by Donna Dalton
He gestured behind him. “He’s over there just beyond the wood line near a creek.”
Realization dawned. “He’s dead, isn’t he.”
“I’m afraid so. Based on the stage of rigor mortis, he passed sometime yesterday. Come I’ll take you to him. You can make sure it is our Mr. Jukes.”
Dear Lord. Not what she expected at all. She trailed him into the woods. As they neared a shallow creek, a vile odor waved a greeting. She fished a handkerchief from her pocket and covered her nose. That must be why Miss Ruby was so upset. The animal could probably smell the rot.
A coverall-clad body rested at the edge of the creek. An up-ended bucket sat beside it. Pale eyes stared skyward. A gaping mouth, sliced into a swollen, gray-tinged face. There was nothing she could do at this point. Her healing only worked on the living.
“Do you recognize him?” Anson asked. “Is this Henry Jukes?”
She leaned over and gave the body a closer look. “The bloating has contorted his features a bit, but it appears to be him. I recognize the cottony white hair. I had commented on its striking color when we met. He said it came from his mother’s side of the family. Can you tell what he died from?”
Anson squatted and rolled the man onto his side. “There aren’t any obvious signs of trauma. No blood, or open wounds. An autopsy would reveal more, but if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say he succumbed to an internal failure of his organs.”
“From arsenic?”
“We’ll have to test his water source, but if I were a betting man, I’d wager it was arsenic poisoning that did him in.”
“Poor man. He probably had no idea he was killing himself.”
Thunder cracked overhead, startling gasp from her. A few seconds later, the drizzling shower turned into a hard, icy rain that pelted the earth and cut visibility to a few yards.
Anson pushed upright. “That’s it then,” he shouted over the din. “You go back to the cabin and get a fire started. I saw a shovel propped against the wood shed. I’ll get Mr. Jukes buried as quickly as I can and join you.”
****
Anson shoved the cabin door shut with the heel of his boot and set the bucket of water he’d collected from the creek on the floor. Shivers crawled over his arms and down his legs. That was a damn cold rain. And damned inconvenient. He’d hoped to be back in his office, warm and snug…and alone. Now he had to endure sheltering in a small, one-room cabin with a woman who set his body on fire.
She leaned over the hearth, poking at the flaming logs, her backside swaying in invitation. He stuffed down a groan and stripped off his jacket and hat. There was nothing for it. The rain didn’t appear to be letting up, and dusk was fast approaching. It would be too dangerous to attempt riding down the mountain in the dark. They would just have to hunker down and wait for morning.
Moira straightened from her task and faced him. “There’s a clean towel on the table if you want to dry off. I have coffee brewing. It should be ready soon.”
Perfect. He could use something to warm his insides. And it would give him something to focus on besides his cabinmate. Floorboards creaked as he crossed to a table with hewn logs for legs and a slice of tree trunk for the top. In contrast, the two chairs flanking the fireplace were professionally crafted and polished. Henry Jukes had been as eclectic has he had been reclusive.
He gathered the towel and began scrubbing his face and rain-sodden hair. A sneeze drew his attention to the hearth. Moira had pulled a chair up to the fire and sat with a thin wool blanket draped around her shoulders. Steam rose from her skirts, dark now and drooping with rain water. She should get out of those wet clothes before she took ill. But he was reluctant to suggest such a thing. It was bad enough being in such intimate quarters together. To have her undress might be his undoing.
A vision emerged of smooth, silky skin, exposed for his viewing and touching pleasure. Heat that had nothing to do with the fire rose inside him. He fisted the towel and scrubbed harder, attempting to wipe away his randy thoughts.
“There are a pair of trousers and a shirt in the trunk if you want to change into something while your clothes dry by the fire,” she suggested through a sniffle. “They’re not much, but they are clean.”
She appeared to be comfortable being alone with him…even suggesting he undress. If she could maintain her composure, so could he. With a little adjustment.
He arranged the towel over a chair back. “That won’t be necessary. You have a good fire going, and there’s plenty of kindling. My clothes should dry soon enough.”
He gathered his jacket and hat and crossed to the hearth. After hanging the wet things on a peg, he settled on the chair next to her. A pair of boots and thick wool stockings rested on the hearth. Propped at the edge of the stones, pink toes peeked from beneath a muddied hem. The slender digits were perfectly formed and smooth. Would she moan if he took them into his mouth? Another wave of heat surged through him and settled in his groin. He ground his teeth around a curse. What the hell was wrong with him? He was torturing himself with such thoughts.
Heaving a grunt of annoyance, he leaned over and worked on removing his rain-soaked boots and socks. Once done, he stretched his bare feet out to the fire. Heat bathed his throbbing toes, and he sighed in contentment. There. That’s the only pleasure he should be thinking about.
“Did you…um…get the horses settled?”
Her question croaked out on a raspy breath. Was she taking ill? He straightened in the chair and gave her a quick check. Only a slight flushing pinked her cheeks, but that could be from the heat blasting from the fireplace.
“The horses are under the lean-to with Miss Ruby. They should weather the storm just fine.”
“Good. I was worried about them.”
She was considerate of all of God’s creatures. Was it any wonder he was drawn to her? He picked up the iron poker and jabbed at the logs, sending flames licking at the coffee pot hanging over the fire.
“Where did you draw water for the coffee?” he asked.
“Not to worry. I cleaned the pot and then set it outside the door to collect rainwater. The coffee should be just fine. I found a jug of whiskey under the bed, though I don’t think we should drink any of that.”
Even if the whiskey wasn’t tainted with arsenic, they shouldn’t consume anything that would loosen inhibitions. He barely had a rein on his lust as it was.
“Agreed. We don’t want to take any chances and make ourselves sick.” He pointed to the bucket by the door. “Don’t use that water for anything either. I collected it from the creek near Juke’s still. It may be contaminated.”
“I wonder why Miss Ruby didn’t get sick? You would think she drank the same water as Mr. Jukes.”
“It’s hard to say. Perhaps he watered her from the rain barrel. Any contaminates would have settled to the bottom. Or, wherever he drew water from the creek for her wasn’t contaminated. Testing will answer many of our questions.”
“Why don’t we do that while we wait for the coffee to brew? There’s a crate of glass jars over by the bed. They appear to be unused and should be sterile enough for testing.”
“I suppose there’s no sense in waiting. The sooner we know for sure if there’s arsenic contamination up here, the better. Let’s start with the whiskey. That’s what most of the menfolk in town have been drinking.”
She pushed upright, her pretty toes disappearing under her skirt. “I’ll get the jug. Since you have the poker, you can fish out a piece of charcoal.”
He nodded and thrust the poker into the embers. The logs cracked and popped, complaining of the intrusion. Orange embers danced upward and disappeared into the flue. It was a mindless task and served to ease the tension coiled inside him.
Skirts brushed his legs, and the sleeping serpent roused once again. He groaned and fisted the poker handle. He had to stop reacting to her every touch or it was going to be a long and most uncomfortable night.
The jug thumped onto the hearth. “Is everything al
l right, Dr. Locke?”
Hells bells, had she heard his moan? He wagged his head. “Everything’s fine. Just having a little difficulty finding…” He jabbed deeper into the embers and unearthed a walnut-sized chunk of charcoal. “There. Got one.”
“Good.” She set two glass jars onto the hearth next to the whiskey jug. “Now we can get started.”
Using the poker head, he broke the charcoal in half and scooped a piece into each of the jars. He then uncorked the jug and poured a small amount of whiskey onto the shard in one jar.
Moira leaned closer and held out a match. He pinched the stick just above her fingertips, making sure not to touch her. He finally had his desires tamed enough that he could work without making a fool of himself. Even the slightest graze could undo that.
He struck the match head against the hearth stones and set flame to the whiskey-soaked charcoal. The blaze glowed a cool blue.
He shook the match dead. “At least it’s a good quality distillate.”
Her head cocked in that curious way he was coming to adore. “How do you know it’s good quality?”
“I used to accompany my grandfather on his monthly trips to Virginia to restock his supply of moonshine. He said the clear, cool water of the Blue Ridge made the best whiskey. He would pour a sample into a spoon and set fire to it. If the flame burned blue, it was good quality. A yellow flame meant the whiskey was tainted. Grandfather was meticulous if he was anything.”
“You are close with your grandfather then?”
“Was. He died six years ago this month.” Even now, sadness clamped around his chest, making breathing an effort. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and worked to bring himself under control. Weakness was not tolerated. It only led to mental deterioration.
“I can see how much his passing affected you. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Her soft voice spread over him like a soothing balm. He rose and fished in his drying jacket for the photograph tucked in an inside pocket. The keepsake was a little worn, but thankfully dry. He smiled down at the familiar face washed in sepia.
“He took me in when my mother passed…and my father couldn’t cope with her death. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him.”
She shifted closer, her shoulder brushing his. “He has a kindness in his eyes. Like you.”
The ache slicing his heart eased. “He was the kindest man I ever knew. Never judgmental. Always encouraging. I wouldn’t be the man I am today if it wasn’t for him.”
“He must have been a very special gentleman then. You are a wonderful person and a most caring doctor.”
“Not so wonderful to everyone.” He looked up from the photograph and into soft ebony eyes. His chest tightened. “I’m sorry I have been so harsh with you, Moira. I let my emotions take over my good sense. You don’t deserve to be treated like a criminal. Grandfather would be disappointed in my behavior.”
She rested a hand on his arm. “Please don’t worry yourself over it. I understand how grief can take hold of a person. I also lost someone near and dear to my heart.”
Her tone turned wistful, her expression sad. He wanted to take her in his arms. Comfort her as she had comforted him. But that would lead him down a path he wasn’t yet ready to travel.
“I don’t deserve your understanding…but I’ll take it.” He returned the picture to his jacket pocket. Best get back to the task at hand before things got out of hand. “Let’s return to our testing, shall we?”
Chapter Twelve
The blue flame sputtered and died out. Unlike the other two tests, this time a thin grayish powder coated the charcoal. Goose pimples crawled over her skin. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the film we’re looking for.”
The scowl that had puckered Anson’s brow ever since he joined her in the cabin lifted. “Yes, that’s it. The whiskey is contaminated with arsenic. Though we don’t know if the contamination came from his water source or from his distilling equipment.”
“Let’s try the creek water you collected and see what that shows.” She’d already moved the bucket of water next to the hearth in anticipation of testing it.
“Very well.” He dipped a piece of charcoal into the water and dropped it into a glass jar. “Match, please.”
She scooped a match from a box on the hearth and held it out. His fingers brushed hers as he took it. Quivers skittered across her hand and skipped up her arm. She jerked away and worked at fluffing her drying skirts. After an initial awkwardness, they had settled into a comfortable companionship. She didn’t want to disturb that with her silly yearnings.
Thankfully, he didn’t appear to notice her unseemly behavior. Lighting the wet charcoal consumed his attention. After several attempts, the charcoal caught fire. It burned for several minutes and then went out, leaving behind the same powdery film.
A weight lifted from her shoulders. “We did it.” She couldn’t keep a girlish giddiness from coloring her voice. “We found the source.”
“We sure did.”
Sparkling eyes poured over her. She averted her gaze and picked up the rag she’d set on the hearth. “How about some coffee now that we’re done? I hope black is all right. I couldn’t find any sugar.”
“Black is fine.”
Using the rag, she lifted the pot off its hanger and poured steaming coffee into two tins she’d washed earlier with rainwater. He gathered one of the tins and settled back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
He had slender feet and toes. The skin bared below his trouser legs was smooth with no cracking or scaling. He took care of himself. Without a doubt, the rest of him would be just as well maintained. Lean and muscular. Her fingers would find touching him most pleasurable.
She snatched up her coffee tin and sank onto the chair. What was wrong with her? Only tarts imagined such things.
“I would love to hear more about your grandfather,” she said “What did he do for a living? Where did the two of you live?” Mundane conversation would surely tame her wayward thoughts.
He cupped his hands around the tin. His expression turned wistful. “We lived in Pennsylvania in a small town just over the border from Maryland. Grandfather was the station master for the B&O Railroad. I spent many an afternoon in that stationhouse, helping with the passengers and studying my lessons during the lulls.”
“You said he took you in when your mother died. How old were you when she passed?”
“I was ten.” Sadness crept into his eyes. “She died of a lingering illness of the lungs. No one could seem to help her. Her death is the reason I decided to go into medicine. I couldn’t help her back then, so I vowed to never again be so powerless.”
She understood completely. Wanting to help someone and being powerless to do so could be quite maddening. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d been unable to help a patient who was too far gone for her healing to work. Each death took a piece of her heart.
He sipped his coffee and peered at her over the rim. “What happened to your family that caused you to end up at the Seaton House orphanage?”
Hen’s feathers. How had the conversation turned to her? She lifted the tin to her lips and blew across the top, gaining some time to formulate a benign answer.
“My father left for the California gold fields just after I was born. He never returned. My mother and I moved in with her mother, Granny Tate. We lived in the mountains of Tennessee for nearly ten years.”
“Is that where you learned your trade? I’ve heard you mention your Granny Tate’s teachings several times.” At her nod, he added, “What made you leave Tennessee?”
That explanation required time and something a lot more potent than coffee. She supplied him with the condensed version. “It was hard making a living in the remote mountains. Most folks were too poor to afford our wares. The rough terrain made it difficult to travel. We decided to move to a more accessible and populated area. Unfortunately, my mother passed during the journey. Granny and I settled outsid
e a small town in Texas. She died five years later. That’s when I came to live at Seaton House.” He didn’t need to know the tragic circumstances surrounding her mother and granny’s deaths. That was her cross to bear.
“And now you’re on your own. I’m surprised there’s no man in your life. You’re a remarkable lady. I would expect men to be lining up at the door for a chance to court you.”
Would he join that line? She scrubbed her thumb over a wrinkle on her skirt. “My dedication to healing is not a suitable trait. Most husbands wouldn’t cotton to having their wife called out at all hours of the day and night.”
“I know what you mean. Alice was always complaining about my long hours. That I was never home. That I never had time for her.”
“Those who knew your wife said she was extremely beautiful.”
“She was. She had the most extraordinary hair. White gold like an angel’s halo. She had a voice like an angel too. Everyone loved listening to her sing.”
“You must miss her.”
He stared into the fire, his hands clamped around his coffee tin, his expression grim. She hadn’t intended to cause him distress. Yet there it was, plain as humps on a toad. Pain. Gut-eating pain.
She stirred on her seat, seeking a more comfortable spot for her bottom and her guilt. “If it’s too difficult to talk about her, I understand.”
He took a swig of coffee and winced. Too hot? Or not the mind-numbing spirit he really wished he was drinking?
“No. It’s all right. I just wish things had turned out differently for her. Wish I had done more or paid attention to what she was going through.”
What could she say to that? She’d shouldered the same regret many times over the years. It was a connection she felt clear down to her soul.
He set his tin on the hearth and leaned forward, the spindly-legged chair squawking in protest. He snagged the poker and began prodding at the burning logs. Embers popped and sizzled.
“Alice’s pregnancy was difficult,” he said between prods. “She stayed sickly much of the time and emptied her stomach more often than not. She was bedridden from the first trimester.”