“I’ll need some light to check my bag,” she said.
The room was windowless, so Rafe nodded. “Light the lamp.”
A match hissed and flared. When the wick caught, a yellow glow spilled into the cramped space. Judging by the cracked spines, the books had belonged to Doc Randall—all of them except a shelf holding novels, poetry and a copy of Huckleberry Finn. She carried the lamp into a second room where he saw an exam table, a counter full of bottles and a tall cabinet. Her leather bag was sitting on the counter near a doorway that led to a room that opened to the street.
Just below the bag, Rafe saw a drawer that could have held anything. Thinking about the shotgun, he paced to her side and snatched up the bag. “Let’s go.”
“I’m not ready.” She set the lamp on the counter with a thud.
“What else do you need? Point and I’ll get it.”
She looked him square in the eye. “I need the amputation kit.”
Rafe nearly puked. Nick deserved to ride horses, bed a woman without shame and to stand two-legged in a river, fishing for his supper without a care. If his young friend lost his leg, he’d never do any of those things. Guilt sluiced over Rafe like water in a miner’s pan, only there was no gold in the bottom—just dirt.
He choked back a mouthful of bile. “Where is it?”
She pointed to a wooden box on the top shelf. “Everything’s in that case.”
He wasn’t about to climb on a stepladder so that she could kick it out from under him, but neither did he want her to climb it. If he wasn’t careful, she’d drop the case on his head. He also had to block both doors to keep her from running. He solved the door problem by slamming his boot against the exam table, causing it to skitter across the room. A drawer flew open and sent instruments and glass vials clattering to the floor. A foul odor filled the air as the table fell and blocked the door.
“You idiot!” The doctor ran to the broken bottles.
“Those things cost money.”
Rafe blocked the office door with his body, but instead of trying to escape, she dropped to her knees and scrambled to pick up the instruments. Her frantic movements made him think of a squirrel gathering nuts—or an orphan hoarding crumbs. The picture reminded him of Nick, the promise he’d made and the hell that had come because Rafe had failed to keep his word.
Glowering, he said, “Just get the damn bone saw.”
Susanna pushed to her feet and put the instruments she had collected next to her bag. Until now, she had been fairly certain the intruder had no intention of harming her, but that hope had vanished when he kicked over the exam table. No matter what he intended, he was unpredictable and capable of violence.
With his tipped-down hat, filthy coat and dishwater hair tied in a ponytail, he embodied the things Susanna hated most—violence, suffering and an emptiness of the soul. He wasn’t drunk, but she smelled whiskey in his pores. He also reeked of dried blood—a bad-meat smell that made her more determined to get to the Colt Navy pistol hidden inside her medical bag.
The weapon had been a gift from her father and she knew how to use it. With the Benton gang using the trails between Cimarron and Midas as a route to Mexico, she’d been on guard for the past month. Her kidnapper was probably one of them. As for the man who’d been shot, he could be any one of the Benton cohorts—the one-eyed man who had set Bill Langley’s barn on fire or Zeke Benton, the brother who had raped Melissa Greene. At least the patriarch of the group, Frank Benton, had been caught and hanged for his crimes. There had been hope the gang would disperse, but instead it had grown heads like the hydra in Greek mythology. For each head that was chopped off, the monster grew three more.
If the outlaw had shown her a shred of respect, Susanna would have risked going with him—it was her duty to treat the injured, no questions asked. Afterward, she would have gone to the sheriff, something this man had to realize. But knowing what she did about the outlaw gang, she feared for her life. The Colt was loaded with .45 caliber bullets. If she shot her attacker in the leg and dosed him with chloroform, she could run for the sheriff. If that strategy failed, she’d shoot him dead, and the world would be a better place for his passing.
To protect herself, she had to open her bag without raising his suspicion, and that meant convincing him she was scared witless. Clasping her hands to her cheeks, she let her eyes fill with tears. “D-don’t hurt me,” she whimpered. “I’ll do what you say.”
“That’s more like it.”
Idiot. Susanna made her bottom lip tremble. “I—I—need that box.”
The outlaw gave a satisfied nod. “Then climb up on the ladder and get what you need.”
With his gaze slicing into her back, she pretended to shake as she climbed the steps. The amputation kit was small but heavy. She’d lifted it before—not often, thank God—but now she pretended to sway as if it weighed a hundred pounds. If the intruder came to her aid, she’d hurl it at him.
But instead of footsteps, she heard a snort. “Don’t ham it up, miss. If it were that heavy, you wouldn’t keep it up there.”
So he wasn’t an idiot after all. Susanna set the case on the counter with a thud. “I have to put a few things in my bag.”
“Just do it.”
She opened the lid to the box and then turned to her bag where the Colt was buttoned into its own pocket. She could see the gun poking through the canvas and wanted to open the pouch, but he’d be expecting her to turn back to the amputation kit. Needing to keep up the charade of stocking her bag, she lifted a tray of suturing needles, set it in the bag and then twisted the button. The wooden disk caught in a tangle of thread.
“What’s taking so long?”
“Nothing,” she answered, tugging on the knot.
His boots hammered a warning as he strode across the room. Desperate to hide the gun, she wedged a bundle of bandages against the pocket. Just as he reached her back, she whirled around and tipped her face upward, putting them eye to eye. Neither of them moved except for the rise and fall of their chests. She could feel the heat of him spilling from the open collar of his shirt. It mixed with the odors of dust and blood, whiskey and the autumn air. His jaw twitched as he reached past her body, grazing her ribs as he put his hand in her medical bag.
With his eyes locked on hers, he pawed the sides where her instruments were strapped on thin boards. His arm flexed against her biceps as he squeezed the wad of cotton hiding the gun. If he pulled it out, he’d find the Colt. She had to stop him and she knew exactly how to do it. Without a flicker of doubt, she slammed her knee into his groin.
“Shit!”
The man jackknifed with pain and dropped the shotgun. Susanna raced to her office, screaming for help and praying someone would hear. Three more steps and she could slam the door and run for the street. Two steps…one step…but then he snaked his hand around her waist and spun her about. She felt his breath on her cheek. She also saw pain in his pale blue eyes as he jerked her closer, putting them hip to hip as he trapped her against the wall.
“You’re going to regret that,” he said in a reedy voice. With a twist of his arm, he whipped the rope out of his pocket, turned her and lashed her hands behind her back.
“No!” she cried as the cord cut into her skin.
“I warned you, lady.” Looking disgusted, he pulled a red bandanna out of the same pocket and gagged her with it.
Terror pulsed through her veins as he dragged her back to the counter. After dumping the contents of the amputation kit into her bag, he lifted the shotgun off the floor and laid it between the handles so he could carry both with one hand. After swinging her bag off the counter, he blew out the lamp and dragged her into the alley.
Chapter Two
About the only decent thing Rafe had done in the past hour was toss a blanket over the woman tied up in the back seat of her own surrey. It was cold and threatening to rain, but he’d done it more for himself than her. The infernal kicking against his back had worn his patience to a nub, and
he hated the sound of her stifled cries for help.
God, he felt lower than dirt. But what choice did he have? Between secrets of his own and his time with the Bentons, he couldn’t risk bringing Nick to town—not with handbills bearing his likeness wallpapering every train depot between St. Louis and Leadville in Colorado. He’d managed to stay a step ahead of the man he bitterly called his guardian angel, but if a traveler recognized him and put in for the reward, Rafe would never make it to Mexico. He’d be chopping rock in a Missouri prison or having his neck stretched on a gallows.
Whap!
The lady doctor had kicked his seat again, reminding him that she’d done a fine job of turning his balls into pancakes. He still felt nauseous, and each kick to the seat made him feel like more of a heel.
Whap!
As the seat jerked, an uncomfortable thought pierced Rafe’s mind. It was close to dawn and they’d been on the road awhile. Maybe the woman needed to pee. Shifting his legs on the floorboard, he took stock of the circumstances. They were miles away from town and had about an hour to go before they reached Nick. Live oak and piñons fenced in the road, and the moon had dropped below the tree line. The murky shadows made running impossible. Rafe’s horse, a roan some fool had named Punkin, was tied to the back of the carriage. She’d steal the gelding if she could, but Punkin was ornery and liked to bite.
Whap! Whap! Whap!
It seemed safe to stop, so Rafe reined in the doctor’s old gray, hopped out of the surrey and lifted the blanket off her head. She sat up and dragged her chin against her shoulder in an effort to loosen the gag.
Rafe took pity on her and slid it off her mouth. “Do you need to visit the bushes?”
“Lord, yes!”
With a curt nod, he grabbed her ankle so she couldn’t kick, untied the cord binding her feet and worked the laces on her boot. “This is so you don’t get ideas about running.”
As soon as he tossed the shoe onto the front seat, she shoved her other foot into his palm—a sure sign that she really had to go. He was doing his best to hurry when the shoelaces ended up in a knot. When she gave a soft moan, he glanced up at her face. She’d pinched her lips together in misery.
“Sorry,” he said with a grunt.
She didn’t acknowledge the apology—not that she should have—but he liked the way her voice mixed her highbrow education with tones of the West. He’d known a lot of bright women, but none of them had kept him on his toes like the doctor did. As soon as Rafe loosened the knot, he slid the boot off her foot. She scooted out of the carriage and turned her back on him, wiggling her fingers to draw his attention downward. “I need my hands.”
With her braid swishing against his wrist, Rafe gripped her forearm while he untied the rope. As soon as he let go, she sprinted into the trees. “Make it quick,” he called after her.
He counted to ten and then twenty. When he got to a hundred, he started to wonder if Florence Nightingale had given him the slip.
Susanna relieved herself with calm efficiency and then hunted for a rock she could put in her pocket for self-defense. She could tolerate his smart mouth, but if he got fresh with his hands, she’d fight back. She had just a few minutes before he came looking for her—maybe less.
He’d been wise to keep her shoes. She had four brothers and had grown up with a fishing pole in her hand. She’d also gone camping with her father every year on the anniversary of their reunion until she had left for college. She knew the mountains even better than the bearded prospectors who hung around Midas in the winter. Not only could she find her way home, she’d be able to tell the sheriff exactly where she’d been.
As she bent down to hunt for a rock, Susanna prayed that something good would come from this horrid night. Maybe she’d be the link in the chain that would lead to the capture of the Benton gang. Dear God, she hoped so. But in the meantime, she needed to keep her wits about her. After curling her fingers around a chunk of granite, she pushed to her feet. She wished her parents were home. She had more confidence in her father than the sheriff, but John, Abbie and her three youngest brothers had traveled to Boston to visit Robbie, their half brother, at college.
“Hurry up, Florence, or I’m coming after you.”
The outlaw’s gruff voice grated on a raw nerve. She hated being called Florence—not because she felt superior to nurses, but because the men who hurled it as an insult were mocking a woman who’d been a pioneer and a true heroine. It also took Susanna back to her early days in medical school, when professors and students alike had dished out abuse in every class.
“My name’s not Florence,” she called back, insisting on respect. “You can call me Doctor.”
“Fine, Dr. Nightingale. Just hurry up.”
“I will…Mr. James.”
A beat of silence told her she’d confused him. “Who’s Mr. James?”
Susanna counted his annoyance as a victory. Maybe she could trick him into revealing his name. “So you’re not Jesse James, the Missouri bank robber?”
A low chuckle whispered through the trees and brought to her mind a picture of the outlaw’s lips curling into a smile. “Jesse’s been dead for years,” he said. “Rest assured, I’m no ghost.”
“I can see that,” she answered. “What should I call you then?”
“You’ll hear my name soon enough. You can call me Rafe.”
“I’d rather call you Mr. James—unless you have another last name.” She was probing, but she also wanted the distance that came with formalities.
“Rafe’s all you need.”
“In that case, you can call me Dr. Nightingale.”
Susanna had a reason for not revealing her identity. He didn’t need to know she was John Leaf’s daughter. Her father had traded his guns for a preacher’s coat, but he’d once been an infamous shootist.
Wanting to avoid being tied up again, Susanna decided not to aggravate the outlaw and headed back to the road. She wanted to gather more information about him, but she was pleased with what she’d just gleaned. Having grown up in Washington, D.C., where she had lived until she traveled West at the age of fourteen, she had an ear for accents. She heard the South in this man’s voice, but it had been muted by time and travel. She’d have to remember that detail when she went to the sheriff.
As she emerged from the pines, she saw the surrey with its large wheels and brocade seats. It had been a fancy ride in its day, and she liked having room for extra passengers. The outlaw must have sensed rain like she did, because he had put up the folding top. A soft clicking called her attention to the front of the surrey where he was holding her horse by the halter and stroking its nose. Poor Lightning had outlived the spirit of his name. He should have been retired when Doc Randall passed on, but Susanna couldn’t afford another horse—not without a loan from the bank or sacrificing her pride and accepting charity from her parents.
As the man scratched Lightning’s ears, she lingered in the shadows, filing away details of his appearance for the authorities. He was just over six feet tall, broad shouldered and undernourished. He was also flexing his neck, a habit that suggested fatigue or chronic tension.
The minute he saw her, he dropped the halter and walked toward her with the length of rope clenched in his hand. They met at the side of the carriage.
“There’s no need for that,” she said, matching his stare.
“I’m not going anywhere without my boots.”
“All right,” he said. “But you’ll have to ride next to me. I want to keep an eye on you.”
With a curt nod, Susanna walked to the passenger side, climbed in and positioned herself as far from him as possible. As he took his place next to her, the carriage springs dipped and squeaked with age. With a flick of his wrist, he urged Lightning into a fast walk. The old horse managed to look spirited until the trail curved up a hill that grew steeper with every step. Lightning moved slower and slower until he’d come close to a dead stop.
“Damn nag,” muttered the outlaw. “Yo
u should buy yourself a decent horse.”
“I would if I could,” she countered. “You may find this hard to believe, but some of us work for a living.”
She was about to look away when he gave her a hard stare. “Why would I find that hard to believe?”
Because you’re a liar and a thief. You take what you want and leave others to suffer. She was itching to lecture him about hard work and ethics, but his pale blue irises were flashing with bitterness and his lips had thinned to a sneer. She’d touched a nerve that ran straight to his heart. He knew something about suffering.
Circles of bluish exhaustion had spread from the bridge of his nose to the hollows beneath his eyes. Most of the cowboys she treated were men whose features had been carved by bar fights, hours in the sun and damaged dreams. Looking more closely at Jesse James, she saw that his nose had never been broken, his cheekbones bordered on aristocratic and his mouth made her think of the Boticelli angels she’d seen in the National Art Gallery. “Where are you from?” she asked.
The creases around his mouth deepened into a frown. Staring straight ahead, he replied, “It doesn’t matter, but my pride does. I don’t usually kidnap women. I was expecting Doc Randall when I broke into your house.”
So he had been in Midas before. “When did you see Doc last?”
He shook his head, telling her that he wasn’t going to answer. Instead he sat straighter in the seat. “After you take care of Nick’s leg, I’ll let you go. You can ride back on this old nag, but I’m borrowing your rig.”
Susanna clenched her jaw until her molars throbbed. She had less than twenty dollars in the bank and she needed the carriage to make calls. Her parents would have helped her, but she had her pride. They’d already paid for her education and had three more children to raise. The bank wouldn’t loan her money, either. She’d tried to borrow to build a new clinic with a special room for children and indoor plumbing, but Harlan Welsh had refused to help her.
Midnight Marriage Page 2
