Free Sarah's Heart by Ginger Simpson Page B

all alone in the wilderness?
And dressed like a man? Could she possibly have survived the wagon train
massacre?
    The scene crept into
his thoughts again, and he shook the dreadful images free. “No! No one lived
through that,” he yelled at the sky, still angry at the useless slaughter. It
would be just one more reason for people to hate him.
    But where did she
come from? He gazed again on her beauty, knowing if she returned to
consciousness, she wouldn’t allow him within two feet of her. People’s
prejudice left a bitter taste in his mouth.
    He quickly set about
binding her wound with the sleeve he ripped from another shirt. If she didn’t
live, she’d have no use of a change of clothing, and if she did, the ones she
wore could be washed. He had far more important things to worry about.
    Wolf rolled her back
toward him, and cradling her head in his lap, he felt her forehead. Fever raged
beneath her alabaster skin. He lifted the canteen to her lips, trying to coax
them apart, but to no avail. Instead, the tiny bit of water he drizzled on her
mouth, tricked down the side of her face and onto his bare leg.
    He tried again. This
time, her long lashes fluttered, and then opened to reveal eyes matching the
sky. Confusion furrowed her lovely brow.
    “Molly, oh Molly,
it’s you.” Her words were a mere whisper.
    Who was this Molly
person? Wolf wondered. He held his breath as his patient’s fingers caressed the
side of his face.
    “I had the most
horrid dream that you were dead.”
      Clearly her demons were fever induced, but her
silken touch disturbed him more than her delusional mind. He pulled her hand
from his face. “Who are you? What’s your name?” Perhaps he could find out where
she came from and help her get home.
    “Molly, I don’t feel
so good. What happened to me?”
    “Please listen,
lady.” Wolf peered into her eyes. “I’m not Molly. My name is Gray Wolf, but you
can call me Wolf.”
    Maybe he was the one
suffering from delusions. Did he really think she was lucid enough for
introductions when she thought he was someone named Molly ?He needed to take her back to his camp, where he could care for her properly. A
few herbs remained in his belongings—from his mother’s medicinal stash. Maybe
one would help reduce the fever. He particularly recalled the tribal medicine
man dosing the victims of Spotted Fever with willow bark tea. Luckily, Wolf had
some of the crushed powder.
    He whistled for
Scout, rigged a makeshift rope around her neck, and then secured the carpet bag
to it. He stooped and tried to stand with the injured woman in his arms. In all
the excitement, he’d forgotten about his own wound, but the added weight served
him an instant reminder. He gnashed his teeth in agony, trying not to sag back
to the ground with his limp cargo. As he wrestled to get a firmer grip on her,
he locked his knees and straightened. A loud exhalation whooshed past his lips.
How did one mount a horse while holding someone in their arms? He studied Scout
and searched for an answer. Did everything have to be such a struggle?
    Wolf gingerly draped
the woman over Scout’s broad back, then holding a handful of mane, leapt up
behind her and pulled her up into his arms. Her breathing was slow and even,
with each exhalation caressing his face like a gentle breeze. His heart
quickened at her amazing beauty. Maybe it was the difference in her skin and
those of the Indian women he grew up among. He’d seen white women before but
this one reminded him of a porcelain doll he once glimpsed in mercantile window
in Independence.
    He heaved a sigh.
Why did he keep getting sidetracked? He nudged Scout forward and prayed the
ride back to his camp wouldn’t be the blonde one’s demise. If only she held on
a little longer, he might have something that would save her.

 
    * * *

 
    Wolf slid to the
ground and pulled her along with him, cradling her in his arms. She’d been
unconscious the entire way, and that was good. At