“Easy.” He kept his voice to a croon and even managed to hold the tone steady, despite the pounding in his chest.
A step closer, and the mule seemed to bunch tight within itself. Like a mountain lion poised to attack.
Or maybe more like a deer. Either way, not safe to be around. With another hoarse cry, the mule sprung forward, leaping over a low cedar shrub and landing on the road. It sprinted down the mountain trail toward Fort Benton, the place the animal probably considered home.
Micah would never catch him. Not without effort and time. And he had no time to waste.
A woman’s life depended on him. Again.
The ache in his gut spread through all his muscles. What was God thinking to saddle him with a woman so wounded? Hadn’t he proved himself incapable? Yet he couldn’t ignore her. Even though she might have as good a chance at survival on her own as with him.
He sighed and turned toward his patient. That wasn’t quite true. But he had his work cut out for him.
Ingrid fought against the grip pulling her toward the furnace. The raging fire already seared her leg. And her head. If only she could think straight, she would get loose and run far away from this inferno.
A hand gripped her shoulder. “Miss?”
She fought to wrench free. To back away from the heat.
No. Let me go.
Now hands held both her shoulders. Why did they keep her here? Her leg burned as though the flame had already scorched the skin to ashes. She was going to die if they didn’t let her go.
Tiny pellets of ice dotted her face, at odds to the heat all around her. Then a hand brushed her brow. Not like the other hands had gripped her. This one had a different touch. Light. Almost soothing. If only they would pull her away from the heat. Away from the fire eating through her leg . . . pounding through her head.
“Sshh.”
Someone whimpered, or maybe that was her own cry. She pressed into that soothing hand, letting herself relish the one touch that eased the agony.
Micah didn’t have time to waste sitting here with his hand resting on the woman’s forehead. Yet she clutched his wrist, holding him still. Her skin was no longer cold and damp; a fever now raged inside, her body warring against the trauma she’d endured.
He had to get her back to his camp and out of the thickening snowfall. Without a mule to help transport her, his only option was to haul her himself. Even if he could carry this woman the hour’s trek back to his camp, his arm under her leg would cause her an unimaginable amount of pain, maybe even shifting the bone so the fractured ends drove through her skin.
That wasn’t an option.
He’d need to rig some sort of wagon or sled for her to ride on.
“I’ll be back soon.” He ignored the squeeze of his chest as he peeled his hand away from the woman’s weak grip, then pushed to his feet.
A hike back down to the mangled wagon would give him what he needed.
As he sorted through the wood and scattered supplies, some of the objects began to look eerily familiar. A roll of bandaging had unraveled, wrapping itself in knots around a wad of cloths. A black leather case looked much like a medical kit, but that was likely his mind recalling his former life. Yet when he opened the buckle, several wooden boxes stared up at him. A stethoscope. Vials of medicines, well-padded and held in their own case. The bag contained enough bandages to wrap a broken limb, and even a mortar and pestle. Almost everything he once carried in his own doctor’s bag.
He shoved the satchel closed, pushing aside the memories that tried to surface, and moved on to another crate. He had to stay focused on finding a way to transport the injured woman, although he should probably come back for these things after he got her to camp, in case he needed them later.
The well-dressed man must’ve been a doctor. Had he been planning to hang his shingle in one of the mining towns here in the Territory? Life among all those money-grubbers would have been a rude awakening for a man accustomed to finer things.
The front of the wagon was mutilated, having crashed headlong into the stout trees, but the rear axle and wheels were intact. Much of the wood from the bed had split or splintered, but enough remained in that rear section that a woman could lie with her legs extended, if she bent at the waist. He’d have to figure a way to pull her himself, like a pony cart.
The plan would have to work. There were no other choices in the limited time. A glance at the gray clouds closing in above pressed him into action. Time was almost up.
After he found an ax and cleared the boxes from the rear of the wagon bed, he hacked away the remaining strips of wood that held the back half of the wagon to the front. Sweat dampened his buckskins, but this effort would be nothing compared to trying to get the contraption up the mountain.
When he finally separated the rear section from the rest, he piled on all the blankets he could find, then added another coil of rope. Could he make some of the harness still worn by the poor deceased mule work?
Pushing the cart up the nearly vertical incline proved almost more effort than he had in him. His breath came in gasps. His moccasins slid over the rocky ground, now covered with a thin layer of icy slush. He didn’t have time to rest, yet every part of him screamed for at least a moment’s relief.
Onward he climbed. His legs burned, the effort pressing through his shoulders and chest and down to the very core of him. Each step more hard-won than the one before.
At last, he eased the cart to the ground beside his patient, who still lay in the same position he’d left her. He dropped to his knees, his lungs fighting for air. Inhaling the biting chill made his chest ache, but he couldn’t seem to get enough.
As soon as his legs would hold him again, he pushed to his feet. All he lacked was the harness, then he could get her loaded and be on his way. Another hour with this snowfall and he’d have to build a sled instead of a cart.
As he approached the mule’s still form to remove the harness, his stomach churned. Poor animal. Had it ever enjoyed a carefree life? He had to force himself into that distant place he hated but knew all too well. Though he was certain he’d done what the injury required, his training had been to save lives, never to take them. His fingers fumbled as he released the leather buckles and pulled the straps away, then worked to make a smaller version of the yoke for himself.
Finally, with the harness ready, the snow wiped off the cart’s bed, and a blanket spread to soften the hard wood, he turned back to the woman. This wouldn’t be easy. His stomach churned at the thought of the pain she’d endure.
A thin layer of white covered her cloak and skirts, and her eyes still rested shut, long brown lashes fanning porcelain cheeks. He’d not seen skin that soft in so long. Too long. But he couldn’t let himself follow those thoughts now. Her lips moved, as though she was whispering.
Or maybe praying. Perhaps God would hear her prayers and help them both. The Almighty hadn’t listened to his petitions in years, but maybe He’d answer this woman’s request.
Micah blinked away the sheen that blurred his vision, then dropped to his knees beside her and brushed the snow off her clothing. “Miss, I’m going to move you to a cart. That way I can get you out of this weather.”
Her lashes fluttered, then parted, allowing him a glimpse of dark pupils surrounded by honey. Surely pain tinged her eyes, yet she seemed to be studying him.