At Love's Command

by Karen Witemeyer

  Not that she wanted him to make the situation more difficult for the Horsemen when they arrived, but having her guard dog temporarily reassigned meant a reprieve from his constant harassment and lewd taunting. A reprieve that gave her the chance to shore up her courage and re-starch her spine as she faced a new day in the outlaw camp.

  As Josephine fit her hand into her brother’s palm, she squeezed tight. He really did love her. His sleepless vigil last night proved it. She had no doubt that he would have fought tooth and nail to protect her virtue had anyone approached the wagon. His self-indulgent nature and lack of maturity might have led him down a terrible path, but the remorse shining in his bloodshot eyes told her the wisdom that could only be gained through failure had started to take hold.

  “Thank you for watching over me last night,” she said as she gained her feet.

  “It’s my fault you’re in this mess. I never thought . . .” Charlie hung his head and let the rest of the excuse fall away unspoken. When he lifted his face again, moisture glistened in his eyes. “I was a selfish fool. Angry at Father for cutting me off, for not letting me be the man I wanted to be instead of one made in his image. I got so caught up in demanding what I thought was mine by right that I blinded myself to everything else. Taggart’s true motives. The consequences to you and to the men willing to risk their lives to rescue me.” He blew out a breath. “I was so determined to prove myself my own man. Yet the man I proved myself to be was a worthless scoundrel who willingly endangered an innocent woman—my own kin, no less—for his own gain.” He looked her in the eye. “I’m sorry, sis. So sorry.”

  “I know.” She held tight to his hand when he tried to pull away. “You can’t undo the past, but you can learn from it.” She wouldn’t sweep his mistakes under the rug any longer, but neither would she rub his nose in them. “I believe in you, Charlie. I believe that you can be the man God designed you to be. A man of honor and integrity. You’ve got a good heart,” she said, tapping a fingertip against his chest. “It’s just a little rusty, is all. Give it a good scrubbing, scrape away the corrosion, and infuse it with a purpose higher than itself. It will shine again.”

  He stared at the charred remains of last night’s fire, his throat working up and down. He said nothing, just fought the emotions brought to the surface by too little sleep and too many regrets. Josephine patted his chest, then let her hand fall away. She wouldn’t press him for promises he wasn’t ready to make. This was a battle he had to fight in his own way and in his own time.

  Show him the right path, Lord, and give him the courage to follow it.

  A tug on her own heart drew her attention. Perhaps it was time to consider moving her medical practice closer to home. The thought jarred her. Immediate disagreement rose to combat the unsolicited idea. She’d worked hard to establish her practice in Purgatory Springs. Had battled prejudice and earned respect. She had relationships there. Patients who needed her.

  Her heart twinged again. Charlie needed her too. Not to nurse him to physical health, but to aid in his spiritual recovery. Who else would lend him faith when his ran in short supply? Or build him up when others tore him down? Josephine shuddered to think what their father might say or do after this fiasco. Charlie was going to need someone on his side, and words penned in an occasional letter would not be sufficient. He needed the touch of a hand, a sisterly embrace, and maybe the occasional swat upside the head to get him back on track.

  If she neglected Charlie in order to pursue her career, how was that any less selfish than her brother pursuing personal gain at the cost of her safety?

  It wasn’t.

  The truth settled into her soul. For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? She doubted there’d be much profit for a woman either, who gained her career while her brother lost his soul.

  Perhaps Charlie wasn’t the only one with lessons to learn this day.

  The muted clang of metal on metal drew her out of her cogitations. Arnold Watson, the camp cook, had lost his grip on the striker while he dozed against the back wheel of the chuck wagon, causing it to clatter against the triangular dinner bell in his lap. He snorted his way out of a snore and came awake with a start. In a flash, he had the dinner bell in hand and the striker poised to sound an alarm.

  The dear man had not only emptied his wagon of supplies and insisted she sleep in the one place that could ensure her a modicum of privacy, but he’d joined Charlie in standing guard, threatening to raise a clatter fit for a stampede should any man attempt to accost her. Taggart, apparently, hated having his sleep disturbed, so even though the cook would be blamed for raising the racket, whoever instigated the incident would likely share in the punishment. A fact that had proved a sufficient deterrent. Yet what truly moved her was that Mr. Watson had been willing to endure whatever atrocities Taggart meted out in order to keep her safe.

  “Miz Burkett? That you?” The cook squinted in her direction, his bushy gray eyebrows nearly hiding his eyes.

  “Yes, Mr. Watson. All is well.” She gave Charlie’s hand one final squeeze, then walked over to her second champion, who was struggling to his feet. She clasped his elbow in a steadying grip. “I can’t thank you enough for your kindness. You and Charlie are true heroes for watching over me with such vigilance.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ heroic ’bout me, ma’am.”

  “I beg to differ. You guarded me as well as any knight of old. Even though I’m a perfect stranger to you. You’re a man of character, Mr. Watson.”

  He shook his head slightly, unable to accept her praise. “My character’s as poor as my eyesight. It’s just . . . well, ya remind me of someone.” He turned his back on her and busied himself with repacking his supplies.

  “Who?” Josephine prodded as she reached for a canister of salt.

  He stilled, a bag of beans cradled in his arms. “Agatha,” he murmured. “My wife.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “She’d be plumb ashamed of me, degenerate beggar that I am.” He lifted his chin. “I used to run an inn. Had four rooms. Provided simple, hearty fare. Agatha kept the rooms tidy. I saw to the vittles. We weren’t rich, but we got by well enough. Until she got sick.” His chin dropped, and he kicked at the nearby wagon wheel. “Consumption. Took a year to kill her. Nearly killed me too, watching her waste away. Maybe it did. Killed the good parts, at least. I was nothin’ but a hollowed-out wreck after she died. Turned to drinkin’. Gamblin’. Anything to dull the pain. Only the pain got worse. Lost the inn. Lost my friends. My faith. Ran up such a big debt that when Taggart offered to buy me out in exchange for cookin’ for his men, I didn’t even blink. Figured if I died while running with the gang, the pain would be done.”

  He finally met her gaze. “When you thanked me fer the meal last night, it brought it all back. My inn. Fillin’ the bellies of decent folks. Bein’ the man I used to be. I never thought I’d feel that way again. Like I mattered.

  “I ain’t no hero, ma’am, but if Agatha had been the one to live instead of me, and she found herself a prisoner among these hooligans, I’d have wanted someone to watch out fer her.”

  Josephine blinked away the sheen of moisture that had gathered behind her eyelids, then touched the cook’s arm. “When this is all over, come to Gringolet Farms near San Antonio. Ask for me. There’ll be a job waiting for you there.”

  He shook his head and turned back to his supplies, muttering under his breath about softhearted fillies being too kind for their own good. He sidestepped the displaced chuck box, grabbed the large coffeepot, and headed to the water barrel attached to the opposite side of the wagon.

  Perhaps he would change his mind. She prayed he would.

  “You ready for that walk?” Charlie brushed her shoulder with his hand.

  Josephine nodded. Privacy for a woman in an outlaw camp was a precious commodity. She’d never been one to appreciate sleeping outdoors, anyway. Riding, yes. Sleeping? Give her a roof and four solid walls, please. Not to mention woode
n floors and sealed windows to keep out the creepy-crawly visitors that roamed free in the wild.

  Nevertheless, the collection of bushes southeast of the house had become her sanctuary over the last fifteen hours. She didn’t get to visit often, but the moment she slipped behind the thick juniper, it was as if she stepped into a secret passageway in an old castle, where a hinged bookcase closed behind her and shielded her from the oppressive weight of a dozen outlaws’ eyes.

  She could breathe for those precious minutes. Think of something besides wicked men and what they might be plotting. Tend to ordinary needs and rest her mind. Even medical school hadn’t taxed her mental stamina as much as constantly being on guard against Carver, Taggart, and the rest of the drunken horde.

  “Here, I filled this with fresh water while you were talking with Cookie.” Charlie extracted a silver flask from a pocket inside his coat and handed it to her. Then he dug in his trouser pocket for his handkerchief. “It’s mostly clean.” There was the charmer’s grin she remembered.

  Josephine accepted his offerings and the thoughtfulness behind them. “Thank you.” She touched his shoulder. He met her gaze, his eyes steeled with a determination that promised to atone for past mistakes. After a charged moment, she nodded, then dropped her hand from his shoulder and headed for the bushes.

  As she strolled away from the heart of the camp, Josephine circled her neck and shoulders to work out the soreness accumulated from her cramped sleeping space. A touch of pink lingered in the sky, bringing a smile to her face. Didn’t the Bible promise that God’s mercies were new every morning? She prayed his mercies would prove bountiful today. Mercies that allowed Matthew to be alive and not irreparably injured. Mercies that would bring swift justice upon their enemies. Mercies that would protect her and Charlie from those who wished them harm.

  The juniper bushes might have been only a couple dozen yards away from the cookfire, but the moment those bushes separated her from the rest of the camp, a weight slid off her back—the weight of protecting Charlie, of protecting herself. She inhaled deeply, then exhaled in a long, slow release. Her eyes slid closed, and she concentrated on letting go of the tension in her neck, her arms, back, and legs.

  She counted to ten, then opened her eyes and drank in the last bit of pink as it faded from the early morning sky. An unformed plea flew heavenward with her gaze before she turned her attention to more mundane matters.

  After taking care of her most urgent need, she unbuttoned the top few buttons of her shirtwaist, dampened Charlie’s handkerchief, and set to work refreshing her face and neck. Closing her eyes again, she imagined her bathing tub at home filled with warm water. A bar of rose-scented soap nearby. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for her toothbrush. She lifted the flask to her lips and swished a mouthful of water. Not that it made a significant dent in the state of her overall oral cleanliness, but it helped.

  Bending her neck forward, she ran the damp cloth over her nape. Maybe they’d let her have her bag today. Let her brush out her hair. How glorious that would feel—

  “Where is she?”

  The sharp demand brought Josephine’s head up with a start. Carver! Her eyes flew open, and her hands automatically clutched at the buttons of her open bodice.

  “She’s tending to personal matt—oof!”

  The thud of what had to be a fist on flesh cut off Charlie’s words.

  “No one recalls seeing her last night. Not in the barn.”

  A grunt interrupted the speech.

  “Not in the yard.”

  Another grunt.

  Josephine fumbled with her buttons, her trembling fingers refusing to cooperate.

  “If you helped her escape, I’ll kill you.”

  Abandoning the buttons, Josephine rounded the bushes and sprinted back to the chuck wagon, where Carver held Charlie by his shirtfront. Charlie’s lip was bleeding, and Carver’s fist was raised for another strike.

  “Stop!” she cried. “I’m here. I’m here.”

  “Well, so you are.” Carver glanced her way, then set his jaw and pounded Charlie’s face hard enough to send him sprawling into the dirt.

  Josephine flinched, but she didn’t move to help her brother. Charlie wouldn’t thank her for babying him in front of Carver, and her smirking guard looked as if he’d take any softness on her part as an excuse to continue the punishment.

  “You weren’t where I expected you to be, Doc.” He turned to face her, his eyes deliberately lingering on the undone buttons at her throat.

  Despite the fact that her modesty was completely protected—women showed more skin at country dances than was currently exposed on her person—his gaze left her feeling dirty. Which was surely his intent. As much as she longed to clutch the edges of her collar together to hide herself from his view, she refused to let him shame her when he was the shameful one.

  So she kept her hands at her sides and lifted her chin. “Your expectations are not my concern, Mr. Carver.”

  His smug grin deteriorated into a scowl. “They should be. Unless you don’t care if little Charlie loses all his teeth.”

  She heard her brother rise, heard him spit what she hoped was only blood and saliva and not a tooth onto the dirt. She stared at Carver, letting her disdain radiate without words.

  They faced off for a long minute, neither blinking, until finally Carver lurched forward to grab her arm. He started dragging her toward the house, demolishing her momentary sense of victory in their battle of wills.

  “Taggart wants to see you,” he growled.

  This early in the morning? Josephine grimaced. That didn’t bode well.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Carver flung Josephine through the open farmhouse door, then released her long enough to shut the door behind them. She stumbled into a narrow hall and had to brace a hand against the wall to keep from falling. Taking advantage of the brief separation from her captor, she scuttled a few steps down the hall, doing up the buttons of her shirtwaist as she went. A much easier task with two hands. Facing Taggart with confidence was hard enough without a set of undone buttons tormenting one’s mind. Carver’s leering gaze earlier had made her feel as if she were flashing her garters, not a prim trio of buttonholes.

  She’d just finished pushing the last button through its loop when Carver clasped her elbow and drove her down the remainder of the hall and into the kitchen.

  Apparently undone buttons would be tormenting her after all. Just not hers.

  Taggart stood waiting for her, leaning against the dry sink, shirt untucked and unfastened, hair damp as if he’d just washed up. His torso was well-muscled and tanned from the sun, but it didn’t maintain her interest. She’d seen better. And on a man who possessed the decency to be embarrassed by his accidental display. Taggart’s blatant flaunting was obviously intended to unsettle her. Either as a distraction for a maiden’s delicate sensibilities or an attempt to stir a woman’s desire. Neither would be forthcoming on her part.

  She focused on his smug features and gave the rest of him no more than a flick of a glance. “You wanted to see me?”

  He nodded toward the rectangular table to her left. “Sit down, Miss Burkett. You’re going to write a letter for me.”

  “You know,” she said as she moved toward the table, where a sheet of paper, a pen, and an inkwell waited, “if you had stayed in school instead of turning to a life of crime, you’d be able to write your own letters.”

  “Carver.” Taggart’s tight voice filled the room a heartbeat before a knife sailed past her shoulder to lodge in the tabletop two inches from the edge of the paper.

  Josephine sucked in a breath and yanked her arms up against her chest as she watched the hilt vacillate back and forth. The vibrations of the metal blade pulsed inside her head.

  Taggart came up behind her. “I’ve had enough of your sharp tongue.”

  Josephine swallowed, trying to keep her flapping heart from flying out of her chest.

  “Sit down and
write exactly what I tell you. Verbatim.” His hands clamped onto her shoulders, and he forced her into the chair. “Which, in case you doubt my literacy, is spelled V-E-R-B-A-T-U-M.”

  Josephine nodded and reached a shaky hand toward the pen, her gaze darting to the blade embedded in the table. She knew how to deal with bullies in academic and professional circles, but wit and bravado had taken her about as far as they were going to with Taggart.

  He was on edge. She tried to be encouraged by the notion that he was worried about retaliation from the Horsemen, but it was hard to hold that positive thought in her mind with an eight-inch bowie knife impaling the table beside her hand.

  She inked the nib of her pen, then held it above the paper. “I’m ready.”

  “Your mounts are ready, Captain.”

  Doing his best to hide his impatience, Matt nodded to James Portman. The Horsemen had been waiting at the livery since sunup. Portman hadn’t shown until after seven o’clock. Plenty early for normal business, but forty minutes late by Matt’s schedule.

  Preach settled the bill while the rest of the Horsemen mounted. It felt odd not to have any gear. Their young guide, John Spafford, was better prepared for their journey than the Horsemen were. He, at least, had a canteen and a .22 caliber youth rifle in his scabbard. Matt felt naked without his guns. He missed the weight of the pistols on his hips. The security of having his repeater within easy reach. Their absence made his skin itch.