She walked up to the black horse. He shied just a little and tossed his head but stayed still as she reached up to pat his nose. She rubbed his neck for a while, murmuring little endearments in broken French. He seemed to be completely relaxed, so she unsaddled him and stored the fine-tooled saddle and the man’s saddlebags and blanket roll in the wagon.
The stallion’s skin twitched with relief, and he pawed the ground. Then he began to graze, all the while staying close to the tent.
“You’re not going anywhere, are you, boy? I don’t think I’ll tie you up either. You stay. Rosie never had such a fine gentleman to keep her company.”
She went back inside the tent. Jacob had taken all of the tools out of the water with the tongs: two sets of tweezers, one large and one small; a tiny, very sharp knife; and a small pair of pliers. Chantel watched as he took the knife and made a very small cut. Then with the tweezers, he pulled out a steel shotgun pellet and dropped it into an empty basin, where four others rolled around making a loud tinny noise.
“Most of these wounds are not very deep. He must’ve been some distance away from whoever shot him.”
Chantel watched as he continued to pull the pellets out of the man’s back.
“See if you can see any more,” Jacob finally said, standing up for a few minutes to stretch. “My eyes are getting tired.”
“It’s getting dark. I’ll light some lanterns,” Chantel said. She took a lantern and carefully searched all over the man’s back then looked back up at Jacob. “You got them all, I think, Grandpere. But what about his head? His hair, it’s thick, yes?”
“I may have to shave it to be able to find them,” he said wearily. “I can’t see as well as I could when I was younger.”
“No, I think he wouldn’t like that,” Chantel said with a vehemence that surprised her.
“Oh? Why would you think that, daughter?” Jacob asked curiously.
“He just wouldn’t. He has such pretty hair, so nice and thick. He doesn’t want to be bald, him,” Chantel answered firmly. “But, Grandpere, I watch you. I see, I know. I’ll take the little balls out of his head. You rest then maybe cook us some nice stew.”
Jacob watched her with some amusement then said, “All right, daughter. You generally can do exactly what you put your mind to do. But before you touch him or the tools, you must wash your hands, wash them good, with the carbolic soap. Scrub under your fingernails with the brush.”
Chantel cocked her head to the side. “How you know all this, Grandpere? I thought you didn’t know gunshots.”
“I don’t,” he admitted. “But you know I’ve been praying for this man ever since we found him. And the Lord keeps bringing Leviticus to my mind. It’s filled with many rules for keeping clean, for cleansing, and so I felt that He was teaching me how to take care of this man.”
“It’s in the Bible to take care of gunshots?” Chantel repeated, astonished.
“No, no, dear daughter. I’ll read some of Leviticus to you sometime and explain,” he said. “But for now you go ahead and wash up in that hot water, but be careful not to burn yourself. I’ll rest for a while, and then I’ll get us some supper together.”
It took Chantel almost three hours to make sure she had removed all of the shotgun pellets from the man’s head. The experience had felt very odd to her. She had hung two lanterns close over his head and had bent over him. Time and time again she had run her fingers through his hair to feel the small bumps where the pellets were buried. They had sponged the man’s hair, but of course they had not thoroughly washed it. Still, Chantel could catch a drift of a fragrance, a very slight scent. It was not a heavy or strong smell like hair pomade, but a clean scent, something like lemons.
During the entire time she tended him, she was very aware of the peculiarity of the situation, doing something that under other circumstances would be so intimate, running her hands through his hair and caressing it. Except for when she had tended Jacob, it was the only time she could recall ever touching a man in such a manner.
Jacob fixed them a hearty stew, and they ate it slowly with soda crackers, watching the still-unconscious man.
They had left him lying on his stomach, and Chantel had fixed a small pillow to cradle his head, with his face turned to the side. “Do you think he will wake up?” she asked Jacob hesitantly. “Do you think he can?”
“He can if the Lord wills it. And I know the Lord has willed it. So we will pray that He will do the real healing for him.”
“How do you know, Grandpere? Has the good God been talking to you again?”
“No, the good God didn’t have to tell me that this man will live.”
“He didn’t? Then how can you be so sure, to know?” Chantel demanded.
“Because once, about two years ago, an angel was sent to find a dead horse and a live man,” he said. “Today an angel found a live horse…and what we thought was a dead man. But he wasn’t. If we had been sent here to give him a Christian burial, Chantel, we would have found him dead. Haven’t you thought, haven’t you wondered? We had passed several riders and wagons on the road today, coming and going. How was it that no one found this man, that only you found him?”
She considered this, her fine brow slightly wrinkled. “Maybe this horse, he runs away and is afraid when the people came. And then they couldn’t see the man down in the ditch.”
“Maybe. But this horse didn’t run away when we came, did he? Not even when we stopped and walked up to the man.”
Suddenly Chantel smiled, and it lit up her face. “So, Grandpere, now the good God, He is talking to the horse?”
It gave Jacob such pleasure to see Chantel smile. Although he knew that she was happy, she rarely smiled so freely, so openly. Seeing her glowing face, he couldn’t help but smile back at her. “All creatures serve God, Chantel, even that horse out there. It’s by the Lord’s will that we all live and breathe. I don’t know this man, but I know one thing: it was not God’s will for him to die. Not today.”
The next day the stranger woke up.
It was early afternoon. Jacob had put a cot out under the tree, and he was napping peacefully in the kind March sun.
Chantel was in the tent, cutting strips of clean white linen to make more bandages. From time to time she glanced up at the man, who was still in the same position, lying on his stomach with his face turned toward her, eyes closed.
She was looking down, folding the strips into neat squares, when she heard a rustling sound. The man had managed to prop himself up on his elbows, and he was watching her.
Chantel flew to the cot. “You’re awake! Be careful, don’t move around too much. You’ve been shot. In the back.”
“Mm—uh,” he groaned softly. “Shot…it hurts.”
“I know,” she said soothingly. “That’s why you have to lie on your stomach.”
His head dropped, mainly from weakness. He licked his lips. “So…thirsty.”
“Water, I’ll get it, me,” she said and hurried to pour water from the canteen into a cup. She held it to his lips, and he took small sips, the only way he could manage in his awkward position. Then he allowed himself to sink back onto the cot.
“Thank—thank—”
“It’s all right,” Chantel said. “Just rest.”
“Stay…,” he whispered, and then his eyes closed again.
He was much the same for two more days, only waking up for minutes at a time, sipping water, talking very little.
Chantel stayed close, for she had found that the moment his eyes opened he would immediately search for her. She washed his clothes and hung them in the sun to dry, but wryly she reflected that there was no way to mend all the little holes that the shotgun blast had made. She cleaned his boots and polished them until they shone, then stood them up in the wagon, stuffed with brown paper to keep their shape. She made him a new shirt out of the same bolt of soft linen that they were using to make the bandages.
She read her mother’s Bible, and Jacob would ofte
n sit with her and read aloud. Several times a day Jacob prayed for the injured man, and Chantel was, as always, amazed at the fervency, the sense of realness, of her grandfather’s prayers.
And the man got better. Early in the morning of the third day, he woke up, focused on Chantel, and then pulled himself up. “Good—morning, isn’t it?”
“Yes, morning. You look better,” she said, filling the water cup.
“That’s good. Because I still feel like a train ran over me,” he said. He drank thirstily, and this time he took the cup for himself. “I—I think I’d like to sit up. Can you please help me, ma’am?”
“I drag you in here like a dray horse,” she said, her eyes alight. “I think I can help you sit up, me.”
It really was hard, though, getting him turned over and turned around, and then pulling him up to sit on the edge of the cot. When they finished, he was out of breath. “I’m as—weak as a newborn little kitten,” he gasped. “What—what day is it?”
“I don’t know,” Chantel said with endearing sincerity, “for I haven’t looked at Grandpere’s calendar today. But I think you want to know this. We found you five days ago, all shot, you. We thought you were dead.”
“Five days,” Clay repeated with shock. “I’ve been out for five days?”
“Only four,” Chantel said. “Today is five days, and here you are now.”
He nodded. “I hate to trouble you, ma’am, but I’m not quite ready to crawl over to that canteen. May I have more water?”
As she poured his cup full, she studied him from the corner of her eyes. It was the first time she had really seen him. He was very handsome, she thought. His eyes were dark brown, wide-set, and fringed by thick, dark lashes. His nose was a straight English nose with a thin bridge, his cheekbones high and pronounced, his jawline firm. Though he was still pale, he looked tough, not pretty, very masculine.
She handed him the cup, and he drank slowly, not gulping. She sat down on the upturned cracker barrel and watched him.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he finally said. “May I ask your name?”
“My name is Chantel Fortier. What is yours?”
“Clay Tremayne. I’m so happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Fortier. I have a feeling that I owe you a very great debt. I haven’t been aware of too much these last days, but I do know that you have been an angel, taking care of me as you have. And—isn’t there an older gentleman?”
“Oh yes, ma grandpere. He naps in the sun, like an old lizard, he says. He’ll wake soon. He’ll be glad to see you sitting up and talking.”
“I wouldn’t be if it weren’t for you two, I believe,” Clay said gravely. “I don’t remember being shot. All I remember is lying in the mud, thinking that I was dying. I guess I would have if you hadn’t found me.”
“Do you know who shot you?” Chantel asked curiously.
Jacob had told her that when he woke up he might not remember much, might not even know who he was. Sometimes that happened to people who had head wounds.
“Oh yes, I remember that,” Clay answered drily. “But begging your pardon, Miss Fortier, I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“No, no, it’s not my business, me,” she said hastily.
“It’s not that. It’s just that—let’s say it’s better if you and your grandfather don’t get involved,” Clay said quietly. “At least, no more than you already are.”
Jacob came in then, blinking in the half-light of the tent. “So sir! It’s a blessing to see you sitting up and looking so well. Thank God for His tender mercies.” He sat down on the other cot, for Chantel had set up one so Jacob could sleep in the tent as well.
“Let me introduce you, Grandpere,” Chantel said quickly. Clay’s courtly manners had impressed her, and she had learned much of polite social convention from Jacob. She introduced them, merely naming Clay as “the gentleman that has been staying with us.”
Jacob asked, “How are you feeling? How are your back and your head?”
“My back is sore, and it burns,” Clay admitted. “And my head aches. But my mind is so much clearer. I feel as if I’ve been wandering in a nightmare. Except when I woke up to see Miss Fortier, here. You have done me a great service, sir. I can only say thank you right now.”
“You are welcome, sir, and do not forget to thank the Lord, who showed great mercy to you by sending us along to find you. Is there anyone that we should send word to that you’re all right?”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Steiner.”
“What about your family?”
Clay swallowed hard. He faltered at Mr. Steiner’s query about his family. What should he say? What could he say?
He felt that he ought to lie to these people, simply to protect them. He had been left for dead, but what if it was known that he was still alive? For all he knew, he had murdered Barton Howard, and they might very well try him and hang him for that.
But looking at Jacob Steiner’s kind face and Chantel’s innocent eyes, he knew he could not lie. “Sir, I have not been a good man, and it’s possible that I may have committed a serious crime. To tell you the truth, until I can find out—some things—I believe it would be better for my family not to be notified of my…difficult circumstances.”
“But surely, no matter what you have done, your family should not think that you may be dead!” Jacob exclaimed.
Clay shook his head and was shocked at the excruciating pain it caused. “N–no, sir. I have thought about it, and it’s almost certain that my family thinks I have traveled to the Carolinas to visit friends.”
This made perfect sense to Clay. After all, one of the Howards had shot him in the back and left him for dead in the ditch on a lonely road.
Although in the South a man might defend his sister’s honor even to the death, that was not the gentlemanly—or legal—way to do so. Clay was sure that the brothers would have told no one that they had done this. There had been such a ruckus at the hotel, Clay knew that it had caused a scandal for Belle, and it was indeed very likely that his family would think he had just left town for a few days. He had done so before.
“Very well, Mr. Tremayne, you must do as you see fit,” Jacob finally agreed.
“Thank you, sir. And I would like to assure you—that is, I’m not the kind of man—I wouldn’t—”
Jacob rose slowly. “I don’t believe you would ever do any harm to me or to Chantel,” he said evenly. “I don’t know what you have done or think that you might have done. It’s none of my business. That kind of thing is between a man and God. He alone has the right to judge you, Mr. Tremayne, not I. And I can already see that you are not the kind of man to steal from us,” he added with some amusement. “Such a man with such a horse…Even though I don’t know horses, I can see that one must have cost you a pretty penny.”
Actually, Clay had won Lightning on a bet, but somehow he was extremely reluctant to admit this to Jacob Steiner. And he was surprised. “Lightning? I figured he was long gone, either bolted or stolen.”
“No, he stays with you,” Chantel said. “Always. He’s the reason I found you. His name is Lightning? That a good name for that horse.”
“The reason you found me?” Clay repeated. “But what—how—?”
Jacob said firmly, “Mr. Tremayne, you may feel better, but I can assure you that you’re still in a very weak condition, and you are starting to look exhausted again. Rest now. Chantel and I will be here when you wake up.”
“You’re right, sir,” Clay murmured. “I do still feel very unwell.” He struggled to lie back on the cot, and Chantel helped him. “Thank you, Miss…”
“Chantel,” she said. “Everyone calls me Chantel.”
But he was already slipping into sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Clay opened his eyes to stare up at the top of the tent. He had come to know that stretch of canvas very well, even when it was dark. He knew every crease, every spot, every loose thread. He had been staring up at it for a week now. But even as he
monotonously traced the familiar folds, he was grateful, at least, that he could lie on his back to look up at it.
He still had not remembered anything of those first four days after Chantel and Jacob had saved him, lying on his stomach, his back in shreds, his head banging as if a strongman were hammering on it. The only thing he had known in that dark time had been Chantel’s lovely face, her quiet voice, her soft hands. Idly he wondered how she kept her hands so soft. She worked like a man every day.
Earlier she had had to saddle Lightning for him. He had been determined to try riding, though Chantel and Jacob had warned him that he was still weak. Stubbornly he had led Lightning out to the wagon, hauled his saddle out of it—and promptly dropped it.
Without a single word, but with a dire I-told-you-so look, Chantel had picked it up and saddled Lightning.
Clay had managed to mount by himself, but after ten minutes of riding Lightning even at a slow walk, his head was pounding so hard he could hardly see through the red veil of pain. His back felt as if it were on fire. He had given up, retreated to his cot, and collapsed.
Suddenly his mouth started watering. He remembered he had eaten nothing since breakfast, and he was ravenously hungry. It might have had something to do with the fact that a thick, rich aroma of stew floated into the tent. With an effort, he rose, steeling himself against the dizziness he still felt when he stood up quickly, and went outside.
Chantel looked up from the campfire. “Going for a ride?”
“Very funny, ma’am,” Clay grumbled.
“Come over here and sit down, you.”
In the past two weeks, Chantel and Jacob had made their campsite into a homey, comfortable place under the stand of the oak trees. The trees were very old, their trunks enormous, their branches spreading and joining to make a thick roof of spring-green leaves. The cot mattresses were thin enough to bend, and they made nice comfortable seats leaned up against the trees.
Chantel had cleared a space right in the middle of the three trees for a good campfire, with a place to roast eggs and potatoes in the hot ashes and a tripod over the center. Now she bent back over, stirring the big iron pot full of beef stew. Jacob had had one roast of smoked beef that was about to ruin, so she had decided not to let it go to waste.
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