily stunned, the Irishman grabbed hold of John’s hammer and pulled it away.
“Listen here, Lad,” he spoke lowly, “you’ll not be doing your wife and child any favors by catching your death of cold out here as you are. I’ll keep at the ice while you go put on a damn coat.”
“But Fergus—” the young Kentuckian began to argue.
“BACK INSIDE YOU PILLOCK LEST ME BOOT FIND YER ARSE!” Fergus shouted, the force and suddenness of his uproar catching John off guard and sending him stumbling back out into the snow.
Fergus sighed as he turned to regard the water barrel again, knowing that it was up to him to see that his goddaughter got the water she needed.
Peter, he prayed, gripping the hammers tightly in his hands, please give me the strength to do what needs to be done.
Drawing his arm back as far as it would go, Fergus brought the hammer down in an almighty swing that broke through the ice, splintering it apart and drenching his wool-gloved hand in the icy water inside.
For a moment, Fergus couldn’t believe his luck, but he swiftly remembered what he’d asked of his late friend and a crooked smile formed on his face.
“You did that on purpose, Peter old boy,” he chuckled to the silence, just before giving his wet glove a shake. He began hefting up the buckets and dunking them into the barrel one at a time.
***
I CAN’T SEND CHASE out into this weather because I doubt he’d even be able to find Cheyenne in this mess, much less his way back, Abigail thought worriedly as she watched the snow continue to fall outside the window.
Behind her, Chase maintained his vigilant position awaiting any kind of order the older woman could think to give him.
There is one thing, she thought ominously, even though she knew it was risky. Still, it needs to be done.
Turning ever so slightly so that she could see the brown-haired show rider out of the corner of her eye, Abigail spoke firmly. “Chase, I hate to ask this of you, but I need you to throw on your warmest clothes and ride out to where the ranch hands have the one herd. Tell them they’re to return to the homestead immediately and put the herd with the other in the barns. Stack the cattle on top of one another if you have to but just get them in as soon as you can. And tell the ranch hands still here and out in the pasture they’re to hunker down in the bunk houses and keep themselves warm until whatever’s coming has passed.”
Chase nodded his head in agreement before spinning around and heading downstairs to the room he shared with Leyla to dress himself.
Abigail sighed as she tried to keep calm. With the herd inside, that’s one less thing we’ll have to worry about. Thank Heaven John made sure we were well-stocked before the weather turned.
The thought of her son-in-law seemed to summon the young man as he reappeared in the bedroom, flying toward the bureau and wrenching its drawers open and rifling through them.
The reappearance of John so soon—and without the buckets of water—surprised Abigail. She could feel a reprimand forming on her lips, but the sight of John shivering ever so slightly told her that he had obviously run outside in nothing but his trousers.
All at once, Abigail felt a sense of pride in her son-in-law’s well-meaning if foolishly executed endeavor as well as a tick of irritation at herself for not realizing that John would likely do such a thing, worried as he was for his wife and unborn child.
Still, it did leave them high and dry for water, so to speak, but running the risk of John falling ill due to prolonged exposure to the elements when they needed him the most was not a chance that they could afford to take.
Luckily, John was moving swiftly in dressing himself and pulling his boots on. He was just grabbing his thick duster when two buckets, full of water sloshing about, appeared in the doorway suspended on a wooden pole.
Abigail looked to John with a querying glance while he returned the look to her. Their confusion soon evaporated as a familiar face graced with white muttonchops appeared in the center of the pole, balanced across his back.
“Fergus!” Abigail cried out, relieved at his appearance and with water to boot. “But how are you—?”
The Irishman angled himself into the bedroom with his pole, carrying four buckets of ice-cold water in total. With surprising strength for his age, he hoisted the pole over his head and set it down, the water inside the buckets splashing about from the sudden drop.
“Had a feeling come over me last night, Abigail,” he replied, taking a moment to dust off the snow that had accumulated on his shoulders. “Felt the need to come and check on me family out here, and it’s a good thing I did, says I. Otherwise Johnny here’d be freezing in the shed and then you’d have to take care of him and Maggie.”
Abigail was about to question the man further when Leyla bustled into the room, her arms full of rags from all over the homestead. She barely noticed her godfather before she kneeled to one of the buckets and dunked a large rag into it, her body shivering from the cold of the water. Once the rag was thoroughly soaked, she drew it back up and wrung it about between her hands before she folded it and handed it off to her mother.
Abigail took the damp, cool rag in hand and swiftly saw it placed on her ill daughter’s forehead. The coolness of the rag seemed to soothe the Maggie, and she ceased to writhe about, but Abigail knew all too well that it would take more than a few wet rags to save her daughter and the child she carried.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was Maggie’s heavy breathing. The others were unable to think of anything they could say to break the silence.
Leyla, however, seemed to notice that they were lacking someone. “Mama?” she asked, her head twisting back and forth to examine the room. “Where did Chase go?”
“Aye, I nearly bumped into the lad as I was entering with the water,” said Fergus with a cough. “Asked him to see Ulster into the stable since he was heading that way.”
“Ulster?” Leyla echoed, unsure of what her godfather was talking about.
“Me new horse, Leyla dear,” he answered with a smile. “Borrowed him from Missus Shannon to get out here, but I don’t think I’ll be returning him, and—”
“But where was he going, Uncle Fergus?” Leyla inquired again.
“I asked him to go and call the hands out in the pasture in,” Abigail said aloud, her focus still on Maggie. “The way the weather looks, I won’t have good men and cattle out there.”
“Oh Lord, the herd!” John shouted as though he was suddenly remembering all about them. “I’ve got to—”
“Stay right where you are, John Baldwin,” Abigail ordered, her tone calm but firm as a steel rail.
John turned to look at his mother-in-law, his eyes full of determination at seeing his responsibility to his wife’s ranch done in full.
Abigail turned away from her daughter and met John’s gaze with her own. But unlike her daughter, her gaze was firm but held an imploring quality.
“John, I need you to stay healthy right now,” she said. “Maggie is likely in for a tough fight for herself and her baby, and they’re both going to need your strength. Chase may not be the cattleman you are, but I trust him to at least get the word to the hands out in the pasture and see them safely home.”
John looked as though he wanted to argue the point, but the words died on his lips as the truth and weight of Abigail’s words settled on his brain much like the snow outside was settling on the roof. Realizing that he would do his wife and child no good were he to fall sick, he moved to the bedside and sat down on the mattress, exhaustion seeming to have finally caught up with him.
He looked completely spent, but not so much that he wasn’t able to reach his hand out and take his unconscious wife’s hand into his own.
Satisfied that John would not be leaving his wife’s side any time soon, Abigail sighed and turned to the other two occupants of the room.
“Leyla,” she spoke commandingly to her daughter, the young redhead jumping up from the floor at full attention. “Go downstairs and start a pot of porridge on the stove. We’re going to need hot food to keep going and for Maggie when she comes to.”
Leyla nodded in agreement and charged out of the room, intent on helping any way she could. Abigail and Fergus stepped out of the bedroom after her, leaving the door open just a crack as they exited.
“You and Peter taught them well, Abigail,” Fergus breathed wistfully as he watched his younger goddaughter vanish.
Abigail favored the Irishman with a weary smile, her own body starting to feel as though it were nearing collapse as she leaned against the wall. “Even I sometimes wonder if we did the right thing, raising them out here as we have.”
“Horse-hockey, Abby,” Fergus said fiercely. “There’s nothing back east they could’ve learned that would match what they’ve learned out here. I watched those two little girls grow up into strong young ladies with their father’s tenacity and their mother’s looks and brains.”
The redhead chuckled tiredly at the old man’s flattery. “All these years and you can still spin tales with the best of them, Fergus Finnegan,” she complimented.
Fergus gave her an appreciative tip of his hat but his eyes quickly shifted. “We can wax nostalgic more after all this is sorted out,” he replied. “Right now, what can I do to help save me goddaughter and her bun?”
Abigail cupped her chin in thought as she pondered the question, not knowing what it was the saloonkeeper could actually do to help at the moment. She was running through a list of possibilities when a peculiar sound pulled her from her deep thoughts: the sound of someone half humming and half singing.
For a moment, she thought it was Fergus but a look to the Irishman revealed that he was just as perplexed as she was.
It was then that the two followed the sound and saw that it was coming from inside the bedroom.
Is that John? Abigail wondered, her curiosity getting the better of her as she quietly pushed the door open more and peered inside.
John was still seated on the bed beside Maggie and still fully dressed. His one hand remained clasped around his wife’s while his other had taken up a protective station atop the mound of her stomach. All the while he was switching between humming and actually singing a song that neither she nor Fergus could recall having ever heard before.
But the sight of the young man who had given his heart to her daughter showing such devotion to her and the child they had created was proving to be more than Abigail could take. She pulled herself away from the doorframe just as a sniffle fought its way free.
Thank you, Peter, she prayed, even as she felt Fergus wrap a comforting arm around her shoulder as though he sensed the same thing. Thank you for sending Maggie that wonderful man, and thank you for helping her learn to open her heart.
Without a word between them, Fergus guided Abigail toward the stairs and down them, the two of them confident that Maggie and her child were in good hands.
***
“GET ‘EM ON IN NOW! HURRY BOYS, THE WEATHER’S GETTING WORSE!”
With the thunderous clap of hundreds of hooves, the cattle were ushered into the barns where the other herd resided. It was a tight fit, but the cattle didn’t seem to mind as it meant that they were out of the miserable weather outside.
Chase McAllister sighed through the heavy scarf he wore around his face, unable to see his own breath through the swirling flakes falling from the heavens. He had successfully located the herd and the ranch hands out in the northern pasture and was as good as his word in seeing all of them safely back to the homestead. It had taken several grueling hours, but he had done it.
The weather had become more treacherous as they had made their way back, but he and Cannonball were no strangers to riding in rough weather and arduous tasks.
As the barn doors were closed and secured, Chase passed the word along to the ranch hands that they were to stay in the bunkhouses until the weather cleared up. The ranch hands didn’t need to be told twice as they made their way to the stable to stow their mounts before beating a hasty retreat to the warmth of their quarters.
I did it, he thought victoriously as he guided Cannonball toward the stable as well. My whole body aches, and I’m soaked and frozen clean through to the bone, but I did it.
The warmth of the stable was a welcome relief from the wind and snow, but Chase knew he couldn’t afford to bandy about. As he returned Cannonball to his stall, he gave his partner an exhausted smile.
“Y’know, old friend,” he began, “I think when this is all over, I’m going to see if I can convince Miss Leyla to just curl up with me and we’ll just sleep through the rest of the winter.”
In the next stall over, Whirlwind bridled at the suggestion, unhappy at the prospect of being further deprived of his rider.
Chase laughed at the white steed’s affection for the young rider. Can’t say I blame him, he thought. But I think that a little normalcy is in order after all this gets sorted out. I think I’ve had enough surprises for one winter.
***
THE WEATHER APPEARED to be growing worse for the wagon train and its escorts, but it appeared that the Spirits were on their side as they passed beneath a wooden sign marking the beginning of someone’s land. Wind buffeted against the sign violently, the snow obscuring the lettering on it, but the Natives knew that they were in the right place, for they had been guided there ever since they had left.
Guarding Wolf narrowed his eyes against the wind, as though he could see clearly through the vicious snows. Indeed, though the light of the day was growing dimmer, he could see the warm glow of lights in the far off distance, sure signs of a settlement of some form.
Though he had grown up in the elements, Guarding Wolf knew that remaining much longer in them was a danger to himself and his tribe. They had prepared well for their journey, but preparations could only take them so far. If they did not stop and brace against the coming storm soon, they all knew that they would perish.
Soaring Arrow is nearby, he sensed, feeling the presence of his old friend drawing closer and closer.
After what felt like an eternity, the wagons and riders could finally make out a sturdy homestead, lights shining from the windows and holding the promise of warmth within.
Guiding his horse to the wagons, Guarding Wolf instructed his tribe to begin setting up the tipis as the members of the Sioux had instructed them. Despite the weather, strong bodied Native men and women bustled from the wagons and began the work of setting up the shelters in the snow.
Guarding Wolf, still clad in his furs and sheltered by his hood fashioned from a wolf’s head, turned to regard the structure that loomed over all of them.
It has been several years since I have seen Soaring Arrow, he thought with a touch of anxiety, but I know he will not turn us away.
Summoning up his courage and strength, Guarding Wolf labored through the snow toward what the white men often called the “front door.” Standing upon the threshold, he raised his hand and knocked insistently on the sturdy wood.
***
IT’S NOT GETTING ANY better out there, John thought morosely as he peered through the window, just able to see the snow continuing to fall despite the fading daylight. And it’s not looking any better in here.
As he turned to look at his wife, he could see that her condition had not improved since that morning. Her body temperature was still feverish and she was still comatose. New water had been retrieved since that morning to replace the buckets which had grown lukewarm while awaiting use, but the application of cold-water rags simply controlled the symptoms instead of curing them.
John ran his hand through his hair for the umpteenth time, as though the action would somehow give him some sense of clairvoyance into how he could aid his wife and unborn child. And not for the first time that day, he prayed.
“Please God,” he whispered, his strong hands clasped together. “Please give me something, anything that can help her. Please.”
When no immediate answer appeared, John simply sighed and began to make his way from the bedroom downstairs, hoping that there would be something ready in the kitchen that he could eat. His limbs felt as though they had been filled with lead, weighing him down further with each step he took. His eyes felt strained, causing the relatively modest hallway to elongate into a vast and endless tunnel.
There has to be some way I can help her, he repeated over and over again, the rhythm of the chant helping him down the stairs.
As he turned the corner of the stairs and passed the front door, a sound like thunder shook him from his trance. John looked around in confusion, his senses now wide awake at whatever it was he had just heard.
The sound came again, but this time John identified it: the sound of someone knocking on the door. He turned and looked at the homestead’s front door in amazement, his mind vainly attempting to figure out who could possibly be out and about in the terrible weather.
Without another thought, he undid the latch that kept the door firmly shut and opened it wide to reveal the head of a wolf staring at him.
John’s eyes widened at the apparition before him, but unlike his wife from months before, they were widened in wonder rather than terror.
It can’t be... John thought, his mind still trying to comprehend that what he was seeing was actually happening.
Sure enough, the wolf’s head rose to reveal the dark-skinned face of a Native grinning at him from beneath it.
“It has been some time, Soaring Arrow, my brother,” came the melodic rasp of Guarding Wolf.
