by Lynda J. Cox
Amelia pulled at the bodice of her calico dress and winced with the sweat dripping down her spine and between her breasts. Another August day of searing, blistering sun and brutal, dry heat. Hot enough to make the devil sigh, she remembered her father saying more than once.
“Saul, we’ve got to get the garden watered again,” she called to her younger brother.
Saul emerged from the small cabin, his shirttail hanging, his face smudged with dirt. “Again? We just watered yesterday.”
“I’m well aware of when we last watered. If we don’t water again today, everything in that garden is going to shrivel to nothing. I’ll remind you that you didn’t want to water when we’re reduced to chewing shoe leather this winter.” Amelia grabbed his shoulder and marched him to the well. “I’d like to know where you’ve been all afternoon other than out wasting time, when you should have been here helping me and your sister with the chores. And you need to tuck your shirttail in.”
“Who cares if my shirttail is hanging out? No one comes out here, anyway.” Saul pulled up the bucket. “Next year, when I’m all grown up, I am never going to haul up another bucket of water.”
Amelia let her brother’s comments pass, noting he hadn’t told her where he’d been. She also carried a pail of water to the garden and doled out the precious liquid to the wilting plants. “Jenny,” she paused to call, “the chickens need watered and fed.”
Silent as a wraith, keeping as close to the cabin as possible, Jenny drifted across the yard to the chicken coop. She collected the water dish and scooped water from Saul’s bucket. The chickens crowded around Jenny as the seven-year-old scattered cracked corn for them.
At the unmistakable sound of her herb garden being trampled, Amelia lifted her head to scold Saul for his carelessness. Her gaze was drawn to Jenny who stood frozen, corn falling from her slack fingers. Amelia followed her sister’s stare.
A white horse shuffled through the herb garden into the yard, his head down at his knees. The chickens scattered, squawking angrily. A man slumped over the horse’s neck, not moving. Amelia dropped her bucket and ran to him.
Blood, both dried and fresh, painted a lurid path down the horse’s shoulder. Amelia caught the animal’s reins and brought the lathered horse to a halt.
“Amy, he’s been shot,” Saul said in a breathless whisper.
“I can see that.” Amelia dragged the weary horse closer to the house. “Help me get him down.”
He didn’t seem to be breathing. Amelia grabbed the man’s arm, and together she and Saul managed to pull him off the horse. Amelia staggered a step back and a low groan broke from the man when his weight settled into Amelia’s arms. His hat tumbled to the ground. She and Saul half-carried, half-dragged him into the cabin, leaving tracks in the dust from the heels of his boots. Fresh blood pattered into the dirt.
“Where are we going to put him, Amy?”
She hesitated for a moment, and then said, “In my room.”
Amelia panted with the exertion of carrying the unconscious man. They stretched him out on the bed and Amelia stared at him. He wore a gun. She should turn him away.
The moment she thought that, her conscience railed at her. So much blood stained his white linen shirt and blue trousers. His build was slight, but substantial. How could he be alive after losing all that blood? Did a man have that much blood in his body?
“Saul, go put his horse in the barn and then you saddle up and ride into town. Tell Dr. Archer we need him here.”
Suddenly the man grabbed her wrist. Amelia yelped and tried to pull free. He glared up at her with eyes like a snowy winter’s sky, set under a deeply furrowed brow. Her heart leaped into her throat.
“No doctor,” he grated out. His gaze darted around the room, making Amelia think of a cornered wild animal. “No sawbones.”
“You’ve got to have a doctor. I don’t know what to do for you.” Amelia struggled to pull her wrist free.
“No doctor.” He eased his hold on her wrist. “If it’s as bad as it feels, he’s going to take my arm. Please, lady, no doctor. I can’t lose my arm.”
Amelia loosened his fingers and lowered his hand to the bed.
He clenched his fists, tensing. “God Almighty, it hurts.”
“Let me see how bad it is.”
He nodded and closed his eyes. His fingers uncurled as he slipped into unconsciousness again.
Amelia spun, looking for Saul. The boy stood in the doorway, his eyes as wide as cake plates, his face whiter than January snow. “Saul, look at me.”
She waited until he broke his gaze from the lean man on her bed. “I want you to bring me a bucket of water and then go put his horse up. Make sure the horse has water.”
Amelia unbuttoned the man’s shirt and tried to pull it from him. Dried blood had stuck the fabric to him as surely as if it had been applied with wallpaper paste. Amelia wrinkled her nose at the smell of infection, took a deep breath, and pulled on the fabric as hard as she could.
The shirtfront peeled from his chest. Amelia staggered a step backward. Fresh blood and a thick, yellowish fluid oozed sluggishly from the bullet wound. Her stomach roiled with the smell and the sight. Gagging, she spun away and fled the room.
Just outside the doorway, she met Saul and had to grab his shoulder to steady herself. The water in the bucket he carried sloshed over the floor.
“Saul, saddle up, quickly. Ride into Federal and get Dr. Archer.” She took the bucket. “Tell him to hurry. If he’s not in town, ride out to the Running Diamond. Rebecca can tell you where he is.”
Amelia returned to her bedroom. She soaked several clean rags in the bucket and washed the man’s shoulder and chest as best she could without removing his shirt. He shivered, despite the heat blazing from his skin. A ghostly pallor colored his face under his sun-darkened complexion. His chest rose and fell in short, shallow breaths. She applied cool rags to his forehead. He felt so hot. He had to be burning up with a fever.
A short time later, a horse galloped up to the house. Amelia straightened, went to the window, and pulled the gingham curtains aside. A huge Appaloosa stood near the barn, and a tall, muscular man walked across the yard. Thank God, Dr. Archer was here.
Cole Archer, doctor for the towns of Federal and Eagle Springs, walked into the room. With lowered brows, he crossed to the bed and bent over the bloodied man. He was silent for a few moments. “Not a pretty sight, is it, Amy?”
Amelia shook her head.
He opened his black bag, retrieved a pair of scissors, and cut what was left of the shirt from the man. “Good thing you got that wound open, though. It’s draining and I don’t see any signs of gangrene.” Archer wrung out another rag and scrubbed at the wound. “Amy, go start some water boiling. We’re going to draw the rest of that infection out with some hot compresses.”
Amelia fled the room, burning bile rising in her throat. She gulped air, and willed her stomach to remain where it belonged. When she was certain she was not going to retch, she pumped water into a large pot and set it on the stove.
Who was the man in her room? Who had shot him and why? Thank the Almighty, Saul had been too shocked with the blood to notice the gun on the man’s hip. Lately Saul had been fascinated with gunfighters like Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, and Bat Masterson.
When Amelia carried the pot of steaming water into the bedroom, Archer glanced at her over his shoulder. “Any idea who this gentleman is?”
Amelia shook her head while she set the pot on the nightstand. “I’ve never seen him before. He rode in almost unconscious.” She backed to the doorway. Surely Dr. Archer wouldn’t need her to stay, would he?
Archer’s brows shot up and he dropped several lengths of white cloth into the steaming water. “From the looks of that bullet wound, he was shot at pretty close range and it happened several days ago.”
The man on the bed slid his hand to his gun, struggling to free it from the holster. Amelia gasped as he pulled the gun clear and pointed it at the doctor�
��s back. Those gray eyes were even harder than before, and colder than a glacier.
“I told you no doctor.”
Dr. Archer did little more than spare the man on the bed a glance over his shoulder. If the gun or its owner intimidated him, he never revealed it.
“Nice piece of hardware, mister.” The lightness in the doctor’s voice belied the unwavering gun barrel mere inches from his heart. “Put the gun down.”
Amelia marveled at Dr. Archer’s calm demeanor as he rummaged through his black bag. He dropped more bandaging material, metal instruments, and what appeared to be a spool of thread onto the nightstand.
“You’re not taking my arm, Sawbones.” Panic and desperation lent a hard edge to his voice. His gaze skipped from Amelia to Archer and then to the medical supplies on the bedside table. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran in rivulets down the side of his face and the length of his throat. The gun wavered and dipped. He gritted his teeth and a muscle ticked against the plane of his jaw. Tendons in his wrist stood out and his knuckles grew white as he struggled to hold the weapon steady.
“I have no intention of taking your arm. You were shot in the shoulder, not the arm.” Archer dropped the bloody rag that had once been the man’s shirt to the floor, and then pulled more white bandaging materials from the black bag. “When Amy pulled your shirt from you, it started that bullet wound to draining. There’s no sign of gangrene, so the way I see it, sawing your arm off would be a waste of time.”
The man’s gaze darted from Amelia to Archer. Pain and terror darkened his eyes and left him panting like a cornered creature. “More like I’m so far gone, ain’t no sense wasting your time to cut my arm off because I’ll be dead in a day or so, anyway?”
Dr. Archer pushed the gun into the mattress with one hand and lowered the back of his other onto the gunman’s forehead. “You could still die, but until that arm has gangrene, I am not about to saw it off. You can keep it for now. The fact the wound is draining will probably keep you alive. You’re a lucky man.”
Amelia moved toward the doorway. It appeared the doctor had things under control. She had done her Christian duty. There was no need for her to stay in this room any longer.
Archer pried the gun from the stranger’s hand. “Amy, come and put this gun somewhere.”
Archer’s words halted her retreat. Amelia crept closer, but stopped when the man tried to push himself up.
“Give me my gun. I need it.”
He fell back when Dr. Archer gently held him by the other shoulder. “Lie still, you damned stubborn fool. You’re so weak you can’t even hold that gun steady enough to risk a shot. God knows what you would hit if you fired it.” Archer’s voice hardened. “But if you ever point another gun at me, I don’t care how nicely Amy asks, I won’t come out here to take care of you.”
Archer held the revolver out to Amelia, and then shook it when she didn’t move any closer. “Take this, Amy. I’m going out to my horse. I’ve got a few things in Chief’s saddlebags that I need.”
Amelia took the gun, though her stomach twisted and her hands shook, as if Dr. Archer had handed her a coiled rattlesnake.
The wounded man turned his gaze to her, his eyes hard and unyielding. “Give me my gun, lady.
“You don’t need a gun in this home,” Amelia said. The weight of the revolver in her hand sickened her. She hated guns and didn’t think highly of those who felt they needed to wear them. “No one here is going to harm you.”
“Like I’m going to believe you after you said you wouldn’t send for the doctor and you did anyway.” He shut his eyes. Goose flesh pebbled his skin. “God, I’m so cold.”
“I never said I wouldn’t send for Dr. Archer.” Amelia set the revolver on the nightstand, and tugged a blanket up over his shivering form.
Those wintry gray eyes snapped open again. “Lady, you had better hope I die if he takes my arm, because I’ll kill you otherwise. I told you not to get a doctor.”
He didn’t seem to be in any condition to do anything, but she wasn’t about to find out if he was more bark than bite. Amelia shook her head. “You can’t kill me if I have your gun.”
His gaze darted to the nightstand and the revolver lying among the doctor’s things. He reached for it, but fell back into the mattress with a deep groan. Sweat dripped from his face into the silvered-black hair at his temples and his chest rose and fell in rapid succession. “Lady, please, give me my gun. You don’t understand.”
“You don’t need it. No one is going to shoot you here.” Amelia picked up the revolver again and dropped it into the pocket of her apron. No, it didn’t need to be put somewhere, as Dr. Archer had suggested. It needed to be well hidden. Somewhere Saul’s inquisitiveness wouldn’t find it.
She paused in the doorway. “And my name is Amelia, not lady.”
Chapter Three
He was delirious, that had to be it. He drifted in and out of consciousness, trying desperately to hold onto a single thought…any thought other than the memory of that kid’s face the moment the bullet entered his chest and ended his life.
He knew if he slipped under again, everything of that night would flow across his memory again. He wanted to forget it, forget all of it, because then it might not have happened. And he also knew that was a vain hope. It had happened.
An angel hovered over him, and pressed a cool cloth to his burning skin. He shivered, despite the heat roiling through him. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he wasn’t dead, because there weren’t angels where he would be spending eternity, and definitely not angels who ministered cool water and bathed his fevered flesh. He’d been told too many times where he would end up to think there were angels with cool water in that place.
He couldn’t figure out where he was. His brain was too muddled to reason it through. His shoulder throbbed like a son of a bitch. There was a vicious demon in his head, beating his skull with a hammer. He shuddered with the fever racking him. His throat was dry, and when he ran his tongue over his lips, they were peeling, and rougher than a corncob. He tried to ask for a drink of that heavenly cool water, but couldn’t form a word.
As if she’d read his mind, the angel gently lifted his head with her oh-so-cool-and-soft hand pressed into the nape of his neck. She held his head up and lifted a glass of water to his parched lips. He gulped the sweet-tasting liquid, only to have her pull it away.
His stomach lurched as the water hit it. He gagged on something vile lurking in the liquid.
This was hell, after all.
“…said the medicine he left for your pain has a very bad taste.”
His eyes slid shut. He was too exhausted and too weak to hold them open anymore. He was too sick to care about any medicine. He’d figure out who said that later, when his brain wasn’t fuzzy and his whole body didn’t ache. Later he would figure out what that vile brew was, as well. At the moment, it just didn’t seem important.
What seemed to be most important was surrendering to the darkness once more, where a soft voice whispered that he was safe, that no one was going to come gunning for him, that he was protected and would be cared for.
“…Mathews that live around here.”
Who were the Mathews? He knew he should know and that it should matter.
The angel smoothed another cool rag over his burning face and neck, pressed a wet cloth to his cracked, dry lips, and murmured that he was safe. The water, this time, was sweet as it trickled down his throat and he swallowed instinctively. It tasted just like heaven would taste to a man burning.
For the moment, he was willing to believe that the words were true and that the Mathews, whoever they were, were not a threat to him.
****
Amelia dozed in a chair at the wounded man’s bedside. He had been in and out of consciousness for three days. At times, his fever raged so high the heat radiating from him was like the warmth rolling off a red-hot stove. Other times, he was nearly cool to the touch. The wound in his shoulder had stopped draining.
Amelia could attest to his physical condition. In his delirium, she had struggled more than once to keep him quiet. There was more strength in his lean body than she would have thought. More than once, the muscles across his chest and in his arms had knotted as he struggled against some assailant known only to him. Amelia had a bruise on her arm where his iron fist had connected in one of those struggles.
A quiet groan broke from him and he stirred. His eyelids fluttered and he opened his eyes. His gaze darted around the room before he scrutinized her with cool, lucid eyes.
“You’re awake.” She looked away from that level expression. Those gray eyes hinted at things no person should ever see, or that no respectable lady should even try to imagine. His delirious ravings had convinced her he’d lived a life she never wanted to contemplate. His language had been enough to peel the hide from the toughest mule. Her mother would have been mortified to know that Amelia had heard such words.
“Yeah,” he grunted, his voice rough from lack of use. “I guess I am.”
Amelia stood and set her book on the seat of the rocker. “That’s good. Would you like something to drink?”
He shook his head and winced. His eyes closed for a moment. “That was a mistake,” he ground out. “Shouldn’t have moved my head. It feels like it’s splitting into lots of little pieces.”
Amelia pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “I think your fever has broken.”
“I still have my arm too, I see.” A thin ghost of a smile crossed his mouth. No warmth reached his wintry gray eyes. “Not sure if I should thank you for that or not.”
“Thank Dr. Archer. He didn’t see it necessary to amputate.” Amelia crossed the room to the doorway. She chose not to mention his delirious ravings, and his plea for the “sawbones” not to take off his arm. “I’ve got some broth on. I’ll go get you some of it.”
