Wildest Dreams - By Rosanne Bittner Page 0,34

was what she needed to do. Over and over she shouted his name, needing to hear her voice above the wind, needing to hear it just to know she was still alive and not lost to the rest of the world. It was dark. So dark! Where was he! Did the cougar have its fangs buried in her husband's throat? She put her hands against the wall of snow, feeling her way toward the little shelter Luke had built for the chickens.

Someone grabbed her then, and she gasped.

"Lettie, what the hell are you doing out here screaming like that?"

She collapsed against him, clinging to his fur jacket. How could she make him understand? Oh, how she loved him, was grateful that he loved Nathan and her. She wanted so to be a good wife, not to be a burden. How could she tell him of her terror? How could she tell him that even though she loved him so, she felt she'd go insane if she couldn't talk to other human beings soon. How could she complain to him of this feeling of being buried alive, that it seemed summer would never come again, that she was deathly afraid of giving birth up here alone? She felt selfish and ungrateful, and yet it all flooded over her to the point where she could not control it.

"I thought you were dead! What would I do, Luke, if something happened to you? Nathan and I would die out here! I can't stand it, Luke. I can't stand any more snow, any more wind. I feel as though I'm going crazy! I want to go to town. I want to see other people! I want to feel the sun and smell flowers. And I miss my family so much!"

She broke into bitter sobbing, hating herself for what she was saying, yet unable to stop the words from coming. She waited for his own tirade, realizing he had to be having much the same feelings, with the added burden of knowing their survival depended a great deal on him, that they were buried alone here because of his decision to come to Montana.

To her surprise he picked her up in his arms and began carrying her to the house. "The cougar's dead," he said matter-of-factly. It seemed a strange statement in the middle of her fit of crying. "We both need to sleep. Will told me lack of sleep can affect the mind." He carried her inside the cabin, laid her on their makeshift bed.

"The ironing—" she started to protest.

"To hell with it. Lord knows you've got all day tomorrow to do it. Who cares, anyway, if our clothes are a little wrinkled? There's nobody to see but Nathan and the animals. You stay right there."

Lettie took a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt, sat up to wipe at her tears and unlace her boots. For more warmth, they had removed the blanket they had originally hung to close off the corner where they slept, and she watched Luke stoke up the fire. He had rigged a snow shelter on the porch where milk, eggs and meat could be kept cool but packed in enough snow that they would not freeze. He went out and brought in a covered bucket of milk, taking a ladle and dipping some into a tin cup. He set the cup on the stove and carried the milk back outside. When he returned, Lettie realized how tired he looked. He was also limping. She knew the cold weather made his injured leg ache, and she loved him for his silent, uncomplaining suffering, feeling guilty for her own whining.

"I'll warm this milk, and I want you to drink it," he told her. "It will help relax you. You're carrying. You've got to get more rest." He took off his jacket and walked over to hang it near the door. "Left my rifle out in the shed. I guess it'll be okay till morning. We sure don't have to worry about Indians or outlaws in this weather. Even the deer and elk have stopped coming around. They can't get through the snow."

It seemed to Lettie that he was just trying to make conversation to hear his own voice, and it struck her that he'd probably had visitations of insanity just the same as she.

"I'm sorry, Luke, for throwing such a fit."

For the first time since he'd brought her inside, he met her gaze. "It won't be like this next winter.