A sharp rap echoed through the room, vibrated the wood behind her shoulders. She gave a startled yelp, jerked erect. The door opened, slammed against her as she turned. “Ugh!”
“Viola?” A narrow boot was jammed between the door and the frame, followed by a red clad shoulder and a mop of short, dark curls. “You all right, Viola?”
“Frankie?” Viola pulled the door fully open, stepped back and rubbed her banged elbow. “You startled me.”
“Well I’m sorry I pushed in like that. But I thought something was wrong when you yelled out.” Frankie grinned, lifted a paper bag she clutched like a weapon. “I was ready to knock any owlhoot over the head with your locks.” Her gaze shifted. She smiled and nodded. “Hello, Hattie. Good to see you up and around, Preacher.”
Preacher? Viola whirled. Thomas stood just outside the bedroom doorway, his face pale, his mouth pressed into a tight line. He looked about to pass out. “Thomas! What are you doing? You’re not supposed to get up.” If he fell… She ran to him, grabbed his good hand, ducked, then straightened with his arm draped across her shoulders, her free arm behind his back. “You must get back to bed. Are you able to walk?”
“Yes.” A tremor moved through his body, his arm tightened around her shoulder and he stepped forward.
“I’ll help you, Vi—”
She darted a thankful glance toward Frankie, saw Hattie grab her by the arm and give a quick shake of her head. Frankie stopped, gave the elderly woman a quizzical look, then turned back to the door.
Anger lent Viola courage. She braced herself and steadied Thomas, moved beside him into the bedroom, vowing to speak to Hattie about her interference the moment she got him settled. He slowed, halted short of the bed. Oh, no! She shot a quick look up at him.
“I’ll sit here in the chair until Jacob returns.” The smile he attempted turned into a grimace. “I’m not sure how to get back into bed. It’s awkward with my arm tied down. And I hate to admit it, but…I’m not as strong as I thought.”
She caught her breath at the exhaustion on his face and took a firmer grip. He was too heavy for her, and if he fainted and broke open that wound— If he hadn’t already! She snagged her lower lip with her teeth, judged the distance to the bed. “You need to lie down. I’ll help you.”
“No. I’m too heavy for you. Just steady me until I get in the chair.” His voice was losing strength, but determination shone in his green eyes despite the pain shadowing them.
“It will be as easy for you to sit on the edge of the bed.” She moved slightly, to block him from sitting in the chair, looked at his set jaw and her worry escalated. The man was stubborn indeed. “Please. I will not be able to hold you if you faint.”
He frowned, gave a curt nod. “All right. Help me sit on the bed then. But I will manage from there.” He edged backward until the backs of his legs touched the mattress, then tightened his arm around her neck. She leaned forward and he sat down, released his hold and used his arm to brace himself. “Thank you. You can let go now.”
She shook her head, kept her arm around him. “I’m going to help you lie down. Doctor Calloway said you’re not supposed to strain. Not even with your uninjured arm.”
“Jacob is not here. And I don’t want you hurt.” He lifted his hand, touched her arm. “It will be all right. Let go, Viola.”
The caring in his voice touched a place deep inside her that had been closed off long ago. She swallowed, forced firmness into her voice. “No. And it will do you no good to protest further. I, also, have a stubborn side. Please lie down before weariness overtakes you.” Their gazes locked. The tiny gold flecks in the green of his eyes darkened. He looked away, sucked in air and leaned to his right.
She moved with him, supporting him as best she could as he eased onto the propped-up pillows. He lifted his legs onto the bed and she helped him shift over onto his back, then slid her arm free.
“Thank you.” He closed his eyes, but the tension around his mouth betrayed his pain.
She hurried to the other side of the bed and lifted the hem of his shirt.
“Don’t—”
“I need to check your bandage, Thomas. I have to make certain you didn’t open your wound.” Please, Almighty God… “It’s all right—there’s no blood.” Anger soared on the wings of relief. “Whatever made you get out of that chair by yourself?” She tugged his shirt back in place, grabbed hold of the covers at the foot of the bed and pulled them up over him. “It was a foolish, dangerous thing to do.” She willed her hands to stop shaking, opened the bottle and poured out his pain medicine. “Here, take this.”
He frowned, looked up at her. “It wasn’t as dangerous as what could have happened to you if that kidnapper’s partner had come to try for the gold again.” He opened his mouth, swallowed the medicine. “That possibility has been on my mind. And when I heard you cry out I thought…” He grimaced, closed his eyes. “Some protector I turned out to be.” Protector? Of her? The anger drained, leaving her trembling and unsure.
His eyebrows drew down, he opened his eyes, couldn’t sustain the effort, they closed again. “I need a gun… I’m sure…of no account…without one…”
The grumbled words trailed off. His brow smoothed, his breathing evened out into the rhythm of sleep. She stood looking down at him, an odd sensation, rather like curling up in a soft, warm blanket on a cold night, spread through her. Had he really risked tearing open his wound to get out of that chair because he thought she was in danger? That couldn’t be. She must have misunderstood him. Yet no other explanation made sense. He had risked his life for her. But how could such a thing be true?
She turned to the window, wrapped her arms about herself and watched the rain sluicing down the small panes. Something inside her was changing. Her head, every bit of experience she’d had with men, told her not to, but she believed him. That warm, comfortable feeling swelled. The icy, hard and frightened place inside her began to soften and melt. She touched the spot on her arm where Thomas had rested his hand, felt again the warmth of it, the caring in his touch. How could a strong man’s hand be so gentle?
A burst of laughter came from the other room. A spate of baby babble and gurgles brought her back to reality. A reality that contained dangerous men who had kidnapped Goldie and shot Thomas. Her world righted itself. The spell was broken. She shook off the lingering feeling of wonder, smoothed back the curls that had come loose during her effort to help Thomas into bed and walked into the other room to see how Frankie was coming with the locks.
“Doctor Calloway was not pleased.”
Thomas looked up, ignored the kick in his pulse as Viola entered the bedroom. “So he said. He’ll get over it.” It didn’t help the state of his pulse when she seated herself in the rocker. His chair was so close he could reach out and touch her. Not that he would. He still fought to forget the feel of her holding him that morning, as she helped him into bed.
“He said you were not trustworthy, and I was not to leave you alone again.”
She would be helping him into bed later. His pulse kicked the pace up another notch. “Jacob takes too much on himself. You are a busy woman, with a baby to care for and customers to serve. You do not need to stay here in this room watching over me. Besides, it was not deliberate disobedience.” He frowned at the defensive note in his voice. But it irked him that she looked upon him as a charge. He decided not to examine too closely the reason that was so.
She leaned down and lifted a pair of trousers out of the basket on the floor. “It’s no hardship. I am perfectly able to do mending right here.” She plucked a threaded needle from a pincushion on the table and set to work.
Thomas studied her. Something had changed. It was nothing he could put his finger on, but it was there. Some subtle difference in her tone, or… He shoved his musings aside. He spent too much time dwelling on thoughts of Viola Goddard.
He looked out the bedroom door, but couldn’t see much. Straight ahead a settle, with a lamp stand beside it, faced
a fireplace on the far wall of the living room. There was a hoop-back Windsor chair sitting against the wall at the end of the fireplace, a lamp shelf and sampler above it. “‘With men it is impossible, but not with God, for with God all things are possible.’ That is an excellent verse to meditate on.” He let the words settle into his heart, glanced back at Viola. Her head was bent over her work. “Did you work the sampler?”
“Yes. I…enjoy needlework.”
“It seems as if most women do. I can remember my mother doing needlework. I used to play at her feet while she worked.” He brushed his hand over the prickly stubble on his face, wished he could shave.
“Does your beard bother you?”
Not as much as the soft sound of your voice. He looked back at her and nodded. “I’m not used to it, and it itches some.” He frowned and scrubbed his hand over his jaw again. “I need to shave. If this stubble gets much longer, it’s going to be a job to get rid of it.”
Her gaze dropped to the level of his chin. “I’m afraid I know nothing about such things. How could you shave one-handed?”
“Clumsily, no doubt. But I could sure make a good try of it. Probably nick myself up some.” He curved his lips in a wry smile. “I’d ask Jacob to bring me shaving equipment, but, mad as he is, he’d probably use the razor to slit my throat.”
She laughed. A musical ripple that made his gut tighten. He allowed himself the pleasure of storing up the memory of it. She was far beyond mere beauty, with that warmth in her eyes and her lips…
“Well then, it’s fortunate there’s no need to take such a risk.” She set aside the trousers she was mending, rose and stepped over to the commode stand and opened the top drawer. “Will these serve?” She turned and held out a shaving cup, brush and straightedge razor. “Hattie said they were all you would need.”
His mouth gaped open. “You bought me shaving equipment?”
She stiffened. Something he didn’t recognize swept the warmth from her eyes. Uncertainty? Defensiveness?
“I realize it is a somewhat personal purchase. But I noticed you were clean-shaven, and thought perhaps you would want these when you were sufficiently recovered. I felt, under the circumstances, it was proper and acceptable behavior.”
Yes, defensiveness. The coolness was back in her voice. Thomas stared at her. Her bearing, her face, every ounce of her formed a protective posture. “It is far more than acceptable, Viola. It is kind and generous and thoughtful. And very appreciated.”
She gave a stiff little nod. “Do you need anything more?”
“Only hot water and a towel. And forgiveness.” He caught her gaze, held it. “I did not mean to offend you, Viola. I was surprised by your gift, not offended. And I certainly did not mean to imply there was anything improper or untoward in it. I would never suggest such a thing to a lady like you. Please forgive me.”
Her gaze jerked from his, settled on her hands. “Of course. Now, let me go get your water and towel.” She set the cup and razor on the stand and hurried from the room.
Thomas stared after her, stunned by the flash of hurt he had seen in her eyes. What had he said to cause such a reaction? He frowned, looked out the window and thought back over his words.
“You should’ve seen what Goldie did, Vi—”
“I’m sorry, I haven’t time to talk, Hattie. I have to get a towel and hot water. Thomas wants to shave.” Viola turned from the startled look on Hattie’s face and hurried toward the kitchen, her conscience pricking her. Because she was upset was no reason to cut Hattie short like that. She never had before.
I would never suggest such a thing to a lady like you.
Her face drew taut. A lady. If Thomas knew the truth about her, he would never call her a lady. She fought back the hurt of a past that would never let her be the sort of woman Thomas assumed her to be and stepped into the small washing and bathing room to get a clean towel. A warm drop of moisture splattered on the back of her hand.
She looked down at it, lifted her hand to her cheek then straightened and stared at her reflection in the mirror over the washstand. She’d had tears in her eyes many times, but she had not cried since Richard Dengler and his customers had shown her what men…
She stiffened, swiped the tears from her cheeks, picked up the washbowl and went into the kitchen to fill it with hot water from the reservoir on the side of the stove. What was wrong with her? She was playing the fool, allowing guilt and sympathy for Thomas Stone’s condition to blind her to the truth. But no more. She knew what men really were.
She hung the dipper back in place, draped the towel over her arm, picked up the filled washbowl and headed for the bedroom, her armor firmly in place again.
The invisible barrier was so real, it seemed, if he stretched out his hand he could touch it. Thomas slid his jaw to the right, drew the blade down his tightened cheek, swished it through the washbowl on his lap to clear off the soap and stubble and repeated the process. It was just as well the wall was there, considering the way his feelings for Viola were deepening. But it was still perplexing. He had gone over and over his words, and could not imagine how they could have hurt her. But they had.
“Turn the mirror a little to the left, please.” He drew the blade down his cheek a couple more times and eyed his face. Not bad. Only two nicks so far, and he was all done but for the part around his mouth. He stretched his upper lip down tight and positioned the blade below his nose, wishing Viola would say something. The silence weighed heavily.
“Watchin’ him shave, it’s easy to see why men grow beards on the trail, right, Viola?”
He glanced toward the door, winced. Nick number three—compliments of Hattie.
“Yes. It does seem shaving would be a difficult task while living in a tent.”
He looked up at Viola, eager to keep the conversation going. “Not after four years of practice. The hard part is not breaking the mirror while you’re packing up and down the trail.” He leaned a bit to the side, so he could see in the tilted mirror, and finished in quick strokes. “It’s pretty hard shaving when you can only see a couple inches of your face at a time.” He swished the blade through the water, wiped it off on the towel draped over his knees, then dipped his head and splashed water on his face to wash off the blood and the residue of soap. The cuts smarted as the soapy water ran into them, a small price to pay for getting rid of the itching. And for looking his best in front of her.
Hattie laughed. “I imagine it would be. You’d probably cut yourself up worse than now. Even havin’ two good hands to use.”
He blotted his face with the towel, looked up at the elderly woman and grinned. “Are you saying I’ve made a poor job of shaving myself one-handed?”
Hattie snorted. “I’ve seen better. Look at them cuts. If you’d done this the day after you come here, you’d have bled to death for sure.” She turned to Viola. “Just come in to tell you supper’s ready when you two are.” She turned to the door, looked back at him. “Better give that nick by your mouth another dab with the towel.”
Thomas stared after her. Had she winked?
Viola placed the mirror she was holding on the commode stand and reached for the washbowl. “Let me move these things out of the way and I’ll help you back into bed. Then I’ll carry them to the washroom and bring back your supper.”
Thomas laid his hand on hers to halt her. An urge to lace his fingers through hers surged, his fingers twitched. “Forgive me.” He drew his hand back, knew a sense of loss at the broken contact. “I merely wanted to say I’m not going back to bed now. I’m going to the table to eat my supper.”
“But you can’t—”
“Yes. I can. If I can sit in a chair here in this bedroom, I can sit in a chair at the table. There’s no reason for you to have to feed me any longer. At the table I will be able to manage one-handed.”
“That’s not wise, Thomas.” Her gaze slipped away from his. She moved the washbowl to the stand and folded the towel beside it. “It’s not a great dista
nce to the kitchen. But Doctor Calloway said—”
“Jacob has no say in this. With your help, I will make it to the kitchen just fine.” Her gaze returned to meet his. His heart thudded. There was concern for him in her eyes. It firmed his resolve to leave her home as soon as possible. “Now, if you are ready, I need you to steady me while I get out of this chair.”
She shook her head, picked up the washbowl and towel. “I’m sorry, but I will not help you disobey the doctor. I do not want you bleeding to death…in my home. I will be right back with your supper.”
Thomas watched her walk away, a frown creasing his forehead. Why did her leaving feel like she was making an escape? What had he done that she had taken refuge in that polite coolness? He looked down at the bulge of bandage beneath his shirt at his chest and shoulder, the sleeve hanging empty at his left side. He lifted his hand and ran his fingers through his hair, shifted his gaze to the window and stared at the mountainside. He was doing his best to resist his feelings for Viola. But his best was falling far short.
Goldie’s baby chatter fell on his ears, landed square in his heart. He set his jaw against the guilt and pain and lifted his gaze to the sky. “Please heal me, Lord. Please heal me quickly. I need to get out of here.”
Chapter Nine
Viola’s heart lurched. She bolted upright in bed, listening for a repeat of the thudding sound that woke her. Was someone trying to break in? She cast a quick glance at Goldie sleeping in her cradle, grabbed her robe and shoved her arms into the sleeves.
“Let go of my arm!” A thump echoed through the bedrooms’ dividing wall.
Thomas. Someone was hurting Thomas. His shoulder! She sprang from her bed, clutched the poker by the fireplace in a death grip and peeked out the door. Hattie was asleep on the settle. No one else was in sight. Lord, help me! She inched out the door, tiptoed along the wall to the other bedroom and peeked in. Thomas was in bed struggling with an imagined foe. She hurried to the bed, her knees wobbly with relief. “Thomas, wake up.”
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