Birthing a lamb had never felt like such an intimate experience before. Peter had always recognized the Creator’s hand in all phases of life, but as he’d felt Emma’s presence at his back, as he’d listened to her hushed breathing, as he’d sensed her amazement, he’d viewed an otherwise mundane lambing in a new way.
He’d watched and helped deliver dozens of lambs by now. Usually, it was Colley with her practical, sensible demeanor who kept him company, especially during the touchy ones, as this first-time mama’s birthing had been. Tonight, Emma had brought him a different way of thinking about what he did day after day after day. Pride and humility mingled inside him, contrary though the two emotions were.
As he found himself caught in the web of her tear-filled green gaze, Peter couldn’t help but acknowledge once again the wonder of life. God held it all in His magnificent, all-powerful hands. Even when loss and pain invaded, the Father had a way of bringing hope back into His children’s lives. The trick was in recognizing it when it came.
He let out an odd hiccup of a laugh. Funny how it took a frivolous society miss to remind him of that.
“Thank you.” The roughness in his voice caught him by surprise. Not only that, but he realized unaccustomed dampness had risen to his eyes. Just as had happened to her. He could still see the moisture spiking her eyelashes and making the many shades of green flicker in the lantern’s light. How a woman like Emma could raise within him such a peculiar response to something so familiar, he’d never know. Peter just knew Emma had come into his life like a wild storm, and nothing had felt the same since.
The red-haired storm nodded and gave him a small, tentative smile. Something told him this was the true Emma Crowell, the one few ever saw. The socialite with her fancy airs was a part of her, true, but a part he suspected she’d grown used to displaying over time. This emotional woman, the one who’d held his son close to her side, who’d read to him until they’d both fallen asleep, this one who’d let herself be moved by the simple miracle of new life, was the woman he suspected few ever saw.
Why he should feel so honored by that realization, he also didn’t know.
Oh, yes. Emma Crowell was trouble. Peter feared the danger she posed was greater than that posed by the threat of ruin in the fall.
He couldn’t let himself fall under her spell.
She couldn’t be any further from the kind of woman he needed. He couldn’t let his attention wander toward her any more than it should.
To that end, he shook his head to free himself from the effect she still had on him.
Colley marched into the barn again, destroying the magic of the moment he and his uninvited guest had shared. “Here y’are. Brought ya the warm water and soap, plus the scissors, tincture of iodine, and more clean cloths. That there lamb sure is one pretty little girl, now, isn’t she?”
All Peter registered was Colley talking about a pretty “she,” and he couldn’t help but nod. While Emma’s hair still displayed that wild quality, no matter how tightly she tried to plait it each day, it didn’t detract one bit from her looks. She was still the loveliest woman he’d ever seen.
As much as he’d loved his wife, and as pretty as she’d been, he knew in an objective way that Emma outshone her like no other woman he knew.
When he realized he hadn’t answered his ranch manager, his irritation grew. At the source of his distraction, of course. Time to pay attention to his business again.
The ranch. His animals. The lamb. “Looks right healthy, too.”
“Good thing, I’d say.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Emma sit back into the layer of straw, twin dabs of red on her cheeks, the dampness in her eyes only making them shine brighter still. She scooted a hair sideways, letting Colley into the stall closer to his side.
A surprising sense of loss struck him, but he pushed that aside and focused on the newest member of his mercifully growing flock.
With the ease of expertise, he and Colley cared for the two animals, and once the stall was clean again, he prepared to leave the barn. It was then he realized Colley must have forgotten the pail of warm water for the ewe to drink. She would need plenty of liquid in order to produce the amount of milk the newborn would need.
“We need another pail of warm water,” he said. “And molasses.”
Colley made a face. “Silly of me! I up and forgot the other one back at the cabin. I’ll be right back, Pete. Don’t you worry none. And give me them dirty rags. I’ll take ’em out with me.”
With a final look to make sure the lamb was suckling properly, Peter stood, ready to head to the bunkhouse for some much-needed sleep. He realized Emma still sat on the cushion of straw, wearing a tender expression, seemingly unable or unwilling to drag her gaze away from the occupants of the stall.
He couldn’t stop the grin. “There’s nothing more to see.”
She blinked, then looked up at him. “What do you mean?”
“The lamb is born. Now, the ewe will raise her. Just like all the other sheep do. And they need to get their rest. It’s best for the lamb if they’re not disturbed for the next couple of days. It lets the two of them grow close, like a mama and lamb should.”
She pursed her lips and her eyes snapped. “Are you making fun of me, Mr. Lowery?”
His mouth twitched as he tried to keep from smiling. “I reckon it’s past time you called me by my given name.”
“Fine.” She stood. “But should they really be left all alone? What if something goes wrong? Who’ll help the poor little thing?”
“Right now, the best help the ‘little thing’ can have is attention and lots of milk from its mother. The two of us sitting here and talking will only distract them. They really need to sleep. So do you.”
“Sleep?” She looked surprised. “You really think sleep is possible? After…” She gestured toward the sheep. “After this?”
He had to laugh. “I don’t know about you, Miss Emma, but I know I sure can sleep. I need it. A full day’s worth of work and then some will be waiting on me when the sun rises. I’m sure Robby’ll be up before you know it, too. Then there’s all those meals you’ll be needing to make, right? We’re all waiting on you.”
Indignation turned her face the color of fresh-cooked beets. “Oh! Oh-oh-oh! How dare you?”
He raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. “What? Mention what we all know? That you can’t cook? There’s no shame in that.” At her surprise, he shrugged. “I’ve come to think you did have a point. It isn’t your fault you never were taught, but I reckon you can learn while you’re with us, can’t you?”
“As if you’ve given me a choice!”
“I don’t have a choice, either. I found you, whether I wanted to or not. I could hardly up and leave you out there.” He lifted a shoulder. “I’m not one to hurt anyone, even by not taking action, by walking away and not doing something to keep them from being hurt. My faith doesn’t have room for that kind of thing. And I’m not ready to be an inhospitable oaf, once a body’s on my land.”
“I’d say an oaf is just what you are. Why, I’ve been working mighty hard to learn, and I’ve been working with Robby to teach him his vocabulary, too. We’ve been working on improving his reading ability, I’ll have you know.”
His humor faded some. “About that reading…”
She crossed her arms. “Are you about to protest over the reading matter? Because if that’s the case, sir, then I’ll have you know we did our lessons using the Good Book before we ever touched Le Morte D’Arthur. By the time you came back to the cabin, we’d finished. I gave you my word, and I kept it. We only read from the Malory after I’d put Robby through his lesson.”
Skepticism made him arch a brow. “Were you teaching Ned some kind of lesson, too? I never asked you to teach my prisoner anything, you know.”
She squared her shoulders. “He didn’t take any part in our lesson. But there wasn’t much for him to do in the cabin. He simply sat and listened while Robby and I read. Then… well, then Robby wanted to play, and I, sir, saw no harm in letting a child entertain himself. It was innocent play, after all.”
“Innocent play you knew I wanted you to avoid.”
She shook her head, and the dark auburn curls flew loose from the bounds of her braid. “I couldn’t do that. It’s something he enjoys because it reminds him of his mother. I could never take that away from him. I can’t say I see your reason to do so, in fact.”
He narrowed his eyes. “It didn’t look to me like you were recollecting my late wife when I walked in. You were neglecting your work and cavorting with the man who stole from my flock.”
She gasped, horror blazing in her expression. “Cavorting? I wasn’t cavorting with Ned! Not at all.” Her arms punctuated her words with firm, wide gestures that set her richly colored curls to dancing over her shoulders. “When you walked in, I’ll have you know, I was in the process of handing Ned the sword—er… the branch, so that he and Robby could play. I was about to return to my supper preparations.”
The thought of the contents of the spider before Colley had stepped in made Peter laugh. “And a fine supper it would have been, had I not sent my ranch manager in to save it, right? Seems to me your efforts do more harm than good. It didn’t even look like food.”
Her eyes grew huge. Peter knew he’d gone too far. He’d let his fears, worries, and irritation push him to where he’d wounded Emma.
Without another word, she swooped down, caught up her cape in her arms, spun on her heel, and fled the barn. As she ran away, the silence of the night grew thick, uncomfortable, and troubling.
While he hadn’t wanted Robby to waste his time on useless fairy tales, he also had never wanted to wound anyone as he just had hurt Emma. As guilt swelled in his heart, the door opened again.
“What in tarnation was all that about, Peter Lowery?” Colley asked, shaking her head. She plunked down the bucket of sweetened warm water in a corner of the stall, closed the door and latched it, then clapped her hands free of straw. She turned her blue eyes on Peter. “Well?”
“Ah… that was Emma.”
“I ain’t gone blind, all of the sudden, you know. I saw it was Emma right clear when she flew by. Now, what kind of forest fire was she runnin’ from, Pete?”
Shame heated his face, so he shrugged. “She wasn’t running from any fire.”
“And of course, y’ain’t foolin’ me none, neither. What did you go and do to that lil girl?”
Peter couldn’t make himself meet his ranch manager’s gaze. He also couldn’t find the words to confess his cruelty toward a guest in his home. He knew Colley would take to that truth no more kindly than she had to whatever her no-nonsense mind suspected.
Of course, she suspected the truth. That he’d lashed out as he’d done before. Only thing was, his criticism had been worse, it had gone deeper this time. This woman who’d helped him so much after his wife’s death had come to know him better than anyone else ever had. She knew he’d hurt Emma and, as she often did, she was going to hold him accountable. He wasn’t ready for that, he never was.
With a glare in her direction, he gave an abrupt wave of his hand, snagged the lantern hanging from the iron arm on the wall, and stalked outside.
“Hey!” Colley yelled her objection. “It’s dark in here.”
“Go to the cabin. Emma has no idea what she’s doing.” She’d never find her way back. He had to go and find her himself. If he had to apologize, and he did, he’d do it right to her face. He wasn’t about to do it twice.
He’d worry about Colley once his “guest” was safe again.
“Women!” He shook his head as he headed into the wooded darkness. His swinging lantern sent fantastical, misshapen shadows into the trees. Robby—and likely Emma, as well—would view the shapes as “dragons” for a knight to slay.
“Bah!” He’d never understand any one single woman, much less the whole lot of them.
Men were much easier to figure out. They focused on more concrete and practical things. Like finding a distraught guest on a chilly spring night lit by only a sliver of a moon and a small lantern in his hand. Before she got lost in the woods.
Again.
In the scant light, he paused to look around. To his surprise, he saw no sign of the fleeing woman. How could that be? She hadn’t left his side that many minutes ago.
Where could Emma Crowell have gotten herself to in such a short time?
At least there was no snow on the forest floor. Emma gulped fast bursts of cold, evening air into her lungs, enough to keep her going, going—where?
She pulled up short, panting, her legs aching from the sudden hard sprint. She had no idea how far she’d gone. She only knew she’d given it her all, just so she could get away from any more critical, judgmental, detestable, insufferable, hurtful comments. And from Peter. Maybe she should just keep running until she went all the way down the mountain and came to flat ground. Surely she’d get to Bountiful—or some other somewhat civilized place—sooner or later.
Anything to avoid Peter Lowery for the rest of her life.
Even though she’d run out of steam, she continued to march away from the direction of the barn, the camp, and that… that lout—oaf! That’s what he’d called himself, and she might as well use the term. And to think she’d been so impressed by him just moments before he’d opened his mouth. But now, when she thought back over the time she’d spent in the barn, she realized the ewe had been the one who’d done all the work. All Peter did was to catch the newborn lamb after the ewe birthed it.
True, he never said anything to suggest he took credit for what Emma had witnessed. And the event had clearly moved him. They had exchanged that meaningful look…
“No!” She was not about to let herself be lulled into a sense of comfortable companionship again when it came to that man. He’d gone and ruined a truly nice moment by mocking her, by insulting her, by… by…
By reminding her of her own failings.
Slowly, her steps came to a stop. No matter how hard she’d tried to flee from the truth, it had followed her. She didn’t have to run from Peter to know in her heart that she’d failed to learn anything that made her useful. If she’d never been separated from her traveling party, maybe things would have been different. Maybe she would have been able to stay in her oblivious state. Maybe she wouldn’t have needed to know any of the more practical things of life. But her life had taken that turn.
And it had made her see herself in a different way.
Yes, of course, she could learn. Given adequate time and a bit of help. But she didn’t want either at Peter’s camp. She’d much rather hurry home where, in the privacy of Ophelia’s comfortable kitchen, Emma could become the older woman’s apprentice.
Very well, then. Time had come to gather her gumption, as Ophelia often said, and head back to civilization. She took a step, but had to pause. Which way was Bountiful located? Portland? Other folks? Anything?
She turned, first one way then the next. The dark of night lay heavy on the woods, making them impenetrable and menacing. She couldn’t even tell which way she’d come. Oh, dear.
Whereas anger had been her overriding emotion only minutes earlier, a sense of foreboding appeared in a corner of her heart. It was one thing to run from an overbearing man. It was altogether another to run aimlessly in the woods.
In the pitch black.
At night.
Alone.
“Oh, goodness.” A sinking sensation left her a touch queasy. “I couldn’t have gotten lost that soon. It’s not possible. I just have to look more carefully, trace my way back.”
But when she tried to look down toward her feet, to search for her own immediate footprints, she could see not even a hint of her recent flight. Not only was it dark, making it more difficult than necessary to identify something as minor as the mark of a shoe, but the forest floor was also littered with leaves and twigs and who-knew-what-else, a cushion that sprang back to disguise any impression.
Had she ever known what direction she should take to reach Bountiful? Even on that day she’d first found herself lost on this mountain, she hadn’t had a clue where the town was located. She’d wandered around with Pippa, following voices to that small clearing. Now, she couldn’t hope for voices to guide her. Everyone was back at the camp. Even her little dog.
A sob caught in her throat.
She would rather move forward than go back.
The sooner she found her way back to town, the sooner she’d be in Papa’s loving embrace again. And once there, she could send for her pet. Her determination back as a beacon, she set off to her right, since she’d seen nothing to draw her in any one direction more than another.
“Lord?” Her voice seemed to echo much louder than she thought the puny murmur should have. “I know I haven’t paid You the kind of attention You deserve in the last few years. I also know You showed me something powerful tonight in that barn—ouch!”
Her ankle twisted when she stepped on something, more than likely a fallen branch since it felt as though it had rolled beneath her weight. Emma reached down and rubbed, well aware it would smart the next day. But she couldn’t stop and nurse an ache. She had to keep going.
She hurried, hoping to come out of the woods sooner. “And then,” she said, resuming her conversation with God, “it was quite foolish to run out into the dark with no idea which way I should go, just because Peter irked me with his comments. It’s because it was true, what he said. It seems as though that’s how I’ve been, like a child, tumbling from one adventure to the next, but Papa’s always been there to tell me it’s all right when something’s not gone right.”
She kept walking, the moon not giving her much help through the tree-thick forest. A branch scraped her cheek. “Oooh!”
She fought against the sting, rubbing her cheek, hoping she didn’t wind up with an ugly scar. “Please, do help me, Lord.”
The depth of the silence continued to stun her, and she walked on. Soon, however, the reality of her loneliness had her chattering to God again. “I guess a life of little-girl adventures becomes a more serious matter when one is grown up and still falling into those adventures. Especially if one gets lost in the woods. More than once, at that. I need help to get… somewhere—”
“Well, well, well.” Sawyer materialized before her out of the stygian black. “Looky what we have us here. It ain’t ’specially nice out here by night. I figgered y’ain’t never done much that ain’t not nice in yer life, missy.”
Emma ignored him and continued walking, her gaze fixed ahead and just to the right of Sawyer’s shoulder. He stepped out of her way, then matched his pace to hers, walking at her side.
After a few silent minutes, he seemed to draw closer. “So, missy. Where ya headin’ to?”
She sidled away, but didn’t slow down. “I needed some air.”
After a handful of steps, he tipped his head toward her and again came closer than she wanted. She stepped away, yet again.
Then, with what seemed like a smile in his voice, he said, “Wouldn’ta thought you’d be out and about in the middle of the night.”
She didn’t respond. She just wanted to get away from him and closer to folks. Regular folks.
“Don’t ya wanta be cozy-like in one a them beds in Lowery’s cabin?”
She didn’t like the way he made his words sound… dirty. She thought of Mrs. Hepplesmith, her watercolor instructor, the most prim and proper woman she’d ever met. She fashioned her tone after the lady’s instructional approach. “One of the ewes gave birth tonight, Mr. Sawyer.”
The rustler again matched his steps to hers, ever closer to her side. “I heered something ’bout some animal in the barn. Didn’t pay much mind though.”
Mrs. Hepplesmith… Mrs. Hepplesmith, she repeated soundlessly, hoping the woman’s starchy demeanor would affix itself to her own. “I chose to spend a while in the barn watching the lovely event, but then—”
Emma caught herself before she revealed too much. It wasn’t in her nature to not be amiable, but the longer he walked alongside her, closer and closer with each step, the more anxious she became. She didn’t want to encourage him. Please, Lord, help!
Then something occurred to her. She pulled up short. “What, pray tell, are you doing out here, sir? I understood you’d been confined to the bunkhouse, that you’ve been kept tied to your bed all this time.”
In the meager light that filtered through the trees from the slivered moon, she saw Sawyer give a one-shouldered shrug. “I found me an old china cup. It broke right quick, and I used it to saw through the rope ’round my feet. Dinnent cut myself as much there, on account of my socks, as when I tried to get my hands loose.”
A glance revealed hands still secured at his back. “I see.”
She marched on in silence. It gave her some comfort to know his hands were bound. And he couldn’t have retrieved his weapon. Her initial fear now began to turn to irritation as he kept up with her.
No more than twenty paces later, her discomfort grew even more acute. It was absolutely not a necessity for Sawyer to have narrowed the distance between them quite this much as they’d passed through the thick stands of trees. The trees didn’t grow that close together. Clearly, ignoring him was doing little to discourage him.
Once again, she came to a full stop, this time perching her fists on her cloak-draped hips. “Do tell, Mr. Sawyer, sir. What do you plan to do now that you’ve freed yourself?”
“I ain’t rightly freed myself yet.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed. “I can see that, sir, but you’re no longer Mr. Lowery’s captive. What is in your future now?”
“Future?” His voice rose in outrage. “Lady, all’s I’m after is gettin’ this blamed rope off my hands. I ain’t thinking of no future past that. Mebbe then I’ll think on finding me a good glass of sour mash—”
“Understood!” She didn’t want their discussion to go down any such path. She knew she would immediately regret that. “Once you are freed, then what? I don’t recollect any… ahem! Sour mash, sir, anywhere in these woods.”
He shot her a sideways glance. “When I’ve my hands back, why, then I reckon I can head for that Bountiful place you talk so much about. Hear say there’s a fair hotel there, with good cooking. Should find me some way to win myself a pocketful of money at that new saloon I heered they built theirselves. Poker’s big there, too, I hear.”
Distaste filled her. “Hm…” But then the more important point of his statement struck her. “You’re headed to Bountiful, you say.”
“Mm-hm.”
“You know how to get there?”
“Well, I ain’t rightly said, now, have I? But it can’t be too hard to find the way. Man’s gotta go down these mountains no matter what he does. Then I reckon I can figger which way’s east. I know the south a right bit better, but I heered east is where the town is, so that’s where I’m heading.”
“Funny you should say all that, Mr. Sawyer. I’m headed to Bountiful, myself. But I don’t know which way it’s located, much less how to find my way around this mountain.”
His walking slowed. He tipped his head, studying her for long moments. “And, you’re wanting…?”
Rescue me, Mrs. Hepplesmith! Then she realized how silly the stray notion was. The only help for her right then was standing before her in the shape of the highly untrustworthy and fully disreputable Mr. Sawyer. But what choice did she have?
None, if she wanted to head home to Papa. Mr. Lowery had said it was a day by horse, but it couldn’t be that much longer on foot. If they left now and didn’t stop, perhaps she could be in Bountiful by tomorrow evening. Surely she could manage to tolerate Mr. Sawyer’s company for that long.
Emma squared her shoulders. “Well, sir. I’m asking your assistance. I must return to civilization so that I can notify my father as to my whereabouts. I absolutely know he must be frantic by now. I know he’d be quite happy to make any help you offer me well worth your while.”
“Ya sure do talk some funny.” Sawyer shook his head. “Worth my while, huh? Ya don’t say?”
“Indeed.” Swallowing her misgivings, and desperate to get home, she thought of an old saying. In for a penny, in for a pound. She drew in a deep breath then lurched forward with her words. “I would like to suggest that you help me return to Bountiful. I promise Papa will offer you a respectable reward once we’re back.”
She could see him mulling over her offer.
He rubbed his chin against his shoulder, and the friction made a strange, raspy sound. “See, I figger it’s like this. I reckon I could use me some dollars, seein’ as how I been left behind without a thing to show for all the work I done. And then, that Lowery fella goes an’ ties me up. Like a hog, I tell ya.”
Emma kept her peace.
Once again, Sawyer studied her in silence, his gaze a heavy weight as he raked her with those piercing, dark eyes. “If that’s the case, why then, I figger you got yerself a deal here, missy. But, seein’ as we’re pardners, now, untie my hands.”
She drew in a harsh breath. She hadn’t thought that far ahead when she’d made her offer. Sawyer unfettered didn’t strike her as a wise proposition. On the other hand, she certainly didn’t relish the thought of the enraged thief if she refused to help him free himself.
Would he be as likely to wreak the same havoc with his hands tied as free? He could run as fast as she, if not faster. He could then knock her to the ground… and then? What could he do?
On the other hand, with full use of his hands…
Which alternative was the lesser evil?
She feared she knew the answer to that, but she also could see the ire rising in his expression as she took her time to consider his request. Anger in Sawyer didn’t strike her as particularly beneficial to her, regardless of whether his hands were bound or not. And he’d hardly help her get to Bountiful if she didn’t release him.
In the end, she sent up another brief prayer, then nodded. “Very well. I’ll see what I can do.”
He let out a growl. “Wrong! What you’ll see is that you can and will untie my hands.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Sawyer.”
“Mr. Sawyer-this! Mr. Sawyer-that! My name’s Sawyer Smith, missy. Jist call me Sawyer, a’right?”
Emma bit her bottom lip, then gave another, smaller nod. The thought of touching the man repulsed her, but the thought of infuriating him any further—no! She shuddered, but made her choice.
“Turn around, please.” She hated the tremor in her voice. Sawyer was the sort who’d take advantage of even the slightest sign of weakness. “It’s quite dark, and I can’t see well at all.”
She began to work on the knots, which had been tied by someone with experience and strength, neither of which she had. Gnawing on her bottom lip, she concentrated, tugging at the rope with her ragged fingernails. Her awkward position didn’t help the matter, and her frustration grew.
His impatience grew at the same pace.
And then, when she was about to give up in defeat, an especially strong tug loosened the knot. Moments later, Emma had Sawyer freed.
“Ah-ha!” He rubbed his wrists, shook his hands, and rolled his shoulders.
Then, before Emma realized what was happening, he grabbed her by the shoulders and plastered himself on her. He smashed wet lips on her face, dragged them down toward her mouth.
Emma pulled back, horrified. The wetness on her cheek turned her stomach. The stench of the man, sour sweat mixed with something sharp she couldn’t identify, was overpowering. She gagged as she fought to wedge her fists between her body and Sawyer, fighting to get in a punch or two, but without much power to them they did little good.
Oh, dear God! This wasn’t supposed to happen. Help me!
With all her strength, she repeated her plea, with all her might, the sound reverberating against the surrounding trees. “HELP!”