Her cheeks got pinker. "Of course you do. You've been severely injured. How did it happen?"
"Water," he said, his voice gravelly. He didn't want to try to answer her questions, because, truth was, he didn't remember. It was a complete mystery to him how he'd gotten where he was, why, and when.
"Of course." She poured a half-glass of water from a pitcher, and cradled his head so he could take a few sips. "Is that better?"
He swallowed, feeling his throat burn and then get better as the cooling liquid trickled down. "Better."
"Good." She put the glass aside. "Oh, Mr. Smith, you had us so worried."
"How long have I been here?"
"Three days and nights. Today is Wednesday."
So, whatever had happened to him, had happened on Sunday. He closed his eyes tightly, hoping to remember, but nothing came. "Where am I?"
"Why, you're at the home of Dr. Denby Bucknell, my father, in the town of Virtue, located in the Arizona Territory."
"Nice meeting you, Miss Bucknell," he said, trying to smile. The expression made his head ache worse, so it was quickly extinguished.
"And you, Mr. Smith." She sat back down in the chair, pulling it closer to his bedside. "‘Mr. Smith' is what we've been calling you because we don't know your real name. What is your proper name?"
"I…I am…" He closed his eyes again, trying to wrest the information from his aching brain. Nothing came except a faint tingling. The memory was so close, so very close, and yet it escaped him. "I'm sorry, Miss, but I don't know."
Miss Bucknell offered her small hand. "Then we shall continue to call you Mr. Smith. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, although I'm afraid it isn't under the best of circumstances."
He shook her hand and wondered at the weakness he felt all over. Her hand was soft and smooth, tiny, like the rest of her, though she had some pretty pleasant curves under her apron. "Why am I here?"
"You don't remember what happened to you?"
He shook his head and then winced at the pain.
"Puzzling. Well, two of our townsmen found you south of town. It looked like you'd been waylaid by robbers. You had nothing. No identification, no personal items. You were…" She blushed. "Unclothed."
Naked and penniless. No way to know who he really was. Clearly, he'd been beaten. "What's wrong with me? My leg is killing me."
"My father says you likely have a badly bruised femur—that's your thigh bone. And you got bashed on the head or fell on your head. That may be why you don't recall the incident. What is the last thing you do recall?"
He squirmed on the bed, and tried to sit up. There was a distinct disadvantage to not being upright, and he didn't like it. It made him feel frail and helpless, two things he was not used to feeling. Seeing him struggle, Miss Bucknell came to his aid, and between the two of them, they got him sitting upright in the bed, his back against pillows propped on the headboard. Shooting pains sparked up and down his leg, but he tried not to grimace. He'd be damned if he'd be a sissy.
"Let me go fetch my father. He'll want to take a look at you, now that you're awake. You just rest a moment."
"Okay."
She hurried out of the room, leaving him to ponder his circumstances. He'd have to think of himself as Smith for the time being. It was damned frustrating not to be able to recall something as simple as your own name. If only he could remember what had happened to him, why he was…where was he? He vaguely remembered riding on a trail.
"Daisy!"
The doctor came in at that moment, his daughter trailing close behind. "Daisy? Who is Daisy?" The older man came over to the bedside and felt for a pulse. As he lowered his arm, he introduced himself. "I'm Denby Bucknell, the doctor for this town. My daughter says you don't recall your name, or much of anything. Is that right?"
"Yes, sir."
"No memory of where you were hurt, how you were hurt, where you came from? Nothing?"
"Things are a little fuzzy up here right now," he answered, tapping a forefinger on his temple.
"Hmm." Dr. Bucknell bent and peered into his eyes. "Follow my finger." He moved his pointer from right to left a few inches back and forth. "I think you have a mild concussion. That could account for the memory loss. You don't recall what happened to you?"
"No, sir."
"Very unfortunate. How does your leg feel?"
"Painful. How long will I be laid up like this?"
"Perhaps a week, and then we'll get you up on crutches. You won't be able to walk on it for two weeks or so, and you might limp for a while."
"Damn!"
The doctor cleared his throat.
"Oh, sorry, Miss Bucknell. I forgot my manners."
Her blue eyes twinkled as she smiled. "You are forgiven, Mr. Smith."
"Are you sure it's that bad, Doctor?"
"I'm sure, young man. I'll start asking around town to see if anyone here was expecting you. Perhaps we can find your family, and you can rest with them more comfortably during your convalescence."
"Yes. That would be good."
"Now who is Daisy? Is that your wife?" Miss Bucknell asked.
Remembering brought on a painful grin. "No, Daisy is my horse."
"Are you sure? Because if you have a wife named Daisy, we might be able to find her for you. I'm sure she'd want to know your whereabouts."
"No, I'm not married." He paused. Was he? "At least, I don't think so. And I'm sure Daisy is my horse. He's a roan, about seventeen hands high, with a black mane and tail."
"He?" she asked, wide-eyed. "You named your male horse Daisy?"
Yeah, why did his gelding horse have that name? Then he remembered. "There was a little girl. She named my horse for me. I told her he needed a boy's name, but she insisted. It just stuck."
Dr. Bucknell smiled at that, then asked, "Was the girl your daughter, maybe? We really must find your family, Mr. Smith."
Wracking his brain only made his head hurt worse. "I'm sorry. I've told you all I know."
"How distressing," Miss Bucknell said softly.
"You'll remember eventually, young man," the doctor told him. "In the meantime, you're under Verity's care, with some care from Mrs. Perkins, the widow who is our housekeeper. Some things wouldn't be appropriate for Verity but my daughter is a good nurse. When you're ready, we have crutches for you."
A wave of fatigue washed over him. This interview had been taxing, and now all he wanted to do was sleep. "Thank you."
Dr. Bucknell patted his arm. "Rest now."
His eyes drifted closed as the older man left the room. He heard, rather than saw, Miss Bucknell take her seat in the chair again, her gown rustling as she sat. Verity was her name. Truth. It seemed to fit her well.
Chapter Two
Verity put her journal down when Mr. Smith stirred. "Welcome to the world of wakefulness once again, Mr. Smith." She poured him a glass of water and helped him sit more upright to drink it.
"Thank you, ma'am."
His voice, now stronger than when he'd awakened before, was deep and resonant. She thought he'd be a marvelous choir member. Somewhere. It took her ebullience down a peg. She shouldn't be thinking anything but professional thoughts about Mr. Smith. He was a stranger. Potentially a dangerous stranger. Caution was in order, even if she had been wondering what he'd look like in a new suit of clothes and a proper hat. Flustered, she reached for the gray sock on the bedside table. "Oh, sir, I have your clothing."
He looked at the sock, cleaned with her own hands, then back up to her eyes, down to the sock, and up again. "That's it? One sock?"
She nodded. It had been silly to present it to him that way. Why would he ever care about one gray sock? She felt foolish. "Yes, sir. That's what you were wearing when you were found."
He grinned. "Must've been sight for the doctor's eyes."
"Um…yes." He didn't need to know that she'd been the one to offer initial treatment, did he? What harm would it do to preserve his privacy and prevent humiliation? And besides, he ma
de her a little crazy with his deep voice and good looks. He had intelligent questions to ask and comments to make. He even appeared to have a wry sense of humor. Why, letting him think he'd been protected from a woman's prying eyes was doing a good deed! "My father said you were in pretty bad shape. You should have seen that hoof print on your leg! I mean, he said there was a hoof print on your leg." Was that cover-up good enough? Only her father and Mrs. Perkins realized the truth. Oh, and Mr. Milner, Mr. Hays, and Granny, if she could remember. That was too many people. She was in the soup now! But surely a man like Mr. Smith wouldn't take kindly to being so vulnerable to a woman. Or would he? How would she know what he would or wouldn't like? She must stop personalizing their interactions. He was her patient, nothing more. She must tell the truth and devil take the hindmost. "I need to—"
His gaze went to the gas lamp near the bed. "Right, time for bed. It must be late. What are you doing here? You need to sleep, don't you?"
"It's not that late. And, you know, it's been proven that people only need two hours of sleep per night. More sleep than that is harmful to the…eyes." Oh dear. Why had she said that? It was far from true. She was such a ninnyhammer when nervous, and men made her nervous. Not all men. She was never nervous around older men. But men like Mr. Smith fired up her foolishness. Wait. Had she ever met a man like Mr. Smith before?
"Harmful to the eyes? You don't say."
She'd vowed to herself that she'd be more honest, but now that she'd blurted the untruth, it was hard to take it back. She tried a little more deceit. A white lie to cover up the black. "Well…actually, that was a joke," she said, putting a bright smile on the comment.
He chuckled. "You got me on that one."
She took his pulse. Nice and strong. His hands and wrists were so big, the muscles of his forearms thick and hardened. The tan he'd gotten while under Arizona's October sky gave a golden glow to the skin exposed while she tended him. And his eyes—they were soul-piercing. Mr. Smith knew she was lying; nothing could escape that chilly stare. He must be humoring her. It made her even more nervous to think she'd been caught, but her indiscretion would be just between them.
As she sat down again, the wingback chair brought on a touch of claustrophobia. Was it hot in the room? It was a cool October night. Perhaps she was coming down with something. Hopefully, Mr. Smith wasn't carrying contagion with him.
Her mind snapped back to the moment when he spoke. "What are you reading?" He nodded toward her journal sheets. She realized that she still had her reading spectacles on, and quickly took them off and set them aside. They made her look older and far too intellectual. No, it just wouldn't do.
"Oh, it's the Journal of the American Medical Association. I read it every week. It's fascinating and educational. For example, did you know there's a treatment for otorrhea? It's a simple antiseptic powder."
"Fascinating."
Now he was making fun of her. She'd set herself up for that. Why would he care what's in a medical journal? Unless he's a doctor, of course. Could he be a medical doctor? The thought made her tummy roil. He'd surely catch her out on her lie about her father treating him initially. She quickly changed the subject. "Have you ever been to Virtue before, Mr. Smith?"
"I don't recall, ma'am." He looked away with a sigh. "I wish I did, but I don't."
"Well, rather than taxing you, we'll talk about something else. I'll tell you a little about Virtue. Perhaps it will jog your memory."
"All right."
"Virtue is the county seat for Pine Grove County, Arizona Territory. As such, we have a goodly population: over three thousand persons. We have all the conveniences, save electricity."
He seemed a bit bored, though he was politely listening.
"As a matter of fact, there's a big wooden Indian in front of Virtue Mercantile. Mr. Dobson bought it to advertise smoking tobacco, but I'm not sure it's served as anything but an eyesore. The Indian figure is more than seven feet tall, with a tribal headdress over a foot taller. He looks menacing, despite his bland expression."
"Interesting."
"I've never liked the statue since Bobby Dobson jumped out from behind it to scare me when I was five years old. While I'd like to be a good Christian and forgive him, I'm afraid trying has addled my wits a time or two."
"When you're five, those kinds of things can stick with you."
She nodded, plummeting into the abyss. "Absolutely true. Today, I was walking from Miss Melanie's Ladies' Emporium and past the mercantile, when something about the Indian caught my attention. When I looked at it more closely, it winked at me!"
"You're pulling my leg."
"Your leg is splinted, Mr. Smith. How could I pull it?"
A small frown furrowed his brow. "Wooden Indians don't wink, Miss Bucknell."
"Perhaps I was mistaken?"
Those eyes looked into her very soul.
Dunderhead! Why, oh why couldn't she keep her mouth shut? Nerves were her enemy where Mr. Smith was concerned; Mr. Smith was her enemy where her mouth was concerned. She shivered as her gaze was drawn to his mouth. It was a sensual mouth with strong-looking lips held firmly together unless he was talking. They looked stern, maybe a little demanding. What would it be like to be kissed by those lips? Too dangerous a thought. Stop thinking. Stop it.
"I think maybe sleep would be a good idea," he suggested. "You might need more than that two hours you recommended before."
Her face went hot, and her stomach rose up her throat. Best to retire while she had even a shred of dignity left. "You're right, of course. And you need to sleep as well." She rose and took her journal and spectacles in hand. A quick twist of her wrist and the lamp went out. Weak moonlight shone through the room's lace curtains, lighting her way to the door. "Good night, Mr. Smith."
"Good night, Miss Bucknell. Beware wooden Indians."
Blast it all. She should have just admitted her lie, instead of prevaricating. "I shall endeavor to do so." She exited and closed the door. What would she dream of? Probably the same thing that caused the tossing and turning that ruined her sleep over the last few nights: Mr. Smith and his sharp pale gaze in the tan of his handsome face.
* * *
The next morning dawned bright and cheerful. Birds sang in the oak tree nearby, he could see them fluttering and hopping from one branch to the next amidst the shadowed leaves of the tree. Stretching, he found he was feeling more than a little restless. He was a man of action—though what action remained to be seen. Perhaps he was a robber who got beat up and left for dead while trying to waylay travelers on the road to Virtue. A conversation with the people who found him would be a good place to start. But first, he had to get out of this bed!
At that moment, there was a knock on his door, followed by Mrs. Perkins bustling in with a tray laden with food. Food! He was starving. Days with nothing to sustain him but water and broth had taken their toll. He needed to eat, and right away. He'd never been so glad to see a woman in his life. Probably. Maybe he had a wife who often served him breakfast in bed. Was he the kind of man who deserved that kind of loving care? Or did he spank his wife to make her conform? No, that didn't seem right. Although the thought of spanking Miss Bucknell did make his pulse increase. Why?
"Good morning, Mr. Smith," the bustling, chubby housekeeper said. "Brought you a cowboy's breakfast. Don't know if you're a cowboy, a ditch digger, or a saloon ghost, but I do know you gotta eat." She set the tray down on the chest of drawers, helped him into a sitting position, and placed the tray in his lap. "There you go. Oatmeal and eggs—I hope you like 'em sunny side up—applewood smoked bacon, toast from bread I baked just this morning, butter, the Widow Snowden's famous apple butter, apple juice and, last but never least, coffee." She must have seen the eagerness on his face, because she asked, "Hungry?"
"Like a bear after hibernation, ma'am."
"Dig in, Mr. Smith. I'll just tidy the room while you eat."
She fussed about, dusting, straightening the comforter, refreshing his water gla
ss. At one point she left the room with the ewer and pitcher and came back with fresh water and fresh cloths. All the time, she nattered. "It's purely a miracle you were found, Mr. Smith. You could have died there in the sun. Apaches could have come along and killed you, if the sun didn't. You must say your thanks to Almighty God and to Mr. Milner and Mr. Hays."
"Mmm," he mumbled around a mouthful of oatmeal and egg yolk.
"They were the ones who found you. Brought you right into town, too. The town was in quite a stir. Ladies running hither and thither at the sight of a man without his britches and shirt. But you did have that one sock. Miss Verity washed it for you, did you know that?"
"No, I didn't," he replied between bites of toast with a thick coating of apple butter. Despite gorging, he did have a spare thought for the revelation of Verity's doting. It was true that she was always there when he awakened. Her concern was open, honest. She cared about his memory loss and tried to jog it loose. All that attention coming from such a lovely package made him feel warm all over. He sipped his coffee and ruminated over it while Mrs. Perkins went on.
"The poor woman needed all her doctoring skills to make that splint. Dr. Bucknell was that proud when he got back from the Lazy C and saw what she'd done. Mr. Milner said she didn't even balk about your state of undress, but got right to work saving your life." She checked his tray quickly then returned to her dusting. "Of course, Mr. Hays dropped a hat right over your man parts as soon as they came in so Miss Verity wouldn't see more than was absolutely necessary. A young woman needs protection from the baser things, don't you think so, Mr. Smith?"
He nodded as he ate and took in the comments. So Verity had been the one who did the initial treatment. That was news. It was a bit embarrassing to learn that she'd seen him naked—except for the sock—but somehow he didn't think she was the only woman to see him undressed in recent years. It would sure be good when he remembered who that woman might be! For all he knew, she was a saloon whore. Was he that type of man?
And why had Verity lied to him about it? Was she also embarrassed? If she was a doctor, she had certainly seen more shocking things. Although, maybe this far out west, and in a town as small as Virtue, even women doctors were protected from such things. There was a certain amount of sense to that.
The Doctor's Daughter: A Virtue, Arizona Novel Page 2
