by Warner, Kaki
Christ. What if Hank really had proposed? What if he really wanted this woman? Brady still didn’t know what to believe. But the truth wasn’t important right now. Keeping Hank and Jessica alive was.
“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she said, her chin wobbling.
“I expect not. But you and the children will be safe, and Hank will be alive.” And hopefully Jessica will be too. “I can live with that. Can you?”
Brady didn’t know if he’d ever seen such a desolate expression.
“I guess I’ll have to.”
Five
HER HUSBAND—HOW ODD THAT SOUNDED—WAS ASLEEP when Molly returned with a bowl of broth. Not wanting to wake him, she set it on the bedside table then stood for a moment, undecided. She needed to check on the children but was hesitant to leave Hank alone in the empty house. Then she heard voices at the front door—Brady Wilkins and a woman with an English accent.
Slipping back into the kitchen, she waited until they passed down the hall to the room where Hank lay, then ducked out the side door. Cowardly, to be sure, but after a near-sleepless night, she was desperate for a wash and change of clothes, and after that wretched confrontation earlier, she had no desire to talk to Brady Wilkins or make chatty conversation with his precious “Her Ladyship.”
The Beckworths had everything in hand. Effie had a picnic planned then a visit to the blacksmith’s, and later in the afternoon, Thaddeus was taking the children fishing at a creek north of town. Grateful for their continued help and a blessed moment of privacy, Molly tended to her needs. An hour later, washed, coiffed, and dressed in her second best—only because everything else was wrinkled or soiled, and certainly not out of any desire to impress anyone—she returned to the infirmary.
As she hung her coat on the peg by the side door, she heard raised voices coming from the sickroom. Alarmed that Brady Wilkins might be badgering his sick brother, she rushed down the hall.
Instead, she found Hank struggling to ward off a sturdily built middle-aged woman armed with a dripping rag. “Get away from me,” he rasped, swatting at her with his pillow.
Dodging the pillow, the woman deftly yanked back the covers—revealing that the nightshirt was even less adequate than Molly had thought—and slapped the wet cloth on Hank’s bare thigh.
Hank yelped, then the wrestling began in earnest as he struggled to pull up the covers and push down the nightshirt at the same time—which was quite impossible with only one hand. “Get off me!”
Ignoring him, the woman scrubbed with alarming enthusiasm, slinging soap and invectives in equal measure. “I was hired to clean you up, you stinking, overgrown goat herder, and bigod, I will. Now lift your leg.”
Battling both shock and amusement, Molly stepped into the room. “Enough!”
Hank sagged back. “Thank God.”
The woman whipped around. “Who are you?”
“I’m Molly, his wife. Who are you?”
“Agnes Meecham, but people calls me Bunny.”
Molly couldn’t begin to fathom why. “Who hired you?”
“The other one.”
“Brady Wilkins?”
The woman nodded. “Said he smelled like a pig farmer, but my daddy was a pig farmer, and I have to say he smelled worse. This one’s just musty and sour smelling. But Pa, whew! When he—”
“Thank you,” Molly cut in, trying not to laugh. She took the rag from Bunny’s rather large hand. “I can take it from here.”
The woman planted beefy fists on beefier hips. “What about my money?”
“Oh, Mr. Wilkins will pay you. In fact, you should receive a bonus for your efforts.” She smiled, liking the idea. “Double, I think. Tell him I insist upon it.”
After the grateful woman left, Molly turned to Hank, who had the covers clutched to his chin and was looking at her as if she had grown a second set of ears.
“Wife? You’re my wife?”
Heat rushed into her face. “Apparently you don’t remember me,” she said with a weak smile.
He just stared at her.
Fearing he was about to launch into questions she wasn’t yet prepared to answer, she thrust the dripping rag in his direction. “Will you finish? Or shall I?”
He blinked at the rag, then up at her. “How long have we been married?”
“Awhile.” Grabbing his right hand, she stuffed the rag into his fingers, then turned toward the door. “There’s rinse water in the bowl on the bedside table,” she called back as she fled through the doorway. “Call when you’re done. I’ll bring a fresh dress—er, nightshirt.”
HE DIDN’T CALL.
Setting a pot of oatmeal aside to cool, she tasted the fresh batch of broth—less salt this time—then collected the largest clean nightshirt she could find in the examination room and went back down the hall to the sickroom.
She found Hank in his soiled nightshirt, perched on the edge of the bed, his head hanging, his breath coming in shallow bursts. He held his injured arm cradled against his chest and his right hand clutched to his bound ribs. His face was as white as the bed linens.
“What are you doing?” she cried, dropping the clean nightshirt onto the chair and rushing toward the bed, looking for signs of fresh blood, renewed swelling. She should never have left him alone. Or left him at the mercy of his horrid brother and that brutish woman, Bunny. “Are you hurt?”
“I need . . . to relieve . . . myself,” he gasped, struggling to breathe against the constrictive bandages.
She stumbled to a stop beside the bed, still rattled but also relieved he was uninjured. “But you can’t get up. You’ll fall and hurt your arm.”
“Then step aside.”
“What?”
“Move.”
Molly gaped. Surely he didn’t intend to relieve himself on the floor? When he reached for the hem of his nightshirt, she blurted out, “Use the chamber pot,” and pointed at the door in the bottom of the nightstand.
He shifted, then groaned. “I can’t . . . bend.”
“Oh. Of course.” Stooping to open the door, she realized his feet were in the way. Swiveling to tell him to move, she found herself nose to knee with his hairy leg. She also noted that the undersized nightshirt had risen halfway up his thighs. For a moment she bridled, thinking he had done it on purpose to shock her, but one look at his face told her he was in too much pain to be thinking of her.
After asking him to move his feet aside, she quickly retrieved the metal chamber pot. When she straightened, the nightshirt was higher yet. She didn’t know why the sight unnerved her. She had seen thighs before. Dozens of thighs. Dozens of pairs of thighs, even. Although few had been quite so . . . well, substantial.
“Plan on watching?” he asked, his breathing a little less labored.
She jerked her gaze from his lower limbs. “I am a trained nurse, Mr. Wilkins,” she said in her most professional voice. “And quite accustomed to aiding—”
“I don’t need aid. I need the pot.”
She exhaled and tried for a more conciliatory tone. “I am here to assist you, Henry. You are still quite ill and weak. Should you fall on that arm—”
“Not weak. Hurt.”
“Of course you are. I didn’t mean that kind of weak. It’s just that if you—”
“And I’m not a kid, so quit treating me like one.”
“Of course you’re not.” Was this their first quarrel? How ludicrous.
“And I’m not Mister, or Henry. I’m Hank. Just Hank.” He tipped his head to frown up at her. “But you should know that, shouldn’t you? Wife.”
Frozen by that stare, for a moment she couldn’t respond. “I meant no offense, Hank.” She held out the pot.
He took it, wincing at the pull of bruised muscles across his cracked ribs.
Seeing his struggle made her own chest ache, which was ridiculous. He didn’t need sympathy, he needed assistance. And she was trained to give it. “I can see you’re having some difficulty. Will you allow me to help you?”
<
br /> “The day I need help to piss, shoot me. Close the door behind you.”
Obdurate man. Did he not understand that with only one operable hand it would be physically impossible for him to hold both the chamber pot and his . . . himself . . . at the same time? “Can’t you see this isn’t going to work?” she said with strained patience. “You’ll need two hands.”
He went still. Slowly he lifted his head and regarded her from behind long strands of dark hair. His face showed no expression, but his eyes danced. “I’m flattered you think so. But I’ll manage.”
She frowned, wondering if she’d misunderstood and decided surely she had. She looked around. “Maybe there’s a portable commode chair. Or a long-necked urinal jar. That would only take one hand to—”
“I know how many hands it takes. I’ve done this before.”
“Or I could hold it for you.”
He blinked.
“Unless you’d prefer I call your brother?” Even though she was trained to deal with these situations in a matter-of-fact way, she wasn’t insensitive to the patient’s need for modesty. “Shall I send for him?”
“If there’s any holding to be done, I’d prefer you do it. Wife.”
Pinhead. “Fine. Then give it to me.” She held out her hand.
He stared at it, his lips twitching. “Which one? The pot or—”
“Of course the pot!” Finally realizing where his mind was, she snatched the pot from his grip. But once she had it, she wasn’t sure what to do with it.
“Better hurry. Twenty-eight.”
She eyed his bent head. “Twenty-eight what?”
“Panes in that cabinet over there. You leaving or not?”
What did panes have to do with anything? Fearing for the man’s sanity, but determined not to let the already uncomfortable situation deteriorate into gibberish or infantile sickroom snickering, she put the pot on the floor squarely between his rather large bare feet then stepped back. “How’s that?”
He gave the pot a considering look. “Too far. It’s not a fire hose, you know.” Then apparently overcome by his own adolescent wit, he snorted then grabbed at his ribs. “Ow-ow-ow.”
And Brady Wilkins thought this man was shy?
“The chair then.” In growing desperation, she picked up the pot, slapped it onto the seat of the chair with the clean nightshirt, then shoved the chair into his knees with enough force to send him into an involuntary cringe. “How’s that?”
He looked at the chair between his legs then up at her. She was gratified to see his expression of amusement had changed to one of healthy respect. “Better.”
“Excellent.” Flush with victory, she retreated to the kitchen.
As she readied a tray, she decided to put the entire awkward exchange out of her mind. Sadly, such ribald behavior was not uncommon when women tended male patients. Despite the great strides toward respectability female nurses had made during the war, there were still those who felt any woman, nurse or no, who put hands on a strange man’s body was little better than a prostitute. It irritated her to think this man—her husband—might harbor a similar opinion.
Fire hose indeed. Wicked man.
Wicked her. She still couldn’t get that image out of her mind. So much for professionalism.
When she returned with a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of warm cider, Hank was back in bed, eyes closed, mostly covered by the fresh nightshirt. A towel covered the chamber pot.
Moving quietly, she set the tray on the bedside table, removed the chamber pot to the hall to be emptied later, then went back to the bed. “Breakfast,” she said cheerfully, poking his good shoulder.
He cracked open one eye—the one with the purple bruise, rather than the greenish-yellow. “What is it?”
“Oatmeal and cider.”
He sighed and closed the eye. “When can I get real food?” “This is real food.”
“Not to me. I doubt I got this size eating mush.”
She doubted it too. “Perhaps tomorrow. Can you sit up?”
With grunts and grimaces, he managed. As she leaned over to prop a pillow behind his back, she could sense him watching her. It gave her an itchy, prickly feeling.
“What happened to your face?” he asked as she straightened.
Without thinking, she lifted a hand to her cheek where earlier he had accidentally struck her.
He pulled her hand away. “Is that a bruise?”
She froze, her fingers trapped in his. And suddenly everything intensified—the sound of his breathing, the smell of soap and carbolic dressing, the feel of the calluses on his fingers. It was startling, like being wrenched from deep sleep into full alertness within an instant.
“Did somebody hit you?”
She pulled her hand free and took a deep breath. “It’s nothing.” Avoiding his gaze, she positioned the chair so she wouldn’t have to lean too far, spread a napkin over his chest, then reached for the bowl and spoon.
“Was it me?” he asked, apparently unwilling to let it go. “Did I do that?”
“You weren’t yourself.” She scooped a spoonful of oatmeal and held it out.
“I sure hope not.” Instead of allowing her to feed him, he took the spoon from her grip, fed himself, then handed it back, watching her all the while.
The fragility of male pride never ceased to amaze her.
“Did you deserve it?” he challenged.
She refilled the spoon and passed it over. “I sure hope not,” she mimicked.
His lips might have twitched, but she wasn’t sure. The man guarded his emotions like a dog with a bone.
As he ate, she studied him, noting that the swelling in his face had gone down and his eyes were now fully open and he was in need of a shave again. She hoped he would let her tend to that. It would be a shame to hide that face under a beard.
“Where did we meet?”
She glanced up from her contemplation of his bristly chin to find him watching her with that same intense concentration she had noticed on the train. It made it hard to draw a full breath.
“We are married, aren’t we?” he persisted.
“Yes.” She almost choked on the word.
From the front of the house came the sound of voices. A man and a woman. The woman had an English accent. Lovely. A sleepless night, a petulant patient, and now that deceitful, conniving Brady Wilkins and Her Ladyship.
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long have we been married? Earlier, you said ‘awhile.’ How long is ‘awhile’?”
“Two, ah, three days.” Hoping to avoid further inquiry, she scooped oatmeal with a vengeance. But no matter how rapidly she shoved the filled spoon into his hand, the questions kept coming.
“Where did we meet?”
“Sierra Blanca.”
“You live there?”
“No, the children and I were just passing through.”
He stopped chewing. “Children? We have children?”
“They’re my late sister’s,” she explained. “A boy named Charlie—he’s eight, and his sister, Penny, who is six.”
He passed back the spoon. “Hell.”
“You don’t like children?” Would she have to protect them from this man too?
“Yeah. Sure. It’s just that—hell, I don’t even remember getting married and now I’ve got kids. It’s a lot to take in all at once.”
He was silent for a moment—too silent. Molly wondered if he realized she’d been desperately dodging his questions. “Their mother is dead?” he finally asked.
“Yes.” She scooped the last of the oatmeal and passed it over, watching in fascination as his lips closed over the spoon. He had a very nice mouth.
“Their father too?” he asked as he chewed.
She nodded.
He dropped the spoon into the empty bowl. “Too bad. Kids need family.”
The remark hit hard, triggering a surge of emotion that constricted the muscles in Molly’s throat. She didn’t want
to think of Nellie and Papa. That loss was too raw, and the wall she had erected to shield herself against it was a weak barrier at best.
The voices seemed louder, nearer. She set the bowl on the tray.
“Are they all the family you have?”
“Yes.” Avoiding his gaze, she brushed a blob of oatmeal from her skirt.
“Except me.”
Removing the napkin from his chest, she tossed it onto the tray. “Yes.” She hadn’t considered this man to be part of her family, which he wasn’t, of course. But now that his brother was forcing her to come to their ranch for an indeterminate amount of time, she would have to pretend he was. Oddly, the notion wasn’t as disturbing as it should have been. Even if their marriage was based on a lie, it was a comfort to know that, for a while at least, she wouldn’t be entirely alone and the children would be safe.
Footsteps thudded in the hall. Nervously she brushed back a stray curl and checked her skirt for more oatmeal. She was definitely not looking forward to being scrutinized and found wanting by some fancy Englishwoman. Looking up, she found those watchful eyes studying her with such focused attention it was like being invaded. Snatching the cup of cider from the tray, she thrust it toward him.
“It doesn’t add up,” he said, ignoring the cup. “I don’t remember you. Yet I do remember loading a part for a concentrator in Sierra Blanca.”
Her hand jerked. Cider sloshed over her hand. “Y-You do?”
Those sharp eyes bored into her. “That scares you. I wonder why.” A frown drew his dark brows together. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? Wife?”
The cup slipped. The door opened. Cider splashed into Molly’s lap just as Brady Wilkins stepped into the room, followed by a striking redheaded woman.
“We’re back,” the woman cried, pushing past Brady and into the room. She stopped when she saw Molly. “Oh, I see you have a guest. Are we interrupting?”
Heart pounding, Molly lurched to her feet. After a moment of befuddled panic, her gaze fell on the outrageous hat that by rights should have snapped the woman’s slim neck. A huge brim, pleated peach satin on the underneath, green organza on top, with a wide matching satin ribbon, and on one side peach silk flowers and three egret plumes, the longest of which curved over the crown and down past the brim to gently brush her cheek. It was the most astounding hat Molly had ever seen.
