by Jo Goodman
Quill kicked the door behind him. He had Beatrice’s enameled sewing box under one arm and a bottle of whiskey under the other. He juggled the bottle, dropping it into his hand, and held it up for her to see. “Kentucky bourbon.”
“Did Ramsey give that to you?”
“Nobody gave me anything. No one knows. Anyway, they both owe you.” He set the box on the floor by the bed and the bourbon on a corner of the table. “Ramsey because he was foolish for taking you out there in the first place, and—”
“I told you,” she whispered, “I think he really invited me out there so he could propose.”
“That doesn’t make anything right in my book.” He removed the compress and dropped it in the basin, and then he searched the box for the smallest pair of scissors he could find. When he found them, he held them up to show her. His thumb and index finger barely fit through the grips. He tested them experimentally and judged they would work. Apparently, so did she. Her uncertain frown disappeared.
Calico moved over to give him room to sit. She held her elbow to keep her injured arm steady.
“You don’t have to look,” he said as he began snipping. “I wouldn’t look if I didn’t have to.”
“I am not looking, and you are a fool.”
“You know, I am persuaded that a fool can serve an important purpose.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“Well, distraction is the one that it’s serving now.” He snipped and pulled out the last of the thread. “Done. Don’t look yet. I have to open the scab.” He set the scissors down and used the compress to separate the skin.
Calico recoiled at the putrid smell of pus, but she looked down at the open wound anyway. She wrinkled her nose. “Why aren’t you making a face?”
“You’re looking. You shouldn’t be.”
“I’m looking at you. Why aren’t you making a face?”
“I am. This is it.” He applied the warm cloth just below the wound and pressed it carefully upward. He kept pressing it, evacuating the pus.
Calico looked away again. “How did you get the cicatrix on your chest?” she asked. “I know it’s from a bullet, but what happened?”
Quill concentrated on what he was doing, but he answered her question so that she would not. “What happened was Hammer Smith. Michael is what his parents called him, but everyone else knew him as Hammer. I don’t know why criminals are partial to taking nicknames, but I’ve made a little study of it, and it seems they are. Boomer Groggins. Chick Tatters. Buck McKay. Billy the Kid. Should I go on?”
“Definitely . . .” She gritted her teeth and curled the fingers of her injured hand into a fist. “. . . not.”
“Take a breath,” he instructed. “A deep one. Let it out slowly.”
She did. It helped.
“So Hammer’s playing cards with four friends in a saloon in Barboursville. Sam Petry’s place. I am having a drink, waiting for the game to end so I can ask Hammer what he knows about some cattle missing from the Clinton ranch. I thought we would have a discussion, make sure I had my facts right, before I took him in.”
“You said you weren’t a bounty hunter.”
“And I’m saying it again. I’m not. Now pay attention.” He tossed the soiled compress on the floor and exchanged it for a clean one, soaking it first, and then squeezing out the excess water. He continued working. “The game ended, it looked as if Hammer had done well, and he ordered a whiskey. I picked it up from the bar and took it over to him. Told him it was on me if we could have a chat. He seemed to figure that was a fair trade, so he invited me to sit. I was dragging a chair over when he shot me. I never saw him take a drink, but I was told later that he had and that he wasn’t partial to Sam’s watered-down whiskey. I wasn’t partial to being shot, so I shot him back. I don’t remember anything after that. His friends ran off, Sam brought the doc, and the town put me up in a nice boardinghouse until I recovered. Turned out, Hammer wasn’t real popular.”
Calico realized suddenly that Quill was done cleaning her wound. She hadn’t felt a thing as he had finished up. He had the bottle of bourbon in his hand, not the compress.
He folded over a corner of the quilt and gave it to her. “Bite down on that, unless you want a pillow.”
“What about the bourbon?”
“In a moment. Go ahead. Bite down.”
She did, and was glad she did, because there was no warning as he poured fine Kentucky whiskey into her wound. Tears came to her eyes and every muscle in her face hurt as she squeezed them all as tightly as she could. The pain never really passed, but it did become endurable. She tore the quilt out of her mouth and opened her eyes. Quill was dangling the bottle in front of her.
“You can clobber me with it or drink it. Lady’s choice.”
“Give me that.” Without thinking, she tried to take it with her dominant hand and the movement set all of her nerves humming. Beads of blood reappeared along the gash in her arm. Grimacing, she took the bottle in her left hand while Quill attended to the bleeding. “I am going to drink myself stupid.”
“Good,” he said, unperturbed. “That will put us on equal footing, me being a fool and all.”
She paused in lifting the bottle to her lips. “I didn’t mean that. Or rather, I meant it kindly.”
He glanced up at her, smiled. “So you say now.” He finished dabbing blood from the wound. “Go on. Drink. You won’t feel any less pain, but you won’t mind it as much.”
She nodded, set the bottle against her mouth, and drank deeply. Her eyes watered as heat burst in her throat and belly. She had to blink to clear her vision, and when she had a good look at what Quill was doing, she could see he was expertly threading a needle.
“This is the best thread Beatrice has for this.” He held it up, examined it. “It might be better than what the doctor used. I do wish I had his needle, though. The curve. It helps.” He looked over at her. “Ready?”
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“Mm-hmm. Those Army doctors your father didn’t trust? I helped them set bones, stitch wounds, remove arrowheads. I got good enough at it that they requested me.” He shrugged. “You do whatever you have to do on a campaign, but it’s all right if you want to change your mind about me doing this. I can send for Pitman.”
“No.” She drank from the bottle again before she gave it over. She needed to free her good arm to hold the other steady. “Go on. Take a drink if you like.”
He did and then set the bottle on the floor. “My hands will be even steadier if you’re not watching me.”
She chuckled quietly. He made it so easy for her to look the other way that she did.
Quill never looked up from his work, even when he heard Calico wince or the sound of air hissing through her clenched teeth. There were moments that he paused to let her catch her breath or still her twitching arm, but those moments were few and brief. He wanted to be done, and he could not imagine that Calico felt any differently.
When he had cut the last thread, he dropped the needle in the basin, and reached for the bourbon. He passed it to Calico without taking any for himself and supported her elbow while she drank. “I am going to make a sling for you. The stitches will hold better if you keep the arm immobile.”
“Do what you like,” she said airily, waving him off with the bottle. “Whatever you like.”
He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead before he stood. Satisfied that she was well on her way to stupid, he picked up the basin and carried it into the bathing room. He came back with a thin towel, which he folded into a triangle and then fashioned into a decent sling. She was unusually cooperative as he put it on and only protested halfheartedly when he relieved her of the bottle.
“I’ll find something better for the sling later. I have an idea.”
Nodding agreeably, Calico asked, “Aren’t you going to w
rap a bandage around your work?”
“Later. I want to watch it for a while, and fresh air is probably better than covering it up.”
“Somethin’ we agree on.”
“Mm.” He looked over at her. Her green eyes shone a little too brightly, although he was uncertain whether the source was drink or pain. He decided it was probably both. “You should rest.”
It was surprisingly easy to give in. “All right.” She looked at her wounded arm again. “What should I say to Beatrice when she wants to give me a plaster or a poultice or some other such thing?”
“I will talk to Beatrice. And Ramsey. I need to explain about the bourbon.” He stood, swiped cookie crumbs from the nightstand into his palm, and dusted them off in the fire. He came back for the bottle, the sewing box, and a second look at Calico’s arm. His stitches were holding and the predominant color along the length of the wound was no longer purple. “I will come back after dinner. What should I tell Mrs. Friend to make for you?”
“Soup. Whatever she is serving the family.”
He nodded. “I will be with Ramsey for a while, and then I am going into town.” When she started to protest, he stopped her. “Ramsey and Ann will be fine here; they are not your responsibility for the time being.” Quill did not give her an opportunity to argue. He exited quickly.
* * *
Ramsey was sitting with Frank Fordham when Quill entered the study. He had not bothered to knock and both men looked up at the intrusion, Frank in surprise, Ramsey in annoyance.
Quill did not apologize for interrupting. “I need a moment of your time.” He spoke to Ramsey, but his eyes darted to Frank and then to the doors. The company accountant was halfway to his feet before Ramsey stopped him.
“Just a minute, Frank,” Ramsey said, holding up his large, square palm. He pointed to the chair and Frank sat down again. Ramsey jerked his chin at Quill. “As it happens, Mr. McKenna, I also need a moment of your time. Mr. Fordham and I are looking over a list of men that were recently hired and—”
“I promise I will review it when I get back from town. I’m leaving, but I need to speak to you first.”
Ramsey nodded to Frank. “It’s all right. Wait in the front parlor. It seems this won’t take long.”
When Frank was gone, Quill closed the doors and approached Ramsey’s desk. He did not sit. What he did was set the bottle of bourbon down. Hard.
Ramsey did not flinch. “This is about Miss Nash,” he said.
Quill nodded shortly. “From now on, I am the only person who is going to take care of her. I will ask for Dr. Pitman’s help if I think I need it. Under no circumstance is Mrs. Stonechurch to tend that wound with her herbs and barks.”
Ramsey frowned so deeply that his eyebrows came together in a single line. “Beatrice? Has she done something?”
“Meaning well is not the same as doing good. She has no experience with gunshot wounds, and she has more faith in her remedies than in Pitman. She either did not recognize the infection that was developing or she thought she could manage it. Neither is acceptable. I am going to speak to her about it, but I wanted you to know.”
Ramsey put up a hand and shook his head. “Don’t. It will be better if I talk to her. She gave my brother excellent care. I don’t want her to mistake your concern for an insult.”
Quill drank in a slow, calming breath. “I don’t want that either, but you have to speak to her today.”
“I will.”
Quill watched Ramsey’s eyes drift to the bourbon. “That was to make Calico not care so much about the pain. I had to open the wound, drain it, clean it, and suture it again.”
Ramsey paled a little. “I didn’t know. I saw her this morning. She never complained.”
“She doesn’t. She won’t. There’s been no one for her to complain to for a long time. I don’t think it occurs to her.”
“She saved my life,” he said quietly, distantly, as if the fact of it still stunned him.
“She did. And she bears you no ill will because she was the one who got shot. I am the one holding that against you. Do you understand?” He slapped the table when Ramsey did not respond. “Do you understand?”
Ramsey nodded. He looked up, held Quill’s hard stare. “Perhaps better than you think I do. You suggested her to me because you wanted to see her again. You seized an opportunity.” Ramsey’s gaze turned shrewd. “You don’t only blame me for what happened. You blame yourself.”
“Not because she got shot. I did not stop you from taking that ride. That’s what I blame myself for. I told you she wouldn’t be able to arm herself properly. Hell, you were carrying her rifle. You put the both of you at risk because there were appearances you wanted to maintain.”
Shaking his head, Quill stepped away from the desk. “You need to think about how much longer you want to keep your daughter in the dark. Beatrice, too.” He started for the door, paused, and turned back. “And there is something else you need to know. You were right that there is someone who has caught your daughter’s interest. Calico figured it out almost right away. She left it up to me to tell you when I thought the time was right. I am thinking that it is now.”
Ramsey Stonechurch moved to the edge of his chair, his back ramrod straight. “And? Who is it?”
“Me, sir. Your daughter’s infatuation appears to be with me.” Quill walked out then, ignoring Ramsey’s bellow, demanding that he return.
Quill came back in time to change for dinner. He checked on Calico before he went downstairs. She was sleeping, so he left the flat parcel from Mrs. Birden’s dress shop on the rocker and did not disturb her.
Conversation at dinner was largely limited to what passed between Ann and Beatrice. Ramsey and Quill responded to questions put to them by either of the woman but said nothing to each other. Quill thought Ann looked eager to be gone from the table. Beatrice was harder to read, but she excused herself when Ann did, so Quill figured she was equally glad to have somewhere to go.
Ramsey and Quill did not speak while the table was being cleared and neither of them tried to leave. It was only when the door had been closed and they were alone that Ramsey stood.
“Drink?” he asked, walking over to the cabinet. “I know there is an open bottle of bourbon here somewhere.”
“Thank you. Yes.” A minute later Quill had a drink in his hand. Ramsey tapped it lightly with his own before he returned to his chair.
“I will begin,” said Ramsey. “I spoke to Beatrice. She was horrified at the prospect that her remedies may have done more harm than good.”
“They did no good.”
Ramsey lifted his hand a fraction. “Please, let me have my say. You already made your opinion clear.” When Quill nodded, Ramsey went on. “As I said, she was horrified. You should consider allowing her to provide teas. Everyone in the house knows they are efficacious.” He patted the general area of his stomach. “She will want to talk to you later to apologize. I ask that you hear her out, be patient with her. Forgive her. I hope you will encourage Miss Nash to do the same.”
“I won’t have to. Miss Nash will do all those things on her own.”
Ramsey pressed his lips together, nodded. “You were also right about something, Mr. McKenna. I was wrong not to heed your advice about not inviting Miss Nash to go riding. I did not use good judgment there, and she paid for it. You know why I did it, don’t you?”
Quill hesitated, wondering if he should admit that he did. After a moment, he said, “Yes, sir. You are fond of her.”
“Fond?” Ramsey’s short laugh mocked himself. “That makes me sound rather avuncular, doesn’t it? It is damn lowering to be thought of in that light. Older. Harmless. Foolish. My interests were romantic, but I don’t suppose I cut a dashing figure.” He laughed at himself again. “Cut a dashing figure. I am old, or else I am susceptible to the same nonsense delivered by the writers of dime nov
els as my daughter.” Shrugging, he sipped his drink. “Does she know?”
“Ann?”
“No,” he said somewhat impatiently. “Not Ann. We will get to her later. I meant Miss Nash. Calico.”
Quill did not pretend not to know what Ramsey was talking about. “She suspects.”
“So if you know that, it means that the two of you have talked about it.” He sighed. “That is even more lowering.” One of his wiry eyebrows arched. “Did she tell you what we were discussing when the first shot was fired?”
“Yes.” Seeing Ramsey’s dismay and genuine discomfort, Quill took a breath and reached deep for the lie. “She said she was explaining the merits of a Winchester over a Remington repeater and you were arguing the opposite view. Ironic, then, that someone would take a shot at you while you were debating which rifle was better.”
Ramsey was slow to respond. He studied Quill over the rim of his tumbler. “Yes. Ironic.”
Quill said, “You should sort this out with Calico.”
“I don’t think there is anything to sort out. I know which way the wind is blowing, and it is not in my direction.”
Quill said nothing. He finished his drink.
“More?” asked Ramsey.
“No. I think we need to discuss your daughter. You understand that whatever she imagines she feels for me, it is not reciprocated.”
Ramsey knocked back what remained of his drink. He got up and poured another finger. “I would go so far as to wager that when you were in uniform, you cut a damn dashing figure.”
“That was quite a few years ago.”
“Jesus, Quill. What are you now? Thirty?”
“About that.”
Ramsey added another splash to his glass. “Jesus,” he muttered again.
Quill said, “You should know that I intend to spend more time with Calico while she is healing, and sooner or later Ann and Beatrice, Mrs. Friend, Mrs. Pratt, Molly, and everyone else in and out of this house will take notice and have something to say about it. If Calico’s right about Ann, then she—”
