"Then wait," she pleaded, "until we know if I...."

"I won't go until we know everything's all right," he promised.

Hattie had to agree that he was the one to go, but she didn't have to like it.

It wasn't herself she was frightened for, but her child. What would happen if she was alone when her time came? Would she be able to do what was necessary?

Emmet watched over her long into the night, long after she slept, still not completely certain that the alarm had been a false one. He had done his best to reassure her, not letting her know his fear for her was probably no less than hers.

Once he was certain she was asleep, he stepped outdoors to look upwards. He didn't like the looks of the sky. It was too clear, the stars too bright. And he smelled snow.

He had to get to Fort Boise soon, no matter what. She needed a woman with her.

They were out of bacon, of cornmeal, of flour. There was just about enough coffee for two more days, if he was careful. Hattie needed more than elk and venison. At least they had plenty of milk.

There had been a hint of green on the hills today, shining in the bright sunlight. In another week or two they could bring the livestock back from the broad meadow upriver. Then William would be here and he could go to the fort with an easy mind, knowing Hattie was being cared for.

No, his mind wouldn't be easy. He would worry every moment he was gone. About Hattie, and what would happen if she gave birth so early. About Buffalo, growing worse every day. About William and the livestock, easy prey for a determined and hungry panther.

Chapter Ten.

The threatened snow came, a thick, wet fall that piled up all afternoon and all night. Hattie heard the drip of its melting each time she awoke, as she often did, to listen for Buffalo's breathing. When she climbed out of her bunk in the morning, there was a fan of wet sandy floor in front of the door; water had never before seeped inside, even in the heaviest rain.

Emmet lifted the bar and pulled the door open carefully. Even so, a great gob of snow fell inwards, plopping onto the floor like a dollop of cold gravy in a pan.

"Shit!" he said, "I hate gettin' my feet wet."

Since she'd seen him come in dripping and soaked during a rainstorm, Hattie had to stifle laughter. "I suppose you could just wait here until it melts," she said. "But if you do, shut the door. I don't want it melting all over my clean floor."

He shot her a look, as if wondering if she were in her right mind. "I'll fetch the shovel," he said, stepping out into the drift. It came up to his knees.

With the door wide, Hattie could see that it was still snowing, despite the warmth of the air wafting in. But the flakes were big and almost transparent, melting even as they fell. It was almost as if winter was fighting a last battle with spring.

Oh, but she would be glad when it was warm enough to be outdoors without a heavy coat, to leave the door open so that the interior of the cabin was light enough to sew. She had seen winters far worse than this one, but she had never lived through one that felt longer.

As if seconding her wish for spring, the babe in her womb moved vigorously.

Hattie pressed a hand to her belly, "Soon, little one," she said. "Just don't be in too big of a hurry. We want Flower to have time to get here, don't we?"

Just last night Emmet had said he doubted Silas and Flower would get over the Blues for another month. He must have seen the fear she tried to hide, for he'd quickly said, "That's not to say there won't be word of them at the fort."

She appreciated his consideration, but it hadn't made her feel any better. In a month, she would be a mother.

Sighing, she went into the corner to dress, hating the heavy wool trousers and shirt that she could barely wrap around her swollen body.

The fire was burning briskly, water was heating for Buffalo's infusion, when she realized she hadn't heard him stirring. Heart in her throat, she rushed across to the bunks.

Almost afraid to touch him, she stretched out a hand, laid it on his shoulder.

After a long wait, she felt the slight movement that accompanied a shallow intake of breath.He's alive! was all she could think.

Immediately she scolded herself for her selfishness. Buffalo was in terrible pain. He would, she knew, welcome death. But she was afraid to be alone with only Emmet and William. Buffalo had, at least, been a father. The thought of caring for a newborn babe without anyone to turn to for advice terrified her almost as much as the birth itself.

She went back to preparing breakfast. Slicing smoked elk bacon into the spider, she wondered how long it would be until they had real bacon again. She added a dab of butter--elk was so lean it tended to be dry--and set the spider on the fire. It was time to churn again. As soon as she had this morning's milk skimmed, she'd begin.

"Hattie, gal."

She turned, relieved that Buffalo had finally wakened. "I'm here."

"Need some tea," he said, his voice cracking with pain.

Quickly she poured his infusion into a tin cup, testing it on her lips to make sure it was cool enough. She held his shoulders while he drank it, conscious of the acrid odor of his sickness, the mustiness of his bedding. How did one clean furs, she wondered, watching to see that none of the bitter drink dribbled from the sides of Buffalo's mouth.

He swallowed the last and his head dropped back. Carefully she eased him down and pulled the robe over his chest.

"Not much longer, now," he said, his voice a half-whisper. "Thank the lord."

That frightened her more than anything. Buffalo was not a reverent man. For him to voice anything remotely like a prayer, he must be more than ready to pass on.

Impulsively she leaned over and kissed him. "Sleep now," she whispered.

But she didn't go back to the fire, even though she could hear the meat sizzling. Instead she sank to the floor and leaned her head against the side of the bunk. "Oh, Buffalo," she whispered, "how will I go on without you?"

A gentle hand touched her head. "You'll do what you gotta do, gal. And you ain't gonna have to worry about losin' that gold no more. I fixed that." He fell silent, although his hand still rested on her hair.

Hattie wanted to scream, to rage at the injustice of life. Each time she'd found someone to love, they up and died.

After a long while, Buffalo said, "Em, he's gonna take care of you and Flower, so don't you worry yourself. I knew if'n I looked long enough, I'd find somebody I could trust with my leetle Flower. I jest didn't know I'd find me another gal to love like my own child."

"Oh, Buffalo," she said, taking his hand and kissing it, "I love you too." She wanted to say more, but the words choked her. All she could do was hold his hand and weep.

"That's prime, gal. That's jest prime."

Those were the last words he spoke.

They buried Buffalo on the hillside above his cabin. Hattie wished she had a Bible, for she remembered none of the verses Karl had been so fond of reading to her after supper. Instead she recited a poem, one of her favorites from the single book that was all she had salvaged from the fire.

"...One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more. Death, thou shalt die!"

She stood in silence for a few moments, looking not into the grave but across the valley before her. The broad line of cottonwood and willow that marked the meandering river was misty green. The ground was no longer sere and barren. What a lovely place to live, if only there were other people nearby.

"He was a good man," Emmet said, startling her out of her reverie. He dribbled a handful of soil into the gaping hole.

Hattie wept then. Wept because she was lonely, because she had no one who loved her. She wept in fear of the future, for no matter how strong she was, she was but a woman alone and the world was a huge and merciless place. And she wept for the past, for all those she'd loved and lost.

Emmet took her into his arms. "Don't grieve, Hat. He's better off."

She sniffled. "I know that," she said into his shirt. "I still miss him."

"I do too," he admitted. He held her for a while, tenderly, patiently, with none of the passion that had marked their last embrace. Finally he released her. "Why don't you sit over there?" he said, pointing at a huge angular black rock. "Keep an eye out while I fill this in."

She sat and watched the valley. Mired in self pity, she thought of all the times she had watched as graves were filled in. Perhaps the way to avoid this horrible feeling of loss was not to care about people to begin with. If you didn't love, then you didn't hurt so much when they died.

Her child moved just then, a roisterous turning that left her gasping for the breath that had been pushed from her lungs. A reminder that sometimes you didn't have a choice about loving.

She looked back at Emmet. No, sometimes you didn't have a choice. Even if you weren't loved back, you didn't have a choice about who you loved or when.

Nothing moved below them. She had often seen members of Goat Runner's band at a distance but today there was not even a hawk circling to show that other life existed in this lonely valley. Hattie sat with her hands spread across her belly, wondering if she would ever reach the Willamette. Or would she, too, end in a lonely grave so far from civilization?

"Can you give me a hand?"

She turned. Emmet had set the shovel aside and was pushing on another of the big boulders that had broken from the black cap rock above. She went to help him move it over the grave.

They completely covered the freshly turned earth with rocks. "Surely the Indians wouldn't bother a grave," she said.

"It's not Injuns I'm worried about. That damn coyote's still hangin' about."

"He wouldn't...."

"Sure he would. They'll eat anything. I saw one drag off a panther's kill once."

He took her hand and started them down the steep path. "Good size deer. It was just getting ripe--that's the way the cats like 'em--and the coyote dug through the brush the panther had pulled over it and just hauled it off." He chuckled.

"I'll bet you that was one mad cat."

Hattie didn't answer. She was needing all her concentration to keep her footing on the slippery, sandy path. Once they were at a more level stretch, she said, "Promise you won't leave again until... until after the baby's come."

Emmet stopped and turned. "What makes you think I would?" he snapped.

"Well, you did a lot of hunting and exploring this winter. You haven't been around much."

He walked faster, pulling her along behind him. Although she had no trouble keeping up, she found that her wind was not as good as it had been. Probably because she had so little room left to breathe these days.

At the cabin, he released her. "Sit down." He gestured at the upturned log that sat outside the door. "We're going to talk."

She sat.

"When have I left you alone?" He held up a hand when she would have answered.

"Besides that time I went to look for your gold?"

"You've been gone more than you've been here," she said. "It's been almost as if you couldn't sit still, all winter."

"And where was Buff all that time?"

"Well, he was here, but...."

"And have I left you since he got so bad?"

"You know you have," she said, angry now. "You took off with the livestock and I didn't see you for a week."

"I left Wee-- William here."

"You left a man who was scared of his own shadow. William spent half his time hiding in the trees, the other half playing least in sight."

"He was watching over you."

"I was watching over me. I had the shotgun and I could have taken care of myself. I would have, if needful." By now she was furious, wanting to say all the harsh, resentful words she'd thought through the cold, depressing winter. It was almost as if, now that she was released from the darkness and the snow, she found the strength and spirit that living in the crowded, gloomy cabin had sapped from her. "In fact, if you want to just go, you can. I'd hate to be keeping you here against your will."

"You've been keeping me against my will ever since I fished you out of the Snake River," he said. "I could have been in China now." He turned his back and stared off into the distance.

"I didn't ask you to stay."

"I gave my word."

"You promised to take me to the Willamette. You could have done that. You didn't have to bring me here."

"If I'd tried to take you over the Blues, you'd be in the same place as Buff.

You weren't in any shape to go anywhere when I got you here."

Hattie dimly remembered hours of scarlet, shrieking pain, hours of rocking motion that tortured her body. She remembered wondering if she had died and gone to Hell, was burning in the eternal flames. Would she have died if he'd insisted on going on?

She probably would have.

"All right," she said, grudgingly, "so you saved my life. Why didn't you leave when Buffalo arrived?"

"I thought about it," he admitted. "But I gave you my word."

Hattie walked around him, stopping where she could look into his face. "And so you gave up your own plans for me."

He refused to meet her eyes. "I gave my word," he repeated.

"Of course. And I'm obliged to you for staying. I doubt I could have gotten through the winter without you. And I certainly couldn't have gotten my stock through." Shewas grateful to him. She had a credit on the HBC books from the sale of her extra oxen, she still had six healthy oxen and the milch cow, a wagon in good repair.

"As soon as the passes clear, I'll be seein' you to the Willamette."

Hattie hesitated. Then she decided there was no sense in letting him continue to plan. "I'm afraid you won't be seeing me anywhere for a while," she said. "I'm not going anywhere until my baby is older." She'd seen two newborns left in tiny graves beside the trail, one other that had failed to thrive because its mother was too worn to produce the milk it needed. Her daughter would have the best start Hattie could give her. "I thought, perhaps, June."

"June! You want me to hang around here until June?"