Jane Goodger

by A Christmas Waltz

  “That so,” Boone said with deceptive calm. He’d warned Julia’s husband not to get within fifty miles of Small Fork, and the tiny town of Hanover was just ten miles away. “Maybe I’ll head on over there and have a little talk with him.”

  “You be careful, Boone. He’s a rough character.”

  “I’m used to rough characters,” Boone said softly, and Enrique’s cheeks flushed slightly. Everyone in town, if they’d been there for any length of time, knew of the terrible things that had happened to Boone.

  “Speaking of rough characters, I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell Agatha you seen me here,” he said with his mild Spanish accent. “I’m supposed to be sick.”

  “Are you?”

  “Just ate something that don’t agree with my stomach,” he said, rubbing his chest and flexing his arm. “Too many spicy beans.”

  The truth was, Enrique didn’t look at all well. His face was pale and had a grayish cast. Boone sighed. He didn’t know when these people would see him as a doctor who could help them when they got sick. Boone sat down next to the older man, not offended in the least when Enrique ignored him. Everyone in town knew Boone didn’t drink—something that was seen as a flaw and not a virtue by most.

  “Your arm hurt?”

  Enrique immediately stopped rubbing it. “Naw.”

  “Your chest?”

  “Just too many spices. Comes and goes.”

  Boone stared at Enrique and wondered whether he dared suggest what he was thinking: the man’s heart was in trouble and he needed to be in bed, not at a bar drinking. The man was sweating unnaturally.

  “Enrique?”

  He took another drink and winced, and Boone had a feeling it wasn’t the whiskey that had brought on that pained expression. “Agatha made those beans too spicy,” he said, putting a fist against his chest.

  “Enrique, I need for you to lie down. I don’t think it’s the spicy food. I think it’s your heart.”

  The older man looked at Boone like he was crazy. “I’m as strong as a bull. Never sick in my life. Why, just yesterday…” He stopped talking in mid-sentence, and his face grew deathly pale. He gasped for breath and clutched his chest, letting out a vile curse. He squeezed his eyes shut, both hands fisted against his chest. “Okay. It’s better. It’s nothing,” he managed. He opened his eyes and actually managed to wave George over to pour another drink.

  “We’ve got to get you home.” Boone saw raw fear in Enrique’s eyes.

  “Yeah. Maybe you’re right. Just let me catch my breath.” The man sat at the stool for a few minutes before getting to his feet gingerly. “I’m feeling better.”

  “It’s your heart, and you’re not better. Not yet.” Boone had recently read an article written by a New York doctor who was able to tie obesity to deaths from heart disease. The doctor had lectured at the Academy of Medicine not long ago about ways for the overweight to reduce their flesh. Boone would talk to Agatha about treatment, and hopefully she could convince her husband to change his ways.

  “I have something I could give you,” Boone said, walking slowly beside Enrique, ready to help the man should he need it. “It’s been used quite successfully on patients in Ireland, and I feel it has promising results.”

  “All I need is a good night’s rest,” Enrique said, but there was a bit less bravado in his tone.

  “Let me get my landau,” Boone said, practically forcing the man to take a seat on the bench outside the hotel. Three Legs was on the porch, and his tail thumped against the boardwalk.

  George stuck his head out. “You okay, Ricky? Don’t want to be losing my best customer.”

  Enrique smiled grimly. “I’m perfleshy fine. An’ I don’ need any gringo doctor telling me I’m not fine.”

  Boone halted in his tracks. Either the effects of alcohol had come on suddenly, or Enrique was suffering from more than just a heart attack. His words were slurred, and he slumped suddenly to one side.

  “Enrique?”

  “I don’t feel ri…” and he slumped over completely, stopped only by Boone’s fast action. He called for the barkeep, and the two of them laid him down on the bench.

  “He dead?” George asked.

  “No,” Boone said, feeling the man’s pulse strong in his neck. “But you best go get Agatha. And his sons.”

  “Aw, no,” George said. “I was just joking about losing him.” He wiped a hand across his bearded face, looking as if he were the cause of whatever was wrong with his friend.

  Boone stayed with Enrique, feeling helpless. A small crowd gathered around him, mostly old men who stood talking quietly, secretly wondering about their own mortality. “You men watch him. I need to go across the street to get my bag,” he said, then ran to his office, assuming they’d follow his orders. He exploded into the kitchen, making Amelia scream in fright. She was sitting at the table in near darkness. Hell, he’d forgotten all about her.

  “Agatha’s husband just collapsed outside the hotel. I need to bring him here. Could you get the room off my office ready for him? The linens are in the cabinet. Lighting a few lamps would help, too.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply, just left her there, stunned and wide-eyed. Even with such an emergency on his hands, he had time to appreciate the fact that he’d actually surprised her into silence. He found the crataegus oxyacantha quickly, glad that he was as meticulous about storing treatments as he was about everything in his life.

  The crataegus would treat the heart problem, but now Boone was far more worried that Enrique had also suffered from apoplexy, which had no known successful treatment. In medical school he’d learned that the outcome of such an event was not hopeful for many patients.

  He turned to find Amelia behind him, her arms loaded with clean linens, looking worried. “Is it serious, do you think?”

  He nodded, putting everything he needed neatly in his bag.

  “Is he going to die?” she asked, her voice small and filled with a strange terror. As far as Boone knew, she’d never even met the man.

  “I’ll know better in a few minutes.”

  She nodded shakily, then disappeared into the tiny room he’d added for just such a serious patient. Boone didn’t have time to wonder about her strange reaction as he headed out the door.

  Enrique was surrounded by men, and to Boone’s surprise he was sitting up and talking, his voice only slightly slurred. Perhaps it had just been the drink. Then Boone noticed the right side of his body was slightly off. Even his face seemed to sag slightly on the right side.

  “I need you men to help me get him to my office,” Boone said.

  “He ain’t exactly skinny,” one man grumbled.

  “Hell, I don’t need any help,” Enrique said, and actually attempted to get up, only to find the right side of his body wasn’t cooperating.

  His two sons, big strapping men, pushed through the crowd, with Agatha and Dulce hurrying up behind. When Agatha saw her husband sitting up, but with something clearly wrong, she threw herself on him, sobbing uncontrollably. Enrique put a gentle hand on her back, patting it, and telling her he was fine. But his voice was unnaturally slurred, and he couldn’t move his right hand at all.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Dulce demanded, as if someone were to blame.

  “It’s his heart. You boys support his shoulders, and we’ll get him to the office,” Boone said to Agatha’s sons, who hovered in the background stoically.

  “We brought the buckboard,” his oldest son said. “We can bring him on home.”

  Boone looked at Agatha with her head buried against her husband’s neck, and he nodded. If the man was going to die, and he just might, it was best he did it at home surrounded by his family. “We’ll get him home and talk there. You boys bring that buckboard right up to the boardwalk.” It would be no easy task to get a man as large as Enrique Benavente up on that wagon.

  “I’ll help.”

  Boone turned to see Carson standing beside him looking relatively clean. He smelle
d of booze but wasn’t outwardly drunk, so Boone nodded silently, accepting his brother’s help. As they helped the stricken man up, the crowd separated and Boone saw Amelia standing in the street, worrying her hands in front of her, her eyes riveted on Carson. Even as he struggled with the near dead weight of Enrique, Boone felt a sharp, almost painful pull as he watched her watch Carson. She didn’t spare him a glance. Not one.

  Amelia watched as the buckboard drew away and the small crowd headed back into the hotel. Carson had seen her in the street, and for a terrible moment she felt an overwhelming need to go to him. She almost willed him to look at her, to see the pain he’d caused her. But when he did look up, his expression was completely unreadable.

  “Hey Amelia,” he said, nodding toward her but not taking one step in her direction. They stood awkwardly for a few minutes, with Boone watching them from the side.

  “I have to go to the Benaventes’,” Boone said, looking from one to the other. “You’re not planning to hurt him, are you, Amelia, ’cause I’m going to be busy tonight and I won’t be able to patch him up.”

  Amelia gave Boone a grateful look.

  “I don’t suppose a sharp slap to his face will warrant medical attention,” she said, and Boone smiled. He looked as if he were going to say more, but he took up his medical bag and headed for the stable to retrieve his horse.

  “I’d deserve that slap,” Carson said, solemn for once.

  “Yes, you would.”

  “I just wish you weren’t so damned pretty,” Carson said, taking a step toward her.

  Amelia held up a hand. “Don’t,” she said sharply. “Don’t you dare try to charm me right now.”

  He tilted his hat back on his head and put his hands low on his hips, looking for all the world like that cowboy she’d dreamed of having. His hair was pulled back off his face, and it looked like he’d shaved in the past day or so. Unbelievably, she felt a tug on her heart, which only made her angry with herself, and with him.

  “Honey, I know better than to try to charm you,” he said in that slow drawl she’d fallen in love with in England.

  “Good. Because I cannot be charmed by you anymore. The damage has definitely been done.”

  “I’m sorry about that, I truly am,” he said, and for a moment he actually looked sorry. “Does that mean I can’t get a kiss from my girl?”

  “I’m not your girl,” she spat, feeling a rage build in her so swiftly it nearly blinded her. She might be the world’s biggest fool, but she would not fall for his insouciant charm again.

  “Now don’t be getting all mad,” Carson said, holding up his hands as if fending her off. “A man can be sorry, can’t he?”

  Amelia felt her nostrils flare. “And are you sorry?”

  “I am.”

  “You should be,” she said with a decisive nod.

  “I heard you’re heading home soon.”

  “Not soon enough.”

  Carson smiled at her and she refused, absolutely refused to smile back. Why couldn’t she hate him? She wanted to, she knew she should. Not two minutes before, she could have happily killed him. And yet all it took was one of his smiles and an “I’m sorry,” and she could feel her insides melting.

  “I don’t want you to hate me, Amelia, though I understand if you do,” he said, his voice low and sincere.

  “I don’t hate you,” she said softly, her throat closing painfully. “But I don’t love you, either.” She said it, but wondered if she was lying to him and to herself. She truly didn’t know how she felt, beyond the anger and the hurt. Carson was her first love, the man she’d thought she’d spend the rest of her life with, the man she’d thought would father her children. She’d counted on that, dreamed about it, and now everything was gone. “Good night, Carson.”

  He gave her a crooked smile that reminded her of Boone. “Good night, darlin’.”

  Amelia hugged her arms around herself as she walked back to the store. It was nearly dark now, just a glow on the horizon hinting that the sun had been up not long ago. In the distance she heard something howl and she shivered, even though it was still warm. She’d heard that howl before but forgot to ask if there were wolves about, and found herself running to the door and closing it quickly behind her, her heart beating frantically as if a wolf were breathing down her neck.

  Laughing at her own foolishness, she locked the door and made her way through the dark store toward the apartment, wishing she weren’t alone. She didn’t like it, but with Dulce refusing to stay with her, there wasn’t much she could do. She wished she could forget about propriety for once, and let Boone stay. She’d feel safe and not quite so alone. Then again, she might not be as safe with Boone as she’d thought.

  That kiss. She wished it had never happened. She didn’t want to have to worry that Boone wanted to kiss her. Or that she wanted to kiss him.

  None of it mattered. She’d be home soon, in her own bed, in her own room. She’d go to balls and the opera in London, and she’d meet another man whom she would no doubt want to kiss.

  She touched her index finger to her lips and smiled.

  Boone entered his office quietly, carrying a turned-down oil lamp so as not to disturb Amelia. It was three o’clock and he was bone tired. Enrique was sleeping, and though his voice was still slurred and his movements on his right side were uncoordinated, Boone didn’t think the man would die. At least not that night. Perhaps in time and with treatment, he would recover enough to live out his years in comfort.

  Boone took the medications from his bag and replaced them carefully on their shelves, making certain each label faced front and each was precisely where it should be. He was still working when he heard her bare feet on the tile behind him.

  “I’m sorry I woke you,” he said without turning.

  “You didn’t. I couldn’t sleep. How is Mr. Benavente?”

  Boone put the last of the medications back and turned, almost reluctantly, to answer her. Damn. She was so beautiful. She wore a thin, white, high-necked nightgown and wrap; her blond hair was loose and bed-messy. Despite her claims that she hadn’t been sleeping, she looked like she’d just woken up. She had a rosy-cheeked drowsy look that made his groin tighten. He turned away, embarrassed that he was unable to control his obvious lust, and pretended to look for something in the cabinet behind him. “I think he’ll recover with the right care,” he said gruffly.

  “How’s Agatha?”

  Please go to bed. Please. “She’s crazy with worry. She’ll be fine.”

  “Boone?”

  He closed his eyes. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry about that kiss. I shouldn’t have allowed it.”

  Boone swallowed heavily. “No. I suppose not.”

  “As a gentleman, you are required to say you are sorry, too,” she said, laughter tingeing her voice.

  He turned back to her, unable to find humor in the fact that he was falling in love with her, that he wanted her so badly he could hardly speak. “I’m not sorry.”

  “Oh.”

  Her mouth was so soft, so sweet, and at the moment was shaped perfectly for another kiss. Boone clenched his jaw and shoved his hands into his pockets in a desperate attempt to stop himself from reaching out and pulling her into his arms.

  “I’m leaving,” she said, as if that explained everything. Which, in fact, it did. “I’m going home,” she said more forcefully. “There’s nothing here for me. I’m going home.”

  Boone took that cruel blow to his heart like a man. He smiled. “It was just a little kiss,” he said, as if mystified why she was making a to-do over such an insignificant thing as that one, perfect kiss.

  “Well, yes. I know.”

  He stood there, looking at her as if he were wondering why she was still pestering him. “Good night, Miss Amelia,” he said, still smiling at her as if bemused by her confusion.

  A little crease formed between her eyebrows. “Good night.”

  When she was gone his smile slowly faded. He wasn’t an
idiot. He knew what she was saying oh so politely: Don’t you get any ideas in your head, Boone Kitteridge. I’m not yours, and I never will be.

  He understood. He understood enough to feel familiar humiliation wash over him. She’d been flirting with him, and he’d mistaken that for real interest. He had so little experience dealing with women, he was so naïve about such matters, that he’d actually hoped, in the recesses of his heart, she might…

  Stay.

  Chapter 9

  Amelia stood behind the counter drumming her fingers against the smooth, pristine wood. The store had been unusually busy that morning, and Boone had warned her that men were returning from the cattle drives and would likely be stopping in for various sundries.

  She didn’t mind, for at least it gave her something to do while she waited for the train. She’d hoped she’d get some word from Meremont’s staff, at least informing her that they were attempting to get word to Edward. It was likely far too soon for a reply, but she couldn’t help hoping.

  All morning men came in, looked at her with surprise, quickly pulling their hats from their heads and slicking back their hair. Amelia took their reactions in stride, and in fact, enjoyed flirting with a few of the more charming of them. They were real cowboys, wearing chaps and spurs and well-worn, sweat-stained cowboy hats, and talked in a slow drawl that she was becoming familiar with.

  But now the store was quiet and she was growing rather bored. She perked up when she heard the sound of the train approaching in all its noisy, smoke-spewing glory. She ran to the door to watch, as if she’d never seen a train before, and dreamed of the day she’d get on and head home. She’d never leave Meremont again, never complain about missing balls or suppers in London. She’d stay in her room, wander the grounds, visit her stepaunt, and play with her cousins. Perhaps she’d marry a neighbor, someone she’d overlooked, someone who never lied and truly loved her. The word “home” had become a silent prayer that she said over and over. If she were home it would be as if she’d never been foolish enough to fall in love with a man who didn’t love her, as if she’d never come to Texas. That train, now giving a final groan as it came to a stop, was her tie to cool sea breezes, to green grass and shady trees.