Cailean asked, “What would he have gained from leaving here and moving on to another place?”
“He left soon after J.P. arrived,” Warren said. “I wonder if he was worried about having a real reporter in town. The last one could barely print a paper about the weather, never mind a true interest story.” Warren looked around at his friends. “If he were smart, the doc moved to another small town in need of a doctor, one without an inquisitive reporter.”
Jessamine laughed and shook her head. “Then they aren’t truly a reporter.” She shrugged. “I’ll do all I can to help, but I’m feeling stymied.”
Warren smiled at her. “Thank you, J.P. I’ve always known I can count on your friendship.”
Alistair spoke, causing Jessamine to pause as she was about to rise and get Ewan to go home. “Perhaps we are lookin’ in the wrong direction. Perhaps the Jamesons will gain somethin’ if Helen were to marry Bertrand.”
Warren shook his head. “I’m the lawyer in town, and I know nothing.”
“Aye, but Mrs. Jameson was in Helena in December. She could have consulted a lawyer there. An’ we would be none the wiser.”
Jessamine sat in deep thought. “Her husband was Vincent Jameson, who ran off with a Beauty from the Boudoir.”
“Aye, Chastity,” Cailean said, unable to hide a snicker. “I’d think she’d have chosen a better name.”
Jessamine rolled her eyes at Cailean and then nodded. “I’ll look into the missing husband. He could be the clue we have ignored.”
The following day Warren pushed open the door to the print shop and paused as he glanced around at the chaos within. He shook his head as he saw Jessamine writing an article at her desk. “I will never understand how you can work in such clutter.”
She glanced up at him, her gaze focused and a half smile flirting with her lips. “Just as I will never understand your need for a sense of order.” She motioned for him to sit on the chair near her desk, her smile broadening as he cleared it of a stack of papers. After he sat, she sobered as she took in his disheveled appearance. “I’m surprised to see you. I thought you’d be with Helen.”
“Sorcha and Bears are with her. I’ve made it known that she is never alone.” He clamped his jaw. “Not after …” He took a deep breath. “I need your help, J.P.”
She nodded. “You know I’ll do anything I can. You are like another brother to the MacKinnons. And you are like one to me as well.” She gripped his forearm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “What can I do? I haven’t discovered much more about Bertrand March or Helen’s father yet.” She glared at the piles of papers on her desk.
“I want you to write about me.” He met her startled gaze. “I know that public opinion has changed with the doctor’s attack on Helen, but doubt remains among many of the townsfolk.” He rubbed at his whiskered cheek before tugging on the end of his mustache. “I hate that I must earn their trust again, but I fear that is something I need to do.”
Jessamine nodded. “Do you want to write it?”
He shook his head and closed his eyes. “I’ve tried. It comes out garbled.” His piercing blue eyes shone with frustration. “Will you listen to what I say and then publish what you deem important?”
“Are you certain, Warren?” she whispered. “I know how you guard your privacy.”
He let out a deep breath. “I will do anything to ensure that, when Helen wakes, she will be married to a man who is esteemed and able to provide a good life for her.”
Jessamine furrowed her brow and doodled on the piece of paper in front of her. “Why do you insist on working when you inherited a sizeable amount from your father? You never have to work again.”
His cheeks reddened. “I see March isn’t the only one you’ve looked into. Will you listen?” After Jessamine nodded, he began to speak, his low baritone a gentle rumble in the room.
When he finished, and she had filled three pages with notes, Jessamine dropped her pencil and massaged her hand. “It will take me a little while to determine what to publish and what to exclude.” Her cognac-colored eyes brightened. “Unless you’d allow a serial about your life?” She frowned as he shook his head. “Do you want to read a proof before publication?”
“No, J.P. I trust you.” He rose and squeezed her shoulder. “Thank you.” He closed the door behind him softly before crossing the street to his home behind the buildings on the other side of Main Street. He slipped inside, pausing at the scent of smoke. His alarmed gaze met Sorcha’s amused smile. “Is there a fire?”
She shook her head. “Nae, Bears wanted to do a traditional healing ceremony he learned from his mother’s people. They burn sage and sing.” She paused as a soft crooning could be heard. “I should no’ think he’d have much more to do.”
Warren left her in the parlor and walked down the hallway, pausing at the door to his bedroom with Helen. He watched as Bears raised his hands, as though invoking spirits, and then sang in a louder voice. A sweet but smoky smell filled the room, although Warren could see nothing lit. When Bears finished his song, he lowered his arms, dropped his head to his chest a moment and then let out a deep breath. He met Warren’s curious gaze, his black eyes boring into Warren’s. “She struggles to return to you.”
Warren’s breath caught at his words. “But she will return?”
Bears’s expression remained guarded as he watched Warren. “What is important is that you believe. She must have those around her fighting for her to come back to this world.” He slipped past Warren, leaving with Sorcha.
Although it was late March and cold outside, Warren flung open a window to clear the house of the smell. He wrapped another blanket over Helen and gripped her hand. “Come back to me, Nell. Please.” He bowed his head, his tears seeping into the bedcovers.
Two days later, and five days after the attack, Warren sat next to Helen on a midafternoon break from his law office, holding her hand. After a few minutes he kicked off his shoes, removed his coat and lay down on the bed next to her, wrapping his arm over her waist. He breathed in her scent, a mixture of lemon and gardenia, and relaxed. “I miss you, Nell. I miss you teasing me. Challenging me. Taunting me.” He gave her a soft squeeze, then continued.
“Do you remember the first time we met? I was dust covered and travel weary, and looked more like a penniless tramp than a respectable lawyer. You wore a mint-green dress with a straw bonnet and had an apron full of wildflowers.” He chuckled. “Your hair shone as bright as any gold I’d ever seen and your smile brighter still. You were friendly to all then. Your mother and brother hadn’t started their plans for you, and you enjoyed life.”
He stroked her arm. “I couldn’t believe such a beautiful woman lived in this town that I’d exiled myself to.”
He sighed as he held her tighter about the waist. “And then you told me that I’d be lucky to last a week at the miner’s camp if I was already so exhausted by the journey here.” He chuckled. “Oh, Nell, I knew then you’d never seek me out for the prestige of my name. You were the first person I’d ever met who appeared without artifice. I think I began to love you then.”
He kissed her shoulder. “Somehow you became a friend. And I cherished having you in my life. Until I ruined it all and was forced to watch you from a distance. Don’t make me live without you, Nell.”
He was silent for long minutes, until he whispered, “Do you know what my dreams are? I dream of us living in this town. Sharing our daily triumphs and challenges. Laughing at the inanities of life but finding joy in them because we are together. I love you,” he whispered. “Come back to me.”
He let out a shaky breath as she remained quiet next to him, her breathing a soft cadence. He rested next to her, falling asleep until a knock sounded on the bedroom door. He opened bleary eyes as Sorcha poked her head in.
“Oh, I beg yer pardon,” she said. “I never meant to interrupt.”
He shook his head in an attempt to wake up before he sat and slung his legs over the side of the bed. “There’s not
hing to interrupt. I’ve had my mad midafternoon mutterings, and I need to …” He stilled on the side of the bed with his head bowed, as he seemed to forget what he was to say.
“You need to cease believin’ ye can work as the town lawyer and take care of yer ailin’ wife,” Sorcha snapped. “The town was happy enough to do without a lawyer when they believed the vile lies spread by Mrs. Jameson and Mr. Finlay. Ye have no reason to jump to do their biddin’ now that they want yer services again.” Her indignant flush reddened her cheeks.
“What you say is true, but I still must earn money for us.” He stared at Sorcha. “I must provide for my wife.”
Sorcha ran a hand over his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Take care of yerself, Warren. ’Twill do Helen no good to have ye sick next to her when she awakens.”
Warren laughed and nodded. “Thank you for being such a good friend, Sorcha.” He rose from the bed and left his bedroom, listening a moment as Sorcha chattered to Helen in a one-sided conversation about the goings-on at the MacKinnon household.
Warren moved into the parlor, his gaze landing on the large medical tome Helen had studied before her attack. He hefted the large book and sat in his chair, relaxing with a cup of coffee by the fire. He flipped through the pages until he found the section on head trauma. As he feared, there was little to be done. Sighing, he left the book on his lap and stared into the flames a moment.
He jolted at the loud bang on his door and dropped the book to the floor. He rose, yanking the door open. He frowned when he saw a miner at his doorstep. “Yes?”
“Does Miss Helen live here?” the man asked. At Warren’s nod, the man sighed with relief. “Can you tell her that she’s needed up at the mines?” When Warren stared at him uncomprehendingly, the man became impatient. “Her healing’s needed.”
Warren shook his head as he stared at the man incredulously. “She suffered an injury. She was attacked. Five days ago. She’s unconscious. She’ll be of no help to anyone.” The miner in front of him deflated at his words. “Speak with Mrs. Tompkins at the café. She has skills too, and I’m certain she’d help you in an emergency.” He held out a hand to shake the miner’s. “I wish you luck.”
“And I will pray Miss Helen improves. She’s always shown us compassion and caring, not bothered by our rough ways. A true lady, Miss Helen.” He shook Warren’s hand and strode in the direction of the café.
Warren watched the late-afternoon light shimmer on the snow-covered hills before he closed his front door. He sat again before the fire, his gaze distant as he listened to the quiet murmur of Sorcha’s voice and ignored his work.
Chapter 13
The subtle scent of sandalwood mixed with coffee and sweat wafted over Helen as she struggled awake. Her eyes fluttered like butterfly wings, unable to remain open for more than a few winks. She frowned as she failed to recognize the darkened room with a lamp lit on the bureau across from her. Struggling to move, but finding her limbs wrapped in heavy blankets, she moaned.
“Helen!” Warren said, snapping instantly awake. “Helen, please tell me that you are awake.”
She squinted at him with furrowed brows, as she squirmed away from his fingers stroking her cheek. “Why are you in my bed?” She glared at him as he rose before sighing with appreciation as he held her up and coaxed her into drinking a glass of water.
“This is our bed, Nell. We are married. We have been for over a month now, my love,” he said as he traced an eyebrow with his thumb. He frowned as she jerked away from him before gasping in pain.
“I would never have married you. I don’t even like you,” she rasped, her eyelids fluttering closed. “This must be a mistake.” She fell asleep before seeing Warren’s ravaged expression.
The following day she awoke to the sound of a soft lilting voice singing in the room. She opened one eye to see it was daylight. “Can I have water?” she croaked.
The singing stopped, and she heard rattling as something dropped to the floor. A soft hand lifted her up, and she swallowed a few sips of cool water. “Thank you,” she whispered. She forced her eyes open and saw Sorcha MacKinnon settle on a chair across the room, picking up knitting needles. “Why are you here?”
Sorcha watched her with a disapproving gaze. “I’m your friend. It saddens me to realize ye’ve forgotten what has happened recently.”
Helen raised a hand and rubbed at her forehead. “My head hurts,” she whispered. She stared at Sorcha a long time.
“That’s because ye suffered a head injury.” Sorcha frowned. “Do ye no’ remember that either?”
Helen groaned as she moved onto her side. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“The better part of six days.” The clacking of the needles continued as Sorcha worked. “That man of yours has been by your side the entire time.”
Helen closed her eyes. “It feels like it was all a dream.” She met Sorcha’s gaze, a mixture of concern and amusement. “But I’m not in my mother’s house, and I recognize this as the bedroom I shared with Warren. Which means we are married.” She sighed. “I thought that was a dream.”
Sorcha laughed. “Nae, no’ a dream. Although ye should ken ye gutted him last night when ye mumbled ye did no’ even like him.”
Helen frowned and then groaned as it made the pain in her head worse. She closed her eyes. “I don’t remember waking last night.” After a long moment, when Sorcha thought Helen had fallen asleep, she murmured, “Is he nearby? I’d like to see him.”
Sorcha made a noise in her throat and set aside her needles. “Of course. I’ll find him.”
Helen drifted in a half-awake daze as she awaited Warren. “My husband,” she whispered in wonder. Flits of memory returned. Of him speaking out at the Boudoir. Of her living with him before going to the ranch. Of their sleigh ride to the ranch after Annabelle gave birth. Of their wedding night.
She forced herself awake when she heard the door creak open and heavy footsteps enter. Noises followed of a chair lifted and set down next to the bed, facing where she lay, so she did not have to turn her head. Soft fingers brushed her cheek. “Warren,” she whispered.
“Hello, Helen,” he said. “How are you?”
“My head aches, and I have no strength,” she whispered. “Has the doctor come to see me?” She flinched as his derisive snort sounded.
“Of course not. He’s the one who did this to you.”
She raised a hand, reaching for him. When he failed to take her hand, she dropped it to the bed, too weak to hold it up for long. “I don’t remember,” she whispered. “My memories are returning but not that one.”
Warren grunted. “Hopefully you will recall what happened as the sheriff is anxious to speak with you.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you to convalesce.”
Before she could protest, he strode from the room. “Warren,” she whispered in a tear-thickened voice. When she heard the door click behind her, the tears seeped out, and she soon fell asleep again.
Warren motioned for Sorcha, who sat in the parlor, to remain with Helen and then slipped out the front door. He walked behind the buildings lining Main Street in the direction of the MacKinnon house. When he approached their house, he stood swaying, as though with indecision. He jolted when a hand slapped him on the back.
“What’s the matter, lawyer?” Bears asked. He wore buckskin pants and a heavy fur jacket. His boots were muddy, and he had a rifle slung over one shoulder.
“What have you been doing?”
He shrugged. “Anna wanted fresh meat, but there’s not much to be found in the near woods. I would have to travel a day or two into the mountains to find anything.” His intense gaze bore into Warren’s. “Come. I need to warm up, and you look like you need counsel.” He smiled at the word and led Warren to his small house beside the paddock and behind the MacKinnons’ big house.
They scraped off their boots outside and then entered, leaving their outerwear on pegs by the door. Warren watched as Bears built up the fire and put
water on to boil. “I have no desire to bother you.”
“Friends are not a bother, lawyer.” He released his long black hair from its confining rawhide band, and it swung loose as he moved around the small kitchen space. His home was nothing more than a large square room, separated into different living areas. To the right of the door was a table with a stove next to it and the kitchen area behind it. A sheet on the wall partitioned off the sleeping area on the left side of the room.
“I never thought you’d need a sheet,” Warren murmured.
Bears chuckled. “That was Miss Evans’s idea. Thought I’d feel more at home with a sheet.” He shook his head as though at the memory of Fidelia bustling around his home, adding feminine touches here and there.
“You hate it,” Warren said with a raised brow. “Why don’t you take it down?”
“That woman has little to make her feel confident. She helped decorate this tiny cabin, and that was her idea. If I took it down, she’d doubt herself and her ideas. I won’t do that to her.”
Warren frowned as Bears offered a chipped mug of coffee. Warren sat at one of the two chairs at the table and felt his tension ease in Bears’s company with the first sip of coffee. “Thank you.”
Bears watched him before shaking his head in disappointment. “I had hoped you would learn from your past, lawyer.”
Warren chuckled. “You are too perceptive for your own good.” He closed his eyes. “Helen woke, and it’s been wondrous to know she is coming back to me.” He sighed. “But she doesn’t seem to remember all that has happened.” He swallowed a large sip of coffee and ducked his head.
“Many among us will always doubt they deserve the good things that happen to them. They have been conditioned, like an ill-treated animal, to believe they only deserve the abuse.” He paused as his dark eyes sobered even further. “Your wife is one of those women. You must show her that the good memories filtering back are not her dreams but were her reality. With you.”
Montana Renegade (Bear Grass Springs Book 4) Page 20