Wild Horses, Wild Hearts 3, page 8
“No sir!” Chase replied, earning a round of laughs from the other ranch hands. “My daddy taught me that ice on a lake can be just as treacherous as any flame in a forge. Said it can be solid as rock one minute and the next it breaks like storefront glass.”
Once again the ranch hands nodded at the wisdom spoken by the young show rider, the group starting to share their own tales about ice and its frozen treachery amongst themselves.
All this talk of ice and snow has got me locking up again. John noticed as he gave his arms and legs a shake to keep the blood flowing inside them. With a move toward the small sled full of firewood they’d brought along, John pulled a decent-sized log from the pile of kindling and laid it on the fire they’d built, the wood crackling loudly as the hungry flames lapped at it.
Nearby, the herd they were tending milled about in the snow. Some of the cattle attempted to dig away the snow in order to get at the grass they knew must be beneath. All of them had grown thick coats that were helping to keep them warm while they were exposed out on the plains. The sight of the animals’ adaptability to the changing seasons gave John a smile.
Things keep up like this, and we’ll be through the winter in no time at all, he pondered, grateful that his first winter on the McNeal Ranch hadn’t proven too demanding so far. And if I’m lucky, this progress should prove to Maggie that there’s nothing to worry about and that she can finally relax and stop riding.
Picking up a nearby stick, John began thoughtfully poking at the hot coals beneath the log he’d recently put on the fire, watching the glowing embers as they swirled together and generated such bountiful heat. The thought of how warm he was out here in the snow versus how cold he was at night in his own bedroom when his wife kept the window open caused a chuckle to escape.
Chase peered over at his friend with a curious grin beneath his beard. “What’s so funny, John?” he asked.
John looked over at the other ranch hands to see what they were doing. As far as he could tell, they were all still engrossed in one another’s tales of various winters. Satisfied with that, he beckoned with his hand for Chase to come closer. Once the two were side by side, John turned so that he was facing with his back to the wind, ensuring that nothing he was about to say would be carried back toward the other hands.
“Keep this under your hat, Chase,” John began with a grin of his own, “but I was just thinking about how I’m warmer out here than I am in bed at night.”
Chase quirked an eyebrow upward, unable to comprehend what John was talking about. “I’m afraid you’re losing me here, John,” he said, his tone betraying his confusion. “How is it a fella with a pregnant wife could possibly be cold at night?”
The Kentuckian laughed quietly. “Easy, Chase. See, from the way I understand it, her body’s keeping warm so that the baby can keep growing strong on the inside. But outside to her, it feels like, as she put it a week ago, she’s ‘taking a bath in the lakes of Blazes and Damnation itself.’ So she’s been keeping the window open at night so she can sleep peacefully. Meanwhile, I just freeze quietly.”
The young show rider pressed a fist to his lips in an attempt to disguise his laughter as a cough. “Is that right?” he asked, completely at a loss for anything else to say in response.
“My right hand to God Almighty Himself, Chase,” John answered, his right hand rising up for effect. “But truth be told, I’d rather she stay in bed and quit her worrying about the ranch rather than keep riding about like she’s doing.”
Chase nodded his agreement. “Leyla’s been telling me about how she’s been trying to get Maggie to hold off on riding for a spell, but apparently she’s having no better luck at that than you are. As for me, I’m just visiting for right now, and I don’t want to say anything that might get old Cannonball and me booted off the land.”
John laughed heartily at Chase’s view of his presence on the ranch, placing a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I’m sure as the sky is blue that Leyla and Abigail have enough strength between the two of them to keep Maggie from doing that to you,” he said, getting a laugh from Chase as a result.
“As a matter of fact, why don’t you go ahead and give yourself a little insurance and just ask Leyla to marry you?” John asked half-jokingly, smiling as he saw Chase’s eyes widen at the idea of being able to do such a thing. “I’m certain she’ll say yes if you do.”
“Well, I, that is you see,” Chase began stumbling, trying to find something to say in response.
Before Chase could finally reply, the sound of snow crunching rhythmically beneath a horse’s hooves caught both men’s attention. As the two of them turned, they spied the unmistakable silhouette of Maggie McNeal Baldwin riding toward them atop Apollo.
For the love of Mother and Son, John thought angrily for a moment before forcing himself to calm down. Anger is of no use against Maggie, so I have to keep a level head on my shoulders.
Drawing himself up to his full height, he strode through the snow to meet his wife before she reached the campsite and the herd.
Maggie brought Apollo to a gentle stop as the two reached John. Her eyes, however, began roving between her husband, the ranch hands around the fire, and the herd, as though trying to pick out some fault that was discernible solely to her.
“Miss McNeal,” John greeted, tipping his hat to her in welcome.
“Mister Baldwin,” she returned, though with a voice that sounded like she was short of breath. “I see that you have everything in order here. Have there been any problems?”
“Not a single problem save one, Miss McNeal,” he replied, and as he expected her eyes narrowed as she quickly deduced what he was going to say the problem was. “That being the small matter of—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, John Baldwin, or so help me I will club you with my Henry,” she hissed.
John stood his ground, meeting her heated gaze with his own calm and cool one. “Maggie,” he began in a firm but reasonable tone, “when are you going to accept the fact that nothing out here is going to go wrong and that you can rest so that our child can grow strong inside of you?”
His wife huffed at his question, though her eyes quickly looked sideways. “Our child is growing strong and healthy so that leaves me plenty of time to make sure that my ranch is keeping up with the winter,” she growled.
“Maggie,” John replied, his tone quietly imploring. “You trusted me with running the ranch all those months ago so why is it that you can’t trust me to do so now?”
The question seemed to catch Maggie off guard, her eyes returning to look at her husband with a pained expression taking the place of her anger. “I trust you, John,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady. “It’s just...it’s just...”
John stepped forward and took one of her hands in his while his other rested comfortingly on her stomach, giving it a gentle rub. Maggie looked down at him with tears fighting to break free from her eyes.
“You don’t have to worry about all of this, Maggie,” he soothed. “The herd is fine, the hands we still have are managing well, and there’ll still be plenty of work for us to do together after our little one is born.” He punctuated his reassurance by leaning forward and placing a loving kiss against her coat.
Maggie’s lip quivered ever so slightly at her husband’s public display of devotion and affection for both her and their unborn child. When John pulled back and he looked up at her, his eyes retained their pleading look.
“Please, Maggie,” he asked quietly. “I don’t ask much of you because I know you can handle most anything, but I’m asking you now to please just take it easy from now on.”
They stood there for a moment, John standing in the snow while Maggie sat high up on Apollo. The rest of the world seemed to fade away as they stood staring into one another’s eyes and deeper into their souls.
Please, John prayed, hoping against hope that his wife would acquiesce.
“Okay John,” she whispered, her voice steady as a steel rail.
John breathed a sigh of relief into the cold winter wind while his hand clasped his wife’s in deepening gratitude.
“Thank you, Maggie,” he spoke, meaning it more than he felt he could ever express.
His wife gave him a slight smile. “Why, out of all the men in the west, did I have to fall for a cowpoke who actually has a brain inside of his skull?” she asked in a tone of mock annoyance.
John answered her with a smile of his own. “Because you like the challenge that comes with loving someone who you can’t scare or chase off with your rifle.”
Maggie barked a quick laugh at his response before beginning to turn Apollo around. “Steady on, Mister Baldwin,” she said, guiding her mount in the direction of the homestead. “I’ll expect to see you promptly at the dinner table tonight.”
John gave his wife another tip of his hat. “As always, Missus Baldwin,” he answered with a grin.
The ranch owner gave another giggle before she spurred her chestnut steed forward and back toward the center of the ranch, and hopefully a nice comfortable spot inside of it.
John released a long held breath from within, watching as it formed a cloud of vapor in front of him before it dissipated into the wind. He felt someone drape an arm across his shoulder and turned to see the smiling bearded face of Chase McAllister.
“John,” he began in a voice of amused respect, “I can say without a doubt that that was possibly the finest wrangling I’ve ever seen. You sure as Blazes ain’t the boss of this ranch for nothing.”
Chase’s levity broke through the tension that had been gathering in John’s chest and the two men laughed together.
“If there’s one thing the Natives I grew up with taught me, it’s that the biggest obstacle isn’t with the physical, but with the mind and the spirit,” he explained. “If you can’t win in your own head and heart, then you’ve got no chance winning anywhere else.”
Chase nodded at the sagacity of the Kentuckian’s words as the two returned to the group of ranch hands around the fire.
PLAINS EAST OF CHEYENNE, Wyoming Territory, January 1886
The wagon train moved slowly through the snow beneath the clouded night sky, the oxen pulling the three wagons barely noticing the cold through their thick coats. Riding alongside the wagon train were several riders, their dark skins concealed beneath a mixture of thick animal furs as they rode their horses without saddles, maintaining a silent vigil over those who traveled inside of the covered wagons.
One rider, cloaked in a wolf skin with a Winchester rifle slung across his back, directed his gray steed toward the rear of the lead wagon, his mount kicking up snow dust as he guided the animal toward the creaking carriage.
“Wise one,” he spoke aloud in his native language, trying to gain the attention of one of the wagon’s occupants. “How much longer until we arrive?”
“Ease your restlessness, young one,” replied a rasping but deep voice from within. “We will reach the grounds of Soaring Arrow in two moons’ time.”
The young Native rider still felt restless, but he knew that there was no way that he could force the wagon train to move any faster than it already was through the harsh weather. He would have to be patient for longer before he would be reunited with his friend.
As if sensing his unease, the voice from within spoke again. “Be at peace, young one,” the old voice reassured. “I sense Soaring Arrow will require your strength and ours upon our arrival.”
The rider tensed at the possibility that his friend might be in danger. “Speak, wise one,” he asked, concern evident in his tone. “Is Soaring Arrow in trouble?”
“Soaring Arrow remains in good health,” the voice replied mystically. “But the Spirits have told me that his family may not be.”
Once more, the young Native rider named Guarding Wolf tensed up as he suddenly found himself even more anxious to reach the place that his friend now called home.
May the Spirits swiftly guide us there so that we may aid him, he quietly prayed as he guided his horse back into his position, his eyes peering through the darkness for any sign of danger that might impede their progress westward.
CHEYENNE, WYOMING TERRITORY, January 1886
Despite owning one of the most popular saloons in Cheyenne, Fergus Finnegan was not a man who kept late hours, nor did he run his business as such except for the most special of occasions. As the old Irishman did every night, he pulled a weathered pocket watch from his apron and checked it, watching as the hands indicated that midnight was upon them.
Stowing the watch back into his apron, Fergus looked around at his half-full saloon before audibly clearing his throat.
“Alright lads and lovelies,” he declared loud enough for the whole room to hear, “‘tis midnight and time for me to close for the night. Now none of you have to go home, but I can’t have you staying here for the night.”
As it happened every night, a light groan of protest rose up from the occupants of the saloon, but all of them gradually rose in a piecemeal fashion, finished off whatever drinks they had, gathered their belongings, and then made their way either by themselves or with the help of friends toward the doors. With the colder season upon them, Fergus had swapped the shorter swinging doors for a set that filled the wide doorframe, offering some protection against the cold and snow. Indeed, as the first of the occupants reached the door and pulled it open, a gust gleefully blew in carrying the chilled night air with it.
Fergus made his own way to the door and held it open, watching patiently as the last of his guests filtered out into the quiet streets of Cheyenne. Once they were all out, he closed the door and locked it tight, more for the sake of continued protection against the weather than any real fear of robbery and such.
With the saloon now empty and the doors secured, Fergus navigated his way around the tables collecting beer glasses, shot glasses, and bottles in his apron before returning to the bar and starting the process of wiping them down in preparation for the next day’s business.
Keep a cool head and a clean bar top, he recalled his grandfather telling him when he was a boy. He began humming a little tune from Ireland as he made his way through the collected glasses with a damp rag.
After cleaning out half of the glasses he’d collected, his thoughts turned toward his goddaughters, especially Maggie.
She’ll make a good mother, he thought confidently as his hands polished out the interior of a beer mug. Abigail will make certain of that.
But just as he finished cleaning the last glass and set it under the bar, he felt a chill run through him. Unlike the feeling he’d have gotten had the door been left open or there was a crack in the walls somewhere where the wind could slip through, the chill he had felt had touched his spirit rather than his body.
For a moment, Fergus remained stock still in the wake of the sensation, his heart feeling like it was suddenly being encased in ice.
Mother of Mercy, he thought worriedly as he looked around the dim light of the saloon, as though he could spot the cause of the feeling that now gripped him. That feeling has never come before anything good in my life, and I doubt it’s going to start now.
He wasn’t quite sure how he knew, but Fergus had the sinking feeling that something bad was coming toward either him or the folks he called family.
I think I’ll leave the place closed tomorrow and go check in on my goddaughters, he resolved, moving out from behind the bar to douse the lights before heading off to bed.
MCNEAL RANCH, NEAR Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, January 1886
The sun’s light made a valiant effort at breaking through the darkening layer of thick clouds as morning arrived, but the clouds gave little quarter and shut out the light. As if to spite the sun even further, a flurry of snow began to gently fall from the clouds, landing softly atop the snow drifts which had already accumulated on the ground below.
Despite how cold it was outside and inside the bedroom, Maggie McNeal felt as though her body was burning up. Dressed once again in her lightest nightgown and with the window wide open, she tossed and turned in her bed trying to make herself comfortable.
How is it so blasted hot in the middle of winter? she thought in agony as she continued to squirm, trying to find some way to cool her body down. Nothing she did seemed to work and her body heat continued to rise.
Some corner of her mind suggested that she just remove her nightgown completely, but she refused to lie completely naked in bed looking as she did with her round belly. Her emotions were warring with one another once again in addition to her rising temperature.
Her writhing soon woke her husband from his slumber, bundled up in the bearskin blanket as he was.
“Maggie?” he asked sleepily, his hand reaching up to try and clear his eyes. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”
Maggie turned to fix her husband with a glare. “How can you possibly sleep in that oven of a blanket when it’s hotter than tarnation in here?” she cried, starting to reposition her body so that she could stand up.
John gave his wife a look that appeared to be a cross between concern and utterly confusion. “Hot?” he echoed. “Maggie, I love you, but I could probably go lie in the snow outside and be warmer than I am right now.”
“Dumb cowpoke,” Maggie growled as she finally gained some leverage on her weightier body and managed to sit upright in bed. With another push she stood upright and halted just a moment so that her center of gravity could catch up.
Her center of gravity, however, never arrived.
What’s...what’s happening? Maggie thought blearily as the room started to spin like a twister, the walls, furniture, window, and even John blurring together in a rush of colors that caused her to wobble like a three-legged stool.
“Maggie?” she heard John call out distantly, as though he were crying out for her from the other side of a long mountain tunnel.
