eight
Sleep was scarce that night, coming in bitter cold fragments between worry and a chill wind. Micah tried to make sense of the almost impossible task of bringing Miss Chastain with him on the journey to Settler’s Fort.
He was more than willing to rise when the first hint of light spread across the eastern sky. Checking the traps was a simple matter, but he had to force himself to focus on his surroundings, to notice tracks and listen for bird calls or eerie silences. His survival depended on his focus, and he couldn’t let the woman lying back at camp on his bed pallet distract him. Her survival depended on his focus.
He’d almost accomplished that feat until he neared the brush shelter and his mind formed the image of her sleeping, lying as peaceful as an angel. She’d been exhausted after eating last night, and only a few sips of willow tea helped her fall asleep. He needed to pack more ice around her leg today. The swelling had been greater than he liked when he last checked.
As he approached the leaping fire, a figure beside it snagged his focus. A person? He was still at least thirty strides away, but he dropped his load of meat and skins and sprinted forward. Who could have found their camp?
But as he neared, the blue skirt at the base of the figure became clear. Miss Chastain? A little black animal trotted around at her feet.
His breath came in shallow gasps as he reached her. “What are you doing?”
She leaned heavily against a stick, her broken leg propped to the side since the splint extended a couple inches farther than her boot. When she turned to look at him, his heart stalled.
Her face had paled, a sheen of sweat glistening on her brow and upper lip.
“Let’s lay you back down.” He stepped close and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Just lean into me and I’ll slide you back to your blankets.”
She obeyed, surprisingly, even though leaning back into his arm required her to trust completely that he’d catch her. As spunky as she’d proven, she must be in so much pain she didn’t stop to think.
Doing his best not to stress her broken bones any more than they had been, he shifted her back to the blankets. The dog yapped at him, but he ignored the animal. Fear welled in his chest, stirring up an anger that he couldn’t allow to slip out. What reason could there have possibly been, other than an attack on her life, for her to try such a foolish maneuver? That’s exactly why he’d been giving her so much willow tea—to keep her from attempting something that would harm her even more.
When he finally had her positioned on the fur pallet, she let out a long, achingly slow breath. Her eyes pressed shut, pain lining her face.
“What in all of America were you thinking? What did you need that would be worth re-breaking your leg for?” He clamped his jaw tight to keep anything else from slipping out.
She squinted at him, like she was fighting a roaring headache on top of everything else. “I have to start moving around. Settler’s Fort needs those vaccines. If you won’t take them, I will.”
Of all the . . . He jerked back, forcing himself to inhale deep breaths. She couldn’t be serious. With her leg in the splint, she could have easily lost her balance. If she thought a broken femur was painful, the burns from falling into a blazing fire would be excruciating. And burns that became infected would triple her risk of death, at least.
Deep breaths weren’t working to calm the anger inside him. He surged to his feet and spun away from her. How could he keep this woman safe if she wouldn’t follow his orders? He stomped toward the edge of camp. He needed to get away until he had settled down.
He had planned to take the blasted vaccines to Settler’s Fort. She didn’t need to risk her life to prove her point.
A niggle of thought forced its way into his awareness. Had he actually told her he planned to deliver her and the vaccines? When she’d said she wanted to go with him to Settler’s Fort instead of returning home through Fort Benton, had he specifically agreed to that plan? He’d been so lost in his memories, he couldn’t remember if he’d spoken the words or not.
That was the thing about living alone in the wilderness for so long. A man’s thoughts grew loud, and it was hard to know sometimes if words were actually spoken.
He exhaled a long breath, then scrubbed a hand over his face. He owed her an answer . . . and an apology.
His fingers brushed his beard, the scraggly hairs rough, even against his callused skin. What must she think of him? A wild-looking mountain man who claimed to be a doctor, yet couldn’t even carry on a conversation or control his temper. She’d not asked about where he obtained medical training or anything about his past. In truth, he’d not given her much chance. And if she had raised the topic, he’d have been reticent to answer questions that would resurrect so many painful memories.
Still, holding back wasn’t fair. The least he could do was set her mind at ease. Communicate with her in a civil manner.
It was the least he could do, but she would have no idea how much the effort would cost him.
The fire in her leg seemed to have spread throughout her body, and Ingrid struggled to find a position that eased the pain.
“Here. Can you drink some of this?” A gentle voice slid over her, and a solid, callused hand brushed her forehead.
She pried open her eyes to see Micah’s face, all the anger now gone from his eyes and replaced with concern.
Parting her lips, she tried to lift herself to make drinking easier. His fingers slipped through her hair, cupping the back of her head to relieve the strain from her ribs. She relaxed into his hand, his strength.
The drink held the sharp bite of willow, but this time she didn’t dread falling into the hazy slumber. What a blessed relief that would be. Anything to carry her away from the fire she’d stirred back to life in her body. Why had she so stubbornly attempted what he’d warned against?
“I plan to take you and the vaccines to Settler’s Fort.”
She stilled, forcing the words to penetrate her cloud of pain. Could he possibly mean what they sounded like? She pulled away from the cup and studied his face. “You will?” She tried not to let hope stir in her chest.
He nodded. “You’re right. Those people need the vaccines, and we need to deliver them. Sorry I didn’t tell you before. I had already decided to, just . . . didn’t think to tell you.” His mouth pinched in a sad kind of chagrin. “I didn’t mean for you to hurt yourself.”
Now she felt even more foolish for her bullheaded act. But she couldn’t dwell on that. They had to make plans. “When can we leave?”
His brows pinched low. “You’ll need a few days for the pain to come back down and the bones to begin healing again. If we pack snow on it several times a day and you stay put”—he gave her a very pointed look—“we can probably head out in three or four days at the earliest.”
She nodded. “I’ll do everything you say.” Already, her pain felt lighter. Or maybe that was just the weight on her shoulders.
Micah eyed the back half of the wagon as his mind pictured the modifications he’d need to make for him to be able to haul it up and down mountains for weeks on end. He could build runners for the makeshift cart and pull her like a pony sled.
His gaze kept returning to that heavy iron axle. Even if he removed the metal-rimmed wheels, the entire contraption held too much unnecessary weight. What he really needed was something light that wouldn’t jostle Ingrid over rocks and bumps. Maybe something like the drag sleds the Indians used to pull weight behind their horses. Just two poles crossed at one end. He could suspend a fur between them where Ingrid could lay. If he fastened it right, she could dangle from the poles and not be jarred by every bump.
He’d have to tie the ends to his shoulders with rope to lift her high enough and minimize wear on his body.
No matter what contrivance he built, trekking up and down mountains, pulling an injured woman, would be no stroll across a manicured lawn. Yet his discomfort would be a pittance compared to hers.
Over the next few days, Micah applied a steady treatment of snow to Ingrid’s leg and offered willow tea every time she awoke. He was pretty sure she knew that he brought the brew to help her sleep, as well as to keep the pain at bay, but she faithfully drained each cup when he brought it.
More than once, he approached when he thought her asleep but found her eyes open, staring at the dried brush stacked to form the wall of her shelter. Red rimmed her eyes and colored her nose.
He never knew what to say in those times. What words could ease the loss of the person who was everything to you? No words had eased his pain.
Fighting the knot in his throat, he turned away each time. At least she grieved silently. He had no idea what he’d do if she wailed aloud or really did lose her senses, as he’d questioned right after the accident.
In truth, Ingrid Chastain was proving herself a remarkable woman. With the loss of her father and maid—the last of her family—and the awful pain from her leg and rib, most people would have gone crazy. He certainly had all those years ago, and he’d not even dealt with the horrific injuries she endured along with her grief.
As he watched her now in the dancing light of the fire, the lines of her face resting in such angelic peace, he’d never guess at the pain that lay within. Nor the strength.
She stirred, her eyelids flickering open. Her gaze wandered the area, settling on him with a groggy sheen.
“You woke just in time for supper.” He leaned forward to scoop a bit of watery stew into the cup. “Are you hungry?”
“Mmm . . .” Her murmur had a low, throaty tone that sent a shiver through his body like he’d not felt in years. He pushed the sensation aside, locking his jaw as he turned to hand her the soup.
She worked an elbow under her. “I’ll sit up to eat.”
As much as he wanted—and needed—to keep space between them, he couldn’t let her struggle on her own. Setting the mug to the side, he helped lift her upright and stacked a couple furs behind her for padding.
When she sank back, she met his stare with a gentle curving of her lips as she took the stew. “Thank you. That smells delicious.”
The knock on her head during the wagon tumble must have affected her sense of taste, because she’d given some far-too-flattering compliments about the food he cooked. He held his tongue, though.
As she ate, he sat nearby, arms wrapped around his knees. Her vision cleared and she seemed more alert than she had been since the morning she tried to stand.
“Better.” She glanced at her leg. “It doesn’t ache as badly.”
“Good. What of your ribs?”
She arched her back, as though testing out the area. “Much improved, I think. I can draw a full breath now.” Her gaze returned to his, a hopeful look in her eyes. “I think I’m ready.”
His stomach knotted. “Ready for what?” As if he had to ask.
She raised her brows in an exasperated look. The kind he remembered all too well. “To leave. With the vaccines.” Then her face turned eager again. “Can we start out tomorrow?”
So soon? He wasn’t ready for the journey. Or to leave this peaceful haven. Somehow, leaving felt like a turning point, not just a simple trek there and back. As though everything would be different when he left this place.
Did he want things to change? Only if he knew for sure the changes would be better. Only if he could control the outcome.
He’d learned the hard way—losing control could be deadly.