by Tess LeSue
“The little one needs to relieve herself.” Irish George flapped a hand at the sagebrush, where Anna was leading Winnie to privacy.
English George didn’t look pleased. But they were supposed to be playing at escorts, rather than kidnappers, so he kept silent. Emma wondered how long it would take before his patience wore thin and he stopped the pretense.
“Would anyone fancy coffee while we’ve stopped? Lunch?” Emma suggested cheerily. “I have some leftovers from last night I can reheat.”
“We don’t have time,” English George said.
“Now, now,” Irish George tutted, giving him a look. “We ain’t in a rush, are we? We said we’d get the ladies to their friend, and we will. But there’s still plenty of light in the day. And we haven’t had a proper meal since Frisco.” He dismounted. “We’ve been living on hardtack and tea.”
English George didn’t look happy, but he didn’t protest. He did, however, stay on his horse.
“What are you doing, offering them food?” Tom hissed at her as they quickly gathered wood for the cook fire.
“I thought we’d best get it over with as soon as possible,” she whispered. “Might as well do it while they’re eating. They’ll have their hands and mouths full—it’s the perfect time to stick a gun to their heads.”
“Lady, you’re crazy,” Tom snapped. “What in hell are you thinking, taking them with us?”
“Trust me,” she snapped back, “it makes perfect sense. I know what I’m doing. Wait until they’re eating. I’ll take Fat George, you take English George.”
“And where in hell are you planning on taking them? All the way to Mexico?”
She ignored him and took her armful of wood back to the wagon.
“Excuse me, Mr. English George,” she said as she brazened her way through a haphazard plan, “would you mind lighting the fire for us?” She squinted up at English George, who was still mounted and restlessly scanning the horizon. He sure was a mean-looking son of a bitch. The kind who’d beat a whore, she decided. She knew his type. “I have a wonderful rabbit pie,” she told him, “and fresh bread from this morning. No butter, but you can’t have everything.”
“You don’t want to miss Sister Emma’s cooking,” Calla told the Georges. Emma shot her a grateful look. While Calla didn’t know what Emma was up to, she knew she was up to something. And trusted her.
Which is more than she could say for Tom Slater, Emma thought, as she saw him hanging back, his arms full of wood.
“Let me take that for you,” Irish George intervened, taking the wood from Tom’s arms. “A little lady like you shouldn’t be carrying a load like that.” This, despite the fact that Tom towered over him. “Come and sit over here, by me,” Irish George invited, “while George over there builds the fire.”
Emma froze. She had no idea what Tom was going to do. Please don’t do anything rash. She breathed a sigh of relief when he followed Irish George to a fallen juniper log and sat beside him. She’d have to talk to him about manners later, though. He sat with his legs spread. It was giving Irish George the wrong idea.
“Come on, George,” Irish George coaxed his friend. “We’re waiting on you before we can have our supper.” Irish George’s plump pink tongue swiped at his lips as his eyes dropped to the skirt draped between Tom’s splayed knees. Emma tried to catch Tom’s attention, to gesture at him to act like a lady and sit with his ankles crossed, but the damn man wouldn’t look at her.
Exuding surly discontent, English George dismounted and started on the fire. His companion, meanwhile, just about fell over himself trying to impress Doña Elvira. He’d either forgotten about her pox scars, or he’d decided that he didn’t care. A woman’s spread legs often had that effect on a man, Emma thought dryly. Doña Elvira was also the only non-nun here, and while Irish George might have been struck by Calla’s pretty face, she was still a nun. Whereas Doña Elvira was a widow. And while she was ostensibly not an attractive one, Emma knew men. She figured George had done the odds and calculated Doña Elvira was a better bet. Ugly women weren’t so choosy. Or so men liked to tell themselves. Although, to be fair, Tom made a decent-looking woman: he had an elegant build, and the well-padded dress did wonders for the impression of a willowy female body. Emma felt the urge to giggle. She wished she could see Tom’s face as Irish George flirted with him.
“You’re a shy one, aren’t you?” Irish George was cooing.
“Oh, did I forget to mention that Doña Elvira is mute?” Emma said breezily on her way past to fetch the pie. “I’m afraid the pox took her tongue.” She didn’t know if that was entirely possible, but it sounded good. By the time she came back, pie in hand, she saw that Irish George had started getting handsy. He’d better watch out, she thought, feeling the urge to giggle again. Tom might well belt him one.
“What are you gentlemen doing all the way out here if you’re not visiting Don Rey?” Emma asked lightly as she set to warming the leftovers.
“We’re looking for someone,” English George said shortly. Now that he had the fire going, he was watching his friend and the señora with narrowed eyes. Maybe he was jealous. That almost set Emma to giggling again. There was a touch of hysteria to it, but it was better than being afraid.
“Oh?” she said. “Who?” Although she had a sinking feeling that she already knew.
“An Indian,” Irish George said with relish, trying to impress Doña Elvira. “A Plains Indian, not one from round here. He’s wanted all through the west. You woulda heard of him . . .”
Oh dear. Here they went again . . .
“You woulda heard one of his names, anyway: Rides with Death, White Wolf, the Angel of Death, the Plague of the West . . .”
“Oh heavens!” Emma exclaimed, forcing a note of horror into her voice.
Calla took her cue from Emma. “He’s not around here, is he?”
“He’s passing for a white,” English George spat. Like that was the worst possible thing the Plague of the West could do. “You might have even met him, without knowing it.”
“No!” Emma gasped, feigning outrage. She had a hard time not rolling her eyes. She’d met him all right, and she liked him a damn sight better than she liked these two.
“He’s going by the name Tom Slater,” Irish George said. And then he swore. Loudly.
The curse startled Emma. She whipped around in time to see Tom’s pistol settle threateningly in front of Irish George’s nose. Goddamn him! She wasn’t ready. And now look, before she could even reach for her Colt, English George had drawn his own pistol and pointed it directly at Tom’s head. That wretched man had better have drawn his weapon because of Irish George’s wandering hands and not because he had a bee in his bonnet about Deathrider using his name! She could forgive punishing wandering hands—she knew about that kind of rage firsthand—but she had a nasty feeling it was the name that had done it. He was mighty sensitive about it. But what did this kind of rash behavior accomplish? Nothing, that’s what! Well, nothing except a pistol to the head.
“Doña Elvira doesn’t like to be manhandled,” Emma said quickly. “She’s got a hair trigger when it comes to being pawed.”
Irish George gingerly removed his hand from Tom’s knee.
Emma had a momentary hope that she’d be able to salvage the situation. But then Don Rey’s vaqueros rode into camp, and everything went well and truly to hell.
15
“IT’S NOT MY fault you got shot!” Emma felt like wringing his neck. He was the worst patient she’d ever had. “And it’s not even a proper wound,” she told him imperiously. “It’s barely a graze.”
“I’m missing half my hip,” he growled. His green eyes were fierce in his white face.
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
They were cooped up together in a guest room at Don Rey’s hacienda, where Emma had volunteered to nurse “poor Doña Elvira,” who’d
sustained a nasty injury during the scuffle with the Georges. When the vaqueros had ridden into camp, everything had devolved into total chaos. There had been a lot of shouting in Spanish, which Emma didn’t understand in the slightest, and it had turned out neither of the Georges did either, which only seemed to make the vaqueros shout even more. Then, as if all the shouting wasn’t enough, English George had gone and shot off his weapon. Everything went right to hell from there. Emma had screamed at Calla to get Anna and Winnie safe, before drawing her Colt and joining the fray. But she didn’t know who on earth she should shoot. The camp was a cloud of dust, with horses wheeling and guns blazing, and her ears were ringing fit to split her head. And then suddenly it was calm. Without her even having to fire a shot, the Georges were defeated, trussed up and slung over their horses. It had all happened so fast she barely had time to blink. Huh, Emma thought as she watched the Georges struggle against their bonds, it looks like God can be flexible after all. It seemed He’d sent cowboys to do her dirty work for her; cowboys who were outraged by the idea of nuns being accosted.
Once the Georges had been subdued, the vaqueros flocked to the women, full of concern. “They saw the pistoleros threatening us with their weapons,” Calla translated. “They’re calling them godless americanos.”
“Tell them they are godless, but only one of them is a proper americano,” Emma said. “They can blame England for the other one.” Now that it was all over, she could see that the vaqueros were mostly young, sweet-faced boys; they seemed as shaken by the whole situation as Emma was. They were reverently polite toward Calla as they chattered at her, doffing their hats and almost bowing.
“They’re good Catholic boys; they’re horrified that anyone would dare to attack a nun,” Calla said.
“Tell them we are too.” Emma straightened her habit.
“They drew on us,” Irish George protested hotly from where he hung upside down over his horse.
Emma hid her Colt in the folds of her skirt. “Tell them these men manhandled us,” she told Calla.
“Oh, I did,” Calla said cheerfully.
“We’re the victims here!” Irish George was yelling. All the blood had rushed to his head, turning his face a meaty pink. He looked like a cooked ham. “That bitch drew a gun on me! If you want to be trussing people up, you filthy Mexicans, you should truss up the señora!” That was all he managed to yell before they gagged him, but that’s when Emma realized that Tom was missing. Madre de Dios! What if he’d been shot? What if they’d discovered that he was a man? What if they knew that he was Tom Slater and had trussed him to his horse?
“Where is the señora?” she’d asked, panicked.
The vaqueros hadn’t seen any señoras. Emma clenched her teeth to bite back her curses. Where was he? She couldn’t see any trace of the impossible man. Maybe he’d run off? But his horses were here. And he wasn’t the kind of man to run off. She’d bet her life on it.
Oh no, no, no. She spied a black boot sticking out the back of the wagon. Please don’t let him be hurt. Emma’s heart sank as she ran.
He was slumped between the flour sacks in the back of the wagon. The veil had slid off him, showing his bent head, his dark hair damp and ruffled. His stubbled jaw was clenched in pain. Time seemed to slow down as she took in the dusty stretch of his long body. The gown was tattered at his hip. And there was blood. Lots of it. Splashes of blood were all over the flour sacks and in rusty patches on the earth at Emma’s feet. Tom’s gloved hands were slick with it as he pressed them to the wound. He opened his eyes, and they blazed in his white face, green as river ice glinting in the sun.
As though from a great distance, she heard the vaqueros coming, and she had the presence of mind—just—to throw the veil over Tom’s head.
“The bastard shot me,” he said. His voice sounded papery. Emma didn’t like the sound of it.
“Don’t talk,” Emma told him. Her mind raced as she yanked the flour sacks out and climbed into the wagon beside him. She managed to make him more comfortable by pushing the goods out of the way to make space for him. Gingerly, she nudged his hand off the wound.
“Leave it,” he protested.
She ignored him. The whole side of his left hip was sodden with blood. She needed to stop the bleeding. She opened the nearest trunk and grabbed at the first thing her hand landed on. It was her powder blue “sweetheart” dress, the one she used for men who liked to pretend they were courting rather than whoring. She didn’t have time to rip it; instead, she wadded it up and used it whole to stanch his bleeding. She pressed down hard on his hip, and he swore at her.
“Shut up,” she said kindly, “or they’ll hear you.”
She needed to see to him . . . but she couldn’t have anyone else see him. And how was she going to hike the dress up and deal with the wound without everyone seeing that the señora wasn’t a señora at all?
“Doña Elvira has been wounded!” Emma told the vaqueros, who were piling up at the back of the wagon, their sweet faces full of concern. Calla and Anna were huge eyed, certain that Tom was about to be discovered. But the vaqueros didn’t ask questions, and they were too shy and gentlemanly to so much as touch the señora. They were more than happy to leave the nursing to Sister Emma. Especially once she told them where the wound was. Emma patted her hip, close to her groin, and the vaqueros turned beet red and averted their eyes. That had done the trick nicely.
“They said they’ll take us to the hacienda,” Calla translated as the vaqueros packed up the camp for them and mounted their horses. Calla jumped onto the wagon seat and gathered the reins.
Anna deposited Winnie next to Calla and then helped Emma lace the canvas closed over the ends of the wagon, to give Emma privacy to tend Tom’s wound. Before she finished the last knot, tying Emma in with her patient, Anna paused. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Not really,” Emma admitted.
“Make sure the wound is clean,” Anna said. “Wash it if you can. But the main thing at this point is to stop the bleeding. I really should be in there to help you.”
“Best not,” Emma said. “He’s unhappy enough that I’m here.”
Unhappy was an understatement at best.
“Get,” he snapped at her, when she crawled back to him over the rattling bucking trunks. With the canvas laced closed, the wagon was dim and baking hot. The stifling heat sapped Tom’s strength, and he slapped her hands away with increasing weakness when she tried to help. “Get.”
He’d ripped his veil off again. His hair was wet through with sweat, and he was white and clammy. But he was conscious, and his green eyes were clear, even if the lines around them were deep with pain.
“I’m telling you to get,” he told her fiercely.
“Fine.” Oh, she could have slapped him. Why did men have to be such idiots? “If you want to bleed to death, bleed to death. It’s no skin off my nose.”
“I’ll look after it myself,” he said, stubborn as a bull. He winced as he pulled himself into a sitting position. The violent shaking of the wagon was clearly causing him pain.
“Fine. Look after it yourself.” She rolled her eyes. Men. She’d give him ten minutes before he was begging for her help. She busied herself getting water from the water barrel; she filled the pitcher and dug out a washcloth.
“Keep your back turned,” he insisted.
“For the love of . . . You’re bleeding to death, and you’re worried about your modesty?”
“Turn. Your. Back.”
She left the water next to him and wriggled around until she was facing the canvas hoop of the wagon. She could hear the rustle of the gown as he lifted the skirts to take a look at his hip, and then she heard him curse. It was a vigorous curse, so he clearly wasn’t dying. That was something.
“How bad is it? Is it bad?” There was no answer. “Anna said to stop the bleeding before you do anything else,” she s
aid helpfully.
“I know what to do.”
“I understand that you’re in pain, but you really could be nicer, especially since I saved your life.”
“You what?” The words were bitten off through clenched teeth. There was a world of pain in them.
Emma winced in sympathy. She hoped the bullet hadn’t lodged in him somewhere. How in hell would she get it out? “If I hadn’t whacked that dressing on your wound like that, you might have bled out,” she said, talking to keep herself occupied as much as anything. So long as he was talking back, he wasn’t passing out. Or dying. “You should be thanking me, instead of being all growly like a bear.”
He grunted. It wasn’t an apology, but at least he’d stopped cursing and carrying on.
“Has it stopped bleeding?” she asked. He’d lost an awful lot of blood. She wasn’t sure how much more he could stand to lose.
He grunted again. She didn’t know what that meant, so she snuck a peek at him. He was bent double, poking at his hip. His gown was hiked up around his armpits, and the sweetheart dress was wadded up in a ball on his lap. It was red-black with wet blood. The smell of it was thick and metallic in the close wagon.
“Is there a bullet that needs digging out?” she prodded.
“Doesn’t look it.”
Thank goodness. She exhaled. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath. Her hands were shaking too, she saw now. “It went straight through?”
“Looks like it just grazed me,” he admitted grudgingly.
A graze. She laughed. Out of sheer relief, but he took offense. He also caught her looking.
“It took a fair hunk of flesh with it.” He glared at her.
“I saw the blood,” she soothed. “I know it did.”
That clearly wasn’t the right thing to say either. He gave her a filthy look and turned back to his wound.
“Is it still bleeding?”
He didn’t answer.
Honestly. “If it’s still bleeding, you need to stanch it. Do you need fresh cloth?”
