Although her foot was still smarting from having been used as a weapon, she hurried, trotting when she could, and walking fast when her foot protested. After what seemed like forever, although she knew it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, she reached her tent.
She lifted the flap and darted inside. “H.L.! H.L., are you all right?”
He didn’t answer her cry, and Rose’s heart stumbled. With shaking hands, she found a match, lit the lantern on her night table, and turned to see how badly he had been hurt. She looked again. Then she pressed a hand to her head in disbelief.
He wasn’t there.
Chapter Seventeen
H.L. staggered through the encampment in a blind panic. His head felt as if somebody had been dancing on it in copper-toed boots, and he thought his vision was blurred, although he wasn’t sure since it was dark and he couldn’t see anything anyway.
Rose. He had to find Rose. Somebody had taken Rose. He needed Rose.
Dammit, they’d been just about to make beautiful love together. It was bad enough she’d been taken, but to have been taken at that precise moment smacked of some kind of devious, devilish plot. Unless his brains were scrambled from that godawful blow he’d taken and it was no plot at all, but only bad luck.
He discovered he’d made his way to the Butlers’ tent, but nobody was there. Not even their dog. Well, of course, the dog wouldn’t be there, since Annie used him in her act. He muttered soft “damns” and “hells” as he stumbled on past the Butlers’ tent. His feet weren’t working right, and he bumped into things as he went.
“Rose!” His shout made his head throb, and he groaned. He shouted again, because Rose was more important than pain. “Rose!”
“H.L.!”
He tried to stop in his tracks, but his feet didn’t cooperate, and he staggered sideways before fetching up against another tent. Steadying himself on a tent post, he hoped the damned thing wouldn’t collapse.
“Rose!” He wasn’t sure he’d actually heard her voice, since his ears were ringing, but he allowed himself to hope.
“H.L.!”
God in heaven, if that wasn’t her voice, he was going to die. “Rose?”
“H.L.?”
“Rose?”
“H.L.! It’s you!”
Rose appeared from between two tents like an apparition. H.L. didn’t dare let go of the tent pole so he could grab her. Fortunately, it didn’t matter, because she grabbed him.
“Oh, H.L.! I was so worried about you! When I got to my tent and you weren’t there, I—oh, I thought all sorts of things!”
“Yeah?” Fundamentally, he knew he needed to say something more, but he couldn’t figure out what.
“Oh, I was so worried! Did that horrid man hit you with that sandbag thing of his?”
H.L. pried one arm from around Rose’s waist so that he could feel the lump on his head. It hurt. A lot. “Is that what it was?”
Rose had begun crying, which startled H.L. He didn’t expect tears from this quarter. Rose was so tough.
“Yes,” she sobbed. “It was one of those stuffed leather things that beastly criminals use. See?” She reached into her costume’s skirt pocket and withdrew the sandbag, holding it up even as she kept her face buried in H.L.’s shirt front.
“By God, it is a sandbag, isn’t it? A genuine, honest-to-God, nasty little sandbag.” Even though his vision was blurry and he feared for his stability, H.L. took the sandbag, lifted it to the level of his eyes, since his head hurt when he lowered it, and pondered the evil implement of his present injury. “By God. You don’t see very many of these.”
Rose sniffled. “That’s because the only people who use them are wicked scoundrels. It was that horrid one-legged man who took me.”
H.L. would have goggled if he’d been in any condition to do any goggling. “Pegleg? I’ll be damned.”
To his dismay, Rose pulled away from him, an action that set him swaying. He tried to hold on to her, but she evidently had another agenda in mind.
“We have to get your wound tended, H.L.,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “And we need to report this attack to the police. Maybe they’ll pay attention to us this time, since it’s not a little Indian boy they took this time, but me, and I’m a member of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West.” The sniff she gave this time was one of pure outrage. “That ought to make them worry. Think of the bad publicity they’ll get.”
H.L. sighed deeply. He’d had such lovely plans for this evening. Now those plans were up the flue, along with his balance, which he hoped he’d regain one of these days. He wasn’t sure his head would ever recover. “Right.” He knew she was right, even though he had no desire to speak to the Chicago police any time soon.
“Can you walk?” Rose asked.
He appreciated her concern. He also appreciated the question, since he wasn’t sure of the answer. He’d managed to stagger this far, but that was when he’d been propelled by fear for Rose’s safety. Now that he knew she was still alive and kicking, he wasn’t altogether sure whether he could walk or not.
His state of health did produce one happy prospect, however. “Put your arms around me, Rose. I think I’ll be able to walk with support.”
She followed his suggestion instantly, and H.L. decided he’d survive.
It might take his headache a while to go away, but feeling Rose pressed against him was a sure-fire way to make the rest of him feel better.
They got to her tent after a few minutes of painful progress. She’d left the lantern burning, so when they ducked under the tent flap—causing H.L.’s aching head terrific torment as they did so since the blood in his veins pounded like a dozen sandbags were beating on it—they could at least see where they were going. Rose guided H.L. to her bed, where he flopped down ungracefully and buried his head in his hands. “God, my head hurts.”
Rose realized her front was still unbuttoned, blushed slightly, and quickly redid the buttons. When he glanced up after coddling his head for a few seconds, H.L. was sorry to see her bosom disappear under the calico, although he was too debilitated to say so.
“I’m sure it does. “I’m so sorry that dreadful man hit you.”
Now that Rose was safe and he was in the relative comfort of her tent, H.L.’s brain slogged back to work again, slowly and haltingly. Slitting his eyes against the blinding light of the kerosene lantern, he focused on Rose. “How’d you get away? I thought for sure they’d kidnapped you for some reason or other, and that I’d have to scour Chicago for you.”
Rose gave an unladylike snort that almost made H.L. grin, but he wasn’t quite up to it. “They did kidnap me, the fiends.”
“How’d you get away?” he repeated when she didn’t continue. She’d turned her back on him and was puttering around the place like a trained nurse. Her efficiency and industry gladdened him. He adored competent people. He adored Rose.
Oops. He must have been hurt more seriously than he’d thought. He’d never admitted adoring a woman in his life.
Before he could dwell on it, Rose spoke. “I kept yelling for help, and he put me down to try to shut me up.”
“He put you down? You mean he’d been carrying you?” Rage engulfed H.L., making his blood race and his head throb. “He was carrying you?”
Visions of Rose, unbuttoned, her breasts pressed against that gigantic scoundrel’s chest, filled his already overtaxed head. He made a lunge to get up off the cot. “Where is he? I’m going to kill him for sure this time.”
The old saw about the spirit being willing and the flesh being weak occurred to him a moment later when a rush of sparkling light and pain filled his head. He lost his balance, careened across the floor of Rose’s tent, and came a cropper against one of her trunks. He fell heavily, sending shoots of exquisite torture through his head and the shin he’d barked.
“H.L.!” Rose cried. “What do you think you’re doing? Get back to that bed this instant!”
He felt ridiculous when pitiful
whimpers and groans fell from his lips. He’d meant to explain, not whimper. “I—I can’t.”
Rose rushed over to kneel beside him, and again put her arms around him, so he guessed he’d live. She helped him to his feet, and led him back to the bed.
“I’m as weak as a kitten,” he muttered, feeling unmanly and inadequate.
“Of course, you are, silly. Your brains have been knocked all around.”
She didn’t sound as if she considered him less of a man for having been wounded in the line of duty, and he felt slightly better.
“Now don’t move again, H.L. I’m trying to make a poultice for your poor head.”
“A poultice?” H.L. grimaced. He’d been through a lot in his life, but he’d never been forced to use a poultice. A poultice sounded so . . . so . . . not masculine.
“Yes. A poultice.” She apparently detected a certain unwillingness to endure poulticing in his voice, because she turned around to shoot him a good, hot glare. “This is good medicine, H.L. May, and you’re going to keep it pressed to your head for at least a half-hour. Little Elk’s mother taught me how to make it, and if you balk about using it, you’ll be worse than an idiot.”
“An Indian poultice?” For some reason, knowing that she was going to doctor him using Indian medicaments made H.L. feel less like a simpering weakling. In fact, his reporterly instincts made a stab at awakening, although they, too, were unsteady on their feet. “What’s in it?”
Rose kept puttering on the other side of the tent. H.L. missed her and wished she’d finish up over there and get back to the bed. If they couldn’t make love, maybe they could at least hug for a while. “Lots of things. There’s witch hazel and yarrow and aloe and several other plants and herbs that grow in Kansas. It’s really quite soothing. I’m going to fix you an old Sioux remedy for headache to drink, too, and I don’t want any guff from you.” She frowned.
Since he hadn’t said anything to account for her frown, it worried him. “Why are you frowning?”
“I beg your pardon?” She turned and gazed at him blankly for a second. Then, as if she realized what he’d asked, she said, “Oh. Well, that horrid man bruised me when he put down the burlap sack he’d stuffed me in.”
“He what?” H.L. wished he hadn’t yelled when pain stabbed through his head. Pressing a hand over the growing lump, he eyed Rose. He knew he was going to have to kill Pegleg. There were no two ways about this. Pegleg was going to pay with his life for having bruised Rose. Forcing the words out through gritted teeth, he said, “Where did he bruise you?” He squinted hard at her. “Did you say he carried you in a burlap sack?” Perhaps he’d misunderstood her.
“Yes. It was very uncomfortable, too, let me tell you. But I kept hollering, and he got mad and dumped the bag down on the ground. It hurt.”
“Where did he hurt you?” After he killed Pegleg, he’d kiss Rose’s bruise and make it well. Maybe he’d kiss it before he went out to kill Pegleg, since he wasn’t in any condition to kill anything yet. And if it didn’t make her better when he kissed it, it would certainly make him feel better, and that was a good thing.
“My—” She stopped speaking abruptly. H.L. thought he detected a faint flush invade her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “My, ah, leg. The upper part of, ah, my leg.”
“Ah. I understand. That bastard bruised your butt.” H.L. was going to kill him. That was all. There needn’t be any muss or fuss about it. He’d shoot him, and it would be an execution of a vicious criminal, pure and simple, and nobody, not even the president of the anti-capital-punishment brigade or the Purity League, could find fault with him. Pegleg had bruised Rose’s buttocks; therefore, Pegleg must die. It was simple, really. H.L. hoped his head stopped throbbing soon so he could carry out his plan. The prospect of kissing Rose’s injury increased the pleasurable aspects of retribution a lot.
“You needn’t be so blunt,” Rose muttered.
“Nuts. That man is vicious and a danger to society.”
“I won’t argue with you about that.” She finished doing something that required the jamming of ingredients into a cloth bag and dipping the bag into a bowl of water. Then she tied a string around the open end of the bag. “There. It’s all ready for you.” Turning and eyeing him critically, she said, “You really do look terrible, H.L. Loosen your tie and take off your shirt and jacket, please, then lie down. After I adjust this poultice, I’m going to go find someone to take a message to the police. Then I want to see if you have any other injuries.”
He actually managed a grin. “Yeah? Take off my shirt? Your friend Annie won’t be shocked?”
Rose huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re injured, and you need medical attention. Now take off your shirt and jacket and lie down.”
She sounded ferocious, and he did as she ordered. He was pleased to see the avid expression on Rose’s face as she watched him bare his torso. He had a rather fine torso if he did say so himself. Lowering himself carefully, and painfully, he lay flat on her bed. His head underwent excruciating agonies as his head nestled against her pillow, but the sweet-smelling pillowcase eased his nerves. “This pillow smells like you, Rose.”
“It does?” She appeared flustered for a moment. “Well, that’s not surprising, I suppose.”
“It smells wonderful. Like you. You smell like vanilla and wild flowers. Did you know that?” His eyes had squeezed shut from pain, but he opened them now and gazed up to see her looming over him. Looming in a good way. If he felt less pitiful, he could come up with a better word for what she was doing. For now, looming would have to do.
He realized he was already composing an article about this incident in his sore head and came to the conclusion that Rose was good for him. She provided endless copy for his fertile imagination. Besides, she smelled great. So did her pillow.
“Here,” she said softly, leaning close. “Press this to the sore spot.”
H.L. had just begun to enjoy having her face practically touching his when the poultice struck. “Aaaagh! That stings.”
“The skin’s broken.” Rose straightened away from him, and H.L. felt doubly awful. “But it’s not a bad scratch, and soon it will stop stinging. Mostly, it’s the swelling that’s going to hurt. I’m afraid that spot will be tender for some time, but this poultice will help if you give it time.”
His eyes squeezed shut in agony. “God, I feel awful.”
“I’m sure you do.” She sounded as if she were at least a little bit worried about him, and he thought that was nice. He heard sounds from across the tent that he presumed were made by a spoon being stirred in a glass. He wasn’t looking forward to drinking whatever noxious concoction she was brewing.
Her footsteps came closer and stopped beside the bed. “Here.”
H.L. pried his eyes open and frowned at the glass she held out to him. “What’s that?”
“Don’t sound so reluctant. This is the best cure I’ve ever taken for headache, and you need it.”
“You sound like a prison guard,” H.L. grumbled.
“Just drink it.”
He drank it. “God, that stuff tastes horrible!” He wasn’t altogether sure he wasn’t going to return it to Rose against his will and had to hold his breath for a minute before he was sure it would stay down.
“Horrible or not, it will help you. Here. Chew this.”
He squinted at her and took the dried twig she held out to him. “What is it?”
“Mint. Chew it. It will help the remedy stay down.”
Thank God for small favors. H.L. popped the twig into his mouth and chewed. He was glad to discover Rose was right. He thought he might just live through her ministrations. He sank back against her pillow, pressing the poultice to his throbbing skull, and wishing it were a couple of weeks from now and he didn’t hurt anymore.
“You just stay there now, and keep that poultice on your sore spot. I’ll be back in a minute.”
H.L.’s eyes popped open in horror. She was going to abandon him! Before he could
voice a protest, she’d left him all alone in the tent with nothing but his pain and his poultice to keep him company. He felt really rotten.
Before his sense of being marooned in a desolate place could flourish, however, Rose was back, looking pleased with herself. H.L. frowned at her. “Where’d you go?”
She appeared surprised by his brisk tone. “Just over to the Sioux village. I sent a couple of the children to find a Columbian Guardsman and the colonel. I’m sure the Guard will get a message to the police, especially if Colonel Cody steps in and orders him to do so.”
“Ah. Did you write a note to the police?”
She looked uncomfortable. “Yes.”
All right. H.L. guessed she wasn’t going to tell him what her note said. He also guessed he didn’t care a whole lot. He asked with hope, “Are you going to fix a poultice for yourself?” He thought he’d recover quicker if he could see Rose’s sweet bottom, even if it sported a bruise and a poultice. “I promise I won’t do anything untoward.” Bitterly, he added, “I couldn’t if I wanted to, dammit.”
She frowned, narrowing her eyes in thought, as she contemplated his suggestion. “I suppose I might as well. That poultice really does wonders for bruises and swellings. I’m afraid I might not be able to perform for a day or two, because the spot is really quite sore. I don’t think I ought to try to work my act unless I’m in top shape.”
H.L.’s heart cried out in terror at the thought of Rose trying to perform some of those tricks of hers with a bum leg. “Good God, no!”
She blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
He tried to sit up, but she dashed over and held him down, shrieking,
“Stop it!”
“No! You can’t perform, Rose. Not until you’re all better. Good God, Rose, you’ll kill yourself!”
Coming Up Roses Page 25
