The Heart of a Cowboy Page 5

  She loosened the drawstring of the back canvas and poked her head through, only to feel the heavy splatter against her face. She shivered at the cold and drew her waterproof coat tighter, securing the hood in place. By the time she climbed out and her feet touched the ground, her skirt and shoes were already weighted down with rainwater.

  The ground was saturated, and her feet sank into the grass and mud. As she trudged around the wagon, she was surprised to find tarpaulins extended from the wagon outward, forming a tent of sorts.

  She poked her head underneath the waterproof covering, but she couldn’t see anything clearly. “Grandfather?”

  “Linnea?” His voice rumbled nearby with sleepiness. “What are you doing out in the rain?”

  “I came to check on you and invite you and the others to take refuge inside the wagon. I didn’t expect to find that you had fashioned a tent.”

  “Before the rain came in earnest, Flynn helped us rig up the tarpaulin.”

  Flynn had done that for the men? Even after they’d given him a hard time about leaving so early? “Are you staying dry enough?”

  “It’s not perfect, but certainly much better than if we’d had nothing at all.” The tap of rain against the canvas nearly drowned out his voice and the snoring of one of the other men.

  “You’re all welcome to come into the wagon.”

  “Thank you, young lady. You’re so sensitive and kind to offer. But I imagine we’re staying as dry here as we would in the wagon.”

  Linnea guessed it was true. They’d likely stay drier if they didn’t venture outside the way she had. “Very well. But if you become too wet, don’t hesitate to climb up and join me.”

  “We shall be fine. But thank you for offering.” He stifled a yawn. “Now, you must return to the wagon and stay there, my dear.”

  She stood and jumped at a movement a short distance away. She strained to see through the darkness and rain, catching a glimpse of a creature passing through the circle of wagons. Was that one of their horses wandering off? Had the rain spooked the animal?

  She’d heard the tales of livestock growing frightened during storms, running off, and causing delays while search parties tracked the missing creatures. Certainly Flynn would be disappointed if the loss of a horse hindered their departure.

  From among the endless amount of information Ivy had shared yesterday, Linnea learned the cattle didn’t belong to Flynn, that their older brother, Wyatt, had taken out a loan to purchase the herd for his new ranch up in South Park, and that Flynn was under a great deal of stress to deliver the livestock without losing any.

  With a burst of determination, Linnea started in the direction of the wayward animal. If she took action now, she could prevent the mishap and save Flynn trouble.

  As the rain hit her face and trickled beneath her coat, her footsteps faltered. Maybe she ought to wait. The deluge seemed to have no intention of letting up, and the night was black, almost suffocating.

  Yet Flynn and the other cowboys had to work in this weather. If they could keep watch over their cattle in it for hours on end, she could surely manage a few minutes to track down the horse or oxen or whichever animal had left the fold.

  Ducking her head against the onslaught, she made her way in the direction the animal had wandered. Her feet sloshed with each step, and the drenched earth sucked at her shoes as though to warn her to stay.

  She wouldn’t need to go far, especially if she hurried and caught up with the creature before it had a chance to run off.

  Picking up her pace, she passed through the wagons and strained to see. Ahead, she glimpsed the moving outline of a horse, its picket dangling in front of it, likely having pulled it loose from the muddy ground.

  She raced after it, only to have it dart farther ahead. “Come on, now,” she crooned, hoping the horse could hear her above the rainstorm. If only she’d thought to bring along an apple or carrot to tempt it closer.

  A few feet from the creature, she halted and held out her hand. The horse bent its head into the grass as though to graze. She tiptoed closer, brushing first its flank and then skimming her hand toward its head and the picket. As she reached for the dangling cord, the horse lifted its muzzle, sniffed the air, and darted away.

  She picked up her wet skirt and chased after it. Several more times, she crept close enough to almost capture the creature, only to have it move out of range. She finally blew out a frustrated breath and halted. She could no longer see the horse and didn’t know which direction it had gone.

  With a final glance around, she spun and retreated the way she’d come. The rain continued to splatter hard against her coat and hood, and her toes squished inside her shoes, her thick woolen socks wet and cold.

  Disappointment churned inside. Her efforts had amounted to naught. Now they would be delayed until well after the break of dawn in searching for the lost horse, and Flynn would be frustrated.

  Though he’d kept to himself the previous evening after they set up camp, he stayed busy tending the horses, servicing the wagons, and repairing one of the oxen yokes that had cracked. She’d wanted to ask Ivy what had caused Flynn’s limping gait, was surprised the girl hadn’t yet told her since she was so forthcoming with private information.

  Ivy had told her all about her family, that the McQuaids came from southwestern Pennsylvania and that their farm had been stolen from them by their stepfather. Her oldest brother had invited them to come live with him, but long-standing animosity existed between Flynn and Wyatt. Flynn hadn’t wanted to move West but had agreed to it in order to keep Brody and Dylan from joining the war efforts, only to have Brody run off anyway.

  Linnea pressed onward through the rain, shivering underneath her coat. The night air was colder than she’d realized. And the distance she’d traveled away from camp was farther than she’d realized too.

  Had she really gone so far?

  She stopped and searched the landscape, only able to see a few feet ahead of her. The grass was bent under the weight of the rain, the same as it had been since she’d started. She wished for daylight and to be able to examine the wet grass. She always found plant resiliency fascinating. A leaf could wilt so thoroughly, almost to the point of dying, but then with a little watering, the central vacuole could regain its turgor pressure and restore firmness and shape.

  Though the darkness prevented her from studying the Andropogon gerardii, she fingered one, the waxy, grooved stem that was bent but not broken. One of her favorite Scripture verses came to mind: “Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?”

  Whenever she considered God’s exquisite design of something so small as a blade of grass or the petal of a flower, she was always able to put her own life into better perspective. If He cared so much about the plants and their challenges to grow and remain strong, then surely He cared even more about the challenges and struggles she faced as a woman—at least that’s what she tried to remember when her grandfather and the other scientists didn’t take her as seriously as they did each other.

  She whispered another prayer of gratefulness that Grandfather had allowed her to continue on the expedition. His tenuous support of her ambitions had slipped with every passing day, and she needed to regain his confidence, not lose it even more.

  She straightened and peered through the rain. Surely the wagons were only a couple paces ahead. She simply needed to trust her instincts to take her in the right direction.

  Pushing onward, she wiped the droplets from her face, straining harder to make out her surroundings. She strode first in one direction, then changed course, guessing she’d somehow veered the wrong way. She stopped several more times, hoping to glimpse the camp or even Flynn’s cattle. But every time, she saw only more of the same barren landscape.

  Finally, panic began to break through her confidence. Shaking from the cold, she hugged her arms across her chest. She could no long
er avoid the truth.

  She was lost.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Linnea’s gone.”

  Ivy’s call slammed into Flynn with the power of a two-thousand-pound bull charging at full speed. He reined in his horse with a jerk so hard, the momentum nearly bucked him from the saddle.

  At predawn, the rain had finally stopped, and he could make out Ivy standing at the rear of Dr. Howell’s wagon. Several lanterns were lit, and the drenched camp was alive, the scientists frantically attempting to saddle their horses.

  His blood, already sluggish from the past hours of doing guard duty, slowed even more. “Linnea’s gone? Where?”

  Ivy jogged toward him, her expression a mask of worry. “Nobody knows. One of the horses is gone too.”

  Reining in behind him, Dylan gave a soft whistle. They’d taken over for Nash and Jericho and hadn’t noticed anything wrong when they’d left the camp. As far as Flynn had been able to tell, everyone had been asleep—at least resting as best they could through the downpour.

  “There you are!” Dr. Howell rushed toward him, breathless and harried, his top hat askew, bow tie off center, and vest unbuttoned. “Have you seen her?”

  “Haven’t seen a thing.” Flynn’s muscles tightened, and he glanced over the prairie starting to lighten with the coming of the day.

  Dr. Howell pressed a hand to his chest as though to stave off pain there. “This is terrible. Just terrible.”

  Last thing they needed was Dr. Howell getting worked up enough to have a heart attack. “Ivy, you go on and take Dr. Howell and get a fire started so he can have some tea.”

  She opened her mouth—likely to demand joining the search—when Dr. Howell swayed. She grabbed hold of his arm. “Come on, now. Let’s get you that tea.”

  “No, young lady. I do thank you for the offer, but I need to search for Linnea.” Even as he spoke, he leaned in to Ivy.

  “Now, don’t you go worrying none.” She started leading him away. “Flynn’s gonna find her in no time. He could find a shadow in the shade if you asked him to.”

  “Please, Mr. McQuaid.” Dr. Howell paused to peer up at Flynn. The desperation in the gentleman’s eyes yanked on Flynn’s heart. “Please find her.”

  “Ivy’s right. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.” He prayed to the Lord Almighty he was telling the truth, that neither Indians nor Confederate Irregulars had gotten a hold of her.

  With a few instructions to the other men—namely to keep their guns loaded, stay in pairs, and hightail it away from any Indians—he started out. Dylan had wanted to search with him, but he’d paired the boy with Dr. Greely.

  Flynn didn’t need anyone. He was just fine by himself. And though Dr. Howell hadn’t condemned him, a heavy burden settled on him anyway, and he needed to bear it alone. The older man had hired him to keep his granddaughter safe, and less than twenty-four hours later, the young woman was already in life-threatening danger, if not dead.

  Leading his horse, Flynn held a lantern above the earth, searching the grass and the mud beneath for any signs of her or the horse she’d ridden. It was strange she hadn’t taken the time to untie the horse from its picket and had instead taken the stake and cord with her—unless the horse had broken free, and she’d decided to chase after it.

  If the horse had gotten loose, which direction would it have gone? He studied the dark landscape. A small creek was but a quarter mile to the east. They’d watered the livestock there the previous evening but moved on from it before making camp because the mosquitoes had been swarming and biting something fierce. Had the horse caught the scent of the creek and thought to return to it?

  Flynn changed his course toward the east. A short while later, his scrutiny of the ground paid off with the discovery of a horse print filled with rainwater. Not far from that, he found a shoe indentation—a slender sole, a woman’s size.

  He brushed aside more grass and found another human print as well as one belonging to a horse. With the care he’d cultivated while hunting the wooded hills of southwestern Pennsylvania as a boy, he moved forward, tracking her first one way and then another. He lost her for a short while but then picked up her trail again, reversing itself.

  He reckoned she’d grown weary of trying to catch the horse—either that, or realized she’d wandered too long—and had decided to return to camp. Except that with the new direction her prints were heading, she’d gone the wrong way—north instead of west.

  Straightening, he attempted to study the northerly landscape through the early morning, praying she hadn’t wandered too far and happened upon a Comanche camp or one of their hunting parties. Several other travelers had warned of their presence and the need to stay away. He whispered a prayer for her protection, even as chill crept through him that had nothing to do with the cold morning.

  A foggy mist had settled in the low places, making the search even more difficult. He hoped the other men had enough sense not to get lost themselves and make matters worse. Maybe he should have cautioned them to wait on heading out until full daylight.

  He tried to push himself faster, a new urgency prodding him. But tracking was a meticulous process, and sometimes when her footprints disappeared, he was left trying to guess where she’d gone next.

  Finally her prints shortened in spacing, which meant she’d slowed down. He was getting closer. He could feel it.

  He lifted the lantern, but all he could see was fog. “Linnea?”

  Silence met him.

  “Linnea?” he called louder.

  Another heartbeat passed until a faint voice responded. “Flynn?”

  Weakness hit his knees. It was her. “Yep. I’m here. Where are you?”

  “Over here.”

  He still couldn’t see anything through the haze, even with his light shining down. He bent again and followed her prints. If he could keep her talking, he’d also be able to follow the sound of her voice. “You alright?”

  “I’m relieved you’re here.”

  Three steps later, he nearly tripped over her huddled on the ground, hugging her knees, her cloak wrapped around her. As he held the lantern above her, she lifted her head to reveal a pale face, blue lips, and chattering teeth. Underneath her hood, her hair hung in wet strands, and the portion he could see of her bodice was soaked too.

  As far as he could tell, she was as wet from the rain as she’d been when she’d fallen out of the wagon into the river. He set the lantern down, shrugged out of his poncho, and then began to unbutton his flannel shirt.

  “What are—you doing?” She could hardly get her question out past her shaking.

  His fingers flew over the buttons. “First thing we gotta do is get you warmed up.”

  He shed his shirt, which he’d kept dry underneath his heavy gutta-percha poncho. “Can you take off your coat?”

  She attempted to move, but her hands shook too hard.

  Gently, he moved her hand out of the way and unfastened the clasp at the top of her cloak. The garment was well made and had the same gum-rubber coating as his poncho, but somehow the rain had gotten underneath, so the inside layer of soft cotton was saturated, as were her undergarments.

  He peeled the cloak away and dropped it onto the grass. “I want you to put on my shirt, but it ain’t gonna do you any good if we don’t—well, if we don’t—” He was too embarrassed to tell her she needed to partially undress.

  “Take off my bodice? That’s a good idea.” She lifted her hand again and fumbled at the buttons. “I’m sorry to trouble you. But my hands are too stiff from cold. . . .”

  He hesitated. The act of helping her get out of her clothes seemed too intimate and too bold. But the longer he waited, the colder she got, and the more chances she’d get real sick real fast.

  He touched the button. It was dainty and covered in velvet, not something a man like him should be anywhere near. But what choice did he have? Before he lost all nerve, he flipped it open and worked his way down the front, trying not to accidentally graze
her but to keep his fingers only on the buttons themselves.

  When he finished, she released a shaky laugh. “I probably shouldn’t ask how you came to be so proficient at undoing a woman’s bodice, should I?”

  Heat spread up his neck faster than flames flying through sun-dried hay. “Reckon I wouldn’t know.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her response was breathless. “I was only jesting and didn’t mean to call into question your character. You strike me as fine and upstanding.”

  While her chest rose and fell, he was all too conscious—the same as yesterday when she’d been wet—of what a beautiful woman she was. He might be fine and upstanding, but he was just a man.

  As he helped her strip her arms from the sleeves, he forced himself to look beyond her shoulders in the misty distance. As the bodice peeled away, he caught a glimpse of her lacy chemise. He lifted his gaze heavenward and swallowed hard. Then, without glancing down again, he tossed his shirt around her, quickly followed by his poncho.

  She hugged his clothing closer, the color beginning to return to her cheeks. “Thank you, Flynn. I’m already ten times warmer than I was just a moment ago.”

  So was he. He cleared his throat but couldn’t find words to respond.

  “I loathe myself for making you cold now.” Her gaze darted to his chest, then to his shoulders. Though his long-sleeved undershirt covered his upper body, he felt barren anyway.

  “I’m just fine.” In fact, from the heat thrumming through his veins, he was more than fine. “Don’t be worrying about me. Let’s just hurry you on back to camp.”

  “I hope you know the way because, as you can tell, I sure don’t.”

  “Yep. I’ll get us back.” He took hold of her arm and assisted her to her feet. She was still shaking, and he didn’t release his grip for fear she’d collapse.