Just Kin (Texas Romance Book 6)

by Caryl McAdoo

  “No, that thief cut you to the bone. It’s going to take awhile.”

  Charley tipped the flask again then held it up and let the last few drops drip onto his tongue before he handed it back. “Is there a saloon nearby?”

  “Not far, but I sell laudanum. Harriett, get him a pint.”

  “Make it two.”

  It did take a good while for the doctor to finish with his sutures, but after half a pint of the opiate, Charley didn’t seem to care much.

  If it hadn’t been for the wound, she found him slurring his words quite humorous, but instead, her heart filled with gratitude for the pain killer. That no-count cad better hope she never saw his face again.

  Owe him, indeed.

  From the doctor’s office, she took him to the second best hotel in town, registered for a first floor room, and had him in bed straightaway.

  Once he fell asleep—or passed out from the last slug of laudanum—she retreated to the water closet. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she turned the hot water’s stopcock.

  While the tub filled, she stripped off her clothes then dunked herself all the way under.

  Jack’s stink lingered, but worse were the disgusting words he’d whispered in her ear. They still rang in her mind, sickening her. The cad gloated while Charley fought for his life.

  Bless the Lord. At least she’d not gotten him killed… like poor Harold.

  No matter how much she didn’t want to tell Charley the truth, she had to. Just as soon as he healed up. She could absolutely not leave it for Jack to reveal one day for the sheer meanness of it.

  No. She’d never let him hurt Charley that way.

  The tub’s water cooled to tepid, but the hotel’s fancy soap couldn’t scrub off what had happened; Jack pressing himself against her and whispering what she was in her ear lingered. She hated him.

  A part of her regretted telling Charley not to kill him. It would have been self-defense with plenty of witnesses.

  Like Uncle Henry said, only took one to hang a jury.

  But the bigger part of her heart gave God thanks that he didn’t.

  A guttural moan pulled her out of the water. She grabbed a towel and hurried to the bed. Charley sat up, his eyes closed with both his hands out. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  What in the world? She nudged him back down, then slipped into bed beside him and wrapped an arm around his chest.

  Poor baby. She loved him so much. Had forever, and yet she’d caused him so much pain and suffering.

  With the worst yet to come.

  His wife’s warmth coaxed Charley to the nether, but Charging Elk remained in the shadows, an ever present danger, slipping in and through Charley’s night vision so that he’d have to kill him again on another night.

  Of all his brothers, why had he been the one? The question brought him full awake.

  Though the pain in his forearm had dulled some, it still barked if touched or jostled. Should have trusted his gut. But how would that have changed anything? What good would it have done, except maybe he’d have been more alert, at the ready.

  He snuggled in tighter then blew on her neck. She scrunched down into her pillow. He blew a little harder.

  “You awake?”

  “How could I not be when there’s such a beautiful lady in my bed?”

  She rolled over. “Did I wake you up?”

  “Yes, but I’m glad. I needed waking.”

  “Why?”

  He had to tell her. Should be no secrets between a husband and wife, not if they were going to be truly one. As his beloved, she should know everything about him. “I was dreaming about Charging Elk.”

  “Who?”

  “The Comanche I killed when I was ten.”

  She raised and propped her head on the heel of her palm. “You knew him?”

  “I did and I loved him. He was my brother.”

  “Oh, Charley! How awful.”

  “Indeed. He took up for me, the only one who did. The oldest son of Bold Eagle’s second wife, he kept the others from taunting me. First Father called me Sky Eyes, but I fought the little brothers who called me Weak Eyes. Charging Elk took care of the older ones.”

  “Why’d they call you weak eyes? There’s nothing weak about you.”

  “I cried some back then. They never did. No matter what happened.”

  “Oh, mercy! What four-year-old doesn’t?” She turned a bit more sideways and snuggled in even tighter.

  Since she didn’t ask more, he saw no need to tell her the worst of it. Not now. He stroked her hair, but his own words condemned him. He needed to tell her about Marah, but how could he?

  Knowing he’d been with Pauleen had wounded her so. Then like a crazy man, he had her get the flask she’d given him.

  Her inspection had not gone unnoticed. What should he do with the thing? He couldn’t send it back, that would hurt Pauleen. Especially after she and Claudia had been so nice. Should he throw it away? Sell it?

  It would always remind him of the older lady, his first… He may just keep it if Lacey never adamantly objected.

  If he told her about Freddie’s daughter…

  She’d asked if he loved Pauleen, and he could truthfully tell her no. She’d surely ask the same about the publisher’s daughter, and he wouldn’t lie to her. Best keep Marah to himself, at least a little longer.

  What was that old saying? What she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. He’d chosen Lacey. That was what mattered.

  Not some lady in Danbury Connecticut who still held a piece of his heart.

  Chapter Thirty

  Lacey ran out of words. Hard to argue with a man who spoke the truth. His arm would hurt no matter if lying in bed at the hotel or riding on a train.

  So, at his request, she packed the bags and checked out. Both on the way to the station and once there waiting to board, she constantly searched the crowd.

  Twice, she thought she spotted Jack, but it turned out to be only men who favored him. She relaxed some once they boarded and got into the private cabin.

  As the train chugged away from Chicago, finally free of constant worry over another attack, she took a good deep breath then thanked the Lord.

  He’d not said a word about her paying for the first class tickets. The smart and right thing to do would be to go ahead and give him the cash still in her clutch. And she probably should tell him about the horde she’d left in the New York bank as well, but...

  Well, with his left arm hurt, perhaps she ought to just hang onto it a while longer.

  Not that with only one good arm, Charley couldn’t best any thief.

  Each jolt and jostle showed on her husband’s face, but he never complained, not once. And he’d slowed way down on nipping the laudanum and whiskey. Each time he asked her to fetch his flask, the thought to ask him about it played across her mind.

  It obviously cost more than Charley made in a month. No way would he have bought it.

  Where did he get it? The thing had to have a story, but from that first time in the doctor’s office, she thought she saw a bit of regret on his face for having her retrieve the thing from his bag.

  So why didn’t he just tell her? Probably a gift from that old whiskey lady. Maybe she should accidently toss it out the window.

  The evening of the second day, she figured he’d napped enough and tapped her shoe against his boot. “Sweetheart, want to go get supper? It’s getting late.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She touched his good arm to give it a little shake. It was hot. She put the back of her hand against his forehead. Oh dear, even hotter. “Baby! Wake up. Let me look at your arm.”

  One eye opened a quarter. “What? Why?”

  “You’re burning up, darling. Are you feeling terrible? I’m so sorry. I want to check your arm. Here, let me see it.”

  With a wince, he lifted his left arm enough to get it out of the sling then held it out for her. Slowly she unwrapped the bandage then carefully pried off the bloody cotton gau
ze.

  His skin all around the stitches glared an angry red, and swelling almost covered the stitches. She softly pressed next to an open area and a thick pus oozed out.

  Her heart sank to her belly.

  “It isn’t looking good, sweetheart.” She stood. “I’m going to find a doctor to take a look. I’ll be right back. You rest.”

  Without any objections, he closed his eyes and leaned back in the corner.

  It took longer than she hoped. Why didn’t Northwestern Railway have a doctor aboard on every trip? Unable to locate a doctor or drummer, hoping for yellowroot at the least, she settled for an onion and some honey from the cook’s kitchen.

  Once back, she went to work. First, as easy as possible, she cleaned the wound with lye soap and water, careful not to pull on any of the catgut.

  How was he staying so calm? She’d be howling like a pack of coyote pups wanting supper.

  After a thorough cleaning, she daubed the cut with an onion wedge, squeezing gently, then slathered honey over and around the stitches. She cut and placed the remaining onion pieces around the cabin.

  Their aroma she didn’t much care for, but Miss Jewel swore the roots soaked up the bad air when a body had a fever.

  Sure couldn’t hurt.

  Later that evening, after arriving in St. Louis, it seemed his fever had cooled some, but he remained hard to rouse and his skin still too warm to the touch for her liking. He didn’t protest at all when she hired help to get him to a hotel and into bed.

  He’d planned instead to go straight to the docks, but she wasn’t going anywhere before a doctor looked at him.

  The sun peeking in an eastern window woke her that next morning—Wednesday, the third day of August, 1864—to a soaked bed and feverish husband who wanted nothing but a sip of water and to be left alone. She hated running off but she had to find a doctor.

  Or at least an apothecary that stocked yellowroot or comfrey.

  The honey and onion certainly weren’t working.

  Without benefit of coffee, she quickly dressed, counted her cash, double checked her Derringer, then hurried out.

  Charley’s horse slowed with each labored step. He looked under his arm. The band neared, but their mounts seemed fresh, not lathered at all. Why hadn’t he stripped off the saddle?

  Where was he anyway? He looked again. Comanche. Why were his brothers chasing him?

  “Charley.”

  To his right, Marah angled toward him on Lexie. Her hair—how he loved it—flowed behind twice as long and thick as before.

  The thoroughbred gobbled the prairie in monster strides. She came alongside, and he jumped onto the stallion’s back behind her. The horse vanished, and then somehow he found himself chest deep in warm water.

  In the bath house at her farm.

  His brothers gone.

  Her lips broke into a wide grin. “I’m so thrilled that you came back to me, Charley Nightingale.”

  “Marah. I can’t stay. I’ve got to find Lacey.”

  “But you did find her! Don’t you remember?” She reached out and touched his lips with her fingertips. She carries that gambler’s child, while I carry yours.”

  Oh no. It couldn’t be. He had to wake up.

  Her words cut his heart. “Marah…” He sat up in bed and muttered, “Thank God.” Easing out of bed, he made his way to the water closet. Only a dream. But could it be true? “Lacey?” Where could she be?

  No answer came.

  He glanced at himself in the mirror. Such a cad. The night vision could be true. Dear God though, what could he do if it were? His image vanished as he rolled over and snuggled into his wife. His arm screamed.

  He opened his eyes. His bladder begged for relief. He sat up. Was he really awake that time?

  “You’re awake. How’s your arm this morning, sweetheart?”

  He twisted a bit to face her.

  The concern in his wife’s eyes obvious.

  “Hurts.” He stood. “But not too bad, seems maybe the swelling has gone down. The honey and onion worked.” He moseyed toward the water closet for real. A wonder he didn’t wet the bed. His dream seemed so real.

  Though Lacey loved him with more than just her heart, her whole being, right that minute, she wanted to hogtie him until he told her all about this Marah he’d been talking to all night.

  He strolled back into the room. “Let’s pack it up and find a steamer going south. This room has got to be costing a fortune.”

  She scooted to the headboard. “How about we give it one more day? You scared me, Charley. Besides, the doctor is going to be here in another hour or so.”

  He stopped at the edge of the bed. “I don’t need a doctor. I’m fine.”

  “You weren’t fine though for the last three days! I thought I might lose you, or that you might lose your arm to the infection! You about burned up with fever.”

  “What day is it?”

  “It’s Friday already. August fifth.”

  “No. Really? Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am!” The harshness in her voice surprised even her. Poor Charley looked as though he didn’t know what hit him. She threw the covers back, grabbed her housecoat, and headed to the water closet.

  He stepped in front of her. “Lacey. What’s wrong?”

  She wrinkled her nose, gave him a little headshake, then pushed him to the side. “I need to get in there.”

  Upon her return he hadn’t moved at all.

  Just stood there. Concern etched his face. “Answer me now. What is the matter?”

  “Nothing. You’re healing, and I’m…” Tears welled. She couldn’t just blurt it out, and she couldn’t ask him about that Marah lady. He hadn’t even known if Lacey was alive then. Probably some sporting lady in San Antonio or….

  But now she knew of two. So what? She’d been with two men herself. How could she be upset with him?

  “If nothing is wrong, why are you crying?” He held his arms out, but she didn’t want him to touch her.

  She shook her head. “Sit down. I need to change your bandage.”

  “Thought you said the doctor was coming.”

  “He is, but…” She turned her back on him. Hot, salty tears streamed down her cheeks. Her life was over. He loved another. Why hadn’t her carrying Harold’s baby bothered him more?

  Probably because the marriage was all a sham to get her back to Texas. Him and his honor! He’d promised Wallace he’d bring her back—even if it meant marrying her. She tried to sidestep him.

  He blocked her way. “Tell me what has you so upset. Please, baby. I love you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, I do. You know I do, don’t you? You’re my wife, and apparently, you’ve saved my life.” He held his bandaged arm out. “Can’t I thank you? Hold you? It’s clear something is not right.”

  “It’s just me.” She wanted to kiss him—or slap him—or maybe jump out the window. She couldn’t rightly decide. “I hate you sometimes.”

  “Oh my.” He nodded agreement, like he understood, but his eyes looked lost. He didn’t have a clue. But how could she accuse him, when she was every bit as guilty. She couldn’t, that’s what! He pulled her to himself. “What did I do?”

  She closed her eyes. It was time. She had to tell him. But she couldn’t face her mother without him, and…once he knew… He was bound to leave her, want a divorce, or kill her.

  That’s what she deserved. To be taken out and stoned. He wrapped one arm around her waist. She looked up into his confusion.

  His eyes pleaded…for the truth.

  “I’m a…” Tears overflowed again. How could she live without him?

  “What? You’re a what, sweetheart?” He held her cheek against his chest. “I can tell you. You’re a beautiful, intelligent, wonderful woman with so much love and compassion in your heart, it blinds me. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  Her throat tightened. Her breath came hard, and she just shook her head no against him. It wo
uld be easier if she didn’t have to look at his eyes. Her heart pounded. The truth choked her coming up from her belly.

  Somehow she managed a raspy whisper. “I’m a whore.”

  “What? No. You’re my precious wife.”

  She shook her head again and went limp against him. “I…I…let Jack whore me out, Charley.”

  His tears dripped on her cheeks. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. It’s all in the past. You’re my wife now.” He wrapped his arms around her, and held her upright as she wept. It was out, and though her heart ached, relief swept through her that it was over.

  He knew.

  Now if only what he said was true.

  But she had to know, and if there was ever a time, that had to be it. The image of him and his own soiled dove danced across her mind’s eye. “Husband, who is Marah?”

  How could he not tell her? Charley filled his lungs then exhaled. His sins had found him out just like his partners always told him. “Freddie’s daughter.”

  She backed up a step and glared. “Where was she? Hiding in the attic? Afraid I see the truth if you trotted her out?”

  Her tone surprised him. After what she just fessed up to…. “No. She hates New York and lives on the family farm in Connecticut. Raises thoroughbreds there.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Fancy horses. Jumpers. They hunt off of them and race them.”

  “So how’d you get there?”

  “By train. Freddie took me. She’d heard the Feds were going to have another round of drafts, so she asked the police commissioner to find you and Longstreet, and I went north to avoid conscription.”

  His wife studied him, bore into him through her fresh tears. “Do you love her?”

  “Some, maybe. But nothing like I love you.”

  Though her tone softened a bit, her fists clinched. “How many were there? How many more?”

  “None. Pauleen…she was the first, and I never intended to sleep with Marah, but….”