Chapter Nine
She was sleeping when Remington came upon her, the blanket wrapped around her like a chrysalis so that he could only see the top of her head. Knowing that she had to be exhausted, it didn’t seem right to wake her and so he stood there, waiting to see if she’d sense his presence and come around on her own.
The silver comb that she had left behind on the trail for him to find was lying on the ground near the crown of her head. He wondered if it had finally lost its mooring in her thick hair or if she had taken it out. He bent, picked it up, and turned it over in his hand. He wasn’t partial to practicing the kind of law that would put him in a courtroom, but he thought he could make a case that Phoebe Apple was guilty of a crime against nature when she twisted that dark cascade of hair into a knot and stabbed it with the comb. It seemed to him that some kind of penalty should be exacted, and right now, it would have to be the price of the comb. He dropped it in his vest pocket, reckoning that he had as much right to it now as she did, and if she thought differently, he wouldn’t mind clarifying his position to her. She’d argue her own points, of course. It would be like law school again, moot court, this time with Phoebe Apple as his worthy adversary.
He remained hunkered beside her, waiting for her to stir. When she did, it was because a shudder went through her. It was no gentle stirring, and still she did not wake. The cocoon that was the blanket changed shape as she drew her knees closer to her chest and burrowed as deeply as she could in the bed of pine needles.
He laid his hand on what he hoped was her shoulder and said her name. She surprised him by bolting upright and doing it with enough force to knock him on his ass and disturb the angle of his Stetson.
“All right, then. You’re awake.” Watching her closely, he resettled his hat. “But you’re not awake, are you?” He waved a hand in front of her face. She blinked but not in a way that made him confident she was aware of him. He pushed to his knees, inched closer, and clapped her lightly on the back. He said her name again, this time insistently, and was rewarded when he felt her spine go rigid. He kept his palm flat against her back and waited.
Phoebe breathed in deeply and then expelled that lungful of air in careful measures. She wrestled her arms free of the blanket and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.
“It’s time to go,” he said, increasing the pressure of his hand at her back.
She nodded. Her hands fell to her lap. “I never meant to fall asleep.”
“I believe you.” He rose higher on his knees and started to shrug out of his long coat. “I want you to take this.” The fact that she did not argue this time was a clear indicator of just how cold she was. He settled the coat around her shoulders, stood, and helped her to her feet. “We get plenty of brisk nights in May. Sometimes we get snow.”
Phoebe shivered hard. Remington’s coat slipped off her shoulders.
“Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said that.” He picked up his coat before she could. “Here. Take off your cape and slip your arms in these sleeves.” When Phoebe proved reluctant to part with any source of warmth, Remington did not try to persuade her. He undid the frog at her throat before she could bat his hands away, removed the cape with the flourish of a bullfighter, and then flung it to the side to keep her from reaching for it. His leather duster was ridiculously large for her, but that made it easy to wrap her in it. The shoulder seams hung well below her shoulders and only the tips of her fingers were visible outside of the sleeves.Phoebe stood taller than many women of Remington’s acquaintance, but the hem of his coat brushed the tops of her ankle boots. Although Phoebe did not strike him as a particularly vain woman—unlike her sister—he knew better than to smile at the picture she made. She had managed to make herself smaller by huddling in his coat the way she had huddled under the blanket. He turned up the collar so that it covered her ears and tucked her hair under it.
Phoebe did not stop him, but as soon as he was done, she patted the top and back of her head, clearly searching. “I’ve lost my comb,” she told him and began to look around for it.
Remington glanced around as well. “I don’t see it.” Which was true on the face of it. “I can come back when there’s daylight and look for it.” He anticipated that she would harbor some doubts about that, but she merely nodded and thanked him. Awkward explanations aside, he was tempted to pull the comb out of his pocket and give it to her. He didn’t, though, because the memory of her silky hair still resided in his fingertips and he had not changed his mind about the comb being an accomplice in the crime against nature.
“We need to go. I came across one of the search parties. They’re waiting for us.”
Phoebe’s eyes sought out the mare. Now her expression was doubtful. “I don’t think I can ride. Maybe if someone were chasing me...” She shook her head. Her rueful smile wobbled, turned watery. She brushed impatiently at her eyes and sucked in a breath. “I should try. I should do at least that much.”
Remington did not attempt to dissuade her. It was a long walk to reach the search party, longer still to reach Frost Falls. The more ground they could cover on horseback, the better. He considered setting her sideways on the saddle, but was not hopeful that she could stay on the mare’s back.
“What if you rode with me?” he asked.
Phoebe shifted so she could see past him to where he’d tethered his horse “I don’t think Bullet would like that.”
“I don’t think Bullet would know. I figure that soaking wet you weigh about as much as my little finger.”
The absurdity of that made her chuckle. “All right. We’ll try that.”
Remington mounted first and then pulled Phoebe into the cradle made by the saddle and his thighs. Sitting sideways as she was, he forced himself to remain stoic in the face of all her fidgeting. To keep the saddle horn from digging into her hip, which seemed to be her main concern, he suggested that she put her arms around him. She complied without hesitation. Once she embraced him, it was natural that her head would fall against his shoulder. He had not anticipated that. If he turned his head the slightest degree in her direction, his chin would brush against her hair.
“Is it all right for you?” she asked. “You’re probably warmer now.”
Warmer? He might have laughed if she had not been so naively sincere. “I’m fine,” he said. There was nothing he could do about the slight catch between the words. He cleared his throat, tugged on his collar. “Just fine.”
They rode for miles that way, Bullet making the journey in an easy walk, the mare tethered and following close behind. Remington did not know precisely when it happened, but at some point, Phoebe fell sleep again. Her head lolled into the curve of his neck. He did not try to wake her.
Remington counted six men patrolling the general area where he had left only three. He did not make himself known until he had identified all of them, although that did not take long. He recognized his father immediately and then sifted through the other riders until he spotted Jackson Brewer. He saw Ben when the younger man separated himself from Blue Armstrong’s side. Mr. Washburn and Hank Greely were slowly circling the group. He threw up an arm and caught Greely’s eye. The dour livery owner changed course, heading toward him. Without any kind of observable signal, the others followed.
Remington raised a finger to his lips as they neared and held it there until they nodded their understanding. He waved his father forward and the other riders separated to accommodate Thad’s approach. His father’s smile was grim as his eyes wandered over Phoebe.
“She’s all right?” he asked quietly. “When she wasn’t at Thunder Point...”
Remington said, “Exhausted, but not injured.”
“Then they didn’t...” Thaddeus left the rest of thought unspoken.
