Winnie Griggs - The Christmas Journey

This woman was unlike any he’d ever met. How could she find something to smile about after all she’d just been through? Most women he knew would be hysterical, would be looking for him to comfort them.

Aware that he was still squeezing her wrist, he released her and leaned back. He realized there was a bandage on his head and another on his otherwise bare arm.

A woman of many talents, it seemed, and one who didn’t let squeamishness get in the way of doing what had to be done.

She reached beside her and lifted a canteen. “How about a drink of water?”

At his nod she rested the canteen on his chest then twisted around, reaching for something he couldn’t quite see. “First, let’s try to get you propped up a bit.”

A second later he realized she was maneuvering a saddle into place behind him.

“Easy now.” She slipped a hand under his neck, supporting him while she nudged the makeshift prop under his shoulders. She was surprisingly strong. No doubt due to her work at the livery. Funny how nice those callused hands felt against his skin.

He tried to keep the wince from his expression as the movements dug the branding iron deeper into his shoulder. He wasn’t going to add to her already piled-high worries.

“There now,” she eased him back, “how does that feel?”

“Better, thanks.”

“Good.” She held the canteen to his lips, once more supporting his neck. The water tasted heavenly and felt even better going down. The liquid smoothed away the sawdust lining his mouth and throat. He couldn’t get enough of it, as if he were a parched bit of earth that hadn’t seen rain in months.

“Easy now,” she repeated, a touch of humor in her voice, “There’s a whole stream of this stuff over yonder so there’s no need to worry we’ll run out before you’re quenched.”

Her teasing surprised an answering grin from him. “Are you maligning my table manners, Miss Wylie?”

She shrugged, her expression bland. “Not me. I’m used to being around animals that drink from troughs, remember?”

Ry chuckled at her unexpected dry humor. At least the day’s events hadn’t robbed her of her spirit.

“And there’s no need to be so formal, especially considering the fix we’re in. Just call me Jo.”

He hesitated, not wanting to offend her, but not certain he wanted to comply. The use of Miss Wylie had been a deliberate effort to make up for his having mistaken her for a man, even if she wasn’t aware of his gaffe. Calling her Jo, a man’s name, just didn’t sit right with him after so ungentlemanly a blunder. But she didn’t seem like a Josephine either. “What if I call you Josie instead?”

A flash of surprise crossed her features. But her only response was an offhand “I reckon that’ll do.”

“And of course you can call me Ry.”

With a nod, she raised the canteen to his lips again. He took care to drink more slowly this time, taking the opportunity to look around. She’d built a fire while he was out, one that was emitting enough smoke to cure a side of bacon. A second saddle lay on the ground next to him and what looked to be the rest of the tack and gear from two horses was placed in neat piles nearby.

A whicker drew his gaze toward the stream. A horse stood tethered there. Not the horse she’d charged in on and certainly not Scout. How in the world had she managed to find another mount out here?

Then he spied what was unmistakably a body covered by a couple of horse blankets.

His gaze shot back to her.

Her smile was gone and her jaw tightened. “It’s Clete,” she said. “I thought covering him up was the decent thing to do.”

Ry leaned back against the saddle, glad for its support.

Her fingers fiddled with the cap of the now empty canteen. “I didn’t see him go down. I don’t know which one of us—”

“It was my shot,” he said quickly, realizing what she feared.

“Oh.” She searched his face for a moment, then the tension in her eased. She stood and waggled the canteen. “Better refill this.”

Ry shifted again, chafing at his weakened condition as he watched her limp toward the stream. She was hurt, yet she hadn’t spoken a word of complaint. How long had she been sitting there, wondering if she’d been responsible for taking a man’s life?

His opinion of her character rose another notch.

“How long was I out?”

“About thirty minutes or so,” she called back over her shoulder. “Had me worried for a while.”

Again, her light tone didn’t quite cover the underlying strain. He knew it wasn’t all due to the physical pain and exhaustion she must be feeling. The emotional turmoil she’d been through had taken its toll as well.

She paused to check on the horse before stooping with some difficulty at the stream to refill the canteen. Her action reminded him of what had happened to Scout. Had the animal died of its wounds, or had she been forced to deal with that, as well?

Either way, he had a lot to make up for. Starting now.

“Only thirty minutes, huh?” he said as she returned. “It appears you made good use of the time.”

She shrugged. “I’m used to keeping busy.”

That he could believe. “Well, you’ve set up a tight little camp here.” Pulling on every ounce of strength he had, Ry propped himself up on one elbow. “I ought to be comfortable enough while you head back to town.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“Take that horse and ride to town. You can send a wagon back for me. There’s no point in us both just sitting here hoping someone will come along.”

“Uh-uh. Whether we like it or not, we’re in this together. I’m not leaving here without you, not after all the trouble I went through to save your hide.”

“And you can finish the job by sending a wagon back for me.”

“What if Otis comes back?”

Exactly. He had to make certain she was well out of harm’s way. “Look, Josie, you said yourself Otis was long gone. Besides, I’m not hurt so bad that I can’t hold my own for the time it’ll take you to get to town and send help back. Just leave me one of those rifles and I’ll be fine.”

She snorted. “Fine my left foot.” Thrusting a rifle at him, she walked off, positioning herself several yards behind him. “Okay, hero, I’m Otis. Defend yourself.”

Ry struggled to sit up and at the same time swivel his body to face her. He failed miserably. On both counts.

“Might as well quit trying.” The edge of irritation in her voice exacerbated the ache in his head. “If I was Otis you’d already be dead. And that’s with lots of warning to boot.”

She stood over him, glaring. “Hang it all, Mister, there’s no shame in admitting you’re hurt. It’s just plain selfish, too—making more work for me. Look at you. All that tomfool twisting and turning set your arm to bleeding again. At this rate we’re going to run out of bandages before we can get you to the doc.”

Even if he’d had the energy to take offense, Ry knew she was right. For a moment he didn’t even have the breath to speak.

He flopped back with a thud that amplified the pounding in his head. It was getting colder too. He couldn’t suppress the shiver that wracked his body.

Josie removed the rifle from his grasp, her brow furrowing. “How are you feeling?”

“Thoroughly useless.”

She patted his hand, as if he were some wet-behind-the-ears kid who needed comforting. “Sorry I lit into you that way—ain’t your fault you don’t like being stove up. My ma used to say that trying times were God’s way of keeping us humble and reminding us to look to Him for our strength.”

She leaned back. “Just think of it as taking a bit of time off from all that rushing around you’ve been doing.”