Hannah might not be able to discern her own heart so well, but she could read other people as easily as a church hymnal. She hadn’t missed the way Naomi dragged her eyes away from Uncle Matt’s muscles. Nor did she miss the flash of jealousy in his eyes when she asked about Mr. McIntyre.
“That fella Black Elk was a mite faster than I gave him credit for. We took him down, though. Turns out he’s got Beaver Fever.”
The girls gasped. “What in the world is that?” Naomi asked.
“The doc said you get it from bad water or from a person who carries the infection.” Uncle Matt shifted on the seat, struggling to get comfortable. “As far as McIntyre, I’m not really sure what happened to him. I was busy getting twelve stitches. Your town doctor has the touch of a butcher.”
“Uncle Matt, do you need anything?” Hannah patted his shoulder lovingly, as if he were an injured child. “Can I get you something? We might even have a little whiskey somewhere if you’d like some for the pain?”
He touched her cheek and smiled. “No, darlin‘, don’t touch the stuff. I just need to rest a minute. That ride back in the wagon was a bit rougher than I expected. Although,” he sniffed the air. “I could stand a bite. That wouldn’t be Rebecca’s fried chicken I smell?”
“Here, Hannah,” Rebecca tagged her on the elbow. “Why don’t we finish getting dinner on the table? We’ll make Matthew a plate.”
“Oh, thank you, Rebecca, honey. You always were an angel in the kitchen.”
All three of the girls squashed giggles, or at least tried to. “Only now,” Hannah grabbed her sister’s arm and pulled her toward the kitchen, “we’re thinking she’s an angel of destruction.”
~~~
Naomi bit her lip to thwart a grin.
Matthew cocked his head to one side. “What was that all about?”
“Rebecca had a very uncharacteristic accident in the kitchen this morning. She burned something.”
“Oh,” Matthew half-nodded, but the motion was derailed by a grimace. He grunted. “Naomi, would you be a dear,” he raised his arms and sat up a bit, “and check this wrap? It feels too tight around me.” Rebecca and Hannah had been subtly nudged into the kitchen and Naomi realized she’d been left alone with Matthew by design—his.
“Certainly.” She bent over and tried to adjust the bandage but the angle was awkward and brought her face too close to his. Surprised by trembling, uncertain hands, she dropped to her knees just to the side of his legs. “I should be able to reach it better this way.”
“I kind of liked that other way.” His gaze was deep and so familiar. Naomi blinked and reached around him, staring into his broad, strong shoulder, just like the one that she had caressed and kissed so many times before. She felt him sniff her hair and she breathed in the scent of sweat and whiskey and … pipe tobacco? Something like the electricity from a thunderstorm danced all over her skin.
She wanted to look up and lose herself in John’s deep, hypnotic gaze just once more. Maybe gently touch his cheek. Strange, she could almost feel Matthew’s stare willing her to do exactly that.
He’s not John! A voice screamed at her.
She took a breath, trying to focus. Rotating her shoulders as she worked the bandage, she asked, “If you don’t drink, why do you smell like a whiskey barrel?”
“That Black Elk fella busted every bottle in the saloon. A man could get drunk just breathing the air.”
She loosened the gauze, brought it back around the front, running her fingers a little too slowly over the steel-like muscles of his stomach. Her pulse picking up steam, she tied the bandage more securely. “There.” Her fingers lingered on his warm skin, almost as if they had a will of their own. She looked up. Flashing azure eyes captivated her, bringing back a rush of memories and feelings. Same as John’s, they went a shade greener when he was …
His skin flushed and Naomi swallowed. The heat from Matthew radiated through her like rays from an August sun. He licked his lips, stared at Naomi’s mouth. “Naomi, I need …” He paused and started over. “I need to apologize for last night.”
She twisted her head, tearing away from that seductive gaze. “There’s no need. I should apologize to you.” Shocked at her hammering pulse, she moved back and dropped herself into a chair opposite him. “But I guess there are a few things we should get straight.”
She had to think for a moment to recall exactly what they were. “First off, I’m so sorry, Matthew, that you came all this way expecting us to leave with you. I gave you every reason to think we were in desperate straits. I had no idea we’d make friends the way we did. I didn’t think it possible in the beginning.” But they had made friends, with some of the most lost sheep she’d ever known: prostitutes, drunkards, and reprobates.
“You can understand my concern, though, about leaving you here?” he said gently. “I’m in town five minutes and the first man I meet is Charles McIntyre, the most famous pimp in the West.” He shook his head in disgust. “Now I’m stabbed, and the marshal’s bringing in a gunman. This is no place for you girls—” he sucked in a breath through his teeth and grabbed his side. Naomi half-rose from her seat, but he waved her down. “I’m fine. Whatever Doc numbed it with is wearing off.”
“Well,” clutching her braid, Naomi surveyed the dining room, and then smiled at Matthew. “We don’t have to solve any of this today.” She took his hand and wished almost immediately she hadn’t. It was like holding John’s. If she closed her eyes, for one second, and just felt his warmth, it would be a perfect illusion.
Matthew covered her hand with his and waited. His stare held her spellbound. “I’m just glad you’re all right, Matthew.” The words seemed to have too much weight. “We … um, we … should eat and you should rest.” She pulled away. “I’ll go see what’s taking so long.”
She rushed to get away from him, but stopped just short of bursting into the kitchen. This confusing Matthew with John was treacherous. She wished Charles was back. She needed his touch to remind her she was living in the present before the ghosts from her past could drag her back.
~~~
Moving like his stitches had been sewn with tissue paper, Matthew hooked a foot around another chair and pulled it closer. Holding his breath, he hiked his feet up into it and leaned back a little more in his chair. His side was burning and throbbing, but leaning back helped.
Stupid Ute. If he saw that kid vertical again, he’d kill him. It hadn’t escaped Matthew that if he’d been a hair slower, that Injun’s Bowie knife could have put a quick end to his wild and wooly ways. He hadn’t come to Defiance for this, not at all. ’Course it was his own fault for offering to help.
He settled a little deeper into the chair and let his thoughts roam back to Naomi. He could tell she was confused, and that pleased him no end. He’d heard the wobble in her voice, seen her hands shake when she worked on his bandage. He’d sniffed her hair and she hadn’t pulled away. Yep, McIntyre didn’t have this all sewn up just yet.
Too bad he hadn’t been prepared for Mr. Fancy Pants to go riding off with the marshal. He might have been able to plan something with Naomi, like a stroll. As it was, maybe another opportunity would present itself. He could always complain about his side and maneuver her up to his room.
No, that would just scare her. He’d have to do this nice and easy—like John would.
Just like John …
~~~
Eighteen
Head low to the ground, the horse sniffed and navigated through the carnage with care. Chief Ouray held the reins loosely, sure of his mount’s steady temperament. He was also sure who had killed these people. His eyes roamed over the burned bodies, the over-turned, charred wagon, the ransacked trunks. Dead three, maybe four days. Warily, his horse skirted a broken rifle and several shattered jars of peaches lying on the ground. Beside them, a pot sat overturned, its moldy stew spilled in the dirt.
The crease in his brow deepened. A ghostly quiet filled the forest around him. In the camp site, clo
thes, shoes, frying pans, and tin plates littered the ground. A brass casing glittered in the weeds. Strands of blood-soaked golden hair and a white, bloated hand, fingers frozen in death, beckoned to him from behind a boulder. He wondered why brother wolf or even the vultures had not ventured to this spot. Only evil spirits kept them away.
Or sickness.
So tired of death, he let the horse wander over to the little creek to drink, but jerked the animal’s head up when he saw what lay in it. A swollen white man, eyes nearly popping out of his skull, lay chest-down in the water several feet upstream. Head twisted toward Ouray, he stared at the chief with blank, white orbs. Ouray wrinkled his nose in disgust. This settler had messed his pants badly and his body smelled particularly foul. Four arrows protruded from his back like the quills on a porcupine.
Ouray spun his horse away and again surveyed the slaughter. He assumed they had attacked the settlers with the intention of taking spoils. The discovery of the sick man, though, perhaps as he was trying to escape, changed their plans. In fear, had they left everything behind to run?
No, that was not right.
He peered closer at the tracks on the ground, pondered them, and then looked off into the shadowy woods.
They had taken a captive.
~~~
Hannah wrapped gently on Doc’s door, in case patients inside were sleeping. She waited and momentarily his grizzled appearance filled the entrance. “Hannah, come in, come in.” He opened the door wider and waved her into his front room. “I’m delighted to see you again. You’re not here by any chance to do a little more nursing?”
“If you need me.” Hannah stepped inside and pointed at the closed bedroom door. “I hear you have a patient. Some kind of fever?”
Doc sighed and shut the door. He ran a tired hand through his shock of grayish blond hair. “A form of food poisoning. Something in the water, most often.” His brow creased with puzzlement. “Indians don’t get it too much. Usually it’s some dumb miner who didn’t see the dead elk rotting in the water upstream.” He let the puzzle go with a shake of his head. “He’s gonna be a sick rascal for a few days. That giant pummeling him in the noggin didn’t help matters much either, but I understand they had to subdue him. For now, we just need to keep fluids in the boy. If you’re up to nursing him, that is. As I said, he’s an Indian.” Hannah inclined her head, not sure of the connection. “Some folks might not want to treat one.”
“I’m the last person in the world to think I’m better than somebody else.”
“I had a notion you might say that. You’ll make a good nurse, girl.”
The compliment put wings on Hannah’s feet. Last December, after the big avalanche, she had helped nurse men for several days. Amidst the suffering and death, a seed had been planted. After praying about it, she had grown even more certain this was something God wanted her to do. Now she was trying to find the path to this dream. She still worked at the hotel because Doc couldn’t afford a nurse and she had obligations to her sisters, but she volunteered as much as she could.
Doc handed her a basin of cold water and a rag. “I was about to go in and spend some time with the boy. I bet he’d rather see your pretty, smiling face.”
“He doesn’t have anything catching that I could take back to Little Billy?”
“Just wash your hands when you leave and you’ll be fine.” Convinced, Hannah took the items and let herself into Black Elk’s room.
“Hannah?” She paused halfway through the door. “If he does wake up, see if you can get any information on where he might have gotten into tainted food or water.”
She nodded and entered the room. The Indian lay quietly on the bed, shirtless, the sheet pulled up to his waist. She set the bowl on the nightstand next to a cup of water. Quietly, she dipped the rag. “Black Elk, can you hear me?” No response. His breathing remained steady, but it sounded shallow. Wringing out the water, she spoke again before touching him with it. “Black Elk, my name is Hannah. Can you hear me?” Carefully, she laid the rag on his forehead and waited a moment. When he didn’t stir, she settled into the chair beside the bed.
At liberty to stare, she studied his profile. Strong and proud, skin the color of desert sand, she thought him majestic and rather imposing, even asleep. In a way, she couldn’t blame the Indians for hating the white man, but both sides had committed horrific atrocities. Only Jesus could bring peace to such a mess. She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer. A prayer for healing, mercy, and salvation for Black Elk. Courage for her to talk of her faith if he awoke. He couldn’t die lost. Perhaps that was why she was sitting in this chair right now.
“Please God,” she whispered, “give me the right words to help this man.”
Immediately, a still, small voice answered back, Show him.
She was startled to realize Black Elk was staring at her. In his brown, almost black, eyes she saw a mix of fear and sadness. “He killed you,” the Indian whispered.
What? His voice was weak, his words slightly slurred. She assumed he was delirious. Ignoring the comment, Hannah smiled tenderly and took the rag off his forehead. Aware he was watching her, she dipped it again in the cold spring water. Though he didn’t have a high fever, cooling a patient’s brow was still a comfort. She replaced the rag, sat down on the edge of the bed and took Black Elk’s hand in hers.
“He killed you,” he repeated, this time sounding more emphatic.
“No, I’m fine, Black Elk. You must be dreaming.”
He sighed and shut his eyes, weakly moving his head from side to side. “People near Horse Mesa.”
Hannah bit her lip. Was Black Elk telling her something that had happened a long time ago or recently? She couldn’t make sense of it. Tentatively, she asked, “Black Elk, can you tell me what happened?”
For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard or couldn’t respond. Finally, he croaked out, “Water.”
Hannah reached for the cup. Slipping her hand through his long, black hair to cradle his head, she lifted him up enough to take a sip. Black Elk clutched the cup and took two more weak gulps. His strength used up, he lay back down.
“You have something called Beaver Fever. Do you think you drank some bad water?”
“The stew,” he whispered. “The man was sick.”
She sat back, unable to pull this together. “A man at Horse Mesa?”
“One-Who-Cries had a vision …” Hannah leaned closer, straining to hear his weak voice. “Between here and White River, no whites will be safe.”
One-Who-Cries. Emilio had given Hannah a few more details on the renegade. He was a brave known for killing whites any chance he had. He instigated a fight down at the White River Reservation last year reportedly for the sole reason of taking several, hot-blooded braves with him. He’d done it again just recently. She didn’t see the connection between any of that and Black Elk. Emilio said the reservation was over one hundred miles away. What in the world was Black Elk talking about?
“We found them next to the creek at Horse Mesa,” he continued. “Like you, she was pale, with hair the color of the sun.” He sighed, as if resigned to his story’s ending. “She shouldn’t have fought … but we took her sister.”
Took her sister? Goosebumps raced over Hannah’s arms. “Black Elk, if you attacked some white folks, why are you in Defiance?” Realizing a life in addition to Black Elk’s might be hanging in the balance, she leaned even closer and placed her hand lightly on his chest. Keeping the panic from her voice, she asked, “Were you with One-Who-Cries? Where is he? Where’s the girl?”
Black Elk’s eyes closed as he drifted off to sleep again.
~~~
Nineteen
By dusk, Billy finally managed to coax Hannah into a walk with him. They started out behind the hotel and ambled up a path along the stream. He shoved his hands into his pockets and marveled over the scenery here. He’d seen the Swiss Alps as a kid, but the Rocky Mountains were grander, more colorful. He paused to take in the ring of craggy
mountains that surrounded the town, the snow on top of the peaks turning various shades of purple and pink as the sun set. The mountains were covered in patchwork forests, but the lower portions, and much of the valley, had been timbered heavily for buildings and firewood. Trees sprouted here and there on the valley floor, and, oddly, the ones that remained were all twenty and thirty feet high. He wondered randomly if, perhaps, they’d been left for shade.
A gunshot from somewhere on the other side of Defiance echoed through the valley and made the question irrelevant.
Hannah stopped a few paces ahead of him and waited, staring off at the mountains in the opposite direction. She had her pink wool shawl pulled around so tightly, Billy thought she might manage to cut herself in two with it.
“So, when did you get the idea to become a nurse?” he asked, making small talk, biding his time.
“We had an avalanche here last winter. It was horrible. They brought men to the hotel broken to bits.” She hunched her shoulders as if the memory made her shiver. “I don’t know. It planted a seed, I guess. I want to help, and sometimes Doc gets overwhelmed. Just the fights in Tent Town can send him three or four patients at once.”
“You’d be a good nurse.” Billy meant it. Hannah had a tender side. She cared for people, and now she struck him as strong enough to deal with the blood and guts without fainting. He was amazed how much she’d grown up and she hadn’t even turned seventeen yet.
The compliment failed to turn her around. Billy exhaled, ruffling the hair over his eyes. This was like trying to break through granite. “Hannah.” She turned only slightly and met his gaze through her long, dark lashes. The sunset washed her in a magic orange hue. A loose strand of hair shimmered next to her face like a flame. He would have given the world to walk up and kiss her senseless. In danger of losing his self-control, he stared at his boots and scratched the back of his head. Maybe the best thing to do here was just get it all said. “Hannah, I’ve decided I’m not going anywhere.”
Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2) Page 12