by Dorothy Love
TWENTY-FOUR
The doors to the ballroom opened. Tim O’Brien and several members of Mr. Blakely’s staff spilled onto the terrace and fanned out into the darkness, searching for Crocker. Griff Rutledge raced along the path from the stables, his hair mussed, his shirttail flapping, and bent over Mr. Worth.
Mr. Blakely pushed through the small knot of onlookers. “Is this man alive?”
Sophie massaged the burning pain in her shoulder and strained to hear Griff’s reply.
Ethan grabbed her by both shoulders, his fingers pressing into her flesh so hard she yelped. Instantly he released her. “What in blue blazes are you doing here?”
“Mr. Worth asked me to come. He wants to talk to you about—”
“I know what it’s about. How did you get here?”
“The supply train. It’s waiting on the siding.”
He nodded. “Go tell the engineer to make a place for a wounded man. Then stay there, Sophie.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll take my saddle horse and alert Dr. Spencer. I want him ready to treat Julian as soon as we can get him off this mountain.”
“But—”
“Go on!”
She raced toward the train and called for the engineer. “Mr. Worth has been shot. They’re bringing him here.”
“Lord amighty. What’s the world coming to?” The driver pushed off from his perch in the chilly train car, shoving boxes and coils of rope out of the way. “Did you see who did it?”
“Lutrell Crocker. He was drunk as a skunk.”
The driver nodded. “He’s a tough customer, all right. Mebbe some jail time will sort him out.”
“If they can catch him. He ran into the trees. They’re looking for him now. Ethan—Mr. Heyward sent me here to alert you.”
She rubbed her shoulder and peered into a pile of gear in the corner. “Do you suppose there are any blankets in there?”
“I don’t think so. It’s mostly stuff I’ve been meaning to throw away.” He blew on his hands and rubbed his arms. “It’s cold as a well-digger’s grave in here, that’s the truth.”
Lantern light flickered in the trees. Griff Rutledge and three other men arrived at the siding, carrying Mr. Worth on a litter. Mr. O’Brien, armed with a pistol and a lantern, followed them. He nodded to Sophie.
“Bring him aboard,” the driver said. “I’ll get the engine to going.”
The men laid the injured man on the floor, and she saw the gaping wound in his thigh where the bullet had shattered bone and lacerated his flesh. Someone had wrapped a belt around his thigh, but blood still oozed onto the leg of his trousers. More blood dripped from a cut on his forehead. She swallowed hard as black spots danced before her eyes.
Griff sent her a sympathetic look. “What an awful thing to have happen. Miss Caldwell, are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She took in a deep draft of cold night air and sat on the floor beside Mr. Worth. “Where is his leather pouch?”
“What pouch?”
“He had it when he was shot. It’s important.”
“I’m sure someone picked it up. I wouldn’t worry about it just now.”
The engine hissed, rattling the train car. The men took their litter and jumped off as the train began to move.
“Please. Find that leather pouch and give it to Mr. Heyward.”
“We’ll find it.” Griff Rutledge ran after the train and thrust a towel into her hands. “You just keep pressure on his wound and keep him calm till you get to town.”
“I will.” Sophie removed her cloak and draped it over the injured man.
The train lurched and sped down the mountain. Everything passed in a blur. Sophie sat beside Mr. Worth, one hand pressed to his bleeding thigh, willing him not to die. How cruel it would be if redemption and reconciliation—now so close—were lost forever.
That is, if Julian Worth was telling the truth.
It seemed that hours passed before the train slid into the Hickory Ridge depot. A group of men waited with lanterns and another litter to take Mr. Worth from the train. Sophie waited while they lifted him and placed the litter on a wagon. She stumbled onto the platform in her blood-spattered skirt, light-headed and boneless as a fishing worm.
“Sophie.” Gillie hurried over and embraced her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Is Ethan—”
“Waiting with Dr. Spencer at the infirmary. We figured now is as good a time as any to start seeing patients there.”
They climbed into Gillie’s rig and made the short trip to the infirmary. As they neared the building, Sophie spotted Caleb and Robbie Whiting standing near the entrance. She followed Gillie up the steps.
“Sophie,” Robbie said. “Are you all right?”
“You had me worried sick,” Caleb said. “I came back to the office to get my dictionary and saw you leaving with a stranger. I thought—”
“I’m all right.” She smiled at Caleb and patted Robbie’s sleeve. “Thank you both for your concern. But it’s Mr. Worth who needs our attention.”
“Of course,” Robbie said. “I happened to be at Doc Spencer’s when Mr. Heyward arrived with news of the shooting. I wanted to be here if you needed me.”
Despite her fatigue and her worry, Sophie felt a rush of affection for her old friend. “Thank you.”
Caleb turned to leave. “Don’t even think about coming into the office in the morning. I can get that print order for Blue Smoke done and finish composing the first page. Unless you want to write up a story about the shooting.”
“I don’t think so.”
He and Robbie disappeared into the night.
The wagon carrying Julian Worth arrived. The men lifted him and took him inside. Sophie and Gillie followed them into the room where Ethan and the doctor waited.
Gillie squeezed Sophie’s hand. “I need to wash up and help the doctor. Why don’t you stay and keep Ethan company? This may take awhile.”
Suddenly Sophie found it hard to breathe. Her shoulder was on fire. She drew the sleeve of her shirtwaist tight against her arm and a circle of blood bloomed on the fabric.
Gillie saw it too and grabbed Sophie’s arm. “What happened here?”
“A branch fell when Mr. Crocker’s shot went wild. It hurts. I—” Her stomach fluttered. The room spun. She crumpled to the floor.
A freight wagon rumbled past the infirmary, setting off a chorus of barking dogs. Ethan roused himself from the chair where he’d half dozed, waiting for news. What time was it anyway?
He stood, crossed to the window, and pulled back the curtain to peer out onto the street. Gas lanterns illuminated the shuttered storefronts and cast deep shadows into the alleys. At the far end of the deserted road stood a half-empty freight wagon. Another wagon rattled along the street and drew up at the bakery. Ethan watched as the lamps inside were lit, sending pale streams of light into the cold November darkness.
He rubbed his gritty eyes and rolled his neck to get the kinks out. What was taking the doctor and Miss Gilman so long? Off and on all night he’d heard their voices, low and calm, behind the closed doors of the rooms where Julian and Sophie lay.
Sophie. When she fainted, he’d scooped her up and followed Gillie to one of the rooms on the first floor. He took in the scent of her skin, the sweet, warm weight of her in his arms, and his heart stirred. Not for the first time, he regretted the way he’d treated her that day on the ridge. He’d been more angry with his failures—and with the memories her confession stirred—than with anything she had done. But it had been easier to blame her than to face his own shortcomings. So he had gone silent, let her think the fault was hers. It was a wonder she had ever spoken to him again.
And now she was hurt, and it was his fault. If he’d been willing to listen to Julian in the first place, had the courage to face the past, all of this might have been avoided. He hadn’t wanted to consider that Julian might be telling the truth about what had happened on that hot summer day in Georgia. T
o hear a new version of events would mean that he had wasted his entire adult life holding on to hate and blame and a smoldering desire for revenge. Strange, though, because now that Julian might actually be dead, he didn’t feel the satisfaction he’d expected. Instead, he felt empty. Diminished.
He flopped into his chair and glanced down the deserted hallway, tamping down his growing impatience. What was happening back there? Did the long delay mean hope for Julian’s survival?
As the minutes dragged on, Ethan came to a decision. If Julian survived the bullet meant for him, he would hear his brother out.
The prospect brought a kind of peace he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. Where had this feeling come from? Regardless, he was grateful. Maybe it had taken violence to bring him back to reality, to prepare him for his moment of grace.
“What happened?” Sophie blinked against the wavering lamplight and tried to sit up, but Gillie shook her head.
“You fainted. Now, hold still.” With practiced fingers, Gillie unbuttoned Sophie’s shirtwaist and peeled back the sleeve, exposing the wound on her arm. “Holy cats.”
“What is it?”
“You didn’t get this from a falling tree limb. You’ve been shot.”
“But—” Sophie turned her head and peered at the fiery red welt that ran from her shoulder to her elbow.
“The bullet grazed you. Lucky you were wearing your heavy cloak or it would have been worse.” Gillie poured water into a basin, dampened a small towel, and touched it to the wound. Sophie clenched her teeth and drew in a sharp breath. The towel felt like sandpaper against her raw skin. Her eyes watered.
“There.” Gillie finished cleaning the wound, then opened her medical bag and took out a jar of salve. “This will sting for a moment, but then you’ll feel much better.”
Sophie braced for the application of the salve, then watched as Gillie expertly bandaged her wound. “What about Mr. Worth?”
“Dr. Spencer is tending to him. Soon as I finish this, I’ll check on him.” Gillie tied off the bandage and helped Sophie button her shirtwaist. “What on earth were you doing at Blue Smoke in the middle of the night?”
“It wasn’t the middle of the night when we started. Julian Worth asked me to go with him. He wants to talk to Ethan, but Ethan doesn’t want to hear it.”
“I see.”
“I wish Ethan would listen. It might resolve a lot of things for him. I hate to see him so closed up inside. He’s a wonderful man.”
Gillie replaced the lid on the salve jar and smiled. “I think there’s more to your feelings than mere admiration.”
Sophie nodded. “I love him. I think he has feelings for me too, but something always gets in the way of his declaring them.”
“He’s only waiting for the right moment to tell you.”
Sophie sat up on the cot and brushed her hair away from her face. “What makes you so sure?”
“When you fainted, he scooped you up and carried you in here. I’ve never seen a man look so worried, or so besotted either.” Gillie grinned. “He kissed you when he thought I wasn’t looking.”
“He kissed me? And I missed the whole thing. Just my luck.”
“Don’t worry. Something tells me you’ll have plenty of opportunities to enjoy his affections.”
“I must look awful.” Sophie fished for her hairpins and tried to impose some semblance of order upon her thick mane. “Be honest. Do I look as terrible as I feel?”
“You’re definitely a little peaked, but that’s to be expected.” Gillie patted her hand. “I want you to rest here while I assist Dr. Spencer. I’ll tell Mr. Heyward you’re awake and good as new.”
A door opened, and Gillie Gilman came down the hall, drying her hands on a white towel.
Ethan got to his feet. “How are they?”
“Dr. Spencer is finishing with Mr. Worth now.”
“Is he—”
“Alive for the moment. The tourniquet helped, but he’s lost a lot of blood. The bullet damaged a vein and shattered the bone.” Gillie arched her back and briefly closed her eyes, and Ethan saw how exhausted she was. “It took awhile to pick out the fragments. I hope we got them all.”
“Me too. What about Sophie?”
“A bullet grazed her shoulder. But she’s fine. She’s resting now.”
“A bullet?” Shock and rage moved through him. “I ought to kill Crocker.”
“Violence begets violence, Mr. Heyward.” She crossed the room and opened the curtains, letting in the pale morning light. “Sheriff McCracken will deal with him.”
Dr. Spencer came in, his trousers and shirt spattered with blood. “Mr. Heyward.”
“How is he?”
“Sleeping. I’ve given him enough laudanum to keep him quiet for several hours.”
“But he will be all right?”
“If we’re lucky, and if sepsis doesn’t set in. His thigh bone is blown to smithereens. He also had a bad concussion when his head hit the ground, but it’s the leg I’m most concerned about. Even if he pulls through this, I’m afraid Mr. Worth won’t ever walk normally.”
“May I see him?”
The doctor shrugged. “He won’t know the difference, but it certainly won’t do any harm.” He turned to his assistant. “I’m dead on my feet, and so are you. Go on home, Gillie.”
“I want to stay with Sophie.”
“I’ll stay,” Ethan said.
The doctor consulted his pocket watch. “Nearly seven. I need to clean up and get something to eat. I’ll be back soon.”
“Take your time. I’ll watch over them.”
They left. Ethan walked down the hall and peered into the room where Julian lay, the curtains drawn against the light. A sharp medicinal smell permeated the air. He stood for a moment in the heavy silence, watching the rise and fall of Julian’s chest, then closed the door and went to find Sophie.
TWENTY-FIVE
Ethan opened the door and peered in. Sophie lay curled onto her side, sleeping softly, her fist beneath her chin. The sight of the thick bandage beneath her sleeve sent another surge of anger coursing through him. If Crocker wanted to shoot at him, fine. But none of this was her fault.
She stirred and opened her eyes. “Ethan.”
“Sorry to wake you.”
“I was just resting my eyes.”
He smiled. So like her to deny any vulnerability.
She sat up and scooted her feet along the floor, looking for her shoes.
“Here. Let me help.” He crossed the room, fished her shoes from beneath the infirmary cot, and helped her with the tiny buttons, trying to ignore the effect the sight of her small delicate feet had on him.
She put her hands up and fussed with her hair. “I’m a fright.”
“You look fine. I’m sorry you got into the middle of my feud with Lutrell Crocker.”
“How is your brother?”
His stomach lurched. “So you know about Julian and me?”
“Yes.”
“How much did he tell you?”
“Only that you think he committed murder. He says that he can prove he didn’t, but you won’t listen.”
“You disapprove.”
“I think one should always give another the benefit of the doubt.” She thought of her one and only conversation with her mother. “Even if you are disappointed in the end.”
Ethan held the door for her, and they went down the hall to Julian’s room. “You’re right. I’ve been sitting here all night, and I finally realized that. When Julian wakes up—if he wakes up—I’ll listen to his evidence.”
“You sound as if you don’t want to be proven wrong.”
“I suppose it’s never easy to have one’s assumptions challenged, but it’s time. I see that now.”
He opened the door to Julian’s room and they went in. Sophie moved to open the curtains, but Ethan stopped her with an upraised hand. “I want to tell you everything. It’ll be easier in the darkness.”
“All right.”
He motioned her to a chair and leaned against the door frame, ankles and arms crossed. “Promise you won’t hate me.”
“I don’t think I could,” she said, her voice soft, “even if I wanted to.”
“All right then.” He focused on Julian’s face and began.
“Julian is nine years older than I am. As a boy, I couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t around. His mother, Martha, looked after my mother at Ravenswood. Mother allowed Martha and Julian to sleep in the house instead of the servants’ quarters. She taught Martha to sew. And to read—a secret she took to her grave because my father would surely have disapproved or forbidden it.
“Julian was the only boy his age who was not sent to the fields every morning. Father allowed him to remain behind, and I thought he did it for my sake. My only sister died when I was five, and he saw how lonely I was. Then one day I overheard my parents arguing and realized that my father and Martha were in fact Julian’s parents. Though, of course, he denied Julian his name.”
Sophie nodded. “That must have been a shock.”
“It was. I was furious with Father for betraying my mother. But after my parents died and I grew older, I realized I had no memories of ever seeing affection pass between them.” A long sigh escaped his lips. “I don’t know, Sophie. Perhaps my mother was aware of my father’s assignation and turned a blind eye. Perhaps she even encouraged it. She wouldn’t have been the first woman of her station to do so.”
Julian made a soft moaning sound and they both turned, watching and waiting until he quieted.
“Julian knew about his mother and my father. We talked about it one time, and he made me promise never to mention it again. He resented the fact that I was denied nothing while he and his mother lacked for almost everything.”
“Even so,” Sophie said, keeping her voice low, “resentment is not the same thing as murder. What made you think Julian was responsible?”
“Because I saw him. Or I thought I saw him . . .” Ethan’s voice faltered, and he began again.
“When the war came, we heard rumors of slave uprisings, of plantation owners being killed in their beds. It happened to my mother’s second cousins, the Witherspoons. Union soldiers were riding through the countryside, setting fire to everything, urging the slaves to revolt, promising them their freedom. But somehow we never thought such violence would touch our home. Then one morning it did.”
