mint-scented water to wash in and fresh biscuits baking.
But not for Whip.
The thought did nothing to shorten the two miles back to the cabin.
When Whip arrived, there was no smoke coming from the chimney, no scent of biscuits baking — and no tracks coming in from the direction of the notch. The uneasiness that had been riding Whip exploded into raw fear. He spun Sugarfoot around and examined the sparse, windswept forest where Shannon would have descended from the notch to the cabin.
Nothing was moving.
Whip yanked open the buckle on his saddlebags and pulled out a telescoping spyglass. He snapped it out to full length and held it up to his eye. Between spaces in the trees, snow gleamed whitely in the growing light.
Not a single track marred the perfect snow.
17
Whip was nearly all the way to the notch itself before he found Shannon. She was in ice water up above her knees, pushing hard on a branch stuck between boulders in the creek.
Suddenly there was a dry, cracking sound. The branch splintered and Shannon fell headlong into the small pool of water.
Only then did Whip see what was wrong. Prettyface had slipped while scrambling across the stony creek. Somehow the dog had managed to wedge a hind foot between two boulders. The boulders were too heavy for Shannon to shift aside even an inch.
From the looks of the broken branches thrown beyond the creek, she hadn’t had much luck finding a sturdy lever to help her free Prettyface.
When Sugarfoot came to a plunging, snow-scattering stop near the stream, Shannon was pulling herself upright. Her motions were clumsy, as though she had little feeling in her hands and feet.
Whip dismounted in a rush.
«Get out of there before you freeze to death,» he ordered curtly.
If Shannon heard Whip above the chatter and splash of the icy creek, she didn’t respond. She simply picked up the longest of the discarded branches, jammed one end beneath the smaller boulder, and heaved upward with all her strength.
The branch broke.
Only Whip’s quickness saved Shannon from another ice water bath. He grabbed her, lifted her high, and dumped her into Sugarfoot’s saddle. With swift motions he peeled off his jacket and stuffed her into it.
«Stay right here,» Whip commanded. «Do you hear me, you little fool?Stay put.»
«Pre-Pretty —»
«I’ll get him out, but so help me God, if you move from that saddle I’m going to take you to the cabin and tie you to the bed before I help Prettyface. Hear me?»
Dazed by cold and fear for her dog, Shannon nodded jerkily. When Whip took her hands and wrapped them around the saddle horn, she hung on instinctively. He looked at her for a searching instant before he turned abruptly toward the dog who was standing three-legged in the rushing creek.
«Well, Prettyface,» Whip said as he waded into the frigid meltwater, «you’ve landed yourself in a mighty cold kettle of fish.»
The big dog waved his tale in greeting and watched Whip with clear wolfs eyes. Except for his legs, Prettyface was dry. If the dog was cold, he didn’t show it. He wasn’t even shivering.
Whip bent and ran his hands lightly over as much of the captive leg as he could reach. There were no swellings and only a few scraped places.
«You’re better off than your mistress, aren’t you?» Whip muttered. «Now all we have to do is get your foot out without banging it up any worse than it already is.»
Whip rubbed the dog’s head affectionately as he talked, but there was no gentleness in Whip’s silver eyes as he measured the problem. He pushed against one of the boulders, then another, testing them.
Heavy, damned heavy, but not impossible, Whip told himself.
Prettyface whined softly as Whip tested the boulders again, trying to decide which might be easiest to lift.
«All right, boy. I hear you. I won’t pinch you again.»
Whip gathered up several of the broken branches and jammed them between the boulders as far down as he could on either side of the dog’s captive paw. Then he picked up a water-rounded stone and hammered the branches down between the boulders until the heavy sticks would go no farther.
«That should keep the boulders off your paw,» Whip said. «Now hang on tight, Prettyface. There’s going to be some shoving and swearing.»
With that Whip squatted, plunged his hands into the ice water, and groped around the base of the boulder he had chosen. There was a lot of gravel and smaller stones. He began raking the rubble away from the bottom of the boulder until he could get a better grip on it. He worked quickly, for he knew his hands would soon go numb from the icy water.
«We’re in luck,» Whip said, wrapping his arms around the boulder and straining upward. «There’s a nice little ridge — near the bottom — to hang — on to.»
The words were spoken through Whip’s teeth as he straightened slowly, driving his body upward with his powerful legs while he gripped the base of the boulder. Stone gnashed over stone. Whip’s feet slipped slightly, icy water sluiced over him, but he didn’t let go.
Despite the freezing water, sweat stood on Whip’s face. The pulse in his neck beat hard. His eyes were slitted and his teeth were clenched with effort as he poured his strength into shifting the heavy boulder enough to free Shannon’s dog.
Suddenly Prettyface jerked aside and scrambled out of the creek with a happy yip.
Whip let go of the boulder and straightened, breathing hard and smiling widely. Prettyface was favoring the foot that had been caught, but otherwise was moving well.
«Go home, boy,» Whip said, gesturing down the slope.
The big dog looked toward Shannon, who was slumped in Sugarfoot’s saddle.
«Home,» Whip commanded, wading out of the icy creek.
Prettyface turned and trotted unevenly down the slope toward the cabin.
Whip went to Shannon. He took one look at her dazed eyes and blue lips, and knew that only will-power was keeping her from succumbing to the cold.
Yet she was trying to dismount.
«What the hell do you think you’re doing!» Whip demanded. «I told you to stay put.»
Shannon tried to speak but her lips were too cold. She pointed with a hand that shook.
For the first time Whip noticed the ragged back-pack and the haunch of venison that had been thrown aside in Shannon’s rush to rescue Prettyface.
Whip was tempted to get up behind Shannon, ride to the cabin, and to hell with the venison. Instead, he stalked over and picked up the backpack. The sheer determination Shannon had shown in hunting the deer moved Whip in ways he couldn’t express; the venison meant survival to her in the most fundamental sense of all. Though it infuriated Whip that Shannon had gone after deer in the first place, he couldn’t deny her the fruits of her hunt.
«Here,» he said roughly.
Whip shoved the backpack into Shannon’s lap and swung up behind her.
As soon as Whip put his arm around Shannon to take the reins, he realized that she was colder than he had thought.
Dangerously cold.
Beneath his heavy, loose jacket, Shannon’s whole body was racked by convulsive shivering.
«Son of abitch,» Whip said harshly.
