by Alison Kent
“You and your baby will be fine, Sara,” Reese said. “Later, try and eat something. Definitely hydrate.”
The couple looked blankly at her.
“Drink lots of water.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Sara started to cry again.
Reese promptly went to her side and covered her hand reassuringly. “You’ll be fine. I promise.”
The woman mutely nodded.
Reese didn’t know what else to say. If she had to live in the middle of nowhere, in a two-room cabin in the woods, she’d cry, too.
“Doctor?”
She turned at the sound of Sam’s voice, a tiny thrill skimming up her spine. She’d been called “Doctor” hundreds of times, thousands, but his acknowledgment pleased her in a way she couldn’t describe.
“We need to go.”
“Yes.” She afforded Sara and Pete one last smile.
He released his wife’s hand and straightened. “How much do we owe you?”
“Owe me? No.” She shook her head. “Buy something for the baby.”
Gratitude filled the young man’s eyes. “Thanks, Doctor.”
“Reese…” Sam’s curt tone got her moving.
She wished she had time to clean up, but understood that returning to town after light would be risky. On her way out of the room, she grabbed Doc’s bag and followed Sam to his horse. He climbed on Diablo first, took the bag and then held out a hand to her. As if she weighed nothing, he easily pulled her up to sit behind him on the saddle.
It took her a moment to arrange her skirt so that she could straddle the horse, and then she slid her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his strong, broad back. Along the horizon the darkness had already begun to fade. Hungry birds chirped in the trees. Sam clucked at Diablo and off they went, galloping down the dirt road through the woods. Reese held on tight, not just because they moved at a fast clip, but because Sam felt solid and safe and far more familiar than he should.
She truly wished they had time to stop, sit on a rise together, his arm wrapped around her as they watched the sun come up. But that could never happen, and that fact made her inexplicably sad. Silly, because she had far more important things to worry about. After she slept, she promised herself. If only for a couple of hours. She yawned and closed her eyes. Later, she’d worry about getting into the Golden Slipper. Later, she’d think about the small miracle she’d performed tonight, and how much it reminded her of the reason she’d studied medicine in the first place.
Right now, though, all she wanted to do was enjoy the feel of her breasts pressed to Sam’s hard body, and the steady vibration of the galloping horse between her thighs.
TO REESE’S ABSOLUTE amazement, sleep hadn’t come easily. Maybe it was because the sky had already turned pink by the time she’d fallen in an exhausted heap on Sam’s cot. He’d been pretty certain that no one had seen them ride in the back way to the livery. Although some people in town had been awake. She’d noticed lanterns and candles lit behind window curtains.
Her rest was fragmented by erotic dreams of Sam lying gloriously naked beside her, before the image slid into a nightmare of him lying deadly still in a pine box. She gave up on sleep entirely after being awakened with the sensation of clawing an invisible wall, as if battling her way back to the future.
Despite her colleagues’ predominant opinion that dreams meant nothing, she believed the opposite. In her personal experience, dreams had often reflected her waking concerns, and when she took the time to think about them, they’d helped her solve problems. The dream about her and Sam lying naked together was a no-brainer. Yeah, she wanted him. She’d have to be totally numb not to be interested.
Painful as it was to replay the nightmare of him lying in the coffin, she knew her subconscious was trying to show her something she was too flustered to see. In the end, it occurred to her that the book with Sam’s photograph could be the key to returning home. She’d held it in her hand just before she fell unconscious. Had she dropped it, or had the book traveled with her through time? Was it lying on the floor of the Golden Slipper?
The possibility had kept her wide-eyed and restless, until she’d finally sat up sometime around ten. Outside was still quiet, but she doubted Sam was asleep. She bent over to slip on her running shoes, and spied the books she’d noticed stacked under the cot. Unable to resist, she crouched down and grabbed a handful.
Behind the stack were a dozen or more books and magazines, which surprised her. Reese hadn’t thought magazines existed in the 1800s. She pulled out several of those, too, and then sat down on the cot again, balancing the bounty on her lap.
She looked at the magazines first, stunned to find copies of the Saturday Evening Post, Scientific American and Scribner’s Monthly. The issues were all old, even by Sam’s standards, dating back three or four years. One publication, Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, particularly interested her. For the price of ten cents, the issue was filled with miscellaneous news in the areas of music, drama, fine arts, sports, serial fiction and book reviews. The pages were well-worn, as if they’d been turned many times, although this particular issue was already six years old.
The thought of Sam being interested in this variety of subjects intrigued her. Eagerly, she turned her attention to the books, the jackets of which were already worn, and the first title leaped out at her: Moby Dick. Blinking, she went to the next one: Nature, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Then two by Jules Verne, Journey to the Center of the Earth and Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea.
The familiar titles made her feel disoriented all over again. She checked the publishing dates. They ranged from the 1830s to the 1860s. She’d never thought about how long the classics had been around. But these books, right now, were part of Sam’s pop culture. How interesting that he chose such fanciful fiction. Maybe that’s why her fantastic story about traveling through time hadn’t prompted him to throw her out.
She leafed through the pages, saw that some of them were dog-eared, and that a piece of straw or scrap of fabric marked a place. Tonight, if she couldn’t sleep, at least she’d have reading material. She’d read Moby Dick, but none of the others. She set the books aside, and returned to the magazines. But a noise in the stables warned her that Sam was moving about, and she quickly put everything back under the cot.
She took a deep breath and smoothed her hair. Silly how her pulse sped up, knowing she was about to see him. But there it was.
“DID YOU WANT TO BE a doctor?” she asked after her first sip of morning coffee. Bitter and thick, the brew seemed to slither down her throat. But she needed to be alert, and this, if anything, would do the trick. Sitting by the heat of the wood stove was making her drowsy.
Sam stared down from the loft where he was forking hay to the stable floor. “No.”
His appalled tone made her smile. “Why not? You’re good at tending to people.”
“Don’t like blood.”
She hooted with laughter. “You’re kidding.”
The annoyed dip of his eyebrows told her he didn’t share the joke.
“But you’re around gore so much. You’re the first to hold down a patient or clean up or replace the bloody water—”
He winced. “Don’t much like talking about it, either.”
She drew her head back, surprised by his obvious aversion to blood. Then she took another thoughtful sip of coffee. He helped because Doc needed him, because without his contribution, someone could die. Had she ever met a more honorable man? Certainly not in her circles.
Damn him. As if she didn’t like him too much already.
She shifted so that she could lean comfortably against the sideboard where he kept the pot, skillet and kettle, and watched him work. No hardship there. He had strong, muscled arms and seemed to handle his chores without effort. She knew guys from the gym who kept in great shape, working out religiously, yet she doubted any of them would have half his stamina.
“What did you do before you came here and opene
d the livery?” she asked.
He stopped forking hay, leaned on the pitchfork and used the back of his arm to wipe his forehead. He looked at her directly for the first time since she’d joined him, his gaze briefly lingering on her throat, where she’d left the top two buttons unfastened. “You shouldn’t be sitting out here in the open.”
“We’ll hear if someone comes.”
“Not necessarily.”
She sighed. “After last night, I don’t see that it matters. The Smiths probably have told someone about me.”
“No. Pete gave me his word.”
Reese smiled wanly, sincerely hoping that was good enough. Sadly, in her world, a person’s word didn’t always mean much. “You haven’t told me about what you did before coming to Deadwood.”
He stiffened, the tension radiating from his body reaching her half a floor below. Abruptly, he picked up the pitchfork and aimed it like a spear high in the air in her direction. Her heart plummeted. With force, the pitchfork pierced one of the bales of hay sitting several feet from her.
He pulled off one glove and then the other, stuck them in his back pocket. Then he descended the rickety-looking ladder, his brown shirt straining across his back muscles.
“You could have hit me with that thing,” she said, her heart still pounding.
“Only if I’d aimed for you.”
She glared at him. “What are you going to do now?”
He stepped off the last rung and turned to face her. “Water the horses, ma’am. If that’s all right with you.”
His teasing smirk caught her off guard. She gathered her skirt and pushed clumsily to her feet. He closed a hand around her upper arm to help steady her. When it was time to release her, he did so with such obvious reluctance that something fluttered in her chest.
She looked into his chocolate-brown eyes, tempted to slide her arms around his neck and hold tight until he kissed her. It would take but a second for him to respond. She hadn’t mistaken the heated looks, the different ways he found to touch her, no matter how briefly. But she knew darn well they wouldn’t stop at one kiss, and there was too much at stake.
“Why won’t you tell me about your past?” she asked, tilting her head to look up at him.
His face changed, the humor gone. “What good is that?”
She lifted a shoulder. “You know about me. All I really know about you is that you like to read. You have quite an eclectic collection of books and magazines.”
He startled her by hooking a finger under her chin and forcing it higher. His gaze skewered her with a contempt she didn’t understand. “Do I?”
“The books were in plain sight. I wasn’t snooping.”
One side of his mouth lifted in a mocking smile. His grip on her chin tightened infinitesimally, just enough that panic welled up inside her. “What else did you find?”
“Nothing. I swear.”
“I offered you shelter. That’s all.” His eyes were cold. This was the other Sam—the one she’d glimpsed yesterday.
She shivered. “I understand.”
Abruptly, he lowered his hand.
She swallowed, even more curious about him than before. Surely he wasn’t embarrassed at being well-read. Not that she’d ask.
Wordlessly, he refilled the cup he’d left on the stove. He took two gulps and stared out toward the street.
She had little choice. At the risk of getting her head bitten off, or worse, she asked, “Will you go to the Golden Slipper for me today?”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. Without looking at her, he gave a curt nod and drained his coffee cup.
There was only one reason a man went to a place like the Golden Slipper, and it galled her to think she cared in the least what Sam did. But her hand shook as she reached into her skirt pocket and withdrew the coins the patients had given her last night. She opened her palm. “You’ll probably need these.”
10
SAM STEPPED INTO the dimly lit parlor of the Golden Slipper. The sickening smell of tobacco, whiskey and cheap sex burned his nostrils and sat heavy in his lungs. He’d chosen a good time to come. The place was crowded, even though most of the miners had headed back up the mountain. Not long ago, when Deadwood had first sprung up out of nothing, the whole town depended on gold and prospectors for survival. But that had changed quickly, with folks pouring in and setting up shops and saloons. Now with talk of the railroad, and the telephone exchange with Lead, it seemed as if there were never any peaceful days.
The stage came more often now, the livery was nearly always full, and what with Homer Atkins opening another hotel, Sam had been asked to add to the stables. He didn’t mind the extra work, but he hated the steady increase in travelers coming through town. It was only a matter of time before someone recognized him.
“Well, I’ll be. Sam Keegan. I haven’t seen you here in quite a spell.” Margaret sidled up to him, her strong perfume making his eyes water. “You haven’t been going over to Dora or Mollie’s place, have you, darlin’? My girls are much better than those old whores of Dora’s. Those gals of hers have been spreading their legs before mine were born.”
He waited for her to finish laughing at her own joke, and then said, “No, ma’am. Been too busy.”
She linked an arm with his, and with her blue satin skirt rustling, steered him toward the bar. “Chester,” she said to the barrel-chested bartender. “You give Sam here a whiskey on the house.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Sam said, even though pressed up against Margaret’s big bosom and drinking a whiskey was the last thing on earth he wanted.
She drew a finger across the seam of his lips. “You call me Margaret, handsome.” She smiled, her taunting gaze following the trail of her finger, and then she slowly lowered her hand. “I have the perfect girl for you, Sam Keegan. You just wait right here.”
He exhaled slowly and watched her sashay toward the stairs. Damn, he wished he could’ve slipped in without her seeing him. Truth be told, the fact that she knew his name surprised him. He didn’t even really know the woman, who’d come to Deadwood about a year ago. Her establishment was the newest of the three brothels. Sam had only visited the place twice. She and the sheriff had gotten real cozy right off, and Sam made it a habit to stay away from lawmen.
Chester set the whiskey in front of him, and Sam nodded to the man before throwing back the shot. He hadn’t wanted it, but no use having people wonder why a man would belly up to a bar and not take a drink. The bartender picked up his glass to refill it, but Sam shook his head and slid him a coin, which he quickly pocketed.
“Heard you had some excitement around here on Saturday,” Sam said in a tone that meant he was just making idle talk.
“Saturday?” Chester frowned, shaking his head, his fleshy jowls wobbling. Abruptly, his face cleared. “Oh, Saturday, yeah, the new whore. Wearing a wedding dress, if you can believe it. Then gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“They found her yet?”
“Nope. Why?”
Sam shrugged. “I like ’em with spirit. Figured I’d have a go at her.”
Chester grinned. “Yep. That one, she had spirit.” He wiped his hands on his apron while he glanced around. Then he ducked his head and gulped down a shot from a glass hidden under the bar. He straightened and looked around again, his pale blue eyes darting toward the stairs. “A man can get mighty thirsty working back here. But Margaret don’t understand.”
“Good thing she’s not here.” Sam smiled, reaching into his pocket. Not the one that held the coins Reese had given him. Hell. Big of her, offering to buy him sex. That had really set him off. “Let me buy you another one.”
The bartender’s greedy gaze went to the gold piece Sam set on the bar. He narrowed his eyes on Sam, paused for a second and then grabbed the gold. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Sam waited for the man to down another shot, and then said, “The woman, the one in the wedding dress. Did she leave anything behind?”
Chester gave h
im an odd look. A customer at the end of the bar yelled for another beer and the bartender shifted his girth in that direction.
Cursing under his breath, Sam looked around the room. A bald man he recognized but didn’t know by name sat on a settee with two of the ladies. Already he’d had too much to drink, judging by his crooked tie and the fact that his pocket watch had fallen on the floor near his boot. The blonde hanging on his left arm slid a hand between the man’s legs, and smiled at Sam.
He quickly turned back to the bar. The last thing he needed was to have to fight an angry drunk. He waited for Chester to refill glasses, hoping he’d get done before Margaret returned. Finally, the man ambled back in his direction.
“I’ll take another whiskey now,” Sam said, so as not to arouse suspicion.
Chester grumbled about washing another glass, and then shoved the whiskey across the bar. Sam got his meaning and gave him an extra two bits.
“Margaret said she had someone in mind for me.” Sam sipped, and then shrugged. “You got an opinion on who I should choose?”
The bartender’s lecherous gaze went straight for the blonde who’d smiled at Sam. “Any man who goes up those stairs with Laura comes down grinnin’ from ear to ear.”
Sam briefly glanced over his shoulder and then took another sip. “Sure had my mind set on the new one.”
Chester pulled the towel he kept draped around the back of his neck and polished a wet spot on the mahogany bar. “Don’t know what to tell you, friend.”
“You expect she means to come back? Did she leave anything here she’d wanna fetch?”
“Nope.” He stopped and frowned thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, she didn’t have any bags with her.”
“Nothing?”