She didn’t know where she was, but she felt like hell. She ached as though she’d been run over by a fully loaded lumber dray. Worse, she was unarmed, and that, coupled with her physical condition, left her vulnerable, indeed.
She had a very vivid recollection of the ambush at the Ramsay Creek Outpost.
She had to get to that Colt.
She threw back the bedcovers. She was naked save for a bandage wrapped tightly around the lower half of her upper torso, leaving her breasts bare. She also wore a plaster of Paris cast on her left leg, from the thigh to her shin. That leg weighed as much as the lumber dray she’d been run over with.
Still . . .
She sat up, wincing against the raw pain pulling in her chest. Just sitting up made her feel weak and out of breath. Her head swam. Dark spots shifted around before her eyes like tiny, black hands opening and closing. She held still, drew a deep breath, and then lowered her left foot to the floor. Carefully, gritting her teeth, hearing the bed squawk precariously beneath her, she slid her left leg to the edge of the bed, as well.
Suddenly, the narrow bed seemed to pitch like a rowboat. She gave a scream as she felt herself falling, and then the floor with a flowered rug came up to smack her left cheek and hip.
Fiery pain exploded in her chest and leg. The flames leaped all through her body. She heard herself groan as she lay slumped on the floor.
Shuffling footsteps sounded outside the curtained doorway of the room. Louisa’s heart pounded fearfully. She heaved herself up and dragged herself several feet across the floor, taking the rug with her, and shoved her hand under her clothes stacked on the chair. The floor shuddered as someone loudly approached her room making a stomping, dragging sound.
Louisa shoved her right hand under the clothes, flicked the keeper thong free of the Colt, and pulled the silver-chased piece from its holster. As the curtain parted, Louisa swung the revolver toward the man just then entering, and clicked the hammer back.
Her throat was raspy from nonuse as she said tautly, “Who the hell are you?”
The man’s face blanched behind his spectacles. “Good Lord!”
He stumbled back against the wall by the curtain, raising his hands to his shoulders. He wore a rumpled white shirt, suspenders, and broadcloth trousers. He had thick, dark-brown hair parted in the middle, and an open, intelligent face, which was lightly freckled.
More footsteps sounded in the hall behind him—a lighter, faster tread than the man’s. The man turned his head quickly, throwing an open hand out toward the hall. “Titus, stay there!”
He looked warily at Louisa and then turned again to the hall from which the footsteps had died. “Go back to the kitchen and stay there.”
Seeing no threat in the man, Louisa began to lower the pistol slightly but she kept some steel in her voice as she said, “I asked you a question.”
The man’s handsome face flushed with anger as he stared down at her. “I am the doctor who dug those bullets out of your hide, Miss Bonaventure. And if your way of thanking someone for saving your life is making them stare down the maw of one of your fancy revolvers, then you’d better mend your ways or get thrown out of here.”
Louisa depressed the Colt’s hammer and lowered the gun to the floor. She was happy to. It weighed nearly as much as her plaster-encased right leg. “Sorry, Doc.” She dropped her chin, groaning against the pain she was keenly aware of now that the danger had passed.
“For chrissakes!” The doctor hobbled toward her, dragging one foot, and dropped to a knee. “What in the hell were you thinking of?”
“I was shot, Doc,” Louisa said. “And I take that rather personal. When I woke up and . . . oh, Jesus, that hurts! . . . and saw that I had no gun near, I guess I panicked.”
The doctor grunted as he picked her up in his arms and eased her back onto the cot, which groaned and barked against the floor, banging the wall. He moved awkwardly because of his own bum leg. He straightened, reaching behind to clutch the small of his back, breathing hard. He glared down at his patient as Louisa drew the bedcovers up to cover her nakedness.
“You’ve no need of a pistol in here.” The doctor crouched to scoop the revolver off the floor. “In fact, I had intended to get rid of this and the other one. I won’t have weapons in my house. Not my own, not my patients’. I have a young son and I do not want his life endangered, and neither do I want him becoming familiar with firearms. Only bad can come of a gun. If you’re not the perfect example of that, I don’t know who is.”
He was rummaging around under Louisa’s clothes. He pulled her shell belt and two holsters off the chair. He shoved the Colt into the one empty holster and coiled the belt around both holstered guns.
“Look, Doc,” Louisa said. “I’m as naked as a jaybird under here. If you take my guns away—”
“Oh, I’m quite sure you’ll feel even more naked, Miss Bonaventure. I know who you are and what you and Mr. Prophet do for a living. But those are my rules, and until you’re fit to leave here, you’ll have to obey them or make other arrangements. In your condition, I have no idea what those arrangements would be.”
“Sorry, Doc.”
That seemed to appease him a bit. He stood staring down at her with a little less heat than before. “Damned fool move. You could have opened up those wounds.” He set the guns on a bureau and pulled a straight-backed chair up beside the cot. “Lie back and I’ll have a look.”
Louisa rested her head back against the pillow. She sucked a breath as the man pulled the covers down to her waist, exposing her breasts above the thick, tightly wrapped bandage.
“I do apologize,” he said, a sheepish note in his voice. She saw that he avoided looking at her bosom. “I do like to have a woman here to do such things in my stead, but I haven’t been able to find reliable help since my wife . . .” He paused as though he’d found himself saying more than he’d intended. As he peeled up part of the bandage, he said, “Well, since my wife died. She was a good assistant and cared for the bandaging of my female patients.”
“I’m confident in your professionalism, Doctor.”
“Whitfield. Clayton Whitfield . . . reluctantly at your service, Miss Bonaventure.”
“You don’t much care for bounty hunters, that it?”
“That’s it,” he said as he lowered his head to examine the wound beneath the bandage.
“That’s all right. I don’t much care for them, either.”
Whitfield gently pressed the bandage back into place against her chest. “Looks all right from the outside. If you’ve opened up anything inside, you’re in trouble.”
He drew the covers up to her neck. “And if you’re so against the profession yourself, why do you practice it?”
“There’s a lot of bad men out there who need killing, Doctor Whitfield. So, tell me, am I going to heal?”
“So far so good . . . as long as you don’t keep falling out of bed and crawling around on the floor in here. When you’re in my house, Miss Bonaventure, you’re safe. No need for guns. The people in this town know that I do not put up with violence. I have a young boy to raise alone, and I’m very protective of him. The town respects my wishes.”
“What happened to your leg, Doc?”
Whitfield scowled at her, incredulous.
Louisa hiked a shoulder. “Sorry if the question was impertinent. I’m the curious sort, and when I’m curious about something, I just come right out and ask about it. Besides, I figure that any man who’s seen me in my birthday suit can put up with an impertinent question or two.”
The doctor continued to scowl down at her. Gradually, the indignation left his eyes behind his glasses and he thumbed the spectacles up his nose and chuckled. “Yes, well—I suppose you’re right. I”—he glanced down at the limb in question—“I broke it rather severely two years ago, just after I moved my family out here. My wife and I, Diana and I, had ridden into the country to deliver a baby. Diana was a midwife, a good one. On the way home, we rode into a thunders
torm. The buggy horse spooked and broke into a dead run. Ran us straight into a ravine.”
He stared at the wall on the far side of the bed. “Diana was killed. I was left . . . with something much less severe, but . . . it’s a constant reminder of that wretched night.”
Louisa gazed up at the man as he continued to stare at the wall. She felt as though a strong fist had grabbed her heart, squeezing.
“I’m so sorry, Doctor. I . . . me and my big mouth. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s all right,” Whitfield said. “For a long time I didn’t care to talk about it. And there’s really no one around here I feel comfortable enough discussing it with.” He snorted softly, glancing at her, vaguely puzzled. “Except, I guess, you, Miss Bonaventure—a bounty huntress, of all people.”
He frowned down at her in shock.
“Good Lord,” he said. “A sentimental man hunter!”
“Huh?” Then she realized what he was talking about. A tear was rolling down her right cheek. Quickly, she brushed it away. “Oh, that. Well . . . yeah, things have always gotten to me. Injustices like that, especially. When there isn’t even anyone to see about it. Except God, I reckon, and he’s a little too big for my pistols.”
Whitfield sighed, nodded, and rose slowly from his chair. “Yes, there’s no one to see about this. Your pistols are worthless here, Miss Bonaventure. The Fates have turned their tricks, as they so often do.”
He slid the chair back against the wall. “You’d best rest. You’ll be here for a few more days. I need to keep a close eye on those wounds, make sure your fever is staying down. In a week or so, you should be able to move into the hotel in town, and finish recovering there.”
“Don’t worry, Doctor,” Louisa said. “I can pay for your services. Lou’s probably got my. . . .” She let her voice trail off. “Where is Lou, anyway? He must have brought me here.”
“Oh, he did, indeed.” Whitfield drew his mouth corners down distastefully. “He’s around somewhere. The first several hours after he brought you here, I practically had to lock my doors to keep him out so I could tend your wounds. No doubt he’ll be paying you a visit soon. He stops by every few hours or so. I’m sure he’d camp out here in your room if I let him. Partners, are you?”
“Sometimes, when I can stand the smell,” Louisa said, wryly, fatigue pressing down on her, making her eyelids heavy. “And I can endure his pranks and what he calls jokes.”
“Indeed,” Whitfield said. “I’m sure he’s quite the burden. Well, I’ll let you sleep.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” Louisa said, closing her eyes, already half-asleep. “I’ll . . . I’ll be out of your hair soon, I’m sure . . .”
“Indeed.” Whitfield drew the door partway closed, pausing to stare through the crack at his comely patient.
A bounty hunter with the vocabulary of a literate person. One who cries at sad stories.
Rather easy on the eyes, as well . . .
He latched the door and shuffled off down the hall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Prophet cantered Mean and Ugly up to the doctor’s side door and swung down from the saddle. He’d just dropped Mean’s reins when the door opened and Whitfield dropped down a step and stopped suddenly, frowning in surprise at his visitor. He had a gun belt and two holsters in his hands.
Prophet recognized Louisa’s fancy rig.
“Ah, there you are,” Whitfield said, quietly closing the door and dropping down one more step.
Prophet’s heart thudded. He didn’t like the expression on the doctor’s face. He seemed pensive, troubled. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Whitfield held up Louisa’s gun rig. “I was about to store this out in my stable for your partner. Don’t like guns in the house where Titus can get at them.”
“Oh.” Prophet felt relief wash through him. “She’s alive, then.”
“Yes. In fact, she was conscious just a few minutes ago. She fell out of bed, crawled across the floor, and got her hands on one of these. I thought she was going to shoot me.” Whitfield gave a wry snort.
“That’s Louisa.”
“I assured her she had no need for these on my premises.”
“Are you sure about that, Doc?”
“People in this town respect the wishes of their only doctor, Mr. Prophet. Call it an unfair advantage or whatever you like, but my withholding services can prove costly.”
He held the guns out, and Prophet took them and stowed them in his saddlebags. He turned to Whitfield. “Can I see her?”
“No.” Whitfield shook his head. “She just fell back asleep, and sleep is the best thing for her now.”
Prophet sighed and looked away. “Well, I’m glad to hear she’s still kickin’. Did she hurt herself fallin’ out of bed?”
“It doesn’t look like it. She’s a tough girl. A spirited girl.”
“That she is. Well . . .” Prophet gathered up Mean’s reins.
“Why don’t you come in for a drink, Mr. Prophet?”
Prophet had turned a stirrup out. Now he glanced in surprise at the doctor. “What’s that?”
Whitfield jerked his chin at the house. “Come in and have a drink. I have a bottle of Spanish brandy in my liquor cabinet. I don’t drink much, so it’s just been gathering dust. I mean”—he shrugged, offering a rare, sheepish half-smile—“if you’ve a mind. If you’ve nowhere else you need to be.”
“No, no,” Prophet said. “It’s just that—well, I’m a little surprised by the invitation, Doc.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been a trifle impolite,” the doctor said. “A little quick to judge, perhaps.”
“Well, hell,” Prophet said. “It’s bad luck to turn down a free drink.”
Prophet started forward. Whitfield cleared his throat meaningfully, glancing at the double bores of the shotgun hanging up above Prophet’s right shoulder.
“Oh, right,” Prophet said, and slung the Richards’s lanyard over his saddle horn.
He followed Whitfield through a kitchen and parlor and into the doctor’s office separated by French doors from the rest of the house. It was a small room, book-lined, and with a neat desk outfitted with a green-shaded Tiffany lamp. The room that flanked it, through a half-open door, appeared to be an examination room. In the main office, the smell of medicines mingled with the aroma of pipe tobacco.
Whitfield produced a cut-glass decanter from a plain walnut cabinet with glass doors. He filled two goblets and handed one to Prophet. “Have a seat.”
Prophet sank into a short, horsehair sofa flanking one wall while Whitfield sat in a wingback armchair beneath an oval-framed daguerreotype of himself when younger and a beautiful woman with her hair neatly lifted, rolled, and secured with an ornate tortoiseshell comb. She wore a ruffled white dress and held a bouquet of wildflowers.
Whitfield glanced up at the picture. “My wife.” He sipped his brandy and studied the image for a time, then turned back to Prophet. “She’s dead. Buggy accident. Same accident that gave me this bit of additional grief.”
Prophet set his hat down beside him on the sofa. “I’m sorry to hear that, Doc.”
“Your partner asked about Diana. She seemed quite moved by the story.”
Prophet sipped the brandy. He could tell it was good stuff, but he’d have preferred a couple belts of Tennessee Mountain. Brandy tasted bitter to his unrefined palate. Like wine. Give him a beer and a bourbon any day of the week. “Does that surprise you?”
“I guess it did, yes.”
“Louisa’s not your typical bounty hunter. She comes packing a whole steamer trunk of heartbreak.”
“Oh?”
“Her family was killed a few years back by an outlaw gang led by the bull demon of all demons, Handsome Dave Duvall.”
“Duvall?” Whitfield looked surprised.
“Yeah. Know the name?”
Whitfield shook his head. “No. I mean . . . I knew some Duvalls back where I came from, in Ohio, but I’m sure it’
s not the same family.”
“Doubtful. I think Duvall hailed from Alabama, but as a fellow Confederate, I recognize no kinship with that rabid coyote. Dead now, anyways, thank god.”
Whitfield looked down at the drink he held in both hands. “I see.”
“Duvall was a child killer. A rapist and a murderer of women. That, you see, Doc, is sort of Louisa’s specialty. Hunting down men who do harm to women and children. It’s her calling and she practices it with a religious fervor I ain’t seen since I left the healin’ preachers and snake charmers in the north Georgia mountains.”
Whitfield remained pensive. Something did indeed seem to be pestering the man, even more so now than when Prophet had just ridden up to the house.
“You all right, Doc?” Prophet asked.
Whitfield glanced up at him and quirked a phony smile. “Yes, I’m fine. Just a little tired, I guess.”
“I’m sure Louisa’s been a burden, having to check on her every hour.”
“She’ll be less so now. She still has a slight fever but it will gradually diminish. Now we just have to make sure there’s no infection. I’d like to keep her here for at least the next week. Then she should be able to move over to the hotel. She should fully recover before she returns to the saddle.”
“What’re the charges, Doc?” Prophet reached into a front jeans pocket. “Between us we got . . .”
Whitfield waved his hand. “No need for that yet. We’ll settle up when she leaves here. I sense that despite the lowliness of your occupation, you are an honorable man, Mr. Prophet. She certainly seems like an honorable woman, anyway.”
“Oh, I’m honorable. Don’t bathe much and tell stupid jokes, but you can trust me farther than you could throw me uphill.”
Whitfield chuckled. “Yes, she told me about your jokes.”
“She asked about me, did she?”
“Of course. I sense that you’re close.”
“Sometimes more than other times. I reckon we’re cut too much alike to not get along like gators of the same swamp.”
To Hell on a Fast Horse Page 15
