Juniper had brought nobody with her except her man Nigel, and that partly because she'd known he would simply refuse to stay behind when she put her head in the lioness's mouth.
And sure, she might have believed a written message. But coming here makes it certain.
"I'm worried for Rudi, too," the Mackenzie chieftain said gently. "Worried sick. And I love Mathilda as if she were my own. If it's any consolation, I fear for her as well."
Sandra's brown eyes met her green. "He isn't your only child."
Juniper's brows went up. "Sandra, do you think that I would mourn Rudi less because I have Eilir and Maude and Fiorbhinn? That they're. .." She hunted for a word. "Spares?"
"No," Sandra said softly. "But your whole life wouldn't be a waste if you lost him. Mathilda is the one thing I can be entirely proud of. What have I worked for, if not for her?"
Then she shook herself and put on briskness. "What can we do?"
Juniper nodded respectfully. "Not a great deal, except keep this as quiet as possible. But news will get out, es pecially now. Mathilda
… I'm afraid Mathilda has made this considerably more dangerous. She is conspicuous all by herself, and even more so when she's not here, if you take my meaning. People are used to Rudi disappearing about his own business for a while, and Dun Juniper is more out of the way to start with."
"We will keep it as quiet as we can," Sandra said. "And there's something else we can do."
At Juniper's inquiring look, she went on: "Get ready for the war."
Juniper nodded soberly, then looked east. "And pray for our children, Sandra," she said. "We can do that, too."
Chapter Thirteen
Southeastern Oregon
May 14, CY23/2021 A.D.
Rudi Mackenzie opened his eyes and poked his head out into the dry chill. The sun threw a crimson band along the eastern horizon even before it rose. A rim of purple rose above that; stars faded there, but they still glittered in a frosted band towards the west. The camp was stirring. He made himself swing out of his sleeping bag, despite the cold rime on its glazed leather covering. Quickly he pulled out the coat and boots he'd stuffed down in it, and drew his plaid around his shoulders blanket-wise. From what he'd heard, this country east of Picture Rock Pass got very hot indeed in summer. But it was nearly five thousand feet up here; winter hit hard too, and relinquished its hold reluctantly.
Once he had the boots and sheepskin jacket on, the twins and Edain joined him, and one of the cowboys who was a dedicant. They crossed their arms and bowed heads to the sun as it rose over the eastern horizon, turning the crimson band to gold. Then they raised their hands with palms to the sky and chanted together:
Rising with the Sun
Spirits of Air
My soul follows Hawk on the ghost of the wind
I find my voice and speak truth;
All-Father, wise Lord
All Mother, gentle and strong
Guide me and guard me this day and all days
By Your grace, with harm to none;
Blessed be!
He smiled as he spoke the familiar words. Partly that was because they were familiar, and always brought a feeling of comforting contact with the Powers. More of it was the sight of the vast land opening out to the east ward, rolling like the waves of some great frozen sea or rising here and there into a flat-topped mesa. Sagebrush covered it, silvery gray and coated with hoarfrost; the crystals sparkled for a single instant as the sun cleared the far ridges, turning the whole expanse to a field of diamonds.
Thank You for this, he added within himself in the moment of silence that followed.
Beside him Edain sighed and murmured, "Now that's the Spirit of Air, and no mistake."
The twins nodded, and they all glanced at one an other, brought back to the light of common day. Over a little way Father Ignatius and Mathilda and their core ligionists-who included Ingolf and a half dozen of the Seffridge Ranch folk-were finishing their own morning devotions:
Queen of heaven, rejoice, alleluia.
For He whom you did merit to bear, alleluia…
Greasewood crackled as the fires were stoked up, and the companionable smells of scorched frying pan and sizzling bacon filled the air.
The party from the Willamette ate together, a little apart from the rancher's men. It was Odard's turn to cook breakfast, though Rudi had put the flat iron pot with the biscuit dough into the ashes when he finished his turn on watch late last night. The tops were nicely brown when he wrapped a corner of his plaid around his hand-it was a useful garment-and lifted the lid.
Everyone in their group crowded around to get their share. They had fresh butter-the ranch folk had a cou ple of milch cows along with them. They were scrawny looking by Willamette Valley standards, and didn't give much milk, but they did produce enough for the ingenious little wheel-powered barrel churn in their chuck wagon to work. Odard added passable hash browns, beans that had also cooked overnight with some dried onion, and bacon. As they settled down around the fire Bob Brown came over and squatted on his heels.
The rancher's son was taller than his father, a lanky man in his thirties with hair somewhere between brown and sandy and dark blue eyes, holding a tin mug of the chicory-root brew people east of the mountains insisted on calling coffee; it smelled delicious and tasted vile, in Rudi's opinion. Bob accepted a biscuit and bit into it appreciatively.
"Not bad," he said. Then he looked at Rudi and shrugged a little. "And you were right: all your friends here are good enough to stand a watch."
Ingolf shrugged. "Only natural for you to want to see what we could do before you relied on us," he said.
Rudi shrugged in turn and finished the last piece of his bacon, fighting down a slight resentment; he'd come close to quarreling with Bob Brown about it, before Vogeler stepped in.
He's right… they were both right, he thought. Just be cause I knew doesn't mean he knew, and it's not some thing you take chances on. I should have realized that right away and not gotten my back up over it. All right, Mackenzie, make a note.
Aloud he went on: "It makes the math easier anyway. Glad you're happy with our performance."
Bob stirred his sugar and cream-laced chicory with a twig, sipped at it and gave Rudi a shrewd slanticular glance before he squinted out at the plain to the east. His eyes had more lines beside them than a man of his age from the Willamette, a face that spent a lot of time looking into dry winds full of grit and alkali dust.
"I'm not what you'd call real joyful about anything right now," he said. "This is the last of the CORA ranches we're riding over now-and the rancher here doesn't use this pasture much; too many rustlers, even when there's water."
He pointed his chin towards the small creek and pond at the base of the rise they had camped on. The horse herd was around its edge now, switching their tails and drinking, and it looked pretty and pastoral. There were even a few Russian olive trees trailing branches over the water. The little waterway filled only seasonally, and the water had a slight but unpleasant soapy taste. It was drinkable… sort of. You could wash in it, if you didn't mind an itchy film on your skin afterwards. They all had; it was likely to be the last opportunity for a while.
Bob went on: "Folks east of here, the Rovers, the best you can say is that there aren't many of them. Well, that and that they fight one another a lot. What else you can say is they're mighty poor, and they're thieves and cut throats. Taking a hundred twenty prime head of horses through is like waving a lamb chop in front of a hungry kai-ote. It's like to take the chop and your hand too-and be gone before you've really noticed."
It took a moment for Rudi to realize that the rancher's son meant coyote. He'd always rather liked the clever little song dogs, but he could see his point-they did go after sheep, and they'd be a much bigger problem out here than they were in Mackenzie territory.