A Man with a Past by Mary Connealy

TWENTY-NINE

Cheyenne gently rocked Falcon’s shoulder, not wanting to jar him awake. If he didn’t wake up at all, she’d be in trouble, but she’d fuss about that when she needed to and not a second sooner.

She’d watched him cling to his horse, more asleep than awake last night. When she realized how used up he was, she’d begun looking desperately for a place they could camp. She knew he didn’t have long, and she admired watching a strong man go on when others would have folded up.

Finally, she’d found a place when she knew she was within minutes of simply stopping and letting him sleep flat on the trail with no good place for a fire, which would mean no way to keep warm against the cold of a high mountain summer.

She’d marveled that he had the strength to dismount, but she didn’t realize how little he had left until, trying to be helpful, she’d led his horse away, planning to tend it so he didn’t have to, and he collapsed.

Unless it was her talk of marriage that had knocked him to his belly.

As it turned out, he’d picked a decent spot to sleep.

She’d staked out the horses, built a fire, and fed herself but didn’t bother trying to wake Falcon to feed him. She covered him with a blanket, then slept across the fire from him, getting up often to make sure he was breathing or hadn’t kicked off his blanket. She fed the fire through the night to keep him warm.

The poor man. The poor, widowed man.

It was really sad his wife had died. But here he was and here she was.

All she’d learned in life was to dislike Clovis Hunt and to never marry a man like him but rather a man she respected like her grandpa or her real father, though he was only known to her through stories.

She’d hoped for a man she could respect, or in the case of Oliver Hawkins, a man she could manage.

Now here was Falcon, and she wanted to be married to him. He was no rancher and no man to be managed. But maybe, just maybe, a man she could want and respect and even, maybe someday, love.

She looked down at him as she rocked his broad shoulder. She wanted him. She meant to have him.

First, she had to wake him up. It was time to see if the night’s rest was enough to revive him because they had outlaws to catch.

His eyes flickered, but they’d done that a time or two already. She rocked a little harder. “Come on out here, Falcon Hunt. See the new day.”

His eyes, burning brown eyes shot with gold, blinked open and met hers. They were dazed, but this was better than he’d been up till now.

“I’ve got coffee boiling, and Molly packed eggs and a skillet. I found potatoes to fry, and she sent some biscuits.” Cheyenne had been up awhile. She’d led the horses to a nearby spring for water. Packed up all she could. Made and eaten her own breakfast. All of this to make things easier for Falcon and let him sleep longer. And he cooperated by not moving an inch. But they needed to be on the trail. She’d cooked his meal right before she came to wake him.

“You didn’t eat supper. Your belly’s gotta be so empty it thinks your throat’s been cut.”

His lids, so heavy with sleep, faded closed. She rocked a little harder. “Come along, we’re burnin’ daylight. Wake up, Falcon, all the way up.”

He brought both hands to his face and rubbed them back and forth, then one hand brushed the ugly cut on his forehead from falling off his horse and landing on a rock.

With a groan, he sat up and faced her. “My mind is back. It’s all there. Memories full bloomed and easy to hunt up.”

Smiling, she said, “How about the headaches? Is the pain still as bad?”

Careful with his new cut, he slid his hands up into his hair and rubbed his head for a while. “Not so’s you’d notice. Nope, the pain, it didn’t make no sense. I’d long been over that pounding I took in the stream. Why keep hurting so long after?”

A quick jerk of one shoulder went with Cheyenne’s words. “Reckon something in there wasn’t all the way healed. Doubt many know what addled your thoughts, stole your memories. And just as few know why they cleared up. I’d imagine any doctor worth a hoot would want to talk to you and learn all you’ve been through. But things seem to be straightened out.”

Nodding, Falcon looked around. “You set up camp, built a fire, staked out the horses.” He looked down at the blanket covering him. “You did everything. All the work.”

“Yep, and now I’ve torn most of it down so we can head out.”

A smile wouldn’t stay hidden when he said, “You’re a mighty fine woman, Miss Cheyenne. Do I remember you asking me to marry you last night, right before I took a nap?”

She arched her brow and gave him a stern look that didn’t hide the flash of humor in her eyes. “Why, I have no idea what you mean, Mr. Hunt. A fine lady like me would never do such a brazen thing as that.”

Falcon pulled her close and wrapped her tight in his arms. They sat like that, there before the fire, for a long stretch of moments.

“A mighty fine woman, for a fact.” He cupped her cheek with one hand. He seemed content to just look.

At last, he turned to the fire. “I find my belly to be very interested in breakfast, if you please. You’ve taken fine care of me. I hope you’re never ailing, but I stand ready to return that care should you ever need it. And I thank you kindly.”

She ran one hand through his hair. He was a terrible mess. He’d gotten a haircut since he’d come west, but his face was grizzled with a day’s growth of whiskers, and his hair was next to standing on end after he ran his hands through it.

She smoothed it, noticing how heavy it was, how silky. “I like the idea of touching your hair anytime I want for the rest of our lives.”

“Then I’ll eat, and we’ll go catch us some varmints so we can get back to Bear Claw Pass to stand in front of a preacher.”

Smiling, she touched his hair one more time. “That plan runs right along in agreement with my own.”

He kissed her on the forehead, one long lingering kiss, then she turned away to get his plate of eggs and biscuits.

They’d eaten a fine meal. Cheyenne had shown Falcon a spring dribbling out of a stone where she’d watered the horses. He washed the sleep away, worried the ends of a green twig until it made a likely brush, then used it to clean his teeth.

Cheyenne packed up the rest of the camp.

“I could find it insulting that you’d do work I consider a man’s job,” Falcon said as he mounted up on a horse she’d cared for and saddled before he could help this morning. “But I am finding myself uncommon fond of you, Cheyenne. I reckon you’re about the best kind of woman there is, and I’m proud to think you’re agreeable to joining your life to mine.”

He looked at her solemnly, and she felt the truth of his words, the depth of his sincerity.

“I think we’ll deal well together, Falcon. I think we’re a good match.” She smiled. “And I’m uncommon fond of you, too.”

With a firm jerk of his chin, they set out to catch a low-down pair of coyotes and drag them before the law.

Molly slipped into Wyatt’s bedroom to find him feverish.

Cheyenne should have stayed. Wyatt would want her here. The rest of them were strangers to him.

Molly rushed out, quietly but with no time to lose, to fetch a basin of cool water. She should have checked on him before breakfast, but it seemed sleep was the best healer. Only now no one else was around to help her with the fever. They had all eaten fast and gone with the foreman, Rubin Walsh, to check the cattle.

With the traitorous ramrod, Ross Baker, dead and no Wyatt or Cheyenne to work, there was a lot neglected around the RHR. Win might not be much help out there, but she wanted to stay at Kevin’s side.

Her devotion was touching. Also a little sickening.

Andy, of course, couldn’t bear to let a ranching chore pass him by without throwing his back into the work. Admirable but annoying when Molly could have used some help around here from someone, anyone.

But they were all gone. Cheyenne and Falcon, Kevin and Win, Andy and all the hired hands. And now Wyatt had taken a bad turn.

She set the basin on the table beside his bed and wrung out a cloth. When she rested it on his head, his eyes flickered open. They had a glazed look, one that often went with a fever.

“Can you drink some water?” She’d scooped out a cup and had it ready.

Nodding, he seemed to gather his strength for a moment, then shoved himself up. The pain that lanced his face had her sliding an arm under his back.

“No, let me bear your weight. And use your right arm, rest your left.”

For as groggy as he seemed, he understood and was careful with his left arm. He drank deeply from the tin cup, then she scooped up more, and he drank half again.

“Cheyenne?” Wyatt’s strength seemed to teeter and threaten to vanish.

She wanted to get some broth down him but didn’t have it handy. “Can you stay awake for a bit? You should take food. Build up your strength.”

“What happened? I w-was fit last night?”

“A fever’s come on. We thought when you didn’t take on with one the first day, you’d managed to avoid it. I’m afraid I’m the only one in the house. Cheyenne is out—” Was there a good enough reason to worry him about his sister? “Everyone is out working. Your Mr. Walsh came wanting help working cattle today and swept up everyone before him.”

“E-even Win?”

“Winona doesn’t seem able to let my brother out of her sight. A concept that escapes me, but there it is.” Her eyes met Wyatt’s with her full skeptical little-sister expression. He smiled. He was a little brother after all. He knew how she felt.

“Roundup coming. We’ve had some easy days after branding.” Wyatt reached for the light blanket drawn over him and threw it aside with a trembling hand.

Molly jerked it right back. “You’re not thinking for one split second that you’re fit to herd cattle, are you?”

He gave her a frightened look. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d sounded like, but he appeared to take her question as a threat.

Then stubborn defiance firmed his jaw, and he threw the blanket off again.

Careful of his injuries, she solidly held him down. He had the strength of a newborn kitten. He struggled against her hold for all of five seconds before he collapsed, looking shocked.

She rather enjoyed it. “More water?”

He nodded, and she helped him sit up again. He drank the last half of the cup.

“You’re not thinking clearly because of your fever. You know you can’t go herd cattle with a bullet wound in your chest, broken collarbone, and high fever. Settle down and rest. Let me—”

“Where’s Cheyenne? Where’s my sister?”

She got a cloth and dipped it in the cool water again and pressed it against his forehead. He gave a sigh of contentment that seemed to end his upset. She bathed his face and checked his wound, which was red and swollen but not with the look of infection. She was familiar with how that appeared.

Putting on a fresh bandage, she dabbed cool water on his brow again, and before the cloth had warmed to the temperature of his fever, he’d fallen asleep.

She wished his sister were here. Knowing full well she’d had a hand in throwing Cheyenne out, she was still unhappy with the woman for being gone.

Cheyenne couldn’t care for him as well as Molly, but it would give Wyatt comfort to have someone here he loved.

Where were Falcon and Cheyenne? How far did they plan to ride? How long would they search before they gave up, found their man, or died under the coyote’s guns?

Molly had plenty to occupy her thoughts as she struggled to bring down Wyatt’s fever. By herself. Like always.

At the same time she resented them all for abandoning Wyatt, she felt her chin firm as she cared for him, knowing she could handle most anything alone.