“You of all people should know you can’t offer any assistance,” Grady shouted, looking past Luther at Caldwell, who was watching carefully.
Crimson with humiliation, Alex managed to pull herself up, frowning as she examined her skirt. It hadn’t ripped along the seam, worse luck. The skirt was ruined, and exposing a lot of petticoat. “Grady, where is my bedroll?” She had an extra skirt rolled up inside.
Grady’s eyebrows soared as if she’d lost her senses. “You ain’t got time for no nap,” he snapped. “And I got just five minutes before I need to see to my horses.” He dropped the front of the chuck box for her, and hastily dug a fire pit about fifteen feet from the wagon. At least she was spared that humiliation. “Is there anything else you absolutely got to have right now?”
“Go on with your duties. I’ll manage.”
The minute he walked away she remembered the firewood tied under the wagon in the cooney. Fanning her face with her hand, trying to calm herself, she looked at the fire pit, looked at the cooney, then cast a pleading glance at Luther.
He spread his hands in a gesture of frustration. “Alex, I can’t help.”
She refused to believe that he meant it until he turned and strode away from her, refused to concede that she was totally on her own until she saw the flat expression on the faces of Jack Caldwell and Ward Hamm. Sagging, she leaned against the wagon wheel.
At the back of her mind, she hadn’t accepted the rules. She had honestly believed that Luther and Ward would come to her aid. No man worthy of the name would stand idly by while a one-legged woman floundered in helpless need of assistance. She had counted on that.
She did not finally release this cherished fantasy until she saw Luther and Jack begin to construct their own noon camp. Even Ward busied himself with the supplies in his wagon, deliberately avoiding her eye.
No one was going to help her. She was alone in this.
For several minutes she didn’t move, couldn’t think. Luther had insisted the rules must be obeyed and so had Dal Frisco, and she had nodded and agreed. But she hadn’t believed it. She’d believed that compassion would outweigh the stupid rules. But that wasn’t going to happen.
“Now what are you doing? Watching the grass grow? Woman, you are already behind schedule,” Grady complained, walking up behind her.
“Grady! Thank heaven.” If she could have grabbed him without falling down, she would have. “The wood. I need the firewood.”
“Then get it. The water barrel sprung a leak and I need to fix it before we lose all your cooking water.” He headed for the tools in the box lashed to the side of the wagon.
“Damn!” Blinded by tears of frustration and near panic, she made a fist and struck the wheel. Her fist glanced off the iron rim and struck wood, and a splinter punctured the side of her hand. Yelping, she jerked backward, coming within one wobbly second of falling again. After pinwheeling her arm to regain her balance, she pulled out the splinter and inspected the blood trickling down her wrist. The puncture wasn’t deep, but it stung and bled, and she couldn’t recall where the medical box was or where she might find something to wrap her hand in. Meanwhile, the minutes relentlessly continued to tick by. Now, she was almost an hour behind schedule.
All right, she would ignore the fact that her cuff was soaking up blood and going the way of her ruined skirt. The firewood was the important thing.
Fetching it was a painstaking and humiliating process. She had to drop to the ground, crawl under the wagon and untie the ropes securing the sling. Then she tossed out the wood she needed and retied the ropes. Crawling back out, feeling helpless and foolish, she used the crutch to climb upright. Then, balancing as best she could, she picked up several pieces of wood, put them in her skirts, and hobbled to the fire pit trying not to drop any. Naturally, she left a trail of fallen kindling behind her.
By the time she finally got the fire going, aggravation made her fingers shake, and she wanted to scream. That’s when she realized she had not placed the pot hanger first like she was supposed to do. Without the pot hanger, she had nothing to hang the coffeepot on. And now, with the flames leaping, it would be a difficult and dangerous undertaking to set up the hanger. Lips trembling, she looked toward the observers’ camp. Their coffee was already brewed, and they were drinking it as they began preparations for their noon meal.
“Luther?” she called in a shaky voice. “I thought you intended to eat with us.”
He walked forward a few steps, then stopped, his expression pinched by the effort to stand aside while she struggled. “I’ll take my meals with the observers.”