This Gun for Hire

by Jo Goodman

  He did and pushed it over the edge of the bed. He leaned over and laid his mouth against the puckered flesh of her healing wound.

  “If only that were all it took to make it better,” she said. She moved her hand from her belly to his chest and found the raised starburst of flesh that was his scar. “I wish I had known you then. I would have tended to you.”

  “Tend to me now,” he said, and so she did.

  She took him in hand and angled her hips and invited him to come into her. She was wet, made that way first by his hand and then by hers, but he did not rush his fences. He advanced slowly, taking her by fractions, daring her not to push back.

  They remained on their sides facing each other. The novelty of the position lent their lovemaking new intimacy. He slipped his fingers deeply into her fiery hair. Heavy strands of it licked at his skin. He could imagine heat where none existed. She removed her hand from where they were joined and let it slide over his abdomen and chest, grazing his skin with her nails so lightly that he shivered. She felt the movement inside and it tripped a like response. The last thing they were was cold, but the shiver moved them blindly toward more heat.

  For her it was feeling his smile against her mouth as he turned her on her back. For him it was the contraction of her body as she clung to him in every way possible.

  Even afterward she would not let him leave her. “A little longer,” she said when he would have withdrawn. She liked the small movements he made because he could not help them as she could not help hers. Here, in his arms, was a place she felt safe surrendering the illusion of control. And it was an illusion, she reminded herself, and one she welcomed for the order and sense of predictability it brought her. Sometimes she needed that, and sometimes, like now, she could let it go.

  Their breathing calmed, and when he lifted himself a second time, she made no protest. He fell on his back beside her and she moved her head to the cradle he made for her against his shoulder. She wriggled some as she adjusted her shift so it was no longer bunched around her hips. She also raised the fallen straps and tugged on the ribbon at the neckline to make it a more modest opening.

  “Are you quite finished?” he asked when she had settled in for the second time.

  “Mm.”

  He chose to believe that meant that she was. He idly stroked her upper arm with his fingertips. Her palm lay without moving on his chest. They lay in that fashion for a long time before he asked, “Do you ever think about a life different from the one you know now?”

  The question made her heart jump. “How do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure. Just . . . different.”

  “Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes I think about it.”

  He waited to see if she would elaborate, but she did not. What she did was turn the question on him.

  “Do you?” she asked.

  “I do. Not often, but sometimes. Like you.”

  She waited as he had and sensed his caution in the silence. Suddenly she said, “I think about a place I can go back to.”

  “There’s no place like that for you now?”

  “No. Not really. I’ve got some money saved. Stashed, on account of not trusting banks.” She thought he might laugh at that, but he didn’t. That eased her enough to say, “I might buy a parcel. Enough space to open my bedroll and stretch my toes. Maybe . . . someday.”

  He was quiet for a long time before he said, “I have a place.”

  She realized she had never once considered that he might be from somewhere. “I’ve always thought about you as just passing through on your way to somewhere else.”

  “I have a spread south of Denver, just outside a little town called Temptation. A house, stable, some outbuildings, and about eight hundred head of cattle. I move around, same as you, but that is where I return.”

  “Does your place have a name?”

  “Eden.”

  “Eden,” she repeated softly. “Of course. What else would you call a spread outside of Temptation?”

  “I never claimed to be much for originality.”

  She smiled sleepily. “Is it hard for you to leave behind?”

  “It’s still a place, not home. Not yet, not for me. I have a wrangler and some hired hands taking care of it.”

  He inhaled deeply and then slowly released the breath. “You haven’t asked me what would make Eden home.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “All right,” he said, pressing his lips against her hair. “Maybe neither of us is ready to say it out loud.”

  Calico closed her eyes and felt the press of tears behind her lids. She did not try to understand them. They simply were. When she finally fell asleep, it was because she could not make the journey between Temptation and Eden one more time.

  * * *

  Quill heard his name. He sat up straight, blinked, and patted the space beside him. Calico was no longer in his bed. Had she called him?

  “Mr. McKenna!” Not his first name. Not Calico, then. Ann? He shook off the dregs of sleep as he moved off the bed. “Coming!” he called out, looking around for his clothes. He remembered leaving them on the bathroom floor and went to get them. He did not even question why Calico was standing where his clothes had been. She had them in her arms and offered them up. They did not speak as she helped him into his shirt and then gave him his trousers. He put on his shoes, kissed her on the cheek, and left her standing precisely where he found her. It was yet another explanation that would have to wait.

  Quill opened the bedroom door. It was indeed Ann Stonechurch in the hallway. The dim light made her face seem even paler than it was. Her eyes were wide, almost wild with fear, and her hands flapped like a startled bird’s wings as she spoke.

  “Please. You have to come with me. It’s Father. Something’s happened. Something awful.”

  He joined her in the hallway and took a step toward Ramsey’s room. She grabbed his arm and shook her head frantically. “Where is he?” asked Quill.

  Ann pulled him toward the stairs. “In his study. He never went to bed.”

  Quill removed her hand from his arm so he could take the lead. He leaped down the steps two and three at a time and reached the study well before Ann. She had left the doors parted and he hurried inside. The room was exactly as it had been earlier when he had only poked his head inside. Ramsey was not at his desk. Quill turned to look at Ann. He could not catch her eye because she flew past him on her way to the far side of her father’s desk, the side that was not in Quill’s line of sight.

  He went after her. She was already beginning to kneel when he caught up to her. He dropped to his knees beside her and her father.

  “Is he breathing?” asked Ann. “He was breathing when I found him.”

  “Sh.” Quill bent his head so his ear was near Ramsey’s open mouth. He laid his palm on Ramsey’s chest to feel for the rise and fall. “Yes,” he told Ann. “He’s breathing. He was like this when you found him?”

  She nodded. “I shook him, tried to rouse him, but I never moved him. I went to get you.”

  “Where is your aunt?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Get her. Miss Nash, too. They should be here with you while I go for Dr. Pitman.”

  Ann stood, but she did not leave. “What is wrong with him?”

  Quill only knew what wasn’t wrong with him. There were no obvious wounds, no blood pooling under his body. His features were still symmetrical, nothing sagged or drooped. When Quill raised Ramsey’s eyelids, the pupils responded to the introduction of light. “I don’t know, Ann. Bring your aunt.”

  Ann backed away and then fled.

  As soon as she was gone, Quill bent over Ramsey again. He did not listen to the older man’s breathing this time. Instead, he smelled his breath. It was vaguely sour with the scent of vomitus, but Quill saw no evidence for it on the carpet. There wa
s another odor as well, but not one Quill could identify. He looked around for an overturned glass or one that was nearly empty. There was none, and no plate either. The scent continued to elude him.

  Quill turned Ramsey on his side. The lack of any response was discouraging. He wondered how long Ramsey had been lying there. It was certainly possible that he had been there when Quill had looked in earlier. Quill knew he had no reason to suspect that anything was wrong at that time, but that did not stop him from being frustrated with himself. He could have done more. The lamp had been burning. He could have stepped inside and looked around. If he had, he would know whether Ramsey had been lying unconscious in the room then or if his collapse had only recently happened.

  Above him, he heard doors open and close, footsteps treading more heavily than was their custom. The distinctly feminine voices drew nearer. Quill stood just as all three women appeared on the threshold. They let Ann reach her father first.

  “You moved him,” she said, kneeling. “Should you have done that?”

  Quill did not answer her. He was looking at Beatrice, and when she nodded, he knew that she understood. “Do what you need to do to make him comfortable. I am going for Dr. Pitman.” He caught Calico’s hand surreptitiously and squeezed it as he brushed past her. “I won’t be gone a moment longer than I have to be.”

  Ann tugged on her aunt’s hand. “What is wrong with him? Is it his heart?”

  From Calico’s perspective, Ann may as well have tugged on her aunt’s heart. Beatrice’s porcelain complexion turned ashen, and the gray cast made her look impossibly fragile.

  Beatrice responded to the tug by joining her niece on the carpet. Unaware of what Quill had done, Beatrice went through the same motions but in the end had nothing to add that enlightened.

  Calico pointed to the sofa at the rear of the study. “Should we put him there? Mr. McKenna said we should make him comfortable.”

  “I don’t think we should move him,” said Ann. “What if we hurt him?”

  “All right,” Calico said. “We won’t move him. I will get a pillow for his head, though.”

  “Oh, yes. Do that. He looks so uncomfortable. His neck . . .” Ann’s voice trailed off as she considered the awkward angle of her father’s neck. “Do you think he might have broken something? Perhaps when he fell?”

  Calico had already retrieved a pillow from the sofa and now she hugged it to her midriff as she waited for Beatrice’s pronouncement.

  “Ann, there is nothing wrong with his neck that a pillow will not improve.” Beatrice waved Calico over and took the pillow from her. She gently lifted Ramsey’s head and slipped the pillow under it. “There. Do you see? I believe his color is already getting better.”

  Calico thought this last was wishful thinking. Ramsey’s cheeks had a cherry glow to them. Calico had seen the like before and could not recall that it was ever a sign that a change for the better was coming. Ann, though, nodded and was calmed by her aunt’s words. There was some good in that, Calico decided. Ann Stonechurch was a rapidly unraveling bundle of nerves.

  Beatrice rose to her feet and pushed Ramsey’s chair closer to where he lay. She sat. Ann stayed on the floor beside her father. Calico moved to the chair she usually occupied when she was Ramsey’s guest.

  None of them spoke. Ramsey did not stir. The waiting was interminable.

  Because Calico’s attention was for what was happening outside the walls of the home, she was the first to hear Quill’s approach. His voice had become unmistakable to her. Without announcing her intent, she got up and went to the front door to let him in.

  Dr. Pitman stamped his feet as he entered. Snow fell off his shoes in clumps and dusted the floor when he removed his coat and hat. Calico took the items from him and held out her hand for Quill’s things as well.

  “Mr. Stonechurch’s study,” she told the doctor, and he hefted his leather bag and hurried on. To Quill she said, “If there’s been any change, it hasn’t been for the better.”

  He nodded. “Ann?”

  “Sick with fear.” She put the coats and hats in the front parlor while Quill waited for her. “Do you know something you’re not saying?”

  He touched her arm and held her up. He spoke quietly. “No. Nothing firm. Suspicions only.”

  “Did you share them with Pitman?”

  “No. They are probably nothing, and I want to hear him out first.”

  “All right. Then I will do the same.”

  Quill did not have an opportunity to ask what she meant by that. By the time the question occurred to him, she had stepped away and was preceding him into the study.

  Abraham Pitman was in his late forties, but he suffered from stiff joints that made him navigate like a much older man. The prospect of getting down on his knees to examine Ramsey Stonechurch was daunting. He placed one hand on the edge of Ramsey’s desk and the other on the chair that Beatrice had vacated and lowered himself carefully beside his patient. He winced as his knees touched the floor, but he did not complain.

  He wore gold-rimmed spectacles that had a tendency to slip down his nose because he had no bridge to speak of. It had long been his habit to push at them whether they were in place or not. He did this before he opened his case and removed a stethoscope.

  His examination was efficient and conducted without comment. He listened to Ramsey’s breathing, checked his heart and lungs, his pupils, his reflexes, made a sweep of his mouth with a hooked forefinger, and clapped him hard on the back. He tapped Ramsey’s liver, his midsection, and listened to his bowels. He checked for broken bones and bruising, and when he was finished, he was no closer to making a diagnosis than when he entered the room.

  “Mr. Stonechurch can be moved. There is no reason not to put him in his bed. Is there anyone in the house who can help?”

  Ann shook her head. “None of the help live here. You know that. They’ve all gone home.”

  Calico spoke up. “We only need to make a litter. There will be little problem managing after that. Mr. McKenna? Will you come with me?”

  Quill followed her out of the study. “You have an idea?”

  “Bed slats and a couple of blankets.”

  “That will work.”

  They returned to the study with the makeshift litter in under ten minutes. Quill rolled Ramsey onto it. Dr. Pitman insisted on keeping Ramsey on his side, so they placed pillows at his back to use as a stopper. Quill took one end and Beatrice and Calico each held a slat at the other.

  Once they put Ramsey in bed, the women stepped outside the room while Quill and Dr. Pitman stripped him out of his clothes and into a nightshirt. When they were permitted to return, Ann and Beatrice rearranged the blankets, tucking and smoothing and fussing unnecessarily because they needed something to do.

  “Miss Nash, will you fetch a basin for me?”

  “Certainly.” Calico disappeared into the bathing room to get one.

  Dr. Pitman pushed his spectacles over his sloped nose. “I was able to force a mild purgative down his throat. If it works, his stomach will involuntarily spasm and he will purge the toxins. It is the only thing I can think to try. If it is his ulcer, there will be blood.” He took the basin from Calico’s hands and placed it on the bed close to Ramsey’s turned head. “He must not be left alone. He will need help with the purge. Under no circumstances can he be allowed to breathe in what his stomach is trying to reject.”

  He took a moment to look at each member of his audience in turn. “Do you understand?” When there were nods all around, he continued. “I propose taking the first shift as it will likely happen soon. I don’t suppose that any of you will sleep well for what remains of the night, but I would gladly take a cup of coffee if it were offered.”

  “Of course,” said Beatrice. “Yes, of course. I should have already made the offer. I will bring it directly. Anyone else? No? Very well.” With a last l
ook at Ramsey, she left.

  “What sort of toxins?” asked Ann. “What did you mean by that?”

  “Oh, it could be anything. Let’s begin with Ramsey’s last meal, which I assume was dinner.”

  Quill said, “I did not see anything to suggest he ate something later.”

  “Well, then, let us go forward with dinner. What did he eat?”

  Ann put her hands together in the same way her aunt so often did. “What we all ate. Potato soup. Baked fish with hollandaise sauce. Cole slaw.” Her delicate features started to crumple. “This is ridiculous. None of us is ill. What is happening to him?”

  Calico moved to stand beside Ann. She gently laid a hand on the girl’s back at the shoulder and addressed the doctor. “I do not think that Mr. Stonechurch has done justice to a meal in quite some time. Ann is correct that we all eat the same things, but he eats less these days. Remember, Ann? You even remarked on it at dinner the other evening. You asked him if he was feeling well.”

  Dr. Pitman patted his own well-rounded belly. “Perhaps he is looking out for this. I have advised that he do so.”

  “Perhaps,” Calico said, unconvinced.

  “Well?” He directed his question at everyone. “Has he complained? He certainly did not seek me out.”

  Quill said, “I spend the most time with him. He’s made no more than his usual number of comments about his . . .” He paused, searching for a word that would not offend Ann’s sensibilities. “His rumblings.”

  “He might have said more to my aunt,” said Ann.

  “That is certainly possible. Likely, in fact. Mrs. Stonechurch has more remedies for dyspepsia than the apothecary. I will ask her when she returns.” Dr. Pitman’s spectacles had slipped again. This time he regarded the others over the rims. “Go. Rest as best you can. Ann, that is especially necessary for you. Ask your aunt to make you some chamomile.”

  She nodded slowly, the hint of a rueful smile shaping her lips. “I was on my way to the kitchen to make that for myself,” she said to no one in particular. “I was restless, couldn’t sleep. That’s why I was downstairs and why I noticed the lamp burning in my father’s study. I went in to extinguish it and found him lying on the floor.” She turned sharply in the doctor’s direction. “Will he recover? If this is because of something he ate tonight, will he recover?”