“A bronc. Comin’ slow, on three legs.”
Into the murkiness of the timber ahead they moved warily toward what was approaching. Unearthly. Surreal. Phantasmagorical.
Waves of mist and murk separated into tatters, like shreds of floating gauze, to reveal the form of a large buckskin. His reins were loose and dragging, his coat was rippling from head to tail with fear, his eyes were rolling to show the white, his noseband and cheek piece were half-torn away.
“Recognize him?” Paul, dismounting slowly so as not to further spook the animal, asked tersely.
“Yeah, that’s Painter. He’s owned by Norton, at the livery. Good fellah; deserves better’n whatever has happened to him.”
“Easy, boy,” said Paul, smoothing his gloved hand over the trembling neck and shoulder, past the flank, along the hip. “Easy, there. Blood on the saddle,” he reported.
“Ahuh. Reckon we’d better move, then. Bound to be worse up ahead.”
There was.
Trailing the recovered horse, who was understandably reluctant to return to a place of such terror yet drawn inexorably along, they continued for another half mile or so before coming to a slow stop.
The monstrous tree lay completely across the track, blocking further access.
For a split second, the men could only stare, transfixed with shock.
Somewhere, beneath the tangle of leaves and welter of shattered branches, lay human life just as weltered and shattered as the cruel hodgepodge surrounding, as when a violent earthquake fells everything around into rubble. At the very bottom, nearly buried, the rescuers could catch glimpses of a snatch of color that shouldn’t be there, a snag of pattern, a fold of cloth.
Paul swallowed hard. His voice, when he spoke, came out croaky and unfamiliar, even to himself, as he worked to gather every reserve of strength for the ordeal ahead.
“Under there. Under that mess. We’ve gotta start diggin’.”
Chapter Twenty
“—BYE...” THE SINGLE word came out as a mere breath, almost a whine or whimper. It had been the first word managed so far, and the sole word, only to be repeated occasionally. “—Bye...”
Still, it was enough to give one the faintest ray of hope. How the broken, bloodied body lying motionless beneath the quilt could even yet be living was a miracle of Gabriel Havers’ potions, patience, and persistence. There was, also, the miracle of strength, and the will to survive.
Camellia, form severely buttoned into an apron and hair trimly tucked under a scarf, passed to and fro, up and down, a dozen times a day. The question always came from haggard lips: “Any change?” And she must always quietly, despondently report, “No. No change.”
She had expected to leave the worst of encroaching troubles behind in St. Louis, when she had moved to take up a new life in Texas. She had expected marriage to provide the safety and security so absent from everyday existence. Apparently, none of that mattered.
Camellia still held the position of matriarch of their little Burton clan, and she would always assume responsibility for their welfare until her sisters could finally be considered settled.
For this past week, ever since the afternoon of Molly’s abduction, she felt she had been stuffed into a bell jar, helpless to escape, stumbling around in a nightmare fraught with fear, fury, and desperation. She had paced enough, following the posse’s departure, to wear a hole in the rug, according to Gabriel.
His behavior couldn’t have been faulted, for he had done his best to keep her occupied. Once he had treated the raw burns on her wrists, caused by her savage attempts to break free, he had actually pottered around in the kitchen to prepare tea (heavily sugared, for shock) and rustled up a plate of bread and honey. Amazingly, she had been too awash in the worry over this latest tragedy to even take exception to his efforts. And the mess he had left behind.
They had, upon his insistence, played endless games of whist (she had lost every one, proving again her lack of concentration). Once that had palled, he convinced her to take up her sewing. Finally, when he had had his limit (a craw full, was his expression) of her fussing, he donned hat and coat to brave his way to the McKnight boarding house, where he broke the news to Letitia and Hannah about all that had transpired during just a few momentous hours.
“What did they say? Did they want details? How exactly did you tell them?” she had demanded, when, some time later, he had braved his way back to Camellia’s warm and comfortable kitchen.
He wasn’t about to divulge any incidentals as to his
conversation with her sisters. Blood completely drained away, anxious tears, and even a near-swoon. Gabe had forced them to remain where they were, due to the unspeakable weather conditions, only by the force of his own grumpy personality. And, of course, Hannah had seized upon that, just as he expected.
“You have absolutely no bedside manner at all!” she had spat out at him. “Is that any way to tell a suffering family member such horrific news?”
“The only way I know is to blurt out the worst,” the doctor responded mildly. “I’ve found it takes a while for someone to absorb it, at the very least.”
“Well, perhaps you need to go back to medical school and learn better manners! Never mind, Letty.” She turned to the recovering occupant of the settee in their private sitting room, whence Gabriel had won grudging permission from Mrs. McKnight to carry on a private chat. “We’ve come too far to let this bring us down. Don’t listen to him.”
Wide-eyed, Letitia had considered the two of them, and the animosity that seemed always to exist whenever both were within sight of each other. “No, he’s right, Hen. It’s best to know, and get it over with, so we can go on from here. Thank you, doctor. We shall await your further—enlightenment...of the situation. And a change in the weather, so that we can see Camellia.”