Page 55 of Cloaked in Beauty

“We’ll manage.” If Letty hadn’t been as sopping as a drowned rat, she might have hugged the kind woman. “I can’t tell you how much this means . . .” Emotion choked her throat. “Truly, you’re an answer to prayer.”

The woman’s eyes softened as she held out the jar. “I thought it strange I had a hankering for chicken soup last night. I usually only eat soup in the winter. But as soon as you said your fella had taken a bad chill, I knowed it was God’s work. Ain’t been a chill created this soup can’t cure. This recipe’s been healing colds and chills in our family for four generations. You heat this up and feed it to your man. It’ll put him to rights.”

The tears Letty had banished earlier returned in force and leaked out the corners of her eyes as she accepted the jar. “Thank you for being so kind.”

The woman shooed her with an impatient hand. “Go on. Fetch your fella. The bunkhouse is unlocked. Can’t say it’s clean, but the roof don’t leak.”

It sounded like a veritable paradise compared to their current accommodations. Letty clutched the jar close to her chest and dipped her head in a small bow. “God bless you.”

The woman turned away, as if uneasy with the thanks. Either that, or she was just eager to get out of the damp. Smart lady. Letty’s fingertips already resembled prunes, yet it wasn’t her own discomfort that had her scrambling down the porch steps and splattering mud as she ran for the bunkhouse. The picture of Philip huddled beneath her poorly rigged tarp, shivering uncontrollably, spurred her haste.

She stayed only long enough to set down the jar of soup and eye the kindling box. A few scraps remained, but they’d need wood from the shed she’d spotted near the side of the house.

Having her resources scouted, she hurried back to Shadow, climbed into the saddle, and urged the mare into a slow canter.

Hang on, Philip. I’m coming.

25

Philip jerked his head up with a start. How long had he been dozing?

Letty!

His teeth chattered as he glanced around the tiny shelter, trying desperately to rid himself of the lethargy holding him captive. She wasn’t here. He had to find her. Had to—

Why couldn’t he move his legs? Philip glanced down, his foggy brain slow to identify the furry robe stretched across his lap. Not a robe. A dog. No. A wolf. Rusty. The animal’s presence should have comforted him, but it only drove the panic deeper.

He pushed at Rusty’s side as he tried to extract his legs, uncontrollable shivers stealing his dexterity. “Why aren’t y-you . . . with Letty? She shouldn’t . . . b-be alone. Too d-dangerous.”

Rusty whimpered, scrambled off Philip, and skittered out of reach. He limped as he moved, and the sight brought memories flooding back. The vicious kick that sent Rusty into the river, the struggle to escape the water’s clutches, the exhaustion and cold that had brought them both low.

Philip reached out an apologetic hand. “Sorry, p-partner. Didn’t mean . . . to h-hurt you.” Rusty allowed him to pet his head and leaned into his palm. “I gotta . . . g-get up. Find Letty.”

Rusty pulled away as Philip tried to stand. The wolf growled, and Philip swore the critter scowled at him. A hazy memory of Letty’s voice instructing her pet to stay and keep him warm filtered through his mind.

The stubborn woman had gone for help. She’d defied him. Exposed herself to needless danger. All on his account. If anything happened to her . . .

Don’t go there, Carmichael. But he couldn’t help himself. How many Pinkerton case files had he read where women were attacked, abused, or abducted by men who found them alone? Vulnerable. Unprotected. Unable to overcome the physical strength of their attackers. If Letty had knocked on the door of such a scoundrel . . .

Get up, man. You got a job to do. A woman to protect.

If he could just get his limbs to quit shaking.

Clamping his jaw shut to minimize the chattering of his teeth, Philip pressed a palm into the pine tree at his back and tried to lever himself upward. His balance wavered. His feet tangled. He lunged upward, grabbing at the tree to steady himself, and knocked the low-hanging tarp with his hat. A cascade of collected water sluiced straight down his back.

With a howl to rival Rusty, he lurched away from the tree and ducked down, bracing his hands on his knees. What was wrong with him? His brain was engulfed in so much molasses he couldn’t even figure out how to stand without causing a catastrophe.

It was the river, not the rain. That’s why he and Rusty were in such sorry states. But Rusty wasn’t stumbling over his own feet or shaking like an old man with palsy. Philip’s gaze narrowed in on the wolf. His half-dry fur. Rusty had left the river behind. Philip still carried it with him. All at once the answer became clear. He needed to get rid of the river.

Philip tried to straighten, but the tarp hindered him. Intent on his goal, he stepped out from under the protective awning and into the rain. With trembling hands, he began unfastening his slicker, but the metal buttons evaded him like rogue dogies. It took far too long to corral the ornery critters, but he eventually got the last one through the chute. He tore the slicker off his back, then reached for the buckle of his gun belt. Finding more success with this one, he whooped in triumph as the unwanted weight slid from his hips to the ground. Suspenders next. As soon as he could finagle them off his shoulders, he’d rid himself of the river-laden trousers at the heart of his misery. With them gone, he’d finally be able to shake the ice from his veins.

He concentrated so diligently on his task that he failed to recognize the sound of approaching hoofbeats until the rider was upon him. He reached for his gun and found nothing but wet wool clinging to his hip. Dad-blamed trousers. First stealing his strength and now his guns. He scratched at the waistband, but the fabric refused to cooperate. His knife! He bent at the waist, his fingers stretching toward the hidden sheath in his right boot. No trousers were going to take him down. He’d cut the fiendish things off if he had to.

Someone called his name, but he paid it no mind. He had his mission, and nothing would distract him.

“Philip! Stop!”

Someone grabbed his arm. Pulled him away from his knife. He struggled for freedom, but his nemesis threw herself against him, throwing him off-balance. Staggering backward, his heel banged against something metal, and he tripped. He grabbed for his attacker, determined to take her down with him. His hindquarters slammed against the ground, but he immediately twisted to force his opponent beneath him, pinning her to the ground as he rose above her.