Micah struggled to see through the frigid darkness, nudging his mule faster. He didn’t dare push any harder in this rough terrain, but every instinct pressed him onward.
Randolph had wanted to stop at dusk, but they’d only had another hour or two before they should reach the women. Now, the trees lay just ahead that shielded him from the camp. Just down this slope and around the copse of woods.
Then he’d see Ingrid.
They reached the edge of the trees, and he reined his mount left to skirt the thick growth. This would be longer, but they could move faster if they weren’t winding through low branches.
“Ingrid.” He was close enough; she may be able to hear. And he didn’t want to surprise her. The last thing they needed was to get shot by a nervous woman. “It’s Micah. I’ve brought help.” His breath formed an icy cloud around him.
No answer that he could hear. He kicked the mule harder.
As they rounded the edge of the woods, the brush shelter came into view ahead, outlined by the orange glow of a campfire. “Ingrid. Mrs. Watson.” No figures moved around, but they were likely asleep. Safe.
The thought should ease the clamp of fear pressing on his chest. But it didn’t.
He reined in his mule at the edge of camp, jumping down before the animal came to a stop. “Ingrid!” His bellow carried through the clearing, radiating into the trees.
He strode forward, scanning the campsite. No bodies curled up in the blankets. He pushed aside the furs that were piled under the shelter, just in case.
No one. The place was empty.
He turned, desperation welling inside him. “Ingrid! Mrs. Watson! Samuel!” Where would they have gone in the thick of night? With this bitter cold freezing everything, surely they hadn’t been gone long.
His heart thudded in his chest as he strode toward the woods. Maybe they’d gone to the donkey. “Ingrid!” Every part of him longed to hear her sweet voice call back to him. He could imagine the sound of his name on her lips, wrapped in joyful wonder at his return.
A sound drifted from the trees, freezing him in his tracks. A woman’s voice? He strained to hear and was preparing to call again when the voice sounded a second time.
“Mr. Bradley!”
He started into the woods, following the sound of Mrs. Watson’s distant voice. Every few minutes he stopped to call, listening for the direction of her response.
She must be running. Something was wrong. The dread in his soul spread further through his limbs.
At last he saw a flicker of movement in the dark woods. “Mrs. Watson. Where are the others?”
She was breathing hard as she drew near, close enough to grab his arm. But it took a moment before she caught her breath enough to speak.
He clutched her elbow, every nerve inside him tensing to run. To help. “Where’s Ingrid? And Samuel?”
She pointed back the way she’d come, panting. “They fell . . . in a ravine. Hurt . . . need rope.”
Dear Lord.
He turned to find Isaac and Randolph behind him. The younger man spoke. “I’ll get rope. Anything else?”
“Blankets. And a light, if you have one.” Mrs. Watson was finally regaining her power to speak.
Isaac spun and ran back toward camp.
Micah gripped her arm. “Where are they? I’ll see if I can start pulling them out.”
She pointed the way she’d come. “Straight to the edge of the trees, then you’ll see the tracks at the base of the mountain.”
That was all he needed to know. He released her arm. “Make sure he gets what you need.” Then he sprinted the way she’d pointed, dodging trees as he ran.
Lord, save them. Don’t let us be too late.
When he emerged from the woods, it wasn’t hard to find Mrs. Watson’s tracks. At least one other person had walked this path, but the prints were going the other direction, away from the trees. And it wasn’t hard to see the drag marks from walking poles and a splinted leg.
His heart surged in his chest. Ingrid had walked this way.
He took the path as fast as he dared, falling twice on the icy rocks buried just under the snow. As the mountainside grew steeper, it was a wonder Ingrid could have maneuvered this terrain. Had she hurt herself again? Reinjured the healing bones?
He pushed on, trying not to imagine what could happen to a woman with a broken leg on the side of this mountain. In the dark. With temperatures plummeting.
Lord, please protect her.
The trail neared a mound of stones, covered mostly by snow, but with enough of the rock face peeking out that it was clear these were remnants of a landslide. Ingrid’s tracks veered up the mountain. How had she ever made her way up that incline?
He trekked upward, coming upon a spot where the snow was stirred, as if she’d either sat to rest or fallen—the second being more likely. A fresh batch of fear welled in his chest, making it hard to draw breath. How badly was she injured?
Through the darkness, he could see a dark mass, a bulk of snow that protruded differently than the rest of the mountainside. The tracks led him right up to the jut in the rock, and as he glanced down at the snow, a churned spot down the hillside stirred his gut into a full roil.
“Ingrid!” He screamed her name. His gaze followed the marks in the snow down the mountainside. The slope grew steeper as it faded into darkness.
She was down there. And Samuel, too.
“Here.” Her voice sounded so much weaker than before. Yet she wasn’t far away.
“I’m coming. Hold on.” He half-slid down the gradient, bracing himself against the snowy ground as it steepened.
He skidded down part of the slope and barely caught himself at the edge of a steep drop-off. Sitting hard to keep from toppling, he landed in a heap in the icy snow, with something hard poking under him. He shifted to pull it out.
A long, straight pole. Ingrid’s walking stick. This must be the ravine she was in.
“Micah?” Ingrid’s muffled tone called up from below.
“Ingrid.” He leaned forward, as far as he dared, peering through the murky darkness. “Where are you?”
“At the bottom of the mountain. I fell trying to get Samuel.” Her words drained from her like the last few drops of oil from a jar. Slow and weary.
“How badly are you hurt?” His heart clutched his throat, nearly strangling him with his need to get down to her. To hold her. To make her well again.
“I . . . don’t know. I’m cold. My leg hurts. But it did before, too.”
“Is it rebroken?” He strained to hear the true answer in her breathing and moans. The words she wasn’t saying.
“I’m not sure.”
Which meant it might be. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “And the boy, how is he?”
“I can’t get him to wake up. He just groans. I’m trying to keep him warm.”
He had to get them both out of there. “Are the boards in your splint still intact? Or did they crack in the fall?” Getting her up would be no easy task, but worse if they had to worry about the broken bones moving, too.
“No. It doesn’t feel like they broke.”
“How far down are you?” He couldn’t see anything in the murky darkness below.
She was quiet for a moment. “Maybe twice as tall as I am.”
He eased up to his knees. “Mrs. Watson and the men traveling with me are coming with rope and blankets. I’m going to see if there’s a spot that isn’t so deep.”
“Hurry.” Her voice seemed to be growing weaker.
Dear Lord. Help us. Please. Only God could bring both of them out of this alive.