Текст книги "Tempting the Highlander"

Автор книги: Джанет Чапмен

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“It’s on MacKeage land, but it belongs to anotherdrùidh.” Daar shifted nervously. “And it’s not exactly a book but a tree.”

“A tree.”

“Aye,” he confirmed, nodding. “A large oak growing deep in the forest about three or four miles from the MacKeage village.”

“You expect me to bring back a tree?”

Daar held up his hands about ten inches apart. “Just a wee section of it,” he quickly assured him. “From the tap root.”

“What does a tree have to do with a book of spells?”

Daar gestured impatiently. “It’s a tree of life, MacBain. They’re scattered throughout the world and can only be propagated from their tap roots, not their seed. But each tree is nurtured by adrùidh and its knowledge carefully guarded so that life’s continuum won’t be disturbed.”

“And if I bring you back a piece of this root, you’ll have the knowledge to rework your spell?”

“Aye. I’ll grow a new tree, and then I’ll be able to keep the Highlanders here.”

Robbie eyed him suspiciously. “It takes a long time to grow a tree.”

“It will be large enough by this summer’s solstice.”

“That’s cutting it close.”

“Aye,” Daar agreed. “But I have little choice. Which is why you have only two weeks to get the root.”

“Two weeks?”

Daar nodded. “This won’t be resolved in one trip. Tonight you’ll look over the situation, then decide the best way to proceed. Take off those modern clothes,” he instructed, going over to the boulder and picking up a length of cloth and a wide leather belt.

“This is my MacKeage plaid,” Daar continued, holding it out to Robbie. “From when I lived with them in the old days. It should help ya move around inconspicuously. Ya do remember your Gaelic, don’t you?”

Robbie stiffened. “You’re not coming with me?”

“Nay. My presence would be known immediately.”

Robbie hesitated, then finally slid his pack and sword off his shoulders, shrugged out of his coat, and started unbuttoning his shirt. “How will I recognize this tree?” he asked, unbuckling his belt.

“Ya can’t miss it,” Daar assured him. “It’s larger than all the other trees, gnarled with eons of wisdom, and carries the mark of itsdrùidh, Cùram.”

Robbie went utterly still. “Thedrùidh is a guardian?” he whispered, obviously recognizing the Gaelic title.

Daar snorted. “He’s a lot of things, including a blackheart and a tricky bastard. That’s why ya must look the situation over carefully and not rush into anything.”

“How old is this Cùram?”

“He’s a young man like yourself,” Daar told him as Robbie pulled off his boots and stepped out of his pants. Daar sucked in his breath at the sight of the imposingly naked warrior. “This just might work,” he whispered, handing him the plaid.

Robbie stopped wrapping the cloth around himself and raised an eyebrow. “You have doubts?”

“Nay,” Daar said quickly, holding out the belt. “Only worries. I know you’re well trained, Robbie, and highly motivated.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Ya can take Mary with ya, if ya want.”

The young warrior looked off to his right at the snowy owl sitting on one of the boulders not a hundred yards away.

“She doesn’t much care for you,” Robbie said, looking back at Daar. He shook his head.

“I’ll not put Mary in danger.”

Daar snorted. “That blasted bird can take care of herself.” He canted his head skyward.

“In fact, she might enjoy a chance to see your papa’s homeland.”

Robbie wasn’t paying him any mind but had walked over to the snowy and was holding out his hand. Mary opened her wings and hopped onto his arm.

Robbie returned and pulled his sword from its sheath. “How do I get back here?” he asked. “And when? You mentioned sunrise. Does that mean I have only twelve hours in the past?”

“Nay. Ya might be days in the old time. But,” Daar said, cutting him off before he could argue, “it will only be the length of one night in this time. No matter how long you’re gone, you’ll always be back by sunrise.”

Robbie nodded and turned to the setting sun. “How are your planets looking now, priest?” he asked.

“They’re ready for us to begin. Here,” he added, holding out his hand. “Take this cherrywood burl from my staff. When ya’re ready to come back, grasp it in your fist and merely will yourself home.”

Robbie took the knot of wood, looked down at himself, and laughed. “No pockets,” he said, looking back at Daar.

“Tuck it in your belt. Are ya ready?”

“Not quite,” Robbie whispered, turning to face him. “If something should go wrong… if I don’t come back, I want your promise you’ll tell my father and Greylen what’s happened. And promise you’ll give them the chance to stop your spell from sending them back.” He stepped closer. “They have the right to fight for their lives, even if it means they die trying.”

Daar clutched his staff to his chest and nodded.

“And tell my father about the woman on West Shoulder Ridge.”

Daar nodded again.

Robbie stepped away, tucking Mary against his chest and covering her with the hilt of his sword. “Then do it now, priest!”

Daar raised his staff, closed his eyes, and began chanting his spell to move matter through time. He implored the elements to gather into a collective charge, coaxing the churning energy into the tip of his glowing staff.

A rolling darkness swept over the mountain, sparked with flashes of blinding light and thunderous heat. The wind rose, howling in protest of the unnatural happening.

Daar pointed his staff at Robbie. Fingers of energy arced toward the warrior, sending tendrils of pulsing colors around him, the air screaming at the disruption of time.

“Godspeed, MacBain!” Pendaär shouted, bracing himself for the final jolt as the storm tightened smaller and smaller.

The blow came in an angry boom, shaking the mountain, cascading pebbles and displacing boulders in a deafening growl.

And as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. A peaceful silence returned, and dusk softly blanketed the mountain. The sun was set, winter abandoned to the first night of spring. And Daar could only stare, clutching his spent staff to his chest, at where Robbie had stood.

“Aye. Godspeed,” he whispered.

Chapter Four

Robbie spotted thelow-hanging branch just in time to avoid getting his head knocked off. He ducked without breaking stride and scrambled down the bank to the stream, catching himself from falling by using his sword like a cane.

Mary called from somewhere upstream, her piercing whistle carrying through the dark forest in urgent echoes. Robbie splashed into the frigid water, slipping on the loose rocks, falling once and stubbing his bare toe on a piece of ledge.

The breaking limbs behind him sounded like gunshots as the four warriors closed in, their battle cries filling the night air with menace.

Robbie wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his sword hand, pressed his right hand more firmly against his throbbing side, and sloshed out of the stream and up the opposite bank, breaking back into a run.

He’d quietly been going about his nightly business of searching for Cùram’s tree when the attack had come, unprovoked and completely unexpected. The chase had been going on for over three miles now, and Robbie didn’t know if the ambushing bastards were merely out for a night’s sport or if they truly were as inept as they appeared. Either way, he was reaching the end of his strength, and if he didn’t turn and fight, the chase itself would likely kill him.

He stopped on a clearing of ledge and turned, planting his feet and lifting his sword, preparing to skewer the first man who broke through the trees.

He heard them floundering in the stream, heard them curse, then heard two separate shouts and a loud splash.

Robbie pulled his right hand from his side and rubbed his fingers together to see if the blood was congealing, then looked down at the deep gash on his hip, squinting to see it in the stingy moonlight.

Dammit, one of the ambushing bastards had tried to slice him in half and might have succeeded if Robbie hadn’t knocked his sword away just in time. He took a deep breath, tightened his belt to add more pressure to the wound, wiped the blood off his palm on his plaid, and used both hands to steady his sword.

Mary called again. Robbie looked up and saw the snowy flying through the trees toward the stream.

“Nay!” he shouted in Gaelic, automatically speaking the language he’d been using for the last three days. “You will not be part of this game, little one,” he said quietly, knowing she could hear him.

He stepped back into the forest, just off to the side of the path he’d made, and hid behind a large oak. Hell, if it had worked for the ambushing bastards, it could work for him.

The first warrior broke into the clearing, and Robbie let him pass unchallenged. The second and third men, both dripping wet, also ran by. Robbie stuck out his foot, tripping the fourth bastard, then used the flat of his sword to propel him into his comrades. And with a battle cry of his own, he sprang toward them, his sword aimed at the downed warrior. He checked his movement at just the last second, piercing soft skin and slicing upward until the man screamed in pain.

The other three appeared so surprised by the attack that they actually backed away.

Robbie advanced, arcing his sword in an upward motion, then carefully slicing it across the chests of the two closest men.

The fourth bastard finally gathered his wits and brought his own sword up in defense, thrusting forward just as Robbie stepped to the side, slid his sword between the man’s thighs, and lifted. The shocked warrior sucked in his breath and went utterly still.

Robbie raised his sword a little bit higher, just to make sure the man understood the gravity of his situation.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said in Gaelic, passing a warning glance at the other three men. “I

’ve had enough sport for one night. What say we call it a draw?” He lifted his sword even higher, causing the warrior to whimper. “Or will you let your friend’s bed be cold and lonely from now on?”

It seemed none of them wished to address his challenge.

“Okay, then. Set down your weapons, while this gentleman,” he said, nodding toward his captive, “takes off his plaid.”

All four sets of eyes rounded in the stingy moonlight.

“Now!” Robbie snapped.

The warrior whose manhood was being threatened immediately dropped his sword and started undoing his belt. The bastard with the bleeding backside rolled away from his own sword and awkwardly scrambled to his feet with a groan. The other two, each clutching his chest with one hand, bent down and gently set their swords on the ground.

Robbie nodded. “That’s better.” He reached out and took the man’s plaid. “And now I suggest you start running back the way you came, just as fast as your sorry-ass legs can take you. And I want to hear your war cry, and it had better be moving away. Go!” he growled, dropping the tip of his sword and stepping back.

The two warriors with bleeding chests grabbed their buddy with the bleeding ass and quickly staggered back down the path toward the stream. The naked warrior, however, seemed unable to move.

“If I ever catch ya on MacKeage land again, I’ll have your balls hanging from our keep.”

Still the man didn’t move.

“Or would you rather I do it now?”

The bastard didn’t need to be told a third time and shot after the others, his naked white butt flashing through the trees and disappearing into the dense forest.

“I’m not hearing ya!” Robbie shouted.

Muted cries rose from the forest, along with snapping limbs and groaned curses as the four of them scrambled away. Robbie turned and kicked their swords into the trees, tossed the stolen plaid over his shoulder, and headed in the opposite direction.

He ran until the wound in his side made him stop. He stood bent over, his hands braced on his knees, panting against the throbbing pain. Mary silently glided in, landing on the ground in front of him. She folded her wings and stared.

“I know this isn’t where we arrived three days ago,” he said in a winded whisper, gingerly lowering himself to the ground. “But it’s as far as I’m going tonight.”

Mary sidled closer and nipped his shoulder.

“We didn’t ask the priest if I have to stand in the exact place I landed when I want to return,” he continued. “But what’s the worst that could happen? We’ll probably get back only a mile or two from the summit of TarStone.”

He lay back on the moss, spread his arms wide, closed his eyes, and sighed. “I just need to rest awhile,” he whispered. “The last three days here have been rather… eventful.”

Mary hopped up onto his chest, turned her back to him, and used her beak to tug on his belt.

Robbie let out a pained chuckle. “I do believe the bastards wanted to kill me.” He lifted the stolen MacBain plaid and laid it over the MacKeage plaid he was wearing, groaning when his wound twitched in protest. “There’s some irony in that.”

Mary finally tugged the cherrywood burl free.

“Soon, little one, once I get my strength back,” Robbie whispered. “If my own ancestors didn’t kill me, that godless storm likely will.”

Mary paid him no mind, holding the burl in her beak as she spread her wings to encompass his body. It began as a whisper of breath first, slowly building to a loud, roaring wind. The air thickened and churned above him as lightning filled the sky with gathering energy.

Robbie gripped the hilt of his sword, gritted his teeth, and closed his eyes against the blinding tempest. The weight of the snowy suddenly lifted from his chest and was replaced by the plop of the humming cherrywood burl.

“Nay!” Robbie shouted, trying to catch her.

The bird beat her wings, powering herself out of his reach, and let out a loud, shrilling whistle as she disappeared into the night forest.

The storm tightened around Robbie with a deafening roar, drowning out his own howl of anger. He collapsed back onto the ground, clutching his sword and the MacBain plaid to his chest. He gritted his teeth against the pain he knew was coming. He hoped like hell that Daar was right, that although he’d been here three hellish days, he’d been gone from modern time only one night.

Robbie’s last conscious thought, though, as the vortex consumed him, was of the Highlanders back home. The six MacBain and four MacKeage warriors who had disappeared ten years ago were now legends, and the war his papa had started was still going strong.

And Cùram de Gairn’s tree of spells did not exist.

Chapter Five

Catherine Daniels satupright in bed when the lightning strike cracked so loud the cabin shook. She turned to check on her children and was both amazed and relieved to see they were still asleep. She climbed out of bed, felt her way across the cold floor of the rustic cabin, and quietly wrestled open the half-rotten wood door.

What in heck was going on around here? This was the second thunderstorm since last night, but the sky was filled with stars that faintly shone in the gentle light of dawn.

Maine had the weirdest weather. One day it was snowing, the next day raining, and the next day it was warm enough that they didn’t even need their jackets. And now thunderstorms but no rain and lightning without clouds.

She couldn’t wait to leave this desolate place, though for the life of her she didn’t know which direction to travel. She’d gone as far north as she could without bumping into Canada, and the thought of actually traveling to another country was simply too scary.

She’d been on the run two and a half months, since she’d received the letter from the parole board, and she still didn’t feel she’d run far enough. Ron had nearly caught up with them in Iowa, and it was then that Catherine realized she couldn’t go to her childhood home; she had to find the last place he would think to look for her. And Ron knew she despised cold weather and that she’d had enough of rural settings growing up on a ranch in Idaho. In fact, she was counting on him expecting her to find a crowded city, and she hoped he was hunting for them in Chicago.

She’d made the right decision to change course abruptly and come to Maine, though having her car die had certainly put an end to her options. And then she’d gone and lost her backpack and a good chunk of her money to that huge, frightening man who kept chasing her.

“It’s cold, Mommy. Close the door.”

Catherine turned and wrestled the door shut, careful not to tear it off its rusted hinges.

“Sorry, sweetie,” she said, lighting the candle on the table. The old one-room hunting cabin they’d stumbled onto six days ago filled with dim light, and she walked back to the sagging bed. “Did you sleep well?” She brushed the hair off her daughter’s face, feeling her forehead for a fever. “Your breathing sounded a lot better last night. I think your cold is gone.”

“Does that mean we can leave today? I don’t like it here, especially when you leave us alone.”

Catherine leaned over and kissed her forehead, then ruffled her hair. “Maybe tomorrow, sweetie. I still have to find us some new transportation.”

“They don’t have buses or taxis this far out,” Nathan interjected, rubbing his sleepy eyes. “We’ll have to hitchhike.”

“Hitchhiking is not an option,” Catherine told him, reaching over and feeling his forehead.

He pulled away. “I ain’t sick.”

“I’mnot sick,” she corrected, going over to the rusty old woodstove and opening the door to prod the dying embers.“Ain’t is not a word.”

“Is too,” Nathan countered, climbing over his sister and out of bed. “Johnny showed it to me in the dictionary.”

“Johnny Peters is one of your friends I don’t miss. Andain’t is not aproper word.”

Nathan walked up and handed her the last piece of wood in the box. “Then how come they put it in the dictionary?” he asked. “TheF -word’s in there, too. And so ain’tdamn.”

Catherine sighed, closed the stove door, and absently wiped the rust on her hands onto her pants. “People are judged by their language, Nathan. And using words likeain’t anddamn and theF -word gives the impression they’re ignorant.”

“I don’t saydamn, Mommy,” Nora piped in, climbing out of bed, only to suck in her breath when her socked feet touched the cold floor. “I wanna go home,” she whispered, jumping back into bed. “It’s too cold here. And dark. It’s dark all the time.”

“The days are lengthening,” Catherine assured her, finding Nora’s shoes and putting them on her feet. “It’s almost spring. It’ll warm up.”

“Can we come with you this morning?” Nathan asked, slipping into his sneakers and grabbing his jacket from the peg. “Nora cries the whole time you’re gone.”

“Here, I’ll walk you both to the outhouse,” she said, grabbing Nora’s jacket and putting it on her. “And check for raccoons before you go inside. Remember what happened last time.”

“Can we go with you, Mommy?” Nora asked, echoing her brother with pleading eyes.

“We’ll be real good. We promise.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Catherine whispered, squatting down to her level. “I don’t leave you here because I think you’ll be bad but because your daddy is looking for a woman and two children. If I go into town alone, no one will remember me once I’m gone. But they will remember a strange woman with two children, and if your dad comes through here asking questions, they’ll tell him they saw us.”

“We could hide in the bushes close to town,” Nathan said. “Just don’t leave us way up here.”

Catherine straightened, opened the door, and urged them outside. “Okay,” she agreed.

“You can come with me today, but you can’t go in the store.”

“Can we go steal eggs with you?” Nathan asked, walking backward to look up at her as they walked toward the outhouse.

“I did not steal those eggs. I bought them.”

“You were pretty winded when you got back the other day. And the eggs were broken,”

he said as he turned and slowly opened the outhouse door. “And then you lost your backpack.”

Nora stood far out of the way while both Catherine and Nathan peered inside. “It’s clear,” he said, quickly forgetting their conversation. “Me first.”

But Nora beat him to it and slammed the half-rotten door shut behind her. Nathan turned to Catherine. “Are you going to steal a car too, Mom?” he whispered.

“Of course not. Now that your sister’s feeling better, I’m going to find a job.”

“A job?” he squeaked, his eyes rounding. “We’re gonna stay here?”

Catherine looked at her eight-year-old son and shrugged. “It’s the end of the line for us, Nathan,” she said softly, pulling him away from the outhouse so Nora wouldn’t hear them. “There’s nowhere else to run. And we’re almost out of money. I have just enough left to either buy us a cheap car or rent a place to stay. But if I spend the money on a car, then we won’t have any money left to buy gas. And we can’t keep running forever, honey.”

“But then Dad will find us,” he whispered. “You said we gotta be careful about things like credit cards and your social number. That he can use them to find us.”

“It’s a social security number,” she told him, squatting down to eye level and tugging on his coat with a smile. “But maybe I could be a seamstress and work out of our apartment. That way, I won’t have to give any numbers to anyone.”

Catherine nodded at hearing her own thoughts of the last few days. She’d been mulling over the possibility of stopping long enough to earn some money, and voicing it out loud actually made it sound plausible.

“We can really get a place? With our own bathroom and a kitchen?” Nathan asked, his eyes lighting with excitement. “And you can bake us cookies again?”

Catherine reached out and hugged her young son to her chest, pushing his head down on her shoulder so he couldn’t see her misting eyes. For two and a half months, she’d been riddled with guilt and fear. What she was putting her precious children through was unconscionable, but letting Ron Daniels anywhere near them again was even more unthinkable. She had risked her life in the hopes of getting seven or eight years of freedom—enough to get her babies grown and safe—but the state of Arkansas had given her only three.

“I can work, too,” Nathan told her, clinging tightly. “I’m big now.”

“You are big,” she said, squeezing him just as tightly. “You take care of your sister, find us firewood, and help me out a lot.” She patted his back and stood up, took his hand, and walked to the outhouse. “Did you fall in?” she called to Nora.

A tiny giggle came through the door. “I’m done,” the little girl shouted, bursting out the door. “The only reason I don’t mind the cold is no spiders,” she said with a shiver, moving so Nathan could go in next. “We really can go with you today?”

“Yes,” Catherine told her, leading her back to the cabin. “Your cold is much better, so you can make the hike. And I’ll even buy you treats for being such wonderful children.”

Nora skipped on ahead but couldn’t get the heavy cabin door open. Catherine picked up two pieces of wood from the dwindling pile outside and opened the door. She put the wood in the stove and started rummaging through the small assortment of cans for something she could heat up for breakfast.

Not two minutes later, Nathan came bursting through the door, his eyes wild and his face as white as snow. “There’s a dead man in the woods!” he shouted, running up and grabbing her arm. “Come on, Mom. We have to get out of here!”

Nora let out a scream and threw herself at Catherine.

Catherine leaned down and stopped Nathan from tugging on her, taking him by the shoulders to look him in the eye. “Are you sure you saw a man?” she asked softly. “And not a funny-looking log?”

His eyes huge with fright, Nathan nodded. “I almost stepped on him.” He took a deep breath. “I was looking for firewood up on the hill,” he said with another gulp, pointing at the back cabin wall. “He’s… he’s only half dressed. And he’s dead.”

Nora whimpered, burying her face in Catherine’s sweater.

Catherine took a steadying breath of her own. “Nathan,” she said calmly. “How do you know he’s dead?”

“I… I poked him with a stick, and he didn’t move.”

Catherine gently pried her daughter off her. “You sit on the bed and wait for us, sweetie,” she told her. “Nathan, show me where this man is, then come back and sit with your sister.”

She urged him toward the door, only to have Nora grab her sweater again and stop her.

“I’m not staying here!” the girl cried. “Don’t leave me!”

“Okay,” Catherine said softly. “We’ll all go.”

She opened the door and took hold of their hands, letting Nathan lead them around the side of the cabin. They walked up the hill a little over two hundred yards, then Nathan stopped and pointed.

“There,” he whispered. “On the other side of that tree.”

Catherine turned both of her children to face her. “I want you to stay right here,” she told them. “Right by this stump. Nathan, hold your sister’s hand,” she instructed, putting Nora’s hand in his. “And don’t either of you follow me.”

“Mom!” Nathan hissed. “We have to leave! Whoever killed him might still be here!”

Catherine forced herself not to look around but kept her eyes on her children. “We don’t know that someone killed him. He could have had an accident. I have to go see,” she gently told them. “And if he is dead, then we’ll leave. We’ll go tell the authorities.”

She hesitated only long enough to make sure they stayed put, then turned and walked toward the tree Nathan had pointed to. It took all of Catherine’s willpower to make her legs move. She’d never seen a dead body other than in a casket, and those had looked rather tranquil, as if they were sleeping.

Was the dead man bloody? Gruesome? Ravaged by wild animals? No. Nathan had poked him. He wouldn’t have stayed around long enough to do that if the man had been mutilated.

Catherine stopped just before the tree and looked to make sure her children hadn’t followed. Nora was clinging to Nathan, who was hugging her back, both of them staring at Catherine with wide, terrified eyes. She smiled assurance, turned back to the tree, took a deep breath, and stepped around it.

Well, she definitely wasn’t looking at a log. It was a man, all right, and he certainly did appear dead.

Catherine leaned around the tree to see her children in the strengthening sunrise. “I’m just going to check if he’s alive,” she told them, so they wouldn’t panic when she moved out of sight.

“Mommy!” Nora wailed. “Come back!”

“It’s okay, sweetie. Nothing bad is going to happen. You and Nathan just wait one more minute.”

Catherine turned back to the half-naked man and stepped closer, picked up the stick Nathan must have used to poke him, and held it like a club. She took another step closer, studying him.

He was a huge man, well over six feet tall, with dark auburn hair and several days’

growth of beard shadowing the harsh planes of his face. He was wrapped in a length of plaid cloth, cinched around his waist with a wide leather belt. There was another, different-colored plaid lying beside him.

Catherine took a quick step back when she noticed the long sword clutched in his left hand, half covered with leaves and the edge of the plaid blanket he was wearing.

A sword?

The man looked like Mel Gibson inBraveheart, only scarier.

She crept closer and slowly bent down, keeping her stick poised to strike. She reached out and touched his shoulder, only to gasp at the realization that he was warm.

Not dead. Unconscious.

Catherine scanned his body and saw the blood seeping through the cloth on his right side. She also noticed several scratches on both his arms and legs, some of them deep.

Only half of his broad chest was covered by the cloth, and she could see a large gash on his right shoulder. There was a bruise on his left cheek and another one on his temple.

He’d been in some sort of fight. She leaned forward, still careful not to touch him, and saw a good deal of blood covering the ground.

“Mommy!” Nora shouted.

Catherine stood up and leaned past the tree. “I’m okay, sweetie. And he’s not dead, he’s unconscious. He’s bleeding quite badly, though.”

“Then come back, Mom,” Nathan hissed. “We gotta leave before he wakes up.”

Catherine looked back at the man. If she didn’t stop that bleeding, he never was going to wake up. She looked back at her children.

“Nathan, I want you to go get that old wheelbarrow from behind the outhouse and bring it here. Nora, walk over to me and stand next to this tree.”

“No!” Nora cried, shrinking back.

“It’s okay,” Catherine assured her, holding out her hand for her to come. “He can’t hurt us. He’s just a poor wounded man who needs our help. Go, Nathan,” she said more firmly. “He’s bleeding to death.”

Nathan urged his sister forward, then turned and ran back down the hill to the outhouse.

Nora walked over slowly, her eyes rounded in apprehension.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, sweetie,” Catherine said softly. “Come see for yourself.

He’s just a man.”

Nora finally reached the tree and sidled up to it, hugging it for protection, and peered at the ground behind Catherine.

“See?” Catherine said. “He can’t hurt you.”

“He… he’s big,” Nora whispered.

“Yes, he is. And he’s hurt real bad, baby, and we have to help him.”

Nora looked up at her mother. “Can’t we call an ambulance?”

“I’d have to run down the mountain to call one, and he could die before an ambulance can get here. We have to take care of him ourselves,” Catherine explained, turning back to the man. She set down her stick and started loosening his belt enough to slide it out of the way. “Now that you see there’s nothing to be afraid of, can you do me a favor, Nora?”

“Wh-what?”

“Can you run back to the cabin and get me a towel?”

“The blue one?” the little girl asked.

“The blue one would be just fine,” Catherine assured her, carefully peeling back the sticky cloth. “And grab a couple pairs of my wool socks and bring them also,” she called to the retreating girl.

She looked back at the man. He was covered head-to-toe with dirt and leaves, and his skin, even his tanned face, was ashen.

Catherine slowly lifted the cloth away from his right side, sucking in her breath at the sight of the ugly gash just above his hip bone. It was about six inches long, and deep, the skin pulled wide as blood slowly oozed from it.

“Well, mister, we may have found you just in time,” she whispered, gently prodding the cut to see if anything more than blood was involved. No organs or intestines popped out, and Catherine blew a small sigh of relief. She wasn’t up to performing internal surgery, but her many years assisting her dad in his veterinary practice had left her capable of stitching closed a wound like this one.