She listened carefully as he went over the details of treating Dawson’s fever if it went back up, keeping him on a simple diet that he could manage even in his stupor, changing his dressings.
“I’ll leave a little laudanum with you in case his pain gets worse,” Dr. Walker added, handing her a small amber bottle. “Be very careful in measuring out the amount. A teaspoon, no more, and only if his pain is bad. Too much could kill him. And if he gets too used to it, he won’t be able to do without it.”
She nodded, but she doubted Thorn would be asking for it. He seemed the sort of man to tough it out, rather than use laudanum as a crutch.
“I’ll come by every day to check on him, but if you need me to return sooner, just send Billy Joe down to get me as you did tonight.”
Then he was gone.
Daisy stared down at Thorn, who now lay fast asleep, his skin no longer flushed with fever, his chest rising and falling easily. She’d better get Billy Joe settled for the night, too, then return here to sit with Thorn. She hoped her son would go to sleep quickly tonight and would not pester her with questions, so he wouldn’t have to know his mother would be spending her night keeping vigil over the sick man. She knew that her son would offer to perform the vigil himself, and there was no way she could turn that responsibility over to Billy Joe, especially while there was still a chance that Thorn could die, despite all their care.
Lord, please raise Thorn Dawson back up to health, she prayed as she finally sat down in her kitchen to eat her supper. I prayed for You to save Peter, and I don’t know why Your answer was no then, though I’m sure You had Your reasons. But I fear watching another man die would shatter me, and I fear what it might do to Billy Joe.
Billy Joe had gone to bed as she’d instructed, and when she’d looked in on him after washing the dishes, he was asleep in the complete way that only the young and innocent can manage. He’d looked much younger than he was—as young as Peter had been when he’d cut himself with an ax while chopping wood.
Their parents had been away at a camp meeting, a religious revival held at intervals in their locale. As devoted as everyone was to their local church, a camp meeting was a special occasion—a chance to really focus on faith for days at a time, away from all other concerns. People came from miles around and camped out to hear the Word preached, to sing and have fellowship with other believers around the campfire while they shared their provisions. It was as much a social outlet as a religious experience, one of the few such outlets her strict parents allowed themselves. Daisy had been to other camp meetings, but this time she was to stay home and watch out for her brother, who wasn’t going because he needed to stay and tend their stock.
It hadn’t been a big cut on his leg that Peter had suffered when the ax slipped, and after coming inside to get a rag to bandage it with, he’d gone back to chopping wood, promising her that he’d wash the wound properly with soap and water once he had replenished the wood she’d need for cooking. She’d gotten busy with meal preparation and cleanup when the meal was done, leaving the kitchen neat as a pin, and hadn’t thought to remind him, or to check that he’d tended the wound properly. Now, years later, she was pretty sure that Peter had never washed the wound the way that he’d promised he would.
Within a day or so he was feverish and ill, and red streaks had spread upward from the wound. There was no doctor in their little settlement back then; the nearest one living some twenty miles away, and she couldn’t ride to fetch him because their parents had taken both their horses to pull the buckboard they’d driven to the camp meeting. She’d called in the neighbors, the few who hadn’t gone to the revival, but all they did was look frightened and twist their aprons as Peter got sicker and more delirious and the leg turned greenish-black. Finally, one of them sent for her parents, but it was too late; despite all her prayers and pleadings with God, Peter had died just an hour before their parents reached home.
They’d never said so out loud, but Daisy knew they’d always secretly blamed her for failing to save their only son.
So please, Lord, she prayed as she gathered up blankets and fresh sheets to take out to the barn with her, have mercy on Thorn Dawson, and on Billy Joe and me, and let Mr. Dawson live. I cannot imagine what Dawson dying would do to Billy Joe. I wouldn’t want him to stop believing in You, as I did for so long after Peter died. And I’m afraid failing again—this time to save this man’s life—would shatter me. I need to stay strong for Billy Joe’s sake, so he can grow up a strong, good man and follow Your paths, not take on the evil ways of his father.
In the barn, Daisy found her patient still asleep, and his forehead was still cool and dry. But it was not the peaceful, restorative sleep that her son was experiencing inside the house. Every few seconds, Thorn thrashed and twisted on the bed, his face contorted as if he found no solace in his slumber.
It’s the laudanum, she thought. It relieved pain, but the doctor had told her it could cause vivid, horrible dreams—a good thing, in Dr. Walker’s opinion, or more men would be addicted to its powerful influence than there were.
“Selena...” he moaned, an hour later, startling Daisy from her dozing.
Who was Selena? she wondered again. For him to call for her so often, she must be very close to his heart. Did Thorn Dawson have a sweetheart? Or was he perhaps a married man, leaving a wife alone somewhere, wondering if he was alive or dead? As soon as he was lucid, Daisy would have to find out. Then she would write this Selena and let her know her husband—or sweetheart—was being cared for to the best of Daisy’s ability. Perhaps Selena would even come and take him home.
Daisy tried to imagine what the woman looked like. Judging by her name, she sounded like a Tejana, a Mexican Texan, and Daisy pictured her with dark, flashing eyes, hair the color of a raven’s wing, with a ready, husky laugh and vivacious personality. Her complete opposite, both in coloring and temperament.
* * *
Selena. She’d been the reason he’d stayed in Texas when war broke out, instead of joining the army and going to fight with Hood, as so many of his friends had. Anyway, Thorn couldn’t see the point in leaving to fight the northern half of these United States for the right to own other people, when he didn’t own any slaves and never wanted to. He’d seen the danger in all the men going off, too, since if they all left their wives and sweethearts, it was as good as issuing an invitation to the Comanches and Kiowas and lawless white renegades to come and attack as much as they pleased, taking whatever they wanted and leaving nothing to come home to when the war was over. So he’d signed on with the Texas Rangers and fought with them to protect the state, while the other men went to fight the Yankees. Of course, working with the Rangers had had its share of dangers, but at least he was still there in Texas, could still see Selena often and make sure she was safe.
But she had died, anyway, caught in a vicious ambush purely by chance when she rode to meet Thorn for a picnic on the Llano River. He’d been late to arrive, for he’d bought her a ring at the mercantile, intending to propose marriage, and thought it only fitting to present it along with a bouquet of Indian paintbrush that grew in a field about a mile away. While he’d been picking flowers, Selena had been attacked at the riverbank by a roving gang who thought the lone woman easy prey. No doubt they’d planned to make a slave of her and sell her to the highest bidder after violating her, but she’d apparently resisted to the point where they had decided it would be easier to stab her and leave her dying, for him to find moments before she took her last breath. She’d never known he’d planned for this to be the happiest day of her life.
Now in his delirium she floated above him, looking just as she had when he’d found her that tragic day—pallid as a bleached bone except for the crimson slashes of her wounds, reaching for him desperately, longingly, her dark eyes huge in her too-white face.
“Selena...” Come back. Give me another chance to save you, to pr
otect you. I’ll never leave your side again...
He heard another female voice, and saw a woman bending over him, her face full of worry. Her hair and eyes were as pale as Selena’s had been dark, and she was pretty, though in a way that revealed she had known much care in her life, where Selena’s had been carefree until that fateful day.
The fair-haired woman spoke now, and he had trouble understanding her words because of the hot swirling, choking fog that surrounded him. But he thought she said, “I’m not Selena, I’m Daisy, and you have to fight this, Thorn, fight. You have to live.”
He couldn’t see the point, honestly. If he gave in to the fever that burned like an inferno within him, he’d be with Selena, and he knew he could be happy wherever she was. But the woman just kept sponging him with that cold, cold water, no matter how much he tried to protest and push her away, so he doubted he’d get his druthers.
Chapter Six
Two days later, Thorn woke from his feverish delirium, clear of mind but weak as a day-old calf. Every joint and muscle ached. His mouth was dry as the middle of a dust storm. He felt like a washcloth that had been wrung dry of every drop of water it had held. When he managed to focus his eyes, he made out the figure of Billy Joe, not Daisy, sitting on the hay bale beside his cot. Had Thorn only dreamed that she’d been there by his side every time he’d wakened while the fever held?
“W-water,” he croaked, startling Billy Joe so badly that the boy nearly fell off the bale.
“You—you’re awake,” the boy breathed, eyes goggling as if he could hardly believe it.
“Yes...th-thirsty... Need water...”
Billy Joe jumped to his feet and went to another hay bale, where a pitcher was sitting, and poured a small amount of water in a tin cup. This he held to Thorn’s lips, murmuring, “Take it slow, now. Don’t try to drink it fast or you’ll choke.”
The first few swallows didn’t reach their destination, for Thorn’s throat was so parched all he could do was cough and sputter, not swallow, bringing him no relief. But once he realized that the boy was right and he’d have to sip, not take big drafts, he was more successful, and the water finally cooled his mouth and reached his gullet. He could practically feel himself coming alive again. He drank the entire glass as slowly as he could force himself to take it.
“Wh-where’s D-Daisy?” he asked, when the boy told him he’d have to wait a bit before drinking any more.
Billy Joe stared at him. “Ma’s sleeping, and I’m not going to wake her,” he said, his chin jutting forward a bit pugnaciously. “She’s about dead on her feet after three days of working all day and watching over you all night. I told her to go to bed, that I’d watch out for you tonight, but she only agreed to ’cause she said you were getting better.”
“S-sorry to make so much trouble,” Thorn said, feeling bad that Daisy was exhausted because of him, though he certainly wouldn’t have chosen to fall ill as he had. “No, there’s no need to wake her. She needs her sleep.”
His response must have mollified Billy Joe somewhat, for the boy said, “She left some soup on the stove for you, if you woke up. You want it?”
It seemed to take an enormous effort just to nod, and Thorn wasn’t entirely sure he’d succeeded, so he added aloud, “Please. Soup w-would be g-good.” Sleepiness was creeping over him, threatening to reclaim him. He hoped he could remain awake long enough to eat the soup, for he knew instinctively that nourishment was the key to getting his strength back. He doubted they’d been able to get much food into him during the course of his fever.
It seemed like only seconds later that the boy was shaking him awake. “I thought you wanted this soup, Mr. Dawson. You gotta wake up.” He sounded put out that Thorn had fallen asleep instead of waiting for his return, and Thorn considered that the boy had gone to some trouble to warm the soup, so he roused himself enough to sit up and eat it. It was chicken with vegetables, and he decided he’d never tasted anything better in his life, not even steak. But he only had enough strength to down half a dozen spoonfuls before he felt his eyelids drifting shut again.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I’ll eat the rest...later. You...go on to bed, B-Billy Joe.”
The boy shook his head, his eyes fierce. “No, sir. Ma said to sit up with you and make sure you didn’t need anything, so that’s what I’m a-gonna do,” he declared.
“No n-need,” he told Billy Joe, but he could see it would do no good to argue, so didn’t bother to protest any further. He just let his eyes drift shut again.
As he sank back down onto the cot, he caught a whiff of himself. One thing was certain—he was going to ask for some water to wash with as soon as he was strong enough. He smelled worse than a mildewed saddle blanket. He felt a flash of embarrassment for having let Daisy see—and smell—him in such a state, but then the drowsiness took over and everything, even embarrassment, faded away.
* * *
“You sure look better than you have in the last few days,” Tilly commented when she arrived at the hotel restaurant the next morning, close to being late, as usual.
Her remark caught Daisy by surprise. The waitress usually had nothing nice to say to her, and this was as close to a compliment as she had ever offered.
Daisy stirred the scrambled eggs cooking in the huge iron skillet in front of her. “Thank you. I got a good night’s sleep last night, so I feel pretty chipper.” It had been restoring to get a solid amount of sleep in her own bed, knowing her “guest” in the barn was improving, and Billy Joe was on watch during the night. It had been even better to go out to the barn after she’d arisen this morning and find Thorn Dawson sitting up on his cot, eyes alert, his color good, and his voice strong and steady as he assured her he was eager to devour breakfast.
He’s going to live, her heart had sung within her. She hadn’t failed this time. He wasn’t going to die, as her brother had.
“Oh, too bad,” Tilly said in a disappointed tone. “I thought maybe you’d met someone, and had a gentleman caller visit you last night.”
Daisy felt a flush threatening to bloom on her cheeks. Thorn was certainly no “gentleman caller,” but the woman had come too close to the truth with her insinuation that there was a new man in Daisy’s life. “Where would I meet a beau, Tilly? No, my son is the only man I need or want in my life.”
“Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it,” the waitress said in her sly way. “That son of yours is going to be all growed up and gone someday, and then where will you be? All alone, that’s where. I have a beau, and I highly recommend it.”
Daisy wondered idly where Tilly had met such a man, then figured it was better not to ask. She knew the other woman flirted tirelessly with cowboys and other bachelors who came in for a meal, and knew too that their boss would fire the waitress if he knew about it, for Mr. Prendergast was a stickler for propriety in his employees. If Daisy was as ruthless as Tilly, she’d tell Mr. Prendergast all about the waitress’s behavior...but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Tilly needed this job, just as Daisy needed hers. It would be unkind and unchristian to try to get her dismissed as waitress. And anyway, Daisy wasn’t the sort to tattle.
“I’m glad you have a beau, but Billy Joe is my priority,” she said, and was relieved when the tinkling bell at the entrance of the restaurant announced their first customer. Tilly would have to turn her attention to business now. Daisy began to think of what she would cook for the noon meal, and of taking it home to Thorn for his lunch during her break.
As she’d been leaving the barn, he had asked Billy Joe to bring him his razor from his saddlebags so he could shave. After checking with Daisy for her approval, Billy Joe had offered to lend him her hand mirror, too. The idea of seeing Thorn clean-shaven and wearing a fresh shirt put a spring in her step that hadn’t been there before.
Careful, she told herself. Don’t get too used to his pre
sence. He’s no “gentleman caller” like Tilly has been gushing about. Now that Dawson is on the mend, he’ll be leaving soon and chances are you’ll never see him again.
* * *
Two days had passed since he’d woken after his fever, and although his wounds still pained him some, Thorn wasn’t remotely tempted to ask for any more laudanum. Who needed the sort of weird, fantastic dreams the medicine brought on? He was finally feeling “on the mend” as both the sawbones and Daisy had pronounced him to be.
Recovery was making him restless. While he wasn’t at all eager to return to the outlaws and their constant plotting about who to steal from next, not to mention the danger involved with those escapades to the outlaws themselves and to their hapless victims, Thorn figured they would have ways of hearing that he hadn’t died of his wounds. After all, if he’d died then his body would have turned up by this point. Since it hadn’t, they had to be curious about where he was right now.
Before long they’d come looking for him, if they weren’t already. No one left the Griggs gang unless Griggs himself wanted you gone—and that usually meant he was sending you straight to your Maker. If the gang figured Thorn was alive then they would find him and bring him back into the fold, whether he wanted to go or not.
And he sure didn’t want them to find him here, nursed by the lovely Daisy Henderson. Exposing her to danger would be a poor return for her kindness and care. Just the thought of Gordon Griggs looking at Daisy Henderson made Thorn’s blood boil and his fists clench. No, he had to get strong so he could leave and make sure Griggs’s and Daisy’s paths never intersected.
In any case, he was eager to see his mission finished. And it couldn’t be finished till the Griggs gang was behind bars.
He’d been forcing himself to get up and walk the length of the barn several times that day, and he was feeling stronger as a result of even that little exercise. He’d have liked to step out in the sunlight and fresh air, to see if he was strong enough to walk from one end of the little town to the other, but of course he didn’t dare show his face outside. But now, under the cover of darkness, he was eager to feel the night air on his face.
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