Page 25 of Falling for the Cowgirl
“Yep, the fire cleaned out the whole area, not a building left.” Wyatt gave a nod of thanks to Astrid as she finished pouring him another cup of coffee.
At some point during the last part of the meal, Jerichohad lost track of Wyatt’s conversation about the forest fires burning to the north. There wasn’t anything unusual about summer fires. The Utes had the custom of setting fire to areas overgrown with brush in order to clear out the land and make room for more grazing. And there were always prospectors and settlers accidentally starting blazes from unattended campfires or flyaway sparks.
With the lack of rain, however, they’d been getting reports that the fires in the mountains to the north of Fairplay had been burning for longer than a week and the flames were spreading with growing intensity.
As Astrid rounded the table and tipped the coffeepot toward Jericho’s mug, he placed his hand over the top. “Thank you kindly. But I’m done.”
The petite girl gave him a shy smile and then turned away to return to the kitchen. If anyone would know where Ivy was, Astrid would.
He watched her retreat, his anxiety mounting until he couldn’t contain it. “Astrid?”
She spun so fast she would have sloshed the coffee out of the pot if it had been full. “Yes?”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where Ivy is, would you?”
At his query, her expression fell.
Jericho replayed the question in his mind. What about it bothered her?
“I’m sorry, Jericho. Ivy’s much too wild and independent for me to keep track of.”
Astrid’s emphasis onwildandindependentheld a note of frustration. Or derision. Jericho wasn’t sure. But he did know the girl wasn’t about to be of much help.
“She’s probably over at Flynn’s,” Greta cut in from whereshe sat in a rocker by the open window with Ryder on her lap—or at least the portion of lap not taken up by her protruding abdomen. A breeze fluttered the curtains and brushed against Greta’s flushed face. “She often stays with him for days at a time. We never know when she’s coming or going.”
Ivy always had been restless, never settling down at either one of her brother’s houses. Nevertheless, something in his gut told him she wouldn’t have run off to Flynn’s. Not at the start of their contest, not when she was desperate to earn money.
Jericho excused himself, saddled up, and started on his way to Flynn’s. Of course, Flynn had already tracked him down at the construction site and plied him for every iota of information he had about Dylan. Although Flynn’s interrogation had been more intense than Wyatt’s, in the end Flynn had extended the hand of friendship to him just like he always had.
Flynn’s place was only a mile or so to the north, and as Jericho rode the well-worn path, his gut churned with the memories that came to life the closer he drew. Memories of Nash. Memories of their last year together.
It had been a good year, better than the year spent up in the mining camps when they’d lived out of a tent and cooked their meals over an open campfire. When Flynn had gotten a telegram about Brody being in the hospital at the end of the war, he’d asked Nash to live in his house and take care of the place while he traveled east to be with Brody.
They’d given up on the gold mining, and the ranching job had been perfect for the interim. With the war over, Nash had been in contact with their dad and had been awaiting word on whether he wanted them to return to Chicago.
If only Dad had responded sooner and called them home before they’d taken over running Flynn’s ranch. Maybe then Nash would still be alive and working in Chicago for the Pinkerton Agency alongside him.
As it was, Nash had died a terrible death when they’d been out rounding up cattle in the Kenosha Range by Windy Peak. Nearly three years ago.
Jericho’s chest pinched as he visualized that day all too clearly. Rain had kept up a steady pace all morning, and in the higher elevations, it felt like ice pellets against his face. Dead, yellowed pine needles already made the way slippery, as did the few piles of leftover winter snow.
“Come on now,” Nash had said to his mare, leaning in and rubbing a gloved hand along her neck. The horse had been agitated throughout the morning, and Nash claimed it was because Hades was in the area. The tough old mustang and his band ran wild in the mountains and had before the settlers had come to the territory.
Jericho nudged his mount onward, his eagerness to reach the caves driving him. Rounding up the strays was just an excuse to do more exploring in the high mountain caverns believed to have been a hideout to the Kingston Gang during the war. Most of the gang had eventually been caught and had served justice at the end of the hangman’s noose. But rumors abounded regarding the loot the thieves had buried in the mountains—gold that might still be there.
“Maybe we better head back down,” Nash’s voice beckoned to Jericho.
“Just a little farther.” Jericho pulled his slicker over his boots. The raincoat was split up the back so that each half lay across the saddle, the long, lightweight canvas falling tohis ankles. He was still plenty warm and dry. Now that they were nearing their destination, Jericho had every intention of getting there. “We can warm up and dry out once we reach the caves.”
He waited for Nash’s protest. When it didn’t come, Jericho continued on, guiding his mount carefully over the dangerous terrain.
Behind him, Nash’s mare gave another whinny, which was followed by more of Nash’s gentle reassurance. If anyone could manage a horse, Nash could. He was a kind soul, and every horse knew it.
“She’s growing more agitated by the second.” This time Nash’s call was urgent. “We must be getting too near to Hades.”
The wild mustang was known for stirring up tamed horses and even drawing some mares away from their owners.
“I’m heading back down!” Nash shouted.
