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Colorado Springs, Colorado February 1, l874
When I entered the bank it was surprisingly busy, even for a Monday morning. The tall blond owner of the Gold Nugget had apparently been first in line, depositing money taken in over the weekend, and now he lounged against the wall, idly chatting with his partner, Jake. "Mornin'." Hank nodded as I passed. "Mr. Lawson. Mayor Slicker." I inclined my head in acknowledgement, trying not to notice the amused grin that curved the barkeep's lips at the formality of my greeting. "Looks like it's going to be another nice day," Jake commented pleasantly. "I can't remember another February startin' out with weather this warm." For a moment I thought that he was making fun of me, since it was no secret that my first winter in Colorado, after living my whole life in the South, had seemed impossibly long and miserable. Glancing sharply at his face, I realized that he was simply engaging in polite conversation, but Hank's gaze trailed insolently over my heavy dress, cape, and the gloves clutched in my hand, and I had the distinct feeling that he somehow knew that I was wearing silk longjohns beneath my skirts. My cheeks flushed slightly at the awareness of just how well this particular male must know women's undergarments, and I silently renewed my vow to find enough public support to make prostitution illegal in this town. "If you gentlemen will excuse me...I'm in something of a hurry, since I wouldn't want to be late to work." I gave the Mayor a brief smile. "Ma'am." Jake tipped his hat. I took my place in line, hoping that the customer in front of me would conclude his transactions quickly. The longer that I had to wait, the more likely it was that Hank Lawson would bring up some point of contention between us, and before I recognized what was happening it would escalate into a full-blown argument. No one had ever made me half as angry as this bullheaded, maddening member of the Town Council. Ever since I had come to Colorado Springs we had clashed repeatedly over one thing after another. Sometimes I wondered if he took a particular delight in needling me, just to see if he could make me lose my temper. Unfortunately, more often than not, he had succeeded. "How may I help you, Sir?" Preston smiled as the bearded stranger stepped up to the window. "Well, I'd take it mighty kindly if you'd fill that bag over there with whatever cash you got on hand," the man replied politely, his gun suddenly pointed at the banker's abdomen. "That way you don't get hurt--and my partner don't have to hurt none of these other nice folks." The abrupt silence was punctuated by the sound of a pistol being cocked, as a second gunman entered the bank. "Keep yer hands up high where I can see 'em!" he barked, nudging Jake in his back with the barrel to prod him into moving. "All of you--against the wall! Now!" His forehead furrowed with anger and frustration, Hank glowered at the other man for a moment as if debating whether or not to reach for the gun at his hip. "Don't even think about it." The gunman jerked Hank's Colt from its holster. "Move!" Memories of another man with a pistol--a man wearing the tattered remnants of a blue uniform--came to me unbidden, and I choked back the rising tide of nausea. Frozen in place, the older nightmare blending with the present, it seemed as if all of the blood in my body had collected in my feet, leaving me light-headed. Sensing that I was paralyzed with fear, Hank took hold of my elbow. "Com'on." With the three of us positioned so that he could watch both us and the door, the gunman's leering gaze swept over me, and I shivered beneath the look in his eyes. There was a hardness in their obsidian depths that made me more afraid than ever. I knew that look. I had seen the same mixture of cruelty and lust once before. Nine years wasn't nearly enough time to erase it from my memory. A lifetime might not be long enough. My heart beating wildly, I glanced over to where the first man, his gun pressed to the side of Myra's head, was forcing Preston to empty the till and safe. The normally unflappable banker was nervous and perspiring, his jaw muscle clenching rhythmically as he filled the bag with stacks of cash. Feeling as if I was caught up in a bad dream, I had no sense of how much time was passing, although it couldn't have taken more than a few minutes to empty the bank's cash reserves. Finally, the robber holding the money motioned with his head for Preston to join the rest of us in the corner of the lobby and gave Myra a little push, steering her in our direction then releasing her. "Time to go." He glanced at his partner. "Now, little lady--you'n'me are goin' for a ride." The man with cold, dark eyes wrapped a thick arm around my waist and yanked me up against him. "Like hell!" Hank growled, lunging toward the other man and driving an elbow and shoulder hard into his chest. His momentum knocked the gunman off-balance, causing him to fire wildly into the ceiling as Hank broke his hold on me, and I was pushed to the floor facedown, the saloon owner dropping to shield me with his own body. Before I could catch my breath, there was the deafening roar of a second gunshot. Myra screamed, and Hank jerked reflexively, slumping so that his entire weight pinned me to the floor. "You damned idiot! Let's get the hell outta here!" a man's voice shouted, and I heard the scuffling sound of boots that told me that the pair had decided to flee. Seconds later Hank was lifted from me, and I rolled to my side and sat up. Numb from shock, uncertain of what had just happened, I gasped when I saw his bloody shirt and the widening pool of red on the wooden boards. "No!" I moaned, shaking my head in denial. "Dear God, no..." Grasping the torn fabric, I managed to rip the shirt enough to expose the bullet wound in his back, then pressed down on it with a piece of the striped cotton to try and slow what seemed to be a fountain of blood. "Is he dead?" Myra whispered, her hand moving to cover her mouth as her eyes widened in horror. "Not yet," Jake answered grimly, indicating to Preston that he should lift Hank's legs. "But he soon will be, if we don't get him over to Dr. Mike." "Myra, find Daniel," Preston ordered, as he helped Jake carry Hank's unconscious form out of the bank. "Give him a description of those two, and tell him that Jake and I will ride out with him as soon as we can get saddled up." I followed them across the street, relieved to find that Michaela wasn't out on a house call. After a rapid assessment of his injuries, she began scrubbing her hands and arms for surgery while Sully used his knife to cut away the rest of Hank's shirt. Colleen moved in closer to wash the area around the wound, but the bleeding from his back was profuse, making her task impossible, and she looked at the doctor in concern. "Start giving him the chloroform." Catching Sully's eye, Mike nodded to him to take me out onto the porch as she picked up her scalpel. "Ya got blood on your dress." Sully gently eased me down onto the bench, where I sat shaking uncontrollably. "Sure you're not hurt?" "It's Hank's," I said dully, wrapping my arms around myself and rocking back and forth to try and keep my teeth from chattering. "Looks like you're about to faint." "I'll get a wet rag for her head," Brian volunteered, hurrying back inside the clinic. "I'm so cold," I whispered. "Here." Sully took off his buckskin jacket and tucked it around my shoulders. "Why don't we get you over to the Gazette, so you can sit next to the stove?" Dorothy suggested. "I would rather wait here." "You'd be a lot more comfortable at my place." "No." I shook my head slightly. "Thank you." Brian appeared back on the porch with the damp cloth, and when I reached out to take it I noticed that my hands were covered with blood. Another wave of dizziness swept over me, and I closed my eyes, battling to push away memories of the bloodstains on my hands that day when the intruder had raped my younger sister. There had been so much blood: blood smearing her white thighs with red when I had found them in the garden, then the smell of gunpowder and the metallic scent of hot blood soaking into the dirt after I had managed to pull the trigger. Someone pressed the cool, clean compress against my face, and I struggled for composure, willing myself not to think of the past. Finally I was able to take the cloth from Sully's hand, and I used it to wipe the stickiness from my fingers. "We gonna have school today, Miss Caitlyn?" Brian studied me. "Can't you see she's in no shape to teach, boy?" Loren frowned at him. "The children. Most of them will be there by now." I made an attempt to rise. "They're all alone." "One of the older girls will look after the little ones." Dorothy laid her hand on my shoulder, firmly pressing me back down onto the bench. "Brian, run and tell the Reverend what's happened--that he'll have to take over her classes." "I'm sorry," I apologized shakily. "Usually I don't fall apart like this." "Lord knows, you got cause," Dorothy soothed. "What you need is a good strong cup of tea to settle your nerves," Grace advised, coming up the steps with a tray in her hand. "Here, now, drink it." They all watched in silence as I swallowed some of the heavily sweetened brew, and I sighed--not eager to relive what had just happened but knowing that I had no choice. After the cup of tea was gone, I would have to force myself to talk, to describe the morning's events, like it or not. Suddenly Daniel, Jake, Preston, Robert E. and Matthew came thundering down the street, riding hard on the trail of the robbers, and Myra appeared from the direction of the livery. Her face was drawn and anxious, and she took my hand, clasping it tightly in her own, the two of us bonded together by those moments of terror in the bank. "What about Hank?" she asked hesitantly. "Dr. Mike's operatin' on him now," Sully answered quietly. "I never been so scared in my whole life." "You need some of this, too." Grace poured a second cup of tea from the pot on the tray. "Myra, honey, are you all right?" Horace came running across the street from the telegraph office to pull his ex-wife into his arms. "I'm fine." She leaned against him for a moment, accepting his comforting embrace, then settled down on the bench next to me with the tea that Grace offered. "Things like this didn't used to happen in this town," Horace opined angrily. "Not until the railroad came." "We didn't have a bank until then either, Horace." Myra threw him an exasperated glance. "Hank's saloon got held up plenty o' times." "What all happened in there?" Dorothy pulled a pencil from her hair and took a notebook out of her skirt pocket. Myra and I exchanged a look, and I nodded to her to go ahead with the story. I had the sense that she needed to talk as much as I needed to withdraw into myself, and I was grateful for the reprieve. "We opened up, same as every morning." Myra cradled the cup between her palms. "Hank was in, then Jake. Standin' in the lobby, talkin' about goin' on over to Grace's for breakfast. Then Caitlyn and this man I ain't never seen before came in about the same time. He got in line first, and when Preston asked if he could help him, I saw he had a gun pointed right at him." "What did he look like?" Dorothy interrupted. "There were two of 'em. One was about the same height as Hank...with dark hair and dark eyes. Wearin' a blue shirt." Myra closed her eyes, trying to remember details. "The other one was older --he had gray in his beard. Not as tall, but bigger. He's the one held a gun to my head." "You coulda been killed!" Horace frowned. "I ain't had time to think about that yet," she said honestly. "How'd Hank manage to get himself shot?" Loren looked from my unnaturally pale cheeks back to Myra. "He was protectin' Cait." Myra unconsciously twisted a lock of hair that had come loose from her bun. "At first it seemed like nobody was gonna get hurt--that all they wanted was the money. But right when they was about to leave, one of 'em jerked her up against him and said she was goin', too." "Cowards knew nobody would shoot if they had a woman along," Loren groused. "Hank stopped them?" Dorothy ignored him, her pencil poised above the paper. "It all happened faster than I can tell it," Myra admitted. "Hank threw himself at the one who had ahold of her, and I guess he wasn't expectin' any argument about takin' her, and he let go. She fell --or Hank pushed her--then covered her up. That's when they shot him." "Damn fool," Loren grumbled irritably. "Bullet coulda gone straight through him inta her." "They had guns. He didn't. How many choices did he have?" "He must've known he stood a good chance of bein' killed ..." Dorothy mused, looking puzzled. "I wonder why he done it." "Why is it so hard for any of you to see the good in Hank?" Myra demanded, pushing her empty teacup away. "Even when he risks his own life to save somebody else's, you can't find it in your hearts to give him credit for it!" "More often than not Hank's been the cause of trouble," Dorothy said doubtfully. "He never seemed to me like much of the hero type." "Maybe you just can't see that side of him," Myra snapped. "Maybe because you really don't want to!" "After all he's done to you, you still spend half your life takin' up for Hank Lawson." Horace snorted. "At least he's a man." She glared at him. There was a moment of deadly silence, no one daring to move or speak in the wake of that powerful hurled insult. Without responding to her taunt, Horace turned and walked back across the street, slamming the door of the telegraph office. Myra took a deep steadying breath, letting it in and out several times before lifting her head to look at Dorothy. "You write whatever you want to. It's your newspaper. But if you're interested in publishin' the truth, Cait wouldn't be here now if it hadn't been for Hank. HANK kept them from taking her. Not Jake. Not Preston. HANK. Instead of just standin' there watchin' while they took her off to rape and kill, Hank did somethin' about it. Now he's lyin' on Dr. Mike's operatin' table with a bullet in his back. If he dies, will that be enough to make him a 'hero?' Is him dyin' what it would take to convince you and the rest of this town?" "He can't die," I whispered, finally giving voice to the fear that had tormented me from the moment that I had seen the large volume of blood on the floor. "Not because of me." "Dr. Mike'll do everything she can to keep that from happenin'" Sully reassured me gently, meeting my gaze. Following her angry outburst Myra dissolved into hysterical tears, the brittle control that she had exerted over her emotions during and after the robbery completely gone. Anguished sobs racked her small frame, and I wrapped my arms around her comfortingly. Drawing air into her lungs in great shuddering gasps, she buried her face against the soft leather of my borrowed jacket while I rocked her, automatically rubbing her back in the soothing circular motion that I would use with an upset child. Experience had taught me that only time could begin to heal raw, deep wounds to the soul--that no words that I could say would help--so I said nothing. Finally Myra quieted, the sodden handkerchief in her palm wadded into a wet ball. Wiping beneath her eyes with her fingertips, she slowly pulled herself back together, looking slightly embarrassed that so many people had witnessed her uncharacteristic display of temper and tears. As my own shock began to wear off, I found my eyes going back again and again to the town clock. Its hands seemed to be moving impossibly slowly as we waited on the porch of the clinic for word on Hank's condition. Although the position of the sun agreed with the timepiece that it was still far from midday, each minute that ticked by seemed like an hour. Just when I was afraid that my tightly stretched nerves were going to snap beneath the strain, Michaela came outside, rubbing the small of her back. "Hank made it through the surgery." "Thank the Lord," Myra breathed. "How bad off is he, Dr. Mike?" One of the women who worked in the saloon twisted the strings of her reticule nervously. "He will be weak and in pain for quite some time." Mike brushed wisps of hair off of her forehead with the back of her hand. "But barring complications, I expect him to recover fully." "Never seen a man bleed like that and live," Loren offered doubtfully. "If Hank had been shot while he was out in the woods, in all likelihood he would have bled to death in the amount of time that it would have taken to bring him back to the clinic." Mike nodded in agreement. "As it happened, I could operate to repair the damaged artery almost immediately. In his case, the blood loss poses less danger to his life than the risk of infection. Provided that we can keep that under control, he should be back to himself in about a month." "Too bad we can't hope for something better," Grace retorted drily, picking up her shawl and heading toward the cafe to finish preparing the noon meal. "Dr. Mike, maybe you oughta take a look at Myra and Caitlyn," Sully suggested. "Only thing wrong with me is my nerves." Myra attempted a wan smile. "But Caitlyn hit that floor pretty hard." "I'm fine," I protested, waving Mike off. "Really." "I would like to examine you anyway--to make certain." Michaela stood next to me until I gave in, handed Sully his coat, and followed her inside. "Whatever possessed me to pick a DOCTOR for my best friend?" I rolled my eyes, dropping my cape onto a chair. "Limited choices?" she quipped. "You do realize that I'm the only person in this town who even suspects you of having a sense of humor?" I grinned. "Feeble though it is..." "Why, whatever do you mean?" she mocked my southern accent as she patted the examination table. "Sit right here, please." "This is completely unnecessary," I grumbled, following her orders. "I don't need a doctor to tell me that I've banged up my knees. I already know that by how badly they hurt." "What if I offer a second opinion?" Reluctantly, I raised my skirt and numerous petticoats, exposing my ruffled drawers, worn over both heavy cotton stockings and pink longjohns. Hiding her grin behind her hand, Mike giggled like a young girl. "Fortunately, you were well padded when you hit the floor." "Do you anticipate getting PAID for these office visits where you drag me inside to insult me?" I lifted one eyebrow inquiringly. Still chuckling over the many layers of garments that I wore in what she and the rest of the town considered nearly spring-like weather, she unfastened my garter and rolled my right stocking down. Frowning when she saw that my knee was swollen to almost twice its normal size, she cupped my calf and moved the injured joint back and forth, causing me to grimace and jump involuntarily at the sharpness of the pain. "Ouch!" I complained. "That's a nasty looking bruise." She exposed the opposite kneecap to find it equally black and blue. "Do you hurt anywhere else?" "If I say yes, do you have a few more tortures up your sleeves to make me groan and squirm?" "There's very little entertainment in Colorado Springs--other than with the girls at Hank's saloon--I have to find some way to amuse myself," Michaela joked, automatically checking my arms. "I thought that you filled all of your spare time by playing 'doctor' with that handsome husband of yours." I grinned wickedly. Pointedly ignoring my teasing, she refastened my stockings so that the fit was looser around my injured limbs before pulling my skirt down. "I'll give you some herbs that may help with the pain and swelling...and you should keep your legs elevated as much as possible." "Am I going to live, Doc?" I asked with mock seriousness. "Probably to a ripe old age--all the while tormenting some poor innocent man who will marry you without realizing that there's another side to that prim and proper schoolteacher." "Is that what you did to Sully?" I laughed. "Sully knew quite well what he was getting into," she claimed lightly. "He had definitely seen me at my worst." Mike was silent for a moment, as if considering her next words, then she met my gaze. "Cait, I know you well enough to be quite certain that you weren't unaffected by being in the bank when it was robbed this morning. You came extremely close to being abducted...and yet you're acting as if nothing happened. I'm your friend, as well as your doctor. There's no need for you to pretend that you're not at all upset by this." "In all honesty, I don't know how I feel--or even what I'm supposed to feel," I admitted dully. "If it hadn't been for a man who has barely exchanged one civil word with me during the whole time that I've been in Colorado, I would have been taken hostage. Now he's lying upstairs with a bullet wound that could be fatal...and I keep asking myself why he would deliberately risk his life to save mine? He's made it quite clear that nothing would make him happier than to see me leave on the next train back to Georgia." "It's taken me a long time to admit this, but the one thing that I know about Hank Lawson is that no one really knows him at all." Michaela went over to the cupboard and began mixing together herbs from different jars. "When I first came to Colorado Springs Hank and I clashed almost as often as the two of you do, but I finally came to understand that he had this grudging respect for the fact that I was willing to stand up to him. His way of looking at things and my own are usually at opposing ends of the scale, but just when I am convinced that I know how he's going to vote on some matter before the Town Council, he proves me wrong." "Is he truly going to be all right?" "I have every reason to believe that he will." She crushed some of the herbal mixture between her fingers into a cup and poured boiling water over it. "Hank's constitution is quite strong--and he's extremely strong willed." "The floor of the bank is covered in blood...the back half of his shirt was completely saturated...and there's a trail of red all the way over here. How can a man possibly survive when there's blood pouring out of him in huge gushes with every heartbeat?" "If the damage is to one of several major arteries, he can't—he will exanguinate within minutes," she answered matter-of-factly. "Hank was fortunate. The bullet broke one of his ribs, which deflected it downward. If it had passed between the ribs, he would have died from internal injuries--or perhaps suffered paralysis, if the damage had been to his spinal cord." "Please--pull him through this." I bit my lip. "I'm not sure that I can find a way to live with the guilt if he dies." "I'll know more about his condition over the next few days, but in my experience a man of Hank's size can survive losing a great deal of blood before the circulatory system starts to fail." She handed me the cup. "And if that happens?" My hand was trembling as I brought the foul-tasting brew to my mouth to sip. "As a treatment of last resort, I've performed a blood transfusion on both Cloud Dancing and Loren, with Sully as the donor, rather than to do nothing and watch them die. But some patients have a poor reaction to the transfer--and we have no idea why." "If Mr. Lawson needs blood to keep him alive, I'm more than willing to be the donor. Considering what he did for me...it's the least that I could do." "Threading a large bore catheter into veins as small as yours is something that I would prefer not to try, unless you needed blood yourself in order to survive," Mike gently refused my offer. "But you will try, if it comes down to that or letting him die?" I persisted. "If it becomes necessary, and I can find no one else, then we'll talk about it." She met my gaze. "Caitlyn--whatever happens, you need to remember that Hank made the decision to intervene. What he did was by his own choice. Stop holding yourself responsible." "That's easier said than done," I sighed. "Perhaps you might feel better if I let you look in on him?" She pressed her hands against her back. "In fact, I would be a grateful if you would agree to sit with Hank for awhile. I'm uncomfortable with leaving a patient alone after surgery, but I still need to examine Myra, and Colleen has to get ready to go back to Denver on the 2:05." "I'll stay for as long as you want me to." "Drink your tea," she ordered, leaning against the examining table. "After that, I'll take you up to his room." "You look tired." I studied her face. "All I want to do these days is sleep," she admitted. "And the morning sickness comes and goes all day. Last time it was completely gone by now." "You need to take better care of yourself." I squeezed her shoulder. "Is there anything that I can do to help?" "Not unless you can see my patients while I take a nap every afternoon." She smiled wryly. "Close the clinic for a few hours after lunch." I finished off the tisane and set the cup aside. "Then crawl into bed in one of the recovery rooms and rest. If there's an emergency, you'll still be here to handle it." "How am I supposed to explain my sudden need for a noon siesta?" "The hours that you're open are up to you--this is your practice. What matters most right now is that baby you're carrying...seeing that it arrives safe and sound and that its mother stays healthy, too." "After what happened before, I haven't even told the children about this pregnancy," she confessed. "The only ones who know are you and Sully." "Colleen still has no idea?" "She has enough on her mind at the moment, trying to settle in and help Andrew become established in Denver. And even though they're both excited about becoming parents, it's been a disappointment that she had to leave medical school." "She can return after her baby is weaned." "I'm terribly afraid that she won't." "If her dream is to become a doctor, then she will," I said quietly. "But by then you're the one who's going to be feeling ambivalent. It won't be easy to watch your first grandchild move all the way to Pennsylvania. Those two little ones are going to seem like siblings, with them being born only two months apart." "Hopefully, there will be two." She lightly cupped her abdomen. "I'm well past the time when I lost the last one." "It's not going to happen again," I stated firmly. "I want so badly to give Sully a son--or another daughter," she admitted wistfully. "You will. Stop worrying so much." "That's easier said than done," she repeated my earlier words back to me, her eyes misty with unshed tears. "After you talk with Myra, I want you to go lie down." I gingerly eased myself off of the table, trying to ignore the pain as I bent my knees. "Nurse Caitlyn's orders. Now--tell me what I need to know to take care of Mr. Lawson." "Given the history between the two of you, Hank may experience heart failure when he wakes up and discovers that you're the one who's caring for him," she teased. "If the sight of me doesn't kill him, then the fear should help to keep his blood pumping," I suggested with a grin. "The effects of the anesthesia won't wear off for awhile yet, so your main concern will be to keep him from thrashing about and reopening the incision." Mike grew serious. "When he seems feverish, sponge his face and upper body with cool water, and after he's awake enough to swallow, give him willow bark tea. It's possible that nothing will stay down when he first wakes up, but offer him a small amount of water. If he manages to keep that on his stomach for awhile, encourage him to drink all of it that he will." Picking up a packet of willow bark and a kettle, she led me up a flight of stairs and opened the first door to the right. I stepped inside, feeling my heart twist unexpectedly at the sight of Hank's face, pale against the white linen. "How is he?" Michaela put the kettle on to heat, then went to the side of the bed, resting her palm on his forehead. "His pulse is slightly fast, and his respirations are shallow." Colleen came to stand next to Mike. "That's nothing to be alarmed about--it's expected at this point." Mike reassured me quietly, pushing pillows underneath the uninjured side of the barkeep's back to keep him from shifting into a position that would put pressure on his wound. "Has he regained consciousness?" "He's opened his eyes twice, for maybe two or three minutes each time, but if Hank was aware of who I am or what had happened to him, he didn't say anything," Colleen admitted. "I expect that he will require injections of morphine during the next 24 hours to force him to get the rest that his body needs." Michaela straightened up and turned to me. "Come and wake me if he seems to be worse or overly restless. I'll be right down the hall." "Fine." I nodded, feeling less certain of my ability to care for this particular post-surgical patient, now that I was actually about to be left alone with him. "Have a safe trip back, Colleen." After they were gone I sank down into the chair that had been drawn up next to the bed and stared at Hank. A blue-patterned quilt covered him to the waist, leaving exposed a wide swath of bandages that wrapped his torso to a few inches below the bulging swell of his pectoral muscles. Long, sun-streaked blond hair, tangled and damp with sweat, fanned out across the pillow, and I reached over to smooth back a lock that had fallen across his face. It was disconcerting to see Hank Lawson lying so quiet and still, his skin ashen beneath the tan. I was used to facing him in the heat of a verbal battle; used to the flash of anger from blue eyes; used to watching him restlessly pace the floor as he argued his point. Waving an unlit cheroot, his hair flowing around him like a mantle as he stalked the room, he was a boiling cauldron of passionate energy. At times, when someone else was speaking, he reminded me of a big, lazy cat: lounging back in his chair with partially-closed eyelids, seemingly only half-listening to the debate going on around him, until he suddenly drawled out a succinct and usually biting observation that either enraged me or equally often made me want to laugh. Despite the fact that with his height and broad shoulders Hank seemed to fill most of the double bed, there was a strange vulnerability about the man now, while he was lying there unconscious, that caused the tears that had been threatening to fall all day to suddenly blur my vision. The door opened, startling me, and Sully entered carrying an armload of wood for the fire. "Thought you might be needin' this." "Thank you." I glanced toward the kindling box. "I hadn't noticed that the stack was getting low." Squatting on his heels in front of the fireplace he removed the kettle from its hook, checked to make sure that the water hadn't boiled dry, then poured it over the willow bark Mike had measured into a china pot. "I'm sorry." I sighed. "I don't know where my mind is. I totally forgot about making the tea." "No harm done." He moved to the chair next to mine. "Leave it on the hearth so it'll be warm when you need it." "Is Michaela resting?" "Sound asleep." He nodded. "I'm worried about her," I confessed. "She's so thin and anxious, and she stays tired all of the time." "When I married Michaela, I hoped someday we'd have a baby--and at the same time I was scared to death of losin' her, after what happened with Abigail and Hannah... With all the trouble she's had, I feel lucky just to have Katie, whether or not there's ever any more." "Have you told her that?" "Telling Michaela don't change nothin' once she's got her mind set," he said quietly. "You ought to know that. There's been a need in her to try again, ever since she lost the last baby." "She's terribly afraid that she won't be able to carry this one to term either," I confided. "She won't come out and say it, but I can tell." He nodded. "Mike's more fragile right now than she would like for us to know," I suggested, resting my head against the back of the chair. "Thinking that you were dead--her miscarriage--watching so many people that she knew and loved die from diptheria... Quite a lot has happened to her in a short period of time." "I blame myself for not being there," he admitted grimly. "I always will." "You have to find a way to live with those things that you can't change." Feeling Sully's steady gaze on my face, I became aware that my hip-length mane of dark curls had lost its pins and was tumbling wildly down my back. Out on the porch I had been too concerned about Hank to give any thought to my appearance or what the townspeople might think of my disheveled state, but now I flushed with embarrassment. Even though I had been in Mike's home many times, and I considered her husband one of the most nonjudgemental people that I had ever met--a true friend who I could count on--I was suddenly inexplicably nervous beneath his quiet scrutiny. Getting up, I went over to the washbowl and scrubbed my face and hands, then took a brush from my reticule and tamed my unruly hair into a loose braid. When Sully saw me looking around for something to tie the ends of the plait, he cut a strip of rawhide from the fringe on his jacket and handed it to me. "You love him, don't you?" he asked quietly. "Love who?" I felt my heart pounding too loudly against my ribcage. "I seen it in your eyes." Sully smiled slightly in understanding. "This mornin'. When you thought Hank wasn't gonna make it." "He'd been shot because of me. I was...concerned. That's all," I scoffed, refusing to look at him directly. "Hank Lawson and I can't spend more than five minutes in each other's company without arguing about something. You know that. I don't even like the man." "Sometimes when a man and a woman always seem to be rilin' each other up, it's because they're tryin' to pretend they don't feel what they feel," he suggested levelly. "And sometimes it's because they come from two different worlds--don't see anything at all in the same way--and one of them is as stubborn as a mule, pig-headed, and inclined to quarrel with the Devil himself about the conditions in Hell. That's Mr. Lawson and me." I got up and stared out the window at the people milling around in the street below. "When I first met Michaela I was still grievin' over Abigail. I didn't see myself ever marryin' again." He came to stand behind me. "But the day she got offa that stagecoach and fell flat on her face in the mud, my life started changin'. Me and her didn't have much in common... Her with her Boston ways--and me, livin' out in the woods with my wolf and likin' it fine. But it got to where I couldn't imagine bein' without her. Where I needed Michaela like the earth needs rain." "I don't want to love him, Sully," I whispered, leaning my forehead against the coolness of the windowpane. "But your heart's sayin' something different." We were both silent, Sully instinctively knowing that I needed time to think; me torn by feelings that I neither wanted nor understood. The creak of a floorboard and the gentle closing of the door as he left told me that I was alone again with Hank, and I crossed the room to sit back down in the chair next to the bed. As my gaze moved over Hank's high cheekbones and strong, chiseled jaw, clean-shaven earlier in the day except for a soft, silky moustache that kept drawing my eyes back to the sensual curve of his lips, I felt my breath catch in my throat. With his well-developed chest tapering to a narrow waist, long, tawny curls that were a mixture of pale to darkest gold, and thick lashes shadowing eyes bluer than a Texas summer sky, Hank Lawson was the most strikingly handsome man that I had ever met. No matter how much he infuriated me, I couldn't deny to myself that being near him created a strange sense of hunger in me that had no relationship to a need for food. In those years before the war my life had been filled with parties and boys vying for my attention. I had laughed and danced and flirted with them all, never losing my heart but occasionally allowing a particular favorite a stolen kiss. So many of those young beaus now lay buried in cemeteries in Virginia or North Carolina or Tennessee, including Adam, the one who I had agreed to marry when I was l5 and he was 21--on the night before he left with his Confederate Calvary unit. I had imagined myself in love at the time, but long before the telegram had arrived to say that he had been killed I had realized that I could barely remember what my intended looked like--that being Adam's wife wasn't the life that I wanted. And after that day in the garden when Beth had been raped, I couldn't imagine ever allowing any man close enough to touch me. None had. Neither physically nor emotionally. Until now. "Hank..." I whispered, suddenly crumpling beneath the strain of long hours of hiding my fear that this man who I could never admit to loving might die. Crying brokenly, I hid my face inside a circle of my arms on the edge of the bed, trying to muffle my sobs with one corner of the quilt. For several minutes I gave in to unbridled grief, my body shaking with the force of the storm raging inside of me, as I wept for the past, present, and a future that I could never have. Once unleashed, there seemed to be no end to the tears that had formed a hard knot in my chest from the moment when I had seen Hank lying in a puddle of blood on the floor, and I sobbed until the floodtide of emotion was spent. Totally exhausted, my breath still catching unevenly, I shifted away from the dampness beneath my cheek and felt a hand brush against my hair. "Caitlyn?" His voice was raspy. Uncaring that my eyes were swollen and red, I slowly raised up to find Hank watching me. His fingers closed around my braid, and he blinked as if unsure of his surroundings. "Cait?" "Hank," I breathed. "Thank God..." "First time I ever woke up 'n found a woman cryin' over me," he mumbled, closing his eyes again. "Can I get you anything?" I asked anxiously. "Where am I?" "At the clinic. You were lucky--you're going to be fine. Michaela promised me that you would." "Nothin' to worry 'bout then. The Doc always keeps her promises." "Hank, I'm so sorry," I whispered. "Why? D'you shoot me?" A hint of a teasing smile lifted one corner of his mouth. "I don't have even the slightest urge to do that right at this moment," I confessed lightly. "For a change." "Afraid ya mighta been here to finish up the job." "I wanted to thank you for what you did in the bank this morning. If you hadn't stopped them..." I choked on the thought that rose in my mind. "Bastards woulda taken turns rapin' you, then left ya somewhere to die," he said flatly, his eyelids fluttering open once again. "Had to do somethin'." "You came close to getting yourself killed." "This ain't the first bullet I ever had dug outta me." "It would have been the last, if it hadn't been for Michaela—and a rib that got in the way." "Had a feelin' one was broke." He winced. "Sheriff gone after 'em yet?" "Hours ago. It's half past two." His gaze traveled over me searchingly and lingered on the blood-stains on my skirt. "You hurt?" "This is all yours." I rubbed absently at one of the larger spots. "Guess I owe ya a new dress." My eyes brimmed over with tears again, and I started to turn away so that he wouldn't see. But the end of my braid was still clutched in his hand, and he refused to let go. "Tell me what I said wrong." "I'm a woman. Sometimes women cry," I bristled defensively. "You, of all people, ought to know that. I'm sure that those girls who work for you at the saloon do plenty of it." "Not without good reason." "If getting caught in the middle of a bank robbery--coming within an inch of being abducted--and seeing a man get himself shot isn't enough reason for you, then I don't know what on Earth is!" I snatched my hair out of his grasp in irritation. "Reckon yer view of the actual shootin' coulda been some better if ya hadn't been layin' facedown," he drawled. For a moment I was able to maintain my haughty pose, then it collapsed beneath the questioning look in a pair of clear blue eyes. "It's not you, Hank. At least, nothing that you've said. I just feel like a bow that's been strung too tightly." "Don't go blamin' yerself," he requested gently. "I'll heal up good as new." "Why is it that this once you're being nice instead of mule-headed and impossible?" I demanded, wiping at the tears on my cheeks. "At any other time you would be shouting at me--claiming that whatever had happened was my own fault. That I should have known better. Now when I'm feeling guilty, because for probably the first time in your entire life you would actually be right about something, you're not even mad at me!" "Ya want me to yell at you?" He looked baffled. "No, I don't want you to yell at me!" I frowned. "Yer makin' 'bout as much sense as you usually do in Council Meetin's." "You'll be glad to know that you won't have to put up with me for much longer," I retorted. "I'll be moving on at the end of the school year. Today made me realize that you've been right all along--I'm definitely not cut out for living in Colorado." "Don't recall ever sayin' that." He reached out and touched my hand. "You're burning up." I was stunned by the unnatural heat of his palm. Crossing the room to the fireplace, I picked up the teapot and brought it back to pour a cup of the bitter liquid. "Dr. Mike wanted you to drink some willow bark tea as soon as you woke up. It'll help bring down the fever." Groaning softly, Hank attempted to push himself higher in the bed to make it easier to drink the liquid, and I sat down on the mattress next to him, holding the tea to his lips. He placed his hand over mine to steady the cup, and I felt shockwaves travel up my arm and through my body at his touch. I was suddenly overly aware of the pleasantly spicy male scent of his skin, mingled with the distinctive smells of soap and tobacco, and despite my efforts to keep my attention focused on the teacup, my gaze drifted lower to the crisp curls that covered his exposed chest. My hand shaking noticeably, I set the empty cup aside and poured several inches of water into a glass. "I know that you're thirsty, but sip slowly. Then we'll both pray that it won't come back up." After the water was gone he lay back against the pillows, closing his eyes as though the effort required to prop himself against the headboard for even those few minutes had totally drained his reserves of energy. There were lines of pain etched around his mouth and hollows beneath both eyes, and although he hadn't complained of discomfort, his breathing was shallow as he tried to minimize his movements. "Would you like something to ease the pain?" I asked softly. "No." "Michaela said that you would need an injection of morphine when you came out from under the anesthesia--for me to come and get her." "I'm fine." "You're not fine." I frowned. "Any fool can see that you're hurting." "Stop frettin'," he ordered mildly. "It'll take more'n this to put me six feet under. I ain't gonna die on ya." "Earlier today I thought that you already had." "Couldn't do that. How'd it look for Dorothy to write in the Gazette 'Saloon Owner Shot Dead On Top of Local Schoolmarm?" he teased. Blushing furiously, I poured water into the washbowl, suddenly aware that the idea of sponging down his feverish skin had felt a lot less threatening while he was unconscious. "I'm going to see if I can make you a little more comfortable." I reached for the cloth, then picked up my brush instead, not quite brave enough yet to touch him more intimately. Hank lay quietly as I gently worked the snarls and dried blood from his long golden hair, the feel of the brush lulling him into a half-sleep. Taking the rawhide strip from my braid I cut the leather, using half to tie his thick locks back out of the way at his nape and the rest to retie the ends of mine. Despite the many layers of fabric that lay between us, the heat from his body felt like a brand where my hip pressed against the side of his forearm, and I was aware of an unfamiliar ache in the pit of my stomach. Squeezing some of the water out of a soft scrap of cotton toweling, I gently washed the last of the blood smears and sweat from Hank's face and neck, then dipped the cloth into the basin again. Unable to put it off any longer, I steeled myself and ran the cool, wet fabric over his bare shoulders, arms, and the upper part of his chest. His muscles were smooth and sculpted beneath sun-bronzed skin, and I felt sudden goosebumps cover my arms beneath my sleeves. Even though I had seen men working outdoors without a shirt on from the time that I was a child, I had never before thought of the male body as beautiful. No other man had ever caused my heart to beat the way that it did when I looked at Hank Lawson --nor given me the same strange urge to trace my fingertip lightly over the full curve of his lower lip. "Ya never been with a man, have ya?" he asked drowsily, his eyes glassy with fever as they roamed over the rosy glow of embarrassment that stained my cheeks. "I BEG your pardon!" I gasped, quickly getting up from my seat on the bed, my injured knees protesting the move as I took a shocked step backwards. "Didn't think so." Hank's voice was barely audible as he drifted back into a drugged sleep. Shaking with restrained fury, I stood glaring down at his napping figure for a long moment. How dare he? I fumed to myself. In the society of which I had always been a part, chastity--or the lack of it—was something that no gentleman would dream of discussing in mixed company. Even if it had been the fever talking, there was no forgiving such a crass breach of propriety. The very idea! Asking an unmarried lady if she had ever...lain...with a man! Going over to the fire, I stoked it fiercely, taking out some of my anger on the burning logs. "You love him, don't you?" Sully's voice repeated his question over and over in my head. More troubling was the fact that my foolish heart kept answering "Yes." I poured myself a cup of the willow bark tea, hoping that it would help ease the pain in my knees, and grimaced at the taste. Michaela's herbal medicines might be amazingly effective at times, but the flavor was consistently awful: sort of like her cooking... I smiled slightly at the long-standing--but no longer true--joke that we shared. Dropping into the rocking chair, as far away from the man on the bed as I could get and remain in the same room, I pushed it back and forth in agitation. Even though I was only a few weeks away from being 28 years old--long an old maid by anyone's measure--I was unwed by my own choice. After the war my family had fully expected me to choose one of the available, suitable men and marry him, but I had wanted no part of their plans for me. I had been told repeatedly by both parents that I had to get over Adam--that he was never coming back. Only Ethella and my sisters knew that it was not the faint memory of a long-dead boy-soldier that haunted me, but the one of a man with steel-gray eyes. The heat from the fire and the ticking of the clock on the mantle made my eyes droop, and I finally allowed myself to doze off to sleep in the chair. I had slept for slightly more than an hour when the sound of my name brought me instantly awake again. "Caitlyn?" The room was beginning to fall into shadows as the sun dropped in the afternoon sky, and I took a moment to light a lamp and bring it over to his bedside table. "Do you need something, Mr. Lawson?" I asked icily. "Liked it better when you were callin' me Hank." He tried to shift into a more comfortable position and inhaled sharply as the motion brought muscles that had been recently torn and mended into play. "And I liked YOU better when you were sound asleep," I retorted. "Ya mad at me in particular--or just mad in general?" "Is there really any question about that?" "Guess not," he answered, his eyes reflecting honest puzzlement as they searched my face. "Michaela ought to be in to check on you soon." I struggled for control of my temper. "Unless you would like for me to go and find her now--to ask her to bring you that morphine?" "I can wait." "Your fever must have broken while you were sleeping." I noticed the fine sheen of perspiration on his brow and forced myself to pick up the cloth and wipe it away. "It will come and go like that for several days." "My mouth's parched." "Take small sips," I reminded him, holding the glass of water to his lips. Hank stared at me while he drank, then lifted his hand to cover mine on the glass. "I never wanted ya to leave. Truth is, I'd do 'most anything I could to convince ya to stay." "You should rest now." I licked my lips nervously, gazing down at the way his long fingers curled around mine. "Woman like you comes to Colorado usually ends up with a ring on her finger 'fore she even gets her suitcases unpacked. And you had plenty of chances. Half the men in town've been makin' regular fools outta themselves, tryin' to get you interested in doin' some serious courtin'. But it don't look to me like ya got feelin's for any one of 'em." "I came here to teach," I said flatly. "Not to find myself a husband." "Settlin' down never used to cross my mind either--not 'til lately," he confessed. "Never met another woman I wanted the same way I want you." "Hank, no," I whispered, the glass falling to the floor and shattering as I pulled away from him. "Please." "All's I'm askin' for is a chance," he requested quietly. "Maybe take ya to supper and church. Go on a picnic. See what happens." "We both know that's impossible." I didn't bother to fight the tears that were flowing freely down my cheeks. "And why. This town would never stand for me seeing you. Not with you owning a--brothel." "Maybe that respectability of yers would rub off on me the same way Horace's did on Myra." "When I took this job, I agreed to live by certain rules." I shook my head. "And you know every one of them--you helped hire me. People expect the women who teach their children to be above reproach in every way. That's just the way that things are. For me to spend time with you wouldn't be considered fitting." "Because I'm not good enough for ya?" A pained grin twisted his face. "Please, Hank," I begged. "Don't do this." "I asked ya a question." He looked at me steadily. "What I want...and what I'm allowed to do...aren't always one and the same thing." I swallowed hard. Michaela opened the door, coming in to check on Hank, and I stepped back out of her way, glad that she was too preoccupied with her patient to notice that my eyes were puffy and red. Excusing myself, I escaped quickly to the safety of the street. |
