Rocky Mountain Man. Jillian HartЧитать онлайн книгу.
done time as a soldier in the Great War between the states and had come across enough wounded there, in prison and in these mountains that he knew by looking she wasn’t hurt. Just scared. Fear could be a living thing, he knew, seizing up a person.
“C’mon now, you just got the wind knocked out of you.” He simply needed to get her thinking about something besides the dead bear beside her. “What did you think you were doing, eating in these woods? It’s feeding time for the bears. You know they hibernate, right?”
The fear glazing her eyes was fading. Air rasped into her lungs.
Being angry with her was working, so he kept on going. “Bears eat a lot before they hibernate. That means they are hungry. Any person with a speck of sense knows to stay away from hungry bears. But not you. You open up a salt pork sandwich and strawberries. Strawberries.”
He hated to think what would have happened if he hadn’t gone against his principles and come running when he’d heard her gunshot.
She was breathing nearly regular now and the color was back in her face. He fought the urge to help her up and to treat the cut bleeding on her hand. It was the same protective instinct that had gotten him in trouble long ago, so he straightened and began to back away until he’d put a few more yards between them.
Now what should he do? Her horse and vehicle were gone, and there was no telling where he’d find them. She was female, and they were alone together. He didn’t like her, he didn’t trust her and he didn’t want her anywhere near him.
He couldn’t leave her alone.
She was a little thing. He’d never studied her this close before. A tiny blanket of freckles lay on her nose and cheeks. Her eyelashes were thick and dark, and there was something so vulnerable in the way she sat up and wiped the grass seeds out of her hair with a shaking hand.
Something moved deep down within the iron weight that had replaced his heart. It wasn’t a feeling—he didn’t have feelings. He’d found no need for them, but he couldn’t rightly say what hurt where his heart used to be.
It was probably indigestion. That’s what he got for running hard through the forest right after his noon meal.
The problem was still before him. The woman. What should he do with her? “Can you stand?”
“I think so.” She smoothed her skirts as if gathering up her strength, but she didn’t get on her feet.
Fine, he’d carry her, saddle up a horse and make sure she was able to sit in the saddle—
Branches broke with a snap-snap in the woods behind him. The woman’s eyes flashed wide and utter fear twisted on her lovely face. Duncan pivoted, hauled his rifle up by the stock, but the big black bear was moving fast.
Too fast.
He got off a shot—missed the heart—and cocked, but that was all before the bear pushed away the smoking rifle barrel with the mighty swipe of one sharp claw.
Oh, hell. Duncan watched his favorite rifle crack apart and fall in two pieces to the rocky ground. Good thing he was prepared. He drew so fast, he got off a shot, but two bullets in the chest didn’t stop this bear. He charged, and both foot-wide paws scraped deep into Duncan’s shoulders.
Claws sliced him like a dozen razor blades. He was a dead man. Duncan tried to fight, but the bear was twice as strong and clawed through both shoulder muscles and downward, breaking ribs. Duncan fell to his knees as the bear knocked him to the ground and bent to sink his teeth into Duncan’s neck.
It’s over. Just like that. Duncan met the bear head-on, fighting even as the animal’s jaws parted for the death bite. He saw the woman out of the corner of his eye. She had climbed to her feet and was shouting and throwing rocks at the big animal, but the hunks of granite didn’t harm the bear. Or stop him. Still, Duncan appreciated the effort as his left hand groped along the top of his boot.
The first prick of incisor drilled into Duncan’s throat, but his fingers closed around the knife handle. He was dying, fine, but he’d take the bear with him. He’d make sure the pretty laundry lady with her sunshine and freckles would live.
With a roar, Duncan slid his bowie knife into the bastard’s ribs. He ignored the spray of blood as he twisted and turned the blade deep. He felt death come in a swift black wave that drained the light from his eyes and the strength from his body. He was falling. Vaguely he felt the brutal impact of hitting the rocky ground, knew blood was gushing out from his neck and chest, but the bear was dead. That was all that mattered.
He was drifting like a dying leaf on the wind. Her voice was the last thing he heard. She was speaking his name, calling to him, but he was already floating away.
When he looked down, he saw her huddled in the road, flanked by two dead bears, cradling a bloody man with his head on her lap. Her hair had tumbled free and her dainty yellow dress was stained crimson.
It was the sound of her tears that drilled deep into his steeled soul.
She was crying for him.
Betsy held on to him. She didn’t know what else to do. Blood was everywhere and her nightmare was happening all over again. Times she’d rather forget rolled forward and she couldn’t squeeze off the rush of memories. Years ago she’d held another dying man in her lap just like this and watched the blood drain out of him. The doctor had worked frantically but couldn’t save her husband.
How on earth could she hope to save Mr. Hennessey? Despair overwhelmed her. Trembling, she wiped blood from his face. His was a strong face, with high and sharp cheekbones and a profile like the Rocky Mountains that soared so strong and unfailing into the cloudy sky. But Duncan Hennessey was not made of granite, no, he was as vulnerable as any human. No growling demeanor and intentional rudeness could make him more immune to death.
Blood. There was so much of it streaming from the open tears in his flesh. Panic threatened to overtake her, but she couldn’t let it win. She couldn’t sit here, holding his head and fighting off a case of the vapors when she had to try to save him. She had to think. She had to remember what the doctor had done for Charlie.
She had to stop the bleeding, she knew that. But how? There were so many wounds, and the buggy was long gone. All she had were her petticoats, so she yanked them off and tore at the fabric. As fast as she could, she bunched wads of muslin into the wounds. The white material quickly wicked up the blood, turning red even as she pushed more into place.
Okay, that wasn’t going to work. Her fingers felt clumsy as she pulled her little sewing pack from her pocket. The needle was small, but she had enough thread to sew the worst wound.
She pressed her hand against the curve where shoulder met neck and the bleeding slowed. She broke off a length of thread with her teeth, working quickly. She couldn’t let him die. She wouldn’t. But she knew it was hopeless as she licked the end of the thread to stiffen it. She could feel his pulse quicken as she threaded the needle.
Crimson continued to pool on the earth beneath him, staining them both, making it impossible to see as she probed the gaping wound. Her stomach went weak and her knees to water at the sight of torn muscle and exposed bone. As if she were basting a collar, she nudged the edges of jagged skin together, fitting them as a seam and took one stitch deep. Then another.
Her heart beat as fast as his. A creature in the shadows howled. She couldn’t see it through the dense ever-greens, but she could feel it. A wolf pacing and waiting for the right moment to strike.
She’d stopped the most profusely bleeding wounds. Encouraged, she kept going. He lay as if dead, but he was still breathing. It wasn’t enough. He was going to die, just as Charlie did. This time there was no doctor nearby. There was no one to help. Shelter was over a third of a mile through the woods where the brisk winds were quickly spreading the scent of fresh spilled blood.
If meat and strawberries had brought a hungry bear and his mate, then what would this bring?
Fear shivered through her. The forest had gone