preparing to head back to his cabin, he spotted a horse with no rider running toward him. It wasn’t an Indian pony, he was certain of that, as there was a bridle, a saddle, and a supply pack half-secured on the horse’s back. The horse slowed when Buck started waving his hands, and finally the animal came to a stop, pawing at the ground, snorting. The horse’s flanks weren’t lathered, so Buck figured it hadn’t run very far.
Buck grabbed the reins, tied the runaway to his saddle, and tightened the cinch that held the saddle and pack; then he mounted his steed and rode in the direction the horse had come. Looking ahead, he saw the shadow of his winged brother fly directly overhead, screeching, as though urging Buck on.
A short time later, Buck entered a small clearing, where another horse and two pack mules milled about. As he drew in closer for a better look, he was shocked to see a man’s body lying on the ground near one of the horses. Was the poor fellow dead? Had he been attacked by hostile Indians?
Buck climbed down from his horse and secured him to a tree; then he sprinted across the clearing and dropped to the ground beside the man. The fellow looked young, probably in his early twenties, and his face was smudged with mud. The man’s shirt and pants hung loosely over his mud-caked arms and legs. The poor lad was skinny as a twig.
How long has he been out here?
Buck wondered.
Buck put his hand over the man’s nose and was relieved to find a breath, although it seemed shallow. When he spotted blood on the ground near the man’s head, Buck realized the man had been injured.
Buck removed the man’s black hat to get a closer look, and his hand froze in midair when a mass of flaxen hair came tumbling out from underneath. This wasn’t a man at all; it was a young woman with hair the color of straw. But what was she doing in men’s clothing, and where was her man? Surely she wouldn’t be out here alone without someone to protect her.
Buck gulped. A gaping wound marred the woman’s forehead. If he didn’t get help soon, she could die.
C HAPTER 8
M ary Breck had just put some wood in the stove when a knock sounded on the cabin door. Instantly alert, she grabbed the rifle her husband, Jim, had left for her when he’d gone to check on his traps. With the exception of Jim’s friend Buck McFadden, they rarely had company, so she was nervous about who might be at the door.
“Who there?” she called.
“It’s me, Mary—Buck.”
Mary breathed a sigh of relief, set the gun aside, and quickly opened the door. She was surprised to see Buck standing on the stoop, sopping wet, and holding a young woman in his arms. A bloody cloth was tied around her forehead, and she was dressed in a man’s clothes. Her skin was pale, and long yellow hair, matted with blood, hung down her back. What Mary didn’t understand was what such a fragile-looking woman was doing here in the mountains, or why Buck was holding her like a sack of grain.
Before Mary could voice her questions, Buck announced: “This woman is hurt, and she needs your help.”
“Come inside.” Mary opened the door wider. “Put her on bed.”
Buck followed her to a small room at the back of the cabin. The bed, which still seemed foreign to Mary, had been made by Jim. She knew that because the first day he’d brought her to this cabin, he’d told her so, and said the bed was off-limits to her.
“She your woman?” Mary asked as Buck leaned down and placed the white woman on the bed.
He shook his head. “Found her when I was out checkin’ my traps earlier today, but there was no sign of anyone else around. Didn’t think it’d be right to take her back to my place, so I decided to bring her here.” Buck swiped at the sweat rolling down his forehead. “Sure hope ya don’t mind, but since you know a lot about healin’ and such, I figured you’d know what to do.”
Mary drew in her lower lip, wondering what her husband would say when he
Buck grabbed the reins, tied the runaway to his saddle, and tightened the cinch that held the saddle and pack; then he mounted his steed and rode in the direction the horse had come. Looking ahead, he saw the shadow of his winged brother fly directly overhead, screeching, as though urging Buck on.
A short time later, Buck entered a small clearing, where another horse and two pack mules milled about. As he drew in closer for a better look, he was shocked to see a man’s body lying on the ground near one of the horses. Was the poor fellow dead? Had he been attacked by hostile Indians?
Buck climbed down from his horse and secured him to a tree; then he sprinted across the clearing and dropped to the ground beside the man. The fellow looked young, probably in his early twenties, and his face was smudged with mud. The man’s shirt and pants hung loosely over his mud-caked arms and legs. The poor lad was skinny as a twig.
How long has he been out here?
Buck wondered.
Buck put his hand over the man’s nose and was relieved to find a breath, although it seemed shallow. When he spotted blood on the ground near the man’s head, Buck realized the man had been injured.
Buck removed the man’s black hat to get a closer look, and his hand froze in midair when a mass of flaxen hair came tumbling out from underneath. This wasn’t a man at all; it was a young woman with hair the color of straw. But what was she doing in men’s clothing, and where was her man? Surely she wouldn’t be out here alone without someone to protect her.
Buck gulped. A gaping wound marred the woman’s forehead. If he didn’t get help soon, she could die.
C HAPTER 8
M ary Breck had just put some wood in the stove when a knock sounded on the cabin door. Instantly alert, she grabbed the rifle her husband, Jim, had left for her when he’d gone to check on his traps. With the exception of Jim’s friend Buck McFadden, they rarely had company, so she was nervous about who might be at the door.
“Who there?” she called.
“It’s me, Mary—Buck.”
Mary breathed a sigh of relief, set the gun aside, and quickly opened the door. She was surprised to see Buck standing on the stoop, sopping wet, and holding a young woman in his arms. A bloody cloth was tied around her forehead, and she was dressed in a man’s clothes. Her skin was pale, and long yellow hair, matted with blood, hung down her back. What Mary didn’t understand was what such a fragile-looking woman was doing here in the mountains, or why Buck was holding her like a sack of grain.
Before Mary could voice her questions, Buck announced: “This woman is hurt, and she needs your help.”
“Come inside.” Mary opened the door wider. “Put her on bed.”
Buck followed her to a small room at the back of the cabin. The bed, which still seemed foreign to Mary, had been made by Jim. She knew that because the first day he’d brought her to this cabin, he’d told her so, and said the bed was off-limits to her.
“She your woman?” Mary asked as Buck leaned down and placed the white woman on the bed.
He shook his head. “Found her when I was out checkin’ my traps earlier today, but there was no sign of anyone else around. Didn’t think it’d be right to take her back to my place, so I decided to bring her here.” Buck swiped at the sweat rolling down his forehead. “Sure hope ya don’t mind, but since you know a lot about healin’ and such, I figured you’d know what to do.”
Mary drew in her lower lip, wondering what her husband would say when he
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