by Jodi Thomas
She forced herself to look at Westley. Whoever had doctored him hadn’t even bothered to button his shirt and vest when he’d finished. The bandage that had been laid over him now drooped to the side as if the doctor had considered it a waste of time to secure it properly. He was, in truth, near death. His fever was high and the wound was seeping. The area around the stitches was already showing signs of being infected.
Standing back a foot, she stared down at this man she hardly knew. She had carried his name proudly all through the war and he had dishonored her. If that had not been enough to make her hate him, he’d beaten Cherish. Margaret wished him dead from the very depths of her soul, but if she was ever going to get out of jail and help protect Cherish from the terror going on at Hattie’s Parlor, she had to save Westley’s life.
“Mr. Tucker! Fetch my bag from the house and put on a pot of water to boil. I’ll need whiskey, soap, and plenty of clean bandages.”
The sheriff smiled. He knew most folks didn’t like Westley Alexander and could care less who killed him, but Westley and the sheriff had downed an ocean of drinks together and he reckoned he owed him one. He watched as Margaret worked and laughed to himself. Wouldn’t they have a joke telling old Westley that his wife was the one that saved his life? After talking to her five minutes, he’d known she wasn’t the one who’d stabbed Westley. But a man had to take some action when he was sheriff, before the town started thinking about how he might need replacing.
Wart returned with the bag. Margaret worked fast, not wanting to touch Westley any more than she had to. In a matter of minutes she’d cleaned the wound and applied a smelly black salve. As her hands slid along his flabby abdomen, she thought of how she’d touched Grayson the night they’d spent together under the stars. His stomach had been hard and tight.
Margaret forced herself to continue. She drew strength from Wart’s logic. Westley had to recover so that she could make him pay for what he’d done to Cherish.
With the skill of a professional, she wrapped the wound. Her actions were ordered by reflex as her mind tried not to think. Finally, she placed a cool towel across his forehead and asked to be excused from the cell.
The sheriff motioned for Wart to follow her outside and keep an eye on her, but the deputy allowed her privacy once they were out back.
Margaret walked to the washstand several feet away and began pouring water into a tin basin. As the water splashed silver in the moonlight, her hands began to shake. Water spilled everywhere and she had no control. Suddenly her entire body was shaking. Her fingers released the tin pitcher and it clattered noisily to the ground. She gripped the side of the stand for support, for the world was turning, flying upside down.
“Margaret!” A voice shouted from what seemed like a long way away. “Margaret!”
The earth was moving like a swing through the air. All she could see before her was Cherish’s face all bruised and bloody. The description of Azile’s body materialized in her mind. The feel of Westley’s flesh crawled across her skin as the smell of his wound filled her lungs. They blended with all the bodies she’d seen over the four years of war … all the blood … all the pain.
“Margaret!”
Someone was pulling her to him … pulling her into the strong wall of his chest … pulling her back to reality.
Maggie held tightly, afraid that if she let go she’d release all the sanity left in her mind. She clung to him with the last hope in her life, burying her face against his chest so she could no longer smell the blood.
Grayson pulled her against him. He’d known something was wrong the moment he’d seen her. “Margaret,” he kept whispering as his hands pressed her closer to him. He wanted his warmth to flow into her. He’d seen strong men snap after battle and knew he had to get through to her without delay. She had to find her axis before she was thrown off center forever.
Slowly, he felt her strength returning. He made no effort to kiss her, for now was not the time. She needed his friendship, not his passion. She needed an anchor to hold to for a moment.
When her hand was steady on his shoulder and her breathing had slowed, she pulled away from him. He let her go and dropped his arms, knowing that she wouldn’t want to be reminded of her weak moment. He didn’t ask if she was all right, for he knew the concern would not be appreciated.
Without a word, Margaret walked to the back door of the jail. When she reached the steps, she turned and asked in a voice as cold and calm as ever, “Why aren’t you watching Cherish?”
“She’s safe.” He wasn’t about to tell her that he’d sent Cherish off with one of the most wanted outlaws in Texas. If she found out, there would be hell to pay. Brant Coulter would probably turn himself in just to avoid her wrath.
“And what about Bar and Hattie?”
Grayson opened the door for her, hoping to end the discussion. “Bar’s with Holliday and she sent a couple of her girls over to sit with Hattie.”
Her next question hit him square between the eyes. “Then why are you here?”
“I …” Grayson wasn’t sure how much she knew about Azile’s killing. If she didn’t know about it, he wasn’t about to be the one to frighten her. “I thought I’d check on you and see if you needed anything.”
Margaret marched through the door ahead of him into the office. “If I needed anything, I would have asked Mr. Tucker.”
Grayson glanced around but all he saw in the room was the sheriff and Deputy Wart. “Well, maybe I thought I’d stay around and make sure you’re safe.”
Margaret didn’t look at Grayson. “Mr. Tucker will make sure of that. He’s even volunteered to walk Holliday up to the house to check on Hattie.”
“Hattie will never know. She’s too far gone,” Grayson mumbled as he glanced around the room for some guard he hadn’t seen, but again all he saw was the aging sheriff and the dim-witted deputy. “Maggie, you don’t know what kind of trouble is out there. I’m sleeping here tonight to keep an eye on you.”
Margaret turned her back to the men. “I trust Mr. Tucker will be willing to do that.”
Grayson lost all control of his already loud voice. “Who in the hell is Mr. Tucker?”
The clatter of a chair falling backward and a box of bullets flying all over the floor answered his question.
An hour later, Grayson propped his own chair against the wall by the door and leaned back, trying to get his huge body in some position where he could sleep. He heard Margaret moving about the cell taking care of Westley, but she never acknowledged his presence. If she needed anything, she politely asked Mr. Tucker.
Grayson cursed under his breath. The damn woman didn’t know when a man was trying to save her hide. He was bone-weary and madder than hell at the way she treated him, but the need for her still kept him from ever finding a comfortable position.
About midnight, the sheriff got tired of hanging around waiting for something to happen and decided to go over and try his luck at poker. Being a sheriff was his part-time job, with gambling being his true occupation. But one career helped out the other, and in a town this wild there weren’t too many men standing in line to wear a badge. Being the sheriff usually kept the game he was in honest, and being a gambler taught him how to read a man.
“‘Night, Sheriff,” Wart said as the sheriff grunted and left. The moment the door closed, Wart lay down on a cot in the back and started snoring.
Grayson swore again. Why was it that people who snored always managed to fall asleep first? He raised the brim of his hat enough to watch Maggie. She covered Westley and moved to the corner of the cell where her belongings had been placed on a small table. Slowly, with weary hands, she pulled the pins from her hair and shook the curls free.
Grayson fought the urge to go to her. He didn’t want another scene. Even though she’d allowed him to hold her in the dark out back, he knew she was still angry with him.
With long, graceful strokes she began combing her hair. The black mass waved past her hips as she turned he
r back to him. As the brush moved through the silky strands, Grayson could almost feel his fingers touching it. He remembered the night they’d spent by the stream. He remembered how she’d come to him all fresh and washed with her hair tumbling free. He could almost taste her mouth and feel the fullness of her breasts pressing against him. He wanted her a hundred times more than he’d ever wanted a woman but there were more than bars that stood between them.
Margaret’s mind might lock him out, but he knew he’d already shattered the walls surrounding her heart. Grayson smiled to himself. She was a strong woman, but in the end she’d surrender. After all, that was the way it was meant to be, and one of these days—soon—he planned to convince Maggie of that fact.
Chapter 21
Brant carried Cherish through the tunnel with great care. He couldn’t believe that he was taking her with him. Holliday had assured him that she had no broken bones and that in a few days her wounds would heal. But Brant had never been responsible for anyone in his life except himself and the responsibility frightened him more than a hanging.
He’d traveled the back streets of Fort Worth all his life and knew how to slip from shadow to shadow without anyone aware of his passing. He moved as swiftly as he could without endangering his precious cargo. She was so light in his arms, more pleasure than burden. Yet each time he looked down at her brought pain, for he knew that eventually he’d have to leave her forever. What kind of love, or even friendship, could exist between an outlaw and a lady?
Somehow fate had allowed them to be together once again and he planned to enjoy the only slice of heaven he’d probably ever know. For one week she was his. All he had to do was keep them alive.
As he reached the mission, he saw Father Daniel crossing the yard with another man. The two men were arguing in low, snapping whispers. Brant melted into the shadows before they saw him. The last thing he wanted was another run-in with Daniel.
The priest’s voice carried through the night. “But what about the housekeeper?”
The man with him threw his arms up in disgust. “I told you, we found her dead near the opium huts., All we did was wrap her body up and throw it on the porch while the drunks were storming the house. You didn’t think we’d resort to killing women, did you? All we’re after is the list. As soon as we find it, then all that Alexander woman will have to worry about is the drunks and her husband.”
“I’ve told you before, if there were a list, I’d have found it by now.” Father Daniel was getting madder by the minute and Brant knew it would be only a matter of time before he lost control. But there was nothing Brant could do about it with Cherish in his arms.
The other man tried reasoning with the priest. “We have to get rid of that Union officer for a few days. With every drunk in town thinking there’s a treasure hidden in that house, there will be hell to pay if anyone finds that list besides us.”
“Fat chance of that. My guess is the thing never existed. As for Captain Kirkland, talk to Wallman, not me. He’ll think of something. So far, the only one he hasn’t been able to twist to his plan is Margaret Alexander.”
The men moved out of Brant’s hearing and into the mission. As silently as a cloud crosses the moon, Brant crossed the open area of the mission and entered the barn. He laid Cherish gently on the hay and saddled his horse.
Cherish made a little sound like an injured child as he lifted her into the saddle and climbed up behind her. He hesitated, not knowing where he could touch her without hurting her.
Tenderly, Brant pulled her against his chest and wrapped the blanket tightly around her. “It’s all right, baby,” he whispered.
She cuddled against him as they rode down the back trail of the mission and out of town. The moon was a huge gold piece in the sky, guiding their path eastward. She fell into a deeper sleep and didn’t wake until it was almost dawn.
As she stirred against Brant’s warm chest, he whispered, “We’re here.” He could have covered the distance in a few hours, but he hadn’t wanted to jar her, so he’d walked his horse and held her until his arms ached from cramping.
Lifting her to the ground, he carried her into an old dugout almost buried in the side of a hill. “I found this place by accident a few months ago. It’s shielded from view on three sides by ridges, and the cottonwoods have grown up so high by the creek you can’t see it from the front unless you know what to look for.”
Laying Cherish on a straw bed, he turned and lit a candle. “I figure this must have been someone’s homestead ten or more years ago and the Indians ran them out. Or maybe they just got tired of living out here alone and moved to Dallas.”
Cherish looked around the tiny, one-room shelter as Brant moved about. Three of the walls were dug out from the earth with the top and front made of logs. Even though the sun was coming up, the little home was still dark and cool. Cherish lay back on the small bed and smiled. The room reminded her of the homestead where she’d been born: cool and earthy. A dugout always had a way of welcoming folks—warm in the winter, cool in the summer. When she’d been a child she’d often taken her naps in the cool darkness of the dugout behind her home. Now, she stretched beneath the blanket and closed her eyes.
Brant settled them into the place while she dozed. He stabled his horse in the trees by the stream and split enough wood to keep them warm should the night turn cold. Then he cooked the handful of beans from his saddlebag until they were a thick, brown soup.
“Cherish,” Brant whispered as he stood at the foot of the bed. “You want something to eat?”
She looked up at him and smiled with the trust of a child. He could tell she was feeling better. The bruises on her face were fading and for the first time since the beating she was hungry.
They ate in silence. He wasn’t sure what they should talk about. He’d seen people, men and women, sit down to a meal together and talk quietly, but he’d never given much thought to what they would actually say. Finally, when she’d finished her second bowl of soup, he lifted a medicine pouch from his saddlebag. “I think I’d better change the bandage on your knee.”
“It’s not that bad.” Cherish looked embarrassed. “I’m not used to anyone taking care of me except for Margaret. I can change it myself later.”
Brant knelt beside her bed. “No. Holliday would have my neck if she thought I wasn’t taking the best care of you possible. That old woman makes up her mind about a person the minute she sees them, and if she likes you she considers you blood kin from then on. You lie back. I’ve changed a few dressings before.”
Nervously, Cherish leaned back in the bed and remained still as he lifted back the covers on her legs. More to calm her nerves than out of interest, she asked, “You’ve known Holliday long?” A smile lifted the corner of Brant’s mouth. “I’ve known her most of my life. She’s not as old as most folks think, but she’s danced to a few too many fiddles.”
“You like her?”
“Sure. She’s helped me out of a few tight spots, but her heart and friendship aren’t for sale.” Brant laid all the bandages beside Cherish. “I think she’d like to find a man to take her out of the business, but so far the only one who’s offered is the half-witted deputy in town.” Cherish leaned back and closed her eyes as Brant rolled his sleeves to his elbows and began.
Slowly, as if he were afraid he might hurt her, he pushed her nightgown up over her bandaged knee. She smiled as he gently unwrapped the wound.
“It looks like it’s healing nicely.” Brant’s voice sounded tense as he worked. “I’ll put some more salve on your leg and wrap it with a fresh bandage.”
Cherish watched him closely. “You’re acting as though you’ve never doctored a wound. I’m not breakable.”
Brant didn’t smile, but concentrated on what he was doing. She thought about how he’d kissed her with such fire the first time they’d met, and how now he seemed afraid to touch her.
He finished wrapping her knee and carefully pulled her nightgown back over her legs. “You need
to rest.”
Cherish allowed him to pamper her by tucking the covers around her. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You’ve a very gentle touch.”
Brant knelt on one knee beside her bed. “Cherish, I don’t. Most of the time I’m around you I feel like I’m going to hurt you. You’ve got to tell me if I should do something and don’t. I’ve never spent much time around a lady like you.”
She didn’t hear him, for as soon as her eyes closed she was asleep. He looked down at her, thinking she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She was so perfect; she had no place in his life. Maybe, if they’d met back before the war, but not now. He’d killed too many men for the law to listen to his reasons.
Grabbing his bedroll, Brant moved out of the dugout. He spread his blanket by the door and lay down, welcoming the hard earth beneath him. What kind of hell had he gotten himself into this time? The most perfect woman he’d ever known in his life was sleeping a few feet away from him and he couldn’t touch her. If he did, he’d be all the evil names folks had always called him. He was an outlaw who’d stolen pretty near everything, from food when he was hungry to gold when he was broke, but he couldn’t steal her heart and he had no chance of winning it. Something inside him wouldn’t allow him to touch her against her will. The stolen kiss on the train had cost him dearly in days of longing. He’d never be able to live with himself if he took from her what she did not offer.
Brant swore under his breath. For once he had to be the good guy. He had to take care of her and see to her needs, and keep his passion locked up tight. When he’d touched her on the train, he’d frightened her. When he’d opened her blouse behind the barn, she’d pulled away from him like he was something evil and dirty. Well, he wasn’t going to see that look in her eyes again. He was going to live this week out without jumping on her like some love-starved cowhand who’d been lost on the range for a year. She wasn’t like the women he’d met before. She was the kind of woman he’d seen walking her children to church on Sunday, the kind who’d never even speak to him.
