Wildflower (21 page)

Logan scrubbed a hand down his face. Hopelessness bent his shoulders.

“There’s somethin’ else we can do.”

Though Chuck had spoken quietly, Logan almost jumped from his skin. He looked at the cook who seemed to have aged twenty years. “What’s that?”

“Pray.”

Chapter Eleven

Matt thought she knew what pain was. She’d been tossed from the saddle more times than she could count. Had had her foot stomped by longhorns an equal number and took a good measure of pride in having nearly as many scars as some of the men. But the pain that splintered through her skull was on a level she’d never experienced.

By slow degrees, she became aware of other things. Of a steady thumping in her ear. Of sunlight against her eyelids. Of the faint smell of leather and sweat. Of something hard and muscled beneath her cheek.

Eyes still closed, she took stock of her own body. A bandage circled her head, pulling on her hair. Agony pounded from temple to temple, but otherwise she had no real discomfort.

She cracked open her eyelids. Brilliant light sent barbed wire into her eyes. She squeezed her lids closed. She didn’t even have the energy to moan. After a dozen attempts, she managed to slit open her eyes.

She was in her room with daylight brightening her curtains. Her befuddled brain ached as she recalled the events that led her to being in bed, in the middle of the day.

The shots. The stampede.

The rise and fall of her head focused her attention on what she was laying on. Or rather whom. Logan. His soft chambray shirt cushioned her face as his strong arm held her tight. She tipped her head up by inches to look at him.

Her husband’s eyes were closed and dark blond stubble coated his cheeks. Haggard lines grooved his face. The rumpled appearance didn’t diminish his handsome features, though. She lifted a hand and traced his chin. Gray eyes snapped open, immediately alert.

He cupped her cheek, anxiousness in his gaze. “Hey.”

It took three attempts to get her voice to work. “Hey.” A croaking frog had to sound better.

His palm moved to caress her hair. Moisture glistened in his eyes. “How ya feeling?”

She cleared her throat. “I’m all right. Could I have some water, please?”

“Sure.” He slid from the bed, careful not to jostle her too much, then placed a cup to her lips. “Not so fast, now. Easy.”

The liquid coolness lessened the dryness in her throat. She settled back against her pillow. “How long have I been here?”

“Two days.” He set the cup aside. “I’ll send Tom to fetch Doc Bingham. He came by earlier and said he’d be checking in on Elisabeth Applegate. He should still be there.”

He stood, but Matt’s hand on his arm stopped him. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what, but she knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. “What happened?”

He kissed her forehead. “We’ll talk after the doc looks you over.”

This time she didn’t impede him. The grim set of his mouth crawled horror through her chest. “Logan?”

He paused at the door.

“Who died?”

His gaze darted away for the briefest of moments as his Adam’s bobbed up and down. Someone had definitely died during the stampede. She recalled Roscoe checking out the herd. Misery clutched her chest.

Logan opened the door. “Chuck made beef broth. I’ll be back directly with a bowl for you.”

She stared at the closed door. Someone had died.

And it was all her fault.

~
~
~

She suffered through Doc Bingham poking and nudging her already sore head. As if that wasn’t enough, he then held a lamp so close to her eyes, tears burned in her eyes. They welled and fell down her cheeks. Logan stood by the door, arms cross over his chest, watching like a hawk while the doctor did the examination.

“You’ll live,” Bingham finally stated.

“No thanks to your manhandling,” she grumped.

Bingham clenched his jaw before turning to Logan. “She’s to stay in bed at least a week. No exception.”

“Understood,” her husband agreed.

Being treated like an invalid further pricked her ire. “Well, I don’t understand,” she disputed. “There’s too much work to do for me to be in bed for the next week.”

The doctor closed his bag. “Too bad. You’re to stay in bed. Period.” He walked to the door. “I’ll be back in a couple of days to check on you. And I
will
know if you’ve overdone, so I suggest you stay put.”

She glared at the retreating back. Once the door was closed, she turned her attention to Logan. Her heart cracked at his weary, drawn expression. She extended her hand to him. He readily took it and sat in the chair by their bed. For several moments, he just studied her palm.

“Who died?” she prodded on a whisper.

It took him a while to meet her gaze. “Josh.”

She had hoped no one was dead. Had hoped she’d been mistaken. But she hadn’t been. This time tears of grief sprang to her eyes.

Josh had been so young, just a few years older than her. She worked to swallow the sob that crammed her throat. Her chest compressed with the knowledge the freckled-faced cowboy’s death was on her head.

Logan squeezed her hand. “Accidents happen, sweetheart. It’s sad, but Josh knew the hazards of being a cowboy.”

She shook her head, causing a few tears to slip down her cheeks. “N—no,” she hiccupped. “I could have stopped it.”

His eyebrows drew together. “No you couldn’t have. What makes you think that?”

“Dave and I saw Roscoe with another man. On the southern rise overlooking the herd. They were positioned so none of the drovers could see them while riding guard.”

“When was this?”

“A week ago. The day Dave rode to town with me.”

“But how were you on the south side if you rode from town?”

Heat stained her cheeks. “Because we went to the Applegate place first. I wanted to get the material to Elisabeth so she could sew my dress.” She gripped Logan’s hand with both of hers. “Dave wanted to tell you, but I said I would. Then I didn’t because I didn’t want you to know about the dress.” More tears pooled in her eyes. “Josh’s dying is my fault.”

“No, it’s not.”

“If I hadn’t been so stupid...” Her voice cracked. “If I’d told you, Josh would still be alive.”

Logan grasped her arms and shook her gently. “You can’t blame yourself for Josh dying. It wasn’t your fault.”

“But you could have increased the guards. Could have made sure no one had the chance to stampede the herd.”

“Increase the guards and leave the ranch vulnerable? Instead of stampeding the cattle, they could have burned the ranch.”

“Josh might be alive then.”

“Maybe, or maybe not. Maybe somebody else would have died. Maybe Chuck or you or me.” He pulled in a breath. “We can only do so much, sweetheart.”

“But—”

“No buts.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips across her forehead. “Get some rest like the doctor ordered. I’ll be back later to check on you.”

He stood, but she tightened her grip on his hand. “Will you stay a while longer? Hold me until I fall asleep? Please.” She didn’t care she was begging. She needed to feel her husband’s strong arms around her, helping to take away some of her sorrow.

He stared down at her, his expression unreadable. “All right.” He kissed the back of her hand then released it to unbutton his shirt. In a single, graceful move, he shucked off his Levi’s, but left his long johns on. He pulled back the quilt.

She scooted over to make room, careful not to increase the pounding in her head. Logan stretched out on his back, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other holding her hand on his chest. Long minutes passed in silence.

“When’s the Reverend coming out to do the service?” she asked.

“Not sure. Maybe in a couple of days. The undertaker’s still building the casket.”

“I don’t even know if Josh had any family ‘round here.”

“I had Tom go through his gear. Josh had a mother and sister back in Fort Smith. Tom’ll head to town tomorrow and send a telegraph. Josh had twenty dollars saved.” His sigh sounded tired. Defeated. “The men took up a collection. We’ll be sending back an additional fifteen dollars. Not much. But the best we can do.”

She nodded into his chest. Tears continued to burn her eyes, but she held them back. Crying wouldn’t help Josh now. If she had told Logan about Roscoe, that might have helped. Guess it was a good thing she was leaving. That way no one else would get hurt because of her.

Despair made her head hurt worse. The rhythmic stroking of Logan’s hand on her arm further fuzzied her mind. And soon she succumbed to the beckoning oblivion.

~
~
~

Comfort enveloped her, kept her warm and safe.

A light appeared before her. A small pinpoint light, like a faraway star in the night sky. Her body floated toward it. She couldn’t feel the bed beneath her nor the covers on top of her. It was like she was apart from everything.

A panicked voice shouted her name. Logan’s voice. Something was wrong. She willed her arms to move, for her eyelids to open, to see what was wrong. Her body refused all commands.

The light grew larger. Hypnotized her. She stopped thinking about Logan and focused only on that light. On getting to it. A blurry face slowly took the light’s place. The face of a petite woman with green eyes and black hair adored with wildflowers. The flowery scent glided on the air.

Mama?

Matt couldn’t remember what her mother looked like, but instinct said that was exactly who was coming closer. She tried to unscramble her thoughts. To think straight. How was this possible? Her mother was dead. If this vision truly was Grace Townsend, did that mean she was also dead?

The image stopped arm’s length away and smiled. “Hello, Matilda.”

“Who are you?”

Her smile deepened. “I think you know the answer to that.”

“My mother is dead.”

“Yes. I am.”

“But how are you here?” Matt’s voice caught. “Does this mean I’m dead? Is this my punishment for getting Josh killed?”

Feathery arms came around her. Held her close. “No, no, darling. Hush.”

Contentment crowded out fear. Matt no longer cared if she was dead. If she were, then she could stay with her mother. Stay within this circle of acceptance and love. Forever.

Her mother rocked her side to side. “You’re not dead nor are you being punished. Is she, dear?”

“No, she’s not.”

Out of nowhere, her father stepped forward. But it wasn’t the father she had buried a few short weeks ago. This man was younger, more robust than the man who lay in the family graveyard. Matt shifted from her mother. “Pa?”

“Hello, Mattie-girl.”

A memory so old and so lost forged to the front of her consciousness.
Mattie-girl.

She remembered being called that when she was a small child. When her mother had still been alive. It had been her father’s pet name for her.