Chance Creek Brides (Volumes 1-3 & the Stagecoach Bride)

by Mary L. Briggs

  “Seth, go to the barn and find two long pieces of wood that we can wrap the blanket edges around to carry him.”

  “Della, we’re going to need a lot of boiling water. And any old sheets that you have need to be torn into strips for bandages.”

  Breath choked in her throat and she forced the air to her lungs. How could she have forgotten? And Grandpa. She forced a sob from her throat and turned her attention to the task at hand. Grief would come later. Right now, Mark was going to need a lot of care. Please give me the ability to do this, Lord. I assisted Grandpa so many times. He always said I was capable of doing it myself.

  Inside, she and Della spread clean sheets on the kitchen table as Jared and Seth brought their brother, cradled carefully in the blanket, through the door. She could see that Jared was taking special precautions to keep his injured arm folded over his chest as they lifted him to the table.

  Missy checked the water again. Almost boiling.

  “Jared?” She turned and looked at the pale face of the man who felt responsible for everything that happened to his family.

  His eyes met hers, searching her face as if he’d never seen her.

  “Go in my room and find that odd knife that you gave me the day after I came. It’s on the dresser.” She kept her voice calm, but firm. If she kept him concentrating on the tasks at hand, he wouldn’t have time to fall apart. “I’m going to need some scissors or a sharp knife to get this shirt off of him. And we’ll be needing a lot of extra cloth for bandages.”

  Aunt Della, calm and collected after her initial fright, found several blankets to cover the patient and began to tear a clean sheet into strips.

  Back with the scalpel, Jared stood staring at her.

  “Drop it in that hot water I just poured in the bowl,” she pointed. “And do you have any whiskey in the house?”

  “It’s on the top shelf,” Della answered before he had a chance.

  Jared reached for it and set it beside the bowl. “Should I go get Slim?” His eyes were on his aunt.

  Della hesitated and looked at Missy. “Are you. . .are you a doctor?”

  Missy shook her head. “No but my grandfather is. . .I mean, was.” Her voice trembled and she swallowed back the sob that hung in her throat. “If Slim is a doctor, you might want to get him.”

  Jared shook his head, and turned his glance to his brother. “Slim’s no doctor. The man’s not much better than a butcher when it comes to cutting on anyone.” His eyes flickered toward her for a moment. “Can you do this?”

  She hesitated. The pleading in his eyes went to her heart. If only she could put her arms around him, comfort him, assure him that she would do her best. She forced confidence into her voice.

  “I can set his arm, yes. It’s really his head injury that I’m worried about, though,” she said, going to the patient’s side and lifting his eyelid. “Hold the light closer, please,” she told Seth.

  From what she could see at this point, his skull didn’t look damaged. But what if it was? His eyes seemed to respond normally to the light. So why was he unconscious? Everything inside of her seemed to freeze. But Grandpa always stressed staying calm when treating a serious injury. His years as a doctor in the war had given him the endurance he needed to tackle each injury in due time.

  “God will give you the ability if you trust Him.” She blinked. The sound of his voice that she would never hear again. Please never let me forget him, Lord. And give me the ability to take care of Mark.

  She cleared her throat. “I’ll need some thread,” she said to Della and watched as the woman scurried away to find her sewing basket.

  “I’ll light some more lamps,” Jared said, his voice more self-assured than earlier. “And then tell me what else to do.”

  She gave him a thankful smile. He was alert and prepared to help. That was what she needed.

  Missy steadied her hand and cut the thread it into medium lengths and dropped them into the boiling water. It wouldn’t do for her hands to shake in front of the family. She could do this. She really could.

  Her gaze found Seth, standing back, a hollowness in his eyes, as if the situation was all his fault. “Seth, I’m going to need a board to splint his arm. Do you think you could find one the right size in the barn where Mark does his woodwork?”

  ***

  Missy smiled up at Della as the woman reached and wiped a cool cloth across her forehead. She closed her eyes for a brief second, enjoying the wetness on her face. The operation had been longer and more tedious than she had imagined. But she was sure it was right. She had witnessed her grandfather do it so many times.

  She wrapped the final bandage around the still unconscious youth’s arm, checking the splint placement once again. Quickly fashioning a sling from the sheet scraps, she carefully placed Mark’s arm inside.

  Giving the woman a thankful glance, she stood and looked once more at the boy’s eyes. The same. Her heart sunk, but she forced her lips into a slight smile.

  “Let’s be careful and move him to a bed. It might be easier to put him in the front bedroom that I’ve been using. It will give us plenty of area to care for him.”

  With the patient settled on his temporary bed, a bit of heaviness left her as she observed the color in his cheeks. She and Della tucked the quilt around him carefully, arranging his arm across his chest, cradled comfortably in the sling. She smiled as her fingers brushed his forehead. No fever, at least not yet. If only he was awake. Please, Lord, let him wake up.

  A hand touched her sleeve and she turned to find Jared. His eyes were tired and worried.

  He gave her a brief smile. “Thank you.”

  She returned the smile and pretended not to see the tears he blinked away. The sight of his brother in danger had melted away the blustery image he liked to exhibit .“He still has a long way to go. I can’t promise you anything. The best medicine now is prayer. I’ve done all I can do with my ability. He’s been in God’s hands this whole time.”

  Jared walked closer to the beside and stared at Mark’s unresponsive face. “I know. But without you. . .” his voice faltered.

  She touched his hand. “I did my best, Jared. We’ll just keep trusting God.”

  He nodded and turned his eyes to her. “You better get some rest. We’ll sit with him.”

  Missy hesitated and shook her head. “I’d like to stay with him a while longer.” She needed to be there when he opened those sky blue eyes. And he would open them.

  “Fine. I’ll sit with you,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.”

  Chapter 20

  Jared carried the rocking chairs from the hearth area to the room and arranged them near the doorway. “We can keep an eye on him and talk, too,” he said, fetching a small pillow for the back of her seat.

  She gave him a weary smile and sat. If there was one thing she didn’t want to do, it was talk. Too many things were jumbled in her mind. The last memories before her amnesia were almost too painful to think of, much less talk about. But this family deserved some answers from her. Jared and his aunt had saved her life. She owed them whatever they wanted to know.

  He positioned his chair in front of her, their knees almost touching when he sat. His gaze settled on her face. “I know you’re tired. But. . .I thought, maybe since you remember. . .”

  She nodded and took a deep breath. She might as well start at the beginning. “My name is Melissa Anne Harris. My parents died when I was eight and my grandfather raised me.” She swallowed hard and willed her voice to go on. “We lived in a little town outside of Wichita, Kansas, where he practiced medicine. He’d been a surgeon in the war. I worked with him most of the time. ”

  Her throat began to close. How could she go on talking about him? How could she ever reconcile what she now knew? “He. . .he wanted me to go to medical school. Some schools take women, you know,” she said, eyeing his doubtful expression.

  Jared nodded slowly. “Is your grandfather still alive?”

  She shook her
head. “No. He was killed. . .murdered about two months ago.” She wiped away the single tear that had escaped from her eyes.

  He leaned forward and covered her hands with his. “I’m sorry, Missy. I mean, Melissa.”

  She smiled through her tear filled vision. “My grandpa always called me Missy, so Aunt Della picked the right name.” She sniffed and pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket, dabbing at the steady stream that now flowed down her cheeks.

  “I should have been with him that day, but a neighbor boy was hurt and I’d stayed at the office to stitch the child’s leg.”

  She paused, trying to organize her thoughts. “It was the sheriff that found my grandfather. He was lying on the road beside his buggy. Someone had robbed him and shot him in the head. They just left him there to die alone.” Her voice broke as she finished. “He was such a good man. And those people. . .”

  “Did the sheriff arrest someone?”

  She shook her head and swallowed a sob. “That woman. . .the one on Sunday. She and her husband,” she hesitated, the thought of accusing someone unfairly was not what she intended. But what other solution could there be? “I think maybe they had something to do with it. Maybe even. . .even killed him,” she shuddered.

  He narrowed his cobalt eyes and leaned closer, taking her hand in his. “Why do you say that?”

  She stared into his eyes, reluctant to share the rest. “It’s a long story, so I’ll just tell the part that matters. My grandpa’s sister, Ina, lives. . .lived in San Antonio. I was going to live with her, but received a telegram on the way that she had passed. I had hired this couple, Mr. and Mrs. Howard, who said they were on their way to south Texas, to take me and some of my things along in their wagon.”

  He interrupted her. “And that was Mrs. Howard you saw on Sunday?”

  She nodded and twisted the handkerchief in her hand. “Yes. I just didn’t. . .couldn’t remember who she was.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the events that happened over two weeks ago. “The day that Mr. Howard tried to kill me was the day that I found. . . .” she blinked several times, but the tears were going to come. There was no stopping them. “I found some things in their wagon, including my grandfather’s watch, and possibly his medical bag,” she added remembering the glimpse of the contents in the wagon. “That led me to believe that they were somehow involved in his death. I think that they. . . that they might have been the ones that killed him. And maybe killed some other people, too,” she added, recalling the porcelain tea pot.

  Jared stood and pulled her to her feet, holding her close, his cheek pressed down on the top of her head, his fingers softly caressing her shoulders.

  She wrapped her arms around him and sobbed into his chest. The first real cry she’d had since the sheriff had found her grandfather.

  “I wish there was something I could do,” he whispered, holding her tighter. “If they’re still in the area, they’ll be found. If not, the sheriff will send out telegraphs warning others about them. It’s going to be alright, Missy. We’ll see that they’re brought to justice.”

  She should pull back. She had to let go, stand on her own two feet. Be the independent woman her grandfather had raised her to be. But this was the first moment she’d truly felt safe since she’d lost the only family she had.

  Jared was strong and honest. His sympathy for her was sincere or else he wouldn’t give it. Tears rushed in anew. She loved him. If she’d ever considered falling in love, he was the man her heart would want. And, despite her every resistance, it had happened.

  She stepped back and wiped her face. “I’m sorry. . .I didn’t mean to. . .” She caught her words before they tumbled out, thankful that he had no way of knowing her thoughts. A man who declared he didn’t need a wife had no place in his heart for words of love.

  His fingers brushed her cheeks and tilted her chin upward, her eyes meeting his.

  “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you some coffee,” he offered, his voice soft and gentle.

  Avoiding his eyes, she slid back into the chair. She looked towards the bed and Mark’s face was clear in the lamplight, his chest moving in a steady rhythm with each breath. He would wake soon. Surely.

  Chapter 21

  He sat in the chair opposite her, his eyes taking in her quiet beauty. In the few short minutes he had gone for the coffee, she had drifted off to sleep. And no doubt she needed it. The way she had concentrated on every move made to mend Mark’s arm and the attentiveness she’d given to the gash on his head, she must be drained of every ounce of energy that she had possessed.

  There would be time to talk to her later. To be honest with her about his feelings for her. For now, she needed sleep.

  ***

  “Missy?”

  Her eyes fluttered open, not sure of her surroundings for a moment. Her hand went to her neck, stiff from it’s odd position. She turned her head to see Mark’s eyes on her. Out of the chair at once, she hurried to his bedside.

  Relief rushed through her like a cool wind. At last the tightness in her chest let go and she could breathe. “He’s awake!” She announced through the doorway before going back to the bedside. “How do you feel?”

  She touched his forehead and smiled. His temperature seemed only warm. If he had fever, it wasn’t much. Thank you, Lord.

  He gave her a timid smile. “What happened to Frost?”

  “Mark Murphy! You were almost killed and your only concern is for a horse?” Della, in the kitchen, rushed to his side, her voice joyful, despite her scolding.

  Seth was in the room next, his face a huge grin. “He’s fine. I caught him out in the front forty just an hour or so ago. He’s safe in the barn, now.”

  Missy stepped back and let the patient’s aunt and brother closer to him. Jared stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes bright with emotion. He looked at her and nodded as he moved around the bed, pausing next to her, putting his arm around her shoulder. He leaned down and whispered in her ear.

  “If we’d lost him our lives would be forever changed.” He squeezed her shoulder a little tighter, before letting go and stepping into the circle of his family.

  Left apart from the group, she quietly walked out of the room and into the kitchen. It was good to be up. The short nap in the rocking chair had left her feeling sore and cramped. And a cup of coffee would certainly be welcome. The pot on the stove was empty, as well as the water pitcher. Picking it up, she headed out the door.

  The sun barely peeked, pink and bright, above the distant hills and the night’s rain had left a fresh scent to the air. She breathed deep and stopped to listen to the calls of the mourning doves. There had been a special pair that lived in the field outside their small home in Kansas and she’d made it a daily practice to take her breakfast crumbs to them. Someone else was living in that little house now. Maybe they were feeding the doves.

  The sound of the bucket splashing into the water below echoed up from the depths. She began to pull hard on the rope, the wench creaking with every turn. How had Mark managed to pull it up so quickly during the fire last night? Please Lord let his arm heal well enough to be able to do that again.

  Balancing the heavy pail on the edge of the well, she bent to pick up the metal pitcher. Large, cold fingers clamped over her mouth, sending her heart spiraling to her feet. She struggled, but another hand and arm had managed to wrap around her, pulling her close to a smelly, bulky frame. She didn’t have to see his face. It was Mr. Howard.

  ***

  Every fiber within her fought, her boot heel scraping down his shin. A loud grunt from her captor gave hope that she might get away. She wiggled side to side, trying to loosen his grip. An elbow in his stomach would give her some leverage. Taking his air away would create a chance to run. Or scream if he let go for even a moment. But it wasn’t going to happen. He was too strong.

  Their buckboard was parked behind the small grove of trees just outside the yard. Mrs. Howard was waiting, a sneer on her
thin, pink lips. “So I see you’ve found the little trouble-maker.”

  Missy wrenched away from the man’s tight grasp, only to be greeted by the barrel end of a pistol in her face. Grandpa’s Colt. Probably the one they used to kill him.

  “You recognize this?” She laughed, waving it around like a child with a toy. “You can pretend all you want, but I can see right through your little game. Now get up on the seat,” she motioned, keeping the gun pointed in Missy’s face.

  The fight inside her dying, Missy climbed aboard and seated herself in the middle. All hope for escape was gone. At least for the moment.

  Mr. Howard urged the horses forward, encouraging them to go faster. Her jaw clamped, Missy forced herself not to speak, or worse, try to grab the reins from his hands. The poor beasts would be bleeding before he was finished with them.

  The wagon rattled, squeaked, and jolted, making it impossible to hear any other sounds. Missy’s fingers held tightly to the edge of the board seat, praying the wagon might come apart, or a wheel would break, anything to slow them down.

  The gun in Mrs. Howard’s hands jerked with each rock and bump in the road. The woman finally gave up and put the pistol in her lap, giving her hand a chance to hold to the side.

  Missy tried to avoid staring at the object. If she could get her hands on the revolver, there was no way the couple could keep her with them. But if she made a move to take it from Mrs. Howard’s knees, Mr. Howard was sure to take it away from her before she could do anything. She had to think of some other way.

  ***