Within My Heart (43 page)

He strode back through the snow and gathered her into his arms. She was shaking. He held her tighter, willing her fear to subside, willing her to give him her burden. He drew back. “You listen for two shots, Rachel,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “For each boy. We’ll be firing
two
shots.” He hugged her to him, then kissed her. When he lifted his head, she still had that fear in her eyes, so he kissed her again, deeper this time, digging his hands into her hair. He could still taste the salt of her tears as he and Ranslett rode out.

36

A
blanket of snow all but silenced the plod of horses’ hooves as Rand and Daniel picked a path downslope of the springhouse. Tree limbs, burdened with ice and freshly fallen powder, cracked and popped around them. “Mitchell! Kurt!” Rand called out every few seconds. Ranslett joined him, and they took turns calling the boys’ names as they rode on up the mountain.

With no pattern that Rand could detect, Ranslett would stop and dismount, check the branches or a spot where the snow might be marred or crushed, then he’d mount up and they’d ride on. A short while later, they arrived in a clearing and Daniel reined in.

Built on the highest peaks—north, south, east, and west—fires burned bright against the dark night sky. Flaming beacons lit in the hope that Mitch and Kurt would see them and make their way to where help was waiting.

They rode for another hour, covering a treacherous stretch along Crowley’s Ridge before picking their way back along a ravine that bordered Rachel’s land. Rand called the boys’ names, over and over, and could hear someone from another party just across the ridge doing the same. Every few feet, Ranslett stopped to examine the trail, or a tree, or a boulder, looking for a sign. Rand did likewise. Looking for anything that might indicate what path the boys had taken.

They circled back, retracing their path, checking every cave and crevice in the mountain, and Ranslett seemed to know them all.

Finally, they arrived at a bluff not far from Rachel’s cabin. Feeling the night wear on, a fraction of the fear Rand had seen in Rachel’s eyes seeped into his bones and began to take hold, threatening to extinguish his hope.

With the aid of his torch, he checked the time. Almost half past three.

The snow had tapered off. Little wind stirred, but the night was bitter cold. His hands were numb, despite his gloves, and his feet ached. He could only imagine how cold Mitch and Kurt must be right now, and what injuries they would suffer if made to endure an entire night in these conditions. Molly had said the boys left for the springhouse with only their jackets on. No hats. No gloves. Frostbite would set in within hours, then confusion, disorientation. . . .

But that possibility, however difficult, was less brutal than the other. Rand pictured the brown wrapping paper, shredded into ribbons, and shut out the thought that followed.

Ranslett pulled up sharply and peered off to his right.

“You see something?” Rand whispered, trying to decipher whatever it was that had caught his attention. To him, the dark wooded hillsides looked much the same. But he trusted Ranslett’s experience and skill, as did Rachel, obviously. He didn’t know all the history between Rachel and Daniel, only that they’d grown up together and that, from what he’d noticed, she was uncomfortable in the man’s presence. But whatever their differences were, he was grateful things seemed to be on the mend. Especially now.

Ranslett pointed. “See the lowest bough of that spruce? Just to the right of the largest boulder. About fifteen feet out.”

Rand squinted, trying to distinguish which spruce he was referring to. There were about two hundred at a glance and all of them seemed to be situated right by a— Then he saw it, and hope sprang up inside him. “It’s not covered in snow like the others.”

“And it’s sheltered from wind beneath the larger ones around it. The snow had to be knocked off. And since most of the larger animals bed down for the night . . .” Ranslett dismounted, rifle in hand. “Let’s go on foot from here.”

Rand tethered his horse to a tree, grabbed his medical bag and rifle, and followed.

Ranslett pointed as he cut a path through the snow. “All along that ridge are caves. They’re not deep, but they go back a good ways. Perfect place for cougar or bear.” He gestured behind them. “Back up this hill, a couple hundred yards or so—”

“Is Rachel’s springhouse,” Rand said, having regained his bearings.

Ranslett nodded. “Imagine we’re Mitch and Kurt, and we’ve just latched the door to the springhouse behind us. We’ve got the meat Molly told us to get, but then—”

“We hear something.”

Ranslett nodded again, stepping over a fallen aspen. “We already know what it is from the sound, but we turn around anyway because instinct tells us to. And that’s when we see the cougar. What do we do?”

“Why do you think it’s a cougar?” Rand asked.

“Because a bear would’ve left more tracks, even with the snow. I’ve seen a cougar leap from rock to rock, at least twenty feet, then shoot straight up a lodgepole pine, never stopping, and hardly leaving a trace.”

The mental image was chilling, especially when considering the chance two young boys would have against such an adversary. Back to Ranslett’s initial question, Rand turned the possibilities over in his mind, trying to think like a ten- and eight-year-old boy might. “Kurt does whatever Mitch does, so—whatever they did—I think Mitch made the decision.”

“Agreed.” Ranslett knelt just shy of the spruce, then stood, walked a few paces, knelt again, and leaned close to the ground. “Mitch’s first thought is going to be for—”

“His brother,” Rand supplied, knowing without hesitation that it was true, and rushing the possible scenario through his mind, just as he imagined Ranslett was doing. Mitch and Kurt had been taught not to run from bears and mountain lions. But they’d be scared, and undoubtedly remembering what happened to their father. “Do you think Mitch might’ve thrown the meat to the animal right away?”

Ranslett shook his head. “A person’s first instinct when seeing something like that is to run. And anyway, I found the bag farther down here.” He pointed. “The cat could’ve carried it a distance, but I don’t think so. Cougars are normally shy of people, unless they smell food. My guess is that it was more interested in the meat than in the boys.”

Rand shook his head. “But Mitch and Kurt wouldn’t necessarily have known that. I think Mitch just grabbed his little brother’s hand, and they ran. He probably tossed the meat down without thinking the cougar would go for it first.”

Ranslett nodded, adjusting the pack on his back. “I’m hoping that bought the boys a little time.” He crept closer, his moves cautious, wary. He ducked to peer beneath the branch. “Doc . . . you need to come here.”

Uncertain at Ranslett’s tone and feeling as if someone had punched him in the gut, Rand readied himself. He knelt, praying . . . The snow beneath the tree had been scraped back from around the side of the trunk, creating a kind of wall. “They were here,” he whispered, hope rekindling. “They tried to create a shelter.”

“And did a pretty good job of it too,” Ranslett said, voice soft.

Rand looked over at him. “Something you taught them?”

Ranslett nodded. “Something I showed Thomas when we were out hunting together one time. Then Thomas and I taught them together at Thanksgiving, four years ago. I can’t believe they still remembered.”

They rose and walked deeper into the foliage, the shadows richer beneath the snowy canopy, the pungent scent of evergreen overwhelming.

“There.” Rand motioned, then headed toward what appeared to be a crevice in the side of the mountain. Not knowing how far back it went, he knew that if he were a boy seeking shelter from the snow, that was where he would have headed next.

But as he peered into a tunnel of endless dark, he knew it was the very last place
he
, as a grown man, would
ever
choose to go.

37

M
itch! Kurt!” Rand leaned down and called into the mouth of the cave, hoping the boys would answer if they were inside, while in the same breath praying they’d found another place to hunker down for the night. Someplace less . . . dark. Less gravelike.

Staring into the fathomless absence of light, he already found it hard to breathe. He called the boys’ names again, but no reply came.

Torch in hand, Ranslett stooped and entered the cave without a moment’s hesitation. “Be sure and bring your bag, Doc, just in case they’re inside.”

“Will do.” Rand pushed the words past the vise-grip around his throat. Panic gripped him, and the heat of shame tightened its hold. Hours earlier he’d told Rachel they would face their fears together, and yet here he was, hardly able to even look his in the eye.

He peered down the tunnel, watching Ranslett’s torch grow smaller. He told himself to take a step, but his feet wouldn’t move. He swallowed.
Jesus, help me do this.

Summoning courage he didn’t feel, he bent and forced one foot in front of the other. The cloying smell of moist earth filled his nostrils. Ice and damp slicked the walls of the tunnel, and the air smelled faintly of time forgotten and of something long dead. About twenty feet in, a clammy wave of déjà vu moved through him, and he fought the sudden urge to turn back and run.

Mindful of the tremor deep within, he pictured Rachel and the boys, then trained his focus on the precious halo of light illuminating his path and moved on, drawing strength from Rachel’s belief in him.

The shaft was riddled with rocks and he watched his step. He heard a noise, a low distant murmur. Or was it a rumble? He went stock-still. “Ranslett?” He heard the fear in his voice and hated himself for it. He peered down the tunnel. Ranslett was gone. He swallowed, his throat like sand. “Ranslett, are you there?” He closed his eyes.
Oh, God, don’t think—

“Doc Brookston?” came a weak voice.

Mitch . . .
Rand’s eyes stung with relief. Both from knowing Mitch was alive and from knowing he wasn’t alone.

“Back here, Doc.” Ranslett’s voice sounded strangely hollow and small.

Rand navigated the tunnel, moving faster than he would have thought possible.

The light from his torch reflected off the end of the passageway to reveal another tunnel off to his left. He rounded the corner and found himself in a small chamber—not tall enough in which to stand upright but that allowed him to walk hunched over.

Mitch lay on the floor, crying. Ranslett was kneeling beside him.

Rand joined them and brushed a quick kiss to Mitch’s forehead. “Hey, buddy, how are you doin’?”

Mitch squeezed his eyes tight, shivering. “I’m s-sorry.”

Rand scanned the chamber, not seeing Kurt. He looked at Ranslett. “Where’s Kurt?” he said low.

Ranslett shrugged. “I asked him, but he just started crying.”

Rand leaned close again. “Mitchell . . . buddy. Look at me.” He wedged his torch into a crevice in the wall and tugged off his gloves. He took hold of Mitch’s hands. They were like ice. “Did Kurt come into the cave with you?”

Mitch shut his eyes. “I was h-holding his hand”—a strangled cry—“and then he slipped. I couldn’t see, and he—” His sobs came harder. “H-he fell.”

Rand’s heart broke. Mitchell being the “man of the house” at ten was a burden a boy shouldn’t be saddled with, and one he aimed to lift from Mitch’s frail shoulders . . . starting now. “I’ll take care of Kurt, Mitch. Just like—” His throat tightened. “Just like I’m going to take care of you.” He glanced up at Ranslett, not having meant to exclude the man, but a knowing look resided in Ranslett’s eyes, and he gave Rand an affirming nod, as if understanding.

Rand cradled Mitch’s face and worked to keep the panic from his voice. “We just need to know one thing, Mitch. . . . Where did Kurt fall?”

Mitch pointed, and both men looked across the chamber. Rand’s gut churned. There was a hole in the earthen floor of the cave.

Ranslett rose. “I’ll go check it out.”

Mind racing, possibilities colliding—none of them ones he wanted to take back to Rachel—Rand examined Mitch’s head, then his neck and arms. “It’s not your fault, son. You did well.” He ran a hand along the boy’s leg, and Mitch winced. “Your leg hurts?”

Mitch nodded, shivering. “I fell when we were running.”

Rand couldn’t feel a bone protruding, which was good. He took off his coat and tucked it around the boy.

“Doc?” Ranslett called, voice tense.

Laying a gentle hand on Mitch’s forehead, Rand summoned calm he didn’t possess. “I’ll be right back. Everything’s going to be all right, Mitch.”
Lord, please, let everything be all right.

He joined Ranslett, who shone the light from his torch into what appeared to be another shaft, a passage sloping downward, at least twenty feet, maybe more. The light from the torch flickered and danced off the walls, making it hard to see. But it looked as if something, or someone, lay at the bottom.

Kurt.

Rand called his name, but no response. And a cold shudder of reality moved through him as what he had to do became clear. He was a good twenty pounds lighter than Ranslett, but more importantly, he was the physician. If Kurt was hurt, if the boy had sustained a broken bone in the fall, it would need to be treated. Rand held his breath. So
he
was the one who needed to go down there.

Every muscle in his body tensed and the familiar tremor he loathed started again down deep inside. His thoughts sprinted in different directions, taking his imagination in places he didn’t want to go, and he suddenly wondered if he had the strength to do this. He didn’t think he did.

“Doc . . . you okay?”

Rand squeezed his eyes tight, feeling a hundred-pound weight pressing squarely on his chest.

“Doc . . .” Ranslett touched his arm. “You want me to go down?”

“No,” Rand heard himself say, wishing he could catch his breath. If only he could feel that same profound stillness he’d felt before, instead of shaking in his boots. He reached for the rope in his pack. “I’ll go.”

Temples pounding, gut churning, he descended headfirst into the tunnel, the rope tied about his waist. For a moment, he was certain he was going to be sick. The wave of nausea slowly passed, but the trembling inside him fanned out.