Rocky Mountain Widow (Historical) by Jillian Hart Page B

be why I hurt. She felt it suddenly as if she was slipping into a hot bath—although it was not water that rushed up from her toes and through her legs. Burrowed into her abdomen and raked upward until the backs of her eyes burned. Fiery sensation that was more than pain. Beyond pain.
    Images returned. Of Ham drunk, towering over her, cursing and blaming her. She could smell the alcohol and his rage. Memory gripped her and it was good, because she at least knew what had happened. A wagon wreck. She’d fallen and was trapped, unable to move, because there was no way she could make her limbs or fingers stir. And the pain from his steel-toed boots hitting her ribs.
    The baby. I must protect my child. She had to regain consciousness before the next blow struck. Her eyes could not see. Her lungs seemed unable to draw in enough air to speak with. She could not seem to makeher mouth or tongue form a single word. Ice pellets struck her face as she clawed her way through the darkness of unconsciousness, struggling with all of her strength so that she had a chance. So her babe had a chance.
    Fight, Claire. Fight. With all the strength in her soul, she struggled toward a single spot of grayness so far away in the darkness it was like the head of a pin.
    But her will was strong and she focused on that single speck until it grew closer and larger still. Until it was the size of a tea saucer and she could see the hail of iced snow shooting from the gray heavens, feel the sharp, cold pricks on her face.
    Then a shadow moved over her, shaped like the curving brim of a man’s hat. Ham? Was it Ham?
    Panic pummeled her heart and it flapped in her chest. She was not yet strong enough to move. She was groggy, her body unresponsive, heavy and floppy like a rag doll’s. Terror rushed into her blood and she could feel it turn her veins to ice. Feel it drain the strength and the light. Her vision dimmed, and her entire being shouted at the injustice of it. The unfairness.
    No! She had to fight. But the darkness was taking her, leaving her helpless as she awaited Ham’s next blow—by whip or fist or boot.
    And then a man’s face moved into the fading circle of her sight. It wasn’t Ham’s face. This man had a strong square jaw, unshaved and rough with a few days’ growth. Brackets etched into the corners of his tight, almost harsh-looking mouth. High cheekbones and eyes the color of steel.
    Joshua Gable. Realization lifted her up and she was floating away into the void again. Awareness faded even as she dared to hope that he’d come to save her.
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    I can’t take this anymore. Joshua gritted his teeth, although he couldn’t actually feel them. He was quaking all the way to the core of his bones.
    He’d been this cold once—when he’d been hauling hay to the livestock and got caught in a blizzard with Pa. They’d made it home by luck and by good old common sense. He was using his best judgment, but that was no reassurance.
    He could have been riding for ten minutes or two hours. He couldn’t tell. Time meant nothing. Distance meant nothing.
    If the storm didn’t let up soon, the horse was going to freeze out from beneath him. General’s gait had slowed. There was no sense in even hoping the woman in his arms would live. The pale skin above the scarf he’d covered her face with was a deathly gray.
    This was not the way he wanted it, either, he thought, unable to feel even her weight against his chest, her soft presence, her wool scarf. He couldn’t feel the horse beneath him. Or his feet—and to keep the blood flowing, he’d have to start walking soon. But no man had the strength to carry a woman through the foot-high drifts and against the pounding wind. He’d have to leave her on the horse—unprotected from the brunt of the storm.
    He needed just a little help, a moment of intuition. An unmistakable landmark that he could make out through the