Sweet Boundless by Kristen Heitzmann

Author:Kristen Heitzmann [Heitzmann, Kristen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780764207143
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2010-06-25T20:00:00+00:00

Quillan felt the rope dig into his back, but against his chest was Carina’s softness. She whimpered as he strained against the rope, hoisting them up with muscles already pushed beyond their strength. The shaft wouldn’t end, and his arms throbbed and bunched, cramping and shaking, and all the while Mrs. Shepard was laughing.

“You’ ll never be anything but a savage like your father.” And the laugh. The diabolical laugh.

One hand slipped, the flesh of his palm burning. Carina whimpered again, and suddenly the rope that bound them snapped. He lurched, grasping for her, but she slipped away and fell down the shaft, into the darkness, like a small white bird with raven hair.

“Carina!” His muscles cramped and he fell, the air rushing by bitter cold, freezing him stiff, rendering him mute. The darkness was complete.

“Quillan.” Light streamed in, and Quillan opened his eyes to Horace Tabor.

“What are you trying to do? Freeze to death?” Tabor’s breath made a cloud when he spoke.

Quillan sat up, teeth chattering. He was stiff and sore with cold and shaking from the dream. He bunched his blankets against his chest and stared at Horace Tabor as he might an apparition from beyond the grave.

“Great scott, man! This isn’t weather for a beast to sleep out in.” He patted Sam’s head when he whined his agreement.

Quillan allowed Tabor to help him stand. The temperature must have plummeted in the night, and he was weak with cold. Stupid. He could have frozen in his tent, with no one the wiser.

“Come on. Augusta can warm your insides with coffee and I’ll make a fire to blaze the chill from your bones.”

Quillan walked stiffly beside him with Sam at his heels. Why Horace Tabor should have concerned himself with one stupid freighter too stubborn to sleep in the hotel, where some meager warmth would have kept his body temperature at a functioning level, was beyond him.

“Come on, my boy. Not much farther.”

Quillan wondered if he’d ever been called “my boy.” Alan, of course, had designated him “boyo,” and Cain on occasion had called him son. Each time it had sent a liquid warmth through Quillan. This wasn’t like that, but it eased something frozen inside. Tabor cared about him. Horace Tabor, silver baron, Leadville king.

Quillan shook his head. His mind was wandering. Soon he’d be muttering like a fool. He looked at Horace Tabor, who was half supporting him. “Temperature must have dropped.”

Tabor spoke around his stump of cigar. “What clued you in?”

Quillan hadn’t noticed the cigar. Now the whiff of it reached his brain. One sense functioning. No, three; he could see and hear as well. Now if he could just feel. They reached Tabor’s store and Augusta met them at the door.

“Bring him this way.”

With Sam at his feet, the Tabors bundled Quillan with blankets and sat him on a bench before the iron potbelly stove. Augusta appeared again with a cup of steaming coffee. “Easy, now. It’s hot enough to burn.”

Quillan sipped carefully, then held the cup where the steam could thaw his face.

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