Debra Holland - [Montana Sky 02] (20 page)

Wyatt held up his lantern, willing the darkness to part and reveal his daughter. The hilly ground trapped pockets of blackness that even the moon’s glow couldn’t illuminate. About twenty yards to his right, Samantha’s light bobbed with each step of her horse. He knew two of the boys rode on her other side, with the hand, Ernie, being the farthest away, only a pinprick of yellow betraying his presence. To his left, Little Feather, riding without a saddle, dipped his lantern, studying the ground.

Every few minutes one of them shouted her name. Each time, Wyatt held his breath, listening for an answer. Still no response. He cleared his throat. “Christine!” He heard his call echo down the line of other riders.

The heaviness of the night pressed against him, and, knowing he needed to keep all his senses alert, Wyatt tried to contain the fear boiling in his guts. But terror kept spiking through him. He knew all too well how fragile life was. A hundred horrific things could have befallen his precious little girl, and he couldn’t help worrying at the list. His mind kept mumbling prayers, just like the night Alicia died.

If something happened to Christine, he didn’t think he’d be able to go on. Having a motherless baby to care for had been all that had kept him from giving up when his wife had died, taking with her the only love he’d allowed into his heart since he was a small child.

He heard the rapid thudding of hoofbeats, riding hard from the direction of his ranch. His heart thudded in time to the sound. He squinted, trying to make out the rider, but figuring it must be Harry.

They must have found her. Home safe.
His shoulders relaxed in relief, only to be jerked back upright as his thoughts took an alarming turn.
She could be injured. Or worse.

Impatient, he kicked Bill into a canter. Drawing closer, he could discern Harry’s lanky form. “Did you find her?” he called.

Harry reined in. “Her pony come home without her,” he panted, “wet to his neck.”

Samantha rode closer to Wyatt, just in time to hear Harry’s words. Although dressed warmly in Juan Carlos’s clothes, she shivered. “Oh, dear Lord.”

Drowned.

At the fearful thought, her heart leapt into her throat.
No. Oh no.
She looked into Wyatt’s face. The anguish in his eyes forced her to stay strong. He needed her.

She shoved aside her dreadful fantasy, refusing to believe Christine had been swept off her pony and drowned. When they found her, the child would need a calm woman to minister to her. She looked over at the boys and the hands who’d ridden over to hear the news. They all needed her strength too.

Daniel’s blue eyes looked huge in the glow of his lantern, his face strained with fear. She tried to give her son a reassuring smile, wishing she could hug him and shield him from this experience. He adored Christine. If something had happened to her…

“Keep your faith, son,” she murmured.

Daniel swallowed, nodding.

Samantha urged her horse closer to Wyatt. Reaching over, she squeezed his arm. “She could have fallen off before the river, and the pony continued home. Or even after she’d crossed the river. We’ll keep searching until we find her.” Even through his jacket, she could feel the tension in his muscles. She ran her palm across his forearm in silent comfort, then pulled her hand back.

Wyatt nodded to her, then glanced around at the others. “Harry, ride back to the ranch. Round up the hands. Have them search between the house and the river. If you don’t find her, split up. Some ride upstream, some down. We’ll take this side.” He looked at Samantha.

“That sounds sensible,” she said.

He flung out his arm. “Everyone back to your places.” He nudged Bill forward.

As she rode, Samantha strained to hear any sound, while searching out the shadows. Her arm ached from holding the lantern high enough to see. Every few minutes, she had to rest the lantern on her leg. Fears tangled in her mind like the fabled Gordian knot—fears for Christine’s safety, concern for her boys’ emotions, her awareness of Wyatt.

Wyatt.

The shame of how she’d treated him prickled at her. Her dreaded temper. She seldom lost it, but when she did, it was like an explosion, sometimes harming those around her.

Juan Carlos had been calm to her storm, helping her weather her feelings. Because of him, she had mastered her more quicktempered nature—or so she’d thought. But she’d also taken her husband’s support and understanding for granted. He’d known her, trusted that she didn’t always mean the things she said or did when she lost her temper. He had known she’d subside and be more reasonable, and he’d wait to approach her until his practiced eye caught signs that her tempest had passed.

But Wyatt didn’t know her. Until this moment, Samantha hadn’t realized that deep down inside herself, she’d waited for him to come to her. Somehow she’d thought he’d magically know she wasn’t still angry—that she regretted ordering him off her land. Her own blindness to her character appalled her. Remorse
intertwined with her fear and shame. She should have gone to Wyatt—apologized. Invited him and Christine to visit. Then the child wouldn’t have had to sneak away.

Samantha’s own weakness of character had led to this situation, and she vowed to do everything she could to prevent her temper from ever again getting the best of her.

Wyatt rubbed a hand across his weary eyes, then resumed his strained staring into the darkness, trying to see any clue that would help him find his daughter. To his right, the river roared over boulders, higher by a foot than when he’d crossed several hours ago. If Christine had been caught in the raging water…

He’d been through bad times in his life, times that had almost broken him, but nothing compared to the agony of not knowing whether his child lived or whether she…He swallowed the feeling, despair dropping to his stomach where it rested like a rock. Emotions wouldn’t help, they’d only get in the way—make him miss something. He needed to focus.

Up ahead, Little Feather halted his horse. Wyatt rode closer. In the glow of the lantern, he could see the boy squinting toward a brushy island in the middle of the water, his nostrils flared, body still, as if listening with his skin.

Wyatt followed his gaze but couldn’t see what caught the Blackfoot’s attention. He tried to mimic the boy’s stillness, but the rush of the river masked any sounds, sending the scent of dampness whirling around his nose. A memory tugged at him—of how Christine’s little-girl skin smelled when he hugged her before tucking her into bed. A lump clogged his throat. What if he never had a chance to hold his daughter again?

Little Feather lifted a hand, pointed across the swirling black water to the island. “Christine there.”

A rush of hope shook him. “Christine.” Her name lodged in the constriction of his throat, emerging as a barely heard croak. Impatience tearing at him, he again forced the sound out, “Christine, Christine!”

Samantha cantered toward him, followed by the boys. “Did you find her?”

Little Feather pointed to the island. “She there.”

Samantha held up her lantern. “Where? I don’t see her.”

Neither did Wyatt, but he clung to the hope that the Indian boy knew. “I’m going after her.”

Samantha leaned over and grabbed his arm. “Wyatt, the water’s too high. What will we do if you get swept away?”

Damn. He wanted to shake off her restraint, but she was right. He looked around the silent circle, lantern light illuminating worried faces. It wouldn’t help his daughter for him to be foolhardy.

Wyatt wedged his own lantern between his body and the saddle horn. Pointing to a coil of rope lashed to Tim’s saddle, he said, “Give me your lariat.”

The boy leaned over, fumbling with the ties.

Wyatt resisted the urge to bark at him to hurry.

Tim untied the rope, tossing it over.

Wyatt squinted into the night, while his hands worked to open the lasso at the end of the rope. In the dim light, his target would be guesswork. What looked like a solid rock could really be a rotting stump. His life, and that of Christine, might depend on his choice.

He chose the large bump nearest the island’s edge. Circling the noose overhead, he let it fly, watching it settle around the
hump. He pulled, backing Bill, feeling the tether tighten. Yanking it a few times, he decided it would hold. He looped the rest around the saddle horn.

Samantha leaned over, untying a coil from her saddle. “That won’t help you if you get swept off. Tie this one around your waist.”

Jack nudged his horse closer, holding out a hand. “I’ll take the end. Brownie here’ll stand firm.”

Wyatt hesitated, cursing that he’d sent the hands upriver. Dared he entrust his life to a rapscallion boy? But he didn’t have a choice. The river rose higher every moment; he had to reach Christine. And the boy was right. Brownie was a good cow horse. He handed over the rope.

Jack tightened his hand around it. In the glow of the lantern, Wyatt could see the determination in the boy’s eyes. Somehow he knew Jack wouldn’t let him down.

While Jack secured the rope to his saddle horn, Wyatt glanced at Samantha. “Be ready with those blankets.”

“I will. Be careful.” Her voice cracked.

He leaned over and squeezed her hand, resisting a quick impulse to kiss her—draw in some of her fire. He’d need it in the icy water. “Pray.” He released her and urged Bill forward to the bank of the writhing, frothing course.

The horse hesitated at the edge. Wyatt kicked him again. Bill snorted and splashed into the river. He trusted the animal to pick the best footing through the treacherous current. After two steps the water swirled around Wyatt’s knees, spilling into his boots. The icy deluge bit, then numbed his feet and legs.

Bill’s hooves slipped, and the gelding plunged sideways into a hole, scrambling to keep upright. As the water tore at him, Wyatt held his right arm high to keep the lantern aloft and gripped his
legs around his mount. For a frantic moment, Wyatt thought the horse might be swept over onto its side, taking him along. But with a heave of his forelegs, Bill recovered his footing.

Wyatt righted himself in the saddle, soaked from his left shoulder down, but at least he hadn’t lost his light.

His breath squeezed through a chest constricted by cold. Shivering, he panted out words of encouragement, urging Bill forward.

As Bill fought his way through the current, the next few minutes stretched longer than pulled taffy. Finally, the horse lunged up onto firm ground, took a few steps onto the island, and stood, sides heaving.

Where was she? Wyatt’s gaze darted around, trying to spook out any shadow.

Was the Indian wrong?

Fresh fear knocked him like a blow, rendering him dizzy. He blinked his eyes to clear them and, in his panic, almost missed the child lying sodden half under a bush.

“Christine.” He slid off his horse, his legs rubbery.

God. Please.

He dropped to his knees next to her, swinging the lantern to see her face. Eyes closed, hair in wet braids, skin paler than moonlight. He dropped the lantern, and reached out a shaking hand to touch her face. For a second, the chilled skin beneath his fingers made him think the worst, then under his fingertips, he felt the faintest pulse in her neck.

Alive.

“Christine, baby.” He ran his hands along her limbs, then her ribs. Not feeling any obvious damage, he scooped her up, cradling her limp body to his chest, and dropping kisses across her forehead. Praying he wasn’t making any of her injuries worse, he
lifted her to rest against his shoulder like he’d carried her when she was an infant. Moving as little as possible, with one hand he eased himself awkwardly into the saddle, grateful that Bill stood solid as stone.

He shifted Christine across his lap, hugging her close.

She whimpered. “Pa.” Her eyes half opened.

He bent close. “I’m here, sunshine.”

“I knew you’d come, Pa.” Her eyelids drifted down, and her head rolled back.

Another wave of fear clutched him. He had to get her warm, see to her injuries. He reined Bill toward the water. But first they’d have to brave the river.