Wildest Dreams - By Rosanne Bittner Page 0,55

see if we can find it. Just don't you worry about it, Luke."

Luke closed his eyes again. "So much... to do. I can't... lay here too long."

"You'll lie here as long as it takes for you to be completely well," Lettie scolded, needing desperately to cry. She couldn't now. She had to be strong. She suspected Luke had no idea just how badly he was wounded. She gently washed away some of the blood, and already she could see signs of infection, a deep red in the skin along the line of the cuts.

Dear God, don't let him die, she prayed inwardly. She turned to rinse the towel, shivering at the sight of blood swirling in the water as she wrung it out... Luke's blood. He had shed blood in the confrontation with the outlaws. Now he was shedding blood again, all for this land he was bent on calling his own.

Lettie lay listening to her husband's deep, steady breathing. Silent tears slipped down the sides of her face, tears of joy as she inwardly thanked God for giving Luke's life back to him. After eight days of terrible suffering, his fever was finally gone, and he seemed to be healing; but for the rest of his life he would carry scars from the grizzly attack.

It seemed that life out here was nothing but a succession of joy and sorrow. For the moment she was just glad she had hung on to her baby despite watching her husband's agony. Horace had planted the potatoes for her, as well as a few vegetable seeds. He and Zeb had retrieved a good share of the bear and deer meat and most of it had been smoked for preservation and was hanging inside the stone smokehouse.

Life went on. Spring wildflowers bloomed everywhere, the children were fine, and Luke was sleeping peacefully by her side. Just yesterday Luke had mentioned that Perry Ward should be back from Oregon any time to let him know what kind of deal he could get on cattle from there. Next spring he would start building a herd, and the thought of it was helping him heal and get back on his feet. She hoped he would hear something from his father, prayed the man would show at least a little interest. That would make Luke so happy.

The thought made her realize she owed her own parents a letter. One thing was certain, her letters to them must be food for wonderful entertainment, describing what life was like here in Montana. Now she would be telling them about how Luke had been attacked by a grizzly. At least Paint had not been hurt or killed. Luke loved that horse.

She quietly rose, walking into the main room and getting some paper and ink from the drawer of a fine pine desk Jim had built for her. She thought how Will had done a good job of finding help for them. He was a good friend. She would tell her parents about Jim and Zeb and Horace... and the fact that a third grandchild was on the way.

She sat down at the desk and dipped a pen into an ink well. "Dear Mother and Father," she wrote. She paused, a strange feeling of alarm rippling through her. Something was wrong, but she wasn't quite sure what it was. Quiet. Yes, it was awfully quiet tonight. Almost too quiet. She strained to listen, heard a couple of horses whinny somewhere down by the barn. She decided not to worry about it. After all, Zeb was keeping watch tonight, and Horace and Jim were close by in the bunkhouse. She returned to her letter, but she could not concentrate. Her chest tightened in fear then when she thought she heard a man cry out. It was such a short, quick cry, and so distant, she couldn't be sure.

She got up from the desk, looked in on Luke. She hated to disturb him. It was midnight, and he'd been sleeping well since about eight o'clock. This was the best he'd slept since being hurt. There was no sense in waking him up without knowing there really was something wrong. She walked to where Luke's rifle hung in a rack above the door and took it down. She cocked it, went to look out a front window, pushing lace curtains aside.

At first she saw nothing. There was just a sliver of a moon tonight, not enough light to see much. She set the rifle aside