Arranging a bedroll on the floor, Shannon closed her eyes, yet sleep would not come. After almost an hour, even Sunrise admitted it was foolish for Shannon to twist and turn while Sunrise sat up.
Shannon promised to let Sunrise know if her roiling thoughts ever settled and sleep became possible.
Through the darkest hours of the night, she bathed Tucker’s brow countless times to fight the fever. Praying her meager medicine would be enough, watching his every breath. It was approaching dawn when his eyes fluttered open.
With only a single lantern, turned low to light the room, she was reminded sharply of the similarities between this moment and the days they’d spent alone together in the dark cave. The intimacy that had been forged between them was alive.
She brushed his hair off his brow. It was short, cut off by Sunrise about a month ago to little more than bristles.
“How are you feeling?” She leaned close, hoping not to wake Sunrise, though Shannon doubted the alert Shoshone woman slept through much.
“Like my leg’s clamped in the jaws of a badger, my belly’s on fire, and my head’s being used as a war drum.”
Nodding, Shannon resisted the urge to press her lips to his forehead. That seemed like how a wife ought to test a husband’s temperature. “You need water. A fever wears on a man. Let me help you sit up.”
She slid a hand behind his shoulders. Raising him an inch at a time, watching every flicker on his face, she saw, though he tried not to let it show, that each move was agony for him.
A tin cup of water was close at hand. “Take a sip. Just one. If it stays down you can have another.”
Tucker did as he was told. She urged him to take another longer drink, and it wasn’t long before the cup was completely drained.
“Enough. Thank you.”
“I can get more.” She spoke with her face close to his, holding him up as she was, her lips nearly touching his cheek.
“No, that’s good for now.”
As she eased him back, he gasped and one hand went to his stomach.
Shannon quickly caught his hand. “Don’t. We didn’t cover the wound. We wanted a new scab to form and left it unwrapped.”
“How can I hurt so bad when I didn’t even notice I’d been clawed before?”
“Well, it’s because we made it worse. We opened the wound to get . . .” Shannon’s voice broke.
Tucker turned his hand—the one she’d grabbed—so he held hers and drew it up to his lips. “Don’t cry.”
Gently sliding her arm out from behind his back, she swiped at her face with the back of her wrist. That he would comfort her when they’d done such brutal doctoring on him was unfair.
“You’re going to hurt badly for a while and will need lots of care. But at least your leg is in a cast now.”
Tucker turned to look down the length of the bed. “It feels better.”
“It helps to keep it from moving. They called it ‘immobilizing’ the leg or arm. We used plaster in the war, and the pain relief of a plaster cast was almost immediate.”
Tucker stared at his foot, and Shannon saw him wiggling his toes.
“You’ll need to be still and have good food and a lot of rest for a while. Sunrise says being still doesn’t come easily to you, and she’s about the only one who can make you mind.”
Tucker grinned and kissed her hand again.
Shannon suspected they all had their work cut out for them keeping Tucker in bed until he was better. She jabbed a finger straight at his nose. “You’ll do it if I have to wrap your whole body in plaster.”
He arched his brows as if daring her.
She decided to put off fighting with him until he actually started moving again. Right now his tender stomach would keep him still. “Now drink this tea. It will help with the fever.”
Shannon reached for a second cup that Sunrise had prepared and left on the table.
Tucker drank it down quick.
“Can you eat anything? There’s stew left over.”
Shaking his head, Tucker said, “I don’t think my belly’s up to that right now. Instead I’ll get to the resting part of Sunrise’s orders.” His eyelids closed as if they weighed five pounds each.
He fell asleep so suddenly it was almost as if he’d passed out again. But his breathing was steady. A hand on her shoulder scared her into jumping.
Sunrise stood behind her. She’d approached without Shannon hearing a sound, then pressed one hand to Tucker’s forehead and smiled. “He is going to be all right.”
The assurance in Sunrise’s voice released a knot of tension that Shannon hadn’t really known was there.
“Sleep, daughter.” A quiet, somber woman, her smiles were rare. And she’d called Shannon daughter. “His fever is low enough we can let him sleep without the cool baths for a time. Tomorrow we will both need our strength to keep him in bed.”
Nodding, Shannon stood, took a wistful look at her husband. She hadn’t slept away from Tucker in five long days. How quickly she’d gotten used to him.
“It would be fine to lie beside him. You can do him no harm, and he might find comfort in your presence.”
“Thank you.” Shannon didn’t know if she could sleep anywhere else.
14
I’m not staying in this bed another minute.”
“Ma was right about us needing all our strength to keep you in bed.”
“I’ve been lyin’ down for two months now. I’ve never stayed in bed for two months in my life. A man spends two months in bed, he’d better be laid out in a coffin.”
“It’s been one month, Tucker.” Shannon looked up from where she sat, stitching a pair of pants. “And the first two weeks don’t count because you spent most of that time out of your head with fever, with your belly so tender you couldn’t move. And the week after that doesn’t count because you were too weak to even think of getting up. So you’ve only been able to even think of being up and around for the last week. Which means you haven’t had to be still much at all. It won’t be much longer before Nev takes that cast off.”
“You are the slowest seamstress who ever lived.” Tucker glared at the poky woman. She’d been threatening him with those pants the whole time. And it had been two months at least. No man could be this blasted bored after only one month.
She’d even made his shirt first, of all the stupid decisions. The shirt hung on a nail nearby, taunting him. She knew good and well a shirt wasn’t worth much without a pair of britches.
The little minx smiled and quit mid-stitch just to torture him. “You lie right back down or the only way you’re going anywhere is in a long white dress.”
“This is a nightshirt, not a dress.” He was starting to growl instead of talk.
“I’m going to send Sunrise to invite Caleb over to see you wearing a dress.”
Tucker wasn’t sure how exactly Shannon had come to know just what would drive him the most crazy, but she certainly had figured it. The thought of Caleb seeing him in this stupid white dress was so embarrassing that a man would be better getting caught buck naked. Except of course he was surrounded by women, so he clung to his dress as though it were a life-and-death battle.
Tucker narrowed his eyes. He sat on his bed like an ailing infant. At least she’d given him back his knife, and he was now carving himself crutches with it. They cut into his hands, though, so he began smoothing them out. He’d probably have them right by the time his leg bone healed and then wouldn’t need them anymore.
“I know how to sew, Shannon. Give me that needle and I’ll make my own britches.”
“Buckskin maybe. I doubt you can sew cotton.”
“It can’t be that different.”
“And you’d have to catch me first.”
Tucker’s mood shifted, and he looked her right in the eyes and smiled. “I wouldn’t mind catching you, wife.”
Shannon looked nervous, and a bit excited. Maybe she wouldn’t mind being caught. Tucker had gotten mighty good on his new crut
ches.
A tidy knock on the door broke the mood, and Tucker went back to being irritated. “If that’s Caleb, and you let him in and he sees me dressed like this, I swear I will eat a sheep every day until there’s nothing left of your flock but a cloud of wool.”
Shannon sniffed. “You’d have to catch them, too.” But she gave the door a considering look. “I’ll get rid of whoever it is.”
She laid the pair of mostly sewn pants aside. He knew the little vixen could finish them anytime she wanted.
Tucker swung his legs up on the bed, careful of the cast. His broken leg didn’t hurt much anymore, not if he was mindful of it. But Nev said he needed another two weeks at least in this piece of plaster and no weight put on the leg the whole time.
He pulled the covers up to hide his outlandish outfit, not sure Shannon was tough enough to stop a determined mountain man, if that was who it proved to be. Caleb had been heading up the mountain, so Tucker doubted it.
She went to the window, not the door, and peeked through a crack. She frowned. “It’s a stranger.”
Tucker’s and Shannon’s holsters hung side by side on pegs right behind the front door. Tucker’s was now nicely filled with a brand-new six-shooter.
She drew her own gun, then plucked Tucker’s new Yellowboy rifle off its peg and brought it to him. They also kept an old shotgun over the window to the left of the door.
“He looks harmless.” Even having said that, she handed him the rifle. Shannon was an easy woman to love.
Out of habit he checked that it was loaded, though he never left an unloaded gun around—no point in that.
She inspected her pistol at the same time. She did it so casually and efficiently, Tucker couldn’t stop himself from grabbing her wrist and dragging her down to within an inch of his face.
“You are a sassy wife and the slowest seamstress I have ever known, but I am finding myself to be uncommon fond of you, Shannon Tucker.” He gave her a long kiss, then said, “If I don’t have a pair of pants by the end of the day, a pair that fits over this cast so I don’t have to sit around in a dress, I swear I am going to start chewing holes in the walls of this house.”
She smiled. “If you weren’t such a terrible patient, I wouldn’t have to resort to such foolish schemes as sewing with the speed of a turtle to keep you in bed. Promise me you’ll behave and I’ll sew faster.”
“I promise.”
She snorted. “You’re lying.”
“I am not a liar.” Tucker did his best to sound deeply offended when all he really wanted was to kiss his wife again. His stomach was still tender, but all the suppuration was gone. His leg felt much better now. So long as he didn’t move too much, he was feeling mighty good. But not moving gave him too much time to want to move.
“Fine, you’re not lying. You’re just making a promise you mean to keep, until the very first moment it turns out to be impossible.”
Tucker grinned. He couldn’t deny that.
A second knock, a bit louder, sounded at the door. A high-pitched nasal voice called out, “Miss Wilde, are you home?”
He let her go and tucked the Winchester under his blankets. He was in bed with his head such that he could see the door, his foot propped up, his covers drawn most of the way to his chin, hiding the embarrassing nightshirt.
She went to the door, wearing her britches. She really ought to sew herself a dress. Tucker knew it was proper she wear one, but he was mighty fond of the way she looked in those britches. And he’d cut off his tongue before he proposed another sewing project before his pants were done.
She stuck the pistol in back of her waistband. It was an admirable wife who armed herself before opening the door to a stranger.
Cracking the door about six inches, she answered, “Yes?”
“Hello, Miss Wilde.”
“It’s Mrs. Tucker. Mrs. Matthew Tucker. I’ve recently married.”
Tucker’s chest swelled with pride enough that he near to split open his white dress. Exasperated though he was, he liked the sound of his name coming from Shannon’s lips.
“I’m the new land agent in the area, Hiram Stewbold. I’m here to discuss your homestead claim . . . uh, Mrs. Tucker. I see no record of it being transferred to your husband.” The man had a high, fussy-sounding voice. Something about it set off a warning inside Tucker. He couldn’t say why, but Tucker was a man who trusted his instincts. He tightened his hand on his rifle.
“My brother-in-law is Aaron Masterson. He mentioned you were in the area, Mr. Stewbold.” Shannon stepped back so her face was behind the door a bit and arched a brow at Tucker, rolling her eyes at the door in a comical way, then slipped her gun back in its holster.
He frowned at her for doing that and put his finger on the trigger.
“Come in.” Shannon swung the door open. “I know we need to change the paper work. My husband was in an accident and hasn’t been able to get out of bed to tend to such things.”
Hiram Stewbold came inside, and Tucker almost laughed. There wasn’t one thing threatening about the man. That Tucker’s instincts kept rioting . . . well, he took that seriously. But Stewbold had the look of a frail, nervous sort. If there was a fight, Shannon could handle it alone, unarmed.
“Mr. Stewbold, allow me to introduce my husband, Matt Tucker.” Shannon was brushing off some mighty fancy party manners. Tucker wondered where she’d picked them up. He hadn’t seen much sign of them up to now.
Stewbold’s eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses, shifted back and forth rapidly between Shannon and Tucker.
For all his appearance of being a weakling, Tucker decided he still didn’t like him. Those beady eyes darted to the knives that were heaped in the corner, where Coulter had tossed them—save the one Tucker had been using to whittle—then to the furniture and the gun Shannon had so quickly replaced.
Stewbold assessed everything in a few edgy glances. He had a skimpy mustache that heightened an unfortunate resemblance to vermin. He wore a mouse-gray suit, and as he stepped inside he pulled off a round, stiff-looking brown hat. That sent his wispy hair, what little he had, standing straight up. He hugged the hat to his chest, twitched his mustache in an anxious manner, and cleared his throat.
Tucker had seen pack rats act like this. Sneaky, looking around for anything shiny they could grab and slink away with.
Nope, Tucker didn’t trust him, not for a second. He probably wouldn’t need shooting, but he would for sure need watching.
This man taking over for Aaron was a mighty bad idea. And he’d tell Aaron that, just as soon as Shannon finished sewing his pants!
15
Stewbold moved over to Tucker. Shannon had to stifle a laugh when the man bent over to shake Tucker’s hand. She could tell Tucker had to let go of the rifle’s trigger. Stewbold’s handshake looked as weak and wet as everything else about the man.
The land agent turned, and as soon as his back was turned, Tucker grimaced comically at Shannon, then wiped his hand on the blanket and said, “Now’s not a good time for visitors, Hiram.”
Stewbold stiffened so dramatically Shannon had to fight not to giggle. She whirled toward the fireplace in case her expression gave her away.
Stewbold cleared his throat for about the tenth time since he’d come in. “I’d prefer you deal with me in a professional manner, Mr. Tucker. Please call me Mr. Stewbold. I want to be treated as a man with authority in the area. You understand.”
What every man in the area understood was, you earned authority in the West, you didn’t request it. Mr. Stewbold was in for a hard time out here. Just looking at him made Shannon want to get a cat and bring it into the house. A good mouser.
“Now, I’d hardly call this a visit, as if it’s a social call. I have a few questions I would like answered, and I’d prefer to get them dealt with. I don’t mind that you’re . . . in bed.” He said it as if Tucker was a layabout.
Shannon knew her husband quite well after living with him four weeks in a cabin and most of a fifth
in a cave. It was not unlike being penned up with a cougar. For the most part he’d been a good-natured cougar, sleek, graceful—which was saying a lot considering his broken leg. He was a strong man with corded muscles, very calm in his wild way.
But no one should make the mistake of yanking on his tail.
Having Mr. Stewbold talk down to Tucker in such a snide voice was like waving a raw lamb chop at the cougar, then tucking that chop inside your shirt.
Tucker’s eyes flashed fire. “So what are these questions?”
Shannon heaved a sigh of relief. Tucker wasn’t going to just flat out go to war with the land agent. Shannon was sure that would come soon enough. But at least for now, Tucker would be satisfied with mocking the man. Stewbold was too foolish to notice.
Unfortunately for Stewbold, Shannon didn’t think mockery was Tucker’s way. That had a dishonesty to it Tucker didn’t hold with. No, he’d unsheathe his claws and attack sooner or later. Shannon hoped for later.
But it would happen. It was just a matter of time. Maybe Tucker was waiting until he had pants.
There was nothing friendly in Tucker’s tone, and Shannon had never seen him be anything but friendly. She’d seen his stack of knives. She’d seen the guns and bullets and powder Aaron had brought home. That strongly suggested Tucker had an unfriendly side. But she’d never seen it herself.
Now she did.
Shannon, standing slightly behind Stewbold, held up a coffee cup and waggled it at Tucker, who narrowed his eyes. She jerked her head at Stewbold, asking her husband’s permission to offer their guest a cup. Shannon didn’t think they had much chance of getting rid of him anytime soon.
Tucker shrugged and slumped back on the bed.
“Mr. Stewbold, would you like a cup of coffee?”
Hiram turned, stroking his mustache. Not a wise man to turn his back on Tucker. “Why, that would be lovely, Mrs. Tucker.”
With a tiny shake of her head, she poured three cups, setting one on the table so Stewbold had to sit down in a place Tucker could watch—and aim at. She took a second cup to Tucker.
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