The Christmas Journey. Winnie Griggs
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no getting him back up.
Chapter Seven
The sharp command jerked Ry back to consciousness. There had been more than a warning in her voice, there’d been worry edged with outright desperation. And it was his fault.
On top of everything else on her plate right now she had to worry about keeping him on the horse as if he were some toddler astride his first pony.
“Sorry. I’m okay now.” He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.
“Lean against me if you need to. Just don’t you dare fall off this animal.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Despite the seriousness of the situation, Ry found himself amused by her military general attitude. And also touched by her courage.
But he refused to let himself take advantage of her generosity any more than absolutely necessary. He’d keep himself upright under his own steam as long as possible. And he offered up a prayer that his “steam” would last long enough to get them where they were going.
“Tell me about this Aunt Pearl of yours.”
“She was a really colorful woman. Spent most of her life as the personal companion to an opera singer. The two of them traveled all over the world and met lots of exciting people.”
“Sounds like an interesting life.” He tried to focus on her words, anything to keep the blackness at bay.
“Oh, it was. Aunt Pearl was fifty-one when Madame Liddy passed on, and she came to live with us. I was six at the time and used to spend hours listening to her stories.”
She gave a selfconscious laugh, a surprisingly feminine sound that brought a smile to his lips.
“Aunt Pearl used to say she saw herself in me. Made me promise to not let myself get locked away in Knotty Pine, at least not until I’d tasted what the rest of the world had to offer.”
“How old were you when you made the promise?”
“Eight. But I never forgot it. And I’m going to do it someday, too, even if it takes me another fifteen years to work out the hows and wherefores.”
“I believe you.” And he did.
They rode in silence for a while. Or maybe she did some talking. But his efforts were now wholly focused on staying upright and he didn’t have room to pay attention to anything else.
Twice more he caught himself as he slumped forward. The third time she halted the horse and stared at him over her shoulder. The worry in her eyes cut as deep into him as any blade.
“I hope you’re a praying man, Mister, ’cause we need some help from the Almighty to get us the rest of the way home.”
She chewed on her lower lip a moment then seemed to come to a decision. “I have to climb down to take care of something. If you can hold steady for just a bit, you can lean over the horse’s neck as soon as I’m out of the way. Think you can manage?”
He nodded, then wished he hadn’t. The world spun dizzily.
“Okay, we’ll do this nice and easy.” She moved his hand from her waist and he suddenly felt set adrift. But before he could flounder, her voice came to him from somewhere in the vicinity of his knee.
“Just lean forward. That’s right, all the way. Take hold of the mane with your good hand.”
Her tone was soothing, her words mesmerizing. Before he knew it, his chest rested against the horse’s neck. It was a relief to let the tension ebb away, to not worry about burdening her with his weight or inadvertently taking ungentlemanly liberties. If he could just rest here for a few minutes, he should be able to hold himself together for another go at this when she mounted up again.
Ry tried to pry his eyes open, but they weren’t cooperating. He couldn’t seem to get his bearings, and was having trouble telling up from down.
How long had he been out this time? Couldn’t have been too long—he could still feel the heat of the sun beating down on him, scorching him all the way to his core. Where was that cool breeze when he wanted it?
He could feel the movement of the horse, hear the plodding of its hooves. At least he’d managed to stay astride.
It was so hot! This felt like a Texas summer, not fall. “Water.” The word came out as a raspy croak. Right now he’d give every bit of cash in his wallet for a sip of cool liquid.
“Try to hold out a little longer. I promise you can have all the water you want as soon as we reach town.”
Startled, he realized the voice hadn’t come from in front of him. Why hadn’t he realized before now that he was still slumped over the horse’s neck?
He managed to open his eyes enough to see Josie walking beside the horse, one hand on his thigh to steady him.
How long had she been walking? Had she ever intended to remount in the first place? He tried to sit up. “What are you—”
“Settle back down. You’ll get that arm to bleeding again and I’ve run out of bandages.”
Ry fought the returning blackness, tried to protest, but the words came out as garbled nonsense. He shut his eyes, pushing back the molten darkness swirling about him, trying to gather both his strength and his wits, focusing on the feel of her hand on his knee. The heat was sapping what little energy he had left.
He wanted—needed—to convince her to get back on the horse, but his mind couldn’t form the right words.
“That’s it,” she said. “Just concentrate on staying up there. Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall. Why, we’ll be back to town before you know it.”
Her words turned into a pleasant buzzing, then nothing. For a time—he couldn’t say if it was minutes or hours—he battled the boiling current, surfacing into a sort of smoke-filled awareness before being ruthlessly tugged back under.
He was so hot! He felt like the rich man of the parable, locked in torment, pleading for Abraham to send Lazarus to slake his thirst. Was that it? Was this punishment for his failings?
No, he wasn’t totally lost. Mercy had been granted. Someone was there, someone with calloused but curiously gentle hands, trickling liquid through his parched lips, wiping his brow with a cool cloth, providing relief until the next wave of searing darkness swallowed him again.
At one point Belle drifted in through the haze. He tried to reach for her, tried to apologize for not getting to her sooner. But no matter how hard he fought to reach her, the current tugged at him, held him back, and she stared at him with pleading eyes until the haze swallowed her again.
Through it all, those calloused hands and the sound of Josie’s voice became his lifelines. Not that he understood much of what she said, but he knew when she was there and clutched at those moments of sanity. Sometimes her tone was soothing and gentle, other times it was coaxing or scolding. He even thought he heard her exhorting the Almighty on his behalf.
Finally the boiling eased, the current cooled and he floated aimlessly for a while. When the darkness came again, it approached as a friend, ready to wrap him in a blanket of peaceful sleep.
Ry roused reluctantly, trying to burrow back into the blessed painlessness of sleep. But his parched throat protested, urging him to full wakefulness.
He wasn’t on the horse any longer. Instead he was lying on a nice comfortable bed. Where was Josie? Had she made it back okay?
He missed the nearness of her that had been his lifeline on that long nightmarish ride—the warmth of her hand on his at her waist, the earthy scent of her that had invaded his senses, the feel of her hair as strands fluttered back to tickle his face. And finally the comforting hand at his knee, connecting him to her, assuring him he was in good hands.
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