Amber was aware of Booth Watson’s constant presence, grateful that he’d tamed the redbearded trapper. Yet she remained wary. If Jack died, the detective’s mission was over. If he lived, the burly, blue-eyed man clearly intended to bring both of them to justice. For now, though, he saw to their meals and medicines, and kept Gastineau’s urges in check by sending him on various errands. Like a large, mustached vulture he sat in the shadows of the cabin, watching her . . . waiting.
Jack’s coughing brought her out of her woolgathering. The spasms racked his body so hard Amber winced with his pain as she struggled to prop him into a sitting position. Suddenly Watson was on the other side of the bed to assist her, his expression surprisingly warm for a man with such ominous intent.
“Keep him sitting upright to clear his lungs. I’ll fetch the broth and brew some more of that tea.”
Amber nodded, too anxious about the rattle in Jack’s breathing to resent Watson’s help. Rafferty felt as limp as a scarecrow dangling from a stick—and indeed he seemed to be shrinking, from hunger and dehydration. The dark stubble on his face made his raw skin appear redder, while the whites of his opening eyes looked pale by comparison. He still appeared dazed, as he’d been during his awful fever, when he hadn’t recognized her.
“Shhh,” she whispered when his effort at speech got cut off by another paroxysm of coughing. “Don’t say a word, sweetheart. Just breathe as deeply as you can, and swallow some more food and medicine.”
He fell back against the pillows, seemingly unaware of the man who brought a steaming cup of fragrant, golden broth. His dark, hollowed eyes remained fixed on her as she spooned the warm liquid into his mouth. He was so weak that what he couldn’t swallow dribbled pathetically down his chin. Amber bit her lip to keep from crying and doggedly kept feeding him, chattering in a quavery voice.
“You’re going to get well,” she insisted hoarsely. “You’re going to pay that trapper back for what he did! And what would poor Maudie and I do without you?”
Thank God the collie had come over to the bedside, sitting up with a wistful yip ... providing Amber a chance to wipe her eyes. Sniffling into her sleeve, she then exchanged the half-empty broth bowl for the cup of pungent willow bark tea Watson was handing her. Well she knew how bitter it tasted, since Eddie and the detective insisted she drink it too. But this far away from a white man’s medicine, it was the only source of pain relief they had.
Rafferty’s grimace raised her spirits: at least he was cognizant of smell and taste. He was focusing more intently now, as though he knew her and appreciated her feeble efforts. She held her breath when his hand slowly reached up to cover hers on the side of the cup. He was trembling, weak and chilled, yet he seemed so determined to express himself that Amber didn’t shush him.
“Lay . . . with me,” he rasped in a voice that seemed to drift up from a tomb.
She swallowed hard, nodding. Watson silently took the cup while she eased Jack back underneath the heavy rabbit pelt comforter. The fire blazed in the hearth, but he felt clammy-cold . . . and he slipped away as quickly as he’d awakened. New fears haunted her as she gazed helplessly at the man who’d once spoken such a proposition with a virile, joyous intent. Would he ever make love to her again?
She jerked her hand from her abdomen when she realized the detective was beside her. “Drink this,” he instructed softly, placing a fresh cup of the tea in her hand. “You need your sleep, Amber. If you get any weaker you can’t help Rafferty, and we’ll lose him for sure.”
She braced herself for the first nasty sip of the bitter brew. At least she knew Watson wasn’t poisoning her—his prisoner was too damn precious for that! She wanted to hate the big detective with the smoky blue eyes, wanted to scream out Jack’s innocence despite the facts that seemed to refute her own inner convictions.
But she was suddenly too tired. Eager for the relief the willow bark tea would bring, she drained the tin cup and then slipped beneath the blanket to curl herself around Jack’s backside. A moment’s rest would clear her head . . . just a few winks, and she’d massage some more of that . . . salve ....
Booth waited for Amber’s breathing to deepen before tucking the rabbit pelt comforter around her shoulders. His heart ached within him. Instinct told him to set this couple free, that there had to be a loophole other than a noose for Jack Rafferty. But duty to uphold the law—not to mention his obligation to Felicity Nunn, however dubious her motives—convinced him to pursue the path that had brought him this far in the first place.
So he resumed his seat at the small table beside the fire, continuing to eat the rabbit Gastineau had roasted before he left. Now that the weather had cleared, the big French-Canadian was quite willing to follow his orders: to fetch more medicinal herbs from his Ojibway friends, to send telegrams to Scott and Felicity about Rafferty’s capture, and to haul Grizzly Fiske’s body off so he could be buried once the ground warmed up. He sensed the redheaded giant’s contriteness would hold, since Rafferty remained on the brink between life and death because of his jealous rage. Mostly it was Amber’s health the trapper was interested in, of course ....
And it was Amber that had Booth reviewing the facts of this case again and again. Never mind her dark mystique, her exotic almond-shaped eyes and the thick chestnut waves that were now rising and falling with each breath she took. She didn’t trust him—all but refused to talk, as though something might slip out that the law could hold against her man. And he understood that. Admired her will to go on, despite her own flagging health. But most of all, each time he watched her smooth ointment into Jack’s skin and witnessed the death-defying love in her eyes as she spooned broth down him, Booth could only sigh.
Felicity Nunn could never care so deeply, for any man.
And he, Booth Watson, became more certain by the hour that Amber LaBelle knew things she wouldn’t reveal to him—bits and pieces stored away in her heart that could unlock this mystery, if he only knew what they were. Jack Rafferty was a lucky man, more fortunate than he himself would ever be when it came to loving and having that love returned. But the loyalty he inspired in his woman might well be the death of him.
Booth wiped the rabbit grease from his lips, grinning a bit. It was time to see if those Ojibway potions worked the way Eddie Gastineau claimed . . . time to see if he could coax a little information from Amber, now that her tea had lulled her into a light sleep.
He approached the bed quietly, stepping over Maudie’s watchful form to sit on the edge of its lumpy mattress. When the dog realized he had only caretaking intents, she rested her head on her front legs again with a bored sigh.
Booth paused, summoning an appropriate manner and the questions he wished to ask. Rafferty shifted, grimacing slightly, but Amber’s arm remained draped over his midsection in graceful repose. Lord, but she was lovely with the firelight flickering over her, drawing out the reddish highlights in her wavy hair.
But then she let out a little yip, her features constricting even though she slept on. Her breathing accelerated with what must be a nightmarish dream. For fear she’d awaken, Booth stroked her shoulder gently and began to speak in a low voice.
“Amber, what is it?” he whispered. “I’m right here for you, honey. Don’t be afraid.”
His duplicity pricked at his conscience. But this was the only way he knew to get some answers from the secretive young woman stretched out between Rafferty’s body and his own hip. His touch seemed to calm her, so he continued massaging her arm. “Is it a bad dream, Amber? What do you see?”
Amber gasped. “Woman . . . laughing at my Jack
. . . while he’s . . .”
“He’s what?” Booth prompted.
“Hanging! Oh, God, no!” she whimpered, and the tear slithering from her eye made Booth regret his tactics a bit. “Jack . . . Jack never got to see his ... baby, and now I ...”
That explained her tendency to cover her abdomen with her hand, sometimes unconsciously, and sometimes when she thought he wa
sn’t watching. He licked his lips and continued. “So you and Rafferty got married, did you?”
Amber’s brow puckered as though she were in pain. “Not yet. When we get to ... Canada
Watson’s brow shot up. He wasn’t sure how reliable any of this brew-induced chatter might be, but this reply certainly refuted the gossip from Camp Carnahan. He let her catch her breath, considering the image she’d described earlier. “The woman you saw—what’d she look like, Amber?”
“Redheaded and ... so very fat,” came the faraway voice. “Why, it’s Bitsy Sisser ... a man can’t miss her .... Damned whore got him so drunk he proposed to her that night . . .”
Booth waited eagerly for more, but Amber’s frightened expression suggested she was seeing ghosts of the future again—ghosts he wasn’t ready to ask about just yet. “Was that the night he stabbed Bitsy?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, but . . . self defense! She was smothering him with her pillow!”
He hadn’t heard that angle from Felicity about her wayward sister, so he decided to press for more details while the potion was working so well. “Bitsy tried to suffocate him? And then Jack stabbed her? And he was married to her sister Felicity before he proposed to this floozy?”
Amber shook her head so violently he thought she might waken. “Never married—going to marry me ... in Canada . . . don’t laugh, Bitsy, please! Get him down from there while he can still—”
Booth’s conscience got the best of him and he took the slender young woman in his arms. “Shhh, hush now, honey,” he crooned against her ear as he rocked her. “It’s only a bad dream. You’ve been very sick, but you’re going to sleep now ... sle-e-e-p until morning, sweet lady. I’ll watch over Jack for you. He’s going to be just fine. I promise.”
The words had the desired effect. Moments later he was placing Amber against Rafferty’s back again, slightly envious of their intimate position . . . certainly envious of the deep love they’d discovered during their wild ride to freedom. It was wrong to promise her everything would turn out all right, just as one cajoled a child out of a crying fit after she skinned a knee.
But damn . . . what Amber LaBelle had told him directly contradicted Felicity’s tale of woe about wanting her teetotaling, falsely-accused ex-husband back! It made more sense that Jack was in that room, that he was drunk and pulled his knife to save himself from an enraged whore twice his size. After all, no sober man would propose to the likes of Bitsy Sisser after being married to a looker like Felicity.
And Watson was beginning to think he never had been. Which made interesting food for thought as he dozed through the night, waking now and then to smile at the couple slumbering so peacefully beneath the rabbit pelt comforter.
He’d get to the bottom of this thing if it killed him. And he sensed Felicity would be ready to when he did.
Chapter 28
Amber awoke feeling blissfully rested, as though a great weight had been lifted from her chest and the lead removed from inside her head. She lay quietly, nuzzling Jack’s back while her senses returned. Sounds of wood being added to the fire . . . the aromas of roasting meat and broth, and the pungent salve she’d slathered all over Rafferty . . . the steady rise and fall that signified his easier breathing. And the bare skin beneath her own was now a normal temperature!
They had turned the corner. Jack would live . . . which meant her love had to ascend to a higher level, if her days of nursing him weren’t to lead him straight to the gallows.
She turned beneath the blankets to watch the detective, whose silent movements about the cabin bespoke his considerate nature rather than stealth. Could she trust this man? Convince him to look beyond whatever evidence he had, to find the elusive wild card that would somehow turn the trick for Rafferty? Amber hadn’t consulted her deck in a long time, but she didn’t need to: her heart was telling her that consorting with the enemy was now her only chance to free the man she loved.
When Booth Watson turned to look at her, she was taken aback by eyes that sparkled with sincere gladness, in a face that radiated kind concern as he approached the bed. “You look much better today. Those Indian remedies must be pretty potent.”
Was that a flicker of mischief she saw? Or was Watson merely relieved that his nursing duties might soon come to an end? Amber wanted to defy him, but she quelled her innate hatred of this man to further her purpose. “I—I owe you my thanks. And an apology,” she added, hoping she sounded contrite enough.
Watson cocked his head. “Apology for what?”
“For working against you,” she sighed as she raised up onto her elbows. “For acting so belligerent these past few days, when I’m actually very grateful that you rescued me from that Fiske fellow, and that you saved Jack’s life, too. Even though your reason for saving him sickens me.”
Booth chuckled. Miss LaBelle was a forthright little lady now that her faculties were returning. He suspected that the olive branch she was offering might have a snake wrapped around it, but that he’d better accept it for both their sakes. “You realize, of course, that I hold nothing personal against Rafferty,” he replied smoothly. “In fact, the longer I trailed him, the more I admired him. But I’ve been paid to bring him in.”
“By whom?”
Amber’s voice rang with indignation. She was a woman to be reckoned with, and he’d lose her confidence if he treated her like some brainless little temptation from a sideshow. Booth had a feeling she was blessed with an intuition akin to his own—perhaps sharp enough to be second sight. And at this point he needed all the help he could get.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” he hedged, “but my client has reasons for keeping Rafferty alive. You and I can be sure that happens if we work together, Amber.”
She knew a bluff when she heard one, yet what could she do? Without this man’s help, she’d have been at the mercy of Eddie Gastineau and Jack would’ve drowned, and . . . she directed her thoughts to the issue at hand, while Rafferty was asleep and couldn’t object to her dealing with the devil. “So where are you taking us, when he recovers?”
“South,” he replied with a mysterious little grin. “A return to the scene of the crime might bring things to new light for us.”
“Dodge?” Amber considered this, eyeing him intently. “Does that mean we’ll be passing through Kansas City?”
He kept his face expressionless. “Maybe. Why?”
She shrugged and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her skirts were a mass of wrinkles and she desperately wanted a bath, but her personal hygiene would have to wait. “His mother lives there,” she said softly, “and Jack’ll shoot me if he finds out, but I have to get a letter off to her somehow. He’s an attorney, you know. He didn’t intend to kill Bitsy Sisser, but he deserves the finest legal defense my money can buy. And Mrs. Rafferty’s the only one I trust to hire the right lawyer.”
That Rafferty’s mother might be in on this presented a whole new wrinkle . . . and although Watson had to concede that the accused man was entitled to legal counsel, it would make his meeting with Felicity at the train station even stickier. Since she intended to clear Rafferty of the murder charges, she’d resent the intrusion of a professional who’d explore her story for the lie it might be.
Miss LaBelle, however, was already rummaging through her carpetbags for paper and a pen. She would find all her belongings as she’d left them, including the surprising amount of cash stashed in those two white pouches—which struck Booth as extremely personal, somehow—except that he’d also placed Minnit’s spectacular diamond rings with her money when she got sick.
As expected, she raised up to challenge him. “You’ve been snooping, Watson. Why’d you put my rings in here?”
“Seemed prudent,” he replied. “Figured Gastineau might want one as a memento of your visit. And for all I knew, you had a pistol or something else I needed to be aware of. Just part of the job, Amber.”
His shrug was irritatingly casual. “And what did you take?” she demanded.<
br />
“Not a thing. Not in my best interest to become a thief, is it?”
His insinuation was playful enough that she relaxed a little. “Minnit told you I stole those rings, didn’t he?” she asked slyly. “Little pissant can’t admit he lost them in a poker game. I suppose he’s still after me?”
“Yes, ma’am. But I suspect that since he’s recovered his horse, the return of those rings will convince him not to press further charges.”
Amber laughed out loud, walking toward the cabin’s small table. “Well, he’ll have to do some mighty tall talking to get them back! And I live for the day when he tries it.”
Watson suspected the young lady’s vendetta might be as merciless as Felicity Nunn’s—that was a woman’s way, when a man did her wrong. And he was looking forward to watching the little blond pissant challenge Amber for the rings she was now slipping onto her fingers . . . like good luck charms, he thought. No doubt she had won them. And he knew Gideon Minnit’s bluster and cajoling would be every bit as ineffective with this woman as it was with Mrs. Nunn.
She pulled a chair around to the opposite end of the table from him and settled herself with her pen, ink, and paper. Her expression assumed an attitude of studious thought as she gazed at the blank sheet . . . Watson suspected she was as much trying to avoid further talk with him as she was hunting for the right words. She made a fetching sight, despite her slept-in disarray, and he leaned back to sip his coffee, to separate himself from her.
Amber’s printing slowly crossed one line and then another, neatly but laboriously. Booth recalled the double alphabet he’d seen on the sandy shoreline of a creek, and his respect for this young woman rose a few notches. She was doing her damndest to save her man, working around an enormous gap in her education. Yet she showed no signs of surrender.
Outlaw Moon Page 29
