Rachel felt as though her mother sat beside her as she riffled through the thick stack of papers. Some small, some large, some just scraps of any kind of paper Ida could find. So many times Rachel and her mother had sat just this way, always with one eye on the window, watching for Taig.
Rachel had to brush away a tear at the thought of everything her mother had endured. She knew Ida would be thrilled at the changes that had come into her daughter’s life. Already the foundation for the little cabin had been laid, and the yellow rose bush planted in the chimney corner.
Rachel had taken to studying her mother’s notes every day, and she’d learned quite a bit this week. This morning she was reading about the sourwood tree. Her mother had written in her neat handwriting:
Sourwood tree . . . tart, sour taste; Teas made from the leaves make dropsy medicine, and also yield a black dye.
The sourwood is also called sorrel-tree. It has a lovely fragrance. Sourwood honey is very good for rheumatism and arthritis. It’s also a good stomach medicine.
When John Jacob came in, his arms full of chopped wood for the fireplace, she held up a thick stack of paper and exclaimed, “Look, John, look how much I have researched already.”
He took the papers, read a few pages carefully, then, smiling proudly, said, “I knew you could do it. You’ve seemed so happy the last few days. I guess you know now where your life is going to take you. You are going to take care of the ill. No man or woman can do anything more important.
“Now,” John Jacob continued, “we must get ready for the church picnic.”
“To tell you the truth, John, I’d rather stay home and do some more research.”
“You’ve got a lot of time to do that. The mountains will always have roots and barks and plants,” John Jacob said laughing. “Right now I want you to put on one of the pretty new dresses I bought you and go have some fun at the picnic. There hasn’t been enough of that in your life.”
“I’m not sure I’ll know how to mix with all those folks, John. I always felt like an outsider at family gatherings up on Tulane Ridge.”
“A pretty girl like you?” John Jacob exclaimed. “Why, you’ll be the belle of the party.” He glanced at her slyly. “And Dylan Quade will be there.”
“Dylan?” she said sourly. “Why should I care if that polecat is there or not?”
“What’s wrong, honey? I thought you were sweet on him after he rescued you from that grizzly bear.”
“Well, if I was, he sure isn’t sweet on me,” she said angrily. “He hasn’t come around here once since then.”
“They say he’s working like a dog up at his place, branding all day, then making repairs to the ranch house evenings. Sounds to me like he’s fixin’ to settle down with a woman,” John Jacob said knowingly.
“You really think so?” Rachel asked, a hopeful gleam in her eye.
“I sure do,” he answered, then said in a more serious tone, “Honey, there’s one man I want you to steer clear of at the picnic. You know Preacher Robison, don’t you?”
“Yes, he was the preacher who married Homer and me. The one who took in those two orphan girls. Why should I steer clear of him?” Rachel asked.
“Iva tells me he’s a rough customer. I’ve told him not to come round the Grizzly Bear anymore, but he might be at the dance tonight. I don’t want him causing any trouble, trying to catch your eye. He dresses in the latest fashion . . . and he’s darn good-looking.”
Rachel let loose a pealing laugh. “You can’t hold his good looks against him. You’re a handsome man, too.”
“I don’t look like that peacock in any way. He’s a mite too fond of the ladies. I’ve been watching him. He eyes every pretty woman in the post and ignores the plain ones. That’s why I’m afraid he might make a play for you.”
“I doubt he’ll even notice me,” Rachel replied.
“I don’t care what you say, Rachel, I’m going to keep an eye on that fancy preacher.”
Rachel shrugged indifferently. “Do whatever you think best, John. Right now I’m going to put on the prettiest dress you bought me and go have some fun. I can’t wait to see the looks on the faces of those mountain men when I win the shooting contest!”
There was a faint rustling of cottonwood leaves as the cattle stirred restlessly, rising, then lying back down. Dylan sat before his fire in the early twilight listening to the faint sounds of the cows, their soft mooing, the click of horn against horn.
He swore softly when he looked up at the lowering sky. Thunder rumbled sullenly and lightning flashed across the black sky. There was going to be a bad storm, and the cattle sensed it. At least the picnic had not been rained out. He’d better get started down the mountain, he thought, or he’d never make it to the dance.
He was kicking dirt over the fire when a big steer lifted his head and looked around him. It was but a moment before the longhorn spotted him. The big animal took a step forward, his nostrils flaring. He was full of fight, and now the herd was even more uneasy. The inside of Dylan’s mouth grew dry as bone. This old mossyhorn was too big for him to wrestle.
As Dylan stood there, sweat running down his shirt, the cattle lunged to their feet and stampeded out across the prairie. “Run, you bastards!” he yelled in relief. “If you think I’m going to chase you, you’re damn well mistaken.”
He stopped kicking dirt on the fire when great sheets of rain blew in, almost knocking him off his feet. “I wish to hell Monty would ride in,” he muttered, throwing the saddle across the stallion’s back. He had seen his friend about a half hour ago up by a dry wash. It would soon fill with water at the rate the rain was coming down.
Dylan was about to ride up that way to look for Monty, to warn him of the storm that was on its way, when he saw his friend racing his horse toward camp. “Hurry up, you idiot!” Dylan yelled. “We’ve got to get back to the ranch house before the full force of the storm hits.”
Together they raced their horses over the rough terrain, the hard-driven rain cold as ice against their faces. They reached the barn at a dead run. As they dismounted and led the animals inside the big, dry stable, Monty looked at Dylan and said with a grin, “At least we won’t have to take a bath. I think the rain sluiced all the dirt off us.”
Dylan smiled back. “I think it took some hide off me too.”
As Monty headed out to the bunkhouse, he called, “I’ll meet you back here in half an hour.”
In his bedroom Dylan opened the double doors to his wardrobe and pulled out a pair of black trousers and a white shirt. Folding the clothes over the foot of the bed, he peeled off his soaking clothes and dried himself with a rough cotton towel.
Dan was right, he thought. He did feel clean and rejuvenated. When he had tucked in the shirt tail and done up the buttons, he knotted a dark blue kerchief around his sun-browned throat.
He tried to tame his dark curls, but gave up after about ten minutes. His hair was determined to curl and he might as well let it. What would Rachel think when she saw him all cleaned up?
“Good Lord, Monty,” he snorted as he entered the barn, “you smell stronger than John Jacob’s whores. Where did you get that God-awful-smelling stuff?”
“I got it from Charlie, your cook.”
“What did you do, pour the stuff all over your head?”
“I did not. I just used a little bit. Just enough to make the ladies notice me.”
“Well, I hope they like the odor of polecat.”
“You’re very funny tonight,” Monty grumbled, leading his horse out of the barn.
Only a slow drizzle remained after the storm. The two men grinned at each other and urged their horses into a gallop. It wasn’t an out-and-out race, but each man wanted to get to the dance first.
They arrived at the barn where it was being held at the same time. Monty, however, entered first because Dylan had to tie his black some distance from the other animals. There was another stallion tied on the picket line and he had started raising a ruckus as soon as he spotted Devil.
Dylan entered the barn ten minutes behind Monty. He stood a moment, looking for Rachel. He found her, looking more beautiful than ever in a cornflower-blue gown, and his face tightened with anger. Every single man there had gathered round her, hanging on her every word. And a lot of words and laughter were tumbling out of her mouth, too. He’d never seen shy little Rachel so animated. She certainly had never laughed that way with him. A wry smile twisted his lips. Most likely she had laughed at him a lot of times.
Well, he thought, I’m not going to be one of those little dogs fawning on her, wagging my tail to get her attention. “Let’s go get ourselves a drink and watch them kick up their heels for a while. I’ve never before seen a bunch of men act like jackasses. Look, even Preacher Robison is making a fool of himself.”
“Yeah, he’s the worst of the bunch, can’t take his eyes off her,” Monty said, following Dylan to the makeshift bar made of two long wooden planks placed across three barrels.
The two men had each ordered a whiskey when John Jacob joined them.
“We missed you two this afternoon at the picnic,” he said after they had talked for a bit. “You should have seen my Rachel at the shooting match.”
My Rachel, Dylan thought scornfully. We’ll see about that, old man.
“No one could believe it when Rachel outshot everyone,” John Jacob went on. “That didn’t set too well with the old-timers who are used to taking turns at winning. But she walked away with that brand-new Colt revolver just the same. Said she was going to give her prize to me since she has no need of it,” he added proudly.
Dylan frowned but said nothing.
“She sure is having a fine time here tonight.” Monty noted. “I never seen her looking so pretty. Or with so many admirers, even that preacher man.”
At least, Dylan thought with a pleased grin, she hadn’t given the preacher her prize. Robinson had not moved from her side all evening.
Dylan’s thoughts turned to the baskets that were to be bid on shortly. Had Rachel prepared one? Maybe he could worm the information out of Andrews.
John Jacob was also thinking about Rachel’s basket as the auctioneer prepared to open the bidding. The last thing John Jacob wanted was for Robinson to win Rachel’s basket. Then she’d be forced to sit with him and share the pie she’d baked. Just as he’d feared, the handsome preacher had been sniffing after her all evening.
“I don’t guess Rachel baked a pie for the auction,” Dylan said with a sly look.
“Matter of fact, she did,” John Jacob replied, welcoming the chance to tip Dylan off. “A peach pie tied up in a pink ribbon.”
The bidding began then, and when the willow basket with the pink ribbon was held up, several men made offers for it. But Dylan Quade won it handily with an outrageously high bid of ten dollars. As he went up to claim his prize, he grinned meaningfully at Rachel, who lowered her eyes and blushed as pink as the ribbon on her basket.
Before Dylan could make his way through the crowd to her, a fiddle and banjo struck up a favorite mountain tune. Both men and women jumped to their feet and started hopping and jumping to the tune.
Rachel loved its rhythm and couldn’t keep her toes from tapping. Dylan was wading toward her through the crowd, and she’d be in heaven if he asked her to dance. Just then a large figure loomed up before her, and before she could object, the shaggy-haired mountain man had swept her into his arms. “I seed you wanted to dance, little girl, and them other gents wasn’t gonna ask you, so I said to myself, ‘By God, I’ll do the honors.’”
To her horror, Rachel realized she recognized the man. He was the same one who had tried to force himself on her at the post.
Dylan had lost sight of Rachel momentarily when everyone stood up to begin dancing. The next time he spotted her, she was struggling with the mountain man. He couldn’t believe that all those men who had been acting like sick calves over her a few minutes ago were now letting that tobbaco-chewing galoot force her to dance with him. But he recognized the man’s fat shape, even if he hadn’t seen his face before, and Dylan knew he was up to no good.
Hardly knowing what he was doing in his rage, he sped across the floor, grabbed the man by the collar and jerked him away from Rachel. The fat man went flying across the room, coming to rest against a wall. The man shook his head as if to clear it, then sprang to his feet. Dylan put up his clenched fists and waited for him to come charging toward him.
But the man didn’t plan to fight with fists. Instead, he had a hunting knife clenched in his hand. Dylan’s mouth went dry. The blade looked at least ten inches long, and he had never fought with a knife. He had no idea how to handle himself. Even if he did, he didn’t have a knife on him. The only time he carried one was when he was up in the mountains running his traps.
I guess I’m a dead one, he thought, when a familiar voice rang out. “Here, Dylan, use mine.”
Dylan caught the handle of the knife Monty tossed to him. A little hope grew inside him, especially when Monty called out, “You’ve seen me fight many times with knives. Try to remember the things I taught you.”
“Thanks, Monty,” Dylan said, wishing he was wearing his moccasins instead of his nearly new boots. He would be sliding all over the place on the slick leather soles.
He looked at Monty for reassurance. “Can you keep the rest of that rabble from joining this no-good jackass?”
Monty gave a short laugh. “If I can’t, these townspeople can. He’s on his own. Go get him, Boss.”
Dylan wished he had the same confidence his foreman had. He knew this ugly, tobbaco-chewing mountain man was out to kill him.
The crowd drew back to give them room, and they began circling each other. The lights from the lanterns hanging on the wall flashed on the thin blade that was trying to end Dylan’s life.
Dylan lunged desperately at his opponent, but the mountain man had a longer reach and was able to fend him off. Then, just as he’d feared, Dylan’s foot slid on his slippery sole. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him. His adversary was straddling him then, his arm raised to bring the blade into Dylan’s heart.
I’m a goner, Dillion was thinking just as Rachel’s voice cried out, “No, no! Stop him, somebody!”
The anguished cry had barely faded away when there came the sharp crack of a revolver. The mountain man continued to straddle Dylan a moment, then leaped up, howling. A round bullet hole gaped in his right forearm.
Dylan rolled up to his feet. Who had saved his life? he asked himself as the mountain man disappeared through the barn door. If Monty wasn’t standing beside him, he’d think his friend had fired the revolver.
“Who saved my life?” he asked unsteadily as Monty followed him outside while the dancing began again in the barn. They could hear the sound of fading hoofbeats as the fat man galloped off.
“I wish I could say that I did, old friend, but there was so many people crowding around, I was afraid I would hit some innocent person. I can tell you one thing—whoever fired that bullet was a crack shot. Maybe you have a friend that you don’t know about.”
Just then he spotted Rachel coming through the outside door. The preacher was with her, holding her elbow in a proprietary manner. Dylan wanted to walk up to them and smash the preacher in the mouth.
He contained himself, though. He had been involved in enough violence for one night.
“They’re coming here toward us,” Monty said. “I wonder what they want with two ole cowboys.”
Dylan gave him a devilish grin. “Maybe Rachel wants a stronger sniff of that scent you splashed all over yourself.”
Before Monty could make a sharp retort, Rachel and the preacher had joined them. “It’s too bad you tangled with that Web Spencer,” Preacher Robinson said, the concern in his voice sounding a little forced. “I know the family. Any one of them would kill a man without concern. The women are almost as bad.”
“Jenny Quade must be related to them,” Rachel laughed.
“Actually, she is,” Robinson said on a serious note. “She’s a sister to Web.”
Monty looked at Dylan and said, half seriously and half in jest, “I guess you’d better stay away from the mountains for a while.”
“I expect so,” Dylan agreed, “but I’m not going to hide from that bunch. My Colt is just as deadly as their knives are.”
“But keep in mind that they won’t hesitate to back-shoot you,” Monty warned.
“I’m aware of that,” Dylan said. “I’ll keep an eye on my back trail.”
“Lucky for you Rachel was watching your back tonight,” Robinson said.
“Rachel?” Dylan asked, surprise in his tone.
“Who did you think shot Web Spencer?” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “I couldn’t let you always be saving my life without returning the favor.”
“She whipped out that Colt she won this afternoon, took aim and shot him cool as you please,” Robinson explained.
“My God, Rachel,” Monty exclaimed. “Now you’ll have to be careful up in the mountains, too. Spencer will never forgive a woman for getting the better of him.”
Dylan looked at her a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was deadly serious. “John Jacob told us you’re going to take up your mama’s work as an herbalist. When you go up the mountain to dig your roots and plants, don’t go alone. Why don’t you let me come with you? It’s because of me that you might be in danger. The least I can do is make sure you’re safe up there.”
Rachel shuddered, remembering her helplessness as she’d tried to fight off the fat man. “Maybe you’re right, at least till Spencer finds someone else to be mad at. I was planning to visit Granny Hawkins tomorrow. There are so many questions I want to ask her about the reading I’ve been doing.”
“Well, that’s fine then. I’ll ride along with you. I’ve been wanting to go see Granny myself. I’m hoping she can give me seeds to start a garden at the ranch.” Dylan smiled at Rachel, then looked at Monty and said, “I’m ready to go home, what about you?”
“But the dancing’s just started,” Monty objected.
“And you haven’t had a chance to turn some poor girl’s head with that scent you’re wearing,” Dylan laughed.
“What about you, Rachel?” Preacher Robison asked with a hopeful gleam in his eye. “Would you like to dance? With a gentleman this time?”
Rachel shook her head. “I’ve had enough excitement for one evening. I think I’m ready to call it a night too. Would you mind escorting me home, Dylan? I don’t want to bother John Jacob. He and Rosie looked like they were having so much fun dancing together.”
Rachel’s matter-of-fact statement took Dylan’s breath away for a moment. Had he heard her right? But she was looking straight at him. She had actually said that Andrews was dancing with another woman and she seemed completely unconcerned. And she’d asked him, Dylan, to take her home.
As Monty and the preacher returned to the barn, one looking eager, the other sullen, Dylan thought that this evening couldn’t have turned out better if he’d planned it. When he had mounted the black and helped Rachel up in front of him, he asked as he gathered up the reins, “Did you ride Goldie to the picnic?”
“No,” Rachel answered. “John Jacob drove us all down in the wagon. Monty will tell him I’ve gone home with you, so he won’t worry.”
She shivered as he tightened his arms around her, not from cold but from the proximity of Dylan’s hard, warm body. Perhaps John Jacob was right. Perhaps Dylan was serious about her. His actions tonight certainly seemed to say so.
As they started up the river road, Rachel leaned back in Dylan’s arms. She looked up at him, smiled and started to speak. At that moment there came the report of a rifle and a bullet ricocheted off a rock and whined past them. Devil shied, and Dylan tightened the reins and guided the stallion into a nearby stand of spruce. He swung down, putting his hand over the black’s muzzle to keep him quiet.
“It must be Spencer,” he said, pulling Rachel from the saddle and drawing her behind two large trees that grew close together. After a moment there came the sound of galloping hooves.
When the sound faded into the distance, Dylan helped Rachel back in the saddle, then remounted himself. “He must have been waiting for us,” he said, lifting the reins. “I thought he’d head straight up the mountain for home since he’s wounded.”
“I guess the chance to take a potshot at us was too good to pass up,” Rachel said as Dylan kicked Devil into action.
“We’ve got an enemy, all right,” Dylan said. “The sooner I get you home, the safer you’ll be.” With that, he set the stallion at a pace that made further conversation impossible.
As Dylan drew up in front of the trading post, he was furious with himself for putting Rachel in danger. If only he’d killed Spencer when he’d had the chance, none of this would be happening.
“You be careful from now on,” he cautioned. “Don’t go riding alone. Don’t even step outside after dark. There’s a lot of places a sniper can hide back in the timberline.”
Dylan’s voice was short and sharp. Rachel looked at him and saw that his right hand rested on his thigh, only inches from the heavy Colt stuck in his belt. She knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use it if he had to. She remembered the way he’d beaten Spencer at the post. Dylan was a man who knew how to handle himself in a fight. She felt safe in his company.
“I’ll come for you tomorrow around noon,” Dylan said as he helped her to dismount. “You’d better hurry inside now. No telling who’s lurking about.” He started to turn away, then hung back a little. “One more thing. I don’t know if that preacher man is all that God-fearing. Be careful of his smooth talk.”
Rachel looked up at Dylan with sparkling eyes. “I wonder if he could be like a certain other man who is not so God-fearing,” she said.
Dylan felt his face flushing, but before he could get his tongue in gear, Rachel was running up the gravel path to the post. She hopped up on the porch, her laughter ringing out.
A wide smile curved Dylan’s lips as he stared after Rachel. She had a lot of sass, teasing him about that night when neither one of them had been very decorous.
Rachel was preoccupied with thoughts of Dylan as she washed her face and changed into a nightgown. When she climbed into bed, she lay on her back a long time, listening to the hooting of an owl outside, recalling every word she and Dylan had exchanged.
When the big clock in the post room struck the midnight hour, Rachel turned over on her side. If only they hadn’t been shot at on the ride home, she thought. It had been so romantic riding beside the river in the darkness, just the two of them. Surely Dylan would have spoken of his feelings for her. Instead, he’d issued nothing but warnings, even cautioning her about Preacher Robinson. She wondered if he and John Jacob were right about the handsome preacher. He certainly acted like a gentleman, and it was a fine thing he was doing, taking over the welfare of those orphan children. The two girls, around thirteen and fourteen, she thought, were so well-behaved. She didn’t think they had moved once from the seat where the preacher had told them to sit.
All the same, Iva had called him a bastard, and there was something she didn’t quite trust when she looked into the preacher’s eyes.
As she fell asleep she was thinking about Dylan’s devilish gaze, and how wonderful it had been that night he brought her indescribable pleasure.