She felt her mouth hanging agape in awed wonderment but could not seem to command it to close. Without his hat and heavy beard, the purely perfect, sculpted contours of his face were blessedly exposed. Square-jawed and cleft-chinned, Rowdy had high cheekbones that gave him the look of something akin to European aristocracy. He looked like some mythical, warrior prince! Further mesmerizing, his green eyes flashed with light, undimmed by the brim of his hat as they usually were.
Naturally, there was no ignoring the large wound at his right cheek that Doctor Gregory now worked to stitch, but even it did not detract one smidgen from the fact that the rather unmasked face of Rowdy Gates was stunning—literally breathtaking!
“Come on, sweet pea,” Lawson said then, rising to his feet. Taking Calliope’s hands in his own, he pulled her from her seat in the chair in Doctor Gregory’s office and to her feet. “Let’s get you home.”
At last Calliope was able to close her gaping mouth, but she blushed, knowing she’d been staring at Rowdy as if gold were spilling from his ears.
Somehow she managed to stammer, “Th-thank you, Mr. Gates,” to Rowdy.
He grinned at her and nodded, saying, “My pleasure, Miss Calliope.”
Looking to Doctor Gregory—who stood, offering a blood-smeared hand to her father—Calliope said, “And thank you, Doctor Gregory.”
“Of course, Miss Ipswich,” the doctor said as Lawson accepted his handshake.
“Yes, Nelson,” Lawson said, careless of the blood on the doctor’s hand. “Thank you.”
“I’m just glad it was Rowdy that sustained the lacerations,” Doctor Gregory said. “I’d hate to have had to stitch up Miss Ipswich here.” He smiled at Calliope, adding, “You’re such a lovely young woman, Miss Calliope.”
“Thank you,” Calliope mumbled. She looked to Rowdy again, and again he grinned at her, nodding his reassurance that he was fine.
“And, Rowdy,” Lawson continued, “I’ll take care of lighting the lamps tonight…and putting them out in the morning.”
“Oh, no, Judge!” Rowdy began to argue. “It’s no problem. I’ll just—”
“I’ll take care of it, Rowdy,” Lawson interrupted, however. “Please, allow me that one small task, as part of my thanks for your rescue of my daughter. All right?”
Rowdy frowned, and Calliope knew he was not a man to allow anyone to help him—let alone do his job for him—no matter what the circumstance.
“I think it would be wise to let it go for one night, Rowdy,” Doctor Gregory confirmed. “You’ve lost more blood than you think because of that head wound. You really should head home to bed, at least for tonight.”
Calliope could see the man’s struggle. It was obvious he had no intention of allowing anyone to help him.
Therefore, quickly she said, “Please, Mr. Gates, I won’t sleep a wink tonight for worrying if you don’t do as the doctor suggests. Please, just go home and rest tonight, and let Daddy take care of the lamps. Please?”
Shaking his head, Rowdy rather grumbled, “Well, all right, Judge. But just light them tonight. I can put them out in the mornin’ well enough.”
Calliope knew her father was a wise man. She’d always known it.
But when Judge Ipswich agreed, “All right, Rowdy,” his wisdom was even more evident. He knew Rowdy Gates’s pride could only take so much—and so he’d agreed with Rowdy.
“Now let’s get you home,” Lawson said then. Putting a strong arm around her shoulder, Calliope’s father pulled her close against him.
As much as she hated to leave Rowdy—as guilt-ridden as she felt over what had happened to him—she knew that Doctor Gregory was capable. After all, hadn’t she already done enough? Hadn’t she ruined his day, caused him pain and injury? What more could she do but leave him to his peace? Most likely he was relieved as she and her father stepped out of Doctor Gregory’s physician’s office.
“Did you see how much blood there was, Daddy?” Calliope asked as she walked toward home with her father still holding her close against him.
“I did,” Lawson admitted. “But head wounds, they bleed quite fiercely, and Rowdy seemed otherwise well.”
“It’s my fault,” Calliope whispered.
“It’s no one’s fault, sweetheart,” Lawson assured her in a low, soothing voice. “Now let’s just get you home, cleaned up, and comfortable. Kizzy’s got stew simmering on the stove, and it should be just the thing to settle you down.”
But Calliope doubted that anything would ever settle her down again. Rowdy Gates was so terribly wounded! How would she ever handle the guilt of knowing that, because of her, he’d been hurt? And not just because he’d saved her by jumping into the millpond with her. The only reason she was even there—and stepped on the soft soil on the high bank—was because she’d been spying on him. It really was all her fault—all of it!
*
“Now you take it easy gettin’ home, Rowdy,” Doc Gregory said as Rowdy mounted his horse, Tucker. “Get home and eat somethin’, and then get right to bed. You’ll most likely feel like hell in the mornin’ too. So don’t overexert yourself tomorrow either.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Rowdy said. He already felt like hell, but there was no reason to let on. His head and face, and pretty much every other part of him, throbbed and ached something awful. But he’d been through worse—much worse. Therefore, he determined not to let a couple of little scrapes and bruises and a dip in the millpond drag him down too far. He was tired, however. Home, supper, and bed were sounding mighty inviting.
Reining Tucker toward home, Rowdy’s attention fell to a chestnut and white appaloosa tied to a hitching post in front of the diner across the street. For just a moment, Rowdy’s heart leapt inside his chest with an awful anxiety—for the appaloosa looked exactly like one he’d known from years past. Still, what were the odds that appaloosa from the past was even still alive—and still ridden by the man who’d owned it back then? Slim to none, Rowdy figured.
Shaking his head, he mumbled, “Get on home, Tucker. My head’s poundin’ like there’s a drum pent up inside it.” Tucker whinnied and started for home.
Glancing back once more at the appaloosa tied up in front of the diner, Rowdy shook his aching head and sighed. The day had been long, fatiguing, not to mention injurious, and Rowdy figured the culmination of a day the like he’d had was causing him to imagine things in the end.
Still, as he rode home, keeping Tucker’s pace slow and steady to combat the dizziness that began in his head every time he tried to hurry things up, Rowdy figured it made sense that any chestnut and white appaloosa would put him in mind of Arness. And even for the remarkable resemblance between the appaloosa tied up in front of the diner and Arness’s horse, Pronto, he figured old Pronto would be near to five years old by now. And even if Pronto hadn’t broken a leg or died of some other ailment or injury, Rowdy knew the horse wouldn’t look as fresh and fine as the one in front of the diner did. Arness never took good enough care of his horses, and Pronto had been no different.
Yet as Rowdy dismounted Tucker, unsaddled him, brushed him, and gave him a bucket of oats in his stall, the sight of that chestnut and white appaloosa in town nagged at his mind. The fact was it had brought back too many memories—bad ones. Rowdy figured that was what was eating at him. He was tired, banged up, and hungry. No wonder the appaloosa in town had turned his head a moment.
At last, however, Rowdy sat down next to Dodger’s pile of rocks and exhaled a heavy sigh.
“I had me quite a day today, boy,” he spoke aloud to his friend’s remains. Rowdy lay down on the grass next to Dodger’s grave and gazed up at the dusk-dusted sky. “First off, I had to keep from smashin’ both Fox Montrose and that Tate Chesterfield in the face when I come upon them in town, tugging Calliope back and forth like they was fightin’ over a piece of meat. But I got through that without any incident.” He sighed, tucked his hands under his head, and continued, “Then them damn pigeons crapped all over me again, and I went outside
to wash off and came upon the pretty Ipswich girl out for a walk along the high bank. Now that’s a tale to tell you! But I’m tired, so I’ll give you the short of it—which is, holdin’ that piece of heaven in my arms was well worth a couple of lumps on the head, I’ll tell you that!”
Rowdy closed his eyes and just breathed for a moment. Even for the cool aroma of the evening air, he could still smell the sweet fragrance of Calliope Ipswich. Somehow her fragrance had imprinted itself forever in his brain. He’d only had a whiff of it—just a whiff—the instant he’d wrapped his arms around her and jumped them off the high bank. But he’d never forget it. Calliope Ipswich smelled like warm bread and butter, lavender, and mint, all rolled together in one beautiful perfume.
“I ain’t gonna lie to you, Dodger,” Rowdy whispered. “I’d take three more cuts in the head just to have her in my arms again…even for a second.” He chuckled. “Of course, I think three more cuts on the head mighta done me in. I’ve been dizzy all the rest of the afternoon from bleedin’ out. Even thought I saw Arness’s horse in town a while ago.”
Rowdy exhaled another heavy sigh of fatigue. He reached over with one hand and laid it on top of the large rock in the middle of Dodger’s grave. “I wouldn’t have made it that day, Dodger. If it hadn’t been for you, I woulda died out there for sure.” He paused awhile. Then an instant before Rowdy Gates began to drift off to sleep under the old willow tree, stretched out next to the best friend he’d ever had in all the world, he mumbled, “I sure do miss you.”
As sleep overtook him, he imagined he could hear Dodger’s happy bark calling to him from off somewhere in the distance. “I sure do,” he breathed.
*
“Are you sure you’re feelin’ all right, honey?” Kizzy asked as she handed Calliope a glass of warmed milk.
“Yes,” she assured her worried stepmother and friend. “I’m just worn out. It’s not every day I fly thirty feet off the millpond’s high bank to go for a dive in the water,” she said, smiling at Shay.
Shay had hardly left Calliope’s side since the moment she and her father had arrived home with the harrowing tale of what had happened out at the millpond.
“Well, I’ve finished the pattern for the flower girls’ dresses,” Evangeline announced as she spread pieces of muslin out on the parlor floor.
“Maybe we should make sure we can convince Mr. Longfellow to let Mamie and Effie actually be the flower girls before we go making up their dresses, don’t you think?” Calliope teased.
But Evangeline was undaunted. “Oh, he’ll agree to it,” she said, waving her hand as if dismissing a triviality. “But I think their dresses should be lavender…and the bridesmaids’ and maid of honor’s yellow. What do you think? Or should we just go yellow all the way around? Hmmm?”
Calliope’s brow furrowed as she considered Evangeline’s question. “I don’t know, Evie. If we do all the dresses in yellow, then the lilacs and greenery will contrast so beautifully. But we could do lavender flower girl dresses and have yellow roses as their flowers. That would contrast nicely as well.”
Evangeline frowned too. Then shaking her head, she said, “No. No, I agree. Let’s do all yellow dresses. I think that will look much more soft and sweet. And then with the lilacs and greenery—”
“Here comes Daddy!” Shay exclaimed then.
Kizzy giggled as she gazed out the parlor window into the street as well. “Oh, doesn’t he look handsome?” she mumbled. “I just love it when he’s all dressed down like this.”
“You mean instead of in his judge’s robes and all?” Calliope teased.
Kizzy blushed. “Yes. Your father is such a handsome man, and those drab old judge’s robes do nothin’ to let everyone see his muscles.”
“Mama!” Shay giggled, feigning astonishment.
Evangeline and Calliope smiled and exchanged glances of contentment. They were always pleased when Kizzy’s adoration of their father was more obvious than usual. In town or at social gatherings, Kizzy played the calm, proper little wife of the judge. At home, especially when they were in private (or thought they were in private), Kizzy and Lawson Ipswich were as affectionate and passionate as any two lovers ever were.
“I’m so glad you love Daddy, Kizzy,” Calliope said, suddenly feeling more grateful than ever that her father had Kizzy to love—and to love him in return. “You’re so beautiful and vibrant, and you love him passionately—just the way I want to love one day.”
Kizzy’s eyes filled with moisture born of unexpected and intense emotion. “Well…well, thank you, Calliope,” Kizzy breathed. “I never have felt worthy of capturin’ his affections, you know.”
“I do know,” Calliope said, smiling at her. “But you are far more than worthy of him.” She reached out, embracing Kizzy a moment. “Thank you for that…and for Shay.”
“Look, Mama!” Shay exclaimed then. “Daddy’s lightin’ our lamp right this minute!”
Evangeline got up from her place on the floor, abandoning the muslin pattern pieces and gazing out the window with her sisters and stepmother.
“Hello, Daddy!” Shay called, gently knocking on the window. She squealed with delight as Lawson looked to the window, smiled, and waved. “He sees us! He sees us!”
As the Ipswich women watched Lawson continue on his way to light the remaining street lamps of Meadowlark Lake, Evangeline giggled.
“What’s so amusing?” Calliope asked her sister.
“I was just thinking…isn’t it funny that we all are so much more excited about Daddy being the lamplighter for the evening than we ever were for one minute about him being a judge?” she explained.
Calliope smiled. “That’s because a lamplighter is a mysterious, romantic type of character, and a judge is just…well, severe in appearance, I suppose.” Calliope’s smile faded almost instantly, however. “I wonder how Mr. Gates is faring tonight,” she mumbled.
“I’m sure he’s just fine, Calliope,” Kizzy encouraged. “He’s a very strong man. I’m sure that after a night’s rest, he’ll be back to work at the mill in the mornin’ as usual.”
“Calliope, why don’t you and me make a pie for Mr. Gates tomorrow?” Shay suggested with youthful exuberance. “Then we can take it over to him after the mill closes down for the day, and you can thank him proper for savin’ you!”
“W-well, I…I don’t know if we should,” Calliope stammered.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea, Shay!” Kizzy agreed, however.
“You do?” Calliope asked—rather surprised by Kizzy’s collaborative opinion.
“I most certainly do,” Kizzy answered. “Why, I bet Rowdy Gates hardly ever gets a pie brought to him.”
“I think it’s a good idea, as well,” Evangeline chimed in.
“Then it’s decided,” Shay said. “Tomorrow you and me will make Mr. Gates a pie and take it to him so he can have it for his supper.”
Calliope frowned. “He’ll probably look at me and wish I’d never been born.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Calliope,” Evangeline lovingly scolded. “He will not.”
“But you didn’t see his injuries, Evangeline!” Calliope argued as tears filled her eyes. “You didn’t see the blood everywhere! It was all over him, draining from his head down over his face to those broad, broad shoulders of his.”
Calliope stopped her dramatics almost at once, however. “Oh my!” she whispered to herself as a vision of Rowdy Gates, shirtless and wet and hovering over her with concern on his face, leapt to her mind.
In all the chaos of her slipping—of their fall and plunge into the water—with all the bedlam of the other men from the mill coming down to help them—of Rowdy’s profuse bleeding—it was only then, in that calm moment at home, that the vision of Rowdy so wonderfully disrobed and muscular lingered in her mind.
“Oh my, what?” Evangeline prodded.
“Oh my, I…I…” Calliope stammered. But her mouth could not form words, for as her memory leapt from Rowdy hoveri
ng over her on the bank of the millpond to the way he’d appeared when Doctor Gregory had finished shaving him, she was rendered speechless. Suddenly all she could think of—all she could see in her mind’s eye—was the dazzling deep green of his eyes, his square jaw and cleft chin, his perfect nose.
“What’s the matter, Calliope?” Shay asked with concern. “Are you all right?”
“Y-yes,” Calliope managed, forcing another smile. “I’m just a bit tired, I suppose.”
“Well then, you best get to bed,” Kizzy said, taking the glass of milk from Calliope. “Sleep in a bit in the mornin’, darlin’. You had quite a day.”
“Yes, I did,” Calliope agreed.
Once she’d kissed each member of her family good night—including her father, for she waited for his return before retiring—and lay comfortably tucked into bed, Calliope stared out the window of her bedroom, gazing up into the clear night sky. As she lay there, she wondered at Rowdy Gates’s well-being. Had he eaten supper? Was he comfortable? Was he warm? Had the bleeding of his wounds finally stopped completely? Was he in pain?
Desperate to find sleep and thereby a reprieve from worry, Calliope began to count the stars twinkling like tiny flakes of frost in the dark night sky. And the activity did cause her eyelids to grow heavy and her mind to empty. Yet even as slumber overtook her, it wasn’t images of stars twinkling in the sky that prevailed in her mind but the image of the masterful work of art that was Rowdy Gates’s shaven face.
“His eyes…his green eyes,” Calliope whispered to herself as unconsciousness overtook her. “They take my breath from me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Good morning, Calliope,” Lawson greeted as Calliope stepped into the kitchen the next morning. The rest of the Ipswich family was already sitting down to breakfast.
The Secret Bliss of Calliope Ipswich Page 9
