A Temporary Family

by Sherri Shackelford

  Nolan took a deep breath and entered the station. He’d act as though nothing had happened. He suspected Tilly would do the same. They’d met under extreme circumstances, and her emotions were heightened. If Caroline hadn’t taken ill that first day, he doubted Tilly would have remembered his face, much less his name.

  The realization left him with an odd pang of regret.

  He opened the door to cries of distress.

  Victoria and Elizabeth were engaged in an angry tug-of-war over a rag doll.

  “Mine!” Elizabeth sobbed.

  The older girl put her weight behind the next yank, ripping the doll from the toddler’s fingers. “No, mine!” she shouted.

  Tilly came from behind the kitchen table. Tendrils of damp hair clung to her cheeks, and she swiped at the sweat beading her forehead.

  “Stop it, both of you. Those men ate all the food and I’ve got to prepare a second dinner. I don’t have time for your fighting. Can’t you simply get along?”

  She caught sight of him and a pleased grin lit her face.

  “Nolan. How are you?” Sounding breathless, her hand fluttered before landing on her hip. “I meant to ask if you were hungry. Are you hungry?”

  Elizabeth broke into loud, hiccupping sobs, saving him from having to reply.

  “Mine!” the toddler repeated.

  Victoria set her lower lip in a stubborn pout. “You always take my things. You’re a baby.”

  “Not a baby!” The toddler took a swing at her sister. “You baby.”

  Nolan kneeled between them. “That’s enough, you two.”

  Victoria hugged the rag doll to her chest. “I wish Elizabeth was a boy. Because a brother wouldn’t take my dolls.”

  He smothered his chuckle with one hand. “Brothers are annoying in other ways.”

  Elizabeth threw her arms around him and clasped her fingers behind his neck, sobbing into his shoulder.

  Tilly flashed a grateful smile. “Thank you. They’ve been arguing since we returned from the, uh, from the jail.”

  Her lips parted and her nostrils flared. Neither of them moved for a moment, though a delightful blush stained her cheeks.

  She was remembering.

  Their gazes caught and held and her eyelashes fluttered. His gaze dropped to her lips before he forced his gaze away. So much for pretending as though nothing had happened. There was an intimacy between them now, a familiarity that would be impossible to ignore. Especially considering the close quarters and their precarious situation.

  Caroline touched his shoulder. “I can make Elizabeth a doll,” she said quietly. “That way she has her own, and won’t take Victoria’s.”

  “That’s a very generous offer.” He held Elizabeth away from him. “Is that all right with you?”

  The toddler blinked, the tears on her lashes glistening in the light from the kerosene lanterns. “My doll.”

  Caroline twirled a length of her hair around one finger. “I have some cloth and a sewing kit, but I don’t have any yarn for the hair. You’ll have to wait for that.”

  “Isbeth doll.”

  Elizabeth faced Victoria and stuck out her tongue.

  Nolan frowned. “Be nice, or Caroline won’t make you a doll.”

  The defiant tongue immediately retracted. “I good.”

  Nolan gathered the outlaw’s discarded dishes. His brief relief at a small victory quickly faded, and his frustration simmered as he considered his supplies. He was well stocked for one man, but he hadn’t prepared for a relay station overrun with people. If the coach containing the gold didn’t come through town by the following week, they’d have to send for more supplies, which was bound to attract notice.

  Though he usually assisted with cleaning the kitchen after supper, the girls and Tilly made another batch of blackberry muffins. The sisters laughed and giggled, their earlier animosity forgotten.

  Despite their obvious joy, his head throbbed. The outlaws had littered the floor with food. Snyder had left a larger halo of crumbs than Elizabeth. Because of the constant rain, dirty footprints marked nearly every inch of the floor. He hadn’t oiled the harnesses that day, and Dakota Red had prevented him from moving the horses to the upper pasture. The outlaw feared he had an ulterior motive for the transfer.

  Near as he could tell, the girls were using every pan in the kitchen for their muffins. A bowl hit the floor, raising a plume of flour dust. The pounding in his temples grew more intense. For the past year, he’d spent nearly all of his time alone. He’d probably spoken more words in the past two days than he had in the past two years.

  The sudden jolt from solitude to being surrounded by constant commotion was jarring. Not to mention his unexpected attraction to Tilly had him wrapped up in knots.

  She stifled a yawn behind fingertips purpled from berry juice. “It’s been an eventful day,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Nolan glanced into the kitchen and back at her. “Aren’t you going to clean up?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” His left eye twitched. “The kitchen is in a shambles.”

  “It will still be in a shambles in the morning.”

  “Breakfast will be late.”

  “I’m not overly concerned with ensuring a bunch of murderous outlaws are fed on time.”

  Bowls and spoons were stacked haphazardly in the dry sink, flour footprints tracked across the floor. She’d tossed the leftover muffins together and draped a towel over the heap.

  Nolan rubbed the back of his neck. He was exhausted. He hadn’t slept a full night in days. Fatigue had wormed into his brain and strangled his emotions.

  “Good night,” he said, his tone clipped.

  Tilly tilted her head at the abrupt response. “I promise, we’ll clean up our mess in the morning. I’m exhausted.”

  She appeared undecided, then yawned once more and turned away. Her steps dragged and her shoulders drooped. He shouldn’t be angry. The fault was his. Leaving a mess for a few hours was hardly cause for panic.

  Fearful of waking the girls, who were liable to create another catastrophe, Nolan silently scrubbed the kitchen. He arranged the muffins in a pan, and neatly folded a towel over the surface. He scrubbed the dirty dishes, wiped down the counter, replaced all the clean dishes in their designated locations and alphabetized the cooking supplies once more.

  When he’d finished the kitchen, he set to work on the rest of the living spaces. Even with a limited amount of luggage, the three girls created an alarming level of mayhem. When he’d finished sweeping and dusting, he methodically wound each of the timepieces located in the relay station.

  When the clocks chimed three in unison, he stepped back and surveyed his work in the dim light of the kerosene lantern. Every surface gleamed.

  He had restored order.

  For however long his work might last.

  Both physically and mentally exhausted, he collapsed on the cot in the third bedroom of the relay station. Threading his hands behind his head, he crossed his ankles. He’d done it. He had restored order.

  He could sleep in peace.

  Chapter Nine

  The shouts woke Tilly. They were muffled, but distinctly troubled. Flipping off the covers, she swung her feet over the side of the bed. Groggy and not quite alert, she fumbled for the lantern at her bedside and clumsily lit the wick.

  She slipped on a shirtwaist and grimaced at the dress she’d tossed over the foot of the bed. The hem was torn and muddied, and she doubted the outfit was salvageable. Her wardrobe was never going to survive Pyrite at this rate.

  Her feet bare, she padded past the girls’ room. The sliver of light from her lantern revealed the girls positioned three across in the enormous tester bed. Elizabeth, sucking her thumb, was tucked in the middle
. Rain pattered against the roof and the air was heavy and loamy, scented with summer leaves and freshly turned earth.

  The stifled mutterings became more insistent, and she cautiously nudged open the door of the third bedroom.

  “Mr. West,” she whispered. “Are you all right, Mr. West?”

  A thump sounded.

  She swung the door wider, and her knees weakened. Nolan was sprawled on the floor, his back to her. Had something happened to him? She frantically searched the empty room. No outlaws sprang from the shadows. She hesitated before stepping across the threshold, but she couldn’t leave him laying there if he’d been hurt.

  Taking a cautious step, she stretched out her arm. The mutterings quieted, and she paused. Perhaps he’d simply had a nightmare and tumbled to the floor. She’d done the same as a child. Either way, she couldn’t leave until she was certain he was uninjured.

  She nudged his shoulder. “Mr. West.”

  In a split second, pandemonium erupted. With a bloodcurdling roar, Nolan surged upright, pitching her backward. Thrown off balance, she tumbled into an ungainly heap just inside the door. The lantern in her hand pitched sideways and died, plunging the room into darkness.

  He came alive with the ferocity of a cornered animal, his fists and elbows flailing wildly. She scrambled backward and her hand slipped on a loose rag rug. With a sickening crack, her temple slammed against the door frame.

  “Get off me!” Nolan bellowed. “Get off.”

  Nausea roiled in her stomach and she pushed away, desperate to escape his fury. He stumbled upright, towering above her in the shadows. Tilly groped for the doorway and her hand met with solid wood. In her confusion, she’d scuttled away from the exit, cornering herself.

  Her breath came in shallow gasps and she stilled her lungs, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. The floor groaned ominously beneath his weight. She cringed, bracing for a blow.

  “I told you!” he shouted hoarsely. ‘I told you what would happen if you touched me.”

  Several flashes of lightning in rapid succession illuminated the room. The stagecoach man’s eyes were wild and unfocused. He was looking at her, but she sensed he wasn’t seeing her.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasped, huddling deeper into the corner. “P-please.”

  She didn’t know what she was begging for, only that she desperately needed to release him from his fugue of rage.

  At the sound of her voice, he jolted. “What happened?”

  His rage instantly dissipated, leaving his expression wan and confused.

  Her whole body sagged. Her voice must have awakened him from whatever sleeping nightmare had taken hold of him.

  “I-it’s me, Tilly,” she stuttered.

  He stumbled backward and raked his hands through his hair. Something warm and wet trickled against the side of her cheek and she tentatively touched the spot. Gasping, she yanked her hand away, then gently probed the growing lump on the side of her face. She’d have quite a shiner in the morning.

  Nolan staggered a few steps and collapsed on the edge of the low mattress. With a groan he hung his head and laced his fingers over his crown, letting his elbows roll forward. For an agonizing moment they sat in silence.

  She cocked her head, listening for the girls, then heaved a sigh of relief. They hadn’t woken. Although how anyone could sleep through Nolan’s awful shout, she’d never know. A cold shiver rippled through her. She’d never heard such terror. Such desperation.

  Keeping her gaze fixed on Nolan, she warily fumbled for the lantern in the darkness and righted it. Thankfully, the splashing oil had doused the wick before anything had caught fire.

  He lifted his gaze, his eyes bleak. “Why are you here? Did something happen?”

  Another streak of light from the storm revealed his disorientation, and he fumbled for the candle at his bedside.

  “No.” Tilly brushed at her skirts, shaking herself from her stunned inaction. “I heard something. I came to check on you.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I couldn’t very well ignore you.”

  A scratch and a hiss sounded. Keeping her face averted, Tilly scrambled upright. She felt her way along the wall, her movements stiff and awkward.

  “Why were you on the floor?” he asked, his voice shaky.

  She sensed by his voice he was coming out of his stupor, shrugging off the sleep and trying to piece together what had happened.

  “Did I push you?”

  “It was nothing.” She cringed at the hitch in her voice. “I slipped.”

  Though she desperately wanted to mitigate the circumstances, there’d be no hiding the bruise in the morning. Judging by the moisture trickling down her neck, the wound needed tending.

  His candle threw her misshapen shadow against the wall, and her pulse quickened. She mustn’t let him see her face. Right now she wanted to hide back to her room, and forget any of this ever happened. Quickly. Before he saw the damage.

  She might have made her escape, but she was too unsteady on her feet, her balance reeling from the blow. The moment she stumbled, he was at her side.

  There was no hiding.

  She turned her face. “It’s nothing.”

  She watched in growing dismay as the awareness of what had happened struck him. His face crumbled and he tentatively reached out one hand, then stilled, as though he couldn’t bring himself to touch her.

  Nolan remained silent for a heartbreaking moment, his expression stricken. When he spoke, his voice was no more than a whisper.

  “What have I done?”

  * * *

  “Nothing,” Tilly replied. “You did nothing. I told you, I slipped.”

  Nolan couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

  Blood trickled down her face from a growing bruise. Was she lying? Had he struck her? He was still half-asleep, his thoughts sluggish. He glanced at his hands, at his knuckles, nearly collapsing in relief to find them uninjured. The next instant despair took hold once more.

  Whether or not he’d touched her, he was at fault for her injury. As he’d feared, his nightmares had returned.

  She touched his sleeve, her eyes full of pity. “You should sit.”

  Her kindness woke him from his torpor. “I’m not the one who needs tending.”

  The next hour passed in a haze. Someone lit lanterns. It might have been him. He couldn’t remember. He retrieved bandages and alcohol from a box he kept beneath the sink.

  Tilly remained still beneath his ministrations. He dabbed at the blood oozing from the wound. She winced and hissed a breath.

  “I’m sorry,” Nolan murmured.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered in obvious deference to the sleeping girls. “It was an accident.”

  He’d meant that he was sorry for the pain of the alcohol, but this was as good a time as any to apologize.

  “Truly. I’m sorry.”

  “What happened? What were you dreaming about?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember, or you won’t tell me?”

  “It doesn’t matter why,” he said. “Nothing will change what happened.”

  “You’re Southern, aren’t you? You fought for the South.”

  He paused, then heaved a sigh. “Yes. I fought for the Confederacy. How did you know?”

  “You still have the barest hint of an accent.”

  “I didn’t realize.”

  “I doubt most folks would notice.”

  “You did,” he said. “You noticed.”

  “I have an ear for that sort of thing.” She touched the spot on her head and winced. “Where did you serve?”

  Guilt twisted his gut. He wanted to leave. He wanted to retreat deeper into the wilderness, but he could
n’t. He had to stay. He had to protect Tilly and the girls. He had to protect them from the outlaws and from himself.

  “I didn’t kill your cousin,” he said. “If that’s what you’re worried about. I served in two battles before my unit was captured. I spent the rest of the war in the Rock Island prisoner camp.”

  “There was so much death and loss, what’s the point of blame? We’re all to blame.” She caught his gaze. “I’ve never heard of Rock Island. Where was that?”

  “Far from here. Prisoner camps rarely make the news when battles are being fought.”

  “Is that what you were dreaming about? Were you dreaming about the camp?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it like? I’ve read about—about Andersonville.”

  Nolan snorted. “We didn’t have conditions nearly as bad as what those boys faced. I’m ashamed of my fellow Southerners for the atrocities.”

  “Still, being held prisoner must have been awful. Suffocating.”

  Suffocating. Even as he rolled the word around in his mind, the walls seemed to close in on him. The camp had been a confinement, but he’d never realized, until she said the word, how stifling his time had been.

  She touched his sleeve and he jerked away.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe if you talked with someone about what happened, the nightmares would fade.”

  He stared at the cut marring the side of her face, along with the red splotch, which would soon purple and bruise. What was the point of talking?

  “I don’t need your pity.”

  Her gaze dropped, and she stared at her clenched fingers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “There’s nothing to apologize for,” he said, instantly remorseful. “No one else should have to know what happened. Especially not someone like you.”

  “A stranger?” she asked, clearly hurt.

  “Someone who still has hope in the future. You shouldn’t have to know what happened to us.”

  She clutched his fingers, looking down. “What happened to you? I want to know. You need to tell someone.”

  He almost didn’t hear the noise, a slight sniffle. It was faint, so faint he might have mistaken it for something else, until he saw the single tear splash against her wrist.