by Carol Finch
“It’s my stomach.”
Doc smiled crookedly at her and her irritation dwindled. She couldn’t stay mad at a man who was unique to the medicine-show business. He was a certified physician, not a fraudulent quack, and he preached against relying on patented cure-alls. He insisted that folks contact qualified doctors to treat their ailments. Doc was genuinely devoted to administering to patients in the small Kansas communities. Although he provided the expected entertainment, he examined dozens of injured citizens, and mixed ingredients from his stock of authentic compounds that he stored in the colorfully decorated medicine wagon he had purchased.
Unfortunately, when the sun went down he turned to the curatives he denounced and behaved as if it was his mission in life to drink all the tonics himself. He refused to tell Rachel what demons hounded him when his workday was done, so she couldn’t help him fight his battles. But then, she refused to explain where she had been before she had appeared suddenly from the darkness to halt Doc’s plodding team of horses.
Rachel was destined to tolerate his drinking if she wanted to remain with his unique medicine show. Tradeoffs. That’s what life seemed to be about, she mused as she took the reins from Doc’s hand when he draped himself carelessly against the back of the wagon seat. She was allowed to wander the back roads, away from Adolph Turner’s wrath—if he had survived. In return, she assisted Doc Grant while he treated patients, then she entertained the crowds by singing, accompanied by Ludy Anderson who played a banjo, harmonica or piano, if there was one available at a local saloon. She also dressed in costume to narrate Indian legends that her Cheyenne grandmother had passed along to her.
At night, she put Doc to bed to sleep off his bouts with the intoxicating tonics, though they weren’t potent enough to fend off the demons that came calling from the darkness.
Doc levered himself up on the seat, then glanced this way and that. “Where’s Ludy?”
“He decided to ride ahead and drum up business for us in Crossville,” she replied.
“Drum up business? Ha!” Doc sniffed, then guzzled more Kidney Oil. “He’s not fooling me a bit. He enjoys carousing with the ladies and he rides into every town on our circuit ahead of schedule, every chance he gets.”
Rachel shrugged nonchalantly. She liked Ludy, who treated her like a sister, not a potential lover. He left her in charge of Doc more often than not, but Rachel wasn’t complaining. All she wanted was to remain on the move and make enough money to support herself until whatever furor she might have caused in Dodge City died down.
“At least Ludy possesses enough talent to entertain people who show up at the wagon expecting musical acts.”
“He does provide that,” Doc conceded, then sipped his tonic. “While he’s in town, we’ll camp out as usual. We’ll cover a little more ground before we stop for the night.”
Having said that, Doc took another swig, then slumped beside her while she guided the team of horses down the road.
Nathan Montgomery sank down on his haunches beside a winding creek. He dipped his hat in the water, then dumped it over his head to cool off. He was hot and irritable, and the summer sun had been bearing down on him all day.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t opted to take the train to Dodge City. It would have been a hell of a lot easier. He supposed he’d felt the need to get back in touch with the wanderlust way of life he had known—until six months ago when he had been summoned to Kansas City to cater to his ailing father.
Nate scowled at the thought of Brody Montgomery’s deceptive ruse. There had been nothing wrong with the sly old goat, who had tried to shanghai his youngest son into an arranged marriage.
“That had disaster written all over it,” Nate muttered to his reflection in the water.
He had lived in the wilderness too long to become infatuated by the fragile, uninspiring socialite that his father had handpicked for him. Lovely though Lenora Havern was, her pasty-white skin had never seen the light of day and she had the personality of a porcelain doll that had a perpetual smile painted on her lips.
Now here he was, back where he belonged, despite his father’s outraged demand to remain in Kansas City. Nate was doing what he preferred—and it wasn’t attending the pretentious dinner parties and soirees that his older brother, Ethan, and his father enjoyed.
Casting aside his meandering thoughts, Nate submerged his hat in the water, then doused himself again. He thought he heard the crackle of twigs behind him, but with water popping in his ears he couldn’t be certain. Then a snarl erupted behind him. Instincts he’d spent thirty-two years cultivating snapped to attention. He twisted on his haunches and simultaneously reached for the two ivory-handled six-shooters in his holsters.
Unfortunately, he reacted a moment too late. A shaggy-haired ruffian plowed into him like a steam-driven locomotive, launching him backward into the creek. He landed with a splat and a curse. His six-month hiatus in the city had cost him his edge. Although his reflexes were still lightning quick, the three hombres got the drop on him—and it proved disastrous.
Guffawing, two men latched on to his arms and hauled him ashore so the third man could kick him squarely in the chest. Pain slammed into his ribs and drove the breath from his lungs. Defying the pain, Nate hurled himself sideways, knocking together the two men who held his arms. Despite the lopsided odds, he landed two punishing blows on two unshaven jaws, then he barreled into the stocky scoundrel who had kicked him in the chest. His assailant hit the ground with a grunt, then groaned when Nate punched him in the jaw.
The youngest of the three men jumped on Nate’s back and commenced swearing foully while he pummeled him with doubled fists. Nate tossed the young thug in the creek, then reached for a discarded pistol. Before he could turn it on the gap-toothed hombre standing in front of him, someone hit him from behind with a piece of driftwood.
Nate stumbled back, then kerplopped on the ground. Stars exploded in front of his eyes and his body vibrated like a gong. Before he could roll to his feet, the burly ruffian yanked him up and held him in a bear hug.
“Think you can take the three of us, do you? Think again,” the gap-toothed scoundrel muttered in his ear.
Nate squirmed sideways to avoid another blow from the makeshift club, but he couldn’t wrest loose. All three hombres commenced pounding on him. The world went out of focus as pain seared through flesh and bone and vibrated through his skull.
He collapsed on the ground, then grimaced when the toe of a boot gouged him repeatedly in the cheek and ribs.
That was the last thing Nate remembered before he blacked out.
Rachel glanced west toward the canopy of trees and underbrush that indicated there was a stream five miles down the road. “It’s nearly sunset. Let’s make camp up ahead,” she suggested, calling Doc’s attention to the trees in the distance. “It’s been so hot today that I wouldn’t mind a long, relaxing bath before I start supper.”
Doc, who had worked his way through the Yarrow Kidney Oil, waved his bottle of Cough Balsam in the general direction of the creek. “Have right at it, princess. I’ll unload the cooking utensils.”
And drink himself blind, she added silently. Yet, during the time they had spent traveling across the Kansas prairies and woodlands, Doc Grant had never once mistreated her or made inappropriate advances—like Adolph and others had done the past several years. Doc was twice her age and he treated her like a daughter. He taught her to be an efficient physician’s assistant and to mix the authentic medical compounds that he stashed alongside the patented tonics in the wagon. He concocted so many helpful remedies for his patients that Rachel swore she would never remember which ingredient, mixed with others, alleviated which symptoms and cured which ailments. However, she paid attention to Doc’s instructions and tried her best to be the entertainer, nurse and assistant he expected.
She halted the wagon beside an oversize shade tree that sat a quarter of a mile from the dirt road. Then she stared pointedly at the half-full bottle of Cough
Balsam before focusing on Doc’s face, which was capped with short blond hair. A thin mustache rimmed his upper lip. His tormented hazel eyes met her concerned stare. He looked so sad it broke her heart.
“Doc, I—”
He flung up his free hand to shush her. “Go take your relaxing bath. You’ve worked hard and you’ve captivated the crowds with your performances. You’ve put up with me and you’ve earned some time to yourself.” He flicked his wrist to shoo her on her way. “Go bathe now, hon. I have demons to drown before supper.”
“I’ll help you fight your demons if you’ll tell me what they are,” she offered sincerely.
He flashed a rueful smile, then he reached over to tug gently on the braid of raven hair that dangled over her shoulder. “My problems are my problems and my demons are mine to conquer. I think you have a few of your own that you keep to yourself, too. Do you plan to share them with me?”
Rachel sighed audibly. She was too ashamed to tell Doc that she was most likely wanted for murder. Or robbery. Or horse thieving. Or the combination of several offenses. He might believe her side of the story, but it was still her word against Adolph Turner’s and his brigade of mean-spirited goons.
“That’s what I thought,” Doc guessed correctly. “You don’t want to talk about your problems, either.”
Resigned, Rachel climbed down from the wagon. She glanced up to see Doc take another swig from the bottle. Then he rooted around in the wagon, which boasted a colorful medicine-show logo. He twisted around, holding an armful of utensils and the makings for their supper.
She truly was curious to know what tormented Doc Grant. She’d heard snatches of mumbled utterances when he had been swimming in his cups. Something about a woman named Margie and delivering a child one dark and stormy night. She’d heard him curse God in one breath and pray for forgiveness the next. Her heart went out to Doc Grant and she hoped that one day he would trust her enough to confide his woes.
Obviously today wasn’t that day.
Maybe she should confront him until he blurted out the source of his torment. Then he would demand to know who or what had her running scared.
Rachel considered herself reasonably bold and courageous, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to face the condemnation and disappointment she anticipated from Doc when she admitted she was a murderess and a thief. Now, he was her best friend, and she was reluctant to lose him.
And so, they kept their secrets to themselves while they traveled from one small community to the next, treating injured patients and warning folks away from the useless patented curatives the charlatans sold.
Rachel slowed her pace as she neared the creek, which was overgrown with underbrush and trees. She had lived with her grandmother’s tribe long enough to exercise caution and to pay strict attention to her surroundings. Two-legged and four-legged predators inevitably visited rivers and creeks, so it was always wise to be alert.
The Cheyenne tribe had taught her self-reliance and survival. Her French grandfather had taught her how fickle, self-serving and unreliable men could be. As for her parents…
Her thoughts trailed off when she heard what sounded like a human groan, followed by a full-blown oath that burned her ears. Wary, Rachel crouched in the underbrush, trying to determine where the sound originated.
Several more curses erupted near the creek bank, but she didn’t hear thrashing in the bushes. Cautiously, Rachel rose up to peer over the underbrush where she was hiding. She sank down when she caught sight of a man’s auburn head. A thick beard and mustache concealed his facial features. Although her view was partially blocked by six-foot-tall cottonwood saplings, she noticed the man’s arms were outstretched at an awkward angle. It looked as if one of his eyes was swollen shut. There were discolorations on his cheekbone, too.
When he groaned miserably again, Rachel took one step in his direction. Then she reminded herself of Adolph Turner’s treachery when he pretended to fall so he could lure her into the darkened storeroom. She waited indecisively for a few more seconds, then remembered that she was packing Adolph’s pistol in the pocket of her riding breeches and she had a knife tucked into her boot. After her ordeal with Adolph, she had vowed never to be unarmed again.
“Damn it to hell!” the stranger scowled loudly.
Reminding herself that she wasn’t faint of heart and she wasn’t about to change her ways now, Rachel clamped hold of her pistol and sidestepped around the bush. She glanced in every direction to ensure she wasn’t walking into another trap. Then she approached the man who was still swearing ripely.
When she had a clear view of the stranger, she gasped in shock. She was so surprised by the unexpected scene awaiting her that the pistol tumbled from her hand and she fumbled clumsily to pick it up. Her astonished gaze fixated on the tall, muscular man. He was staked out—naked as the day he was born—and all she could do was gape at him.
Chapter Two
Although Rachel had dozens of unique life experiences to her credit, she had never seen a man in all his splendor and glory. Feminine curiosity left her gawking at the masculine parts of his anatomy. Then embarrassment turned her face candy-apple red. With a yelp, she dropped her stack of clean clothing on his abdomen so she wouldn’t humiliate herself again by staring at his—
She swallowed hard and composed herself as best she could. The man was at least six feet two inches tall—or rather long, since he was lying on the ground. He was well proportioned, broad chested and covered with whipcord muscles. Try as she may, she couldn’t squelch the vision of him lying completely nude from her mind.
“Who’s there?” the naked man demanded, speaking out the side of his mouth that wasn’t swollen twice its normal size.
When he turned his auburn head toward her, she realized that not one but both of his eyes were swollen shut. He had a knot the size of a goose egg on the side of his head and his hair was matted with dried blood. Blue and purple bruises covered his chest.
“Dear God, who did this to you?” she blurted out as she inched closer to take a better look at his injuries.
He cocked his head and tried to open one eye. “You’re a woman? Well, hell! Ouch, damn it!”
He clenched his teeth and hissed out a seesaw breath.
“Untie me,” he insisted hoarsely. “I want to hunt down those bast—” He dragged in a shallow breath. “Just untie me, please.”
“No, I don’t trust you,” she said reflexively. “How do I know you aren’t a wanted criminal and that a bounty hunter or lawman tied you up for safekeeping?”
Obviously, she had wanted criminal on the brain since she had recently become one herself.
“I’m an ex-soldier and…ex-lawman,” he muttered.
His comment did nothing to reassure her, especially when she’d noticed the hesitation before he’d said, “ex-lawman.” Her father had been a lawman before he’d abandoned his only child and his wife, then turned to thievery. Apparently breaking the law was more profitable than upholding it. This man might be guilty of the same corrupt thinking.
“I’m still not convinced.” She stared skeptically at him and tried very hard not to become sidetracked by his washboard belly and horseman’s thighs—and other body parts beneath the clothes she had tossed on him to cover him up.
“Sorry, I can’t show you any sort of identification to convince you,” he said sarcastically.
She glanced around, noting that whoever had staked him out had left nothing behind in the way of food, clothing or transportation.
“Look, lady, I realize this is awkward and you have no reason to trust me—”
“You can say that again.”
“You have no reason to trust me,” he repeated in the same caustic tone she’d used. “But I’m pretty sure that the men who attacked me caused a concussion. I have a headache straight from hell. I’m no doctor but I’m betting I have at least one cracked rib—”
“Hold on.” Rachel whirled around and dashed back to the medicine wagon.
“Don’t leave me here, damn it!” he yelled, then swore when he apparently injured himself while shouting demands at her.
“Doc!” Rachel panted as she burst into the clearing near the gigantic shade tree. “Come quickly.”
Doc Grant was down on bended knee, stacking fallen tree limbs on the campfire. He staggered unsteadily to his feet to follow her, and then he stumbled to a halt when he spotted the naked man she had encountered a few minutes earlier. Doc glanced speculatively from the stack of clothing draped over the man’s abdomen to Rachel, who tried her best not to turn beet red with embarrassment.
“What the blazes happened here?” Doc choked out.
It was plain to see what had happened. Whether the brawny stranger had had it coming—just as Adolph Turner had—Rachel couldn’t say for certain.
“I was overtaken by three scraggly-looking men,” he mumbled. “I fought back, for all the good it did.”
Rachel snapped to attention. Guilt hammered at her, and wary concern etched her brow. “Describe the men.”
“The oldest one looked to be fortyish. Tall and thin, brown eyes and a gap between his front teeth,” he reported. “One was in his middle twenties, average height, freckle faced, lean build with gangly arms and legs. The third one was short and stocky with dark, beady eyes and thick wavy brown hair. Early thirties.”
“Haven’t seen anyone fitting those descriptions around here,” Doc Grant commented.
Rachel swallowed hard but kept her mouth shut. The naked stranger had described Adolph Turner’s three henchmen. No doubt, Rother, Hanes and Lamont were out for blood—hers, to be specific. She had ruined the gravy train the goons had been riding with Adolph. Either that or Adolph had survived and had sent his brutal heathens to track her down, then drag her back to Dodge City to face his spiteful revenge.
