by Linda Ford
“I’ll see to Miss Bishop,” the man said, “if you want to check for additional injuries.”
“Maggie will stay here and coordinate with the authorities,” she said, her expression stalwart. “I’ll remain with Miss Bishop.”
Anna nearly wept with gratitude. Despite his reassuring words, the man kneeling at her side was a stranger, and she’d never been comfortable around men. Her encounters were rare, often tied with opposition to the cause, and those men mostly looked at her with thinly veiled contempt. Or, worse yet, speculation. As though her call for independence invited liberties they would never dream of taking with a “proper” woman.
The man ripped Anna’s sash and tied it around her waist as a makeshift bandage. All thoughts of men and their rude propositions and knowing leers fled. The pain in her side was like a fire spreading through her body. It consumed her thoughts and kept her attention focused on the source of her agony.
The stranger easily lifted her into his arms, and her head spun. Her eyelids fluttered, and he tucked her more tightly against his chest.
A wave of nausea rose in the back of her throat, and her head lolled against his shoulder. What reason did she have for trusting this man? Someone wanted her dead. For all she knew, he’d fired the shot. With only the elderly Mrs. Franklin as her sentry, there was little either of them could do if his intentions were illicit. Yet she was too weak to refuse. Too weak to fight.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He picked his way over the debris left by the fleeing crowd. “I’m Caleb McCoy. I’m JoBeth Cain’s brother.”
Her eyes widened. “Is Jo here?”
He nodded. “We’re staying at the Savoy Hotel, same as you. Jo was hoping to see you.”
Over the past year, Jo’s letters had been a lifeline for Anna. Her glimpse into Jo’s world had been strange and fascinating. Anna had been raised with an entirely different set of values. Husbands were for women who lived a mediocre existence. As her mother so often reminded her, Anna had been groomed for the extraordinary.
The cause was her purpose for existing.
Her mother had been fighting for women’s rights since before Anna was born. There were moments when Anna wondered if her birth had been just another chance for her mother to draw attention to the suffragist movement. Women didn’t need men to raise children. They didn’t need men to earn money. They didn’t need men for much of anything, other than to prove their point. Her mother certainly hadn’t been forthcoming about the details of Anna’s father.
He doesn’t matter to me, why should he matter to you?
Why, indeed.
The pain wasn’t quite so bad anymore, and Anna felt as though she was separating from her body, floating away and looking at herself from a great distance.
Mr. McCoy adjusted his hold, and her side burned.
She must have made a noise because he glanced down, his gaze anguished. “Not much farther, Miss Bishop.”
An appropriate response eluded her. She should have answered Jo’s telegram. When Jo had discovered Anna was speaking in Kansas, she’d requested they meet. Anna had never replied. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, and Jo’s world held an undeniable fascination.
Pain slashed through her side. “Will you tell Jo that I’m sorry for not answering sooner?”
“You can tell her yourself.”
Jo was intelligent and independent, and absolutely adored her husband. She had children, yet still worked several hours a week as a telegraph operator.
Anna had never considered the possibility of such a life because she’d never seen such a remarkable example. Marriages of equality were extremely rare, and if Anna let her attention stray toward such an elusive goal, she lost sight of her true purpose. Besides, for every one example of a decent husband, her mother would reply with a hundred instances of drunkenness, infidelities and cruelty. Unless women obtained a modicum of power over their own fates, they’d forever be at the mercy of their husbands.
Mr. McCoy kicked aside a crushed picnic basket, and Anna’s stomach plummeted. Discarded blankets and the remnants of fried chicken and an apple pie had been crushed underfoot. “Was anyone else hurt?”
“Not that I know of.”
Disjointed thoughts bobbed through her head. This was the first time her mother had trusted her with a speech alone. Always before, Victoria Bishop had picked and pecked over every last word. This was the first time Anna had been trusted on her own.
The concession was more from necessity than conviction in Anna’s abilities. Her mother had been urgently needed in Boston for a critical task. The Massachusetts chapter had grossly underestimated the opposition to their most current state amendment vote, and the campaign required immediate reinforcement. More than ever, Anna must prove her usefulness.
Maybe then she’d feel worthy of her role as the daughter of the Great Victoria Bishop. The St. Louis chapter was meeting on Friday. Anna had to represent her mother. She’d arranged to leave for St. Louis tomorrow.
She’d never make the depot at this rate. “I have to change my train ticket.”
Mr. McCoy frowned. “It’ll wait.”
“You don’t waste words, do you, Mr. McCoy?”
A half grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “Nope.”
The sheer helplessness of the situation threatened to overwhelm her. She wasn’t used to being dependent on another person. She’d certainly never been carried by anyone in the whole of her adult life. She felt the warmth of his chest against her cheek, the strength of his arms beneath her bent knees. She was vulnerable and helpless, the sensations humbling.
Upon their arrival in the hotel lobby, Jo rushed toward them. “Oh, dear. What can I do?”
Though they’d only met in person the one time, the sight of Jo filled Anna with relief. Jo’s letters were lively and personal, and she was the closest person Anna had to a friend in Kansas City.
“She’s been shot.” Caleb stated the obvious, keeping his voice low.
Only a few gazes flicked in their direction. The people jamming the lobby were too busy, either frantically reuniting with their missing loved ones or nursing their own bumps and bruises, to pay the three of them much notice.
Mr. McCoy brushed past his sister and crossed to the stairs. “They’ve sent for a surgeon, but we’re running out of time. Fetch my bag and meet me in your room.”
“Why not mine?” Anna replied anxiously. Moving to another room was another change, another slip away from the familiar.
“Because we still don’t know who shot you,” Mr. McCoy said. “Or if they’ll try to finish what they started.”
Jo gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Caleb will take care of you. My room isn’t locked. I’ll let them know where to send the doctor, and I’ll be there in a tick.”
Panic welled in the back of Anna’s throat. All of the choices were being ripped away from her. She’d always been independent. As a child, her mother had insisted Anna take charge of her own decisions. The idea of putting her life in the hands of this stranger terrified her.
Caleb took the stairs two at a time. Though she sensed his care in ensuring she wasn’t jostled, each tiny movement sent waves of agony coursing through her, silencing any protests or avowals of independence she might have made. Upon reaching Jo’s room, he pushed open the door and rested her on the quilted blanket covering the bed.
The afternoon sun filtered through the windows, showcasing a cloudless sky. The sight blurred around the edges as her vision tunneled. Her breath strangled in her throat. Her heartbeat slowed and grew sluggish.
Mr. McCoy studied her wound, keeping his expression carefully blank. A shiver wracked her body. His rigidly guarded reactions frightened her more than the dark blood staining his clothing.
“Am I going to die?” Anna asked.
And how would God react to her presence? She’d had Corinthians quoted to her enough over her lifetime that the words were an anathema.
Let your women keep silent in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak.
And since women were not allowed to speak in church, they should not be allowed to speak on civic matters. Were they permitted to speak in heaven?
Mr. McCoy’s lips tightened. “You’re not going to die. But I have to stitch you up. We have to stop the bleeding, and I can’t wait for the surgeon. It won’t be easy for you.”
She adjusted her position and winced. “I appreciate your candor.”
He must have mistaken her words as a censure because he sighed and knelt beside the bed, then gently removed her crushed velvet hat and smoothed her damp hair from her forehead. His vivid green eyes were filled with sympathy.
A suffragist shouldn’t notice such things, and this certainly wasn’t the time or place for frivolous observations, but he really was quite handsome with his dark hair and warm, green eyes. Handsome in a swarthy kind of way. Anna exhaled a ragged breath. Her situation was obviously dire if that was the drift of her thoughts.
“Miss Bishop,” he said. “Anna. It’s your choice. I’m not a surgeon. We can wait. But it’s my educated opinion that we need to stop the bleeding.”
Every living thing died eventually—every blade of prairie grass, every mosquito, every redwood tree. She’d been wrong before—death, no matter how extraordinary a life one lived on earth, was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Feeling as though she’d regained a measure of control, Anna met his steady gaze. “Are you a very good veterinarian?”
“The best.”
He exuded an air of confidence that put her at ease. “Then, do what needs to be done.”
She barely managed to whisper the words before blackness swirled around her. She hoped he had enough fight left for both of them.
Copyright © 2015 by Sherri Shackelford
ISBN-13: 9781460376065
Big Sky Homecoming
Copyright © 2015 by Linda Ford
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
