An admonishment for their behavior was on the tip of her tongue, but before she could utter one word, Joe took her hand and squeezed gently. “What would you like me to do?”
“Help me remove that bullet and stitch him up.”
He gave a slight nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
After giving him instructions about heating some water, Joe went off to start a fire. Stevie Rae walked down to the water’s edge and moved their rides closer to where Brock rested, then untied her bedroll from the supplies Whiskey Pete carried on his back.
Brock’s gaze followed her every move as she spread one of the old quilts on the ground. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to remove that bullet from your leg.”
An eyebrow rose, but confidence shined from his eyes. “Have you done that before?”
She didn’t answer his question directly. Instead, she said, “Once upon a time, a very long time ago, I wanted to be a doctor, like my father. It was the next natural step for me, I suppose.” She untied the much-worn bag from Whiskey Pete’s back, the supple leather wrinkled and creased in a few places. She placed the bag on the quilt beside him, then sank to her knees and twisted the clasp to pull the satchel open. The smell of leather rose upward, filling her nose, bringing with it happy memories as well as a feeling of confidence. “There are four children running around Little River that I delivered when my father…couldn’t. Two of them are named after me.”
“Why didn’t you? Become a doctor, I mean.”
“Has it somehow escaped your notice that I’m a woman?”
“No, it hasn’t escaped my notice.” He grinned, and mischief lurked in his soft gray eyes. “You have all the right parts, but what does that have to do with it?”
“Have you ever seen a woman doctor?” From her father’s medical bag, now hers, she pulled a square of white, cotton cloth and spread it out over the blanket, then brought out a silver container. It looked like a chafing dish but was much, much smaller. She lifted the lid. All the instruments she thought she’d need to remove the bullet from Brock’s thigh were contained within. She knew how to use them, too.
He thought for a moment then shook his head. “Can’t say that I have seen a woman doctor. Why is that?”
“It’s very difficult for a woman to become a doctor. There are only a handful of schools willing to accept female students. And, of course, there is prejudice. People are unwilling to believe that a woman has the stamina to treat patients.” She stopped herself from going into a familiar tirade and instead, concentrated on the task at hand. A hank of hair escaped the ponytail at the back of her head and she tucked it behind her ear before reaching into the bag again and drawing out a leather case with various needles and several spools of thick black thread. “I applied anyway and I was accepted.”
Brock’s eyes widened in surprise. “You went? To medical school?”
“Yes, but I never finished.”
“Why?”
A long sigh escaped her. “Things happened while I was in Boston.”
“What things?”
She didn’t want to talk about this, didn’t want to bring up old, painful memories, but they were coming anyway, filling her mind.
“Martha wrote me about my father.” Tears stung her eyes and she blinked quickly, focusing on the medical bag opened before her. “The plan was for me to graduate, then join my father in his practice. I think I told you he’d lost three patients, one right after the other, and it…broke him. I came home to find the house where I grew up sold, his practice closed, and him, sunk so far into despair I was afraid he’d never come out.”
“What did you do?”
She shrugged. “I did what I could. I took care of him and he was getting better, becoming more like his old self again. We talked about me going back to Boston and finishing school, but I—”
“It was him, wasn’t it? That ass we met in Santa Fe. The one you were going to marry. He convinced you somehow that you couldn’t be a doctor. Or shouldn’t be one. He changed your mind about finishing school.” His tone was harsh as was the scowl on his face, which somehow lifted her heart. He had confidence in her, believed in her. That much was clear just by his expression and the warm gleam in his eyes. “I should have punched him in the mouth when I had the chance.”
“And I would have paid good money to see that.” She smiled then continued rummaging in the bag, setting out rolls of dressing on the blanket before peering into the valise one more time. “Ah, there it is.”
She pulled a tinted bottle from the depths of the satchel. Laudanum. He’d need that to dull the pain, maybe even make him sleep, so she could do what she needed to without fear of hurting him more.
He eyed the bottle with suspicion. “Is that what I think it is?”
“What do you think it is?”
“Laudanum. I’ve had it before. I didn’t like it or the way it made me feel.” Brock folded his arms across his chest and winced when he hit his side. “I don’t want it.”
Stevie raised an eyebrow and smiled. “But you’ll take it. For me.” She removed the stopper and handed him the bottle.
Several long, tense moments passed as their gazes met and held, a silent battle of wills, until Brock let out a long sigh, then tipped the bottle to his mouth. He took a big swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. When he was done, he handed the bottle back to Stevie Rae and shuddered, his mouth skewed from the bitter medicine. “Still tastes like shit.”
“But it’ll help.” She smiled as she put the stopper back in the bottle and dropped it in the bag. “Can you lie on your side on the quilt?”
Once Brock rolled to his right side, facing away from her, Stevie Rae finished preparing her makeshift surgery, something else she’d helped her father with a hundred times. Steven Buchanan could use anything as his operating room—a kitchen table, a bed, the cold, hard ground. She kept up a steady stream of chatter, talking about anything and everything, and listened to his responses become slower, his words slurring as the laudanum started to take effect.
“I sure am tired of getting shot at,” he murmured. His breathing deepened and his body relaxed as his pain eased, but she didn’t think he slept or lost consciousness.
She resisted the urge to call his name, but she couldn’t stop herself from peeking over his still form to study his face. His eyes were closed, his impossibly thick black lashes resting on his cheek. She drew in a deep breath, then stood and strode toward Willow to retrieve the brand-new bar of soap she had purchased just yesterday.
As she walked back to Brock, she unwrapped the soap. The scent of honeysuckle assailed her and brought with it vivid memories of her and Brock in the bath together at the Rose Cottage, then making love while the wind gusted over the roof and the rain slashed against the windows. A flush heated her that had nothing to do with the warmth of the sun.
She shook the image from her mind, knelt beside Brock, and whispered a silent prayer before making quick work of removing the makeshift bandage from around his waist. The deep groove in his skin started bleeding again, but not nearly as much as before.
“That looks bad,” Joe said as he approached, his body blocking the sun’s hot rays as she blotted at the blood. “Water’s heating like you asked. Should be ready in a few more minutes.”
“Thank you.” She turned her head and glanced at him. Concern shadowed his features. “He’ll be fine.”
“I know.” He squeezed her shoulder, then moved away. The heat of the sun struck her back and shoulders once more. Her gaze slid over Brock as her fingers smoothed the curls brushing up against his collar. In an instant, a rush of emotion swirled through her and would have brought her to her knees if she hadn’t already been kneeling.
I love him.
Somewhere along the trail, in the middle of chasing a madman across New Mexico, she had lost her heart to Brock MacDermott. She felt like she’d been hit with a…she didn’t quite know what she’d been struck with, but she’d been struck. H
ard. She loved him, for everything he was—honorable and principled, though a bit stubborn—and for everything he wasn’t. He never patronized her, nor doubted her, and he made her believe not only in him but in herself.
Her heart swelled, and joy, an emotion she hadn’t felt in quite some time, filled her soul.
“It’s ready.”
Stevie Rae jumped, startled. Joe stood beside her, coffeepot in one hand, skillet in the other. He set the skillet on the blanket and gave her one of those quizzical looks men sometimes gave women when they didn’t quite understand.
“What do you want me to do?”
She picked up the soap, then held her hands out over the skillet. “Pour a little water over my hands.” As he complied, she washed beneath the steady trickle of hot water, then washed Brock’s wound as well, using one of several cloths she’d found in her father’s bag.
With a steady hand, Stevie Rae threaded one of the needles from the case with a length of black thread, took a deep breath, and started stitching the bloody gash, pulling the edges together to close the wound and keep it closed although the very act of doing so made her stomach twist. Thankfully, Brock didn’t seem to feel it. He didn’t move or speak or show any evidence of pain and for that, she was grateful.
“Have you done this before?” A touch of awe filled Joe’s voice.
Stevie Rae nodded as she knotted the thick black thread, then cut it with a small pair of scissors. “Too many times to count.” She washed the blood from Brock’s side once more, then wrapped a clean dressing around his waist. She leaned back on her heels and studied her handiwork. There would be a scar on his side, but that just added to the mystery that was Brock.
She took a deep breath and moved on to the bullet in his thigh.
Chapter 19
Stevie Rae watched as Doc Capshaw, an older man with wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose, inspected the stitches closing the wound in Brock’s leg. He said not a word, though he did hmmm a lot as he removed the makeshift bandage from around Brock’s waist and scrutinized the thick black sutures there as well. Brock sucked in his breath and winced. His lips, those kissable lips, were now pressed together in a thin line, though she could see only part of his face as he lay on his stomach. The laudanum he had taken earlier had worn off. Stevie Rae flinched as he gasped again—she felt his pain as keenly as if it were her own.
Knowing that she loved him, knowing he’d been shot to protect her, left her feeling…
Stevie Rae didn’t know what she felt—her emotions were still in turmoil. A queasiness settled in her belly and she held her breath as the doctor leaned down and smelled the injury. She knew exactly what he was looking for—the putrid smell of infection, although it would have been too soon for that. It had only been half a day since Brock had been shot. In many ways, that seemed like a lifetime ago. She didn’t think her heart had beat properly since.
“Looks good.” He paused in his examination and glanced at her. “I understand you did this—removed the bullet from his leg and cleaned him up.” His bushy mustache twitched as he rewrapped both wounds with clean dressing, then looked at Stevie Rae and winked. “Good job, young lady. Mighty fine stitchin’, too. Couldn’t have done it better myself.” His lips spread in a gentle, understanding smile as he moved a little closer to her and took her hand in his. “You can breathe now, my dear.”
She complied, her breath leaving her lungs in a rush.
“Good, good,” Doc Capshaw muttered. He patted her hand once more, then turned back to his patient.
“As for you, young man, you need some rest.” He stepped away from the bed. Stevie Rae took that moment to help Brock turn over on his back, then tuck another pillow under his knee to keep any pressure off his thigh before she pulled up the sheet from the bottom of the bed, hiding his bare chest and muscular thighs from view.
“No unnecessary moving around,” Doc Capshaw continued, though she could feel his gaze sweep over her a time or two as she adjusted the sheet. “We don’t want those stitches to rip. In fact, I recommend you stay in this bed for at least a week.” He pulled a bottle from his bag along with an odd-shaped spoon, then closed the bag with a definite snap. “Give him a spoonful of this every couple of hours for the pain.”
Stevie Rae took the bottle as well as the spoon.
“Again with the laudanum?” Brock asked from the bed, his gaze on the bottle and her. Suspicion and pain glazed his clear gray eyes, turning them darker, like rain clouds on the horizon.
“Yes,” Stevie Rae answered.
He shook his head and crossed his arms over this chest. “No thanks. Once was enough for me. Still can’t get the taste out of my mouth or the fuzziness from my head from the first time.”
“I’m not going to argue with you,” she shot back at him, her patience at an end. The past few hours had taken their toll on her. Her nerves were raw. If Logan’s aim had been truer, if Brock hadn’t launched out of the saddle and tackled her to the ground when he had, she wouldn’t be here. She’d be at the undertaker’s arranging Brock’s burial. Or he’d be arranging hers. It didn’t help her nerves that Sylvester and Pecos Bill hadn’t come back with Logan, either. The man was long gone. Or was he? “You don’t have to like it, but you will take it.”
Doc Capshaw chuckled. “Looks like you don’t have a choice, son. Just take it and let yourself rest.”
Her hands shook as she poured the laudanum into the bowl of a spoon and carefully brought the medication to his mouth.
Mischief sparkled in his eyes as his lips tightened. He shook his head, like a little boy then reached up to grab at her hand. To lighten the mood, perhaps?
Whatever his intention, Stevie wasn’t having any of it. She pulled away, just out of his reach, almost spilling the liquid.
“Don’t,” she warned, her voice low but strong, her frustration showing as she set the bottle on the bedside table. She mentally counted to ten, which didn’t help. Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked rapidly in an effort to hold those tears at bay, though the truth was, she wanted to cry. She had wanted to cry from the moment he’d been shot. “I will get this down your throat if I have to sit on you to do it.”
“That could be fun,” he teased, then laughed. Stevie Rae shoved the spoon at his mouth while it was open. Surprised, Brock coughed and sputtered but swallowed the medicine, which brought another chuckle from Doc Capshaw.
“I would do exactly as she told me, if I were you.” He patted Brock on the shoulder. “I’ll stop by tomorrow.” The doctor grabbed his bag and faced her. “If you need anything, anything at all, just send Joe. He knows where to find me day or night.”
“Thank you,” she managed over the lump in her throat.
He gave a slight nod, then let himself out of the room and closed the door. Stevie Rae allowed her shoulders to slump with fatigue. A slight rustling from the bed caught her attention, and she turned quickly to see Brock struggling to free himself of the sheet covering his body.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m all right, Stevie. I’ve been shot before.” He tried to rise from the bed, nearly knocking over the bedside table as he grabbed for it but missed.
She lunged for him, fighting with him for control of the sheet, trying to keep him covered and in bed. “Didn’t Doc Capshaw say he wanted you to rest?”
“I don’t have time to rest,” he insisted, though his words were already starting to slur and his movements grew clumsy.
“I’m not going to fight with you, Brock. I am telling you that you are going to stay in that bed and rest if I have to—oh!” Brock grabbed her hands and pulled her on top of him, trapping her hands against his body and her hips between his thighs. His mouth sought and found hers with unerring accuracy, his lips fastening to hers in an unexpected, utterly arousing kiss. He released his firm grip on her hands as the kiss deepened and his hands slid over her backside, pulling her closer. She felt his hardness against her belly and the sudden rush of moistness between her thighs.
Appalled and stunned by his behavior and her own response, and afraid she had hurt him when she fell on him, Stevie Rae broke the kiss and scrambled off the bed. Her breath wheezed from her lungs. She hadn’t hurt him. In fact, he seemed to have enjoyed their little tussle, if the grin parting his lips was any indication. She yanked on her shirt, adjusting the garment back into place when what she really wanted to do was slap the silly grin from his face. “That wasn’t funny, Brock!”
“Sure, it was.” His grin widened as he patted the bed beside him, then moved the sheet aside.
Before she could reprimand him or tell him what she thought of him, the door opened behind her and she whirled around, still breathing hard. Joe stepped into the room with a tray balanced on one hand. His sharp eyes went from Stevie Rae to Brock then back again, and a dark eyebrow lifted in question. “Everything all right in here?”
“Yes, everything is fine,” she huffed, her face burning with embarrassment as she turned away to face her patient, who returned her glare with an expression of innocence, his leg bent at the knee, effectively hiding anything he didn’t wish to be seen. “He just thought he could get out of bed.”
“That sounds like something Brock would try.” Joe grinned as he edged farther into the room and placed the tray on a small table beside the window. “Cora thought you might want something to eat.”
Steam rose from a big mug on the tray, and the smell of coffee filled the room. Stevie Rae sniffed, inviting the fragrant aroma into her nostrils. Beside the cups, yeast rolls adorned a plate along with thick slices of ham and cheese. Though her stomach still churned with anxiety, it also grumbled with hunger—she hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since early that morning.
“Thank her for me.”
He nodded then gestured toward Brock. “Other than him trying to get out of bed, how is he?”
“Stubborn. Irritating. Smug. Defiant.”
In the bed, Brock smiled broadly and nodded with every word she said, although his eyes seemed to be unfocused and hazy. They fluttered shut, then opened again, and finally closed one last time. The laudanum must be taking effect and for that, she was grateful. She didn’t think she could fight with him again.
A Kiss in the Shadows Page 24