“I haven’t told everyone,” John corrected.
“You’ve told me. And Edna and Louise.”
Medford has three ways of surefire communication: telegram, tell Veda, or tell Louise.
“Just where is this woman?”
John was wondering the same thing. Where was Hope Kallahan? And why, indeed, hadn’t she sent word if she’d been fortuitously delayed?
“I don’t know where she is,” he admitted.
He’d diligently met each stage that managed to get through. He’d had no further correspondence from Miss Kallahan. She wasn’t coming. She’d simply decided she didn’t want to marry him. Her letters had sounded as if the arrangement pleased her. But women change their minds.
He could forgive her for changing her mind; what he couldn’t tolerate was neglect. Neglecting to inform him of a change in heart was unforgivable.
“Is it possible your fiancée got cold feet?” Veda asked, coyly lifting the cloth on the basket.
John caught a whiff of chicken.
“Miss Kallahan said she was coming. Something undoubtedly has delayed her, but I trust that she is still coming. Now, if you don’t mind, Veda, I have an appointment with Edgar.”
Veda’s brow arched. “The tailor? Your fiancée hasn’t even arrived, and you’re about to be fitted for a wedding suit?”
“That is precisely what I’m about to do.” Jerking his vest coat into place, he stepped around the counter. He’d had just about enough of this inquisition. He wasn’t meeting her niece, Ginger, and that was that. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Veda trailed him out the front door. “My niece, Ginger, arrived on yesterday’s stage. Have you seen her yet?”
Only two women got off that stage yesterday. The statuesque young woman with dark hair and ivory porcelain skin who’d turned more than her share of men’s heads must have been Freeman Hide’s granddaughter. Freeman’s whole family was good-looking. Were John not already contracted, he’d be sorely tempted to ask Freeman for introductions.
The other woman was as homely as sin.
“Yes, I did. Lovely young woman.”
“You did!” Veda glowed. “Pretty as a picture, isn’t she? Didn’t I tell you she was a jewel?”
“Yes, ma’am, you did.” At least once a day for the past four months.
“She’s most delicate you know, fragile as china. The long trip from San Francisco wore her out, so she’s taken to bed for a few days. Once she’s up and around, I’ll bring her over to the mercantile.”
Wonderful. She’s trying to marry me off to a sickly girl with the constitution of fine china. He stepped off the porch and started across the street.
“John!” Veda hurried after him. “You’re going to the box supper, aren’t you?”
Box supper? That was a misnomer if there ever was one. It was a man trap. Snares in a basket—albeit bait dressed in an interesting fashion and offered up for auction, but snares nonetheless. The bidder wasn’t supposed to know whose box he was bidding on, but one generally had a strong hint.
Every time he attended one of those infernal box suppers, every eligible woman in town dropped clues on which box was hers. The town matchmakers had put him in an impossible situation.
If he dared bid on a certain basket, other women were hurt or angry, and either they or their daughters gave him most unpleasant looks during the course of the long evening.
If he didn’t bid, he went without supper.
Enjoying a carefree meal in the comfort of his home above the store wasn’t an option for that night. In a town the size of Medford, every absence was noted and unduly speculated upon. He’d tried to get out of going once, and the flood of chicken soup the next day had created such a tizzy for him that he vowed to never try that again.
John picked up his stride, hoping Veda would take the hint. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw she was still close on his heels. Oliver trotted along behind her.
“You have to eat, John, affianced or not. Just say you’ll come to the box supper Friday night. By then, my Ginger will be feeling up to entertaining callers.”
He set his jaw and kept walking. “I won’t be calling on your niece, Veda.”
Veda hurried to keep pace with his long-legged stride. “I’m not talking about calling on her—I know you’re not at liberty to do that—not at the moment, but it won’t hurt you to be sociable, will it?”
The woman was a bulldog. There’d be no peace until he agreed. “All right, Veda. I’ll come.”
She paused, grinning. “Now, see. That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Ginger’s entering a box, you know. I’ll make certain you know which one.”
John’s new suit awaited him. Cut from the finest Italian cloth, the dark blue wool fit him to perfection.
“Excellent job, Edgar.”
Edgar was overjoyed with his handiwork. “You’re going to make a splendid bridegroom!”
Indeed he was. Examining his mirrored image, he twirled his mustache, wishing anew that Miss Kallahan would get here. Shame to spend all this money and not have it appreciated by the fairer sex.
John toted the apparel back to the mercantile, smiling to all he passed. Miss Kallahan was coming, he told himself. When she arrived, she would have a suitable explanation for her tardiness. Pity that Medford’s nearest telegraph was at Winchester, the other side of the Basin River. Come to think about it, it was quite easy to see why she couldn’t let him know of her belated arrival. Nor could he send a telegram to inquire of her whereabouts until the spring rains let up. The river was over its banks, and the Melhume boys had set the one bridge linking Medford to Winchester afire two weeks previous. He brightened, feeling considerably better with that revelation.
The evening of the box supper arrived. Shortly after seven o’clock that night, John walked into the one-room schoolhouse that doubled as the community meeting hall.
Everyone who could attend was here tonight. Floralee Thomas had shoved her teacher’s desk to one side, and a long table had been erected between two sawhorses. Cloths borrowed from the ladies of the planning committee made a colorful background for the boxed suppers. His eyes searched for a glimpse of Freeman’s granddaughter. Now if the town wanted to play Cupid, why couldn’t Freeman be as eager to introduce his granddaughter as Veda was her niece?
Veda was in charge of the festivities. There was an intent clear on her face tonight. John sighed. For the briefest of moments, he wondered which box contained Freeman’s granddaughter’s offering, then decided he didn’t want to know. Temptation, get thee aside.
He glanced around the room, wishing that Hope were here so he could introduce her to the doubting Thomases and end the town’s annoying speculation.
Threading his way across the floor, he paused to speak to his regular customers. He smiled, nodding to the widows who had taken up court in the long row of chairs lining the east wall. Their particular, odd ceremony puzzled him. Widows separated themselves in such a way that they seemed out of sync with others. The same bizarre ritual occurred at church socials; “Widow’s Row” they called it. A woman over forty habitually went there within weeks of her husband’s death. Companionship, he’d decided, was the reason. Wasn’t it the same sense of aloneness that had led him to place that ad in the journal?
“There you are, John!” Veda sailed across the room, flapping a hand in the air to get his attention.
John whirled and tried to lose himself in the crowd, but Veda had already nailed him. Her shrill voice was drawing attention, the last thing he wanted.
She docked, breathless. Looping her arm through his, she smiled. “There you are. I was worried that you wouldn’t come tonight.”
John stiffened. “I’m a man of my word, Veda. I said I would be here, and here I am.”
“Here you are, and I’m just sick. Ginger is still feeling a little under the weather, and she’s asked me to make her apologies for her absence.”
John’s knees buckled with relief. A reprieve. The go
od Lord had granted him a reprieve!
“I’m sorry to hear that. I trust your niece will be up and about very soon.”
“She will be—I’m having Doc come by in the morning. I’m hoping he will prescribe a tonic for her.”
“Yes—a tonic would be just the thing.”
Veda straightened when she saw the church elder’s wife sailing in their direction. The tall, stout woman resembled a Scandinavian Viking with her shock of steel-colored hair and breastplate of flouncing lace.
“Heavens. Here comes that overbearing Pearl Eddings. She’s going to insist that you purchase Cordella’s box supper.” John winced as Veda painfully tightened her grip on his arm.
“Let me do the talking,” she ordered from the corner of her mouth. She smiled as the matronly woman approached. “Good evening, Pearl.”
“Veda.” Pearl’s beady eyes flew over the couple, then landed on John. “Cordella’s box is the one with the blue bow.”
Stepping in front of John, Veda crossed her arms. “John’s affianced, Pearl. He can’t be buying your daughter’s boxed supper.”
Pearl’s eyes narrowed, and John edged closer to peer over Veda’s shoulder. He’d never seen eyes pulsate this way.
Pearl and Veda faced off.
“He’s not married yet, Veda Fletcher.”
“He will be, Pearl Eddings.”
“And soon,” John added, then closed his mouth. He located Cordella standing on the sidelines. The tall, bucktoothed girl wasn’t exactly a head turner.
“Hummpt.” Pearl leveled a finger at John. “Blue bow. You’ll not regret it.”
When Pearl departed, Veda patted John’s arm. “The very idea of Pearl thinking you’d be interested in Cordella.”
“Thank you for coming to my rescue, Veda.” Praise God, he was finally getting through to her!
“You’re welcome, dear.” Veda gave his arm another matronly pat, then absently tidied her hair before merging with the crowd. “Can’t imagine what Pearl is thinking,” John heard her mumble as she walked away. “Why, you’ve not even met my Ginger.”
Chapter Nine
“Don’t ask questions—run!” Dan caught Hope’s hand, and they bolted across the barnyard. Shots rang out. Water flew up from Luther Bennett’s rain barrel sitting next to the feed trough.
They ducked into the barn as a hail of bullets riddled the outside walls. Striding toward a stall, Dan seized a horse and quickly threw his saddle on it.
“We can’t take Luther’s horse! That’s stealing!”
“Luther’s nephews mean business this time, Hope. I’ll send money later. Get on!” Swinging Hope on behind him, he flanked the horse, and it galloped out of the barn. Bullets ricocheted off the trees as Dan rode toward the lane.
“Keep low!”
“I am! Ride faster!”
Lead whined overhead; Hope bent close to Dan’s back, hiding her face in his thick shirt.
The Bennett boys stepped from the stand of trees and fired until the bullets were hitting thin air.
The horse galloped for what seemed like miles to Hope before Dan gradually slowed the pace. The horse was lathered, its sides heaving with exertion.
She gradually loosened her grip around Dan’s middle, sick with fright when she saw the bright, moist, red stain on her arm. Blood.
“You’re hurt!” she cried.
Favoring his left side, he slid off the horse and sank to the ground. The effort brought a fresh surge of red stain to his shirt. “Nothing to worry about … It’s just a flesh wound.”
She slid off and knelt beside him. “We’ve got to treat it!”
“We have to keep moving.” He stood and took a handkerchief from his pocket, folded it into a triangle, and wedged it between his shoulder and shirt. Gaining his bearings, he climbed back on the horse. With his right arm, he hefted her astride.
Throughout the rest of the day, despite Hope’s repeated protests, Dan refused to stop; he insisted through clenched teeth that they had to keep moving. By nightfall, he was beyond decision making. Barely conscious, he hung on to the saddle horn with one hand.
The distant rumble of thunder worried Hope. A spring storm was brewing, and she didn’t want them to be caught out in it. “We’ve got to stop,” she insisted. Please, Father. Help us find shelter.
“You can’t put God on demand!” Papa’s voice echoed in Hope’s mind. But right now God was her only hope.
They rode on until she spied the mouth of a cave behind a bank of brush. Thunder was closer now, accompanied by sporadic lightning flashes. Dan didn’t respond when she pointed to the shelter. Taking the reins out of his hand, she urged the horse through the thicket. Sliding off its back, she tied the animal to a low-hanging limb, then helped Dan off.
“I’m all right—just lost a little blood.” His shirt was soaked and his features ashen. He’d lost a lot of blood; she didn’t need medical knowledge to know that.
Stepping to the mouth of the cave, she peered inside. Wings fluttered in the black interior. Shuddering, she reached for Dan’s arm and helped him through the narrow entrance.
Her strength was quickly overpowered by his weakness. It took all her might to get his considerable bulk through the cramped opening.
“Fire,” Dan murmured. “Cold.” He was shaking uncontrollably now.
“I’ll get one started. Matches—”
“Find two flint stones—strike them together.” Removing his coat, he lay down on it.
Once an old Indian had stopped by the parsonage. He’d shown Papa how to start a fire by using two flint stones, repeatedly striking them in a rapid fashion until a spark ignited the ember. But that had been so long ago. Could she remember how to do it?
Rain was falling when she emerged from the cave. Quickly gathering handfuls of small sticks and leaves before they got too wet, she carried them into the cavern. It took a while to locate the flint stones on the uneven ground, and even longer to get the hang of generating a spark. But after repeated failed attempts, the tinder finally caught. Smoke pillared up.
She sat back on her heels, exhausted. She kept her fears at bay by concentrating on what had to be done. The bleeding must be stopped or Dan would … She couldn’t voice the thought. Please, Father. Grant me wisdom in this hour of need. I’m sorry I’ve been so doubtful lately. I’ll do better—please don’t let Dan die because of my foolishness.
“Grow up, Hope.” She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood, recalling Dan’s gruff admonition. “I’m trying,” she whispered. “I’m trying.”
The cave was shallow but deep enough for shelter, the ceiling low but high enough for the fire to draw well.
Fighting panic, Hope piled more sticks on the fire. Dan was attempting to shrug out of his shirt when she turned to check on him. His face was pale, his forehead glistening with sweat.
Her heart was drawn to him, and her mind traveled back to less than a week ago when he had cared so diligently for her. If it were possible, she would take part of his pain. “Wait, let me do that.”
Her stomach pitched at the sight of the angry wound in his left shoulder. Too weak to argue, he allowed her to peel the last of the bloody fabric away.
“Don’t you die on me,” she pleaded, her hands shaking as she probed the injury. She checked him front and back. “The bullet went through, so I won’t have to dig it out.”
Dan grunted. “Do you have the feeling we make a bad team?”
She grinned, laying her head on his good shoulder for a blissful moment. “It would seem our luck isn’t the best.” Straightening, she wiped the moisture out of her eyes. “Lie still. I need to clean the wound.”
He winced. “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”
She didn’t have the heart to tell him how much. “I’ll need your hat.”
His eyes gave her permission to remove it.
She left the cave and returned momentarily with water. Ripping his shirt into pieces, she dipped the cloth into the rainwater, her hand pausin
g above the injury. “Ready?”
“Be gentle.” As painful as the injury was, he was still able to tease. She took small solace in that. “The bullet must have hit something as it went through—it’s still bleeding hard.”
Touching the cloth to the wound, she recoiled as he sucked in his breath. “Now, Grunt,” she chided, trying to disguise her terror, “were you gentle with me when I ran away?”
“No … not overly.”
“I remember that.” How well she remembered how scared she’d been when he’d physically dragged her back to the cabin. He’d not been gentle at all that day.
The water in the hat turned bright red as she continued to cleanse the area.
Catching her arm, he gazed at her. “I was afraid for your life that day. Do you know what would have happened—?”
She gently laid her finger across his lips. “Shush, you’re making the bleeding worse. I know what you did that day, Dan.” She looked away for fear her eyes would reveal more of her feelings than she wanted. “Thank you.”
He held tightly to her hand, even when he could have released it.
She shook her head, fear crowding her throat. The wound was bleeding heavily now. “I don’t know how to stop the bleeding.”
“Cauterize it,” he gritted between clenched teeth.
“How?”
“My knife … in the fire … Get the blade red-hot.”
“Oh, Dan.” She closed her eyes, faint. Could she do such a thing? The pain would be unbearable.
His grip tightened. “Do it, Hope. I’ll bleed to death if you don’t.”
She wouldn’t allow him to bleed to death. No matter how vile the cure, she had to do it. Rising, her eyes searched the dim interior. She needed more wood. “I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t take all night,” he murmured.
She returned breathless, her hair falling down from its pins. Dropping to her knees, she heaped more sticks on the fire.
“Knife … sheath, left side. Hurry, Hope… .”
“I’m hurrying.” Rolling him gently to his right side, she located the knife and removed it. She quickly wiped the blade on a piece of petticoat, then laid it over the flames.
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