Flynn didn’t need anyone. He was just fine by himself. And though Dr. Howell hadn’t condemned him, a heavy burden settled on him anyway, and he needed to bear it alone. The older man had hired him to keep his granddaughter safe, and less than twenty-four hours later, the young woman was already in life-threatening danger, if not dead.
Leading his horse, Flynn held a lantern above the earth, searching the grass and the mud beneath for any signs of her or the horse she’d ridden. It was strange she hadn’t taken the time to untie the horse from its picket and had instead taken the stake and cord with her—unless the horse had broken free, and she’d decided to chase after it.
If the horse had gotten loose, which direction would it have gone? He studied the dark landscape. A small creek was but a quarter mile to the east. They’d watered the livestock there the previous evening but moved on from it before making camp because the mosquitoes had been swarming and biting something fierce. Had the horse caught the scent of the creek and thought to return to it?
Flynn changed his course toward the east. A short while later, his scrutiny of the ground paid off with the discovery of a horse print filled with rainwater. Not far from that, he found a shoe indentation—a slender sole, a woman’s size.
He brushed aside more grass and found another human print as well as one belonging to a horse. With the care he’d cultivated while hunting the wooded hills of southwestern Pennsylvania as a boy, he moved forward, tracking her first one way and then another. He lost her for a short while but then picked up her trail again, reversing itself.
He reckoned she’d grown weary of trying to catch the horse—either that, or realized she’d wandered too long—and had decided to return to camp. Except that with the new direction her prints were heading, she’d gone the wrong way—north instead of west.
Straightening, he attempted to study the northerly landscape through the early morning, praying she hadn’t wandered too far and happened upon a Comanche camp or one of their hunting parties. Several other travelers had warned of their presence and the need to stay away. He whispered a prayer for her protection, even as chill crept through him that had nothing to do with the cold morning.
A foggy mist had settled in the low places, making the search even more difficult. He hoped the other men had enough sense not to get lost themselves and make matters worse. Maybe he should have cautioned them to wait on heading out until full daylight.
He tried to push himself faster, a new urgency prodding him. But tracking was a meticulous process, and sometimes when her footprints disappeared, he was left trying to guess where she’d gone next.
Finally her prints shortened in spacing, which meant she’d slowed down. He was getting closer. He could feel it.
He lifted the lantern, but all he could see was fog. “Linnea?”
Silence met him.
“Linnea?” he called louder.
Another heartbeat passed until a faint voice responded. “Flynn?”
Weakness hit his knees. It was her. “Yep. I’m here. Where are you?”
“Over here.”
He still couldn’t see anything through the haze, even with his light shining down. He bent again and followed her prints. If he could keep her talking, he’d also be able to follow the sound of her voice. “You alright?”
“I’m relieved you’re here.”
Three steps later, he nearly tripped over her huddled on the ground, hugging her knees, her cloak wrapped around her. As he held the lantern above her, she lifted her head to reveal a pale face, blue lips, and chattering teeth. Underneath her hood, her hair hung in wet strands, and the portion he could see of her bodice was soaked too.
As far as he could tell, she was as wet from the rain as she’d been when she’d fallen out of the wagon into the river. He set the lantern down, shrugged out of his poncho, and then began to unbutton his flannel shirt.
“What are—you doing?” She could hardly get her question out past her shaking.
His fingers flew over the buttons. “First thing we gotta do is get you warmed up.”
He shed his shirt, which he’d kept dry underneath his heavy gutta-percha poncho. “Can you take off your coat?”
She attempted to move, but her hands shook too hard.
Gently, he moved her hand out of the way and unfastened the clasp at the top of her cloak. The garment was well made and had the same gum-rubber coating as his poncho, but somehow the rain had gotten underneath, so the inside layer of soft cotton was saturated, as were her undergarments.
He peeled the cloak away and dropped it onto the grass. “I want you to put on my shirt, but it ain’t gonna do you any good if we don’t—well, if we don’t—” He was too embarrassed to tell her she needed to partially undress.
“Take off my bodice? That’s a good idea.” She lifted her hand again and fumbled at the buttons. “I’m sorry to trouble you. But my hands are too stiff from cold. . . .”
He hesitated. The act of helping her get out of her clothes seemed too intimate and too bold. But the longer he waited, the colder she got, and the more chances she’d get real sick real fast.
He touched the button. It was dainty and covered in velvet, not something a man like him should be anywhere near. But what choice did he have? Before he lost all nerve, he flipped it open and worked his way down the front, trying not to accidentally graze her but to keep his fingers only on the buttons themselves.
When he finished, she released a shaky laugh. “I probably shouldn’t ask how you came to be so proficient at undoing a woman’s bodice, should I?”
Heat spread up his neck faster than flames flying through sun-dried hay. “Reckon I wouldn’t know.”
“I’m sorry.” Her response was breathless. “I was only jesting and didn’t mean to call into question your character. You strike me as fine and upstanding.”
While her chest rose and fell, he was all too conscious—the same as yesterday when she’d been wet—of what a beautiful woman she was. He might be fine and upstanding, but he was just a man.
As he helped her strip her arms from the sleeves, he forced himself to look beyond her shoulders in the misty distance. As the bodice peeled away, he caught a glimpse of her lacy chemise. He lifted his gaze heavenward and swallowed hard. Then, without glancing down again, he tossed his shirt around her, quickly followed by his poncho.
She hugged his clothing closer, the color beginning to return to her cheeks. “Thank you, Flynn. I’m already ten times warmer than I was just a moment ago.”
So was he. He cleared his throat but couldn’t find words to respond.
“I loathe myself for making you cold now.” Her gaze darted to his chest, then to his shoulders. Though his long-sleeved undershirt covered his upper body, he felt barren anyway.
“I’m just fine.” In fact, from the heat thrumming through his veins, he was more than fine. “Don’t be worrying about me. Let’s just hurry you on back to camp.”
“I hope you know the way because, as you can tell, I sure don’t.”
“Yep. I’ll get us back.” He took hold of her arm and assisted her to her feet. She was still shaking, and he didn’t release his grip for fear she’d collapse.
Holding the ball of wet garments she’d shed, she tried to steady herself but wobbled, her legs buckling beneath her.