Frankie snorted, jammed her hammer back into her leather belt, bent over and grabbed a tool from a bucket at her feet. “Never thought I’d see the day a Tucker girl would marry.” She slammed the tool against one corner of the post and shoved down on it, repeated the movement over and over. A blade bit off thin little bits of wood that made a small pile on the ground. “Pa must be spinning in his grave.” The shavings grew longer, wider, curled. The corner now sloped from the center of the post to the outer edge. “He raised us to be able to take care of ourselves, not need some man to do for us!”
Viola nodded. It was the best she could offer. She had nothing good to say about men or marriage.
Frankie stopped working, waved the tool in the air. “You won’t find me getting yoked up to no man.” She scowled, then started shaving away at the next corner of the post. “I’m gonna be a deputy, soon as I can convince that stubborn sheriff of ours I’m as good or better than them men he takes on to help him out when there’s a need.”
There was hurt lurking behind Frankie’s bravado. Her heart went out to the unhappy woman. At least in this, she could offer some comfort. “I’m sure you would make a fine deputy, Frankie. But what will the people of Treasure Creek do without your building skills to call upon?”
Frankie paused, fastened her blue-eyed gaze on her. “Guess I hadn’t thought about that.” She squinted at the post, ran her hand over the two sloping corners and moved on to the next. “I’ll still keep building things for folks. Being a deputy is only when there’s a need. And it seems like Sheriff Parker ain’t a very needful man.” She stopped, looked at her. “Been talking only about me. How’s Goldie? And how’s the preacher doing? He mending all right?”
She gasped. “Mr. Stone! I forgot all about him.” Guilt shot through her. She stepped back from the fence. “I have to go, Frankie. I told Dr. Calloway I would be right back.” She lifted the hems of her long skirt, ran across the road and hurried back to her cabin.
“No movement. And no solid foods for Thomas today, Viola.”
She nodded and walked the doctor to the door. “What would you advise for his sustenance?”
“A good, strong beef broth will help build his blood back to strength. If none is avail—”
“Ha!”
Viola laughed at the satisfied grin on Hattie’s face. “Hattie has already prepared a beef broth, Doctor. She was quite certain it was what you would request for him. Is there anything else?”
“No. Just keep him warm and quiet, and continue the pain medicine. Give him the broth as often as he will take it. And water. He lost a lot of blood, he needs to replace the fluids he’s lost.” Jacob Calloway reached for the door latch. “I will return to check on him this afternoon. Meanwhile, if he develops a fever or other problems, please come for me. And if he moves and that wound starts to bleed, come immediately.”
“I shall, doctor. Please give Teena my regards.” Viola closed the door, made the smirking Hattie a little bow, then took Goldie into her arms.
“Would you please bring Mr. Stone some broth, Hattie? I’m sure he must be hungry.” She turned and walked into the bedroom. Thomas Stone’s eyes were squeezed closed, his mouth was pressed into a tight line and his face looked more wan than ever in the full light of day. She stared at him, feeling sick to her stomach. If she had stayed with Goldie instead of napping to catch up on her lost sleep, the kidnapping would not have happened. Thomas Stone would not have been shot. He would not be in this pain. If only there was something she could do to make him feel better. Perhaps… She whirled around, to Goldie’s gurgling delight, and hurried to the kitchen.
“Hattie, keep the soup on the warming shelf. And please watch Goldie for me. I think, perhaps Mr. Stone might feel a little better if I wash his face and comb his hair.” She handed the baby into Hattie’s arms, then hurried to the tiny bathing room off the kitchen, draped a washcloth and towel over her shoulder, threw a comb and a bar of her soap into a washbowl and went back to the stove to ladle hot water out of the reservoir on the side.
The hot water felt wonderful on his face. The hint of roses hovered, even after she rinsed the soap away. Thomas thought again of his mother, focused on the past to keep from thinking of how soft Viola Goddard’s hands were. Or about the ache their gentle touch brought to his gut. He hadn’t known, until now, how much he missed the touch of his wife’s hands.
The softness of a towel absorbed the moisture from his skin, dragged across his whisker stubble. He had a flash of vanity, wished he was clean-shaven and looking his best.
“I’m going to wash your hands now, Mr. Stone.” Her voice sounded different, sort of tight and small. Her fingers brushed against his neck, slid beneath the edge of the covers.
“Wait!” He forgot, tried to grab the covers. White heat streaked through his shoulder and chest. He broke out in a cold sweat. “Shirt…cut…off me.” He closed his eyes, silently cursed the weakness, the bullet that had put him in this bed.
“You mustn’t move, Mr. Stone. I will do it.”
The blankets lifted, cool air washed over his right shoulder and arm. He opened his eyes, looked up at her. Her face was taut. She turned to the washbowl, wrung out the rag and soaped it. He held his breath, fought the sickening throbbing in his shoulder.
“You are quite covered in bandages, Mr. Stone. I’m so sorry for your pain.” She lifted his hand. The warm, soapy rag slid over his skin. Her hands were trembling. He saw her catch her lower lip with her upper teeth, turn to the washbowl and rinse out the rag, and swallowed hard against the churning in his stomach.
“I haven’t had the opportunity to properly thank you for saving Goldie.” She wiped the soap from his hand, took a little shuddering breath, put down the cloth and dried his hand with the towel. “I’m so very grateful.” She smiled, but there was something in her eyes…. He tried to block out the pain and nausea and concentrate.
“Your left arm is bound to your chest. To keep it still, I suppose. I shall not wash that hand.” There was relief in her voice. She pulled the covers back over him and picked up the washbowl. “You rest now, Mr. Stone. I shall take care of these things and be back in a moment with some broth for you.”
Thomas closed his eyes, yielded to the weakness. She had tried to cover it, but Viola Goddard had been upset by his bandages. There had been a fear, a vulnerability deep in the depths of her beautiful eyes that belied her cool demeanor as she washed him. A vulnerability that made him want to take care of her. He clenched his hands into fists, caught his breath at the pain that knifed through his chest and prayed for a quick recovery before falling asleep.
Chapter Four
Viola stared down at Thomas Stone’s pale, sleeping face, placed the spoon in the bowl, lifted the napkin off the quilt and carried them to the kitchen.
Hattie glanced at the bowl and frowned. “He didn’t eat but half. How’s he doin’?”
She shrugged and placed the bowl of broth on the warming shelf. “All right, I suppose. At least that’s what Doctor Calloway said. But he looks frightful to me.” She stepped to the end of the stove, out of Hattie’s way, and stood absorbing the warmth. Her growing weariness was causing an inward chill. “If only he had some color in his face. And that horrible weakness. Oh, Hattie, he hasn’t strength enough to even talk without stopping and gasping for air. And it’s my fault.”
Hattie stopped stirring and looked at her. “Your fault? How’d you figure that?”
“I should not have napped. If I hadn’t—”
“I told you to get some sleep whilst I watched over Goldie.” Hattie spooned soup from the pot into a bowl. “Guess the way you figure it, I’m the one to blame. I’m the one shouldn’t have gone to sleep.”
“Oh, Hattie, no! That’s not true.” Viola hurried to the elderly woman and put her arm around her shoulders. “I don’t blame you, Hattie. Please don’t think that. Goldie’s father left her on my doorstep. His note asked me to care for her until he returned. She is my responsibility, not
yours. I meant only that. Do not blame yourself.”
“I don’t.” Hattie scooted out from under her arm and plunked the bowl onto the table. “Sit down and eat whilst Goldie and Mr. Stone are sleepin’. You’re lookin’ a mite peaked your own self.”
Viola shook her head, brushed back a curl that fell onto her forehead. “You go ahead and eat, Hattie. I’m not hungry. My guilt over Mr. Stone, and Goldie, and, well, this whole situation, has stolen my appetite.”
“Fiddlesticks! You ain’t to blame for what happened any more than I am. That kidnapper is. And I don’t need two sick grownups and a baby to look after. Sit down and eat.”
She sat. “All the same, I should have been with Goldie instead of napping.”
“Why? So you could have been hurt or worse when that man snuck in here to take the baby, so’s he could get his hands on them gold nuggets the father left for you to use to pay for Goldie’s care?” Hattie turned and walked back to the stove. “It’s likely there was two of them, you know. ’Cause that man wasn’t expectin’ to find us sleepin’ that time of day. I figure God worked things out for the good.”
Two of them. Viola stared at Hattie’s back, her nerves tingling. With all that had happened, she had forgotten about that stone thrown from the woods. It had been a warning. The kidnapper had a partner. What if he decided to sneak into the cabin and… She shivered, gripped her hands and waited for the nervous chill to pass, took a breath to remove any tremor from her voice. “I don’t see how you can say that, Hattie. Mr. Stone is lying in that bedroom too weak to even lift his head off the pillow. How is that God working things out for good?”
“He could be dead.”
“Oh. Yes. He could…” Viola placed her hand on her roiling stomach and drew another deep breath. She couldn’t understand faith like Hattie’s. She had experienced too much of evil. Bitterness rose like bile, formed a metallic taste on her tongue. “If God was involved, why would He have let all of this happen?”
“I don’t figure He did.” Hattie carried her bowl of soup to the table and bowed her head. “Bless this food, Almighty God. Use it to keep us healthy and strong and to help heal Thomas Stone. Amen.” She lifted her head, scooped up a piece of beef with her spoon. “The Good Book says there’s good and evil in this world, and because of that, bad things are gonna happen. But it also says God’ll take the bad and turn it to good for His children.”
By allowing a helpless young girl to be forced into choosing to make her living by prostitution? And then, after she escaped that life, by forcing her to bring a man into her home? By placing Thomas Stone here, in his helpless condition, where he could be killed if someone broke in again? Viola laid down her spoon, swallowed to hold back the bite of onion and peas that did not want to stay down. “Forgive me for disagreeing, Hattie. But I do not see the good in this situation.”
Hattie scooped up a piece of potato and broth, looked up and smiled. “It ain’t over yet.”
That is what I’m afraid of.
Viola looked up from her sewing as Hattie carried Goldie into the bedroom and sat her down on the rag rug. “This one’s all fed and dry and ready to play.” She straightened, glanced at Thomas Stone, then looked her way. “I’m gonna take me a walk down to Tanner’s store. I’m all out of licorice drops. You need anything?”
“Yes.” Viola handed Goldie the wooden spool she’d just emptied. “I need another spool of blue thread, and another packet of horn buttons.” She smiled at the baby and looked up. “And ask them to please order me another five yards of tent canvas. I’ve used the last of mine. Oh! And shaving supplies for Mr. Stone. He will probably want them when he is sufficiently healed to move his arms.”
Hattie nodded and started out the door.
“Hattie…”
The elderly woman turned.
Now what was she smiling about? Viola stared at her friend, then gave a mental shrug, kept a casual tone in her voice. “Please leave word that I would like Frankie Tucker to come see me.”
“What do you want with Frankie?”
“I have some work for her to do.”
Viola watched Hattie amble away, then turned and glanced at Thomas Stone to see if they had disturbed him. He was sound asleep. The pain medicine she had given him after the broth was working. She stared at his face, watching his eyes to make certain. The loose-fitting shirt she was making him out of soft cotton needed no measurements, but for the sleeves. But she did not want to ask him, for she was certain he would refuse the shirt.
She looked at the covers over his chest, watched the even rise and fall of his breathing and set aside her sewing, picked up her tape measure and hurried to the bed. As stealthily as she could manage, she lifted the edge of the covers until she could see his free arm. She measured the length from shoulder to wrist, then inched the tape around his wrist for the cuff measurement, trying her best not to see his hand. She knew well the punishment a man’s hands could inflict, and she knew the strength in his from his firm grip on her arm.
She shuddered and backed away, but could not leave his shoulder and arm uncovered. His breathing remained steady and even. She glanced at his face, stepped close and drew the covers back in place, then hurried back to her chair. He looked younger in repose. And handsome. But she had seen handsome turn to ugly very quickly.
She dropped her tape on the table and went to her knees beside Goldie, to wash away the dark memories with the sight of the baby’s sweet face. Goldie dropped the spool and grabbed for her feet, tugging at her moccasin booties, letting out a howl of frustration when they did not yield. “Shhh, little one, you’ll wake Mr. Stone.”
Viola gave her back the spool, lifted her into her arms and carried her to the chair. The rockers whispered against the floor as she cuddled the baby close and exorcized the remembered cruelty of hard, rough hands with the silky touch of the baby’s cheek against hers.
Thomas opened his eyes, drawn out of the darkness by the warm, musical laugh of the woman who gave him such cool, remote smiles. He slewed his gaze toward the rocker, saw Viola playing pat-a-cake with the baby and shut his eyes against the ache that filled his chest—an ache that had nothing to do with the bullet wound in his shoulder.
Louise, I am so sorry. So very sorry.
He opened his eyes and stared up at the rough wood ceiling to block out the image of his infant daughter in his wife’s arms when he had buried them. An image seared into his mind. He had buried them together so they would never be apart. He clenched his jaw against the memory he couldn’t stop from invading his thoughts. He was over the ravaging grief, but the guilt remained. He never should have given in to Louise’s pleas that they marry before he answered his call to minister to the Alaskan natives. And he should have stayed strong and refused when she begged to come along. He hadn’t known it then, of course, but living conditions in the Indian villages had proven too primitive and harsh for his city-bred wife. And then he had gotten her with child. All selfish acts that had cost Louise and tiny little Susan their lives. If he had known…
A soft gasp broke into his thoughts. Instinct drew his gaze toward Viola Goddard. She was peering closely at the baby who was standing on her lap, supported by her hands around her small chest. “Goldie! Oh, baby, you have two teeth!” The hushed words floated toward him on a ripple of quiet laughter that spoke of surprise and delight. The baby waved pudgy little arms, babbled sounds that made sense only to her infant ears, then gurgled out laughter.
The ache in his chest sharpened. His baby girl would never— Thomas yanked his gaze back to the ceiling, clenched his hands and set himself to battle the guilt in his heart. Forgive me, Louise, for my weakness and selfishness.
How many times had he thought those words over the past three years? How many more times would he utter or think them before the guilt went away? Would it go away? Or would he live with the shadow of his selfish acts clouding his life forever?
This time he didn’t fight the darkness that rose to claim him, but yielded t
o the weakness and the medicine, and welcomed the oblivion that blotted out all thought.
Viola leaned down, picked up the rattle Goldie had dropped, then straightened. “I want strong locks put on my doors, Frankie. I thought perhaps you could do that for me?”
“Sure I can, Viola.” Frankie Tucker’s blue eyes gleamed with excitement. “You figure someone else will try to break in here and kidnap the baby, now that the idea’s been planted in people’s heads? I told Sheriff Parker I thought that might happen, and asked him if I could help him watch your place. I mean, I know he shot the kidnapper dead, but what if he had a partner or something?” Frankie sighed and tucked a lock of her short, curly, dark hair behind her ear. “He refused. Like always. I don’t know why he doesn’t think I’d make a good deputy. I’m smart as any man. Smarter than Henry Duke for sure! And he uses him sometimes.”
The hurt in Frankie’s voice tugged at her heart. Viola set aside the fear that had surged at Frankie’s mention of the kidnapper’s partner, and searched for some sort of balm she could offer—remembered that awful moment when she saw the blood spreading across Thomas Stone’s shirt. “Being a deputy can be dangerous, Frankie. Look at what happened to Mr. Stone. Perhaps the sheriff is afraid you will be harmed in a gun battle, or—”
“Ha! I can outshoot any man.” Frankie’s blue eyes flashed. “Our pa took us girls hunting as soon as we were strong enough to heft a rifle. And he taught us to use pistols, too. Lucy and Margie are good shots, but I’m the best. I don’t miss. And the sheriff knows it. I challenged him to a shooting contest tomorrow, just to show him. Figure that ought to make him look favorable on me as a deputy.”
Gold Rush Baby (Alaskan Brides) Page 4