Although she’d felt strange taking over his house and bedroom, he hadn’t seemed to mind, had almost seemed relieved she’d cooperated so easily. In fact, he’d stayed well out of her way the past couple of days, only coming into the cabin for mealtimes. And they hadn’t run into each other at the river either, though she’d waited until later to go down so she wouldn’t chance seeing him half unclothed again.
Ahead, amid clumps of long grass and mounds of dirt, a prairie dog popped its head out of a burrow, stood high with its face pointed in their direction, and barked a scolding for disturbing it. As she and Wyatt passed, several more of the creatures took up sentinel posts, yelped warnings, shook their tails, and dove back into their holes.
Wyatt didn’t seem to notice the prairie dogs but made sure to steer well away from the mounds and burrows and the honeycomb of holes that could cause injury to the horses. He pointed at something in the distance. “Look over yonder.”
She lifted her hand to shield her eyes and saw what appeared to be a herd of some sort of deer. Several dozen were grazing in the open grassland. Against the rise of the foothills, the grandeur of the scenery washed over her, drowning the doubts and anxiety of earlier.
“It’s awe-inspiring. Are they deer?”
“Pronghorns.” He slowed, allowing his mount to fall into step with hers. “Like antelope but faster.”
The slender, graceful creatures were brown, with portions of their bellies, legs, and rumps a snowy white. Most had horns, some longer and bulkier than others. “They’re beautiful.”
“And they’re pesky, sneaking in and mowing my hay to stubs.”
As they rode, Wyatt talked more about the pronghorns and the benefit of a bountiful supply of pronghorn meat, which he described as having a tender texture and mild flavor compared to other game.
He answered her questions about how much land he’d plowed and planted, along with the irrigation ditch he’d built from the river to the field. Since the rainfall in Illinois was usually sufficient during the growing season, Pappa had never needed to irrigate his crops. But Wyatt explained how the climate in the central mountain valleys was too arid to grow much of anything without the ditches.
“Might be wasting a whole lot of time growing my own hay,” he said as they urged their horses onto higher terrain up a hillside dotted in aspens, ponderosa pine, and Douglas fir. “Some say there’s enough natural grass here that we ain’t got nothing to worry about. But Judd said we should have extra in case we get a bad winter.”
“Sounds like a wise decision. Are the winters severe?”
“You’d think so since we’re out here in the middle of the Rockies. But the past couple have been pretty mild. Lots of snow, but it don’t stick around long enough here in South Park to keep the cattle from being able to graze.”
“Better to be prepared than watch your herd starve to death.”
“That’s what Judd said.” Wyatt reined in his horse and shifted to peer back over the direction they’d come.
She did the same. At the sight that met her, she sucked in a breath of amazement. The view was just as spectacular to the west as it had been a short while ago in the east when they’d watched the herd of pronghorns. A panorama of high-peaked giants lifted their bald heads to the sky. The expanse was vast against a cloudless hazy blue.
“I ain’t been here long,” he whispered reverently, “but already this land is winning me over something fierce.”
“I can see why.”
They sat in silence, taking in the landscape, letting the gentle morning breeze cool them as the sun warmed their heads. As with other times when she’d surveyed the wilderness, her thoughts turned heavenward with silent thanksgiving to the Creator who’d made such wonders.
But even as her heart swelled with praise to a God who was big enough to make the mountains and valleys and everything in between, her own insignificance taunted her. Why would the Lord of the universe care about someone so unimportant, small, and inadequate? Although she’d been taught to say her prayers, and did so regularly, she’d always wondered why God would listen to her. Not when He was busy with other more important matters elsewhere.
Of course, her stepmother and Thomas’s father, the pastor at her Illinois church, had assured her the Lord heard everyone, from the least of them to the greatest, and that He didn’t answer every prayer the way they wanted since He knew what they needed better than they did.
Greta understood that, and she believed it. But she still couldn’t shake the feeling that her concerns were too trivial for so great a God, especially her concerns over Astrid’s health. If only she had a stronger faith . . .
When Wyatt nudged his horse on, she released a sigh and put the thoughts from her mind. They rode a short distance farther into the wooded hillside before he stopped and slid down.
She was off her horse before he could come around to assist her. Already she spotted the pale purple huckleberries near the forest floor. The small plants bearing the berries were loaded, bent with the weight of the fruit.
They picked together until the area was cleared and one of their bags was full. Then they rode to another shaded grove covered with the berries. This time, she picked alone while he hiked off with his rifle to hunt, telling her he’d be no more than a hoot and holler away. Although she worked quickly and efficiently, her progress was slower by herself. And too quiet.
During his absence, she realized she’d enjoyed spending time with him. They hadn’t spoken of anything deep or revealing, but he was easy to talk to, knowledgeable, and interesting.
He reminded her of Thomas with his willingness to engage in conversation and treat her like a friend. But a current of something more told her Wyatt was no mere friend. Thomas had been ordinary, never standing out in a crowd. But Wyatt was so ruggedly handsome she couldn’t keep from noticing him. And while Thomas had always brought her a sense of peace and comfort, Wyatt made her pulse patter faster with strange anticipation.
By late morning when she’d filled all the sacks they’d brought along, she rested on a large stone near where the horses were grazing along a small brook. She’d heard several shots and guessed Wyatt had some success with hunting. She hoped that meant he’d be back soon. After the time away from the ranch, she was anxious to see how Astrid was faring. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Judd. Rather, she didn’t trust Astrid. Even when the child was sick, she wasn’t easy to handle.
At the crackle of branches in the woods behind her, she breathed out her relief and slid off the rock. “Hope you got what you came for . . .”
As she spun, her words died. Instead of Wyatt, three men stood a short distance away, their horses behind them. The tall one in the middle wore an eye patch and aimed his pistol at her.
With a thin face and gangly limbs, he had the appearance of many of the men she’d encountered since starting her journey up into the mountains—ragged and undernourished. A look that testified to the scarcity of necessities and the difficulty of life in such a wild place.
He raked his gaze from the top of her head to her boots, making her feel like a prized heifer. “Got what I came for?” He arched a brow. “Reckon maybe I just did.”
Chapter 10