7
Trace didn’t know much about women and less than nothing about children, except he’d been one himself. But these four seemed like a decent bunch.
Through sheer effort, he kept himself from saying so.
He didn’t want to start the women talking again, even worse the children crying again, because how quiet they all were was a big part of what he admired.
They rode along in silence. Not a word of complaint from any of them. He’d settled into a steady run, up and up and up, and thought he could probably keep going almost forever.
Back in the very beginning he’d had an old plow horse, the one he’d been riding the day of the wagon massacre. The horse hadn’t survived the first winter. Trace had learned to use his feet. And though these days he wasn’t forced to run everywhere he went, he still did a fair amount of it when the distance wasn’t too far. He could keep going for miles. But he didn’t usually go for one of his long runs with a hundred-pound pack on his back.
He reached the mountaintop and felt the coldness of a nasty storm breathing down his neck. He passed over the heights and began miles of descent. But once the worst of the danger had passed, it was as if the storm decided that if it couldn’t stab him with a lightning bolt, it wasn’t interested at all. It headed toward the east, rushing on, leaving them dry.
Trace saw the sheeting rain. It drenched the trail he’d wanted to come back and follow to get the men who’d massacred the wagon train.
Oh, he’d find them. The determination burned in him like the flaming sword of justice. But the rain made it harder.
He settled into the rhythm of the run as time and territory passed. If he could keep going—well, he was still going to reach home long after dark—the sun was setting earlier every day. There’d be no camping on the trail. Whatever was out in those woods made him want to make it home as soon as he could.
“Wake up!” Trace hadn’t meant to yell, but it’d come out mighty loud when he was jumping to catch Deb as she came sliding off his stallion’s back.
He caught her. He’d touched both her and Gwen when he was helping them get on and off his horse, but he was struck now by this live wiggling woman. Something about the weight of her in his arms struck him as the best thing he’d ever felt.
Of course, he was half asleep with exhaustion himself, so he could be imagining things.
She jerked awake. He grabbed the reins with his teeth so he could hold her with both arms. The horse shied, and he decided, though he’d’ve liked to hang on to her longer, that he should act in the best interests of his teeth.
He eased her to the ground but she didn’t stand. Her legs buckled, so he guided her all the way to the ground to keep her from plunking down hard. It was cold. Past midnight and the ground was white with the flurries of snow that’d begun about two hours ago. Black danced sideways, and Trace caught Maddie Sue falling next.
Trace spit out the reins and shouted, “Deb, Gwen, wake up! I need some help out here!”
Deb stirred from the cold more than from his words. Trace hated to jar them like this. They’d hung on to the horse with the grit and courage of warriors all day, but they had to help him for just a few more seconds.
Deb pulled Maddie Sue onto her lap as Trace lifted Ronnie, deeply asleep and limp as a rag doll.
A lantern came on in the house, and the front door swung open. Utah Smith, a cowpoke who’d come wandering through right around the time Trace was starting the cattle drive, came rushing out, pulling on his thick winter coat.
“Boss, we were fixin’ to come huntin’ you.”
Trace had tarried so long he was two weeks behind his men.
“I need more hands, Utah. Quick.” The pack on Trace’s back felt like the earth had grown claws that were trying to drag him right underground. His hands were too busy to shed it. Ronnie hung, fast asleep, in one arm. He grabbed Gwen in the other and eased her down, her eyes blinking up at him owlishly. Unlike Deb, she managed to stay on her feet.
Utah caught Black and led him aside. “What in tarnation ya got here, boss?”
He was too tired to smile, but he didn’t blame Utah for being surprised. Adam Thayne was a pace behind.
“Put the horse up, Utah. Adam, help me get them inside. And grab this pack I’m carrying. I’m about all in.” Which reminded him he didn’t have a bed to sleep in, and neither did his hired men. They’d realize that soon enough. Still, they were tough western men—they’d slept on a hard patch of dirt many a time.
Utah headed for the stable with the mustang.
Adam got Trace’s pack. “You want this inside?”
“Yep, and the women and children. All of the menfolk are sleeping in the stable.”
It didn’t matter too much. The house was so poorly built, it wasn’t much better than the barn. Utah had seen the place when he signed on for the cattle drive and told Trace he was a handy carpenter, offering to build a new house and stable in the spring.
Trace was all for it, yet it was only talk at this point. And talk didn’t put a roof over their heads tonight.
The house’s one advantage was that it had a fireplace—and that was a big advantage.
“Adam,” Trace said when his hired man rushed back outside, “take the little boy. He’s fast asleep. Just get him inside and put him in any bed.”
Adam gathered up the boy and cradled him awkwardly.
“I’ll help settle him.” Gwen went after the boy.
Deb had gotten off the horse several times throughout the day and run along
