“Oh no, you can’t. I’ll not be carried about like an Egyptian princess. I can walk.”
Again he ignored her. She turned to the priest. “Father, talk sense to him. Didn’t I climb through a shaft just now? Didn’t I balance like an acrobat? Does he think me an invalid still?”
Father Antoine raised his hands. “I make it a point never to interfere between husband and wife.”
With smaller twine, Quillan was now attaching the woolly mat. Carina fumed. Hadn’t she just proved her strength? Were they all pazzo—the doctor, the priest, and her stubborn husband? He thought she would lie there and let Father Antoine and him carry her down the mountain?
Quillan shrugged into his pack. Father Antoine scooped up the blankets. Carina’s hands fisted at her sides. Quillan motioned with one hand toward the litter lying between them. She shook her head. His jaw tightened.
“Carina, I have enough on my mind already. Lie down and stop being foolish.”
Hah! Foolish? That was what she would look on the litter.
“I am perfectly capable of walking.”
“And one slip could set you back.”
She crossed her arms at her chest. “You didn’t worry about that when I stood on your shoulders.”
“I knew I could hold you. You’re nowhere near Father Antoine’s weight.”
“That’s not the point.”
With an exasperated sigh, Quillan bent and scooped her into his arms. Blood rushed to her face and words to her mouth. “Omaccio! Put me down!”
And he did. On the litter. With a pirate face he told her, “I have more rope.”
Oh! He would tie her down? She squirmed, but he caught her wrists and stared so intently, she knew he would stop at nothing. He was a tyrant, her husband, when he felt strongly about something. She felt the strength of his feelings now. He would not let her walk. She slumped down with a huff. Bene. If they wanted to carry her, let them. She had put on enough of a show for Father Antoine.
Quillan nodded to the priest and they lifted her. “Stay to the edge here.” He started down. “Avalanche only came this far. We should have tried this exit yesterday.”
“We didn’t think of it yesterday.” The obviousness of her statement made no difference to him. He kept on like a man possessed.
Since Quillan went down first, Father Antoine carried the end of the litter near her head. That gave her a view of Quillan’s back, and she watched his head turning side to side. What did he search for? The horses? She hoped they would not find the corpses. She’d seen enough during the flood. But Quillan searched the slope all the way. The new piled snow must be twenty feet deep, and much of it was chunks and slabs. Were his blacks under there somewhere?
Then she heard it. A snort. A terrified snort and whinny. She froze, but Quillan lowered the poles to the ground and bolted through the frozen terrain toward the black head just showing above the surface. He fell, floundered up, and thrashed through to the horse. Carina couldn’t tell if it was Jack or Jock. Whichever one, it was alive.
She stood up from the tilted litter, and Father Antoine dropped his end and went to help. With his arms, Quillan flung the snow away from the beast, freeing its neck by the time Father Antoine reached him. In her skirts, Carina didn’t cross the snow. She would only get in their way. She folded her arms and waited. Oh, Signore, let it be all right. If the horse were injured, if a leg were broken . . . It would kill Quillan to have to shoot it after finding it like that.
She sat down on Quillan’s pack and waited. The men worked methodically now, careful to free the horse in a way that would not allow it to panic and injure itself further. They had to be careful not to sink in over their own heads. At one point they lay prone to work the snow away from the beast. It must be powder underneath.
The horse heaved and lunged. Quillan caught its head. Part of the bridle and reins remained, and he gripped them and subdued the animal. Then carefully, rising now to his knees in the snow, Quillan backed and pulled the horse forward. It lunged. Quillan fell back, and Carina shot to her feet. Would he be trampled in his effort?
But Father Antoine caught the horse around the neck and held it back while Quillan recovered his position. Together they worked the horse—she thought it was Jock—over the broken surface. Slowly they plowed through in leaping lunges, cleared a path, then another lunge and another.
Jock didn’t seem to be injured. Certainly its legs worked. Carina clasped her hands when they plowed the last distance through waist-high drifts. Jock looked fine, if a little frightened. Grazie, Signore! What an unlooked-for boon.
She turned to Quillan. “Should we look for Jack?”
Quillan’s expression changed. “I already found him.”
She searched his face. “Found him? Where?”
“Under Jock. His warmth must have kept Jock from freezing.”
Carina stood a moment, absorbing that. So they’d fallen together, but one, though trapped, wasn’t buried alive. The other was not so lucky. Had Jock known Jack was dying beneath him? Did animals think that way? She reached out to pat the horse. He shied.
Quillan stroked Jock’s shoulder. “There, Jock. There now.” He soothed the horse with his hands.
Her stomach growled, and she realized that with all the excitement of trying to escape the cave, they had eaten nothing. Surely they could rest and let the horse calm down. She reached for Quillan’s pack and tugged it open. The remainder of the lunch was on top as well as the canteen. She took both out and Quillan nodded.
“Good idea, Carina.” He gave her a softened look. Repentant? He should be. Tie her down, indeed.
Jock stood quivering as they ate the crumbling bread and beef. Quillan palmed the dried plums and apples and held them out to the horse, who lipped them noisily out of his hand. Carina could almost feel the love pass between them, and a surge of her own love for Quillan washed over her. That, and the food soothing the lion in her belly, made her almost cheerful until Quillan stood, brushed the crumbs from his thighs, and eyed the litter.
“I’m not riding it again, Quillan. It’s mostly level here, and only a gentle slope into town. I can walk.”
He tugged a rope from his pack. “You’ll be tired.”
She shrugged. “Then let me ride Jock.”
“Doctor—”
“Felden would never have allowed me to perform acrobatics and climb that chimney. But I did it.” She untied the woolly mat from the litter, threw it over Jock’s back, and turned to Quillan. “Your hand, please.”
Quillan looked from her to the horse, then to the priest. Father Charboneau’s expression was carefully neutral. Quillan turned back to her. “Not so fast.” He wound the rope around the front and back of the mat to hold it in place and gave it a tug to be sure. Then he took out his knife and cut the remainder of the rope. The rest, he tied to the broken but usable bridle.
Carina’s heart swelled when he turned, caught her at the waist, and swung her into a sidesaddle position on Jock. Quillan eyed her. “Satisfied?”