The Jewel: The Malloy Family, Book 11

by Beth Williamson

  “Sweet heavens, that was ridiculous.” Mr. Bennett wheezed. “I believe I will accept your assistance to don the rest of the garments.”

  Isabelle whispered in her sister’s ear, “Stay put until I tell you.” She told herself to focus on the act of dressing the man, not on the fact he was someone she barely knew. A man who had been tossed aside to die. He deserved human consideration and decency.

  He watched her with pain-filled eyes. She glanced away and started by pulling the trousers over his feet. He shifted as she moved the trousers up his legs to his hips. With a grunt, he lifted his right hip and then his left. She reached for the buttons and his hand landed on hers.

  A jolt zinged through her. It was the first time they had touched, truly touched. Stitching his skin and cleaning him up had not been the same. Not even remotely the same. She snatched her hand back.

  “My apologies, Miss Chastain. I can button the trousers.” He fumbled a bit, but he managed it.

  She shook out the shirt and her eyes pricked with tears when she realized what garment Charlie had selected. It was the one Papa always wore when he worked with wood in his carpentry shop. She resisted the urge to smell it, to pull his scent into her. Papa would tell her to be strong, to push through.

  Mr. Bennett held up one shaking arm and Isabelle was forced to make a decision. She slid the garment up his arm and helped him roll over so she could tuck it behind his back. She scooted around the other side and puled his other arm through as gently as she could.

  Together, she and Mr. Bennett managed to get the shirt on him. He was about the same size as her father, which surprised and saddened her. Perhaps she thought no one could ever wear her father’s clothes. Then she didn’t have to accept he was truly gone.

  Mr. Bennett attempted to button it, but his hands trembled too much and he huffed out an impatient sigh. “It appears I cannot perform this mundane task myself.”

  Without a word, she buttoned the shirt, then turned to her sister. “Bring the blanket over here. We’ll roll him onto it and then drag him to the wagon.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that plan.” Mr. Bennett frowned. “There are easier ways to move a person.”

  “Not for two young women who have to move a full-grown man.” Isabelle ignored his protests and laid out the thick blanket. “This will transport you as safely as we can. We have no horse to pull you and the oxen are not tame enough to trust with your life. This is the only way.”

  “I can find no fault with your logic.” Mr. Bennett did not sound happy about that particular fact.

  “Then please help us if you can. Don’t strain your stitches, though.” Isabelle marveled at how much she sounded like her mother. To her surprise, she had listened to Maman, no matter how much people thought Isabelle was a flighty ninny. She’d learned from her mother and that made her feel warm inside.

  With some concerted effort, and a great deal of huffing and puffing, they rolled Mr. Bennett onto the tarp. Several of his wounds bled anew due to their efforts, but the bandages did not become soaked. They dragged him toward the wagon, which was at least fifteen feet away. It felt like it was fifteen miles away. The man weighed more than she expected.

  To her dismay, more perspiration rolled down her skin, pooling between her breasts and under her arms. No doubt she stank as bad as the blanket Mr. Bennett lay on. They would both require a bath. The thought of having to bathe him, and this time fully aware of him as a man, made her stomach quiver. It was different when he was an injured patient. Now she had recognized he was a man, and a handsome one. One who interested her as a woman.

  She tried not to notice. Truly she did. But he had that thick brown hair and amber flecked brown eyes. He sported whiskers from several days spent without shaving, but it lent him a rakish air. His speech was cultured and educated. Isabelle had been schooled but not to the extent this man obviously had. He was a university professor, or he claimed to be. She’d never met anyone who taught university students.

  Everything about him, including the well-muscled, lean body, was attractive to her. Not the bloody mess he was, but what lay beneath the wounds. Even his voice was melodic. Isabelle was not one to have her head turned by a good-looking man, but Mason Bennett could do so. Easily.

  She could never let him how much she was affected by him. Isabelle wasn’t a fool. Whatever pull of attraction she felt had to be ignored. Charlie depended on her and Isabelle had to focus on her goal—to reunite her family.

  They finally reached the end of the wagon and Isabelle looked up, way up, at the height they had to haul Mr. Bennett.

  “Shit, we ain’t gonna get him up there, Iz.” Charlie wiped her forehead with her sleeve.

  Mr. Bennett chuckled. “The child certainly has a colorful vocabulary.”

  Isabelle’s protective instincts flared. “That’s not your concern.”

  “I find it refreshing.” He winked at Charlie. “Don’t change, little one.”

  Charlie grinned widely. “I sure as hell didn’t plan on it.”

  Their connection irritated Isabelle. She was the adult, the one attracted to an impossible man. Charlie looked up to people who treated her as a young woman rather than a child. She gazed at Mr. Bennett with stars in her eyes.

  “We have a problem to solve.” Isabelle hated that her voice was sharp but she wanted to get the man settled so they could get a fire going and eat some supper. Darkness would arrive before they knew it. “Mr. Bennett, do you think you can stand?”

  He held up both his hands. “There is only one way to determine the answer to that. Let us begin with sitting up before I try to stand.”

  Charlie and Isabelle pulled until Mr. Bennett sat up. His face was pale as milk, sweat standing out against the dirty skin.

  “I’m going to count to three, then I would appreciate if you could pull me to my feet. I can roll into the wagon, if you don’t mind, and then possibly lose consciousness.” The man had an odd sense of humor, and Isabelle had to swallow back a laugh. The entire situation was absurd.

  “That’s the spirit, Mr. Bennett.” Charlie gripped his hand tighter. “Are you ready?”

  Mason glanced at Isabelle and a well of pain flashed across his face before he managed a tight smile. Isabelle counted down. “One, two, three!”

  They pulled, and Mr. Bennett lurched to his feet. He fell against Isabelle, his weight nearly knocking her over. Her back bent as she stumbled, desperately trying to stay upright. He was taller than she expected. Her head would barely come to his shoulder.

  “I got him!” Charlie hopped onto the edge of wagon and put her arms beneath his. Isabelle pushed at the same time her sister pulled. With a groan she felt to her bones, she pushed until his bottom landed on the wagon. He fell backward onto Charlie. She squealed and scrambled out from beneath him.

  Isabelle sucked in some much needed air and climbed into the wagon to check on her patient. Mr. Bennett’s eyes were closed.

  “Oh hell, we killed him.” Charlie crawled up and peered at him.

  “No, he’s alive.” Isabelle felt his neck for a pulse and found it, thrumming strong and sure.

  “While I might have nearly died before you found me, ladies, I am not dead now. Merely winded.” He cracked one eye open. “You two are quite strong for females.”

  Isabelle scowled at him. He might be handsome and smart, but he was a fool. She would help the man and see him on his way. There could never be anything between them. Of that she had to be certain.

  Mason lay perfectly still, not daring to rustle the quilt atop him or even fart for fear he would disturb the sleeping girls on the other side of wagon. It was agony to remain so rigid when all he wanted to do was moan piteously and thrash about. Foolish and filled with self-pity, he almost wished he had died out on the dirt.

  But no, he’d been saved by the two unlikeliest heroines to grace the trail west�
��the Chastain sisters. One more beautiful than an exquisite sunrise, the other as cute and mischievous as a chipmunk. Alone. With a three-ton wagon and six bruising oxen, they were alone with nothing but their inadequate skills. He had more questions than he could list in his head, but no answers to quell his mind.

  No, instead he throbbed with a million wounds, and a dozen serious ones. His stitches itched and damned if he didn’t have to piss. His bladder nudged for attention along with everything else. The last thing he wanted to do was sleep in a wagon with two strangers. No, that wasn’t true. The last thing he wanted was to be left for dead on the way to San Francisco.

  Too bad he received what he didn’t want.

  Mason closed his eyes and swallowed the sigh that threatened to escape. He had to remain silent or prepare to deal with waking his hostesses. The young one had a mouth fouler than most men of his acquaintance. From her, the cursing was charming, albeit odd.

  And then there was Isabelle. If he hadn’t been near death twelve hours earlier, he might have laughed at how much her beauty had poleaxed him. Mason prided himself on his prowess with the fairer sex. Back in North Carolina, he had stepped out with a dozen women over the last ten years. Now at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, he found himself speechless over a female.

  It was unconscionable and entirely unacceptable. It was also a reality he couldn’t deny. His pride fought against it, with howls of outrage, but truth was truth. A history professor could not deny facts.

  She was a mere child, perhaps nineteen or twenty. Not that he was that much older, but he was wiser, with more experience than she could possibly have. No doubt she was also virginal. Mason would not seduce such a woman even if his cock ached like a bar of iron in his borrowed drawers.

  A laugh threatened to explode from his belly. Oh yes, the borrowed clothing and the first aid she rendered expertly to his battered body. The humiliation was not to be borne. He would bear it because he had no choice, but he considered the experience the most humbling of his life. He’d been transported to a time when he had to rely on someone else, a nurse or governess, for everything—including changing his nappies.

  Isabelle had been gentle and sure, taking care to clean his wounds until they throbbed with her efforts. Clean but raw. Then he had to further endure the dressing of his naked self. The ridiculousness of the entire situation made him cringe. He hadn’t known the girl’s name, but she’d seen him naked, helpless and near death. If he hadn’t been still in shock after his partner’s betrayal, he might have sent her away. Instead he’d succumbed to her determination to save him and allowed her to doctor his wounds, then provide him clothing and a roof over his head. It was a canvas roof, but he wasn’t lying under the stars unprotected.

  After the betrayal and beating, he had lain there for several hours, with many-legged critters using his inert body as a playground. He had much to contemplate, including the trust he had given his partner. James had been a friend—or so he’d thought—for more than five years, another professor at the same university. They had worked together, although they were in different departments. James was the scientist while Mason had been the historian. Together they had determined their investment in the venture west, to the gold rush that had not yet been made entirely public.

  Mason should have seen or sensed something was wrong. To his chagrin, he hadn’t. Their party of six had traveled two thousand miles together without a hint of what was afoot. He wondered what James had offered the four men. They had taken turns beating him while his former partner watched from atop his horse. Mason hadn’t begged for his life. He’d simply asked why, but received no answer.

  He had lost consciousness for a time after he was thrown from the horse and was left for dead. Wouldn’t James be surprised to discover Mason hadn’t actually died? It was too bad the insufferable ass was a day ahead on horseback, heading west. The Chastain wagon did not have the wherewithal to catch them, even if he asked the sisters to follow the bastards.

  Much as the admission tasted bitter, Mason had to admit there was no recourse. James and the four hired men were long gone. There was to be no vengeance or retribution. He could only hope they caught a disease from a whore or fell beneath a rock slide crossing the mountains. It was very late in the year to be crossing the Sierra Nevadas. Perhaps they might even freeze to death. The idea made Mason smile.

  Regardless of the fate of the men who tried to kill him, Mason was now penniless, homeless and two thousand miles from where he began. It was not a pretty picture. He could not ask the Chastain sisters to take on the care and feeding of his carcass. Perhaps until he could walk he might but not a moment beyond that. A man had to maintain his dignity and pride, even if they hung in tatters from his broad but bloody shoulders.

  What he would do, however, was a mystery. He had no discernible skills except to teach. There wasn’t much call for that in the wilds of the western plains. He could do sums with ease, but again, that would not fill his belly. The options were slim to none, which meant he would have to accept the hospitality of his hostesses until such time as they grew tired of him. No doubt they would. Most females did within two weeks, some even less than that. His peculiar sense of humor was generally the cause.

  “Mr. Bennett?” A feminine whisper from across the wagon.

  He sighed inwardly. Now he’d have to make polite conversation when his mood was decided less than garrulous.

  “Yes?” He managed not to sound annoyed, but it was a near thing. How was he to stay with these girls for two weeks? Mason was completely out of his element and he damn well knew it.

  “Do you need anything? Some water, perhaps? Or, er, a chamber pot?” It was Isabelle, the exquisite.

  His cheeks warmed. How could he possibly be embarrassed? Regardless if he had to piss, he was not about to ask her to help him. He could not sink that low. Not yet, anyway. “No, thank you. Please don’t let me disturb your slumber.”

  She made a dismissive sound. “My slumber has not been undisturbed for quite some time.”

  That piqued his interest. He understood all about trouble sleeping. Mason hadn’t slept well for too many years. Not since a young boy witnessed something so wrenching, it would forever haunt his dreams. Children grow up, but their memories are forever stitched into their minds. He didn’t believe he had anything in common with the beautiful lady, but it appeared he was wrong.

  “What do you do when you can’t sleep?” he found himself whispering.

  “Read, if I can. Counted the stars when I slept beneath the wagon. Think too much.” Her tone was wistful and sad.

  “I create family trees.” Mason wanted to slap a hand over his mouth. What would possess him to reveal that piece of information? He heard a rustling and a gust of female scent wafted past his nose. She had moved closer. To him.

  Well then.

  “Really? How fascinating. Is it your own family?” She sounded genuinely interested.

  He snorted. “No, not my family. Heaven forefend. They are gone and I don’t wish to resurrect them.” Mason did not need to discuss his ancestry. Correction, he did not want to. He would halt that discussion. “I love history, as it is my chosen field, so I map the family trees of famous historical families.”

  “Oh, that is even better. Tell me one of them.” Her voice was melodic, hypnotizing. Considering he couldn’t see her, he used his other senses, smell and hearing, and she was just as lovely. Of course, he knew what she looked like, but for now, she was a mysterious voice in the darkness. It was comforting, which was very unlike him.

  “I’ve traced the Tudors. You’ve heard of Henry VIII?”

  “Yes, I have.” Her speech was of an educated woman. He wanted to ask her if she had been to school. It would be unusual, considering where she was and what she was doing.

  “His father, Henry VII, married Elizabeth of York. Their eldest son Arthur was only fifteen when he married and s
ubsequently passed away.”

  “So his brother Henry became king instead?”

  He smiled. Oh how he loved history. “Yes, he did. Arthur was named for King Arthur, but he was a sickly boy. His wife was Catherine of Aragon, from Spain.” He waited a moment.

  “You mean Henry’s wife was originally his brother’s wife?”

  She hadn’t disappointed him. She was obviously educated. “Yes! It was seven years later, but they were married when Henry was seventeen. He’d just ascended to the throne, already a powerful, arrogant man.” Mason often imagined what it was like during Henry VIII’s reign. History was his salvation and his religion.

  “If I thought about something as interesting as the Tudors, I’d never sleep either. I’d want to read as much as I could.” She sighed. “I’m not sure I could marry my dead husband’s brother. It sounds odd.”

  “Not for royal families. They had to marry someone with blood as blue as theirs. It was slim pickings.” He realized he had forgotten about his physical discomfort while he’d been chatting with Isabelle. How extraordinary.

  “How awful for Catherine, especially knowing she was set aside for a younger woman,” Isabelle said with a sniff. “There are true love stories out there, but maybe not for royalty.”

  He caught himself before he snorted aloud. True love stories? Stuff and nonsense. The girl had been reading too many novels.

  She yawned loud enough for him to hear. “Will you be able to sleep?”

  No. He wouldn’t, but Mason was enough of a gentleman not to say so.

  “I shall be fine. Thank you for your concern.” He closed his eyes hoping she would go back to her own side of the wagon, no matter how much he enjoyed conversing with her. There was no point in continuing. He would do what he must to survive this particular setback, including relying on the kindness of the two young ladies. That was where his involvement with them ceased.