One-Click Buy: March 2009 Harlequin Blaze

by Alison Kent

  Sam had to clear his throat before he choked. “I have but one cot myself.”

  “Plenty of hay.” Doc smiled, and taking advantage of Sam’s being dumbstruck, grabbed the whiskey. “Can’t turn the lady out, Sam.”

  Shit.

  The woman looked at him with those big, pleading green eyes the color of fine emeralds. There was fear there, no matter her bold words.

  Before he could say anything, two loud shots came from the direction of the Silver Nugget.

  He went to the window and saw that low-down Hank Lester and his two gunmen riding toward Doc’s. “You claim you’re a doctor. Looks like you’ll get your chance to prove it.”

  THE DRESS WAS a hindrance, and Reese wished she had something else to wear. The long apron that Sam gave her helped keep the voluminous skirt from getting in the way too much, but the room was cramped and dirty. Reese hoped Doc was sober enough to handle whatever emergency came through the door. For a host of reasons, she doubted she would be of much assistance.

  Her headache had returned and her racing thoughts weren’t conducive to concentration. She mourned the comfort of believing that this was some kind of joke, even though the alternative was more than she could process. If she accepted the possibility that she’d actually traveled through time, then her objective was to discover how to get back. Her head pounded harder.

  The commotion around her didn’t help. Sam had kicked the wooden crate to the side, and while he picked up the chair she’d occupied, she peeked out the window. Two men had already dismounted and were helping a third man with a bloody shoulder and arm get down from his horse. They’d be in at any moment, and she was far from mentally or physically prepared.

  “I think it’s a shoulder wound,” she said, spinning around to see Doc reaching for the whiskey bottle. Great. “We need water. Hot water,” she amended, and when Sam frowned, she muttered, “I don’t suppose you have a microwave.”

  Sam’s frown deepened. “I’ll get the water. But it’ll take too long to heat.”

  “That better be for the patient,” she said to Doc, wresting the bottle from him just as he was about to refill his glass.

  His bloodshot eyes blazed. “Now, see here—”

  “We’ll need clean rags and bandages.” She saw that Sam hadn’t moved, but stood staring at her in bewilderment. “Water?” she repeated.

  He grabbed a bowl and went through a narrow side door.

  Doc’s protest was cut short by the three men entering the office, one of them losing blood by the second.

  The taller, steely-eyed cowboy, whose body odor had Reese reeling backward, pushed his way to the cot and roughly laid his friend down. The wounded man groaned in pain. Blood covered most of his shirt and seeped into his blue jeans.

  “Slim took one in the shoulder, Doc.” The tall man looked more disgusted than sympathetic. “Right next to the one you patched up last month. He ain’t gonna be no use to me for a long while.”

  Doc just shook his head, eyeing the bottle Reese had placed safely behind her. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Make it fast. Before the sheriff comes pokin’ around.” He frowned abruptly at Reese. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a doctor, and you’ll have to leave.”

  The man barked out a laugh.

  “She’s right, Hank.” Doc rolled back his sleeves. “If you want us to work fast, best give us some room.”

  Hank glared at her, letting a short silence lapse. “Seth, wait outside.”

  Reese watched the other man open the front door in time for Sam to carry in the bowl of water. Hank stayed where he was.

  “We’re going to need more than this,” she told Sam, and then glanced at Hank. “You, too. Out. Now.”

  Looking furious, his right fist clenching, the cowboy took a step toward her.

  Sam blocked him. “Hank,” he said quietly, but with a harsh expression that gave the other man pause.

  Hank held his ground, staring into Sam’s unwavering eyes, and then, with a foul oath, adjusted his Stetson and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  “Better watch your mouth,” Sam said grimly. “We don’t want trouble.”

  Reese doubted that was a problem for Sam. She stared at him, still digesting the subtle transformation from soft-spoken, polite cowboy to a man that she for one did not want to cross. Apparently, neither had Hank. She guessed he’d seen what she had, the lifeless, nothing-to-lose intensity in Sam’s eyes that held more threat than a gun.

  A groan from the injured man snapped her back to the reality of the situation. She found a bar of what some might consider soap, and went to work scrubbing her hands, while uneasily watching Doc probe the patient’s shoulder.

  “Easy, son,” Doc said when the man’s upper body lurched from the cot, his anguished cry filling the room. “Easy now.”

  She looked at his pain-distorted face and realized he was young, probably still in his teens. Her gaze went to the large knife Doc had withdrawn from a leather sleeve, and she gasped. He couldn’t possibly be thinking of using that.

  “Sam, I need some help here,” Doc said. He gestured with his head, and Sam positioned himself behind the young man and held him down.

  “You,” Doc said to Reese. “Hand me the whiskey.” At her look of disapproval, he sighed. “It’s for the patient.”

  Reese got the bottle and handed it to him. “You haven’t looked at the wound yet.”

  “You just hold on, or you can wait outside, too.” He glared, and then to her horror, tipped the bottle to his own lips.

  Sam cursed softly.

  “I can’t operate with a shaky hand, can I?” Doc grumbled, and then held up the patient’s head and forced some whiskey into his mouth.

  Reese couldn’t stand it another moment. She grabbed the cleanest rag she saw, and dipped it into the water. They had to clean the wound and get a better look at what they were dealing with. But no matter what they found, she knew that large knife wouldn’t be appropriate.

  Doc took another swig before relinquishing the bottle to Sam, and Reese gritted her teeth, knowing it was going to be up to her to get that bullet out. She cleaned the area the best she could and examined the wound.

  “What other size knife do you have?” she asked Doc, her attention remaining on the young man. “What method do you use for sterilization?”

  After too long a silence, she looked up. Sweat had popped out on Doc’s face. Bleary-eyed, he wobbled over to the shelf of remedies.

  “Go sit down, Doc,” Sam said. “The woman will take over.”

  Doc looked as if he didn’t have much choice. He went to the corner and sagged against the wall.

  Reese’s gaze flew to the shelf, which seemed to be dominated by castor oil. Amazing that anyone survived. God, what a nightmare.

  A loud bang sounded outside. Another shot. She met Sam’s eyes.

  “Best hurry,” he said bleakly. “Reckon we might have a full house tonight.”

  4

  WITH EACH PASSING HOUR, Sam’s admiration for the woman climbed a notch. Tirelessly, and without a word of complaint, she treated patient after patient. Eight of them, by Sam’s count. Even when the men eyed her with distrust and grumbled that they didn’t want to be treated by no woman, she remained calm and determined. She hadn’t lost a single man, either, which was more than could be said for Doc on any given Saturday night.

  Sam glanced over at his old friend, who was passed out, broken from the nightmares and memories of that fateful day thirteen years ago. Doc did his best here in this hellhole, and if it weren’t for him, Deadwood would have no doctor at all. That was saying something.

  “Okay,” she murmured, stepping back from the stranger she’d just sewn up. She used the back of her arm to wipe the sweat from her brow. “Try to stay off that leg. Keep the area clean and you should be fine.”

  The older man cringed as he slid off the cot and put weight on the leg that had been sliced by a knife, his dusty mining clothes send
ing up a cloud. Reese blinked, wrinkled her cute little nose and moved another step away. Sam handed the man his pants.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the miner said, climbing slowly into his Levi’s. “Thank you kindly. Best sewing up I ever got.”

  Sam waited until the man grabbed the doorknob, and then said, “Forgetting something, mister?”

  The man frowned, and then sheepishly dug into his pocket and handed Reese a gold piece.

  She accepted the payment and then tossed it on the shelf, just as she’d done with the rest of the coins and gold. She was a confounding woman, all right. Plainly not interested in money, unlike most of the gals Sam had met in his twenty-nine years. If he hadn’t pointed out that Doc didn’t get his castor oil and plasters for free, she would’ve let everyone walk out without paying so much as a dime. When Sam had asked her if she had any money of her own, she’d sobered up right quick.

  For the first time all night, no one was waiting outside to get patched up. A true mercy, because she looked pale and tired. She hadn’t eaten, and refused all but one small drink of water.

  “I didn’t think it was ever going to get quiet,” she said, parting the curtains and peering out into the early morning darkness.

  “Things settle down once the boys are too drunk to aim their guns.”

  She laughed, but her face was drained and she still had a small limp from her fall. If she fell asleep standing up, he wouldn’t be surprised. “Some things never change.”

  In the corner, Doc stirred, muttering something Sam couldn’t understand. Seven hours had passed since he’d had any whiskey. He had to be coming out of his drunken stupor.

  Sam went over and shook his shoulder. “Doc.”

  He slowly opened his red eyes and squinted at them. “What time is it?”

  “Past midnight. If anybody needs mending, you have to take over.”

  Doc blinked hazily at Reese, and then frowned at Sam. “Where you going?”

  “To get the woman fed.”

  She let out a frustrated sigh. “My name is Reese.”

  Sam met her annoyed glare. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And furthermore, I’m not hungry. Just tired.” She pulled off the apron and pushed the hair away from her face, her whole body sagging as if the action took the stuffing out of her. “And don’t call me ma’am,” she insisted, her head lolling back before she slumped to the floor.

  Sam reached her before she hit too hard. He picked her up in his arms and cradled her to his chest, taken by how fragile she was. The dress probably weighed more than she did.

  “I should have a look at her.” Doc struggled to his feet.

  “She’s just tired, is all. She’s been working seven hours straight.”

  Doc’s gaze went to the pile of bloody rags. “She worked on patients?”

  “Yep. Did a fine job, too. Didn’t lose a one.”

  Doc appeared unconvinced. “Anyone ask questions?”

  “None of them seemed to be on speaking terms with the sheriff, if that’s your meaning.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Where you taking her?”

  “She can use my cot tonight.”

  “Maybe you’d better leave her here. Too many folks know about her now, and the sheriff not liking you and all. If she brings trouble, I can weather it better than you.”

  Sam shifted her slight weight, and then grabbed the extra lantern on the way to the door. “See you tomorrow, Doc.”

  Sam made sure no one was on Main Street before he crossed to the stables, even though they were situated at the far edge of town. Doc was right. Enough people knew about her, but he didn’t need to announce her whereabouts. If anyone asked, he’d tell them she’d disappeared in the middle of the night. But it wasn’t as if she’d hurt Billy Ray. She’d saved the boy, so Sam couldn’t see what business anyone would have with her.

  Reese. Sure was a peculiar name for a woman.

  He carried her past the horses to the small room that had been added on to the back of the stables where he slept and ate. The cot wasn’t all that comfortable, but she was too whipped to notice. He wished that he’d picked up some, for the place was a mess. But there wasn’t anything he could do about that right now.

  After setting down the lantern, he kicked back the sheet with the toe of his boot and then gently laid her down, setting her head on the mound of straw he’d fashioned under an old sheet. She didn’t budge and, worried, he pressed two fingers to the pulse at the side of her neck.

  God Almighty, but she had soft skin. Smoother than fancy Chinese silk. Without thinking, he dragged his fingers down her neck to her collarbone. He’d never felt anything like it. A few of the ladies over at the Golden Slipper had skin that was soft and without a single callus, but nothing like this.

  Realizing that he shouldn’t be touching her, he jerked his hand back. Luckily, she didn’t stir, her thick dark lashes resting against her porcelain cheek. He wanted to touch her again….

  Abruptly Sam stood. He looked around for a clean sheet to throw over her. The last two nights he’d gone without a coverlet due to the recent warm spell, and truth be told, she was sleeping so soundly she wasn’t likely to notice. Still, for his own peace of mind, he dug through his winter things and found a quilt Clara Bruin had made for him before she figured out he wasn’t the marrying kind.

  He laid the brown-and-beige patchwork over Reese, mostly so he would stop staring at the narrowness of her waist and the swell of her breasts. She was a fine looking woman, all right. Or maybe it had been too long since he’d visited the Golden Slipper.

  No matter. He had no business eyeing her like a prized filly. He grabbed the lantern. He had to find himself a place to sleep. One stable was empty, though low on hay. But he was tired himself and the hard ground wouldn’t keep him awake.

  “Sam?”

  He’d gotten as far as the door when he thought he heard her voice. Holding up the lantern, he peered at her dimly lit face. Her lids were heavy but her eyes were open.

  “Where am I?” she asked softly.

  “The livery.”

  “Is this your bed?”

  He moved closer because he could barely hear her. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She smiled and then yawned. “Where will you sleep?”

  “In one of the stables.”

  “On the ground?”

  “There’s lots of hay.”

  The corners of her mouth turned down. “You save me and I repay you by stealing your bed.”

  “You’re the one who did the saving. I reckon Tom Bacon’s gonna be building one less pine box tomorrow.”

  Worrying her lower lip with straight white teeth, she lifted her head. “Come closer.”

  He frowned, curious as to what she wanted, and moved nearer to the cot.

  She reached out a hand, and he crouched down beside her, surprised when she touched his cheek. After trailing the tips of her fingers along his stubbly jaw, she traced the scar near his ear, the one he’d gotten from a broken bottle five years back.

  “This isn’t a dream, is it?” she whispered.

  Sam gritted his teeth when she pressed her warm, soft palm to his cheek. She smelled better than a woman had a right to, and her feather-like touch lit a powerful fire in his belly that set his good sense smoldering.

  “It’s no dream,” he muttered gruffly. “Best you get some sleep.”

  She quickly withdrew her hand. “Thank you, Sam. For everything.”

  He swung the lantern around as he got up so she couldn’t see how the front of his britches had tightened.

  OVER AN HOUR had passed since the sun came up, and Doc could see its brightness topping the distant trees. He left the window and poured himself a whiskey, the only sure cure he’d found for a hangover. After he’d downed two shots and his nerves began to steady, he started picking up the bloody rags and cleaning the ooze off the cot and floor. By all visible accounts there’d been a lot of gunplay last night. The senseless violence was hard to stomach, and he�
�d witnessed more than a soul should endure.

  So had Sam. And his friend Jake. But neither of them had turned to spirits for comfort. Of course, they’d been little more than boys at the time of the massacre. They couldn’t be held accountable, no matter what Sam thought. Doc had been full-grown. A man of nineteen. He’d known better, yet he’d blindly followed orders like a weak old woman.

  He scooped up the damning evidence of his binging and dumped the empty bottles into a wooden crate. Next he gathered the instruments the woman had used last night, most of them not choices he himself would’ve made for gunshot wounds. Yet Sam had said the woman did good. If not for her efforts, men would’ve died last night. Like so many who had perished on his watch. Just like his sweet, angel-faced Martha.

  God help him, he didn’t want to think about his dead wife right now. Even after two years, guilt dug into him like the fangs of a rattler, spewing its venom and filling his body with unbearable pain.

  In his haste to pour another drink he nearly knocked over his last whiskey bottle. He muttered a pithy four-letter word. That would be a fine thing. Losing his reserve, and having to beg Sam for each lousy sip. Doc slammed the bottle down on the counter, and that’s when he saw the gold piece. Several more had been scattered behind a bottle of castor oil, as well as a few silver dollars. He picked up a double eagle and stared at it in disbelief.

  Good God Almighty. Where had this bounty come from? Had the woman earned this last night? He never saw this much currency in a single day. Of course, not all his patients left his office on their own two feet. But why had she left it behind? Rightfully, it was hers to keep. Sam would likely collect the coins for her later.

  His pulse quickening Doc swiftly pocketed a half eagle. That would keep him in whiskey for a while.

  “Mornin,’ Doc.”

  At the sound of Sam’s voice behind him, guilt assaulted Doc. It wasn’t his habit to take what didn’t belong to him. But he had provided the instruments and bandages, he reasoned; that should earn him something.