Helen answered the insistent knock, her surprised smile welcoming Sorcha as she stormed inside. “How have you been?”
Sorcha waved away the niceties and held up the paper. “Have ye seen this? Do ye ken what it means?” Her joy at sharing the news with Helen dimmed as she eyed the paper Sorcha flung around as though it were a venomous snake. “Ye already kent the news!’
Helen nodded. “I did. And I won’t be made to feel guilty for not sharing it with you.” She tilted her chin up.
Sorcha laughed and pulled her to sit next to her on the settee as she spread it out for the two of them to peruse. In bold letters the day’s headline proclaimed “Town Doctor a Fraud!” Sorcha sighed with pleasure. “J.P. kens how to make an impact.”
Helen sighed. “She does. I just wish she hadn’t used a font that made one think of Dracula.”
Sorcha giggled and set it aside. “What does this mean for Warren?” Before Helen could respond, she said, “I imagine it means he’s vindicated. A man with proper credentials was vilified while one with none was held next to God.”
Helen laughed. “You’re good medicine, Sorcha.” She looked at the article again. “I’m not certain what this will mean. As you know, my family will only become more entrenched in their hatred of me and defiance of all common sense.”
Her friend squinted as though deep in thought. “It isna what they think, mind. It’s what the rest of the town kens to be true. For they’ll only act like sheep, following yer mother’s horrible suggestions if there is no reason not to.”
Helen jumped at the pounding on the door. “And so it begins. I’m sure that is my mother.” She sighed as she rose, grateful Sorcha followed a footstep behind her. When she pulled open the door, she leaped backward, bumping into Sorcha as the so-called doctor grabbed her.
“How dare you sully my name, you little hussy?” he hissed. His eyes were lit with liquor and rage, and his next lurching arm movement struck her hard against the side of her head. Helen flew backward, hitting her head solidly against the desk and landing with a thud.
“Helen!” Sorcha screamed. She fell to her knees and shook her friend, but Helen remained unconscious. Blood gushed from the wound at the side of her head near one ear, and she rolled around like a rag doll. “Ye devil!” Sorcha screeched at the fake doctor. “How could ye treat her like this?”
“She’s trying to ruin my life. She has no right to make such false accusations,” he slurred, swaying on his feet. His anger had begun to abate, and his hands shook, as much from panic at the sight of all the blood as from the liquor he had drunk. He spun, fleeing the room.
Sorcha sat there a moment before rising and finding a towel to wrap around Helen’s head. She squeezed Helen’s shoulder and then ran the short distance to Warren’s law office. She flung the door open and tripped inside. “Helen’s hurt!” she gasped. Warren rose, ignoring the man across from him. “At home.”
She rested on her knees, catching her breath as she watched him race away.
The man in the room rose, resting a cool hand on her back. “Are you all right, Miss MacKinnon?”
She fought an instinctive shaking and met the man’s worried gaze. “Mr. Tompkins. Why are ye here?” She flushed after she spoke. “I’m fine. Worried about my friend.” She accepted his arm and rose to her shaky legs. “Would you walk with me to their home? I must see that she is all right.” She bit back tears. “We have no healer now in town. Not with a disgraced doctor and Helen injured.”
Frederick squeezed her arm. “Don’t worry about the things you cannot change. All will work itself out.”
“Do ye tell yourself that often, Mr. Tompkins, in the hope it will prove true?” she asked on a huff as her customary agitation and aggravation with him returned.
He laughed. “When your livelihood depends on nature, it’s what you must believe.” His blue eyes danced with mischief. “And I’d prefer you called me Frederick. I’m reminded of my father or grandfather when you speak of Mr. Tompkins.”
She huffed. “Why are ye in town again so soon? I’d thought no’ to have to see ye until after the spring thaw.”
Frederick laughed. “It’s good to know my presence annoys you as much as yours does me. It’s only a pity my grandmother seems to like you.” He sobered. “I heard about the rumors against Helen and Warren and wanted to assure the validity of their marriage.”
She let out a deep breath. “There was no need. They were married again by the pastor.”
“Well, that letter containing those glad tidings failed to reach me.” He shrugged. “I’m happy I could be here today to help in any way I can.”
She made a noise in her throat but said nothing further. Her thoughts of Frederick fled when they arrived at Helen and Warren’s house. Sorcha saw Warren holding a still-unconscious Helen, his shirtfront covered in blood. His desperate gaze met theirs.
Frederick released her arm. “I’ll go for my grandmother,” he said as he rushed away.
“And I’ll go for my brothers. Ewan should be warned to protect J.P.” She gave Warren a reassuring smile and raced out the door.
Warren sat with Helen cradled in his arms, her head wrapped in a towel, although blood seeped through it and soaked his shirt. “Helen, Helen, my love,” he whispered through a tear-drenched throat. “Wake up, my darling. Come back to me.” He kissed her forehead, frowning as nothing he said and no touch elicited a response from her.
He rocked her in his arms, crooning songs he remembered from his childhood when his nanny sang to him. His low, clear baritone filled the room, and he fought sobs as time passed. At a bustling in the doorway, he saw Irene enter.
She met his desperate gaze with a calm understanding. “She’s had a blow, Warren. It will take time, but she’ll come back to you.” He watched her move down the hallway. “Bring Helen in here,” Irene called out.
He eased away before rising and picking Helen up. When he arrived at their bedroom, he saw that Irene had laid out a nightdress for her. He made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. “I’ll care for my wife.”
“Yes, you will. First by caring for yourself.” Irene met his glare. “Go get cleaned up, speak with the sheriff, ensure Sorcha tells him exactly what occurred and then return here. I will be with Helen, as will Leticia and Annabelle soon. Helen will want for nothing.” Irene met his devastated gaze. “Except for you. The sooner you accomplish your tasks, the sooner you can return to her.”
He nodded, grabbing a clean shirt from the bureau and rushing to the guest room. He used cold water from the ewer to wash Helen’s blood from him, donned a new shirt and burst into his parlor, intent on leaving to find the sheriff. However, the sheriff was in his parlor, awaiting him. Sorcha sat in a chair, with Alistair, Leticia and Cailean surrounding her as though an honor guard.
“Where’s Frederick?” Warren asked.
“At the house with Belle and the baby,” Cailean said. “Ewan is with J.P.”
Warren nodded. “And the charlatan doctor?”
“Nowhere to be found,” the sheriff rumbled. He stroked his long brindle-colored mustache. “But we’ll find him.” He turned to Warren. “Miss MacKinnon has been so kind as to provide us with her version of the events. I would like to speak with your wife.”
Warren glared at the man. “That will be impossible. I fear for some time. She is unconscious.” He ignored Sorcha’s gasp and stifled wail as she fought a sob. “When she does wake, Mrs. Tompkins has informed me that we must treat her with care. It is uncertain what she will remember or how she will feel.”
The sheriff wandered from the group huddled near the fire and the settee to the desk, with the blood pooled at the base of it. “I wonder if she could have done it?” he muttered to himself.
“Could have done what?” Warren asked, tensing as though readying for battle. He stiffened when Alistair put a hand on his shoulder, holding him still.
“I shouldn’t have spoken aloud, but I wonder if your wife could have enacted such a
scene in an attempt to further discredit the doctor.”
In an instant Alistair held Warren with both arms around his broad chest, while Cailean raced after Sorcha as she leaped off the couch. He caught her just before she attacked the sheriff.
“Ye vile man!” she screeched. “I was here! I saw what he did to her. He hit her so hard she flew across the room. And then he cackled with glee at what he’d done.” She squirmed against Cailean’s firm hold. “He only seemed concerned when she failed to wake up and the pool of blood increased.” She kicked at the sheriff but had been pulled too far away from him to do any damage.
The sheriff watched them without contrition. “You all must understand these will be questions the townsfolk will have. They’ll ask me such things, and I need to be able to discredit them.”
“Tell me, Sheriff Sampson,” Sorcha rasped, “how a woman throws herself from the door to that table with perfect accuracy and then knocks herself out?” She stomped her foot in agitation because she could not stomp on his.
Irene emerged from the back bedroom and cleared her throat.
Warren relaxed in Alistair’s hold, ignoring the sheriff. “How is she? Is there any change?” He tensed when she shook her head.
“I suggest the sheriff come and look at her, and then presume a woman would do such damage to herself. Only a fool would think such a thing.” She glared at the sheriff. “And I’ve thought many things about you, Sheriff Sampson, but not that.”
He flushed but nodded as he followed her into the back room.
Warren wriggled in Alistair’s hold. “I promise I won’t do him bodily harm. If he’s in there with my wife, I must be there.” He heard Alistair sigh as he was released, and he raced down the hall to join them.
He saw Irene in front of him, explaining how she looked much improved after the cleaning she had been given. Then she stepped aside, and the bruise along her cheek burst into view. He watched the sheriff blanch at his first sight of Helen’s injury.
“And the head wound?” the sheriff asked.
“Behind her ear and bound. I don’t want it to start bleeding again, and I will not remove the bandage right now,” Irene said. “You know how head wounds leak …” She met the sheriff’s gaze. “I’m doing the best I can, but he hurt the only proper healer we have left in town.”
The sheriff nodded, murmured his thanks to Irene and bumped into Warren as he turned to leave the room. He motioned for Warren to back up and closed the door behind him.
“I won’t hold against you your desire to protect your wife’s good name and honor.” He took a deep breath as a fire of indignant anger burned in his deep brown eyes a moment before he hid his reaction. “If my wife had been treated as such, I’d find the bastard and kill him.”
He walked past Warren and reentered the parlor. “I thank you, Miss MacKinnon, for your testimony today. When I find our errant doctor, I will keep in mind what you said.” He nodded to all present and strode out the front door.
Warren collapsed into his easy chair as the MacKinnons’ chatter began about the sheriff’s ineptitude. “Sorcha,” Warren said with his head on the back of his chair and his eyes closed, “he had to say those things to appear impartial to the group. He’s not impartial after seeing Nell.” Warren clamped his jaw shut and took a deep breath. “No one could be.”
“What can we do for you and Helen?” Cailean asked.
“Bring by food,” Warren whispered. “I won’t feel like eating it, but I must remain strong for her. Bring broth for Helen. Visit her. Talk with her even though I don’t know if she can hear us. I don’t want her to feel alone.” He swiped at his face a moment, before looking at his friends, who watched him with concern. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“Consider it done,” Leticia said. “And, if any of us think of something else, we’ll discuss it with you.”
Chapter 12
Two days later Sorcha sat beside Helen. Sorcha’s needles made a clacking sound as she expertly knitted, and she cast a quick glance in Fidelia’s direction as she worked on needlepoint on the other side of the bed. “I keep hopin’ she’ll wake up and tell me to stop my chatterin’.”
Fidelia half smiled. “It is worse than a magpie.” She watched Sorcha fight a smile and then focused on an intricate part of her design. “I’ve never known anyone who can ramble on and on about nothing as you do.”
Sorcha shrugged and then grinned. “’Tis a skill. Must be honed from the cradle.” She smiled as Fidelia snorted. “Some would say only those fortunate enough to be from Scotland would ken the true way of it.”
“Well, it is its own form of torment.” She set down her needlepoint for a moment to pick up a cloth and run it over Helen’s face. “What will Warren do?”
Sorcha shook her head as her eyes filled at Fidelia’s question. “I dinna ken. He’s barely survivin’ now, an’ she’s still alive. I think this could be the death of him.”
Fidelia firmed her jaw. “We always think the death of someone we love will bring about our own demise. But it never does. It merely kills a part of us so that we will never be whole again.”
Sorcha’s gaze moved from Helen to Fidelia. “Is that what happened to ye?” She frowned as a shrug was the only answer from the woman she had begun to consider her sister. “Ye can be as cryptic as Bears.”
Fidelia huffed out a breath. “If there’s one thing I learned at the Boudoir, it was to protect whatever made me feel like me. My memories. My hopes. My dreams.” She shared a look with Sorcha. “I don’t share those easily.”
“Aye, I understand. ’Tis easier to talk about inanities than discuss what can be used against us.” She watched as Fidelia stabbed at the linen, although she did not mar the pattern. “Annabelle is delighted yer products are sellin’ so well.”
“I never thought there would be much demand for fine needlework in a small town, but I was wrong.” She flushed with pleasure. “I like knowing I’m paying my way and not living off of charity.”
“’Tisn’t charity when it’s yer own family.” Sorcha shook her head in disgust. “Ye have to accept that others, includin’ all the MacKinnons, want to help ye, if we can.” She paused as an incessant knocking sounded on the front door. She rose, leaving Fidelia sitting in the corner beside Helen.
Sorcha yanked open the door, her smile of welcome fading as she beheld Mrs. Jameson flanked by her son and Helen’s cousin. “Yer concern is admirable, but she is mending.” Sorcha stood in front of the partially open doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. “Ye ken I’ll send word if there’s any change.”
Mrs. Jameson took a step forward, glowering at Sorcha as she refused to back up a step. “You have no right to keep a mother from her daughter. Not in her daughter’s time of need!”
Sorcha shook her head. “Ye are no’ welcome here. Mr. Clark informed ye of that when ye came here last night.” She squinted at them, and her glare intensified. “Did ye think to come by midday with the hopes to find her unattended?” She took a step forward, smiling as Mrs. Jameson backed up a step. “She’s never alone.”
Sorcha gasped as Bertrand March grabbed her by both arms and picked her up, pushing her back into the house. She kicked at his legs but was ineffective in preventing him from manhandling her. “Put me down!”
He leaned forward, and his whiskey-and-coffee-scented breath whirled around her. “You will do as my aunt desires, or you will not like the consequences.” He laughed as she shivered at his words, his eyes glowing with anticipation. “I should enjoy what that would entail.”
Mrs. Jameson tugged on the sleeves at her wrist and thrust her shoulders back. “Please show me to my daughter.”
Sorcha glanced from Bertrand to Walter, who stood behind his mother with a smile one wore when eager to mete out punishment. She nodded and walked down the hallway, pushing the bedroom door open. “As ye can see, she remains unconscious.”
Mrs. Jameson let out a cry and moved to the side of the bed to kneel beside Helen. “Oh,
my precious daughter! When I think of what you have suffered since you married that cruel man.” She swiped at her eyes and then gripped Helen’s hand. “I know if you could speak with me that you’d beg me to take you home.”
“No!” Sorcha screamed, pulling Mrs. Jameson up and pushing her toward her son and nephew. “No,” she yelled again as she positioned herself between Helen and the Jamesons.
“You can’t deny that we have the right to take her home. She has suffered gravely since she married that man.” Mrs. Jameson’s gaze flit from Sorcha to her prostrate daughter on the bed.
“No law in the world would ever support ye. She married him. Her home is with her husband.” Sorcha’s eyes flashed with fear and then determination as she saw that Walter and Bertrand relished the thought of a struggle. She punched out as Bertrand grabbed her, hitting his nose with an elbow as she struggled. Blood coursed down his face, and he yowled in pain.
“You witch!” he screamed as he grabbed her by the hair. Suddenly the door, which had been opened, was thrust shut and thwacked him in the side and knocked him over. He hit his head on the bureau and lay with a dazed expression on the floor.
Fidelia stood beside the door, her breath coming out in pants and hands raised. “Sorcha?” she whispered.
“I’m fine,” Sorcha said as she stood, protecting Helen again. She reached out to Fidelia as Fidelia gasped at the sight of Walter.
“If it isn’t the escaped lunatic whore. I thought they kept you locked away in the second floor of the MacKinnon house.”
“She is no’ Mr. Rochester’s wife,” Sorcha snapped, referring to her new favorite novel, Jane Eyre, and the hero’s wife in the attic. “An’ ye ken well enough she’s in the bakery nearly every day.”
Montana Renegade Page 18
