Flower stepped out of her skirt, stripped the too-big shirt over her head as soon as Emmet was in the water. "Ready?"

"No," Hattie said, watching as his horse started to swim. She should have insisted on carrying Ellen. Odin would have let her sit astride him, she was sure. "You go ahead. I want to watch until he's safely across." She honestly didn't know who she was the most worried about, Emmet or her daughter.

This morning he moved easier, but she'd seen him steady himself against a tree or his horse's side more than once as they were packing their meager supplies and gear. He'd not even offered to help Silas and William load the two leather bags of gold, although he had commented on the weight, saying they'd have made better time if they'd left all the gold behind.

Hattie had thought of doing so, except it seemed a shame to abandon it all.

Baldur and Jupe had had no trouble keeping up with the other oxen, despite their load. And neither of them would suffer a rider, so they might as well have carried the gold.

Flower stood with her as she watched. "He's better, I think," she said.

Hattie nodded. Last night she'd made room for him in her bed, as she had the night before. But he had not come to her. He had slept under a tree, uncovered except for some fir branches piled over him, the red calico shirt little protection from the cool spring night. And this morning, he had been kind, helpful, courteous, and completely impersonal. "He wouldn't let me look at his back."

"Or me," Flower agreed. "But he will tonight, or he will not eat."

Hattie had to smile. "How many of us do you reckon it will take to hold him down?"

"You will ask him," Flower said, "and he will do it. If you tell him that you are concerned that he is not fit to care for us."

So she wasn't the only one who'd noticed Emmet's strong sense of responsibility.

"I am," she said. "His hand felt hot."

"There is fever again. I will dose him with willow bark, I think. And you will speak to Silas?"

"About going back? Yes, I'd already decided to. I'll ask him to leave this afternoon."

"Good. By the time Emmet notices he is gone, it will be too late. And I will ask Dawg to go with him."

"Dawg? But he can hardly walk."

"He can still bark. And he grows stronger with each bite."

Hattie shared her amusement. This morning Dawg had eaten a rabbit and a squirrel raw, bones and all. Afterwards, in uncharacteristic friendliness, he had begged from each of them, until each mouthful they did not share with him caused guilt.

"Flower, what's going to happen to us?" Hattie ordinarily didn't let herself think of the future, having long ago learned that nothing and nobody could be depended upon. Lately, though, since Ellen's birth, she had come to hope.

Perhaps she could, finally, have the home and the family she'd wanted ever since that morning when she watched flames consume everything she loved.

"Do not ask for promises," Flower said, apparently understanding what Hattie was really asking. "We have this day and these men who will give their lives for us.

How can we ask for more?" Holding her clothing in one hand, she stepped into the river. "Come. Emmet is safely across."

Hattie looked. Sure enough, he was on the other side, waving her and Flower to follow. She removed her clothing, feeling both intensely free and greatly embarrassed.

The water was so cold it hurt.

Chapter Seventeen.

As she climbed from the water, cold to her very core, Hattie had the strangest feeling.

Not even bothering to dry herself first, she struggled into her clothing, which she had managed to hold above the water as she swam. All the while she wondered why she felt as if she'd found something she'd been seeking for a long time.

She saw what William had meant when she and Flower stepped out from behind the shrubs serving as their dressing screen. The grassy meadow extended to the base of the hills, broken by scattered clumps of the long needled pine that was so common. The grass was tall, knee-high at least, and rich. Already the oxen had their faces buried in it as they fed.

Even as she looked around in awe, a shot sounded. "Oh my God!" Where was Emmet?

"Ellen?"

"Wait," Flower said, stopping her headlong rush with a strong hand. "That was ours. Up ahead."

Could the last renegade have been waiting for them? Hattie wrenched free of Flower's restraint just as Emmet appeared, still mounted, still bearing the cradleboard. He seemed unconcerned, and the terror within Hattie lessened. She forced herself to stand still and wait for him.

As soon as he was in calling distance, he said, "Everything's fine. Silas took a shot at an elk."

Hattie's knees suddenly were weak and trembling. She forced them to support her as she walked to meet Emmet. By the time she stood next to his horse, she was strong again.

Holding up her arms, she said, "Let me have her." She had to touch Ellen, hold her, to be certain she was safe.

Emmet shrugged out of the cradleboard and lowered it to Hattie. Once she was reassured by a touch to her sleeping daughter's warm cheek, she looked up at him. "You look like death warmed over," she said, finally seeing his pallor, his still-gaunt cheeks.

He grimaced. "I'm not feelin' exactly spry," he admitted.

That frightened Hattie as nothing else could have. "Well, for pity sakes, get off that horse then, and rest yourself."

"Can't," he said. "We've got to set up camp."

"And why," Flower demanded, "can Hattie and I not do that? Are you so important that we cannot decide on a site without you?"

He glared. "I was going to ask you to set some more snares. And Hattie's got Ellen...."

"Nonsense, Emmet," Hattie said. "She doesn't take all my time. Didn't you learn that back there?"

He remembered how she'd spent her free time as well as she did, for a faint flush darkened his unnaturally pale cheeks.

Before he could argue, Flower said, "We will not need anything I can snare if Silas shot an elk. But I will seek other food. After Hattie and I find a suitable campsite."

"Then I'll go along and help dress out the elk," Emmet grumbled, clearly galled at being deemed unnecessary. He turned his horse and rode away.

"I wonder how long it will be before he falls out of the saddle," Hattie said, watching him go.

"He will not. Pride keeps him there." Flower led the way across the meadow. "Men have no sense."

Hattie had to agree.

"You seen Silas lately?" Emmet asked Hattie when he and William came up from the river. They'd bathed after finishing with the elk meat. Strips of it were drying over a fire not far from the campsite the women had selected. Tomorrow he hoped to add trout to the drying rack, for he'd seen some good sized ones as he crossed the river.

She nodded, not looking up from the dough she was shaping into flat cakes. She'd used the last of the saleratus the day before they'd returned to the others so there would be no more biscuits until he got back with the supplies they'd left in the gold basin.

If he got back. Emmet admitted to himself, as he would never admit to others, that he was no stronger today than yesterday, that the pain in his back was worse, not better.

"He was here a little after noon," Hattie said. "Then he left."

"Sit down," Flower told him, "and take off your shirt."

"Haven't got time," he said, thinking how much he'd like to do just that. "Got to milk."

"Hattie already has." Flower pointed to a log conveniently lying near the fire.

"Sit." She stood over him while he lowered himself, then struggled with the shirt. He heard her gasp and Hattie's as he pulled the shirt over his head. Then he came close to screaming as she touched his back. Nothing had ever hurt that much.

A steaming cup appeared under his nose. "Drink this," Flower said.

He sniffed. "What is it?"

"Willow bark tea. Yarbs. Drink it."

The puckery sourness of it stung the tissues of his mouth.

Hattie came to kneel beside him. "Emmet, she's going to have to open your wound.

It needs to drain."

"Do it," he said, locking his jaw in anticipation. If a gentle touch had hurt so bad, what would...? No. Better not to think about it.

"I wish we had some whiskey," Hattie said. "But Flower said she gave you something to make it easier." Her eyes held his. "I hope so."

He did too. Her face--a face he'd never forget, no matter how far he traveled or how long he was away from her--became indistinct. He shook his head and the world spun.

"Lie down," Hattie said, her hands cool on his bare body. He wanted to resist, but found he could not. It was easier to let her push him in the direction she wanted him to move, bending him like he would a willow withe. He felt the coarse-soft tickle of a bearskin on his belly, smelled its smoky, slightly musky odor as his face sank into it. He heard Hattie's voice, wordless now, but soothing, promising him peace and an absence of pain.

He believed her until a flaming sword carved him in half.

"He's going to be furious when he wakes up," Hattie told Flower the next morning. She'd slept close to Emmet all night, feeling the heat of him, touching him a hundred times to make sure he still breathed. "But I think he's better."

She had been amazed when Flower showed her the ingredients of the infusion she'd given Emmet. Willow bark, of course. She'd used that herself, assuming that willow in the west was no different from willow in Pennsylvania. But vervain and chamomile--well, it looked something like chamomile--where had Flower foundthem ? Hattie had learned what herb lore she could from a neighbor in Pennsylvania, but she was aware of how little she knew. Boneset and yarrow for infection, macerated mallow leaves for irritated skin, simples like that.

Thank the Lord Flower had been here. She wasn't certain she could have made that deep cut into Emmet's back, even knowing that not doing so would have been the death of him. She had never seen such an infection, not one that didn't kill.

Pray God Emmet would live.

She would give anything to ensure that he did.Anything.

She could even hide her love for him and let him go when the time came. Although their brief spell as lovers had given her hope, time and sober consideration told her that there was none. She believed Emmet would stay if she asked him to, but to do so would be like caging a wolf. A few months in captivity and he would die of a broken heart.

Emmet Lachlan was a man born to wander. Bound to a single, small plot of land--the farm she dreamed of having, for instance--he too would die of a broken heart.

Stroking her hand across Emmet's forehead, cool at last, she leaned forward and kissed him lightly. "I love you," she whispered. "Forever and ever."

Emmet slept most of the next day, but no one else did. Flower went out again seeking fruit, greens and medicinal herbs while Hattie did her best to make the camp more comfortable. She also watched Emmet, checking him often, not for his sake but for hers. The morning was well along when William returned to camp.

"Miz Hattie, you jest gotta see what I found." His grin spread across his face, he looked happier than she'd ever seen him. "Can you come for a little walk?"

"Not until Flower comes back." She gestured at the bearskin-covered mound where Emmet lay. "I don't want to leave him alone."

"He's gonna be fine, Miz Hattie. Flower, she's about the bes' medicine woman I ever seed, and he's a strong man."

"I hope so," Hattie said, feeling tears prickle at the backs of her eyes, as they'd been doing all morning. "I pray so."

"You need to get yourself away for a spell. I'll be workin' on the cow pen for a whiles yet, so when Flower comes in, you come out and git me."

He was right. She needed to do something besides hover over Emmet, counting his breaths, touching his fevered brow every few minutes. "I'll do that, William."

So when Flower came in with her arms full of herbs about an hour later, Hattie went to find William. He led her north across the meadow, still damp with dew in the shadows of the pines. "They's a crick comes down that canyon," he told her, pointing at the gap in the mountains ahead of them, "an' another from over there." Again he pointed in the direction they were walking.

He led her through the meadow and into the pines that bordered it, tending east, staying well back from the often steep riverbank. They crossed a creek, then another, both rushing along rocky beds, eager to join the river. Ahead of them the mountain encroached on the canyon, narrowing it with a rocky shoulder.

William led her up a faint game trail into the tumbled boulders, some as big as a house, until they stood on a ledge easily a hundred feet above the meadow.

From there she could see how the canyon narrowed again to the west, could see how enclosed their sanctuary was. How isolated.

"You 'member I tol' you how I was lookin' for a place where I could be king?"

William said, gesturing toward the west. "Well, this here is it."

Hattie saw what he meant. The bench on which they were camped was perhaps a mile wide, nestled in a cove between two steep ridges. Although there was ample meadow, much of the bench was covered with the enormous pines with their thick, plated, yellow bark. A second bench rose a few hundred feet from the mountain's foot, a perfect place for a cabin. She imagined sitting at the door of a cabin built from those very pines and watching the cattle graze in broad green pastures. The feeling she'd had when she'd first set foot on this side of the river returned, and Hattie saw, as if for the first time, the richness of the grass on the meadow floor, the magnificence of the forested hillside across the river. Through the gap to the southwest she could see distant mountains, rising in dark, hazy ridges to meet the sky.

This was the place she had sought, the home she craved. She didn't need to go on to the Willamette Valley, for there could be no place there that equaled this in its appeal to her. "William, did you mean I could come with you? Did you really mean it when you said you'd share your kingdom with me?"

"Miz Hattie, you and Mist' Em done save my life. I'd share anything I got with you."

"We could be partners," she told him. "I have seeds, shoots--I'm sure some of them are still good. And Bessie--if we could get a bull calf and another cow, we'd have the beginnings of a herd. Tools, too. All those tools of Karl's that Emmet brought back. Silas knows how to use them. He was Karl's... he worked for Karl."

"I don't have nothin'," William said, sobered. "Best I be your hired man."

"Nonsense. You used to work in the fields, so you know about farming. And you're strong. That will be your contribution. And Silas's will be his knowledge and experience. We'll all be partners."

The more she said, the better it sounded. She knew there would be those who would censure her for treating William as an equal, for not holding Silas to his bond. But here there were no others. No one to criticize, none to tell her that what she proposed was impossible. "And we'll live here." She spun, pointing at the upper bench. "Right there, we'll build our house."