So even an oblique appeal was not going to work. Thin-lipped and furious, she found the pot hanger, assembled it, then decided this task would best be managed from her chair instead of trying to balance on the crutch while she drove the ends into the ground. Thankfully, Grady had brought down her wheelchair without her having to ask.
She sank into it with a sigh of relief, taking the weight off of her trembling leg. Too late it occurred to her that transporting the wood would have been easier if she’d done it in her chair.
At once she discovered that rolling to the fire pit was not that easy. Now that spring rains had greened the range, the grass was growing thick and hard to push through. By the time she reached the fire pit, her arms trembled from the effort of pushing herself over rough ground, and she was wondering if in fact the chair was a better idea than the crutch would have been.
But that was a fine point to ponder at another time. The problem now was to set up the pot hanger without letting the flames scorch her fingers. Rolling as close to the fire pit as she dared, she leaned over the arm of the chair and pushed a leg of the hanger down through the burning firewood and then, arms shaking with the effort, she managed to thrust it securely into the ground. Now all she had to do was dredge up the energy to finish the task.
Because she wouldn’t be able to retrieve the crossbar if she dropped it into the flames, she had to make a very tight circle around to the other side of the fire pit, pushing the chair with one hand and holding on to the cross bar with the other. The heat from the fire and repeated failures brought sweat to her brow, and she felt a spreading wetness under her arms. Disgusting. She hated to sweat, believed it made her appear common.
Pressing her lips together, she struggled to maneuver her chair as close as she dared to the flames. When she finally, finally got herself into position, she rested a minute before she pushed this end of the pot hanger through the firewood and into the ground.
It was Grady who saved her life. She heard his shout and opened her eyes just as the flames flickering along her hem made a whooshing sound and leapt up her skirt toward her waist. Before she could scream or beat at the fire, Grady was there with a bucket of water.
He threw the water on her, spun, and raced back to the wagon for more. Sputtering, soaked from head to foot, Alex slapped frantically at the smoke wafting off her lap. Her heart slammed around in her chest and she thought her head would burst with fear.
Grady ran up and flung another bucket of water on her. Gasping, wiping at her eyes, Alex shoved back drenched tendrils of hair. Horrified, she stared down at herself. Her bodice and skirts were soaked, sticking to her skin, dripping on the ground. An acrid burned odor drifted from the holes in her skirt and in the first layer of petticoats.
Grady knelt beside the chair and waved his hands around like he wanted to raise her skirts but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Are you burned?”
She pulled soggy material away from her knees, sending runnels of water into the dirt. “No, thank God!” She couldn’t bear to think how close it had been. “Thanks to your quick action, the fire didn’t burn through my underskirts.” But what if Grady hadn’t been here?
Snapping her head up, thrusting wet hair out of her eyes, she stared toward the other campsite. Luther, Jack Caldwell, and Ward stood like a tableau, coffee cups frozen partway to their lips, their postures rigid.
“Would you have let me burn to death?” Alex screamed. “Because you don’t want to interfere? Because of some stupid stupid stupid rules?” They stared back at her, not moving.
Then she dropped her face in sooty hands and burst into hysterical tears.
Grady let her cry while he finished placing the pot hanger then ground the coffee beans and set up the coffeepot, hanging it over the fire. Occasionally she heard him mutter, “Gol-dang it!” But he didn’t pat or comfort her like she expected him to.
When the mortifying tears finally stopped, Alex closed her eyes and rested a minute. She needed to dry her hair, which was now falling around her shoulders in soggy strands, and change clothes, and she couldn’t imagine how she would obtain the privacy in which to do it.
“Grady?” she called in a small voice. “Will you fetch my bedroll now, please? I need my toiletries and a change of clothing.”
“Miz Mills,” he said, coming around to stand in front of her with a frown. “It ain’t my place to tell you your bidness, but you got ten hungry boys who’s gonna be ridin’ in here in about two hours looking for their dinner which you ain’t started yet. ‘Fore you go fussing with female fripperies, mebbe you better get some dinner a-cooking.”