“You’re hurt.” He reached for her.
“I’m fine.” She shrugged away, but not before he caught the slight groan she couldn’t disguise.
“I know an injury when I see one. Now are you going to let me examine that arm, or are we going to stand here and waste time?”
Snow collected on her long lashes as she stared at him. It would do no good to prod her further. Wait for it. Wait. And there, the pursing of her lips, a standard signal she was about to give in.
She offered up her arm, her nose wrinkling with a poorly concealed wince.
He stepped closer, using one hand to brace her arm, the other to peel back layers of sleeves. “What happened?”
“A falling branch spooked my horse, and he threw me. I landed wrong, and—ah!” She grimaced.
Her pain sliced into his soul as he did what he must—probe for fractures or breaks. “Sorry. Won’t be a moment more. You were saying?”
“By the time I stood, my mount was gone. Ow!” She gasped once more then scowled up at him. “That hurt.”
“No doubt.” Examination finished, he released her. “That’s quite a sprain. It’s not broken, though it will take some time to heal.”
“Good.” She sidestepped him and strode to his horse. “Then let’s continue.”
“Hold on.” He pulled her back, taking care not to jostle her injury overmuch. “That arm needs to be wrapped first, and—”
“No, I’ll ride with you and keep it as immobile as possible. Little Jack is still out here. His life is on the line, now more than ever.” Fat, white flakes collected on her bonnet, adding emphasis to her words.
A sigh—or mayhap defeat—emptied his lungs of air. “Fine.”
He hoisted her into the saddle then swung up behind her. She never cried out, but her muffled grunts belied her brave front.
She used her good arm to point. “That way.”
He narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of her confidence in the growing whirl of whiteness. “What makes you so sure?”
“My father was often called to tend settlers here, and—Oh!”
The horse lurched sideways and she slipped. Shifting the reins to one hand, he wrapped his other arm around her, settling her against his chest.
She peeked up at him, an accusing arch to her brow.
He winked. “In situations such as this, Miss Nelson, propriety be hanged.”
She nestled back, allowing his hold. As much as he wanted to find the boy and get them all to safety, he gave in to the sweet feel of the woman snuggled against his coat.
“There’s a ravine not far from here with a maze of fallen trunks,” she continued. “A haven for a young boy in search of adventure.”
“How do you know little Jack is in this wood?”
“It’s near to where Makawee gathered kindling earlier this afternoon. That and, before the snow started falling, I followed a trail in the dirt from a dragged stick. Wild animals don’t play with sticks, but little boys do.”
“Except for when it comes to your own safety, Miss Nelson”—he bent his head so she’d hear not only the words but the admiration in his voice—“you are a very wise woman.”
She stilled in his arms, and slowly her face lifted to his—but then she leaned forward, pointing, a cry of pain accompanying the movement. “There!”
“Wait here.” He missed her warmth the moment he dismounted. Picking his way down the ravine, he alternated between calling for Jack and straining to listen.
Halfway down, he stopped. Then turned.
“Jack?”
Beneath a fallen trunk, in a world of white and cold, a dark little head peeked out, wailing for his mama.
“Thank you, God,” James whispered as he scooped up the lad and hefted him to his shoulder. The boy’s tears burned onto his neck.
No. Wait.
Holding the boy in one arm, he yanked his glove off the other with his teeth then pressed the back of his hand to the lad’s forehead.
Fire met his touch. And as he looked in the boy’s throat, a blaze raged there as well.
He worked his way back to Miss Nelson, thanking God for her injured arm. There was no way she could hold the boy, exposing her to—no. He wouldn’t think it. He couldn’t be sure of the lad’s diagnosis yet, but even so, he would buffer Emmaline by putting the boy in front of him and her behind. She may have survived measles, but he was pretty sure she’d not yet experienced the reason why he’d been absent from the fort in the first place—
Setting up quarantine for those with smallpox.
Chapter Six
Emmy retrieved the last cloth from a bucket of cold water and wrung it out as well as she could with a tender wrist. How many times had she done this the past week? She frowned at the cracked, red skin on her hands. Clearly, too many.
Coughs and a few moans followed her across the sick ward. Winter winds raged against the windows, but the blankets she’d nailed up blockaded drafts from attacking those too helpless to parry. No sense adding more misery to the men suffering from the spate of severe measles.
Major Clem occupied the bed nearest the door. When she bent to lay the cloth on his brow, his eyes popped open, glassy and shot through with red.
His lips worked a moment before any sound came out. “Thirsty.”
“Good, I’ve just the thing for you.” She smiled, taking care to mimic the soothing tone her father used to employ. Papa always said healing was more than medicine. Oh, Papa.
She straightened, once again shoving grief to a cellar in her heart. “I’ll be back in a thrice with some licorice-root tea, Major.”
Crossing to the dispensary door, she eased it open, glad she’d stood her ground for the extra bear grease. The men slept fitfully enough without ill-mannered hinges scraping against their ears.
Sweet tanginess rode the crest of the smoky scent in the room, and she inhaled deeply as she drew nearer the hearth. Some said licorice smelled of wildness, the untamed spoor kicked up by one’s feet when tromping through loamy earth, but not her. Why, she’d pour herself a large mug just for the sheer enjoyment of it if they weren’t so low on stock.
“Afternoon, Miss Nelson.” Dr. Clark’s voice entered on an icy gust from the front door. “How goes it?”
She felt the touch of his eyes upon her, and irrationally wished she’d chosen her green serge instead of her drab gray. La! What a thought. She was worse than a moonstruck schoolgirl. Even so, after she returned the kettle to the grate, she smoothed her skirts before she faced him.
The doctor shrugged out of his coat, waistcoat fabric taut across the muscles of his back as he reached to hang it on a peg. Ahh, but she could look at that fine sight all day and never tire of the long lines, of the suggestion of strength and protection. And when her thoughts strayed to what lay beneath that fabric, heat flared up her neck.
“Quite dashing,” she murmured.
“Sorry?” He pivoted, head cocked.
She grabbed handfuls of her apron to keep from slapping a hand over her mouth, for surely that would be even more indicting. “Oh, er, the day is quite dashing away from me, I’m afraid. How goes it down at the camp?” She rushed on. “How is little Jack faring?”
One of his brows quirked as he crossed to the counter and set down a package. “Makawee won’t let me near him. Swears by the old medicine,’ as she calls it.”
“Good. It is enough you tend the smallpox victims on your own. You needn’t add another disease to your repertoire.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I am no novice, Miss Nelson. I assure you, I take every precaution.”
“Of course.” She bit her lip as warmth bloomed over her cheeks. Sweet heavens! What was wrong with her tongue today? Or any day, for that matter. Whenever the man entered the room, her words flew out before she could think. “I am sorry. I never meant to imply such.”
Little crinkles highlighted the sides of his mouth as he grinned. “Apology accepted. And you’ll be glad to know Jack’s rash has stop
ped spreading.”
“Then he’s on the mend, unlike a few of the men in there.” She nodded toward the ward, though she needn’t have—wretched coughing crept from under the closed door. “Truthfully, I fear for Major Clem, which reminds me …” She reached for the mug of tea.
But the doctor stayed her arm with a light touch. “Then I’ve come just in time. I’ve brought something.”
There was almost a bounce to his step as he retrieved the package from the counter and ripped it open, revealing a small, wooden box. He held it out to her like a crown of jewels to be admired. “A new shipment of fresh leeches, which was quite the feat in this weather.”
She suppressed a groan but couldn’t stop the censure in the shake of her head. “You know my feelings on the matter.”
He drew back his box, taking the warmth in his voice with it. “The siphoning out of bad blood is proven science, Miss Nelson.”
“Maybe so, yet my experience proves it weakens the patient. My father said—”
His hand shot up, and what was left of his grin faded into a straight line. “Not another lecture. If your methods are not working with the major, then it’s time you use scholarship.”
The implication smacked her. Hard. Scholarship? As if what she’d been using was nothing but folderol and superstition? For a moment, she clenched her teeth so tightly, crackling sounded in her ears. Perhaps she should give in to Aunt’s entreaties, go where she was wanted, find an orphanage in the city and tend to their needs instead.
She met his stare dead-on, not wanting to leave, but not wanting to stay, either. “Maybe, Doctor, it’s time I leave. You barely consider my medical advice, nor do you use me at the encampment anymore. Give me one reason why I should stay.”
Because your beautiful smile will no longer brighten this barracks.
Because you are life and breath and air.
James staggered, pushed back by a rush of emotions and the real reason lodging low in his gut.
Because I fear my heart will stop beating without you.
He raked his fingers through his hair, a desperate attempt to push back the wild thoughts and fatigue that ailed him. This couldn’t be. When had this snip of a wilderness woman worked her way so deeply into his soul? A relationship with her would change his plans, his future…his everything. Everything he’d worked so hard to gain. Years of study. Of jockeying for position on Harvard’s wobbly ladder of success. His goal to achieve all his father had dreamed for him. He should just stride to the door, hold it open, and thank the lady for her service.
And while he was at it, he might just as well grab a knife and stab it into his chest.
For a moment, he searched her eyes, desperately trying to judge if leaving was what she really wanted. Did she?
Sweet mercy! The woman ought to be a card shark the way she hid every emotion behind those long lashes. There was no reading her desire—and there was no discounting his.
He forced words past an ache in his throat. “You should stay because I ask it of you.”
“But why do you ask?”
The question gaped like the sharp jaws of a bear trap. If he answered too personally, he’d frighten her away. Too detached, and she’d not feel needed. Either would set her and her bags on the next possible wagon out of the fort.
He caught both her hands in his, hoping the added touch might sway her. “Despite our differences on manner of care, the fact is, Miss Nelson, that you do care. I would be hard pressed to replace you and, in fact, could not. Truth is, I am in over my head at the encampment with this foul weather. I cannot possibly tend to both the men here and the people down below. Would you force me to choose, knowing what the colonel would have me do?”
A sigh deflated her shoulders. “No. Of course not. I will stay, leastwise until you can manage both.”
“Thank you.” He squeezed her fingers then released his hold. “If it’s any consolation, the colonel is holding a Christmas dinner day after tomorrow. Would you do me the honor of attending with me?”
A small smile lifted her lips. “I suppose it would please my aunt to know I am owning some measure of society out here.”
“Good.” He returned her grin. Though the festivity might pacify her relative, it would please him even more to have her at his side.
Chapter Seven
Emmy scowled into the small looking glass nailed to her chamber wall, her lips a flawless shade of red, her brows arched to perfection—and a rogue curl dangling front and center on her forehead. Stifling a growl, she eased out one more hairpin from the chignon at the back, praying the silly thing wouldn’t fall down her neck, then skewered the curl and stabbed it into the puff of hair on top. Oh, to be a princess and command a lady’s maid.
“Miss Nelson?” Knuckles rapped on her door. “Are you ready?”
With a final tap on the pin and a whispered, “Behave!” she whirled from the mirror. “Coming.”
She lifted the latch, and her heart skipped a beat. Lamplight brushed over Dr. Clark in a golden glow. Did she not know him to be a man, she’d wonder at his supernatural appearance. His hair was slicked back. His jaw, clean-shaven. An indigo frock coat contrasted richly with his white shirt, all tailored to ride the long lines of his body. Her glance slid to lighter-blue trousers and Hessians that shone with a polish. She tried to catch her breath, but it eluded her, like a milkweed pod blown open, scattering seeds into a thousand directions.
“I fear I shall have my hands full tonight.” His deep voice murmured.
She angled her face to his, looking for a clue. Full of what? Had her hair fallen again?
His shiny eyes gave no hint.
“Whatever do you mean, sir?”
“Once we walk out that door, I may have to stave off an entire battalion to defend your honor, for I guarantee”—he winked—“you will turn the head of every officer.”
“La, sir!” She swatted his arm. He was a charmer, she’d give him that. “How you exaggerate.”
He laughed and retreated a step.
Then, shaking his head, his smile faded. His gaze smoldered. “You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?”
Heat burned a trail to her belly. She swallowed, trying hard to remember Daniel’s face, but all she could see were the green eyes of the man in front of her, the strong cut of his forehead, his cheeks. Oh, she’d loved Daniel, but that was long ago, and truthfully…she searched memories, shaking them out like a laundered sheet. No, she’d never felt the kind of sweet ache that gripped her when the doctor’s gaze wrapped around her and held her in place.
She swallowed, coaxing out a voice that wouldn’t crack. “We ought be going. I’ve made us late enough as is.”
But he didn’t move. He stood there, fumbling his hand inside his dress coat. “Wait. I’ve brought you something.”
He held out a small box, nested atop his palm. A young lad offering flowers to his girl couldn’t have been more proud.
Emmy bit her lip. Why had she not thought to get him something? “I…I have no gift for you.”
He pressed the box toward her, so that she had no choice but to take it. “Ah, ah, ah. Doctor’s orders.”
It was a poor jest, nevertheless a dear one. She lifted the lid and gasped. “Oh!”
Inside, a silk flower brooch, no larger than her thumb, lay on white satin bedding. She pulled it out and examined the tiny rose, one way then another, letting the light set fire to the deep red.
“How lovely.” She peered up at him with a smile. “Thank you.”
“May I pin it on for you?”
She handed it over, and his fingers brushed against hers, gentle as a fairy’s kiss. He stepped closer, so near she inhaled his scent of sandalwood and masculinity. For a moment, she wobbled on her feet, dizzy from the heat of his body.
“There. All done.” But his stance contradicted his words, for he didn’t step back, nor did his hand lower. His fingers trailed upward from her collar, slowly, as if asking for permission, then slid across
her cheek and rested just behind her ear. His eyes flashed with questions, promises…desire.
“James?” she whispered.
He dipped his head, and his lips skimmed over hers like a summer breeze. Closing her eyes, she leaned in to his embrace, his arms as strong as a beam that could carry her world. Her heart pounded hard in her ears. This—this—was where she wanted to be, wanted to live.
For always.
“Emmy.” He breathed her name against her mouth, her jaw, her neck.
She shivered—and pressed closer.
With a gasp, the doctor stumbled back a step. The world stopped. Air and life and hope hovered somewhere overhead, beyond reach. Only the rattle of the night air against her window anchored her to the real world.
He drew his hand across his mouth, and it shook—as did his voice. “I am so sorry.”
“Are you?” Despite what Aunt would have to say, a wicked half smile tingled on the very lips that had just been so finely kissed, and Emmy lifted her chin. “I am not so sure I am.”
Miss Emmaline Nelson would be the death of him. Carve it on his gravestone, killed by a woman—a beautiful bit of a woman, all fire and passion. And that is exactly what he loved most about her, the unreserved way she gave herself to that which she cared about.
Beads of perspiration lined up like little soldiers at the nape of his neck. One broke rank and trickled down his spine as he stared at her, her eyes full of the knowledge of what lay in his heart. One fingertip ran across her lower lip. Was she remembering?
Or lamenting?
Ah, yes, but such a kiss. One he wouldn’t mind repeating—and one that never should’ve happened in the first place. Working with her from now on would be awkward at best.
He exhaled a shaky breath. “You are right, Miss Nelson.”
Her brows shot up, and a delightful curl fell down to meet them. “I am?”
“Yes.” He pivoted and held out his arm, eager for a face full of cold night air. “We ought to be going.”
The Courageous Brides Collection Page 11
