Wolf Creek Wife. Penny Richards
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were falling fast, and the clouds moving in looked swollen and rain-filled. The sunny springlike afternoon was fast reverting to winter, and the man lying on the cold, wet ground needed to be in a warm bed being spoon-fed chicken broth with Doctor Rachel Gentry attending him.
Genuinely worried, Blythe grabbed his shoulder and gave it a rough shake. The dog barked. “Mr. Slade, wake up!”
Nothing. She tried several more times with the same results while the dog stared at her, drool collecting at the corners of his drooping lower lip. Uncertain what else to do, she lightly slapped Will Slade’s whiskery cheeks. Before she had any inkling of what he was about, his eyelids flew upward, his heavy brows drew together and one hand had grabbed her wrist in a hard clasp.
The dog growled and the man on the ground barked a hoarse, “Stop it!”
Blythe gave a little yelp of her own and stared from her captured wrist to the dog and then to Slade’s face. The expression in his eyes was murderous, but she had enough wits about her to realize that fever dictated his actions.
“I was only trying to wake you. You need to be inside, out of the damp air,” she explained, trying to pull free. “If I help you, can you stand?”
“Stand? Of course I can stand,” he snapped.
Then he looked around and frowned when he realized he was lying on the ground. If Blythe didn’t know better, she’d think she saw a hint of panic in his eyes.
“What happened?”
“I haven’t a clue,” she told him. “I was out for a ride when your dog—” she glanced at the beast sitting near his master’s shoulder “—led me to you. All I know is that you’re sick, and I need to get you to the house and go for the doctor.”
She might as well have been talking to the dog. Will Slade’s eyes were closed and the tenor of his breathing told her he was unconscious again.
Blythe pushed to her feet and stared down at him. She had no idea why he was out in the middle of the woods when he was so ill, but common sense told her that the house she’d seen must be his. How could she get him from here to there? She certainly couldn’t carry him! The sensible thing to do was to ride into town and bring back someone with a wagon, but a foggy mist was settling in and she feared that if she left him and the rain started in earnest, his condition would worsen.
Think, Blythe.
She recalled a piece she’d read in the newspaper a few months earlier about how the Plains Indians moved the sick, wounded and elderly on a contraption made with two long poles and pulled by an animal. She didn’t have any poles, but maybe she could fashion something comparable. She had designed an intricate and detailed wedding gown, for heaven’s sake. How hard could it be to take a quilt and make something to drag an unconscious man through the woods?
Telling Will Slade that she would be back as fast as possible, knowing he didn’t hear her, she gathered her woolen skirt in her fists and ran back to the lane toward the house and barn in the distance. She heard the dog barking at her and, when she turned, she saw that he was still sitting beside his owner. The canine’s devotion was admirable; she’d give him that.
Twenty minutes later she’d assembled a makeshift travois from a quilt she’d dragged from one of the beds and a couple of long pieces of rope she’d found in the barn. She tied the riggings to the saddle horn and let them trail along the horse’s sides, then attached the other ends to the corners of the quilt. The dog barked at her at regular intervals, and she was struck by the uncanny notion that he was urging her to hurry.
“I’m going as fast as I can,” she grumbled. By the time she finished, her fingers were numb with cold.
Back down on her hands and knees, she shoved with all her might until she’d rolled the sick man onto the quilt. With a little prayer that he wouldn’t fall off or the knots give way, she led the mare out of the clearing while the dog trotted along beside his master. Thank goodness the rain had held off.
Her good fortune was short-lived. By the time the little caravan reached the front porch and she’d tied the horse to the hitching post, it had begun to drizzle. She was chilled to the bone and wanted nothing more than to be out of the weather in front of a fire.
The problem was how to get the unconscious man inside.
Unable to come up with another idea, she undid the ropes from the saddle horn and tied them around her waist. Using the muscles of her legs and arms and every bit of strength she could muster, she inched her way up the porch steps and shuffled across the painted porch boards and through the doorway that led to a combined kitchen and sitting area.
Once they were inside, she closed the door and untied the ropes from around her middle. Rain fell in sheets. A crack of lightning rent the sky, followed by a boom of thunder. Blythe cringed. She hated storms, and this one was gaining strength by the minute.
The dog barked from the other side of the door. Did he want in? She gnawed on her lower lip in indecision. Would Will be furious at her if she let the creature inside? And did she want the huge animal in the same room with her, when she wasn’t sure he liked her much?
When he began barking again, she grabbed a flour-sack towel from the tabletop and jerked open the door simultaneously as another boom of thunder hit. The mutt almost knocked her over in his haste to get inside. Despite the situation, she almost laughed. The big baby was as frightened of the storm as she was. So much for his bad-dog act.
“Wait!” she cried, throwing herself across his back to keep him from going any farther into the room. To her surprise, he stopped and stood while she rubbed the rain from his glossy fur and dried his feet. Satisfied for the moment, he settled his lanky body down next to the fireplace, never taking his eyes from her.
What now? she wondered, looking at the sick man once more. She’d planned to get him settled and ride to town for help, but it was storming, and the day was all but gone. Not only did she dislike dogs and storms, she was also no fan of the dark. There were streetlights to illuminate the gloom in Boston, but out here, surrounded by woods, it would be pitch-black when night fell. If she left the safety of the house, she would be terrified. She might even get lost in the unfamiliar area. Perhaps the storm would pass in the night and she could ride for help at first light.
The sick man sat up suddenly, once again taking Blythe by surprise. His wild-eyed gaze roamed the room. “Lie down, Mr. Slade.”
He frowned at her. “Martha? What are you doing here? I told you not to come back here.”
Martha? For just a second Blythe had no idea who he was talking about and then she remembered that was his former wife’s name. Good grief! The fever was making him delirious.
“I’m Blythe, not Martha, Mr. Slade,” she said, kneeling beside him and pressing against his wide shoulders.
“Blythe?” he asked with another frown. “Do I know you?”
“We’ve met. Lie down, please.” She felt the tension in him relax and, with only a minimum of resistance, he did as she asked.
“Close your eyes and rest.”
Surprisingly, he did. Blythe sighed and got to her feet. Like him or not, he was a sick man who needed her help. Should she stay and help him however she could or take a chance and try to make it to town?
It crossed her mind that if word got out that she’d stayed overnight in the home of a single man, she would once again be the talk of the town, but she pushed the thought aside. Under the circumstances, she had little choice. It was almost dark. It was storming. A very sick man who needed tending lay on a quilt in front of the fire. She knew it was her Christian duty to do what she could for him, no matter what the outcome might be.
Everyone would understand. If not, then her reputation would suffer again. It was already in tatters. What else could be done to her? Would she be tarred and feathered? Her only regret was that her mother would be beside herself with worry if she wasn’t home by suppertime.
Hands on