The Lady and the Mountain Call (Mountain Dreams Series Book 5) Read online

  The Lady and the Mountain Call

  Mountain Dreams Series

  Book 5

  Misty M. Beller

  Forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before,

  I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.

  Phillipians 3:13b-14 (KJV)

  Table of Contents

  The Lady and the Mountain Call

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Check out other books by Misty M. Beller Mountain Dreams Series:

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Pre-order Bonus Material

  Prologue

  February 4th, 1879

  Mountains near Butte, Montana Territory

  SHE WAS GOING to lose both her feet. And maybe her life, too, if he didn’t do something quick.

  Bryan Donaghue nudged his horse faster to close the distance as the tiny shrew of a woman tromped through six inches of snow on the far side of the clearing wearing no shoes and only short sleeves. She was by the edge of the woods, a basket in one hand, the other clutching a rooster tight to her side. From this distance, it looked like the bird pecked steadily at her arm, but he couldn’t make out what she prattled on to the animal as she walked. She didn’t seem bothered by the blood oozing down her wrinkled hand.

  “Mrs. Scott?” He called across the thirty or so feet separating them.

  She paused to look up. “Yep?”

  As he reined his horse to a stop, a movement above her head grabbed his attention. In the tree. The branches shifted. Not the branches—an animal, long and lean. The perfect mottled brown to hide among the leafless limbs.

  A mountain lion.

  Heart pounding, he reached for his rifle and pulled it from the scabbard on the saddle, not taking his focus from the predator. Just like the animal never took its beady eyes from its prey.

  Mrs. Scott.

  He didn’t dare cry out to the woman. Any movement could make the cat strike. Instead, he cocked the Winchester and raised it to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel.

  “What ya need?” Mrs. Scott turned and started toward him.

  The cougar raised onto its all fours, tensing to leap.

  He pulled the trigger, sending a prayer heavenward that his aim would hold true against the gun’s recoil.

  A blast rent the air, then a terrific scream.

  The animal soared from the tree. It didn’t quite land on the woman, but only a few feet separated them.

  Bryan pumped the rifle’s lever and aimed again. The cat writhed on the ground, then seemed to regain its footing, again setting its sights on the woman.

  Bryan squeezed the trigger a second time. The explosion ricocheted through the clearing.

  The mountain lion slumped to the ground, motionless, as an eerie silence took over the area.

  Bryan vaulted from his horse and lunged through the snow to meet the older woman. “Are you hurt, ma’am?” A glance at the cat showed a bloody patch where the second shot had done its job.

  She turned to him, squinting against the sunlight’s reflection on ice. “What?” The rooster in her arms wiggled and pecked furiously at her restraining hand.

  “Can I help you with that bird? What are you doing in this snow without shoes and a coat? We have to get you inside.”

  She tilted her head, eyeing him as though he’d told her to stand on her head and recite the alphabet. “Why’d I wanna do that?”

  Bryan reached for the bird. The poor woman’s arm was almost mutilated by its steady pecks. At her age, she stood a strong risk of infection from the open wound growing wider by the second.

  Mrs. Scott pulled back, clutching the rooster tighter to her side. It responded with a squawk and pecked even faster.

  “Ma’am, I’ll carry that rooster wherever you want me to take him. Just let me help.” And as soon as he wrested the bird from her, he had to get the old lady out of this snow. What little he could see of the skin on her feet shone a waxy pink. It’d be a miracle akin to raising Lazarus if she came out of this with all her toes intact.

  With her wrinkled lips pinched so hard they disappeared, she finally extended the rooster to him. “I was on my way to the chopping block with this one. Gonna surprise your pa with a good stew tonight. Would you knock his head off for me, son?”

  Bryan clutched the wriggling creature in both hands. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned away and took long strides toward the chicken shed.

  The bird craned its neck to peck him.

  “No you don’t.” Just like he’d done a hundred times with his mother’s chickens, Bryan gripped both legs and hung the animal upside down.

  As he settled the rooster into the pen and secured the door behind it, his mind played through Mrs. Scott’s words. It sure sounded like she thought he was her son, not the doctor from the town five hours north. And didn’t she remember her husband had passed away two months before? He’d been worried about her mental state then. She’d seemed confused and forgetful. But nothing like this.

  He turned to face Mrs. Scott. Somehow he’d have to explain why he’d shoved the rooster back in the shed instead of knocking its head off like she’d asked. But his first priority was to get her inside so he could tend her frostbite and bleeding hand.

  But the yard was empty.

  “Mrs. Scott?” He scanned the snowy expanse between the cabin and outbuildings.

  Too many footprints marred the ground to tell which ones were most recently hers. And they were footprints—made by bare feet—not sturdy, warm boots. Not even moccasins sewn from the furs her mountain man son supplied them with. Bryan hadn’t met the man, but the Scotts said he stopped by a couple times a year. Did he have any idea yet about his father’s death or his mother’s mental state?

  Scuffling sounds drifted from the house, so Bryan headed that way at a jog.

  After a quick detour to grab his saddle pack from where Cloud stood quietly, he vaulted onto the porch. He tapped the snow from his boots, then knocked on the door and pushed it open with his knuckles.

  Mrs. Scott stood by the stove, stirring something in a big pot. “I’ve got water boiling for supper. You think you could go clean me that ol’ rooster?”

  “Um, maybe.” Bryan stepped inside the dark room. The scant bit of sunlight filtering through the single dirty window was the only thing that lit the place. No fire in the hearth, but on the opposite side of the room, a few red embers showed around the edge of the cook stove’s door. “Mrs. Scott, can I take a look at that hand? You’re still bleeding a good bit.”

  She frowned down at her hand clutching the spoon. Blood oozed down its wooden handle into whatever she was stirring. He swallowed against the b
ile churning in his stomach. No matter what she offered him to eat, there was no chance he’d accept.

  Her gaze lifted to his, and the creases in her brow furrowed even deeper. Was she trying to remember who he was? Or how she’d been injured?

  He stepped closer. “I’m Doc Bryan, ma’am. From Butte. I just stopped by to check on you. Can you sit in this chair and let me tend your wounds?” He slipped a hand around her arm, and she allowed him to lead her to one of the ladder-back chairs around the table. He had to breathe through his mouth to fight against the human stench that emanated from her.

  The bleeding at her hand didn’t seem eager to slow, probably due to her age and the thinness of her papery skin. Cayenne powder did the trick though, and he soon had it cleaned and wrapped tight.

  Next her feet. He dropped to his knees and studied the pale, waxy skin. He tentatively touched the right foot. His own fingers were cool, which made it even easier to feel the warmth radiating from her feet. Not good. That warmth was probably the tissues breaking down after being frozen.

  He glanced up at the stove. Lord, let that really be water she was heating. He found a bowl on the counter that looked mostly clean, and poured liquid from the pot. Only a slight reddish tinge colored it. This would do to rewarm her. The temperature felt about right, too.

  When he dipped her left foot into the bowl, she tried to pull it back out. “Ain’t no need to fuss about me, son. My feet are jest fine. Let me up an’ I’ll pour ya a cup of yer Mum’s good coffee.”

  Bryan pressed a hand to her forearm to hold her still. “Please, Mrs. Scott. We need to rewarm your feet to stop any more damage from the cold.”

  It took all the patience he possessed, and most of his charm, but he finally convinced the woman to relax and let him work on her feet. About five minutes into the rewarming process, the older woman took up moaning and rocking in her chair. The pain had to be intense. She didn’t voice a complaint though, despite the mottling of blue and purple as her skin came to life.

  By the time he had her feet wrapped in bandages and a blanket settled around the rest of her body, tears coursed down Mrs. Scott’s lined face.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Those feet are going to be hurting for a few days.” The pain was actually a good sign, meant maybe not all the tissue would die. He settled into the chair beside her, leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and gave his most earnest doctor expression. “You need to wear boots and a coat any time you’re outside in the winter. Can you do that for me?”

  The woman’s eyes drifted to half-mast, as though she didn’t have the strength to hold them open. Or maybe she just didn’t want to listen—or couldn’t.

  “Mrs. Scott. Did you hear me? I’m hoping I won’t have to amputate this time, but if you walk barefoot in the snow again, you might lose both your feet. It’s very dangerous to go out in the snow without shoes.”

  A soft snore drifted from her.

  Bryan sank back into his chair. What was he going to do with this woman? He sure couldn’t leave her here to fend for herself. Dementia was obviously taking a quick hold on her mind. Where was her son in all this?

  O’Hennessy, the closest neighbor, had said he would come by to check her when he could. But the man lived over an hour away, and he was already caring for the herd of cattle Mr. Scott’s death had left behind.

  Nope, there was no choice but to take her down the mountain and back to town. They could stop by O’Hennessey’s on the way and ask the man to come gather the chickens and any other animals left here. And he could leave a note for Mrs. Scott’s son. Maybe someone in town would know how to reach the man.

  ~ ~ ~

  THE WOMAN SCREAMED just like a mountain lion.

  Bryan clamped his jaw tight and tried not to squeeze Mrs. Scott’s frail arms as he did his best to lead her to the wagon. “We’re just going to make a little visit to town.”

  “Noooooooooo…” The howl would have scared off a bear if it weren’t the dead of winter. Might have even woken a few from hibernation. “You’re not going to take me.” She writhed in his arms, twisting and scratching like a wild cat.

  He pulled her closer, trying to instill a sense of protection with his touch. “It’s all right, Mrs. Sc— Ow!” Sharp teeth pierced the skin of his unprotected hands. He jerked back.

  She tore from his grip and ran like a jackrabbit toward the house.

  As he took off after her, one boot slipped on an icy porch step, and he scrambled to catch his balance. It was just the lead the woman needed, because by the time he reached the door, she’d slammed it shut.

  “Mrs. Scott?” He pounded on the door. The construction was solid, maybe a double thickness of wood. And it felt like she braced it with a metal rod. It’d not be easy to break through. “I just want to take you to the doctor’s clinic for a few days until your wounds heal.”

  “You’ll not be stealin’ me away from my Quinn. He’ll find you and hurt you somethin’ fierce if you even try.”

  Bryan let out a long breath. What was he to do now? Break down the door or shatter the window? The woman obviously thought she was being kidnapped. And even if he did find a way to get her out of the cabin, he’d have to use chloroform on the trip to town. That really would be a kidnapping, even if it were for her own good.

  He turned and scanned the yard. The Scotts' farm horses stood patiently hitched to the wagon where he’d left them, Cloud tied to the back of the conveyance.

  Maybe he could find someone in town who knew the woman. Someone who’d be willing to stay up here for a week or two to nurse her until her son could be located.

  Surely the neighbor would be willing to come check her tomorrow. By the next day, Bryan could have a nurse sent up.

  As it was, he couldn’t stay any longer himself. Claire had been expecting him back two days before and was probably pacing the floor from worry by now. And the baby. How much had little Amanda grown in these five days he’d been gone? She’d just started holding her head up in the last week. And that smile she’d gifted him with the last time he held her…

  Yep, it was time to go home.

  Chapter One

  February 5th, 1879

  Butte, Montana Territory

  “I’M SURE HE’LL be back today, Claire.” Cathleen Donaghue watched her sister-in-law pace to the window again and peer out at the dreary, snow-covered town. Claire and Bryan’s home had been built on the outskirts of Butte, making it feel slightly removed from the business of the city. “Bryan’s probably just delayed with a patient, but he’ll come as soon as he can.”

  Claire turned troubled eyes to Cathleen. “He’s never been two days late from a trip to the mountains, though.”

  The infant propped on Cathleen’s shoulder let out a squawk and started rooting toward her neck. She bobbed with her little niece and rubbed her back. “Go feed this girl before dinner’s ready. I need to help with the food.”

  As Cathleen handed little Amanda to her worried mother, she sent up another prayer for Bryan’s safety. Her brother was stubborn at times, but he usually had the good sense required to stay safe on the icy mountain trails. If only he weren’t always so focused on the needs of his patients. He was going to give his poor wife an apoplexy one of these days.

  A quarter hour later, Cathleen stepped back out of the kitchen, leading her boisterous one-year-old nephew, William. Her sisters-in-law seemed to have the food preparations well under control. “I guess we’ll occupy ourselves out here, huh, mister?” She eyed the neat stack of toys in the corner. "Let's see if we can find the animals?"

  The stomp of boots on the porch jerked her attention to the door. Was that her other brother and the minister, coming in from the church? They’d all planned to meet here for lunch. Bryan was supposed to have been a part of the lunch gathering, but he’d have to make it home first.

  The door pushed open, and in stepped the weary traveler, her eldest brother Bryan. He was bundled in his winter coat and pushed the fur-lined hood off as he s
tepped into the room.

  “It’s about time you showed up.” Cathleen offered a smile to soften the sassy words. “Claire was about to go looking for you.”

  He eased out a long sigh as he unfastened the button closures on his coat. “Got held up at the Scott ranch. Poor Mrs. Scott’s dementia is getting bad. Had to treat her for frostbite and severe chicken pecking before I could leave. Got too late to make it down the mountain last night, so I had to wait until today.”

  “Bryan?” Claire appeared in the bedroom doorway, relief flooding her voice. A blanket was wrapped around her front and draped across her shoulders.

  His hands dropped from his buttons with two still to go as his gaze found his wife’s. In three steps he crossed the room and took her in his arms.

  “You’re home.” Claire snuggled into his embrace as a muffled complaint drifted from under the blanket in her arms.

  Cathleen turned away from the tender scene, as much to squelch the yearning in her chest as to give them privacy. Both her brothers had found such happiness here. It was good to see. Good to have helped these past three months as their families grew. But the baby was older and maybe now “Aunt Cathy” wasn’t needed so much anymore. Maybe it was time to move on.

  Would she ever have a family of her own? According to Dad and her two big brothers, no suitor had ever been acceptable. Not that she’d pushed hard for any particular man. She’d never thought herself picky, but shouldn’t a girl feel…something…for a prospective husband? Shouldn’t there be some kind of spark?

  Pushing those thoughts aside, she carried William to the toys and settled cross-legged on the floor. She tried to snuggle him in her lap as she pulled out the carved animal collection, but the restless toddler would have none of it. So she let him loose and exclaimed over each animal he showed her.

  But between the cows and horses and ducks, she couldn’t stop her mind from wandering. Should she go back home to Boston? It was only February, so there weren’t likely to be ships traveling the Missouri River yet. The water could even be frozen for all she knew. She’d have to talk through it with her brothers to see if there was another way back across the country.