Christy Read online

  Zachary chuckled, a low and masculine sound, probably common and yet seeming to belong only to him. Against his midsection, the baby began to whimper, like some small, desolate, wounded creature of the woods, driven out of its hiding place and into open and very dangerous territory.

  “Shhh, now,” he said to the baby, and, miraculously, the child quieted. His expression was serious when he turned to look at Christy. “Maybe you can have your wish, after a fashion,” he said, with all the eagerness of someone about to be thrown from his horse in the middle of a cattle stampede. “This little bit of a lady needs to stop and rest. So do you, for that matter.”

  Christy couldn’t refute his statement. They had been riding for hours, and the baby was surely not only gravely ill but exhausted as well. She, too, was tired, although she’d worked and driven the wagon many times in much worse condition. “I’ll give the child more water,” she said, “while you see to the horses and build a fire.”

  He grinned. “Yes, your ladyship,” he said, and tugged at his hat brim.

  She frowned, unamused. “Why do you always have to do that? Mock me as though I were some supercilious dowager ordering you about, I mean?”

  The grin stuck and rose to dance in his eyes. “I like to watch your reaction,” he answered, swinging easily down from the saddle to stand looking up at her. “Besides, you do have a tendency to give unnecessary instructions and unsolicited advice.”

  Christy made a point of refusing his help when she dismounted, not because she was angry—she wasn’t particularly—but because she desperately needed to maintain some illusion of distance between them. When she was standing on the ground, facing Zachary, he carefully removed the sling from around his neck and handed her the baby.

  “I’ll make camp,” he said.

  Christy merely nodded, turned on one heel, and walked away. There was a small clearing a few yards away, full of deep, luscious grass and spring wildflowers. She found a bit of soft ground and knelt, laying the child down before her and tenderly unwrapping her from the ruined petticoat and the horse blanket beneath.

  There were sores from one end of the tiny body to the other, and the little girl’s flesh was so hot that Christy could have warmed her hands from several inches away. A sound of despair escaped her, and the baby opened luminous brown eyes to gaze up into her face. The little one’s expression was wretched; though not more than eight or nine months old, this child knew she was likely to die and wanted very much to live.

  Tears burning her eyes, Christy tore off a small piece of the petticoat sling, moistened it with canteen water, and carefully bathed the baby’s sore-covered skin, hoping to ease the fever a little and somehow communicate her own determination to fight the disease to the end.

  “She ought to have a name,” Zachary said from behind her. “Don’t you think?”

  Christy had finished bathing the infant, fashioned a diaper of sorts from another piece of the petticoat, and wrapped the baby in the horse blanket. She had been kneeling there, facing the lake like a supplicant praying to a saint, holding the child in her arms, and she’d had no sense of the passage of time. Now, though, she heard the crackle of a small fire and smelled wood smoke. “Yes,” she said. “A name.”

  Zachary helped her to her feet. “Any suggestions?”

  Christy could not think beyond the strange turmoil inside her, a tempest made of hope that the baby would recover, fear of the repercussions if she didn’t, regret of various kinds, and a very real attraction to Zachary Shaw that seemed a holy thing, like the lake itself. “Jenny,” she said. “My—my mother was called Jenny.”

  He smoothed a tendril of hair at her temple, his touch light as the passing breeze. “Jenny it is, then,” he agreed. “ ’Course, we’ve got to remember that she belongs to somebody. No question about it, they’ll be back to claim her once she’s hale and hearty again.”

  It was bittersweet, the experience of caring for a child, naming her, with Zachary’s help. Christy loved children of all ages, always had. At the same time, it hurt far more than she would ever have guessed, knowing this was all she would ever have of motherhood—with this man at her side, anyway. “Yes,” she answered at long last, and felt the word catch in her throat.

  He caressed her cheek. “Everything’s going to be all right,” he said quietly, and it seemed to Christy that he was talking about more than little Jenny’s recovery. Then he walked away, pulled his rifle from its scabbard, laid his .45 on a fallen log near the fire. “I’ll find us some supper,” he said. “If you get any visitors in the meantime, make sure that pistol is within easy reach.”

  Christy looked askance at the gun. “I’ve never—”

  “And you probably won’t have to fire it. But if anything or anybody comes around bothering you, pick the thing up, point it at them, and, if you have to, pull the trigger.”

  She shivered. “All—all right. But hurry.”

  That wicked grin came again. “Are you going to miss me?”

  “No,” she lied. “I’m hungry, that’s all.”

  Zachary laughed and disappeared into the timber on foot. The stallion and the mare were hobbled nearby, where they could graze in the sweet grass and drink from the lake.

  Christy paced awhile, Jenny fitful in her arms, then sat down on the same log where the pistol rested, keeping a careful distance. She gave the baby as much water as she would take, rocked her, and sang soft snippets of lullabies she remembered from her own childhood.

  Presently, she heard a shot in the near distance and moved a little closer to the pistol, in case the report had not been that of Zachary’s rifle sighted in on their supper. Twenty minutes later, he reappeared, carrying the gun in one hand and two skinned rabbits in the other.

  While he rigged up a spit over the fire and put the meat on to roast, Christy did her level best to think only of Jake Vigil. The trouble was, she couldn’t call his image to mind, let alone the touch of his hand or the sound of his voice. She was full of Zachary, as full of him as the lake was of sky, and fearful that she would never exorcise him from her mind and spirit.

  He watched Christy through his lashes while he whittled idly at a stick, beside the fire, thinking she looked like an angel, sitting there on that log, holding little Jenny with an air of weary defiance, as if to inform the universe that she would not surrender her charge, even to death. She’d eaten hardly anything, despite an earlier claim that she was hungry, and she looked like a waif in her rumpled dress with her glossy dark hair falling around her straight little shoulders.

  He felt something powerful, and if it wasn’t love, it was something damn close. It stirred an odd mingling of joy and despair within him, that mysterious sentiment, and scared the hell out of him, but he faced it squarely all the same. When he’d knelt beside Jessie in that Denver bank, holding her lifeless body in his arms, refusing to let go until his father and two of his older brothers came to pry him away, he’d sworn there would never be another woman for him.

  There had been a few passing fancies, of course. Whores, good-hearted and otherwise, the occasional widow, even an unhappy wife or two. He’d always been able to tip his hat and ride away when it was over, without a second thought or a backward look. This time, he was going to get his heart broken, for sure and for certain, and probably for life. Watching Christy marry Jake Vigil would be almost as bad as feeling Jessie’s life seep, crimson, into the front of his shirt and the legs of his trousers.

  He’d given a lot of thought to the matter of Christy McQuarry, especially after seeing her step out onto the veranda with Jake the night before during that blasted party of his. It had been all he could do not to storm out there and fling Vigil over the porch railing, just as if he had the right. Just as if Jake wasn’t one of his closest friends.

  He sighed. It was going to happen, and he might as well accept the fact. Christy meant to hitch up with Jake, even though she didn’t love him, because of the money and the house and the prestige of being married to a man of
substance. It might have been easier if he thought her motivation was greed, and he had to admit the thought had crossed his mind. He could have despised her then—but he knew better. Christy had seen her world fold up and cave in on itself and gotten a taste of true devastation, and somewhere along the line she’d gotten the crazy idea that she could avoid further losses by cushioning herself with money.

  He continued to whittle. Back in Primrose Creek, on his desk at the jailhouse, was a stack of wanted posters. He’d been studying them thoughtfully when Trace came to fetch him; some of the rewards amounted to a small fortune. If he talked fast enough, he might be able to chide the mayor and the town council into hiring a temporary deputy to make his rounds while he did a little bounty hunting. . . .

  “Do you think she’ll die?”

  He looked up, caught off guard by the question. It was a moment before he realized she was talking about the child they’d dubbed Jenny. He cleared his throat before answering. “I reckon we need to be prepared for the possibility,” he said. “But she’s obviously a tough little character. A lot of babies wouldn’t have made it this far.”

  “I keep thinking it was a mistake, taking her on a difficult journey like this,” Christy fretted.

  “What else could you have done?”

  He watched her as she studied the child. Her heart was visible in her face, in the tremulous motion of her hand as she soothed the small brow. He ached with the need to spare her the sorrow she was courting and knew, at the same time, that it could not be done.

  She didn’t look up. “I don’t know. There was no place in town where I could take her, and if I’d brought her back to the lodge, Megan might have become infected.”

  “What about you?”

  At last, she met his eyes, looking puzzled and worn-out enough to drop. “I don’t understand.”

  “Are you immune to scarlet fever, Christy?” The answer was more important to him than his next heartbeat. He wondered why he hadn’t asked before and concluded that he’d been afraid of the answer.

  He knew by her hesitation, by the way she ran the tip of her tongue nervously over her lips, by the wobbling smile that made a brief landing on her mouth before taking wing and disappearing, but he still held his breath until she spoke.

  “I don’t recall ever having it. There was an outbreak of diphtheria when we were traveling with the wagon train, and once, cholera. I helped Caney with the sick but never fell ill myself.” She swallowed visibly. “And you, Zachary? Have you had it?”

  He nodded. “Yep. We had an epidemic in Denver when I was a kid. Nobody died, not in our family, at least, but two of my sisters are hard of hearing, and my youngest brother was left with a weak heart.” He gave her a few moments to collect herself, for she was plainly on the verge of panic. He set his whittling aside. “Here,” he said quietly. “Let me look after Miss Jenny for a while. You need to rest.”

  She hesitated, then surrendered the child and went down to the lake to splash her face and hands and stare out at the view.

  Zachary put down a desire to follow and take Christy in his arms and hold her, but just barely. He got his canteen and ferreted a bent spoon out of the depths of his saddle bags, all the while holding the baby in one arm.

  He was sitting under a tree, knees bent, with Jenny resting on his thighs while he fed her droplets of water from the spoon. He didn’t hear Christy come back, he was so intent on the task.

  “You’re a good man, Zachary,” she said, as though there had ever been any doubt.

  He grinned ruefully. “Yeah. That and a nickel will get me a shot of whiskey at the Golden Garter.” He gave Jenny more water. “I’ve only got one blanket,” he said, braced for the inevitable protest. “We’re going to have to share it, I guess.”

  Once again, she surprised him. “After this, my reputation will probably be in shreds anyway,” she said. “But don’t mistake me, Marshal. I still plan to marry Jake Vigil if he’ll have me, and I’ll countenance no nonsense from you.”

  He might have laughed, if it hadn’t been for the fact that he wanted her so badly. “Jake is no fool,” he said. “He’d have you if you grew another head. ’Course, he might shoot me just for being here, but I don’t imagine you’d let a little thing like that spoil your wedding day.”

  She made everything infinitely worse by smiling down at him. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for caring enough to escort Jenny and me to the mission. I know a lot of people wouldn’t have.”

  Her gratitude undid him in a whole new way. Evidently, she was just brimming with ways to turn him inside out. “Some folks don’t have much use for Indians,” he allowed, looking at the child and feeling a profound mixture of fury and sorrow at the injustice of it all.

  It was probably a good thing Christy was bound to marry Jake instead of him. Maybe in five years— maybe in a hundred—he’d be glad he’d been spared a lifetime of Christy McQuarry.

  Zachary had made a bed for the three of them on a cushion of soft grass, using their saddle blankets as an improvised mattress. Christy and the baby were snuggled beneath his bedroll when he sat down on the ground to pull off his boots. Overhead, a sky full of stars gleamed and winked, like diamonds scattered across a length of midnight-blue velvet, and the light of a full-to-bursting moon shimmered upon the waters of the lake.

  She did not expect to sleep, but gradually her exhaustion pulled her under, and she surrendered to it. The baby’s cry awakened her to a crisp, dew-laden morning. Zachary had already left the bed, and she could hear a new fire crackling, smell smoke and something delicious cooking.

  Jenny was still weak, still in grave danger. But she was alive, and that was cause for celebration. Surely it was a good sign, her surviving this long. After improvising another diaper to replace the wet one, then tucking the baby into bed again until the sun was higher and the air warmer, Christy washed her own face and hands at the lakeside. Zachary was standing near the fire, watching her.

  “Sorry I can’t offer you hot coffee,” he said. He was holding a long stick over the fire, with a fish crisping on its pointed end. “But there’s trout for breakfast.”

  They ate with their fingers, watching sunlight spill further and further over the lake, then Zachary smothered the fire with dirt and saddled the horses while Christy put on the sling and placed Jenny inside it. She could feel the heat of the baby’s fever, surely higher than before, even through her clothes, and fresh fear loomed up inside her, sudden and fierce. She faced the terror, as she had done many times before in her life, stared it down, but the task wasn’t an easy one, and it left her a little dizzy.

  Soon, they were mounted again and riding around the northern rim of the lake at a good pace. The beauty of their surroundings gave Christy a certain solace, and by the time the mission came into view, she was feeling strong again.

  The mission building was a simple log structure, with a crude wooden cross standing prominently on its roof, and while there was no sign of activity outside, smoke curled from one of its two chimneys, and the front door stood open to the crisp, clean morning air.

  Christy glanced at Zachary, expecting to see her own relief reflected in his face. Instead, he looked solemn.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, frowning a little. Jenny fidgeted against her middle and gave a mewling cry.

  Zachary removed his hat and replaced it in an agitated fashion. “I hope not,” he said, but his eyes were narrowed as he regarded the mission, and there was a certain intensity in his bearing that made her very nervous. He pulled his rifle from the scabbard at the side of his saddle and cocked it before drawing the .45 and handing it to Christy.

  “Stay behind me,” he said.

  Christy’s throat tightened painfully, and her palm was already sweating around the handle of that dreadful pistol, but she nodded. “All right,” she croaked, holding Jenny a little closer.

  They rode single file down the trail leading to the mission. Christy was expecting disaster at every moment; s
he could barely breathe, and her heart was pounding, but she held on to the .45 and the baby and kept her horse close behind Zachary’s.

  In the dusty dooryard, Zachary raised one hand to Christy in a silent command to stay put and be quiet, and he dismounted with the merest squeak of leather. Slowly, watchfully, he approached the open door. By that time, Christy shared his concern; visitors were surely rare in this isolated if beautiful place, and it seemed to her that someone should have come out to greet them by now.

  He glanced back at Christy once, then stepped over the high threshold. A full two minutes passed before he came outside again, and Christy knew by the look on his face that he didn’t have good news.

  Unconsciously, she stood in her stirrups and leaned forward, as if by doing so she’d be able to see inside the mission. Find something that would prove him wrong.

  “Probably Paiutes,” he said, breaking the awful silence. “This is their territory. Reverend and Mrs. Arron are both dead.”

  Christy grasped the saddle horn with both hands and drew a slow, deep breath in an effort to steady herself. “Dear God,” she whispered. “Are—are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes,” Zachary replied, leaning against the jamb of the door for a moment. “The reverend’s got an arrow through his throat, and Mrs. Arron had her head beaten in with a rock.”

  Christy squeezed her eyes shut, fought back a rush of bile from her stomach. “What do we do now?” she whispered.

  “Bury them,” he said simply.

  Belatedly, Christy realized that the Arrons’ attackers might still be nearby, and she hastily looked back over one shoulder. The towering ponderosa pines, so magnificent before, now seemed sinister, as though they were concealing new violence.

  “Stay outside,” Zachary instructed. “Things are pretty ugly in here. I’ll see to the bodies.”

  Christy was already climbing down from the saddle, one arm clenched tightly around the baby as she did so. “I’ve seen dead people before,” she said staunchly. “I’ll help.”