by Susan Wiggs
“He’s a widower,” said a new voice. A lanky boy walked across the room and stopped at the end of the bed. “I’m his son, Lucas. My mother died ten years ago.”
The first angel. The one who had brought her here in a wheelbarrow. And now he brought her a pitcher of fresh water and tidings of great…well, if not joy, then possibility. So. Dr. Calhoun was a widower.
“Please excuse yourself, Lucas,” said Dr. Calhoun. “This is a private consultation with a patient and it’s not proper for you—”
“Nonsense, he rescued me from certain death. Heaven forbid that I’m too ill to thank him properly.” Struggling to concentrate through the vague laziness of fever, Isabel smiled at Lucas. She sensed an ally in him. In her precarious position, with the possibility of arrest looming over her, she needed all the allies she could get.
Lucas Calhoun was an uncommonly handsome young man, which was not surprising given the father’s appearance. But where Dr. Calhoun was fair, Lucas was dark. He’d inherited his coloring, she supposed, from his mother. His late mother.
“I am Isabel Fish-Wooten,” she said. “And I am so terribly sorry for your loss. How awful that you’ve been motherless these ten years.” She wondered why a vigorous man like Dr. Calhoun had never remarried. Could it be that his late wife was his one true love and he couldn’t bear to have another? Or had she been a vile harridan who had put him off wives for a decade?
“Thank you, ma’am,” Lucas said, shuffling a pair of endearingly large feet.
“I lost both my parents at a young age,” she admitted, which was the truth. She, too, had grown up without a mother, and that fact had shaped her every bit as much as the liberally-applied cane of the workhouse master who had raised her. “But they live on, here in my heart,” she added, which was a bold-faced lie. She paused, surprised to feel genuine empathy for the boy.
“I appreciate your concern, ma’am.”
“Oh, heavens, you needn’t thank me in the least. I am deeply indebted to you, Lucas,” she went on. “You truly did save my life.” She shifted her gaze from the son to the father and back again. Tension crackled between them, and she knew it was not just the fever at work. Her mind began to tackle the problem in front of her. Who would she be today? Who would she be for this fine young man and his enigmatic father?
She often liked to fashion her character specifically to satisfy people’s expectations. She studied the pair of them a moment longer, and her heartbeat sped up. Who did they need in their lives? And why did she want so badly to be that person for them?
Lucas blushed under her scrutiny. Oh, she did enjoy young men. They were so easy to read and entertain. Yet her deepest interest was for the father, whom she could scarcely read at all and who didn’t seem to be the least bit entertained by her.
“Yes, well, I believe you have work to do, Lucas,” said Dr. Calhoun. “You’d best be on your way to St. Mary’s.”
The blush turned to the dull red of resentment. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re employed by the church, then,” she prompted, hoping to override the father’s obvious dismissal.
“For the time being,” he said. “I’m working on the garden.” He glanced at his father, then his large brown eyes softened as he regarded Isabel. “May I pour you a glass of water?”
“Yes, please. I’m dying of thirst.” She had apparently consumed a pitcher of water upon waking at some point in the night but she didn’t remember drinking it. She eyed him gratefully as she took dainty sips from the glass.
The fragile English rose, she decided. That was what Lucas wanted her to be. Someone easy to care for, someone who would neither challenge nor judge him. The father, of course, had different needs, and she wasn’t quite sure what those were. She sensed that he was a complicated man, and that his needs would not be easily met. She would start with the basics, then. He was a doctor. Quite likely, he needed someone to heal. To rescue, perhaps. Well, she could satisfy him on both counts. Maybe he could rescue her from her own stupidity.
“I shall never be able to repay either of you for saving me. First you, Dr. Calhoun, for treating my injury, and you, Master Lucas, for finding me in the throes of delirium and bringing me into your home. Truly, fortune has blessed me.”
Lucas offered a slight bow of politeness. “I’m glad you’re better. If you need any—”
“Son, it’s time for you to go.”
The youth glared at him. “I’m glad you’re better,” he repeated to Isabel. Then he left quickly.
“You forgot to tell him goodbye,” she pointed out to Dr. Calhoun.
He frowned. “He forgot, too.”
Ah, she thought. Things were indeed strained between them. A pity, that. They were two fine men who ought to share a close bond, particularly in light of being without a wife and mother.
“Is Lucas your only child?”
“Yes.”
“You must be very proud of him.”
He didn’t answer but refilled her water glass.
She took another drink, enjoying the soothing trickle of cool water down her throat. “When I woke up, there was a woman—”
“My assistant, Miss Delta Beasley. She was here the morning you were shot.” Dr. Calhoun sat back and regarded her inscrutably.
A chill scuttled across her skin. “Then I owe her my thanks,” she said. His expression didn’t change. “Why do you look at me so?”
“I’m trying to decide what to do with you.”
“You’re a doctor. Your job is to heal me.”
“And so I shall.”
She relaxed a little. For the time being, perhaps, he would forget about setting the police on her. “I have every faith in you, Doctor.”
“And I have none in you,” he stated.
“I beg your pardon.” Her consciousness began to waver. The delirium pulsed, dark and shapeless, at the edges of her vision.
“I see no point in pretending there is anything normal about these circumstances. You don’t belong here, and yet here you are. I don’t know you, and you haven’t exactly been a fount of information about yourself. But I do know you’re quick to draw a gun on an innocent man—”
“To protect myself.”
“—and you’re the victim of a shooting—”
“Oh, and that’s my fault?”
“And your injuries coincide a little too neatly with the attempted murder of a police officer.”
Relief blossomed in her heart. “You mean he’s alive?”
“Ah, so you admit you know something about the shooting of Officer Brolin?”
“Know about it?” she said. “Heavens, I was there.”
“Then I prove my point. Or rather, you prove it.”
“Just because I was there doesn’t mean I shot him.” Her voice kept breaking, and she hoped she was not getting sicker.
His features turned hard with skepticism. Isabel’s heart sank. She realized, at last, that the event that had brought her together with Dr. Calhoun imprisoned her as surely as a barred concrete cell in the military reservation on the isle of Alcatraz. Suspicion was bound to poison his opinion of her. She had to do something about that.
Shutting her eyes, she lay very still, reconstructing the events leading up to the shooting. Everything had happened so fast that night. Some of the moments were a frantic blur. But she was perfectly clear on one matter.
“I didn’t shoot anyone,” she stated. “I didn’t do what you think I did.”
“And I should believe that because…?”
“Because it’s the truth.”
“I found you shot in the back and armed with two guns, one of which had been recently fired,” he said. “A few hours later I learned an officer of the law had been shot. The logical conclusion is that you were involved in the shoot-out.”
“There’s a flaw in your logic, Doctor.”
“And what might that be?”
“If I had shot at someone, I would not have missed. He’d be dead.” She leveled her gaze at hi
m, but he wavered anyway, as though the wind rippled through him. “I never miss. Ever.”
“I’m also not familiar with your shooting skills.”
“I’d be happy to prove my claim, day or night. I’m certain that in a city of this size, there’s a shooting range.”
“There are several, but no, thank you. In fact, if you’re indeed as innocent as you claim, then I’ll send for the police right now and you can explain how you came to be shot and taken into the custody of two known criminals.”
“No.” It came out as a bark of desperation.
He subjected her to a frank stare. Despite his accusations and skepticism, he drew her in. It was uncanny, the affinity she felt for this man who never smiled. She almost wanted to get shot a second time just so he’d touch her again, touch her with that aching tenderness.
“No?” he echoed. “But you just said you can prove your innocence.”
“I know exactly what I said. But I suspect you’re not a stupid man. You know the circumstances alone will convict me.” She fixed him with a look that she hoped would make him uncomfortable. The truth was, she felt weak as a willow. Her eyes burned and her thoughts kept trying to drift away before she could snatch them back. “I don’t suppose a fine upstanding citizen like yourself has ever found himself in circumstances where things were not quite as they seem.”
Maybe she only imagined it, but he seemed to hesitate. Perhaps some of the anger melted. She hastened to press her advantage. “What will it take to convince you of my innocence?”
“I’ll send for the police. Innocent people are usually eager to get to the truth.”
“Innocent people sometimes become victims of circumstance.”
She watched his face change, become taut with un-healed emotion. Somehow she had struck a nerve. “The unfortunate thing is that often while pursuing a false lead, the police are distracted from finding the true culprit.”
He lifted one eyebrow, an expression that made him look even more handsome than ever. “Perhaps you should make that statement to the police, then.”
“They’d be even less inclined than you to believe me. Dr. Calhoun, I am a traveler, a foreigner just passing through. The fallen man is one of the city’s own. On top of that, he was working to keep the peace. Sympathy will be with him. And of course, the police will be desperate to capture a suspect—even the wrong one. If you hand me over, I doubt I’ll even get the benefit of a proper hearing. They will show no mercy, not even to a woman.”
He leaned back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest. “For an Englishwoman—”
“How do you know I’m English?”
“I can tell by your accent.”
She was English, to be sure. But she was not the sort welcomed into polite society. She’d spent most of her life running away from that fact.
“For an Englishwoman, you seem well-versed in the subtleties of criminal justice.”
“Is that a compliment or a criticism?”
He surprised her with the barest flicker of a smile, just a quirk of his lips. “I’m not sure.”
That miserly hint of a smile all but melted her. She wished she didn’t feel so limp-willed and scatterbrained. She’d survived plenty of disasters in her life, and she must survive this. But getting shot and being accused of attempted bloody murder were serious indeed.
She regarded him with a sinking heart. “You’re not convinced, are you? You still believe I shot that poor man.”
“You fled when you believed I was sending for the police. Hardly the behavior of an innocent woman.”
“But quite consistent with the behavior of a frightened woman. A frightened and wounded woman. But even wounded, I realized I was in trouble. A shooting is not a crime that can be easily traced.”
“So if, as you claim, you didn’t fire upon the officer, whom did you shoot?”
“No one. I fired my pistol into the air, deliberately. To distract the murderer.”
“And the murderer would be…?”
“I can’t be certain. It was too dark to see.” She shut her eyes and tried to recreate the scene in her mind. Had she missed something, a clue, a flicker in the shadows that would clarify the terrible events?
All was a shattered puzzle, the pieces lying meaningless on the ground. While hiding out in the churchyard, she had thought the bits of memory were part of a dream, or more accurately, a nightmare. Now she realized that not only had something terrible happened—she had witnessed it. Yet precisely what she had witnessed was unclear, as frightening as an unseen threat in the darkness.
She shut her eyes to stop the spinning, but that only made things worse. In the pulsing glow of fever, she saw it again—a menacing figure whirled in her direction and fired four shots in quick succession. “There was someone in a cloak or long coat of some sort. That was the person who shot me,” she said. “But not just then. The first shots…”
“Yes?”
“A man was fleeing—your policeman, I presume.”
“Perhaps. He can’t verify any of this,” Dr. Calhoun explained. “He hasn’t regained consciousness. If he was running, and the other man was shooting, how did you manage to get involved?”
“I told you, I fired into the air. Then I ran, too, looking for cover. I stumbled over…I thought it was a heap of rags, but it was a man, lying drunk. He shouted something and scuttled away, I think. I got up right away, but that was a mistake. That was when—” She opened her eyes and looked directly at Dr. Calhoun. The sight of him steadied her. “I’ve never felt anything quite like it.”
“A bullet wound, you mean.”
“It was like being hit by a cannonball. It struck me flat to the ground. I couldn’t breathe. Everything blurs together after that. I heard voices calling, feet running along wet pavement.” Dear God, what have you done? Leave that one…. “I remember nothing else until I awoke in your carriage.” She still wasn’t sure how she’d been dragged through the confusing rabbit warren of the Embarcadero, half-constructed and littered with building refuse.
The effort to relate the incident exhausted her. She felt as though she’d run for miles, and the sickness welled up, reared like a hot wave. “Please, I need to…”
Bless him, he didn’t need any more prompting than that. “Let me help you,” he said.
She didn’t just let him. She gave herself to him, completely and utterly, all but sinking into his arms as he helped her to stand. The simple act of walking seemed beyond her. She thought her feet were touching the floor, but could not feel them.
Dr. Calhoun murmured to her in a soothing fashion. “Don’t hurry. You’ll feel light-headed from the fever. I won’t let you fall….” Step-by-step, holding and encouraging her, he showed the way to the water closet, then closed the door behind her. As she was washing up, she caught a glimpse of her image in the gleaming oval mirror that hung over the lavatory basin.
“Dear heaven,” she whispered. She could scarcely distinguish dirt from dried blood. Her eyes appeared bruised and bloodshot, her lips cracked, her cheeks sunken in. In her haste to contrive some disguise, she’d used a man’s straight razor on her hair, and the resulting dark spiky locks were unfortunate indeed. Vanity aside, she looked like a very sick woman. It seemed a miracle that she’d been given a chance to survive.
Still swaying, she staggered back to the white lace bedroom. Though she reminded herself that his touch was impersonal, his supporting arm around her felt like an embrace. His slow, patient steps and his painstaking gentleness as he helped her back to bed nearly shattered her. It was such a simple thing, one person helping another. Yet it was complicated by emotions so intense she didn’t quite have a name for them.
She was out of breath by the time she lay against the pillows again. He handed her a cup of water, tipping it as she drank. Some impulse she didn’t understand caused her to reach up and touch his hand.
He set aside the cup and stepped back from the bed. She tried to read his expression, but she didn’t know
him. Ah, but she wanted to. He was by far one of the most interesting people she’d ever met.
“I look an absolute fright,” she said. Fatigue broke over her, and she struggled to stay conscious.
He didn’t deny her statement. Instead, he said, “I’ll send Miss Beasley to change your dressing and help you clean up.”
She drifted on a raft of fever and panic, and her protest came out in a stream of disjointed and desperate nonsense. She was not the sort to swoon, but she did just that, and it was a most interesting sensation. Images jerked past in a series of frozen frames, like the pictures in a magic lantern show at the theater. Then everything burst in a white light, and she was back where she’d been when she’d awakened, in the misty white netherland between consciousness and sleep. She called out to him, reached for him, and she had no idea whether or not she was dreaming when she felt him reach for her and gather her in his arms.
It was a dream, surely. Nothing so wonderful could actually happen to her.
She never did find out the truth about that moment. Her fever ebbed and flowed like an unpredictable tide, and she lost track of the passage of time. Days passed uncounted. Eventually she was able to sit up, to drink water—and to argue with Dr. Calhoun.
“You promised you wouldn’t call in the authorities.”
“I made no such promise. I said we would pursue the matter when you’re better.”
“I’ll never get better if you keep threatening me.”
“It’s not a threat. You claim you’re innocent, so we must seek justice for you.”
She gaped at him in disbelief.
“What your assailant did to you is illegal,” he stated.
“I know,” she snapped. Then she cut her gaze away. “But I’m not that naive.”
“You might be surprised.”
“I simply cannot believe someone could be punished for hurting me.”
“In this country, they say justice is blind.”
“They also say all men are created equal, but in my travels across America, I’ve seen no evidence of that.” She waved a hand in exasperation. “I can see my word has no value to you.”
