“Sweet dreams, Mr. Bennett.” Her soft words floated through the shadows.
Dreams hadn’t come to Mason in quite some times. He didn’t remember ever having sweet dreams. What in the world were these young women doing out in the wilderness alone? He shouldn’t care. He didn’t care.
He refused to care.
Chapter Three
Isabelle rose early and crept out of the wagon. The sun was a pink smear on the horizon and her breath exploded in white puffs in the cold morning air. She pulled her mother’s shawl around her shoulders and pretended it was only on loan from Maman. Just for a moment.
The road back to get Jo and then find Francesca had only begun. Yet finding Mr. Bennett bleeding, beaten and shot had thrown a pallor over her brilliant idea. Perhaps it was an omen. She shivered and hugged herself harder. Her boots sank into the damp grass as she made her way to the oxen.
The beasts blew air through their nostrils at the sight of her. She didn’t like their smell, but they had become steadfast partners in their journey, no matter the twists and turns. She hummed as she made sure they had water and fresh grass. It gave her a sense of normalcy, although that wouldn’t have been the case six months ago. She was living in Brooklyn, had just finished her schooling and had been looking to find a position to earn money to contribute to her family’s coffers. She could have looked for a husband instead, as many of her friends had, but that didn’t interest Isabelle.
Oh, she knew men paid attention to her, most of them distracted by her beauty. The sad fact was, not one of the young men who fluttered around her knew her or made an attempt to know her. None of them asked what books she read or what her favorite music was. All they ever wanted to do was be seen walking with her and compliment her on her beauty. It was tedious and boring.
Isabelle was every bit as smart as her sisters, but her skills did not lie with teaching like Jo or with the doctoring that Frankie had learned from their mother. No, Isabelle had a passion and a natural talent for something completely different.
Music.
She sang and played four different instruments. Every piece of music she could find, she learned to play until the notes sang through her veins. Her music professor taught her the violin, but she taught herself the harp, piano and cello. She absorbed anything and everything people would teach her.
And when she sang, the rest of the world ceased to exist. Her voice was her finest instrument, honed to an edge she was proud of. Unfortunately, singing was not a lucrative profession and few made a living at it. That didn’t stop her from being a student of music; learning to play and sing every day gave her joy that nothing else did.
Choosing to move to Oregon would pull her farther away from the opportunities to be had for singers in New York. She didn’t mind, though, since her family was more important than anything. Yet somewhere deep inside her, the dream of singing for an audience still flickered like a single candle in a storm. It held on, against all odds.
She checked the harnesses for the oxen and a familiar hymn came to her throat. She sang as she worked, the words flowing from her with ease. The sun rose higher, painting the ground with hues of orange and pink. Steam rose from the grass as the heat from the sun’s rays hit the cold dew.
Jesus, the very thought of thee
With sweetness fills my breast;
It was a beautiful morning. As the words flew from her mouth, her heart felt lighter for the first time since her parents had been taken. Music soothed her, and she hadn’t sung since the sickness had descended upon Maman and Papa.
But sweeter far thy face to see
And in thy presence rest.
Now, perhaps, something was telling her it was time to start healing. She was still scared, sick with grief and confused, but there was a smidge of hope within her. Family was more important than anything and she knew her path was the right one. She did wish there was someone other than Charlotte to help her. She stopped singing in mid-word, astonished by the idea that had taken root inside her.
There was someone other than Charlie. Mr. Bennett.
He was a virtual stranger, one who had earned the ire of someone who had attempted to kill him. Yet her father used to say things always happened for a reason, to never discount someone or something because she didn’t expect it. Finding Mr. Bennett when he needed the kindness of others might have been meant to happen.
What it meant to their journey, she wasn’t sure. However, she could convince him to stay until he healed. She might even convince him to accompany them to Fort John to retrieve Jo. It would be a long journey and having a man along would be useful. She knew he might try to take advantage of two lone women. Not that Mr. Bennett was in any shape to do anything other than sleep at the moment.
She’d been taught to look for the goodness in everyone, and that included strangers. It might not be wise, but it was a chance she was willing to take. After their conversation last night, she felt some measure of respect for the man. He was smart and learned, and she was interested in how his thoughts worked. He was unlike anyone she’d ever met. She had to follow her heart and it told her to trust Mr. Bennett. Decision made, she sang while she started a fire for breakfast.
Charlie tumbled out of the wagon a few minutes later, her hair a frightful mess and her face creased with sleep lines from the linen she’d been curled up on. She rubbed her eyes and yawned hard enough to crack her jaw.
“Much as I like to hear you sing, it is too damn early for it.” She squinted at the sunrise. “The sun isn’t up yet.”
“It’s rising and so should we. We have been getting up early for many months, Charlie. This should be routine by now.” Isabelle poked at the small fire, pleased by how well she had adapted to living on a wagon train. Or rather, they were a wagon of one now. Regardless, she could do anything within reason. Preparing a fresh kill to cook was something she detested. Charlie luckily had the skill and drive to do the skinning and gutting.
Isabelle was a crack shot with the rifle and they would not go without meat if they could find a rabbit or two each week. All in all, they were well prepared to live on the frontier. Except, of course, for the fact they had no home and were stranded hundreds of miles from their sisters. And their parents had passed away.
Her spirits deflated, she quickly made the pan biscuits for their meal. As they cooked, Isabelle watched as her sister went behind a bush for privacy. The west had changed them. She was much more independent and skilled, but at the same time, they had become people she didn’t recognize. Not better or worse, just…different.
“Miss Chastain?” Mr. Bennett’s voice floated from within the wagon. “Is anyone about?”
She flipped the pan biscuits and then set them on a rock beside the fire to keep warm. “Yes, I’m here.” She hurried to the wagon. They shouldn’t have left their patient unattended. She peered into the murky canvas. “Do you need assistance, Mr. Bennett? I was making breakfast.”
“I, er, I truly need to relieve myself, Miss Chastain. I’d rather not embarrass myself by wetting these lovely linens. If you could see your way to bringing me a pot, I would be very grateful.”
Isabelle heard the discomfort in his voice and climbed into the wagon fast enough to scrape her knee. She snatched an empty jar from a crate and hurried over to him. He lay on his back, his face covered with a sheen of perspiration.
“Mr. Bennett?”
He blinked. “Please set the container down and leave me my dignity.”
She frowned but did as he bade. As she backed away from him, he attempted to roll on his side. A sound escaped from his mouth, one that was more wounded animal than human.
“Please let me help you. I know this is an awful experience, but I have assisted my mother with patients.” A small lie, but it might make him set aside his pride. “I also know about herbs to help heal you, and I have already seen you without a stitch on. Also, I’m
the one who dressed you.”
“Bless your heart, you are a sweet girl.” His voice shook, dropping to an agonized whisper. “Yes, please help me.”
She told herself he was a patient, not a naked stranger any longer. Isabelle opened the jar and knelt beside him. She unbuttoned the trousers and reached within his drawers. He made another sound but did not protest her handling of his manly parts.
Isabelle rolled him over and placed his penis within the mouth of the jar. Her cheeks heated at the intimate act, but he urinated quite forcibly into the glass. She hoped it was big enough to hold what was turning into a river of piss.
Finally, it slowed and he shuddered. She patted him with a rag from her pocket and secured the trouser buttons.
“Thank you, Miss Chastain.” He sighed. “I cannot believe how low I have sunk.”
“I think you can call me Isabelle now.” She put the jar back on the lid.
“I appreciate your assistance, Isabelle. You should call me Mason.” His voice was rough, tinged with sleep and no small measure of pain. He was a wreck.
“All right, Mason.” She managed not to trip over his name. “I need to go wash my hands and finish breakfast. I’ll bring you some coffee and biscuits shortly.”
His eyes closed and she left him to rest. It certainly had been an educational experience. Touching a man’s private parts had been on her list of things to do, but not a man she barely knew and not a man who wasn’t her husband. Thank goodness Charlie wasn’t there or she would have had plenty to say. He’d been incredibly soft in her hands. She knew about flaccid versus erect penises—her mother had made sure all her daughters had read materials on copulation. Being educated meant no one could mislead them.
However, learning about a man’s penis and touching one were two very different things. She was a little off center and out of breath, as though she’d run around the wagon a dozen times. The man was a mass of bruises and scrapes, but she was still drawn to him. Now she’d been intimate with him, innocently but definitely intimate.
The warm jar of urine was heavy in Isabelle’s hand. She jumped down and glanced at the biscuits waiting for her before she walked over to the bushes to dump the liquid. When she opened the jar, she finally saw what she couldn’t due to the darkness of the wagon.
Red.
Mr. Bennett had blood in his urine. She had her mother’s medical books, and something told her she needed to find out what blood meant as soon as she could. They would not be leaving their stopping point today.
Mason had woken to the sound of an angel singing. Crisp, perfect notes caressed his ears. He thought for a moment he had died and it was an angel. Then the pain hit him and he knew he hadn’t landed in the hereafter. Every inch of his body screamed in agony if he dared even flicker a pinky.
One very insistent pain grew with each passing second. His bladder. He’d had to piss during the night but his pride prevented him from asking for Miss Chastain’s assistance. After lying there in the morning and feeling as though a thousand knives were currently slashing at him, he regretted his foolishness the night before.
He called for help and she arrived in seconds. Isabelle was no shy creature. She handled his cock with soft, gentle hands. In any other situation, he might have appreciated her touch, but he was a desperate mess and she saved him. Again.
Soon he would owe her his life more times over than he could count. Whoever had raised the girl had done a remarkable job. Even in the face of blood, a naked man and jar-pissing invalids, she had retained her cool. His bladder thanked her profusely.
If he were a lesser man, he might ask her to help him piss for a week. Mason was not that type of man. He’d been raised to be a Southern gentleman and he would do his mother proud, no matter that she’d been dead since he was fifteen. Now, years later, he wondered if she would have been proud of how he got to where he was, if not his treatment of the sisters Chastain.
He shook his head and pushed aside any memories of home, of his family. Now was not the time to drag out his skeletons and parade them for all and sundry. His thigh throbbed in tune with his heart, the steady thumping a reminder that he was lucky to be lying there feeling that level of pain.
Before he could conjure her up, his angel appeared with delicious smelling food. His stomach rumbled and he tried to remember the last time he ate. Must have been at least a full day, before he ended up at the wrong end of a flurry of fists and a bullet. He again attempted to sit up and failed miserably.
She tsked at him and gently sat down. The smell of lemons and woman washed over him, a clean scent that made him wish for things he could never have.
“I’m not sure your stomach is ready for food, but you should definitely drink.” She turned up the wick on the lantern, bathing the wagon in a golden glow. “I have water.” She held up a tin cup.
“Joyous wonders.” He was surprised to hear her chuckle. Apparently his sense of humor hadn’t offended her.
“Some days I was thankful to have water without dirt or little swimmy things in it.” She shook her head. “We boil our water before we drink it now. The journey west has been an enlightening experience.”
He wanted to ask her about what she’d done, what she’d learned and how she’d done it. His mouth was too tired to form the words. Perhaps when he could form a coherent thought, he would ask.
She stuffed a blanket or two behind him until he was mostly upright. Blood rushed through him, making all his wounds throb in unison. He couldn’t stop the groan that burst from within.
“I’m so sorry, Mason.”
He shook his head. “It’s not your fault, lovely lady. I am grateful for everything you’ve done.”
Her chinks grew pink. “Let’s start with water.” She held the back of his neck and held the cup to his lips. The water was cool but not cold, and it tasted like ambrosia sliding down his throat.
Mason wanted to gulp—hell, he wanted to dive into the dented vessel and swim in the liquid. He trembled with the effort of sipping water. Doing anything more seemed ludicrous.
She pulled the cup away and looked at him. “Do you want to try a bite of biscuits?”
“More than I ever thought possible.”
With a grin, she broke off a piece of the scrumptious looking puff and slipped it between his lips. His mouth flooded with flavor and he almost choked on his own saliva as the little bit of heaven slipped past his tongue.
“Are you all right?”
He grunted and opened his mouth again like a baby bird waiting to be hand fed. She put another piece in his mouth, then another. She stopped and he whined at the loss, but accepted the water she offered instead.
With only a few sips of water and three miniscule bites of biscuit, he was full. The type of full as though he’d consumed an elephant. He lay back, his eyelids heavy.
“Angel.”
She frowned. “No angel, I assure you. I am not without sin.”
Oh, but he wanted to know what kind of sin she committed. And whether she might do it again. With him.
“Thank you.” His voice had dropped to a rough whisper.
“You’re welcome. Now for the unpleasant part.” She moved the cup and biscuit to the side. “I need to check your wounds.”
Now it was his turn to make a face. He knew the care was necessary and the pain a consequence of the violence he endured. He had the insane notion of turning back the clock four months, to before he’d heard of the gold discovery in California, to before he became obsessed with the very idea of a gold strike, to before he had forgotten who he was or what he was. He wanted to be a professor again, to be Mason Bennett, a complicated but somewhat normal man with a house, a sturdy bay horse and a widow who warmed his bed on Saturday nights.
All of it was gone, just like his dreams of gold.
He closed his eyes against the sudden stinging. He could drown in regrets
if he let it happen. He’d been given a second chance at life. Without the Chastain sisters, he would be carrion fodder by now. A pitiful end to an educated man who had started life as the son of a wealthy plantation owner father and a society mother.
Isabelle touched him then, her touch soft and probing. He didn’t utter a sound as she unwrapped bandages, wiped his wounds and then applied fresh bandages. He wanted to vomit up all the delicious biscuit pieces when she touched his thigh, but he gritted his teeth. He forced his mind to think of something more pleasant.
Like kissing Isabelle.
He wasn’t sure how his mind had taken that leap, but once it took hold, he had no control over his thoughts. She was incredibly beautiful and she had touched his cock already. None of this justified lascivious thoughts. He was a man, though, and men, in general, were pigs. He couldn’t help himself though and for that, he would be repentant. As soon as he managed not to cry in the face of the agony in his leg.
“The wounds look clean. There doesn’t appear to be any infection.”
“Yet.”
She frowned. “Well, no, I suppose not yet. Hopefully not at all.”
“Do you know what to do if it does catch an infection?” He watched her face carefully, noting the wince she tried to hide.
“I do, but I sincerely hope I don’t have to demonstrate.” She finished tying off the largest bandage on his leg. She moved closer to his head. “Now, as to your wounds, in particular the head wound…”
He wanted to reach up and touch his head, but his arms were as heavy as anvils. “There is quite a racket occurring in my skull.” This was a mild description as best. The pain thrummed with each beat of his heart, echoing through his bones with a rattle.
“Someone beat you within an inch of your life.”
His teeth clenched. “I’m well aware of that fact.”
“They also shot you in the head. Fortunately their aim was off.” Her soft fingers danced across his temple.
The memory of what happened, and her discovery of the wound, washed over him. His face grew hot and his tongue thick. Too many thoughts crowded his mind. What did he tell her? What would she believe? He had discovered the hard way one he told a lie, they escalated beyond control, taking on a life of their own. He didn’t want to lie to Isabelle, but when he opened his mouth, a lie tumbled out anyway.
The Jewel: The Malloy Family, Book 11 Page 4
