Instead, she lifted his feet to the bed and positioned him as straight as she could. She needed to undress him completely, to see to his injuries.
Her gaze fell to the gun belt. The steel buckle seemed to mock her, daring her to unfasten it – and the other belt as well. She reached across him, exasperated with her own weakness. Grasping the buckle of the gun belt she undid it.
She sat beside him on the bed and reached for the placket of his jeans. She had released the first two buttons, when he muttered something and flinched.
"Brandon," she whispered, her blood-streaked fingers cupping his cheek.
"Dangerous…me bein' here," he muttered, his words slurred. His obsidian eyes flickered open and met hers for an instant; the pain, and regret and desperation all wrapped together in that look.
She could do nothing for the inner turmoil she saw there. What words could she possibly say to comfort him? It was dangerous for him to be there, but…what was the alternative? He drifted back to sleep again, relieving her of the need to answer.
He had protected her all those years past. Though he might not remember, she had never forgotten. It was her turn, now, to repay the goodness he had shown her a full ten years earlier. A kindness unplanned, that he'd done with no forethought. The consequences had forced him to leave the only haven he'd known in his life. He had become a drifter again. He'd done it for her, but it was obvious that he still didn't remember.
Her hands shook as she unbuttoned the placket of his pants, trying to turn her thoughts away from the day he'd left the orphanage. She worked his jeans past his hips, sliding them off. She'd been so intent on getting them free of his legs she hadn't noticed he wore nothing under them.
Her breath caught. There was no hint of the boy she'd known from the orphanage days. His muscles were hard and defined. His bronze skin was streaked with blood, his handsome features unrecognizable now that he was swollen with bruising. Dark hair sprinkled his chest, trailing a line downward—
She quickly pulled the cover up to his waist, her cheeks flushing warmly in the late afternoon light. He was beyond noticing, anyhow, she thought, and was glad for that.
Allie poured some water into the basin at the washstand, belatedly remembering the bag of supplies she'd brought home. She'd be needing those bandages and whiskey shortly. Carrying the basin to the bed, Allie set it on her night table, close at hand.
She hurried to the front door. Jay had already untied the bag and laid it on the porch. As she retrieved it and headed back to her bedroom Brandon's eyes slitted open, and he regarded her from swollen, pummeled lids. She put the bag in the chair beside the bed and carefully drew out the first bottle of whiskey, then the second, setting them side by side on the nightstand with the basin of water.
"For me?"
At his hoarse question, she cast a look over her shoulder and smiled. "Yes…but not like you think."
"Yeah – exactly like I think," he muttered.
She picked up one of the whiskey bottles and turned to face him. "Would you like a drink of it before we start?"
He closed his eyes. "Liquid courage…"
"It might help, as badly as you're hurt."
But he shook his head. "No. I'll pass."
Allie set the bottle back in its place on the night table beside the other one. "Are you ready?"
He nodded after a few seconds, his eyes still shut. "Let's do it." His voice was low; husky, as he filtered the pain.
She moved the chair near the bed once more and opened the whiskey. "I'm sorry it's got to be whiskey rather than real medicine. I didn't think Zach would be able to fill my list on such short notice—" she commented wryly, "and this'll work fine. You'll just smell like a saloon—"
"You like whiskey, 'Just Allie'?"
She poured some of the liquid on a soft cloth and began to wash the lacerations on his arm. A smile curved her lips at his question. "Not enough to bathe in it." Her eyes narrowed in concern as he flinched. "Sorry." She cleaned the top of his shoulder nearest where she sat, where Tom Carver's whip had left raised, bloody welts.
Brandon made no move, holding himself with a taut surety born of dealing with pain on a regular account.
His bronzed skin, baked even darker by the sun, showed the marks of deep bruising beneath rippling muscle. He slowed his breathing, controlling it as Allie moved the whiskey-soaked rag across the open cuts and lacerations. His jaw tightened as Allie leaned across him, paying particular attention to the scored flesh on his left shoulder, a mirror image of the territory she'd just charted on the right.
His swollen lips slowly curved as Allie's own breath hitched in empathy. "It's not that bad," he whispered.
She shook her head, soaking the cloth again, to clean his battered ribs. "Yes, it is. You always say that—"
Brandon's eyes opened slowly, his expression guarded. "Seems like we've been here before – 'Just Allie'."
The room was so silent, so still, that the clock on the living room mantel sounded like a cannon, even in the next room. Allie stopped the movement of the rag and closed her eyes, drawing a long, deep breath. Her heart threatened to pound its way out of her chest, and she was certain he could hear it. There was no denying the long-ago feelings for him that had surfaced immediately on her part. But how would he feel about her? Now was the time to find out. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her voice. "I've missed you, Brandon. It's been—" she broke off, and then plunged on, "Ten years is a long time."
Chapter 4
"Son of a bitch!"
Doc Wilkins raked Arnie Smith with a jaundiced eye from behind his glasses. He took a step back from the operating table. "Hold him," he directed, glancing up at Carver and Anderson.
Zach Anderson's Adam's apple bobbed convulsively. "He already took a swing at me once."
"Just 'til I can get the chloroform under his nose," the doctor equivocated.
"No chloroform!" Smith bellowed.
The doctor turned to him and pushed him back to the table with one hand. "Yes. Chloroform." He shook his head in disgust. "Can't believe I have to have men here to hold you for that. You just have to breathe it. It doesn't hurt."
"I want him!" Smith snarled, ignoring the doctor. "I want that damn breed and I want that girl."
A caustic smile skewed Doc Wilkins' thin lips, and his blue eyes bored into Smith. "I'll treat you, Arnie, but I don't have to like doin' it. And I don't have to like you. You've caused enough trouble – don't you think?" He gave a sharp nod at Smith's bloody leg. "You're not going after anyone for a few weeks."
"Patch me up, Wilkins! I ain't waitin' weeks!"
The doctor's eyes narrowed. "You'll follow my medical advice, Mr. Smith, or possibly end up permanently lame. As it is, that knee is going to take some time to mend. Weeks! And you will stay off a horse until I say – or I wash my hands of you and your treatment."
Smith bit his lip, but made no reply.
The doctor turned away, reaching to the top shelf of the rows of cabinets for a bottle. The bullet would be the very devil to remove, where it was lodged. Allison Taylor couldn't have delivered a more debilitating shot. The shattered kneecap would keep Arnie Smith from walking at all for at least two weeks; with crutches, he'd be able to get around in a limited capacity in the following two to three weeks, and walking unassisted would not happen for at least six weeks – if all went well.
He poured a few drops onto a white cloth and walked back to where Smith lay on the table.
"Doc, if you don't need me—" Zach Anderson began.
But the doctor shook his head, giving him a wry smile. "Oh, no, Zach. You're not running out on this; you nor Tom, either." His gaze moved to Tom's for a moment, then back to Zach. "Y'all helped set this in motion. Now, you've got to see it through. You should've paid Brandon Gabriel his money," he said succinctly, "and then you should've let him go on his way."
"That was a thousand dollars, Wilkins!" Smith muttered through gritted teeth.
The doctor's gaze he
ld him scornfully as he lowered the cloth to cover his patient's nose. "You're a damn fool, Smith. It's gonna cost you a helluva lot more than that before this is over."
* * * * *
Jay had put the horses in the barn and rubbed them down. The gunman's horse was a beautiful solid black stallion. At first, he'd been skittish, but Jay knew he could calm him, win him over. He offered a lump of sugar, and the horse delicately took it from his upturned palm
Jay gave the black a pat. "Good boy," he soothed. The shadows were deepening in the dim recesses of the barn. Jay reached for the nearby lantern and took it off the nail carefully. It was almost too high for him, but he managed. Last year, he couldn't have done it. The matches were in a notch in the wood pole. He lit the lantern carefully and put the matches back in the notch, then carried the light closer to the horse. He wanted to do a good job, currying this beautiful animal. He took the brush down from where it hung and began to gently stroke it across the black's shoulders and sides.
A light-colored line on the horse's flesh caught his eye, and he leaned close to look. Whip marks! Beneath the dark coat the horse's flesh was faintly marked with white scars.
Jay's dark brows slashed together. Would the stranger have treated his animal this cruelly? Or had this been done before the horse came to be owned by him? Jay shook his head. He knew what it was like to be badly treated. Though most of it was beginning to fade, he would never forget it completely. It was before he'd come to live here, with Mama.
He ran his finger gently over the scarred flesh. Even as young as he'd been, he was familiar with the slicing fire of a well-placed riding quirt. Being caged… That was before his mama had taken him away from the bad men. He didn't like to remember that time.
He shuddered and began once more to brush the sleek animal, taking care with him, being extra kind, as if to make up for all the injustices and cruelties they'd both suffered.
After he fed and watered the horses, he carefully blew out the lantern. He started for the house. With the gunman there, bad hurt as he was, there probably wouldn't be any supper – just leftover biscuits from the morning meal.
Mama would have to see to the wounded man, and Jay would remind her about Big Mack – in case she'd forgotten.
He wanted to tell her what he'd learned in school that day. They'd started their multiplication tables. And he'd learned a new word. Jurisdiction.
Jay was careful not to close the front door too loudly. The man might be sleeping. He was hurt something fierce. Jay's brows drew together. He'd never seen anyone bleed so much. The gunman was in worse shape than Big Mack, and he'd tangled with a wildcat.
Jay came into the bedroom where his mother was wrapping the gun hawk's hand. The stranger was looking some better, Jay decided. Cleaner. Mama must've washed him up good. She was a hard one about washing up – he knew that from personal experience.
She bit her lip, as if it were hurting her each time the man winced in pain. She was like that, though. He knew that from his own dealings, too. It had been so long ago, it was almost like a dream to him now, but Jay knew he'd never forget the first kindness he could ever remember. His new ma had brought him home, given him a meal of which there was no limit – and a warm bath. He'd fallen asleep in the big washtub.
Mama had put him to bed in the softest bed he'd ever slept in, with covers that were clean and warm. And in the night, he'd awakened to hear her crying as she rubbed salve on his wounds by dim candlelight. At first, he'd thought he'd made her cry. When she'd explained to him she was only sorry she hadn't gotten to him sooner, before the bad men had hurt him, he'd – well, he'd felt like crying too. But he didn't. He never cried.
* * * * *
Ten years is a long time. Allie had managed to keep the tears back – barely. What was he supposed to say to that? It had been a long time for him too – with very few good moments to look back on. In fact, every time he thought of a "good moment" from the early days, Allison Taylor was somewhere in that memory. Before he could reply, she had turned her full attention to cleaning his damaged hand and trying to piece it back together.
"Dammit," Brandon muttered through clenched teeth.
"I'm sorry," Allie murmured. She carefully wrapped his thumb to hold it immobile. He gave a sharp gasp, turning his head toward the wall.
"Almost done." Allie's voice was thick with tears. As she turned to reach for the scissors, Jay hurried in to hand them to her. She quickly shook her head. "Go wash up good, first. Then, I'll need you."
He nodded and headed for the pump.
"Thanks, Allie."
She smiled at the relief in Brandon's tone.
"I wouldn't want to cry in front of the boy."
Allie took a cool cloth from the basin and drew it across his forehead gently. "I don't believe there was any danger of that, Brandon."
"You never…know." He turned to look up at her, his lips curving up slightly. "Thanks, anyhow. He…looked worried."
"I did it for both of you." She stood up, gathering the scattered medical supplies. "He'll be back."
Brandon gave her a quick wink. "I'll be ready. Think I've got my breath back now."
Allie shook her head at his bravado. "I'm going to brew you some willow bark tea."
"I don't—"
"I want you to drink it. I know you won't use the laudanum, but this is milder. And it'll ease you some; maybe let you sleep a little."
"Better drink it, mister," Jay said solemnly. He'd returned, standing just at the bedroom door. "It don't taste good, but it helps stop the hurtin'."
"Doesn't taste good," Allie corrected.
"I know. That's what I said."
Brandon turned laughing eyes on Allie. "Guess maybe you better brew it up. Sounds like the voice of experience."
Allie arched a brow that clearly stated she understood where the real 'voice of experience' was. Brandon had probably downed more willow bark tea in his twenty-five years than Jay would ever see in a lifetime. When he grinned at her, she knew his thoughts had gone down the same path.
"Jay, don't—"
Brandon cut her off smoothly. "Don't worry, Allie. Jay here'll keep me company while you go brew up the poison – I mean—" he winked at Jay, "—the tea."
Jay's laugh was infectious, and Allie turned away, heartened at the fledgling camaraderie between the two. Jay was wary of people, and with good cause, after his rough beginnings. Though Brandon had never talked to her about his own early years, she had the feeling Jay had nothing on him. Brandon would be good for Jay…for as long as he was here.
She walked into the kitchen, casting a glance back at the big bed where Brandon laid, Jay in the chair beside him.
What then? a tiny voice nagged. When Brandon leaves here, what then? She couldn't worry about it now. Now, she only had to be sure she gave Brandon a fighting chance when that time eventually came.
* * * * *
Brandon watched Allie walk away. There was a new pain in his heart that had nothing to do with what Arnie Smith and his men had done to him. This hurt was of his own making. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed Allie until he'd found her again. He'd thought of her, over the years, and wondered about her. Hell, he'd even come back for her, only to discover she wasn't there anymore at The Benevolent Christian Home for Infants and Waifs. She'd been 'adopted out' – or so he'd been told. Had that even been true?
"Can you show me how to draw a road agent's spin? Teach me to do it?"
Jay's cautious question brought Brandon back to the present. They both glanced toward the door, and Brandon smiled when Jay's dark eyes found his.
He held up his bandaged hand. "It might be awhile."
Jay's eyes widened momentarily, and Brandon knew he'd forgotten. The boy nodded.
"Why do you need to know that fancy stuff anyhow? You…plannin' to become a trick shooter?"
Jay shook his head shyly. "No." His knuckles tightened around the edge of the chair seat.
Brandon's grin faded. Jay was serious, n
ot in a teasing frame of mind. "Why do you want to learn that, Jay?"
"I heard someone say…" He broke off, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. "It…doesn't matter." The words were spoken so softly that Brandon had trouble making them out.
"Jay."
The boy finally looked up, meeting his eyes again.
"I'll show you, when I can, if you'll tell me why you want to learn."
Jay nodded slowly. Suddenly shy again, he blurted, "Big Mack, he tangled with a wildcat. That's why Mama went to town in the first place – to get some whiskey and bandages."
"Big Mack?"
"My dog," Jay explained.
"Where is he now?"
"In the front room. I slept on the settee last night so I could be close. He got hurt bad. Almost as bad as you, Mr. Gabriel."
Brandon's eyes narrowed. The kids had been talking. He hadn't been introduced to Jay formally, and he didn't think Allie had mentioned his name. He wondered what else Jay knew. Had the whole damn town known about his set-up?
"He'll be all right, then," Brandon replied. "If he's only hurt 'almost as bad' as me."
Jay fidgeted on the chair. There was a question he wanted to ask, badly. Brandon waited for it, watching the boy work himself up to it.
"Mr. Gabriel, I've been wondering. Are – Are you my father?"
Brandon felt like he'd been sucker-punched.
Jay took a deep breath while Brandon tried to recover his own. "My mama seems like she knows you – from before, somewhere." He held out his small arm close to Brandon's own dark skin, careful not to touch him. "And there's this – we're both breeds—"
"Hey!" Brandon cut him off sharply. It was one thing for him to use the derogatory name for himself – he was an adult. But to hear Jay using it, calling himself that name in such a matter-of-fact way, cut to the quick. Memories of the days at the orphanage – and before – when that taunt had echoed in his young mind over and over, the way adults and children alike had thrown it at him, those would never fade. Jay, it seemed, had shared the same experience. For some reason, that haunted him.
Gabriel's Law Page 3