Unending Devotion (Michigan Brides #1)(31)
“God,” he whispered through chattering teeth, “I don’t ever ask you for much.” Come to think of it, he hadn’t really asked God for anything since that night two years prior when he’d caught Rosemarie in Tierney’s arms.
His pulse pounded with a fresh spurt of anger at the memory of his brother fondling Rosemarie—especially considering Tierney wasn’t married to the girl. In fact, Rosemarie had been engaged to another man. Namely him.
Connell fought to erase the picture of Rosemarie that day and the passion displayed across her delicate features—a passion that she’d never shown toward him. Of course, he’d always regarded her with virtue, as Mam had taught him.
Apparently Tierney had forgotten that lesson.
“God,” Connell tried again, “I haven’t asked you for much. So if you could help me out now, I’d be grateful.”
He held the lantern higher and strained to see through the curtain of blowing snow to the blackness beyond. He called Lily’s name, but the wind carried it away into the abyss of darkness.
What if she’d wandered away from the tracks? With the growing snow and drifting, the tracks were well covered. In the denseness of the falling snow, it would only take one misstep to lose the ties, to get off course, and to get hopelessly lost.
His arm grew tired from holding the lantern and his voice hoarse with the effort of calling. Even though it was useless, he kept at it for the slim chance the wind would carry his voice to her.
After what seemed hours, but was only another thirty minutes, he slid off his mare. Frustration gnawed at his stomach like a bitter acid. The snow reached midcalf, and he estimated that an additional three inches covered the ground from when he’d left Harrison.
Although he’d been anxious for more snow after the past week, he couldn’t find any joy in it now. Instead, he’d never wanted to curse it as much as he did at that moment.
“Lily!” he called again. He plodded forward, leading his horse with one hand and holding the flickering lantern with the other. His body was stiff from the cold and he couldn’t bear to think how frozen Lily was—if she was even still alive.
The northern wind that had swept down from Canada had made it increasingly hard to breathe, and he finally pulled a scarf over his mouth and nose.
When the tip of his boot thumped against something, his heart crashed hard against his chest.
He bent down and dug through the drifting snow.
“Oh, thank you, God.” His hands made contact with a body curled into a tight ball. He brushed the snow away and found his gloved fingers tangled in Lily’s beautiful hair.
He dragged her limp body into his arms. Her face was pale, her lips blue, her eyes closed—almost as if she were already dead.
With an anguished groan he tore off one of his gloves. His red, raw fingers fumbled at her neck for any sign of a pulse. Too impatient and his fingers too cold to work, he brought them to her lips and waited for an agonizing moment.
Oh, God, let there be a breath, even a small one.
“Wake up, Lily.” He shook her, suddenly desperate. “Wake up.”
Her eyelids fluttered, a soft breath touched his fingers, and then her eyes opened.
An ache of weary gratefulness rose up his throat and stung his eyes. “You’re alive.”
“Connell,” she whispered, her eyes drinking in the sight of him in a way that sent warmth first to his belly and then to his arms and legs.
Her long thick lashes fell to her pallid cheeks, and her breathing faded. From the limpness of her body, the color of her skin, and the shallowness of her breathing, he knew he didn’t have time to take her all the way back to Harrison.
He had to find a way to warm her body back up. Immediately. Her life depended on it.
A fresh spurt of panic ripped through him.
He tore through his pack for the blankets. With shaking hands he managed to bundle her within them. Even as he situated her in front of him on the horse, he knew his feeble efforts weren’t enough. He turned the mare back toward Harrison, his mind scrambling to calculate exactly where he was and which lumber camp was closest.
Did he dare leave the railroad track and attempt to find a camp? What if he got lost?
The denseness of the blowing snow had the makings of a blizzard. Even if he stumbled across a narrow gauge and followed it to one of the camps, his gut told him Lily wouldn’t make it that long.
But maybe there was someone or something else closer. A deserted Indian lodge? An old trapper cabin?
For a long moment, his thoughts traveled back over every inch of the Pere Marquette, adding each mile, searching for anything. “The Sweeny hut,” he finally said with a jolt of renewed energy.
If his estimates were correct, he’d come exactly 4.3 miles. The old Sweeny hut would only be another eight hundred feet up the railroad and then fifty feet to the east of the tracks.
He struggled to turn forward and urged his horse. He clung to Lily with one arm and his lantern with the other, hoping the oil would hold out until he found the hut. And he desperately prayed his computations were correct. If he was off by just a few feet, they would end up lost in the forest.
By the time he guided his horse off the railway, his arms and back ached from holding Lily, and his thighs burned with the effort of gripping his beast. But he forced himself to keep going, measuring each step with precision, knowing their lives depended upon it.