Hyacinth helped Violet sit down. Then she maneuvered on her skis toward the nearest tree.
Violet could only recline in the snow, gritting her teeth through the pain. If her ankle was broken, what would she do? How would she ever be able to travel the two hours or more to town to reach a doctor? She would never consider sending Hyacinth back for the doctor on her own.
Would they be trapped at the cabin? How long could they stay before their food supply ran out?
Violet shifted, and pain shot through her leg and up her body. A groan slipped out before she could stop it.
Hyacinth, nearly at the tree, halted and peered back with a creased brow. “Hang in there, Vi. I’ll take care of you.”
All Violet could manage was a nod.
While her sister wrestled to break the lowest branches off the spruce tree, Violet could feel her body temperature dropping as the cold and dampness from the snow began to creep through the layers of her clothing.
It seemed like ages but was probably only a few minutes before Hyacinth was returning, dragging two large pine boughs. Somehow, with Hyacinth’s help, Violet managed to crawl onto the branches.
Leaving their luggage behind for Hyacinth to retrieve later, they inched toward the cabin, Hyacinth trying to make the ride smooth. Even so, each movement jarred Violet so that by the time they were across the frozen creek, she couldn’t hold back her whimpers.
When they finally reached the cabin, Hyacinth collapsed in front of the door, her breath coming in gasps. Violet could only lie on the boughs and stare up at the sky, the tears silently coursing down her cheeks, leaving an icy trail in their wake.
What had she gotten them into? And how would they ever survive?
6
He was probably the world’s weakest man.
If not, why was he standing at the front door of the Berkley home?
Sterling lifted a hand to knock but then stuffed his hand into his coat pocket.
What was he doing here?
He stared at the simple two-story structure that was only a couple of years old, painted white, with a small yard that was overgrown and in much need of manicuring since the last time he’d visited. When had that been? In April before the wedding?
Back then, he’d gone to town a couple of evenings a week to call on Violet. When the weather had permitted, they’d strolled outside. The other times, they’d visited in the parlor while her mother and sister sat on the opposite side of the room, embroidering or sewing and pretending not to pay attention to him and Violet.
Their courtship hadn’t lasted long, perhaps six months, maybe nine, before he’d proposed marriage to her. That had been plenty long enough for him. He’d assumed she’d had enough time too.
But somehow, he’d been wrong about everything.
So what was he doing back at her house? Why was he getting himself involved with Violet again?
He shifted his attention to the hitching post where he’d tied his horse. He shouldn’t be here. He needed to ride out of town as fast as he could, back to the ranch.
With an exasperated breath, he pivoted to go. But the moment he did so, he took in the storm clouds that were forming above the mountains in the west. At midday, the sun overhead was starting to warm the air, but from the looks of things, the high country would get more snow before the day was out.
He only had to picture Violet and Hyacinth as they’d looked last night on his porch, cold and tired and scared. He didn’t want to think of them out another night, especially if it were snowing.
As much as he’d tried to deny Violet’s claim about being in trouble, deep inside, he knew she was right. Even if he wished she hadn’t come to him for help, she had. Now he might be the only one who could do something for the two women.
Besides, if he rode back to the ranch, he’d only drive himself crazy like he had all morning, wondering where the women had gone and if they were safe. He’d tried to focus on his meeting with Thatcher and come up with a plan to vaccinate the herd against blackleg. He’d fed the cattle in the pasture, broken ice for them to drink, separated out any others that looked sick. But through it all, he hadn’t been able to stop worrying about Violet.
He hated himself for how weak he was when it came to her, hated that she could fill his head so completely again, hated that he couldn’t remain indifferent toward her, hated that he cared what was going on in her life, hated that he didn’t want her to be in danger.
He dropped his head, disgusted with himself. He was only asking for more pain and heartache by getting involved in her life again. But what else could he do?
He tipped the brim of his hat lower to shield his eyes from the bright rays of the sun. Then he forced himself to turn back around and knocked on the door with several firm raps.
He might be the world’s weakest man, but he couldn’t leave until he talked to Mr. Berkley and was reassured that Violet and Hyacinth had someplace to live and weren’t in danger of having to work at the dancehall.
