Winter's Touch by Janis Reams Hudson Page A

slipped from his horse and helped Bess down.
    Innes dismounted, carried a wide-eyed Megan to Bess, then took Winter Fawn from Carson’s arms.
    “I can walk,” she protested weakly.
    “Aye, and I can carry ye. Humor yer ol’ Da.”
    “Is she going to be all right?” Hunter asked anxiously.
    “Aye,” Innes said. “She just needs a wee bit of rest. See what ye can do aboot that trail we left back upstream, the one a blind man could be followin’.”
    “Carson,” Bess cried softly. “You’re bleeding.”
    Carson looked down at himself. “Most of that is Winter Fawn’s. I’m fine. We need a fire. A small one. Can you gather up some twigs for us?”
    “Should I take Megan?”
    “Okay, but the two of you be quiet, and keep a look out, and don’t get out of sight.”
    Bless Bess’s heart, this time yesterday morning she had been in a hotel, in a town, eating a hot meal at a table, and she’d been complaining. If he had told her to do something, she would have whined. Now, here in the wilderness, on the run for their lives, she merely nodded, took Megan by the hand, and walked quietly toward the willows along the stream. He wanted to grab her up in her arms and kiss her in gratitude.
    But there wasn’t time. Winter Fawn needed seeing to, as did the horses, and they all needed food and sleep.
    He found a buffalo robe on Innes’s pack mule and laid it out on the ground near the back wall of the cave for Winter Fawn. While Innes laid her there, Carson quickly unloaded the pack mule.
    Grabbing his rifle, he led the mule and horses to the stream for a drink. Then he took each animal to a different spot among the willows, hiding them as best he could among the scant cover, while making sure they were within sight and smell of each other. A horse was a herd animal. It was not natural for the animal to be alone. If any of them were very domesticated, they might whinny if they couldn’t see each other. He double checked to make certain each was securely tied. They could not afford for one of their mounts to wander off. In this country, being left afoot was tantamount to a death sentence.
    By the time he finished, Bess and Megan had gathered a sizable pile of twigs and small, fallen limbs in the center of the cave, where Innes had directed them. Innes was kneeling beside Winter Fawn, drinking from a silver flask, looking at the blood-soaked bandages, and muttering beneath his breath.
    “Is she worse?” he asked.
    “She’s no better, that’s for certain.”
    “You need clean bandages.”
    Carson and Innes looked up to find Bess standing beside them.
    “Aye. Would ye be lookin’ through yon pack, there,” Innes said to Bess with a nod toward a pack with two brass buckles, “and findin’ me blue shirt, lassie? We’ll tear that into strips to use, I’m thinkin’.”
    Bess turned away to do his bidding, and Innes took another pull from his flask. Then he tilted it up to Winter Fawn’s lips. She had closed her eyes, but when the liquid in the flask hit her mouth, her eyes flew open. She swallowed, then wheezed and choked. The motion jarred her wound, and she moaned.
    “Sorry, lass, but it’ll ease yer pain. Take another sip.”
    When Bess came back a few minutes later she was carrying several rolls of white bandages.
    “Where’d ye be findin’ such a thing?” Innes asked with delight.
    Bess blushed. “I had on too many petticoats.”
    “Ach, and a fine lasie ye be to be tearin’ ‘em up for me daughter. I thank ye kindly.”
    “Can I do anything else to help?” she asked with a blush.
    Carson didn’t know where all this cooperation was coming from after the way Bess had acted on the stage and in Pueblo, but he wasn’t about to question the new attitude. “See if you can find a pot in one of those packs and fill it with water. But keep—”
    “An eye out. I know.”
    “A good lass, that,” Innes said.
    “Yes.” Carson watched his baby sister pull a small coffee pot from one of Innes’s