My Heart Stood Still (Sisters Of Mercy Flats 2)

by Lori Copeland

  The Indian yelled, grabbing for his right thigh. The reins fell to the wagon floor. Anne-Marie scrambled to retrieve them as the stench of burning gunpowder filled her nostrils.

  Climbing back on the seat, she gasped when she saw the crimson patch of blood soaking above the knee of Creed’s breeches.

  “Now what’d you do?” Quincy yelled when he grabbed the leads from Anne-Marie’s hands.

  Before she could deny that she’d done anything, the buckboard sprang up again, pitching Creed off the seat and out of the wagon.

  When she whirled to look back her heart sank at the sight of the Crow’s lifeless form sprawled in the middle of the road.

  Brother, this was not her day.

  Four

  Quincy scrambled over Anne-Marie while the buckboard bumped and crashed its way through the heavy underbrush. Half standing, he hauled on the reins and pulled back.

  Gripping the sides of the wagon, Anne-Marie held on as Quincy gained control of the team. Gradually he angled the buckboard around until he had the horses on the road again.

  Creed was lying on his side groaning when Quincy brought the cart to a halt beside him. Jumping down from the seat, Anne-Marie ran to assist the injured man.

  “Are you hurt?” How inane she sounded; of course he was hurt. Blood seeped from his wounds. His features contorted into a pained mask.

  “Yes, I’m hurt! You’ve nearly blown my leg off!” He lay back, agony and fury fighting for dominance on his usually stoic features.

  “Oh, my goodness.” She reached toward the gaping wound and then quickly drew back her hand. “What should I do?”

  He motioned for her to bend closer. “Take one of the horses and ride as hard and fast as you can in the opposite direction.” Groaning, he struggled to sit up, wincing when he focused on the gory injury.

  “Sir, it would be my pleasure,” she snapped, glancing over her shoulder to see how close the posse was. “But you’ll have to endure me awhile longer, because if we don’t get out of here fast, none of us will live long enough to argue about it.”

  Creed collapsed back to the ground, moaning in agony.

  “Riders are moving in fast,” Quincy warned. He reached to pull Creed back to his feet. “Come on, brother, we’ve got to get you back into the buckboard.”

  “Go on without me.” Creed’s jaw tightened with another spasm of pain.

  “I can’t do that,” both Quincy and Anne-Marie said in unison.

  After all, the man had saved Anne-Marie from certain death not once but twice in the past twenty-four hours, and if the sheriff and his men caught up with him, he was certain to hang.

  Creed gripped his blood-soaked thigh. Anne-Marie stared at the widening crimson pool, knowing he had to have help soon or he would bleed to death. Biting her lower lip, she tried to think. What would Abigail do? She would seize control of the situation.

  “Mr. Adams, please help me move him into the wagon. I can stem the flow of blood with my hands if need be until we can properly cleanse and bandage the wound.”

  The Crow opened his eyes and glared at her. She glared back. She was only trying to help.

  “I know you are in a great deal of pain, but we must get you aboard and leave.”

  “You and Quincy go on. I’ll make it to the underbrush. No one will see me.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. Don’t even think of leaving me alone with this woman,” Quincy warned him.

  Rolling to his side, Creed tried to sit up. When Anne-Marie shifted to help him he sharply drew back, his black eyes glittering. “I can manage on my own.”

  Stepping up, Quincy gently grasped him beneath his arms and steadied him. “Lean on me until I can get you back to the buckboard.” Riders approached at a fast gallop.

  Quincy supported Creed’s weight and walked him back to the wagon. Creed was barely lucid now, his features contorted by pain. He lost his fight for consciousness when they reached the wagon bed. Realizing that he would need some sort of covering, Anne-Marie quickly retraced the wagon tracks to search for the canvas that had blown off the strongboxes. She located the crumpled tarp several yards away, and then she raced back to the wagon and tucked the covering around Creed’s limp body.

  Aware they had to move quickly, she motioned for Quincy to drive the team when she jumped aboard the wagon.

  With a shrill whistle, John Quincy Adams flicked the whip over the horses’ heads, and they were off again, the posse hot on their trail.

  Loyal Streeter, High Bluff city councilman, paced his office above the millinery. “What do you mean you don’t know what happened? It’s your job to know what happened!”

  Cortes’s face darkened as he tried to explain to his boss what had just taken place. Even he didn’t believe it. Cortes had never let a gold shipment get away. Never.

  “I say to you, Señor Streeter, I do know what happened. One minute the buckboard is loaded and waiting, the next minute it is—how do you say?—vamoosed.” He shrugged.

  “Gone?” Loyal Streeter asked in disbelief. The outlaw hadn’t been right since he was kicked in the head by a mule years earlier, but he’d always carried out the jobs Loyal gave him. Until today. “A hundred thousand dollars of gold, just gone?”

  Cortes’s features heated. “Sí, señor, vamoosed!”

  “Who grabbed the gold?”

  “The Indian, black, and nun! Before Cortes can say what is happening, they grab the gold and ride out of town.”

  Loyal ignored Cortes’s ridiculous Spanish phrases. Cortes and his gang were loyal and did Loyal’s dirty work with a patriot’s zeal. Now Loyal swore heatedly. He should never have put this simpleton in charge of such an important shipment. “Where was Ollie when all this was taking place?” Not a one in Cortes’s gang had the sense God gave a goose.

  Cortes’s eyes carefully avoided the boss’s piercing gaze. “He run after the gold, señor.”

  Sheriff Ferris Goodman, who was sitting at Loyal’s desk, quietly reached for his hat and rifle.

  “You put every man you got on this, Ferris,” Loyal ordered when Goodman stood up and walked to the door. “Whoever took that gold couldn’t have gotten far.”

  When the door closed behind the sheriff’s back, Loyal stalked back to his desk. “Bunch of incompetent fools. A hundred thousand dollars’ worth of gold, gone.”

  Cortes’s eyes focused on the floor. “Sí, señor.”

  The councilman’s scowl turned blacker than coal when Cortes stood there. “Shouldn’t you be out there looking for that wagon instead of standing here sí señoring me?”

  Cortes’s boots thundered across the floor now, his stubby legs pumping. “Do not worry, Señor Streeter. As you say, they no can get far. When Cortes find the hombres, Cortes string them up by their heels and return the gold to you, pronto.”

  Streeter’s features flexed with fury. “You have that gold back here by sundown. You understand me?”

  “Sí. Sundown, señor.”

  “Do you have the slightest idea where we’re going, ma’am?” Quincy had been pushing the team hard for over two hours, and they seemed to be getting nowhere.

  “No, but I’m thinking.” Anne-Marie turned to check on Creed again. The wound oozed bright red blood and no matter what she did she could only slow the flow, not stem it. At the moment she was at a loss as to what to do for him. If she could get him to Old Eulalie, she would know what to do. Eulalie. Why hadn’t she thought of her sooner?

  “Mr. Adams, do you know approximately what vicinity we’re in?”

  “No, ma’am, I come from Alabama. I just work here.”

  “I wonder if we’re anywhere near Addison’s Corner.” Her gaze roamed the area as the buckboard flew down the road. She should know these parts; she and her sisters had roamed far away from the mission on some of their excursions.

  “Saw an arrow for Addison’s Corner pointing down a road about a mile back. Why? You know the authorities will have someone checking out any small settlement around here.” Quin
cy gradually slackened the horses’ pace to a ground-covering trot. There’d been no sign of riders for over an hour now. Adams had proved adept at eluding the posse, cutting corners and driving through rough ravines, but that didn’t mean they could relax their vigilance.

  Anne-Marie mused. “Have you ever heard of a woman called Eulalie?”

  Quincy visibly paled. “You mean that strange old woman who lives with all those cats?”

  “Oh,” she scoffed, “Eulalie isn’t strange; she’s just… different.”

  Quincy kept his eyes fixed on the road. “Yes, ma’am, I’ve heard of her. Stories abound about that old woman. They say she’s crazy as a loon.”

  “Do you think you could find Eulalie’s cabin?”

  “Why would you want to go looking for her house? Haven’t we got enough trouble?” Quincy shook his head. “No, ma’am, don’t you go expecting me to go within ten miles of that woman.”

  “Oh, shame on you. Eulalie wouldn’t hurt a fly, and if you think anything of your friend at all, you’ll help me find her house before he bleeds to death. She’s the only chance we have of keeping him alive.”

  Quincy eyed her curiously. “How do you know that old woman? You’re not one of her kin, are you?”

  Anne-Marie sighed as she fondly recalled her friend’s goodness. “No, she and I go back a long way.”

  The woman known as Old Eulalie was something of a mystery and a legend in this remote region of Texas. The valley where she lived was well known to the locals, but neither the Indians nor the whites bothered her. Eulalie was regarded as a person to fear rather than a source of help when it came to health issues.

  But Anne-Marie knew that if anyone could save Creed Walker, Old Eulalie could.

  She turned and continued, “Anytime we pass through the area we visit with her, but”—Anne-Marie’s eyes continued their search—“nothing looks familiar to me.”

  “That’s because we’re coming in the back way to the old woman’s cabin.”

  Anne-Marie laid her hand on Quincy’s arm. “We have to go to her, Mr. Adams. We have no other choice.”

  Quincy groaned. “I don’t know how I get myself in these messes.” But Anne-Marie noticed he was turning the buckboard around and heading toward a break in the terrain she had not seen before.

  It was a long time before they spotted the gnarled cedar that marked the entrance to the small valley where Old Eulalie lived. A light mix of rain and snow began to fall, and Anne-Marie frowned, glancing at the darkening sky. With everything that had happened, the threat of another snowstorm was all they needed.

  Mr. Adams drove the team down the furrowed path. Anne-Marie glanced over her shoulder to find Creed already damp and cold.

  The buckboard rattled to a stop, the door to the shanty opened, and the barrel of a shotgun appeared.

  “Who’s there?” a gravelly voice demanded.

  “It’s me, Anne-Marie, Eulalie! I need help!”

  The barrel of the gun vanished and the door immediately swung open.

  “One of the McDougal young’uns? Well, land sakes—haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.” A scarecrow of an old woman shuffled onto the porch and made her way down the rickety steps. Anne-Marie counted three sweaters and a heavy coat the woman was wearing—plus overalls and work boots. Eulalie wasn’t one for fashion.

  Jumping down from the wagon, Anne-Marie ran to the back of the buckboard, jerking the tarp off the still-unconscious Creed.

  “What brings you out this way, child?” Eulalie approached the wagon. “Sakes alive, girl! You’re going to catch your death out here.” Her eyes fixed on Quincy, who was nervously holding the reins of the exhausted team.

  “Git on in by the fire, son, and I’ll fix something to warm your innards.”

  Quincy glanced at Anne-Marie, shaking his head.

  Anne-Marie shot him a look. “Mr. Adams, Eulalie has graciously invited us to share the warmth of her fire. Now get down off that wagon seat and help me get Mr. Walker into the house!”

  Quincy set the brake and then climbed reluctantly down.

  Though Eulalie moved with a shuffling gait, she appeared ageless. Her grin was topped by eyes twinkling with intelligence. She had black waist-length hair intertwined with silver streaks. She’d never said why she’d chosen to hide herself in a hovel built from lumber scraps and tin she’d found by the wayside, and Anne-Marie had never asked. Eulalie survived by trading her healing herbs with locals, but for the most part, people thought her a fright and left her alone.

  Quincy pulled Creed out of the wagon, giving Eulalie a wide berth when he carried the unconscious man up the rickety steps.

  Upon entering the cabin, Anne-Marie was reminded that Eulalie wasn’t the tidiest of housekeepers. She would gather up anything and everything that she found or traded for, so the furnishings inside the cabin were as much a hodgepodge as the structure itself.

  “Who is he?” Eulalie asked, inclining her head toward Creed.

  “An acquaintance. I accidently shot him.”

  “Shot him?”

  “Eulalie, he’s lost a lot of blood. Can you save him?”

  “Only the Lord can save him.” The old woman looked deeply into Anne-Marie’s eyes. Anne-Marie hated admitting it, but she wouldn’t lie to Old Eulalie.

  “All right, we were trying to outrun the law,” she murmured.

  Eulalie cackled. “Outrun the law, you say? Well, put him on the kitchen table and I’ll take a look at him.”

  Anne-Marie trailed Quincy as he carried Creed to the sturdy wood table.

  “Shoo! Get out of here! Shoo!” Eulalie waved her hands at the dozen or so cats that had converged to greet them. “Anne-Marie, light another lamp so I can have a look at that wound.”

  The cabin reeked of cooking odors and pungent animal droppings. Quincy deposited Creed on the block and then stood to the side. Anne-Marie tried not to stare at the wounded leg, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

  The leg was swollen, as if all the blood from Creed’s body had pooled in one place. Eulalie’s gnarled fingers probed the torn flesh and Creed moaned.

  “It’s bad… real bad.”

  “Can you help?” The man couldn’t die. For some odd reason, Anne-Marie felt he was the only security she had at the moment.

  “Can’t promise anything, but I’ll do what I can.”

  The smells combined with the sight of the woman poking fingers into the wound appeared to be too much for Quincy. Eulalie and Anne-Marie turned when they heard a soft thud. Quincy had passed out cold on the dirt floor.

  “Well, I’ll make him some good strong tea when he comes to,” Eulalie said. Drawing Anne-Marie aside, she murmured, “Get me some hot water and some rags from the kitchen shelf.”

  The warmth from the fire seeped into her weary bones, but at that moment Anne-Marie was too concerned about Creed to enjoy it. A scratching in the corner of the room momentarily drew her attention to a small raccoon who had taken up residence; he peered back at her with alarmingly resourceful eyes. A mother cat and four kittens rested on a rug in a corner near the fireplace. As usual, Eulalie had a collection of critters that believed the cabin to be their own.

  Pouring a pan full of hot water, Anne-Marie carried it and the clean rags to the table, stepping over Quincy in the process. He would come around, or she and Eulalie would drag him to the couch later.

  Using Creed’s knife, Eulalie slit the Indian’s breeches from ankle to thigh and peeled the buckskin aside.

  “That buckshot’s got to come out.” Eulalie motioned for Anne-Marie to move the light closer. “Hold the lantern higher.”

  Creed stirred “What’s happening?”

  Anne-Marie bent closer. “Don’t be alarmed; we’re at a friend’s cabin.”

  “Where’s Quincy?”

  She pointed to the crumpled heap lying at the foot of the table. “He fainted.”

  “Never could stand the sight of blood,” he murmured. His eyes closed, and then briefly opened to
focus on Eulalie hovering above him. “What’s going—who?”

  Grasping his hand, Anne-Marie held it tightly. “You’re going to be fine. Eulalie is going to help you.”

  His eyes clouded with doubt. “My leg… ” Long, dark lashes drifted shut.

  “He’s out.” Eulalie noted. “Good. Shoo. Get away from here,” she scolded, nudging two of the felines out of the way with toe of her boot. Turning back to the wound, she talked as she worked. “Where are Amelia and Abigail?”

  Sighing, Anne-Marie said wearily, “Eulalie, you wouldn’t believe what’s happened.” While Eulalie dug buckshot out of Creed’s leg, Anne-Marie filled her in on the events of the past few days.

  “What do you think? You think Abigail and Amelia are safe?” Anne-Marie asked once the tale had unfolded.

  “Can’t say,” Eulalie admitted, “but you girls have a way of coming out on the good end of trouble.”

  Anne-Marie swayed with exhaustion as she held the lamp closer to the bleeding wound. “I hope so, Eulalie. Abigail and Amelia are all I have.”

  Eulalie picked out three large pieces of shot, each one plinking loudly in the enamel pan lying beside the table. When her fingers probed the torn flesh Creed moaned, his teeth clenching as the point of the knife discovered yet another fragment. Each one that clinked into the pan made Anne-Marie feel guiltier as she watched his face turn pale as a ghost’s even though he was thankfully unconscious.

  “Will he be all right?” She leaned closer, praying that he would recover. She should be afraid of this strange man, but she wasn’t. He was her defender, and the thought made her slightly giddy. She’d never had a man’s protection, not that she’d ever needed one. Abigail said that no woman needed a male hanging around, but sometimes when she was ranting on about the subject Anne-Marie thought, deep down, that maybe some women might. Men were strong and often kind and they could cut a cord of wood or clean a stringer of fish in less time than it took all three of the McDougal sisters.

  “For sure he’s a might stronger than his friend there,” Eulalie said.

  “I pray he will recover.”

  Eulalie bandaged Creed’s thigh and cast another look at Anne-Marie. “I’m guessing he ain’t your young man.”