I wonder if Aunt Claudia's store really needs to be opened today...
"Hey!" Collie was feuding again with Stazzie, who had sneaked up behind him and was sniffing the seat of his breeches. The boy's face turned bright red, and he scrambled backward so fast, his spine struck a table leg. Eden barely saved her eggs from rolling onto the floor.
"Git away from me, you mangy flea bag!"
Another spoon went flying; Stazzie sped for cover, and Collie bolted upright, smacking his head on the underside of the table.
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah," he sputtered between curses. He rubbed his crown and winced. "Dang good-fer-nuthin', pussyfootin' varmint!"
Safe behind the butter churn, Stazzie hid a smirk behind her paw as she gave her face a tongue bath. Eden tried her best not to smile.
"Why don't you go and wash up? You've got more cherry pie on you than in you, I'll wager."
He glared at her next.
"By the time you've scrubbed your face and hands," she continued with careful nonchalance, "I'll have scrambled eggs, bacon, and grits ready for you. And a pan of jelly muffins will be on its way."
His face darkened. "What do I have to wash fer? This ain't Go-to-Meeting Day."
She decided to fight the battle over his grammar some other morning.
"Because you've got pie smeared all over you. Not to mention something—well"—she wrinkled her nose—"smelly."
He snorted. "You women are all alike. Actin' like a little river mud's gonna kill you."
She folded her arms. She suspected the stains on the boy's seat weren't from any river, God bless him. Still, the only way to know for sure was to get him out of his pants.
"Now see here, Collie McAffee, if you want to eat my cherry pie and my jelly muffins, you're going to come to my table with a clean face and hands. And a clean shirt and breeches too. You can wear a pair of Aunt Claudia's dungarees till we get yours laundered."
"I ain't that hungry."
"Suit yourself." She began to replace the lids on her spices.
His jaw jutted.
Next, she returned the milk and eggs to the icebox.
He scowled.
But it wasn't until she started to scrape the muffin dough into the slops bucket that he lunged across the room and grabbed the spoon from her hand.
"All right, all right, woman, I'll wash! Can't you take a joke?"
"Woman," eh? She mentally added etiquette to the list of things she would teach him. "The pump is outside, behind the rain barrel. And Collie?" she added silkily.
He glared over his shoulder this time.
"You'll need this."
His reflexes proved lightning-fast as he caught the cake of soap in midair.
"All I can say is," he growled, wagging the soap like a finger, "those better be mighty good jelly muffins."
She smiled sweetly. "Don't forget to wash the cherries from your hair."
"Dang skirts," he muttered, stalking out the door like a man marching for war. She giggled. Then she bit her lip. Considering how little he liked washing, he wouldn't be gone for long. That meant she didn't have much time to make up her mind.
Torn between her calling to help people heal and her fear that her best intentions might lead to someone's death, Eden fidgeted before the shelf over the window. Aunt Claudia had grudgingly removed the boxes of buckshot she'd stashed there to make space for Eden's herbs.
"But don't you be tryin' to sneak none of yer Injun heart wampum into my stews," Aunt Claudia had warned, sniffing suspiciously at the jar labeled peppermint. "Them herbs better be just fer cookin'."
Eden had bit her tongue, ashamed to admit that the idea had, indeed, crossed her mind. Each time her aunt wheezed or experienced a palpitation, Eden's fear of losing Claudia grew greater than her fear of prescribing herbal remedies. Fortunately for Claudia, or perhaps unfortunately, foxglove wasn't the sort of herb one could use for food seasoning. Eden wished she knew of a culinary herb that could treat Claudia's heart, because in truth, most of them did have medicinal uses. Mints were handy for fever, headaches, and insomnia. Rosemary was good for colic and indigestion. Thyme could ease sore throats and bronchial inflammation.
Wild buckwheat could cure diarrhea.
Reminded of Collie, Eden gritted her teeth and forced herself to reach for the dusty bottle three rows back. But when her fingers closed over the lid, a flash of panic jolted her. What the devil was she doing? She had come to Blue Thunder to be inconspicuous. The minute word spread that she might actually know something about healing, every desperate townsperson whom Michael couldn't cure would be pounding on her door, no doubt followed by an outraged Michael and the town marshal.
But Collie will never seek help from a doctor, especially Michael, the voice of reason whispered. Besides, a cup of buckwheat tea won't hurt the boy.
She tasted bile, but reached anyway for a second jar: sweet anise. A general physic, anise would make the tea taste like the candy Collie loved. It might even get him to drink enough to start healing in earnest. Perhaps she could put a cup of the herbal brew by his plate and see if he was inclined to sample it.
She sniffed the contents of both jars. Although the herbs were well labeled, and in her own hand, the smell and taste checks were ritual. Talking Raven had taught her never to trust labeling. Mistakes were often made that way. In Papa's case, Eden had determined—with mixed emotions—that the herbs had failed him, not her labeling.
Okay, okay, I'll brew the blasted tea, she decided. I'll do it because the boy needs help. And because... well, in a way, I do too.
By the time Collie had stalked inside, she had the tea brewing. By the time he'd run out of arguments, mostly about peeling off his soiled clothes and trading them for Claudia's, she had breakfast on the table. She suspected she won the battle only because the smell of bacon had weakened his will.
"Now there's plenty of everything," she told him, after railroading him into thirty seconds of prayer. Apparently a wild manchild didn't think to say grace when feasting on cats and coons. "You can have second helpings, if you like."
She passed him the plate of bacon, hoping to divert him from the steaming cup by his plate. But all his feral instincts were on alert.
"What's this?"
"Sweet anise tea."
"You didn't say nuthin' about no tea."
She shrugged, feigning disinterest as she sipped her own cup. "I thought you'd like some. It tastes like licorice."
He dumped the entire platter of bacon on his plate. "I like coffee," he retorted, unsheathing his bowie knife.
She almost choked when he reached to saw through the butter. "We don't have coffee," she said, gesturing toward the table knife by his spoon.
He harrumphed. Retrieving the silverware as bid, he dumped a whopping half of the butter on his grits. Next, he served himself a mountain of eggs. As might be expected, the scrambled yolks bounced off the bacon and into his lap. Unperturbed, he fished them out of his seat, popped them into his mouth, and licked his fingers clean.
Eden squirmed. Somehow, she kept herself from protesting. With Collie, it was clear she'd have to pick her battles.
As her guest shoveled down his breakfast, she tried not to stare at his hands, long-fingered and large-knuckled, like a man's. In fact, she tried not to stare at any part of him. Collie had washed up nicely. With his hair slicked back and tucked behind his ears, and God only knew how many weeks of filth scrubbed off his face, the boy was... well, attractive. She suspected she'd be calling him handsome after a few home-cooked meals and a couple more years of growth had filled him out. Collie MacAffee was going to be a heart breaker one day, if he ever learned some manners.
He wiped his sleeve across his mouth. "So, how come you like the doc so much?"
She started. She'd been preparing to fight another battle over the neglected tea, not Michael. "Uh... L-like him?" She felt as stupid as she sounded. "Really, Collie, it's none of your business."
"I figured you'd say that."
"Well, it's true."
"So how come?"
She gave him a withering look.
"He's about as ornery as a mule colt."
She refused to rise to this bait. "I'm sure Michael has his reasons."
"Sure. Just look at him slantways."
She managed not to smile.
"Is it 'cause he kissed you?"
Her face flamed again. Honestly, how was she supposed to defend herself from a town full of gossips if she couldn't even put a fifteen-year-old in his place?
Determined to meet his eyes once more, she was mildly surprised to spy the keen mind at work behind them. More startling still, she recognized a youthful curiosity in those pewter depths. Collie wasn't embarrassing her out of malice. He wasn't trying to exhume any skeletons. He had some other purpose for prying.
Suddenly it occurred to her that he'd reached the age when kissing and... er... more robust intimacies would be of acute interest. And he had no father to teach him what he needed to know.
More shaken than she wanted to show, she went back to drinking her tea, hoping he'd get the hint and do the same.
"Sera says you like him," he persisted, reaching for the marmalade.
"Sera shouldn't spread gossip."
His spoon froze in midair. "Don't you be saying nothin' bad about Sera," he warned, a warlike gleam in his eyes.
She blinked, amazed that he'd been so quick to take offense.
Then understanding dawned. Why hadn't she guessed it sooner? The boy was crazy-mad in love. No wonder he wanted to know if kissing was what women liked!
"I didn't mean anything bad, Collie," she soothed.
"That may be. But I won't stand for nobody hurtin' her. 'Specially not him," he added under his breath.
Eden wondered if she'd misunderstood. Surely Collie didn't think Michael would hurt Sera?
He began plastering marmalade all over his muffin, heedless of the strawberry jam already oozing from its center.
"You don't like Michael much, do you?" she asked over the rim of her cup.
"Nope."
"Can you say why?"
He snorted. "What difference would it make? You wouldn't listen. Womenfolk get all mushy-headed after kissin'. Can't see the bees fer all that honey."
Amusement trickled through her—amusement, and a poignant sense of embarrassment as she remembered Paul. "Is that a fact?"
"Yep." He licked the orange goo that had plopped off his knife onto his fist. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he added, wagging the knife at her.
"I wouldn't dare," she murmured.
He set the utensil down and reached for his cup. She caught her breath—a big mistake. Those canny eyes snapped back to hers.
"It's medicine, ain't it?"
Her whole body blushed. "What makes you think that?"
"Nobody drinks tea 'cause they like it."
Arguing that point, she realized, wouldn't win her the war.
"I won't lie to you, Collie. Some folks drink tea as a tonic."
He recoiled as if burned.
"But not always. I'm drinking it, and I'm not sick."
"That's 'cause you wanted me to drink it."
She sighed, half resigned, half exasperated. "Well, you don't have to drink it."
"Good."
"Only..."
He pressed his lips together.
"It'll stop the stomach pains you've been having. And the burning in your behind."
His jaw jutted. She held her ground quietly, compassionately.
"How come you know about them?"
She realized she was about to venture into embarrassing territory for him. "You've been eating bad food," she said carefully. "Maybe even drinking bad water. And you're thin. Too thin. A boy as tall as you shouldn't have to double cinch his belt."
He absorbed her answer in silence, suspicion flickering across his features. It vied with an almost pathetic need to trust. "You know about medicines, huh?"
"Yes."
There. I said it.
She drew a shaky breath. The admission felt good, unbelievably good, as if someone had lifted a hundred-pound yoke off her shoulders.
"And this tea's gonna make me feel good?"
"Good enough to eat here every night and grow some meat on your bones."
He sniffed the cup again and made a face. "What if I don't like it?"
"Then we'll find something you do like."
He still didn't look inclined to swallow.
"You could add some honey," she suggested.
He raised his chin, the very picture of a proud man standing before an execution squad. "Naw. You drank it, right?"
She nodded.
Her heart went out to him as she watched his struggle between the longing to be well and his abhorrence for bad-tasting medicine. Finally, he squeezed his eyes closed and gulped.
His eyes popped wide again. "Hey, that's not so bad fer tea." A sheepish grin spread across his face, and he drained the cup, setting it back on the saucer with a clatter.
"Am I better now?"
"Well..." She was hard-pressed not to laugh. "You may have to drink several cups, spread out over several days. But I'll try to have some cherry pie or blueberry cobbler waiting here to make it worth your while."
His disconcertingly insightful gaze met hers with a new kind of respect. "I reckon that'd be all right, s'long as that old woman ain't around to raise a ruckus."
He busied himself with stacking his dishes, a gesture of help that completely surprised—and charmed—Eden.
"I got another problem fer you to fix too, mebbe."
She wrapped the last muffin in a linen napkin and braced herself for the worst. "You do?"
He nodded solemnly, cast her a sidelong glance, then took great pains to scrape a splotch of marmalade off the table with his spoon. "The only reason I'm telling you is 'cause... well, you ain't like the other Sammurtuns."
She knitted her brows. "You mean Good Samaritans?"
"Yeah. Them ones that try to cut my hair and change my talk and make me sit in a hot stuffy schoolhouse all day when I could be out hunting and fishing and jumping in the swimming hole."
She cleared her throat. From Collie's perspective, if from nobody else's, she suspected she'd just received a huge compliment. "Thank you."
"But you don't lie so good. And that could mean trouble."
"Uh..." She wasn't sure this observation was quite as flattering. "Why would that be troublesome?"
"'Cause you ain't allowed to tell nobody."
"I see." She did her best to match his gravity. "I assure you, Collie, I believe in keeping healing matters private. They shouldn't be anybody's business but your own."
He dismissed her assurance with an impatient shake of his head. "Yeah, but do you promise?"
Her chest warmed with a feeling she recognized as maternal. Whatever ails the heart of a boy, Talking Raven once told her, becomes a sickness in the man.
And Collie's heart had more reasons than most to be troubled.
"Of course I promise," she said softly.
His breath expelled in a rush. Apparently satisfied, he sat back, looked her square in the eye, and jabbed his forefinger at his cup. "What kind of teas do you got for coons?"
She blinked. "C-coons?"
"Yep. Hounds and rabbits, too. We got a whole passel of them, and they've got worms."
Chapter 6
Michael's first inkling that trouble was brewing came when he heard youthful voices squabbling ahead of him somewhere beyond the sun-spangled mists of the forest. Spurring Brutus through the tangle of blackberry bushes that carpeted Blue Thunder Mountain, Michael strained his ears above the alarm cries of blue jays and scampering fox squirrels. The feud appeared to be escalating.
"A girl? You brought a girl to our hideout?" Jamie sputtered.
"Listen here," Collie snapped back. "Yer the one who started it all, giving that puppy to Amanda Jean Buchanan."
"That's not fair! Mandy followed me up here. Wh
at was I supposed to do?"
"Pay more danged attention, that's what."
Michael's lips quirked. He supposed he should have paid more attention, too. On and off over the last six weeks, Jamie had quizzed him about medicines, bandages, and splints. Amanda had asked about fevers, colds, and mites. They'd always had some reasonable excuse: Amanda, for instance, claimed her doll had a runny nose, while Jamie insisted he wanted to be a doctor when he grew up. Since both children were in the pink of health, Michael had dismissed their questions as idle curiosity. He supposed if he hadn't been so preoccupied with the measles quarantine at the county orphanage, he might have been more suspicious.
But it had never occurred to him that the children were sheltering orphaned animals. Nor had he guessed that Jamie had defied his mother's orders regarding the orphaned fawn he'd found starving in the woods. When Michael had examined the animal ten weeks ago, the fawn had been suffering from a malformed knee, which, apparently, had been a birth defect. He'd tried to explain to Jamie that shooting the fawn would be a kindness, since it would never be able to run from its predators. Jamie had cried, refusing to let Michael near the animal again, and Bonnie, at her wit's end, had asked Berthold Gunther to remove it from her stable. Strangely enough, the fawn's carcass had disappeared from the taxidermist's compound.
Last night, Michael had learned why. Jamie had confessed that Collie stole the fawn for Jamie to bury. Just as Collie had stolen the dozen or so other animals that Jamie had determined must be rescued from Gunther.
"Jamie, honey."
The liquid strains of a familiar alto snared Michael's attention more thoroughly than a bear trap.
"I thought we were friends," Eden coaxed in a tone that would have made castor oil bearable. "Don't you want me to help your animals? The way I helped Georgie?"
"Heck, no. That dried up old plant you gave Georgie turned him into a girl!"
"A... girl?" Eden sounded bemused.
"That's right! He laid eggs!"
Michael smothered laughter beneath his riding glove. He could see the three of them now, silhouetted against the backdrop of flaming morning, dew-laden conifers, a half dozen cages, and the dilapidated remains of a pioneer cabin. During the 1760s, so the story went, Daniel Boone came across Blue Thunder Valley while he was blazing the Wilderness Road, and he grew so fond of the region that he built himself a home amidst the mountain laurels and scented pines.
His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2) Page 12