Zeche raised his gaze to Gretta’s father, uncertainty warring in his gut. “I don’t know if I should give her the rest of the charcoal or wait.”
Something like warmth slipped into the older man’s gaze. That fatherly look that had drawn him during their first few days together. “What do you think?”
What did he think? Zeche stared at the bottle, then at Gretta’s face. Was it his imagination, or did her skin hold a little more color? Maybe it was because he held her more upright. But maybe God was saving her. Maybe God had given him the charcoal for exactly this purpose—for Him to heal Gretta.
He eased her jaw open again and poured a little more inside. Bit by bit, she took the stuff without choking, and hope began to blossom in his chest. Maybe this was working.
They were nearing the last of the medicine, and he accidentally poured in a little more than before. He held his breath, watching for the tendons in her throat to flex in a swallow. But they didn’t. The skin on her face darkened, taking on a deep purple as she strained.
Oh, God. What have I done?
She arched her back as a convulsion shook her. Her wrists bent as her muscles stiffened. Was she choking on the stuff?
Lord, stop this. Please. Don’t let her die. Don’t take her.
Another convulsion, and her skin darkened even more. Almost a black, purplish hue.
Fear exploded within him, and he surged up, trying to pull Gretta’s body upright. If she were choking, he had to clear her airways. But the way her muscles had seized into solid chords kept her body from bending. So instead, he pulled her stiff form to his chest.
“God, please. Save her.” A sob wrenched from his core, and he was barely conscious of Michelly’s hand on his shoulder as the man crouched beside him.
And then…like a miracle, Gretta’s body eased.
He was almost afraid to look. Afraid to see her lifeless form. But his eyes searched out her face. The purple had slipped away, and some of the cream had returned to her skin, although it still held a grayish tint that made her look…so fragile.
He pressed two fingers to her neck, closing his eyes as he focused on finding a feeling there. Yes. Her pulse was stronger than before. Maybe. Although maybe that was the effect of the convulsions she’d just experienced.
But she was alive. The explosions in his chest made him want to lean over her and sob. Anything to release the pressure surging inside him.
At last, he straightened, letting her rest loosely in his arms. He let out a long, quivering breath and met Michelly’s gaze. “She’s still alive.”
The man nodded, looking almost as fragile as his daughter. “Should we try to get her to a doctor?”
Zeche looked around, worked to pull himself back to reality. To refocus the logical part of his mind. They did need a doctor, but by the time they traveled the ten or more days to South Pass City, who knew what condition Gretta would be in. Awake and recovering, he prayed, but the travel would likely not be easy for her.
Then Olsen’s story came back to him, creeping into his mind like a trickle of water from a bubbling spring. “We should go northeast. There’s a little town that’s closer, I think. And a man there who may be able to help Gretta. A doctor.”
He looked at Michelly, whose eyes had taken on a glimmer of hope. “How far?”
Zeche pressed his lips together. “Four or five days maybe. Depending on how fast we travel.” But would they be able to find the little settlement? What had Olsen called it? Landus? Lawson?
A well of desperation tried to build in his chest, but he squashed it down. God would show them. There was no other way.
He glanced down at Gretta’s face again. Her hair had come loose in a wild tangle, and he brushed a tendril away from her eyes, which were closed in peaceful rest now. The pressure in his chest made him want to pull her close and protect her from everything.
But he couldn’t. Couldn’t save her from her father. From these convulsions that took over her body. He had no power to protect this woman, no matter how much he loved her.
God, You have to do it. Please. Protect her.
They sat like that for long minutes. Zeche on his knees, holding Gretta’s head and shoulders in his lap. Mr. Michelly kneeling beside him. Both of them watched her, but her expression never changed. And that made Zeche’s chest ache. But it was also a good thing, because that meant she hadn’t been overtaken by another fit.
At last he glanced up at the other man. “We should get moving.”
Michelly nodded. “I’ll lift her to you.”
The man must have read his thoughts, because Zeche wasn’t sure he could hand her off to her father’s keeping while they rode. Not that he didn’t trust him, but Zeche’s arms craved to hold her. To keep her close where he could be sure she kept breathing, and to be there when she woke up. Please, Lord.
After they mounted, Zeche nudged Biscuit into a soft jog as Mr. Michelly and the dog fell into line behind him. He had Gretta sitting sideways in front of his saddle, cradled in the crook of his arm with her cheek against his chest. This way, he could watch her face for any changes. Or just admire her beauty until his heart split in two.
As smooth as the gelding’s jog could be, he still worried with every jolt. Would the jarring bring on another episode? But it didn’t seem to bother Gretta. The lines on her face were as relaxed as if she were merely sleeping. When would she awaken?
He still had no idea what was wrong with her. Because of the pieces of dried plant in her mouth and the fact that the charcoal seemed to be helping, it appeared she may have eaten something poisonous. But was that really likely? Gretta always used herbs in her cooking and seemed well-versed in their abilities.
He reined Biscuit down to a walk and motioned for Michelly to ride up beside him. “Do you think it’s possible Gretta ate something dangerous?”
Her father’s brow creased. “It’s…possible, I suppose. She’s always bringing in plants to dry and use for cooking, and our garden was full of herbs. And corn.” He said the last part dryly. “She might have mistaken one of the local plants for something she knew back in South Carolina.”
A tiny bit of the apprehension balled in his gut eased. If it was poisoning, that charcoal was exactly what she needed. But would it be enough to save her? He had no idea what she’d eaten or how toxic it might be. And he had no delusions that the wild claims the doctor had made about the charcoal were true.
But he did have God. And it was up to God to save this special woman.
Mr. Michelly spoke again. “If we’re riding near the cabin, it might be best to gather more supplies. And maybe Gretta’s mare so we can rotate the horses. Maybe move faster that way.”
Zeche nodded. “That’s a good idea.”
A derisive chuckle sounded beside him. “I didn’t exercise much forethought when I rode out.”
Zeche looked over at the man. “You were doing what was needed to protect your daughter.”
And he meant the compliment implied in his comment. The respect.
Despite his scars from a traumatic war, Antonio Michelly was a good man. A good father. And Lord willing, if God saved this woman in his arms, Zeche would have the chance to know this man much better. To earn his respect in turn.
To become family.
As they rounded the bend into the clearing where the cabin nestled below, an unexpected horse caught Zeche’s attention. He straightened, squinting to focus.
The brown and white animal was vaguely familiar. A figure moved in the shadows on the porch, stepping forward into the light.
Olsen?
Zeche nudged Biscuit faster. What was the trapper doing here?
As they approached the cabin and reined in, Olsen walked out to meet him. His gaze wandered from Gretta’s still form up to Zeche. “What’s wrong? Is she…?”
Zeche shook his head, catching the man’s meaning from the stricken look on his face. “She’s alive, but I think she’s been poisoned. I gave her that charcoal you sent with me, but we’re trying to get her to the doctor you mentioned.
Beside him, Antonio Michelly dismounted. “I’ll get the supplies.”
Zeche nodded but kept his focus on Olsen, who’d blanched at the word poisoned.
“What can I do to help?” The man slid off his horse and reached for the pack behind his saddle. “I brought the other bottle with me. Just to have handy. Here take it.”
A weight lifted off Zeche’s chest as he reached for it with his free hand. “Hold my horse and I’ll give her some more.” The more poison this stuff could draw out of her system, the better. He unplugged the stopper from the bottle with his teeth and leaned Gretta back to dribble a few drops in her mouth.
Olsen stood on the ground beside him, one hand on Biscuit’s reins, the other ready in case he was needed.
This was the perfect opportunity to get better directions. “Think you could tell me exactly how to get to that town you mentioned?”
The man’s eyes lit. “Sure, but I’ll do ya one better. I’ll ride along an’ show you the way. I’d hate to send you on a wrong turn when this pretty gal needs the doc.”
Zeche tried not to frown. Let the man accompany them? But he couldn’t let this spurt of jealousy interfere with getting help for Gretta.
He nodded. “See if Michelly needs help inside. We stopped to pick-up supplies and Gretta’s mare to rotate saddle stock so we can move faster.”
Olsen nodded and stepped away.
Which left Zeche to focus on the woman in his arms. And pray.
“Come on, honey. It’s time to wake up.” Zeche stroked his fingers down the side of Gretta’s temple. It had been a whole night, and still, she hadn’t stirred.
Now, the sun barely lit the horizon but yielded just enough light for them to pick their way through the rocky mountain country. It was time to get back on the trail. They’d traveled as far as they dared last night. He and Michelly might have kept going if Olsen hadn’t insisted they stop. Said he couldn’t spot his landmarks in the pitch black of the almost moonless sky.
Zeche slipped his hand under Gretta’s shoulders and pulled her upright a few inches, picking up the tin cup of water to wet her lips. She needed some kind of nutrition, too, like broth, but they hadn’t cooked anything over the fire. Maybe they’d stop midday and boil meat for her.
As he dribbled water into her mouth, his gaze took in the pallor of her face. In the dim morning light, she looked like a glass doll. Her features too perfect. Too fragile. Too still. The panic in his chest threatened to well again.
He should be thankful the convulsive fits had stopped. By why didn’t she regain consciousness? “Gretta. It’s time to wake up.” He set down the cup and stroked her cheek, his fingers so rough against her softness.
But if she felt the touch, she didn’t acknowledge the sensation.
The back of his throat burned as tears crept up to sting his eyes. God, you have to heal her. Please. He didn’t doubt the Almighty heard him. Not anymore. But he couldn’t help the fear that God might say no. Might take this woman who had so quickly crept into his heart and planted herself there.
“Where’s Olsen?”
Zeche turned as Mr. Michelly sat up in his bedroll, tousled hair spiking. “He rode to the creek. Said he’d catch us on the trail.”
“Any change?” The older man nodded toward Gretta, then pushed his blanket aside and crawled over to get a better look.
Zeche shook his head, turning away from the hope in the man’s eyes. “None that I can tell.”
A long sigh met his words. A sound that matched the weariness in his own chest. They had to get moving again. Gretta needed the doctor.
“You want me to take her today?” Michelly pushed to his feet with a deep groan. It probably wasn’t easy for a man his age to sleep on the cold, hard ground, even for the few hours they’d made camp.
“Just help me get her up to my saddle.” He slipped the strap on his waterskin around his neck, then positioned his arms under Gretta’s shoulders and legs. “Everything’s packed, just need to add your bedding.” As he struggled to his feet, a hand gripped his arm, helping him find his balance.
He righted himself and nodded his thanks to the older man, then strode to Biscuit. The gelding stood with the horses he and Olsen had already tacked this morning. “If you can just lift her up to me.”
They’d done this maneuver a few times yesterday, and once he mounted, he took Gretta in his arms, fitting her against his body where she nestled perfectly. It certainly wasn’t the strain of supporting her that made his chest ache. Was she lighter now than yesterday? He sent up another prayer, not even caring that each petition sounded more desperate.
Take me instead, God, if it’s a soul you need. Just please bring Gretta back.