The Vigilante's Bride (7 page)

Emily untied her apron and hung it on a hook in the kitchen. For days the kitchen had been filled with clouds of sweet-smelling steam from a washboiler full of sap simmering on the back of the stove.

Ida, making bread at a table by the window, looked up. “You’re going up there again, are you?” she said, picking up her sifter and snowing a cloud of flour across the dough.

Emily nodded. “Molly says the first sap makes the best syrup. We never made maple syrup in Chicago. Once someone brought a gallon from back east. That’s the only time I ever tasted it.”

Ida pulled dough off her fingers. “That grove’s been up there long as I remember. The Indians taught us how to do it. Cheyenne and Crow have been making syrup and sugar for hundreds of years.”

“Molly told me how to do it. Says the sap started early this year because of the warm spells we had.”

Ida kneaded the bread with the heels of her hands, then gave a few more smacks to the flour sifter. “Want me to get one of the boys to go along with you?”

Emily shook her head. “Not today. They’re studying for a history test, and they’re too anxious to get out of class as it is.”

Ida straightened. Eyes dancing, she planted a hand on her hip. She stood there, hipshot and grinning wickedly. “I bet Mr. Luke wouldn’t mind helping you.”

Emily stiffened and threw Ida a sharp look. “I can do it myself. I don’t need any help from him.” She shrugged on her coat and mittens and hurried out onto the porch. She tossed the scalded tin pails and a big metal bucket into a wheelbarrow at the bottom of the steps. Picking up the heavy handles, she headed out across a field spotted with large patches of snow for the grove of black maples on the other side of the hill.

Outside, the temperature was twenty degrees, but in the smithy it was stifling. Luke’s shirt was wet, his upper lip beaded with sweat. Wearing a grimy leather apron, Scully Anders worked the bellows hanging above the forge, jetting air down over white-hot coals. A horseshoe glowed a dull cherry red in the fire.

Bugle stood patiently, his back hoof caught between Luke’s thighs. With painstaking care, his master scraped and pared the horse’s hooves.

Luke clapped another horseshoe, still warm, against the hoof, measuring. He handed it back to Scully. “Not quite. Bend the ends in a tad more.”

Scully shook his head and thrust the shoe in the fire again, muttering, “Never seen a man so fussy ’bout a horse.”

Luke heard him and grinned.

A gust of wind creaked the door open. Luke lowered Bugle’s leg and went to close it. Standing in the doorway, he watched a small figure trundling a big wooden wheelbarrow beyond the corral.

“Now, where’s she going, I wonder?” he said to Scully, raising his voice over the ringing racket of the older man’s hammering on steel.

“Who?”

“Her.” Luke pointed to Emily, watching as she shut the garden gate behind her, then grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow and pushed on across the open field.

Scully stopped his pounding and raised his head. “Looks like she’s got sap buckets with her,” he said. “Going up to the sugar bush, I guess. They been boiling syrup in the kitchen the last couple days, or ain’t you noticed?”

Luke shook his head, not taking his eyes off the girl plodding along in boots and a long brown cape, the ends of a bright blue scarf fluttering behind her. Uneasy, he studied the sky. All morning, a steady northwest breeze had been blowing down from Canada. More snow on the way.

“She always thinks she can do more than she can,” he grumbled. “That bucket’s too heavy for her.”

“Right now that bucket’s empty, so shut the door. You’re cooling my fire,” Scully called. “She’ll be all right.”

“Snow’s on the way. And she’s got no business going up there alone.”

“Go with her then, but shut the door!”

Luke swung the plank door closed, dropped the wooden bar in place, and went back to shoeing Bugle. Determined to put Emily McCarthy out of his mind, he rested the horse’s front hoof on his thigh and began prying out the old nails.

Emily had seen Luke standing in the doorway of the smithy, watching her. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed along faster. As soon as she got to the orchard, she checked the buckets hanging on spouts driven into the trunks. Humming under her breath, she unhooked the pails and drained the watery liquid into the big bucket in the wheelbarrow. It was prime syrup weather, she thought. With the mild, sunny days and freezing nights, they ought to get fifteen gallons of sap from each tree this year. It took about forty gallons of sap – almost three trees’ worth – to boil down one gallon of syrup. It was a lot of work, but it was worth it. Drizzled on hot biscuits on a cold morning, nothing could match it.

Emily shivered. The wind had kicked up. She pulled her mittens off and tugged the scarf tighter around her neck. That was when she saw it, a bear cub – a small grizzly, only a few months old. No doubt curious at all her banging and clattering, the cub wobbled on a beeline through the woods in her direction.

And shambling right behind, head swinging, shoulders rolling, was its mother.

Emily dropped the pail. Hiking her skirts, she ran for the entrance to the grove, zigzagging through the trees as fast as she could go. Feet flying, she raced for the edge of the woods and the open field beyond. Behind her, she heard the cub nosing the pail on the ground.

The heavy cape bunched between her legs, slowing her. Her heart pounding her ribs, she kept on running, trying to snatch the cape free. Off-balance, she tripped and fell flat over a root half hidden by snow. The mother bear raised her head and let out a bellow of rage, then made a short lunge in Emily’s direction.

With a stricken look, Emily jumped to her feet and stumbled into a run for her life. The bear crashed through the underbrush toward her, huffing, making sucking and blowing noises as it pulled air in and out its nose, as if trying to identify her scent. Emily’s heels thudded the ground.

Faster. Run faster!

Blood rushed in her ears. A scream wedged in her throat, because no matter how fast she ran, she’d never outrun the bear.

Ahead of her, a broad maple spread thick, low branches just over her head. She doubted she could jump high enough to reach it. She put on a burst of speed, threw her arms up, and leaped.

Help me, Jesus
.

And there it was – the branch, thick and solid under her hand. Straining, she hooked her knee over it, hauled herself up as fast as she could. If it was a grizzly – and she thought it was, prayed it was – she’d read they seldom climbed, even as cubs. They were too big and bulky, and their claws were straight, not curved.

Legs shoving, she reached overhead and pulled herself higher up the tree. She hugged the ridged trunk, cold and rock hard, against her chest, the bark scratchy against her arms. Her scarf caught on a twig, her skirt snagged. She ripped them loose, her eyes riveted on a deep crotch in the tree just above her. Swinging a leg over, she wedged herself down into it and froze, holding her breath.

Through the limbs just below, she saw the bear stop at the base of the tree, snuffling the ground, a massive animal with shaggy brown fur tipped and frosted looking. The head appeared to grow right out of its shoulders, with a mouth that sliced back to its ears, opening and closing as if chewing air. Slowly, the bear raised its head and peered into the branches, its eyes glittering up at her.

With a roar the grizzly reared on its hind legs, stretching to its full length, pawing, slashing, snarling. A limb splintered. And another. In a frenzy the bear tore at the tree. Emily wound her arms around the trunk to keep from falling and screamed.

A few minutes before, Luke had thrown down his tools and wheeled around, grabbed his coat and his rifle and slammed out of the smithy, leaving a half-shod horse and a surprised Scully Anders staring after him. Muttering under his breath, Luke strode up the hill toward the grove of maples.

Emily McCarthy irritated him. She didn’t listen to a thing he said. Every time he was with her, something picked at him.

She didn’t like him, and he didn’t like her, either.

The air was crisp and clear. He stopped to buckle his jacket against the light snow starting to fall. His nostrils flared. Chin lifted, he sniffed deeply several times. He was downwind of something, a rank odor he’d smelled before, a little like skunk but not as strong. The hairs on the back of his neck raked up.

Bear.

Quickly, he checked the gun and slapped the breech closed. Rifle swinging in his hand, he started for the sugar bush.

When he turned into the woods, he heard it – rhythmic grunts, tree limbs splitting, branches cracking off like firewood. He broke into a hard run and was already pounding toward her when he heard her scream.

“I’m coming, Emily!”

At his shout, the grizzly dropped to all fours and swung around. Luke stopped, brought the gun to his shoulder, and aimed. He fired once. The shot struck the tree only inches from the bear’s huge head, stinging the animal with flying bark. With a surprised snort, she leaped aside. Her frightened cub streaked off in the opposite direction, hooting through its nose.

Rocking from side to side on her front paws, stifflegged, the grizzly stared at Luke. If she broke into a full-blown charge, he had two seconds maybe. This time, Luke aimed the rifle at the flat, light-colored area between her eyes. He’d better not miss. The cub, alone and lost, bawled piteously for its mother. Several seconds passed as he and the bear stared at each other. Turning, she charged – but not at Luke. The last he saw of her was a big furry behind running through the trees.

Luke puffed his cheeks and blew out a long, relieved breath. “You can come down now,” he shouted to Emily, and lowered the gun. He walked to the tree and looked up through the branches.

Emily stood in the fork of two limbs, hugging the trunk.

“She’s gone. Come on down, Emmy,” he said gently. With a start, he realized he’d never called her that before.

She gave a little palsied nod and fished her foot in the air for a branch below.

“Take it easy,” he soothed. “The bear won’t come back.

We’ve got lots of time. Don’t hurry.”

Slowly, chest heaving, she worked her way down, a branch at a time, until she was on a limb just over his head. Her eyes were as big as pie pans, the red hair tangled and wild looking.

Even from this distance he could see her hands trembling.

“Jump,” he said. “I’ll catch you.” He turned to lay the rifle down.

Emily didn’t wait. She hurled herself into the air, her cape spreading behind her like wings. From the corner of his eye, Luke caught the flutter of airborne brown cloth. He dropped the gun in surprise. Like a giant bird from space, she landed full on his back and knocked him to the ground.

Stunned, the breath knocked out of him, Luke rolled her off his back and sat up. “What . . . what’d you do that for?” he gasped, and sucked in a ragged mouthful of air.

Lying on the ground in a heap beside him, Emily wrapped both arms around her head and burst into tears. Without thinking, he pulled her onto his lap and rocked her, holding her close.

Emily buried her face against his jacket, shaking uncontrollably. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was scared. I’m so glad you’re here,” she mumbled into his chest.