The man had lost his mind.
Gretta tossed the armload of firewood on the floor next to the hearth, not caring a whit about how much racket the logs made.
Zeche could barely get on his horse without passing out—from dizziness or pain, he wouldn’t say. But he still planned to ride into the wild unknown.
Tomorrow.
Even though the dreary clouds in the sky looked like they would bring more snow any moment. And there was still several inches of the stuff on the ground.
She tossed a log into the fireplace, sending sparks shooting in all directions. Father hadn’t said much when Zeche first announced he’d be leaving, but now that he’d set the crazy date, Father would have to speak up. Try to get him to stay.
Had Zeche’s head injury altered his thinking? She paused as her hand closed around another log in the stack, the thought taking root in her mind. Could it have?
She knew very well a blow to the head could addle a man. Sometimes permanently. But Zeche seemed so normal…
Well…not normal. Deliciously different from any man she’d ever met. But not addled.
The door opened behind her, bringing the sound of Father’s familiar shuffle and the click of Nyx’s nails on wood as he padded along behind.
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “How was the scouting trip?”
“Fruitful. I brought something back for you.”
She turned to face him more fully, catching sight of the way his coat bulged at his belly. “What is that?” Mixed emotions snaked through her. A pleasant surprise would be welcome, given everything else going on, but something about his guilty schoolboy look made her worry about the “gift.”
In truth, she had trouble summoning interest in anything after Zeche’s sudden announcement that he’d be leaving—tomorrow.
She propped a fist on her hip. “Did you know Zeche’s decided tomorrow’s the day he’ll leave?” She hadn’t meant to throw the question like a barb, but she couldn’t shake the frustration souring her mood.
Father halted, probably trying to catch up to the sudden change of topic. “No. Is he well enough to travel in the elements?”
“Not at all. But he insists. Would you please talk sense into him?” She waved a hand toward the back of the cabin. “He’s out tinkering in the lean-to.”
“I saw him when I unsaddled.” Father eyed her, his words slowing as he seemed to be trying to decipher her. Like he had to choose which fuse belonged to the oil lamp instead of the cannon.
“Then go tell him he can’t leave.”
She spun away, her Italian temper teetering on the edge of control. Mama had once said anger was only a substitute for a person’, and she’d seen that play out many times in the war camps. It always masked the real feelings the person sought to hide. But in this case, anger was the only thing that kept her from tears.
She would not cry.
She would rant and pout and tell Zeche exactly what she thought of his hair-brained decision. But she couldn’t let him know how much she ached at the thought of him leaving. Did he not care about her at all? Not even a little? He had to have cared a little to kiss her like he had. But not enough to stay.
“I’ll talk to Zeche, but see if you can get this fella to eat.” Father opened his coat to reveal a bundle of grey and white fur. Nyx wiggled closer, then sat expectantly at Father’s feet, his tail thumping the hard floor.
A rabbit? She stepped closer to peer at what her father held, catching sight of a long ear and a beady black eye. She reached a hand toward the animal, stopping a foot away as it withdrew into his hold.
She looked up to meet his gaze. “How did you catch it?”
His face took on a sad smile, the weary lines around his mouth and eyes telling their own stories. “He was in one of the snares, sitting so quietly. So bravely. I just didn’t have the heart to kill him. We don’t really need the meat, do we?” He looked so hopeful.
“No, we don’t need the meat.” She turned her attention back to the animal. “Hello, there.”
“He’s probably hungry. We shouldn’t keep him, but I thought you might like to fill his belly before we set him free. Maybe some of your dried herbs?”
She didn’t respond to that suggestion. Father generally acted like her herbs were best used for livestock feed, although he’d never said it in so many words. He had questioned why she grew as many herbs in her garden as vegetables, but they were useful for so many things. Not only did they make this monotonous food slightly more palatable, but many of those she’d planted could treat any number of illness. From stomach upset to infection and so much more. But it wasn’t a surprise he considered them rabbit food.
With gentle hands, she took the tiny bundle, snuggling it close as the animal tried to claw out of her grasp. “Now go tell Zeche he’s staying.” She kept her tone soft, sing-song to calm the wild creature. Honestly, she didn’t hold much hope Father would change Zeche’s mind, but she wasn’t above trying every angle.
Father’s mind processed things through reason and logic, and he could usually win a debate using that tact. His opponents were left without any sensible arguments by the time he finished his presentation, but his manner was disarming enough, no one could begrudge him. Except when the dark moods took over, although those had been diminishing some. Mostly. Before their steady traffic of visitors.
She forced that line of thought away and turned to her baskets of herb bundles. Tucking the animal tighter to her side, she murmured, “I guess we need to find some rabbit food.”
The sight of smoke curling out of the log cabin made Zeche’s heart lurch for a quick moment. But this tiny shack was nothing like the Michellys’ cozy cabin. He rested his hand atop his rifle, then drew in a painful breath to shout, “Hello, in the cabin.”
Perhaps he should avoid the place. It wasn’t like he was eager for human interaction. But after four days of shivering in the recent snowfalls, his body craved the warmth of a fire inside four walls.
The cabin door shifted, opening wide enough for a burly head to peer out. All that showed, really, was a dark mass of hair. Then the door pushed wider and a man emerged. A dark, bushy mountain man. He held a rifle loosely in his hand, but his stance seemed amiable enough. “Howdy.”
Zeche squinted as something about the man niggled at the back of his memory. And that voice. He knew that voice. “Hello. Passing through the area and saw your fire.”
The man cocked his head, eyeing Zeche with a confused look. “Say, you aren’t the fella who was sick abed at the Michelly place, are ya?”
The trapper.
The pieces fell into place in Zeche’s mind with each drop of the man’s words. He’d heard that voice in his pain-laced delirium, and a rush of the earlier jealousy nipped in his chest. This was the stranger whom Gretta had been so kind to. Of course, she was kind to everyone. That was her way.
Maybe that’s all she’d felt toward Zeche. Kindness. For her sake, he hoped that was the case. Then she wouldn’t be feeling the chasm of loneliness that split open his own chest. Although the thought that she might not miss him made something deep inside him shrivel a little more.
It’d been so hard to ride away from the Michelly cabin. To know Gretta stood on the porch watching him, and not turn back for a final look. For that matter, not turn around and decide to stay. Especially since Mr. Michelly, had even asked him not to leave. Had apologized for his behavior, which only made Zeche feel worse—the man didn’t feel safe in his own home because of him.
So here he was, back on the trail, and not quite sure how to feel about the man in front of him. He nodded toward the trapper, schooling his features so none of his thoughts showed. “That’s me. Zechariah Reid.”
The man waved for him to advance forward. “I’m Magnus Olsen. Just fried up some venison. Come on in and have a bite.” He glanced around as if he’d forgotten something, then pointed a finger toward the side of the shack. “There’s a pen out back where you can settle your horse. He’s welcome to a scoop of oats outta the barrel in the shed.”
Zeche nodded. He might as well stop off for an hour or two. At least he and Biscuit might get a good meal out of this.
A few minutes later, he tapped on the rickety door and pushed it open.
“Come on in. Was just about to dish up the plates.”
Zeche stepped into the dim interior lit by an open fire and a lantern that could use a good cleaning. The place was warm, at least compared to the temperature outside, but it lacked the cozy feel of the Michelly cabin. The dank smell most likely came from the dirt floor. And who knew what else contributed to the odor.
Olsen turned from the fireplace and set two plates on the small, rough-cut table, then settled onto a bench.
Zeche took the stool across from him, nodding toward the man. “I appreciate the food.”
The man bobbed his chin, using his fingers to grab a venison steak and raise it to his teeth. “I’m pleased for the comp’ny. And glad to see you survived what’er was ailin’ ya. Didn’t hear much of a peep from ya last time we met.”
Zeche glanced at his own meat. Apparently, Olsen expected him to follow suit. He picked up a chunk and let it hover under his nose before slipping it in his mouth. It didn’t smell rank. And looked to have been cooked well enough. Besides, if Olsen was eating it, too, the meat must be edible.
He tried for a casual look. “This is deer you say?”
The man nodded as he eyed Zeche, a little glimmer of humor touching his eyes. “Killed it just a couple days ago.” He paused to swallow the wad of food in his mouth. “You don’t have to worry, friend. I know how to put up meat so’s it won’t spoil. Been trappin’ and huntin’ for ten years now. No good sellin’ meat that’s spoilt a’fore ya get to town.”
The knot in Zeche’s gut loosened a little, and he swallowed his own bite. “What town do you trade in?” Was South Pass City his only option? It was over two weeks of steady travel from this place.
“There’s a little settlement northwest of here about two days’ ride. They call it Lawson. Not much there, ‘cept a trading post. There’s a doc that lives there, too.” Olsen chewed a bite, then swallowed. “I’m actually headed that way in another day or two. Thought I’d stop back by the Michelly’s an’ drop off some meat. Got more’n I need right now. Maybe that Miss Michelly’ll cook me up somethin’ good to go with it.”
The thought of Gretta cooking for this man made the venison turn to sawdust in his gut.
But through the rest of the evening, Olsen was pleasant enough. Despite his little eccentricities, he had an honest nature that made a body take to him. No wonder Gretta liked him so much.
After checking Biscuit a final time, Zeche settled under his blankets on the ground near the fire. It was nice to be sheltered from the wind that howled around the cabin eaves. But he had trouble enjoying it too much because of the roiling in his gut. Was he making himself sick pining over Gretta? Or maybe the venison hadn’t been as quality as Olsen claimed.
Whatever the case, a sharp cramp in his midsection quickly drowned out any mental curiosity about the cause. He threw aside his blanket and headed outside.
After three more trips outside through the midnight hours, his gut finally settled. But by the time he heard Olsen rustling by the hearth and faint light shone through the cracks in the walls, Zeche almost wished he hadn’t stopped in at this trapper’s cabin.
Almost. It’d been nice to spend a few hours with another human, but he certainly could have done without that meat last night. Next time he’d offer to cook with something from his pack.
Olsen didn’t seem to be much of a morning person, only interacting with grunts as they cared for the animals and finally sat down with mugs of coffee. The man offered him breakfast of beans and venison, but Zeche waved it off.
“I need to be hitting the trail. I’ll chew on jerky while I ride.”
Olsen leaned back in his chair and gave a little chuckle. “Heard ya get up a time or two in the night. That Doc in Lawson gave me somethin’ you might like to have, if’n you have a weak stomach.”
“I don’t have a weak stomach.” He clamped his jaw shut before sharing the real cause of his malady. Bad meat generally didn’t sit well with a person. Magnus Olsen must have a steel gut by now.
But Zeche’s conscience pricked as Olsen rose from his seat and strode over to a shelf mounted on the far wall. He rummaged in a crate, then came back with a little glass bottle. He sat down with a bit of a thud and downed another swallow of coffee.
Then the man held out the bottle between a brawny thumb and forefinger and eyed Zeche. “Activated charcoal. Fella said it’ll cure a host of ailments, but the one he seemed so proud of was gut-ache from bad food. Said he’d heard tell a scientist drank a whole bottle o’ poison but didn’t die ‘cause he took this with it.”
Olsen settled back. “Might be good for ya to keep this handy.” He plopped the tincture down in front of Zeche. “I’ve got another, so this one’s yours.”
Zeche raised his brows. “A whole bottle of poison?” The claim seemed unusual, to say the least. Likely a tall tale made up around a campfire, but he picked up the bottle and eyed it. “Activated charcoal? Like the kind made from burning wood?”
“I think he said somethin’ was done to it after the burnin’. Can’t recall the specifics, but he insisted I take a couple bottles. Now I have a chance to pass on the favor.” The corner of his beard twitched.
Zeche’s defenses flared and he almost pushed the bottle back to the man. But Olsen had welcomed him and his horse and given them both food and shelter. Even if he now regretted the food. No need to throw the man’s kindness back in his face now.
He nodded. “I appreciate it. Now I reckon I’d best hit the trail.” He had a long ride ahead of him today. If he put enough distance between him and Gretta, maybe he could finally forget her.