Animals like Minnit, he thought with a short laugh. He unrolled his blanket and almost hoped the cocky little blond would slip in to be with Felicity—it would keep her out of his pants. He eased onto his bed, arranging the blankets around himself, and let the sounds of the rustling leaves and approaching rainstorm lull him to sleep.
He’d barely drifted off when he was startled awak by Felicity’s screams. Instantly he was on his feet, nearly tearing his makeshift tent in his haste, while her shrieks of “Bats! Bats!” sent him stumbling to her aid even faster.
“Come on out here! I’ll have a look,” he instructed, and he went to the fire to get a flaming stick so he could see inside the cave. Much as he detested Felicity’s little stunts, he sensed her panic was genuine this time. Books such as Dracula had inspired a morbid fear of bats, which were in reality too spooked themselves to attack humans, but this was no time for a lesson on animal behavior.
Watson turned, torch in hand, to see Mrs. Nunn rush from the cave—and raise her head up too soon. A loud thwack echoed around them and she cried out in pain. Minnit was also babbling, trying to grab ahold of her and guide her outside, but the fluttering of quick black wings sent him scurrying backwards, flailing his arms as he hollered hysterically.
Booth ran over just in time to catch Felicity before she fell to the ground in a dead faint. All thoughts of shooing the bats from her bedchamber vanished at the sight of the gash in her head—so much blood! He quickly carried her to the fire and called out to Minnit.
“Get me a pan of water, and that flask of whiskey from the saddlebags,” he instructed. “And I’ll need a rag and something for a bandage. Hurry it up!”
To his credit, Gideon set his own fears aside and quickly returned with the supplies. Even so, Watson was alarmed at the flow of blood, which was matting Felicity’s hair to her scalp in a dark, sinister spot that was growing larger as he watched. He crushed the cloth—one of Felicity’s towels—against it, wincing when she whimpered, and tried to think calmly about what to do next.
“After we clean this out, we’ll need something to stanch the bleeding,” he mused aloud. “Best thing for that’s a tobacco poultice—it’s all we’ve got. Fetch my tin from my gear, will you?”
Gideon’s pale eyes widened. “You’re going to smear wet tobacco in her hair?”
“Would you rather listen to her bitch, or bury her?” Watson demanded sharply.
The blond scurried off, impressed by the urgency of the situation. This left Booth to gaze earnestly at the motionless form in his lap, wondering if the wound was too deep to tend with his limited medical supplies and expertise. He kept pressing the towel to her head, not daring to look at how much blood he was soaking up. He was grateful for the way Gideon was mixing water and tobacco in one of their tin cups . . . actually thankful that he wasn’t facing this crisis alone, because he didn’t dare think about how he’d feel if Felicity never woke up. She had her faults, but she didn’t deserve this.
Finally a measure of calm returned. Booth gingerly removed the towel and leaned over his patient to assess her wound. Thank God, it wasn’t all that deep, but little pieces of grit and gravel had to be removed before the poultice went on. “Give me that whiskey.”
Minnit uncapped it and handed him the flask, all eyes. “Will she make it?”
“I doubt she’ll bleed to death, but we can’t tell what sort of internal damage there might be,” he replied quietly. He daubed a liquor-soaked corner of the towel over the gash and shuddered slightly. “God, that has to hurt, but it’s a good sign if she’s jerking that way. Means she can still feel something.”
Gideon nodded mutely and then went back to mixing the sweet-smelling muck in his cup. He looked up at the night sky and scowled. “Shoot! It’s starting to rain.”
Watson let out a hoot at the man’s dainty vocabulary, and felt relief flowing through him. Felicity was stirring now, awakened by the pain, and he quickly daubed off the rest of the grit and what blood he could. “All right, we’re ready for that tobacco.”
It seemed a sin to press clumps of the pungent, murky mixture onto a delicate head like Felicity Nunn’s, yet he sensed she’d survive far more serious embarrassments than this before their journey ended. When the wound was covered with a thick coating of poultice, he placed a folded bit of rag over it ... from one of Mrs. Nunn’s lacy shifts, it seemed . . . and then asked Gideon to rip him a long strip of the delicate fabric.
“We’ll have to tie her jaws shut to keep the wound covered,” he said as he slipped the bandage under her chin. “She’ll probably assume we’re doing this to shut her up.”
Gideon chuckled nervously and then released a long sigh. “Well, she ought to be pretty dang glad you were here to tend her. Probably should get her out of this rain—but I doubt she’ll want to wake up in that cave.”
He’d already considered that. And as the raindrops soaked through his shirt, Booth realized there was only one other option if Felicity was to stay warm and dry. “Looks like I won’t be getting much sleep,” he commented.
“Poor you,” came the wry reply. “If there’s nothing more I can do, I’ll get back under my rock. Call me if you need anything.”
Minnit’s attitude surprised him, but Watson was pleased he understood that their patient would require a constant, calm vigil until she awoke. She felt so fragile as he cradled her against his chest ... he had to hold her head like an infant’s to keep it from rolling limply off his arm.
By the time he was settled under his tarpaulin, seated against the outer wall of the cave with Felicity resting on his crossed legs, he felt drained. In the shadowy light from the fire, her face appeared serene and her breathing was almost normal. She looked angelic as she slept, vulnerable as a child without the winks and artful come-ons he was so accustomed to.
Booth stroked her hair back from her face, awed by its silkiness. He adjusted her weight, cautiously, so he wouldn’t disturb her. Yet he had to know if that hard whack on her head was more than a surface wound. “Felicity?” he breathed.
She stirred slightly, turning in his arms to cuddle against his chest. The gesture sent a warmth through him he didn’t dare acknowledge, so he tried again for a response.
“Felicity? Honey, can you hear me?”
To his immense relief, she let out an assenting groan.
Booth brushed her forehead with a kiss before he realized it, wishing his heart would stop its hammering. He’d been too concerned to think about how she’d feel in his arms, all pliant and soft, but there was no denying her effect on him now.
“Do you know who I am? Can you open your eyes?” he continued in a dogged whisper.
She let out a long, contented-sounding sigh, and then her eyelids fluttered like the most delicate of butterfly wings. Felicity blinked and then focused. It was a little wavery, like her smile, but it sent Watson’s pulse into full gallop.
“You’re Booth . . . and you’re going to kiss me and make it all better.”
“Oh, Jesus,” he breathed, and when her lips parted in invitation he couldn’t say no. His kiss was careful at first, until she slowly slipped her arms around him and urged him to drink more deeply.
It occurred to him that even while seriously injured, Felicity Nunn retained her powers as an insatiable temptress. It occurred to him, several kisses later, that she shouldn’t risk riding for a day or so to be sure she’d suffered nothing more than a nasty gash . . . which meant Rafferty would have an even bigger lead. And as she gave for every kiss she took, her lips so soft and tender and willing, it occurred to Booth that perhaps they’d all be better off if Jack and his attractive companion slipped into Canada very quickly.
Chapter 18
Maudie’s low, repeated wufs became excited barking and Amber roused herself to see what was going on. The last few hours she’d dozed in Rafferty’s arms as they plodded along the stream, and the warmth they shared beneath his slicker wrapped her in a sweet contentment she wished would continue into the d
aylight as in her dreams.
The first glow of dawn revealed a light frost on the grass, and dry leaves scurried past them ahead of a chilly gust. Jack reined his mount to a halt, resettling her weight against him. They were on a slight rise overlooking a valley fed by the stream they’d followed throughout the night, and just below them a small farm was nestled among the hills and deep green pines that whispered in the wind.
“That explains it,” Rafferty murmured.
She watched the black and white dog circling ahead of them. “Explains what?”
“Maudie’s fidgeting. For the past few miles she’s been racing ahead and doubling back, fussing at me like some old lady,” he said with a chuckle, “and it’s because she smelled those sheep. Looks like there maybe a few head of cattle, as well. With any luck these folks’ll have some chores that’ll be worth food and directions to us.”
The collie was a rollicking speck in the distance now, and at her approach the cream-colored, woolly bundles became bleating balls of fleece that scattered across the large pen. Amber laughed, feeling the dog’s excitement and anticipating a night or two under a roof with some satisfying meals—until a figure emerged from the two-story frame house. This person was too bundled up for them to determine its sex, but the rifle raised to its shoulder was plain enough.
“No! Don’t shoot!” she screamed, and Jack was already urging Smoke into a gallop down the hill.
“Stop! That’s my dog!” he hollered in an urgent voice that echoed around them. Why anyone would shoot his pet was beyond him, but when he saw the figure’s head turn to take in their approach, he instinctively clutched Amber closer.
“Hold tight, honey. We may have to duck at the last minute to ride out of harm’s way,” he told her quietly.
She nodded, her gaze riveted to the gun barrel that glistened coldly in the morning light. The farm they were on had an air of resigned poverty to it; they passed teetering fence posts and a barn with a loft door that banged heavily in the wind. The odor of animal manure was more apparent now, and as they slowed to a trot to cover the last several feet of the lane leading to the house, some scroungy, squawking chickens scurried out of their way.
“Good morning!” Rafferty called out with tentative cheerfulness. “Sorry if my dog woke you. She’s a sheepherder by nature—couldn’t hold herself back.”
“Been up for hours,” the figure grunted. “Whadaya want?”
The voice was low and gravelly but female, and as Amber studied the boots, heavy pants, bulky coat, and a hat with sheepskin ear flaps, she wondered what sort of woman was beneath all that masculine garb. This was not the image of a farm wife she’d had for most of her life, and she suspected a lot of misconceptions were going to be set straight immediately by their hard-eyed hostess.
“We were hoping to put in a few days’ work in exchange for food and shelter before we’re on our way again,” Jack stated. A quick glance made many needed repairs evident, but insulting this big-boned woman’s homeplace was no way to start out. “I’m experienced with sheep and cattle, a pretty fair mechanic and carpenter, and Amber here’s willing to help out however she can.”
The rifle butt came to rest on the floor of the narrow porch as the woman considered this. Her breath rose in frosty wisps, around a face that appeared weathered and tough beneath her tight-fitting cap. After a quick glance over her shoulder, she relaxed her rigid stance. “Guess I could use the help. Karl, he’s laid up for good, I ’spect, and we ain’t near ready for winter. Come in. Get warm. Them cows can wait a spell longer.”
Amber saw the sympathy in Jack’s eyes as she prepared to dismount, but he took her arm in a warning grip. “Stay alert,” he whispered, “in case this isn’t what it seems. They could’ve seen us coming these last few miles and set us up.”
Nodding, she waited for him to free her from the slicker. Why would any woman, no matter how mannish, lure them into a trap with such a sorrowful tale? But Jack knew best, experienced fugitive that he was, and she waited on legs prickling with pins and needles after a long night’s ride, until Rafferty led Smoke and Miss Blanche to the railing of the porch. The woman watched him tie the horses, and without a word she preceded them through the front door.
The acrid tang of cooked cabbage and chamber pots assaulted them, made more pungent by the fire that roared in the large fireplace on the far left wall. The house was sparsely furnished with pieces that appeared hastily crafted with an amateur’s axe, and their steps clattered on a floor so caked with dried mud it was hard to see the cracks between the planks. A plate smeared with egg yolk and a few greasy chunks of potato still sat on the crude table.
Their hostess turned abruptly, as if to gauge their reactions to her home. “Name’s Olga,” she stated, “and there ain’t nothin’ fancy about me nor the place, as you can see. You can stay as long as you do a fair day’s work. Take the room at the top of the stairs. Karl, he’ll give you some sass, but most days he’s so out of ’is head he don’t mean nothin’ by it. Do me the favor of fixin’ your own breakfast.”
Before they could make their introductions, Olga clumped outside, shutting the door with a whump. Jack glanced around, his nose stinging with the scent that seemed to come from a large pot hanging over the fire. “Better than a drafty barn, anyway,” he commented. “You hungry?”
“Not for that,” Amber replied, pointing to the black kettle.
Rafferty laughed and removed his hat and slicker. “I’d give you the choice of rustling something up or carrying our gear to the room, but I already know the answer to that, don’t I?”
“Yeah.” She gave him a sheepishly endearing smile. “I—I’m sorry I can’t be better help with the meals—”
“I’m not. Saves me from being the one to tell ole Karl he’s got company,” Jack answered with a grin. “At least if he gets nasty, it sounds like you won’t have any trouble outrunning him.”
Amber rolled her eyes and fetched the first armload of their supplies. Then she found out how impossible it was to climb the creaky, warped stairs without everyone in the house hearing her. How long had Karl been laid up, that everything about this farmstead seemed hopelessly dilapidated? Or were he and Olga too poor to make the needed repairs?
“You there!” a rickety voice accosted her from across the hall. “You’re a stranger, dammit, I can tell by your step. Come in here an’ show your face, dammit, before I blow your head off.”
His words sent startled goosebumps up her spine, and when she walked toward the room she could see that the emaciated man sitting up in the quilt-piled bed was pointing a rifle at her. “I—Olga said we could stay to work—”
“Says you, dammit. Don’t need no strangers snoopin’ around here, dammit, pretendin’ to be homesteaders on their way to stake their claims,” he railed at her, still leveling his weapon at her midsection. “Last ones who tried that story’re buried out back, dammit. Tried to steal me blind, dammit, and steal my wife away.”
The man was indeed off-balance if he thought homesteaders would take a hankering to his bullish woman, but with that rifle pointed at her, Amber decided not to argue. “We’re traveling too light to want to steal anything,” she assured him, and in a sudden burst of inspiration—or orneriness, maybe—she added, “because we’re running from the law. Got enough trouble on our tails without making you folks mad at us, too.”
Karl’s gun wavered slightly as he narrowed his eyes at her. “What’d ya do?”
“Stole a white horse from a Wild West show, and these rings. Their owner tried to trick me into marrying him.”
Amber extended her hand to display the large, sparkling diamonds, pleased that her host was duly impressed. Rafferty would probably skin her alive for admitting the truth to this stranger, who could report their presence if that detective followed them here, but somehow the truth . . . perhaps embellished a little . . . seemed more appropriate than a fanciful lie like she’d told Thomas on the train.
“And a white horse, ya say?” the s
keletal man asked in a stronger voice. When he lowered the gun, the shoulders of his dingy long johns drooped pathetically over his bony frame.
“A mare—a proud thing she is, and trained to do all sorts of pretty stunts,” Amber said, feeling the shine come into her eyes. “And of course, since she’s pure white, she possesses magical qualities and brings the best of luck to whoever treats her well.”
Karl’s superstitious side was showing: he leaned forward while pondering this—and then he scowled at her. “What about your man? He on the run, too?”
“Murdered a whore,” she stated with cool nonchalance. “Got mad—real mad—when he proposed and she wouldn’t marry him.”
“Ungrateful bitch,” Karl muttered, and to Amber’s relief his wizened, yellowish face lit up with mischief. “How the hell’d ya come to run off together, then?” he asked with a gruff chuckle, “If you can’t say yes and he won’t take no for an answer, seems you’re likely to be his next victim unless—”
“He thinks I’ll marry him once we cross into Canada.”
Karl studied her with a new respect dawning in his cloudy eyes. “But ya got other plans, don’t ya? Just usin’ him as safe transportation.”
Amber let her smile speak for her, let the old codger think he had her all figured out. Rafferty would be wondering what was taking her so long to come downstairs, yet instinct told her a few more moments with Karl might be time well spent.
“Ya look like a lady smart enough to know a good deal when she sees one,” he said in a low, speculative voice. “So I’ll let you and that whore-killer stay on, long as I get some work outta ya—”
“That’s what Olga said,” Amber confirmed with a nod.
“—and I’ll let ya have the bay gelding in the barn, to travel on. But ya gotta leave the white mare. If I can’t have the white horse, ya may as well be on your way before ya get them bags unpacked.”
Outlaw Moon Page 19
