“But I do know that detail about her. She’s the exact type, but she told me she had no close neighbors.” Not knowing ate at his insides. He slammed a fist on his thigh. “I don’t even know where she lives.”
“Maybe something more important came up.”
“Now, you’re aiming to make me mad. If she didn’t plan to come, she would have sent a message. Somehow.” To his own ears the last statement sounded weak. As the silence stretched, he realized Harry omitted the most obvious reason—that she’d become ill or hurt and couldn’t make the trip. That reason was the one that worried him the most. The ever-expanding distance between them didn’t sit well. He vowed to write as soon as he got back to the boardinghouse. Waiting half a week for an answer would be intolerable. A little voice niggled that if she couldn’t get to town for a visit, she couldn’t get there to pick up a letter.
On the next week’s circuit, Brice heard his snappy answers and gruff tone but couldn’t do anything to change them. Logic and his gut told him Hazelanne was in trouble and that she needed him. Only her smiling presence at the café would ease the agony he’d lived with during the past week. Another letter waited with his weekly wages, and her news was bright and upbeat, but the date at the top of the page read a week earlier. Before learning about the mortgage and before Blackie had colic. So much had changed since then.
On what should be their fourth Saturday dinner together, Brice watched from the moment the café came into view. No trim, beautiful blonde waiting.
At the depot, Sammy waved him off from the ropes tying the mail bag to the top rail. “Go to the café. Maybe we’ll all reap the benefit of her appearance and seeing her will sweeten your sour disposition.”
The trainee had learned a few things more than handling the postal mail. “Appreciate it, kid.” As he ran, he heard his heartfelt plea echo in time to his running feet. Be there, be there.
Garnet met him at the door, her mouth pinched tight. “Not here. And no one has seen her since a visit to the mercantile a week ago Monday.”
His worst suspicions had come true. The uncertainty he’d lived with for the past week disappeared. Time to put his plan into action. Back at the depot, he dug around in the bottom of the luggage boot for his battered leather satchel.
“You checkin’ up on Sammy? He did just fine.” Harry appeared at his side, glancing between Brice’s face and the bag. “It’s come to this?”
“I gotta go, Harry. She hasn’t been in town for nearly two weeks. Something must really be wrong. And I can’t ignore that fact.”
Sammy rushed from the office, looking between the two men. “What’s happening?”
“Your training’s over, kid.” He clapped his free hand on the trainee’s shoulder. At Sammy’s age, Brice had never disappointed his boss when he was handed responsibility. “Congratulations on your promotion. You’re the new shotgun messenger, Sammy.” Mustering a rueful smile, he extended a hand toward the driver and gave a hearty handshake. The gruff bachelor had been the best friend he’d had since his soldiering days. “Thanks for everything, Harry. I’d appreciate you packing up the rest of my belongings from the boardinghouse and bringing them along on the next circuit.”
“Will do. Good luck, Brice. I hope everythin’ works out.” Harry cleared his throat. “I’m sure Dan would hire you back in a second, if you wanted.”
Walking away from the steady job and the depot wasn’t as hard as he imagined. He’d done it many times before. But then, he’d never had a purpose as important as checking on someone else’s welfare. The mercantile was his first stop. When he entered, he spotted a silver-haired man arranging stock on a shelf. Most likely the owner. “Sir, can I have a moment?”
“Sure, young man.” He turned and gave a wide smile. “What can I help you find?”
Maybe he should arrive with a few provisions in hand. “First, I’m looking for information. Do you know where Missus MacAndrew lives?”
“Who?” His thick brows drew together.
Thinking of her outgoing nature and how she was probably on a first-name basis with everyone in Wildcat Ridge, he rephrased. “Hazelanne lives on a ranch outside of town somewhere to the north. Do you know in what direction?”
Frowning, he shook his head. “Who are you to be asking? I’m not likely to give out directions to where a widow lives to just anyone.”
Admirable but frustrating. “Name’s Brice MacAndrew, and she’s my wife.” His throat tightened at the possession in his voice. He’d never spoken of her in that way before.
“I don’t believe you. She doesn’t wear a ring. How can you claim to be her husband and not know where she lives?” He turned and hurried down the aisle, arms swinging at his sides. “I think you’d better leave, or I’ll send you on your way using that trusty shotgun I keep under the counter.”
Frustration clamped his jaw, and he sucked in a calming breath. “Sir, please, I can explain. I mean her no harm.”
A plump woman came around the end of the counter. “George, what’s the ruckus?”
“Elsie, this stranger says he’s Hazelanne’s husband. But at the same time, he’s asking how to get to her ranch.” He jabbed the air with a stiff finger. “I say he’s up to no good.”
Smiling, she patted his arm. “George, where are your spectacles? Can’t you see this man rides the Wells Fargo?” The short woman walked forward. “Please excuse George. His eyesight isn’t so good. Why are you asking about Hazelanne?”
Brice had hoped to avoid a long explanation but that situation clearly wasn’t happening. “Hazelanne and I were married the day of the mass funeral and made plans to meet every Saturday in the café for a meal.”
Narrowing her gaze, she crossed her arms over her bosom and sniffed. “Not much of a marriage, if you ask me.”
Again, he drew in a calming breath so he could continue in a civil tone. “Unconventional is how I describe it. As you mentioned, I work for Wells Fargo, and my job keeps me on the road. But today is the second Saturday she hasn’t shown, and I fear something is wrong. I’ve been told her last visit to town was to your store.” He looked into the woman’s kind eyes and remembered her indulgent tone with her husband. “Can you help me get to where she is? I’d truly appreciate the help.”
Her eyes rounded. “I don’t remember seeing her for going on two weeks.” She looked over her shoulder toward the back of the store. “Nedra, when did you last see Hazelanne Oli—er, MacAndrew?”
A much-younger woman stuck her head through a curtained doorway. “Garnet asked me the same exact question a couple days ago. I looked up Hazelanne’s last purchase in the ledger. April twenty-eighth.”
Twelve days ago. He’d hoped Garnet was somehow wrong. Then a new possibility struck. “Excuse me, ma’am. How often does she usually visit? Perhaps two weeks is the normal interval.”
George approached, wearing his spectacles and not carrying a weapon, and stood behind his wife.
“Sorry.” Nedra shook her head. “After that husband of hers added her to the ledger, her name appears weekly.”
Why hadn’t he agreed when she asked him to add his name to the mercantile account? Then, at least his name would be known and associated to hers, and the gazes turned his way wouldn’t be full of suspicion. “Please, Missus Tweedie, I need to get to Oliphant’s ranch.” He watched the woman’s expression tighten as she considered his request. “Or at least direct me to someone who can provide directions.” Urgency bit at his gut, and he considered shouting his request to snap these people into supplying the information he needed.
“Go north to the end of Front Street.” George rested a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Go over the bridge over Moose Creek and follow the path for a couple miles until you reach where it splits around a big boulder. Take the right fork and go a ways more. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you kindly, sir.” The relief flooding him almost buckled his knees. “Now I’ll need a few cans of food, a loaf of bread, and some cheese, if you have it.”
Missus Tweedie beamed. “Supplying food is what we’re here for, Mister MacAndrew.”
His purchases hadn’t seemed like much laid out on the counter. But walking miles with a wooden crate resting on a shoulder made them as heavy as gold. He’d passed the boulder and wondered how George’s definition of ‘a ways’ translated to actual miles. Rounding a conical fir tree, he spied the first line of a barbed wire fence. The visible boundary that restricted free movement produced a shudder. In the distance, trees lined what must be a creek. He quickened his steps, the fatigue now forgotten as buildings came into view.
Sheep in the pasture bahhed and waddled to escort him down the dirt lane from the other side of the fence. Close to the barn, he spotted familiar horses, the black and the dun, in the corral. He’d found the right place. At the cabin porch, he set down the crate and his bag and rolled his shoulders against stiffness, and then he knocked on the front door. Getting no answer, he grabbed the crate and bag and walked to the back, hearing the high-pitched squeal of pigs from near the barn. Chickens scattered at his approach but didn’t go too far. An indication they hadn’t been fed recently.
This time, he opened the back door and walked inside. “Hazelanne?” Stale air greeted his nose. He set down what he carried on the kitchen counter then scanned the room. Dishes sat in the sink, which didn’t seem like her habit. He looked closer and saw only mugs and spoons. No one in the front room and two doors lay to his right. After crossing the room, he turned the knob on the first door.
Hazelanne lay in a tangle of sheets, her hair loose and clinging to her cheeks and neck. Her breath rasped in pants from her opened mouth.
She’s ill. I knew it. “Hazelanne. I’m here.” Brice dropped to his knees and rested the back of his hand against her forehead. On reflex, he pulled away from the intense heat. He reached for the mug on the nightstand and sniffed the remaining liquid. She’d been treating herself with something herbal, but he didn’t know what. Shouldn’t she have roused at his voice? He patted her cheek. “Hazelanne. Wake up.”
No response. Alarm shot him to his feet. He ran outside, grabbing a bucket from the stove in the lean-to as he passed through, and headed out to find the well or the creek. An hour later, he’d covered her exposed skin with compresses wetted with a full bucket of cool water but she still hadn’t regained consciousness. Her condition was more serious than he could handle on his own. With fumbling moves born of fear, he harnessed the bigger horse to the buckboard and carried Hazelanne out to the wagon, settling her onto a pallet of blankets in the bed. In every moment, he wished to see her open her amber eyes and show recognition.
In town, he scoured the streets for someone to ask directions. The sun dropped behind the mountain thirty minutes ago, and stars winked overhead. Folks must be inside having supper. Music caught his attention, and he pulled up in front of the Last Chance Saloon. As much as he hated entering such a place, he would, for her sake. “Be right back.” He brushed fingers over her burning forehead then leapt down. Bracing himself from an onslaught of memories, he pushed through the door and walked straight for the dark wood bar where a sandy-haired man poured drinks.
“What’ll it be, stranger?”
“Nothing. Got a doctor in this town?” His stomach roiled from the smell of the liquid in the three customers’ glasses.
The bartender jerked up his head. “Yeah. South of here, the fourth building past Chestnut.”
“Obliged.” He strode out the door and set the horse in motion. Once he put Hazelanne into the doctor’s care, he collapsed onto a chair and held his head in his hands. What if he should have made this decision last Saturday? What if the doctor couldn’t help her? What if she died? He shot to his feet and paced. Movement was the only thing keeping him sane, until the guilt dragged at every muscle. When his sore feet reminded him how far he’d walked, he sat again and leaned his head against the wall. What could the doctor be doing? Why didn’t he report?
A hand pressing on his shoulder brought him out of a doze. “What? How is she?” He scrubbed hands over his face.
The fortyish doctor wiped his hands on a towel. “Now, tell me again who you are.”
“Brice MacAndrew.” With a sigh, he held up a hand. “To save us both time, let me give you the short version. We married the day of the funeral, but I guard the Wells Fargo stage and am only in town on Saturdays. That’s why you haven’t seen me in town with her. How is she? Will she be all right?”
“She’s not wearing a ring so I didn’t know she was married. She’s badly dehydrated.”
Again, with the absent ring. Brice frowned and shook his head.
“The fever dried out her system. I need to get liquids into her. I’d like to keep her overnight.”
“No.” The sharp response surprised Brice as much as it did the doctor. “Tell me what to do, doc, and I promise to follow every step. But I need to be with her. I have to be by her side.” At the last statement, he did his best to ignore the ache inside his chest. Until this moment, he hadn’t acknowledged how much he cared, not as a friend or as the recipient of his benevolent actions. But as a wife—his real wife. The thought scared the dickens out of him.
Chapter Eight
T
he first night after returning from the doctor’s office tested Brice’s endurance. Hazelanne needed to be offered sips of water or willow bark tea on an alternating basis every hour. The animals hadn’t been fed in he didn’t know how long. And he knew where nothing was stored. Too much time was spent on each chore, but he’d get faster.
When the animals were fed and secure for the night, he cooked himself some eggs and ham. While he ate, he reviewed what the doc said. Her body needed fluids. Hourly infusions of a few spoonfuls and cold compresses on her forehead and neck didn’t seem like enough. Why not put her in a bathtub? A sponge set in water soaked up the liquid. Would a human body act in the same way?
Tiredness dragged at his body, but he was determined to test his theory. The first four pails went into a tub on top of the pot-bellied stove. The other six he poured into a bathtub at the other end of the lean-to. Next question was, did he put her in the tub naked or clothed? He rummaged through the few items hanging in the armoire and in the chest of drawers. Thankfully, he encountered only female clothes. Finding another nightgown provided the answer.
As soon as he lowered her into the water, the question of a nightgown became moot. He did his best to keep his gaze above her neck as he poured cups of water over her head and shoulders. After propping her neck on a length of toweling, he dashed into the bedroom and replaced the sour-smelling linens. He returned to the lean-to, knowing he’d end up with a wet front by removing her from the tub. At the doorway, he skidded to a stop.
Hazelanne stood upright in the tub, a wooden pail poised to swing over her shoulder. “Brice.” She sagged and grabbed for the wall.
“Thank God, you’re awake.” A part of his mind registered how the gown clung to her curves but he shoved away that thought. He rushed forward and scooped her into a hug. “How are you feeling?”
“How did you get here? Why did you dump me in the tub?” Her body shook, and she grabbed his shoulders tight. “I’m freezing.”
Her words were just what he wanted to hear. He leaned to the side and lifted the toweling from a hook. Covering her head, he worked his hands over her hair and squeezed out the excess water. “Doc said that would happen when your fever broke.”
“Doc? Fever?”
“Shh. Let me get you dry and back into bed. Then I’ll explain.”
Later, he held out the mug to where she lay propped up in bed. “Take two more sips.”
Hazelanne shook her head. “No more. I can.”
He narrowed his gaze. “I’ll have you know that I could have left you at Doctor Spense’s office, but I told him you’d want to be here near the animals. If you won’t follow his instructions, I’ll put you back in the buckboard and drive you to town.”
She looked over her should
er at a small clock on the bedside table. A smile switched her lips. “At one o’clock in the morning?”
“Well, if I wasn’t already pretty tired from walking here from town while carrying a crate of food, I just might have.” He held out the mug and waited, keeping his expression stern.
Her eyelids drooped but she took the mug and sipped twice. “You went to all this trouble because I missed meeting you at the café today.”
What? Doc didn’t say anything about memory loss. He took away the mug and clasped her hand, chafed the chilled skin. “Hazelanne, you missed two Saturdays, and no one has seen you in town for twelve days.”
Frowning, she rolled her head against the pillow. “That can’t be right.”
Now, the picture became clearer. She hadn’t stopped at the first sign of illness—she’d ignored it and slugged her way through the illness’s increasing grip on her body until she could no longer stand. “You don’t remember struggling with finishing your chores?” He recalled the items in the sink. “Or being too tired to eat so you just drank tea?”
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “Vaguely. Are the animals okay?”
“They’ll survive.” He squeezed her hand and watched her eyelids droop again. “More importantly, so will you.” Standing, he eased her forward so he could remove the second pillow. “Lie down and sleep.”
She grabbed his hand with both of hers. “You’ll be here when I wake?”
“I’ll be here.” When had he ever made that promise before?
g
Two days later, Brice pulled the shims from under the barn door and stepped back. The top edge lined up with the opening and the bottom didn’t drag in the dirt. He walked a slow tour and tested his repairs: the pump handle didn’t catch, new boards lining the bottom rail of the pigpen kept the little diggers inside, the latch on the chicken coop actually locked, and the shutters on the house hung straight. Pride that he’d accomplished tasks that would make Hazelanne’s daily life easier swelled his chest. Maybe she’d remember him with fondness when she saw them.
Hazelanne (Widows of Wildcat Ridge Book 15) Page 9