Jillian shook her head. “You don’t understand.”
Mac was beginning to get a little irritated. “No, I don’t.”
Jillian reached for the door. “I can’t explain it to you. I can’t help you.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Mac asked angrily. “Isn’t a poor Navajo woman worth the effort?”
“That’s not fair, Mac. You know me better.”
“I thought I did,” he replied. His confusion over her behavior was overriding his ability to reason the situation. “Just go on back to your safe little world, Jillian. You’re probably right. You’re probably not much good for anything more than looking pretty and entertaining.” He said the words to Jillian, but it was another woman’s face he saw.
The expression on Jillian’s face betrayed her hurt. Mac’s words had obviously hit their intended target, but he had no satisfaction in that. He didn’t understand why she had suddenly become so irrational in her attitude. She seemed almost afraid, but why should she be? She’d been to Mary’s before, and she knew Little Sister. Mary had even told him that she had befriended the Navajo woman and had easily shared her company. So what had happened since that time and this?
“I didn’t mean to make you mad,” she said, turning, as if she’d changed her mind.
“Well, you did a good job of it. I don’t have time for games like this, Jillian. Mary can’t very well go for Little Sister’s family and sit at her bedside at the same time, and frankly, I don’t know of anyone else, short of the Reverend Lister or his wife, who might be willing to help a dying Navajo.”
“Reverend Lister would be a better choice, especially since . . . I mean, if she . . . dies.”
Angry at himself for losing his temper, Mac nevertheless hit his fist against the wall. “Go home, Jillian. Go back to Kansas City, where life demands nothing more of you than you can handle.”
“I’m sorry, Mac,” Jillian whispered before fleeing from the room.
He pretended that he hadn’t seen the tears in her eyes. Pretended, too, that he didn’t care about whether she accompanied him to Mary’s or not. But he did care and he didn’t understand how she could be so callous about Little Sister. She had acted as though the very idea of accompanying him had terrified her. Was she afraid of him? Afraid that once they were alone in the desert, he might take liberties?
This thought calmed him a bit. Perhaps that was the answer. She had never had a romantic encounter. He knew this because she’d told him so one day when they were talking together. Maybe she was just afraid of what he might do to her. But Mac felt a sense of irritation in
Jillian’s lack of trust. If she did fear him and think him to just be using this as an excuse to get her alone, then he intended to give her a piece of his mind when he got back from Mary’s.
Jillian had never longed more for Mary’s company than she did in the hours that followed her entanglement with Mac. Mac had clearly been disgusted with her. He probably thought her as prejudiced as the rest of the town when it came to Little Sister and her condition. But it wasn’t true. Jillian wanted to help Mary and Little Sister, but the thought of dealing with death overwhelmed her ability to reason.
Torn between hiring a horse and trying to find her way out to Mary’s or waiting it out at the Harvey House until Mac returned, Jillian chose the easy way out. But hadn’t she always? Rather than standing up to Judith, she always gave in and did whatever her sister asked of her. She said it was because she loved Judith, and she did. There wasn’t anything she would have withheld from her twin because the bond between them was so deep—so strong. But she knew she also allowed Judith to push her around and get her into messes because it was the path of least resistance. Judith never demanded much of Jillian, and up until this stunt of posing as Judith, Jillian had never felt it was any real sacrifice to endure her sister’s requests.
But the truth was, Jillian had let people push her around most of her life. She feared standing up to them, and she feared dealing with them head on. Her father dictated to her what she could and couldn’t do, and she knew that had he forbidden her to stay in Pintan, she would have taken the first train back to Kansas City. She loved her father, though he could be demanding, and it just seemed more pleasant to let him have his way. Then there was her mother, who plotted and planned for Jillian’s future. Jillian had never had the heart, until now, to put her foot down and demand her mother set such notions aside.
Letting people have their way seemed the most generous and loving thing Jillian could do. She might get walked on and pushed around a bit in the process, but if she did, it was her flaw that had caused it and not someone else’s.
And until Mac had pressured her to face her fears of death, Jillian had felt it a fairly simple matter to endure this flaw in her personality. Now, however, Mac thought poorly of her—maybe even hated her for what he would misjudge as prejudice. She had to explain and make him see the truth. She couldn’t just let this be swept aside, not when Mac thought her to be so heartless and cruel.
“I’ve made such a mess of this,” she moaned, struggling to keep a positive outlook. It was bad enough that Mac knew her capable of living a lie; now he probably thought she’d lied about caring about the plight of the Navajo as well. Mary might agree with his conclusion. Jillian bowed her head in sorrow. “I’ve probably lost my two dearest friends.”
It was nearly nine-thirty when Mac rode back into Pintan. Jillian had watched for him faithfully from her upstairs window, hoping and praying that she might be able to sneak out before curfew and explain her actions to him. How could she have refused him help? Then again, how could she have gone, knowing what she would find at Mary’s? She hated her fear of death. Now Mac probably hated her, and she had no way to explain it . . . except to tell him the truth. But would he believe her, knowing her for the liar she was? Why should he trust her for the truth? Especially when the truth sounded so unfounded—so silly.
How could she explain to a man of medicine that her grandmother’s nonsensical superstitions about death and dying had manifested unnatural terrors in Jillian’s heart and soul? From the time Grandmother Danvers had moved in to share their home, she had tormented Jillian with death lore. Jillian had suffered horrible nightmares, certain that the Grim Reaper would soon pay her a visit. Grandmother had warned her never to be in the room when a person died, or she might be the next one to go.
Jillian shook her head and wiped an errant tear. How could she expect Mac to understand?
She slipped from the room quietly, not explaining to either Kate, who sat penning a letter home, or Louisa, who worked intently stitching together a new sunbonnet, that she was going out. With any luck, they’d just think she was going out to see to her personal needs before bedtime.
Creeping down the back stairs, Jillian knew she might not be back in time for curfew, but it was a risk she was willing to take—no matter the consequences. Somehow, the idea of climbing the latticework alongside the building didn’t seem nearly as bad as leaving this misunderstanding to stand between her and Mac.
Silently she opened the back door and stepped out into the darkness. She felt a rush of wind against her face, and remembering Bear’s nighttime ritual of a few weeks past, she trembled. I’m such a coward.
Judith would have gone with Mac and no doubt would have never given Bear a second thought.
She walked slowly, hoping to give Mac plenty of time to put his horse away and take his things into the house. She was halfway across the street when she saw a glow of light in Mac’s house as he moved from one room to the next, obviously carrying a lamp with him. The shadows danced eerily on the walls inside the house, and through the open window, Jillian could see Mac’s almost ghostly form move in the muted light.
Steadying her nerves, Jillian reached for the door, knocking almost hesitantly. She then thought better of her irrational decision to sneak over to see Mac, but she squared her shoulders, determined to tell the truth. Jillian hated that he thought less of her and couldn
’t bear her conscience any longer.
When he opened the door, Jillian began to tremble anew. “Mac, I have to talk to you,” she said in a pleading voice.
“Not now, Jillian.”
“Please, Mac.” She knew she was begging, but she was desperate.
He stared at her for a moment, his eyes hard and unyielding. “No.” He shut the door hard, leaving her to stand alone in the darkness.
A sob escaped her as she turned to run from the house and back to the safety of her bedroom.
Going through the back door, Jillian nearly ran over Gwen and Zack as they shared an intimate moment.
“Judith? What’s wrong?” Gwen questioned.
“Nothing. Everything,” she replied, so tired of the lies.
Jillian looked up to see the sympathetic expressions of both Gwen and Zack. She desperately wanted solace, but they weren’t the ones to offer it.
“Has somebody hurt you?” Zack questioned, glancing past Jillian to the open back door.
Jillian sniffed back her tears. “Not in the sense you’re talking about, Sheriff.”
“Is it Dr. MacCallister?” Gwen asked softly.
“No, not really,” Jillian replied. “It’s me. I did something unforgivable as far as he’s concerned, and maybe even as far as I’m concerned. He asked for my help and I refused it.”
“That hardly seems unforgivable,” Zack said, relaxing now that he better understood Jillian’s emotional state.
“Please don’t worry about it,” Jillian replied. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s all my own fault. I just went over to apologize, and he won’t hear me out.”
“You want me to go talk to him?” Zack questioned.
“No!” Jillian’s voice raised as she shook her head. “Please don’t. I have to take care of this matter.”
“If you need more time to try again,” Gwen began, “I can leave the door unlocked for a short time.”
Jillian wanted nothing more than to settle the matter with Mac. She looked out through the open door to where she could still see the light gleaming from his window.
“Go ahead. He may be stubborn, but I’ve a feeling you’re just as determined as he is,” Gwen encouraged.
“Thank you,” Jillian answered. “I’ll give it a try.”
She turned and walked out of the Harvey House with new determination, glancing over her shoulder in hopes of receiving one last smile of encouragement from Gwen and Zack. Instead, she found them to have totally forgotten about her. Standing very close, they seemed to be murmuring endearments in their farewells for the evening. Jillian’s heart ached at the thought that theirs was a true and honest romance. A mutual attraction that would allow for a strong and binding love.
Leaving them to their secrets, Jillian turned away and faced Mac’s door. She bolstered up her courage once again and wiped her eyes. Knocking lightly, she waited, barely breathing.
He opened the door and scowled. “I told you I’m not in the mood to hear any excuses. Why won’t you just leave me be?”
“Because I won’t be able to sleep if you don’t let me explain about this afternoon,” she said, feeling her words catch in her throat. “I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry. I was being unreasonable, but I was afraid.”
Mac leaned back against the door, his expression clearly one of disbelief. “Afraid? Of what?”
“I don’t handle these things well, Mac. I’ve never been strong when it comes to . . .”
“Something outside of your perfectly ordered world?” he questioned angrily.
“That’s not fair,” Jillian retorted. “It’s not my fault that my father sheltered me. He believed women were to be cared for and watched over.” Jillian knew she sounded defensive, and had it not been such a serious matter, she might have laughed at the thought of defending her father. “I’m the first one to admit that I’ve not had to handle much discomfort in life, and I was wrong to refuse to help you.”
“Yes, you were,” Mac replied, not giving her an inch of consideration. Jillian looked down at the floor. “I came to apologize. I’ll help you in any way I can. I have tomorrow off, and if you want me to go out with you to help Mary with Little Sister, then I will.” She looked back up to meet his expression, hoping to find forgiveness . . . and maybe something more.
Mac’s expression did change, but not in the way Jillian had hoped. It grew even harder, and the words that came from his mouth were given in a cynical tone. “There’s no need.”
“Don’t be like this, Mac. I said I was sorry, and I am. This isn’t easy for me and I don’t expect you to understand it, but I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“Well, you’re too late. Little Sister has already given birth to a daughter.” He paused before adding, “She passed away shortly afterward without ever having a chance to hold her.”
Jillian felt the room begin to spin. “She’s dead?” She barely managed to croak out the words.
“Yes, Jillian. She’s dead.”
“Oh, Mac.” She stumbled and reached for the doorpost.
“Are you all right?” For the first time that evening his words softened in concern. “Jillian?”
She held fast to the post, but her grip was weakening as the fainting spell overtook her body. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as Mac caught her in his arms. “I’m so sorry.”
Mac looked at the unconscious woman and waited only momentarily before lifting her into his arms. He carried her to the sofa, uncertain of how to treat the situation. He didn’t feel the need to act as doctor to her when it was obviously the shock of the moment that had brought about her condition. Still, he was a doctor first and foremost, even if his heart was aching over their wounded friendship and Little Sister’s death. He checked Jillian’s pulse, then gently slipped his arm under her neck to lift her head.
“Jillian?” he said in a professional manner, patting her cheeks to bring her around. “Jillian, wake up.”
She moaned softly and began to regain consciousness. “I . . . what . . .” she murmured, struggling to open her eyes.
“You fainted,” he said, brushing back an errant strand of blond hair. Holding her close, Mac felt torn between his anger with her earlier attitudes and his emotions at seeing her so helpless. He realized how deeply he’d come to love this woman, and that fact was almost more troubling than the disappointment he’d felt in her refusal to help Little Sister. It wasn’t mere infatuation as he had hoped, or even a love born out of isolation and loneliness. She had become an integral part of his life, and Mac was hard-pressed to let her go now that he knew how important she’d become.
“God help me,” he prayed. Help us both, he added silently while glancing down at the woman in his arms. There was no way this was going to be easy. For despite his love for Jillian and a deep desire to keep her in his life, Mac knew the hopelessness of the situation. He could never keep her. He could never marry her—not with so much in his past to condemn him.
ELEVEN
WATCHING JILLIAN REGAIN HER COMPOSURE, Mac was amazed at the flood of memories that came to him. He hated that the past just wouldn’t die. People died. Why couldn’t their memories be as obliging?
“Oh, Mac,” Jillian whispered, not even trying to get away from his hold. “I’m sorry.”
He felt his anger subsiding. “Don’t worry about it. Obviously you have something troubling you quite deeply. Are you sure you’re not sick?”
Jillian shook her head. “Not in the sense you’re suggesting. It’s a long, long story, Mac, but honestly, it has nothing to do with feeling anything against Little Sister. I truly admired her. She could have taken her life as the others did, she could have sought revenge with her brother, but instead she did nothing for herself. I would have come to help, but . . .”
“But?” he asked, his hand gently stroking her hair.
“But I was too afraid,” she whispered.
“Afraid of what?”
All at once Jillian seemed to realize the intimacy of
the moment and attempted to sit up. Mac very discreetly withdrew his hold on her.
“Slow down, you don’t want to pass out again.”
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, inching away to put distance between them.
“You’ve already said that a few times too many,” he replied, getting to his feet. “Now, why don’t you tell me about this—starting with why you fainted.”
Jillian licked her lips and lowered her gaze to the floor. “I can’t abide death, Mac. My grandmother told me such horrible stories that I can’t bear to even think about it. She told me if I were in the same room with someone when they died, I would be the next to go. Tales about how if you were the first one to touch someone after they died, they could take over your body. She also told me that dead spirits stayed in the room until a living person came in and allowed them a flesh-and-blood body to take over.
“Grandmother lived with us for about five years, and even before that, she was always telling her stories and warning us of different things. Once when a bird flew into her house, she went positively hysterical, saying that it was a sure sign someone was going to die. Sure enough, two days later my uncle died in a carriage accident. Another time, I accidentally rocked her rocking chair and it turned out to be another sure sign that there would be a death in the immediate family. A week later, we got word that my grandfather on my mother’s side had passed away. Grandmother Danvers never let me forget that I had caused it by rocking that chair.”
“That’s all nonsense, Jillian,” Mac replied, trying to sound patient. In truth, he wanted to laugh out loud. It seemed so funny that a grown woman could have such fears.
“I know it’s nonsense, but it scares me still.” Her voice sounded strange, and Mac worried that she might start to cry. He wasn’t at all sure what her tears might do to his resolve to keep his distance.
“I didn’t mean to suggest that you weren’t within your rights to be scared,” Mac finally said. “Your grandmother’s actions and words were cruel. And I was wrong to get so mad at you. It’s just . . . well, I was tired and I knew the end was coming. I didn’t think the baby would even make it. I figured I’d be burying them both by morning.”
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