by Heidi Betts
Ideally, she wished for a bottle of whiskey or some other type of strong libation to properly cleanse David's wound. But, of course, she didn't drink. Even if she'd wanted to, the Purgatory school board would never allow it. If they suspected she had so much as a bottle of spirits tucked away at the bottom of the linen closet for medicinal purposes, they would discharge her immediately. She would have to settle for water hot enough to peel the whitewash off the schoolhouse and a bit of homemade soap.
Dropping the round cake into the water, she let it build up a bit of lather and then dipped one of the clean pieces of cloth into the basin and squeezed out most of the excess moisture.
She was glad David was unconscious as she started to wipe away blood, both dried and fresh, and bits of ragged, ravaged skin. The very sight of it made her stomach clench, and it was all she could do not to turn away in disgust. She purposely breathed slow and shallow through her mouth to keep from getting sick.
When both the front and back of the wound were as clean as she thought she could get them, she mixed a bit of the leftover hot water with some herbs she kept on hand for minor injuries to create two small poultices that she hoped would keep him from developing an infection. Once those thick pads were in place, she used several of the long strips of material to wrap around David's entire waist, and tied them tight.
She sat back with a sigh, thinking she had done all she could . . . and praying it was enough.
Chapter Two
His head hurt and his side ached like a son of a bitch. For a moment after waking, he kept his eyes closed and remained still, trying to figure out where he was and what had caused his body to throb as though he'd been run over by a locomotive.
From somewhere nearby, he heard voices. Or rather, one voice. A woman's. He didn't recognize it, but the tone was soft and cajoling and laced with enough femininity to make him think of well-worn calico and lace, and soft, supple skin.
"I know you must be frightened,” she said gently. “I'm a stranger to you, and your . . . father—or whoever that man is to you—is hurt. But he's going to be all right, and I want to help you. Won't you please tell me your name?"
Walker cracked open one eye to see what was going on. He saw Little Bear sitting on the bench of a rough oaken table, his small features—almost identical to his mother's—sharp and unyielding. His mouth was a firm, straight line, and it didn't look like he intended to open it anytime soon.
Across from him, with her back to Walker, sat a woman in blue. Her blond hair, left loose and falling to the middle of her back, looked almost brown in the dim lamplight. Her delicate hands rested on the table's flat surface and the sky blue of her dress tapered at her narrow waist before flaring out over attractively curved hips.
That's when he remembered where he must be. Hannah's house. After rescuing Little Bear from that bastard Ambrose Lynch—and taking a bullet in the side for his troubles—he'd brought the boy to Hannah, knowing she would protect the child until Walker could finish the rest of his business and come back for him.
Apparently he hadn't gotten very far.
Letting one hand drift down his chest, he carefully tested the place on his torso that throbbed so mercilessly and found it swathed in bandages.
Thanks to Hannah, he might not die after all. No matter how much it felt as if he would.
"At least eat something,” Hannah said almost desperately, gesturing toward the bowl and spoon at the place in front of Little Bear.
If possible, Little Bear's lips thinned even more, his posture going rigid.
"Eat, ara?.” The words came out scratchy and broken, but they were enough to bring both heads swiveling in his direction.
"Ara?.” Little Bear jumped up and raced to his side, with Hannah trailing close behind. She stopped only long enough to pour a cup of water and carry it with her.
"I'm all right,” he told the boy, running a hand over his dark, ruffled hair.
Hannah leaned over, placing the back of her fingers to his brow and putting the curve of her breasts directly in his line of vision.
"You feel warm,” she murmured.
With the enticing view she offered and the caress of her skin on his arm, she had no idea just how warm.
"You're probably fighting off an infection.” She held the heavy earthenware cup to his lips and whispered, “Drink."
The cool water rolled past his lips and quenched his parched mouth and throat.
When the cup was empty, Walker let his gaze meet hers. She was as beautiful as he remembered. Maybe more so, with her long, corn-silk hair and eyes that reminded him of bluebonnets in spring.
"How have you been, Hannah?” he asked quietly, letting his fingers slip down and brush the back of her hand where it rested on the mattress beside his bandaged waist.
For a moment, she remained still beneath his touch. And then she carefully pulled away, letting her arm fall to her side, well out of his reach.
She cleared her throat. “I should be asking you that question, don't you think? What did you do to make someone shoot you, David?"
"Walker."
"Yes, I know your last name is Walker."
"No,” he corrected. “I go by just Walker now."
Her brows knit. “Why?"
This wasn't the conversation he'd pictured them having at this point, but he didn't suppose he had much choice. “I took a new name when I returned to my Comanche mother's village. Spirit Walker . . . because Clay and Regan had adopted me and given me their name, and because—due to my mixed blood—I walk in both the Indian and the white man's world."
"So no one calls you David anymore?"
"Only Clay and Regan.” One side of his mouth lifted in an amused grin. “You know my ma."
She did, though Hannah mostly saw Mrs. Walker after Sunday services or to discuss how one of her younger children was doing in school. By the time Hannah left the orphanage and started teaching, David had already been full-grown and off on his own. He didn't attend church, he didn't spend much time in town, and eventually she'd learned that he'd left Purgatory altogether.
She remembered that day distinctly. Her heart had slammed painfully against her rib cage when she'd heard the news, and Hannah feared the battered organ still bore a deep purple bruise.
And yet she hadn't realized until this very moment how much David was in her thoughts, how she'd longed to see him again. How many times she'd looked for him in a crowd or thought of him late at night when she couldn't sleep. Or worse, how often thoughts of him kept her awake.
Seeming to sense her sudden discomfort, David—or Walker, as he preferred to be called—turned his attention to the child between them.
I take it you've been giving Miss Hannah a rough time."
His voice was more patient than chastising, but still Hannah rushed to defend the boy. “Oh, no, he's been fine. Very well behaved. He's exceptionally quiet, but I think that's because he doesn't understand what I'm saying. And I, of course, don't understand whatever language it is that he speaks."
"Comanche. He's half-Comanche, half-white, same as I am. But he understands English well enough.” With a pointed glance at the child, he said, “Why don't you introduce yourself?"
The boy, looking only moderately less stern than before, turned to her and held out a hand, his arm ramrod stiff. She took it and he gave a sharp shake.
"My name is Little Bear. Who are you?"
"English, he knows,” David said with a wry smile. “We're still working on manners."
Hannah didn't return his grin. She couldn't. She was already two steps ahead and too nervous.
"My name is Hannah Blake,” she told Little Bear. “I'm very pleased to meet you.” And then she turned her gaze on David. “Is this . . . your son?"
One coal-dark brow winged upward. “My son? No, he's my nephew, my Comanche sister's son. And since when do you go by the name Blake? You were just plain Hannah when we were growing up."
Just plain Hannah. Yes, that description suited her ev
en now.
Setting the empty cup on the nearby nightstand, she busied herself fussing with the unused bandages to avoid meeting his eyes.
"Are you hungry?” she asked, bustling across the cabin to retrieve another bowl and spoon.
"I could eat,” David responded agreeably, well aware that she had avoided his question. “You should finish your meal as well, Little Bear,” he told his nephew, and gave him a gentle push toward the table and benches.
The boy went without argument, and now that his uncle was awake to reassure him, he gulped down his soup as though he hadn't eaten in several days. Of course, knowing Lynch's mean streak, it was possible he hadn't.
Once Little Bear was busy slurping down his dinner, Walker turned his attention back to Hannah. He found her discomfort and need for distraction intriguing. He didn't see why a simple inquiry about her surname should make her nervous, but it was interesting all the same.
She returned to his side with a bowl of light-colored broth and sat on the very edge of the bed, keeping her attention firmly focused on her actions as she held the spoon to his mouth.
His side might have a hole the size of Austin in it, but his arms were working just fine. But far be it for him to share that fact with Hannah. Instead, he let her feed him, just to keep her close by.
"You never answered my question, Hannah,” he pointed out between spoonfuls.
She didn't pretend not to remember. She merely shrugged one slim shoulder, still refusing to look at his face, and said, “You know how it is at the Home. I remembered some things from before my parents were killed, but not everything. When it came time to leave, I needed a last name. I've always been fond of William Blake's work, so. . .” She shrugged again, trailing off.
"'The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine.’”
Her eyes widened at his recitation and finally met his own.
His lips twisted in self-derision. “Not bad for a worthless half-breed, huh?"
For the first time since he'd known her, her expression blazed with fury. “I've never thought of you that way, and you know it."
She slapped the spoon down in the bowl, sending yellow chicken broth flying. Fat drops of the hot liquid hit his bare chest. He ignored them.
"Clay and Regan Walker have never treated you that way, either. And if anyone in this town has, they deserve to be horsewhipped. You deserve to be horsewhipped for propagating such nonsense."
Walker bit the inside of his mouth to keep from grinning. The situation wasn't the least bit amusing, and yet she amused him. Her spirit, and her fire, and her beautiful cornflower eyes.
But if she thought he was laughing at her, she'd be likely to dump the bowl of scalding soup in his lap, so he kept biting until his cheek muscles no longer quivered and his lips no longer threatened to curl upward.
"You're different than I remember, Hannah,” he said when his features were finally schooled. “You used to be quiet and shy. Wouldn't say ‘Excuse me’ if a body tramped on your toe. Now you look about ready to slug someone."
He almost expected her to retort with a sharp, Not someone—you. Instead, she lowered her eyes to the bowl in her lap and started stirring the spoon around and around until the broth inside threatened to shoot over the edge of the dish.
"I grew up,” she said simply.
She certainly had. He remembered when she'd been a gangly, awkward, still-growing adolescent. He'd been an adult by then—or at least he'd thought of himself that way—and concluded it was wrong to be mooning after someone he considered still a child. That was when he'd decided to leave Purgatory and return to his Comanche mother's village to learn more about his people and his heritage.
But now he was back. And Hannah was all grown up.
While mooning over her was still out of the question, he couldn't help noticing all the hows and wheres and ways she'd . . . developed. The soft roundness of her breasts. The tall column of her neck. The flowing length of her silky hair.
And those were only half of the attributes playing around in his head. They caused him to break out in a sweat that had nothing to do with his building fever.
"That's why I brought him to you,” he said, forcing his mind away from her delicious curves and back to his reason for coming here in the first place.
Grasping his meaning immediately, Hannah glanced over her shoulder at Little Bear. He'd finished his dinner, pushed the empty bowl out of the way, and now sat with his chin resting on top of his folded arms, staring across the room at them.
"I don't understand,” she said, returning her attention to Walker.
She offered him another spoonful of broth, which kept him from speaking for several long seconds.
"I knew you would take care of him,” he told her. “Protect him."
"Protect him? From the same trouble that put that hole in your side?” She inclined her head toward the bandaged wound, her eyes growing cloudy.
"That was an unfortunate offshoot of the problem. Little Bear needs protection from something far worse than a bullet."
"And that would be?"
"His father."
Chapter Three
His father.
How could a child need protection from his own father? What kind of parent would put his own child in danger?
Hannah had wanted to ask those and a hundred other questions. But before she'd gotten a chance, she'd noticed the thin layer of sweat beading David's brow and the tight set of his lips, attesting to the pain he refused to voice.
Tamping down on her curiosity, she'd helped him finish a bit more broth, then made him drink a glass of water mixed with some special herbs to help him sleep. Soon enough, he'd drifted off and had now been sleeping peacefully for nearly an hour.
To keep her hands busy and her mind occupied, Hannah bustled about the cabin. Cleaning up, gathering a few items she thought she might need when David awoke, making sure Little Bear wasn't still hungry.
Of course, that was none too easy, considering that the child continued to refuse to speak to her. But at least he'd graduated to nodding or shaking his head in response to direct questions. Hannah considered this a step in the right direction and tried to think of even more personal questions she could ask to draw him out.
"Are you sure you've had enough to eat?” She ladled a scoop of reheated soup into a bowl for herself.
He nodded, but toyed with what remained of the slice of bread in front of him.
She took her dish and sat down across from him, testing the temperature of the soup and then dipping a bit of bread into the broth.
"Your uncle didn't get a chance to tell me much about you before he fell asleep.” She wanted to ask him how old he was, where they'd come from, why David had been shot. But since she didn't expect Little Bear to answer her verbally, she had to make sure he could respond to anything she asked with a firm yes or no movement of his head.
As compassionately as she could—because she simply couldn't think of any other way to phrase it—she asked, “Are your mother and father still alive?"
Yes.
"Do you live with them?"
Yes.
"Did you want to come with your uncle when he brought you here?” She didn't think David had abducted the child, of course, but with a bullet wound in his side, she could only assume the circumstances surrounding the boy's departure had been less than perfect.
And sure enough, though his eyes grew dark and pensive, Little Bear didn't respond.
"Do you know who shot your uncle?” she asked quietly, and then wondered why she bothered, since he certainly wouldn't tell her.
The boy nodded, but that was all.
"He's going to be all right, you know,” she tried to reassure him. “The wound will hurt for a while, and he may run a fever, but he'll be fine."
The only sign of relief she saw was a slight softening of his tight jaw and stiff posture.
"Your uncle told me you speak
English,” she said. “And you obviously understand me. Is there a reason you won't talk to me?"
He inclined his head.
"Don't you like me?"
A slight hesitation, and then a quick shake.
"Are you afraid of me?"
His eyes darted toward the bed where his uncle lay before returning his gaze to her—though not directly. He nodded.
Her heart lurched at that. She'd never frightened a child in her life. In fact, she'd spent most of her adult years helping children, teaching them, comforting them. She couldn't recall doing anything to scare Little Bear, but he'd been taken from his parents, seen his uncle shot, and then deposited at the house of a stranger. She supposed that was enough to make anyone ill at ease, let alone a young boy.
"There's no reason to be scared of me, Little Bear,” she said softly. “I'm actually a very nice person. Or at least I try to be,” she added, casting him a sly glance and a small smile.
"Did your uncle tell you anything about me?"
Yes. But with no elaboration, of course.
"Did he tell you I was a good woman?” she asked, remembering David's words when he'd first shown up outside the cabin with Little Bear. Before he'd collapsed. “And that I would take care of you?"
A nod.
"Did he tell you that I'm a schoolteacher?"
No.
"I am.” She took a bite of bread and a mouthful of warm chicken broth. “I teach at the small schoolhouse in town and have eighteen students in all. I teach them reading and arithmetic, and we study about great battles and distant lands. Do you go to school?"
He shook his head.
"Do you know how to read?"
No.
"Do you know your numbers?"
No.
"I could teach you,” she offered casually. “If you'd like."
He didn't respond, but Hannah thought she saw a slight glitter in his eyes, a lift to his narrow lips.
She ate a few more bites and let the silence fold around them before trying once again to make conversation with the little boy.
