Wild Horses, Wild Hearts 3, page 9
“John?” she slurred out, trying to gain some measure of her balance back, but it was all for naught.
With the colors whirling before her eyes quickly fading into darkness, all Maggie could feel was the sensation of falling backward.
“MAGGIE!” JOHN SHOUTED as he saw his wife begin to fall. He tossed the blanket clear across the room and dove to catch her.
He successfully caught her in his arms before her body collapsed on the hard wooden floor. From the feel of her skin, John knew immediately that something was wrong.
She’s burning up, he thought worriedly as he gently hoisted her in his arms bridal style before turning and laying her on the bed. As he looked down at her, he could already see beads of sweat forming on her brow and reddened cheeks as her breathing picked up.
Ignoring the cold that permeated the room, John swiftly made his way to the window and slammed it firmly shut, rattling the panes of glass embedded within it. He had just enough sense to wrap his hand in cloth before he wrenched the potbelly stove’s door open and began heaping lumps of coal inside of its glowing maw, desperate to stoke the fire.
Satisfied that the fire would build and warm the frigid room, he retrieved the blanket and covered Maggie up to her stomach, his entire being screaming at him to do anything he could to try and protect her and their child. Seeing that she was out like an oil lamp, John made his way to the door and stumbled out into the hall to find Abigail.
Dear God, please, he prayed as he thundered down the stairs. Please protect her and our child.
Chapter VI: Blizzard All Through the Night
McNeal Ranch, Near Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, January 1886
To say that Abigail was shocked to see her son-in-law come skidding into her kitchen, barely dressed in his night clothes and a panicked look on his face would be somewhat untrue. In fact, she had just finished percolating the coffee atop the stove when she heard John shout her daughter’s name before hearing his feet pound against the wooden floors above and down the stairs.
Her initial reaction was to make her way to the couple’s bedroom to find out what had happened but she had remained put, knowing full well that John was going to come to her and she didn’t fancy being bowled down the stairs so early in the morning. And while John’s sudden appearance did not surprise her, the look of absolute fear in his eyes did.
A man like John Baldwin doesn’t lose his calm over just any old thing, Abigail thought worriedly.
“Abigail!” John cried out, his chest rising and falling as he regained his breath. “It’s Maggie! She’s collapsed upstairs and running a fever like a smith’s forge!”
What started out as a feeling of worry for Abigail swiftly blossomed into something far more troubling as Abigail’s eyes widened in uncharacteristic panic as well.
Without so much as a word to John, she breezed past him at a hurried pace, her feet pounding the wooden floorboards and steps as mercilessly as John’s had. She was barely aware of the ranch boss tailing her as she vaulted down the hall to their bedroom.
As she turned the corner and entered the room, already growing warmer from the rekindled stove, Abigail blanched as she saw that John hadn’t been telling tales—not that she believed he had been in the first place. There, underneath the thick blanket, was her pregnant daughter sweating bullets and squirming like a worm on a hook.
Abigail was at her side in an instant, her hand reflexively moving to feel her daughter’s forehead to check her temperature. The onrush of heat against her palm nearly forced her to pull her hand back, clearly having underestimated Maggie’s fever.
Oh my poor daughter, she thought in a mixture of concern and sadness. Why couldn’t you have listened to John and me?
The redhead violently shook her head to empty it of such useless woes. The time for prevention had passed, and it was now time for cure. In addition to the fever, it appeared that Maggie was unconscious, her movements likely a result of her body attempting to make itself more comfortable any way it could.
She swiveled on her heels and fixed her son-in-law with an even stare. “John, I need you to go outside quick as can be and see how much water you can gather from the barrels. We need to get Maggie’s fever down if we’re going to have any chance of helping her and the baby. You’ll find buckets in the kitchen.”
John nodded silently and swung around to do as he was told, colliding with Leyla and Chase as he did so. John staggered backward and maintained his balance while Leyla was deftly caught by Chase, but the force of their collision sent Chase sprawling backward against the hallway wall, his body cushioning his lover’s fall.
John shook his head to clear his vision before blurting an apology to the two and leaping over them and practically clearing the stairs as he bolted to the kitchen.
Chase and Leyla moaned but both were unharmed. Once they were back on their feet, they strolled into the bedroom to see what all of the commotion was about so early in the morning.
Leyla gasped as she saw her sister in such a state as she was, her hand clasping Chase’s arm with an iron grip. “M-mama?” she squeaked out, her voice straining as she attempted to remain calm.
“It’s a fever, Leyla,” Abigail quipped, not even bothering to turn to face the two as her eyes continued to dart to and fro over her ailing daughter’s body. “John’s off to fetch some cold water and I need you to gather as many rags as we have.”
Even though Abigail remained facing Maggie, Leyla nodded silently and scurried off to do what was asked of her. Chase, however, remained where he was.
“Anything I can do, ma’am?” he asked, his voice laden with concern. “Just tell me what to do and I’ll see it done quick as a whip.”
I should send him into town in order to fetch Dr. Wilson, Abigail thought, but before the idea could reach her mouth, another concern leapt forward in her mind. Finally breaking her gaze from her daughter, she looked toward the panes of glass embedded in the window. Condensation from the warmth of the room and the cold outside of the home had built upon them, obscuring the view outside.
Rising from where she had perched over her daughter in order to examine her, Abigail rounded the bed and tentatively crossed the room to the window, her heart thundering against her breast as she slowly raised her hand. She placed her palm against the cold glass, feeling the moisture gather on her palm as she did so before swiping her hand back and forth across the pane to clear it. Once she had, her heart sank as she saw that the situation was far worse than she expected.
Through the glass she could see that the snow had begun to fall once again and dark clouds, undoubtedly full of even more snow and ice, were looming on the horizon, growing larger with every passing second.
JUST OUTSIDE THE MCNEAL Ranch, Near Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, January 1886
How in the name of Joseph and the shepherds did Peter talk me into following him out here again? Fergus wondered for the hundredth time as he attempted to pull his thick wool coat tighter around him as the snow and wind began picking up, swirling the frigid air around him. Then again, I can’t imagine I’d have been better off staying on the eastern shores where the winters are just as miserable.
The saloonkeeper had just passed beneath the sign that marked where the McNeal land began, mounted on a sturdy horse that he’d borrowed from Mrs. Shannon, the kind elderly woman who ran a hotel up the street from his saloon.
His rider up and vanished, Fergus, she’d said when she’d led him out to the stable she kept for her guests’ horses. He was a strange but sweet young man, but it’s been near two weeks and I can’t keep the poor, dear creature any longer.
Fergus reached a wool-gloved hand out and ran it along the horse’s plush cream-colored mane, earning himself an appreciative wiggle of the creature’s ears. Though the cream and chestnut speckled mount was built much like a draft horse, right down to his tree-trunk-thick limbs and feathered hooves, Fergus could tell the moment he’d laid eyes on the beast that he was nothing short of a warhorse.
Despite the scarf wrapped tightly around the lower portion of his face, Fergus smiled at the horse.
“Well Missus Shannon didn’t have a name for you, me stout fellow,” he said through the thick wool and wind, “and I’ve no mind to see a fair mount sent off to the knackers. How’s a new name and rider sound to you?”
The horse blew an excited gust of air from his flared nostrils, appearing to like the sound of the idea quite well.
“That a ways!” Fergus chuckled in delight, memories of his time in the Union Cavalry flickering in his mind. “Let’s see now. You’re a mighty brute to be sure, and you wouldn’t have gone amiss in the days of swords and sabers. How does the name ‘Ulster’ sound to you, me friend?”
A delighted whinnying was the horse’s response, the mount apparently enjoying the name immensely.
“Well that settles that then,” Fergus cheered through the snow and wind. “Ulster. A fine name for a fine warrior, says I. But I think we may want to put a slight hitch in our speed, my new friend. For unless I miss me guess, those clouds on the horizon are looking a might unfriendly, and the snow and wind seem to be growin’ a wee daft.”
Ulster seemed to agree with his new rider’s assessment of the worsening conditions and broke into a strong gallop as soon as Fergus pressed his spurs against the horse’s thick sides. Though the speed made visibility all the worse for the two, Fergus had been a seasoned cavalryman and knew well how to navigate in the midst of a snowstorm.
Though the McNeal ranchland was expansive, Ulster and Fergus swiftly made their way through the wind and snow and arrived at the homestead in the center. Moving around the homestead, Fergus guided Ulster toward the stable, intent on stowing his new mount there before making his way to the kitchen door.
The two were midway between the homestead and the stable when the sound of a door being flung open caught both their attention. Turning their heads in unison, they spotted a fellow dressed in nothing but a pair of trousers burst from the kitchen door with the handles of several buckets gripped in his hands, the weather apparently lost on him as he sprinted toward the windmill that pumped the ranch’s water and the storage shed next to it..
Fergus was ready to reach for the old pepperbox pistol he kept stowed in his hat when he caught a glimpse of long blond locks flowing in the winter wind before the snow obscured his vision again.
Johnny-boy? he puzzled as he gave Ulster a gentle spur and followed the mad bloke that was likely his young friend further into the snow.
Upon reaching the shed at the base of the windmill, Fergus could see that John had already gotten inside, leaving the doors ajar as he tended to whatever mad purpose had seized hold of him. Dismounting from Ulster, Fergus strode forward and poked his head inside to find that his eyes had not deceived him and that the figure was indeed John Baldwin, bare chested and desperately pounding at the accumulated ice in one of the water storage barrels with a hammer.
“John?” Fergus called, trying to catch the young man’s attention.
John whipped around to look at Fergus, but his wild eyes looked as though they didn’t recognize the old Irishman.
“Oy, right!” Fergus thought as he pulled the scarf down from his face to reveal his thick white chops.
“Fergus!” John called out, recognizing his friend immediately. “Fergus, grab a hammer! We need cold water and fast!”
The sense that his feeling of unease from the night before had proven true settled in the pit of Fergus’s stomach as he complied with John’s request, picking up a nearby hammer and swinging it down on the thick layer of ice that had settled on the barrel’s top.
“What’s all this about, Johnny?” he asked, timing his hammer swings to follow John’s in a rhythm. “And why the Devil aren’t you wearing a coat or boots for that matter?”
John continued to swing with all his might, desperate to break through. “It’s Maggie, Fergus,” he gulped. “She’s got a burning fever and Abigail told me to fetch water.”
“Oh, Sweet Mother Mary in Heaven,” Fergus groaned, pausing mid swing and forcing John to pause as well. While John was momentarily stunned, the Irishman grabbed hold of John’s hammer and pulled it away.
“Listen here, Lad,” he spoke lowly, “you’ll not be doing your wife and child any favors by catching your death of cold out here as you are. I’ll keep at the ice while you go put on a damn coat.”
“But Fergus—” the young Kentuckian began to argue.
“BACK INSIDE YOU PILLOCK LEST ME BOOT FIND YER ARSE!” Fergus shouted, the force and suddenness of his uproar catching John off guard and sending him stumbling back out into the snow.
Fergus sighed as he turned to regard the water barrel again, knowing that it was up to him to see that his goddaughter got the water she needed.
Peter, he prayed, gripping the hammers tightly in his hands, please give me the strength to do what needs to be done.
Drawing his arm back as far as it would go, Fergus brought the hammer down in an almighty swing that broke through the ice, splintering it apart and drenching his wool-gloved hand in the icy water inside.
For a moment, Fergus couldn’t believe his luck, but he swiftly remembered what he’d asked of his late friend and a crooked smile formed on his face.
“You did that on purpose, Peter old boy,” he chuckled to the silence, just before giving his wet glove a shake. He began hefting up the buckets and dunking them into the barrel one at a time.
I CAN’T SEND CHASE out into this weather because I doubt he’d even be able to find Cheyenne in this mess, much less his way back, Abigail thought worriedly as she watched the snow continue to fall outside the window.
Behind her, Chase maintained his vigilant position awaiting any kind of order the older woman could think to give him.
There is one thing, she thought ominously, even though she knew it was risky. Still, it needs to be done.
Turning ever so slightly so that she could see the brown-haired show rider out of the corner of her eye, Abigail spoke firmly. “Chase, I hate to ask this of you, but I need you to throw on your warmest clothes and ride out to where the ranch hands have the one herd. Tell them they’re to return to the homestead immediately and put the herd with the other in the barns. Stack the cattle on top of one another if you have to but just get them in as soon as you can. And tell the ranch hands still here and out in the pasture they’re to hunker down in the bunk houses and keep themselves warm until whatever’s coming has passed.”
Chase nodded his head in agreement before spinning around and heading downstairs to the room he shared with Leyla to dress himself.
Abigail sighed as she tried to keep calm. With the herd inside, that’s one less thing we’ll have to worry about. Thank Heaven John made sure we were well-stocked before the weather turned.
The thought of her son-in-law seemed to summon the young man as he reappeared in the bedroom, flying toward the bureau and wrenching its drawers open and rifling through them.
The reappearance of John so soon—and without the buckets of water—surprised Abigail. She could feel a reprimand forming on her lips, but the sight of John shivering ever so slightly told her that he had obviously run outside in nothing but his trousers.
All at once, Abigail felt a sense of pride in her son-in-law’s well-meaning if foolishly executed endeavor as well as a tick of irritation at herself for not realizing that John would likely do such a thing, worried as he was for his wife and unborn child.
Still, it did leave them high and dry for water, so to speak, but running the risk of John falling ill due to prolonged exposure to the elements when they needed him the most was not a chance that they could afford to take.
Luckily, John was moving swiftly in dressing himself and pulling his boots on. He was just grabbing his thick duster when two buckets, full of water sloshing about, appeared in the doorway suspended on a wooden pole.
Abigail looked to John with a querying glance while he returned the look to her. Their confusion soon evaporated as a familiar face graced with white muttonchops appeared in the center of the pole, balanced across his back.
“Fergus!” Abigail cried out, relieved at his appearance and with water to boot. “But how are you—?”
The Irishman angled himself into the bedroom with his pole, carrying four buckets of ice-cold water in total. With surprising strength for his age, he hoisted the pole over his head and set it down, the water inside the buckets splashing about from the sudden drop.
“Had a feeling come over me last night, Abigail,” he replied, taking a moment to dust off the snow that had accumulated on his shoulders. “Felt the need to come and check on me family out here, and it’s a good thing I did, says I. Otherwise Johnny here’d be freezing in the shed and then you’d have to take care of him and Maggie.”
Abigail was about to question the man further when Leyla bustled into the room, her arms full of rags from all over the homestead. She barely noticed her godfather before she kneeled to one of the buckets and dunked a large rag into it, her body shivering from the cold of the water. Once the rag was thoroughly soaked, she drew it back up and wrung it about between her hands before she folded it and handed it off to her mother.
Abigail took the damp, cool rag in hand and swiftly saw it placed on her ill daughter’s forehead. The coolness of the rag seemed to soothe the Maggie, and she ceased to writhe about, but Abigail knew all too well that it would take more than a few wet rags to save her daughter and the child she carried.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was Maggie’s heavy breathing. The others were unable to think of anything they could say to break the silence.
Leyla, however, seemed to notice that they were lacking someone. “Mama?” she asked, her head twisting back and forth to examine the room. “Where did Chase go?”
“Aye, I nearly bumped into the lad as I was entering with the water,” said Fergus with a cough. “Asked him to see Ulster into the stable since he was heading that way.”
