Leather and Lace

by DiAnn Mills

  Casey looked up into the late afternoon sky, a cloudless canopy of deepening blue. Tears flowed freely over her cheeks for a man who appeared more dead than alive. Could this be why the two of them had met? Did Morgan sense his destiny?

  Oh God, I haven’t prayed since I was a little girl, and I don’t know if You have any idea who I am, but if You’re really there, would You listen for a moment? This man’s dying because he tried to help me. I’m not sure what kind of man he is, but he’s done an honorable thing by me. What I’m asking is for You to please spare him. I’d be greatly obliged. Amen. She paused. And, God, no matter what happens—whether he lives or dies—I’m finished with the past. My ma taught me how to live right, and I know she’s with You now. So if You don’t mind, I’d like for You to please tell her I’m changing my ways. Maybe someday Tim will, too. Thank You for listening.

  Casey wiped the wetness from her cheeks. Something about this man made her react like a female, a trait she’d long since ignored. She inspected the ropes that secured him to the travois and thought about all the men she’d seen die. Glancing into the heavens, she sighed and hoped there lived a God who heard prayers.

  *****

  Casey rode with a firm hold on the rope leading Morgan’s horse. Her fingers grew numb from the grip. Her palms laid raw against the rough rope. She’d tucked her gloves inside a saddlebag when they became too cumbersome each time she stopped to check on Morgan. The profuse bleeding and his uneven breathing told a grim story. He clung to life by a mere thread.

  She attempted to toss aside a sickening thought. Had Morgan been betrayed by Jenkins? Was her opinion of the dying man based on fool’s ground? Surely not. Surely she had not been blinded by the dream of freedom and the possibility of a man she could trust.

  For most of the journey, Morgan remained unconscious. In rare moments, low, guttural sounds rose to his lips. At those times, she stopped to moisten his lips with water and wipe droplets of sweat from his face, sweat that came from the battle he was fighting. He resembled a mangled animal: bloody and helpless. She agonized if her efforts were killing him or helping him cling to life.

  My fault. My fault.

  Normally the solitude of the open country offered a reprieve from an angry world. This time she ignored it all and focused on the critical matters ahead. Finding Doc to care for Morgan stood foremost in her mind. Once Morgan was treated and the danger had passed, she’d leave Vernal for the sake of those two men. No one, absolutely no one, would ever risk his life for her again.

  With the slow progress, she continuously focused her attention in all directions for signs of Jenkins’s men. The threat of being discovered tarried in the air, and her head felt like someone kept hitting her with a closed fist. Sleep, she needed sleep.

  Casey’s mind raced with loathsome memories of Jenkins. She shook her head and refused to dwell on the past. In the beginning, Tim had tried to protect her. Then he became like one of them. He’d come to her aid today, but he wouldn’t again. She could feel it in her bones.

  Her gaze rested on the figure behind her. She wanted to believe Morgan was different from Jenkins. The outlaw stood for all the dark and contemptuous parts of her past, while Morgan offered hope. But they could have been working together and something had gone wrong. She desperately craved for Morgan to be a good man, but she couldn’t afford to be stupid. Stupid got you killed. She had to be ready for the truth, as ugly as it might be.

  A faint cry from Morgan interrupted her thoughts. “Casey,” he whispered.

  She reined in Stoney and hurried to his aid. “Leave me,” he said between gasps. “I’ll . . . slow you down.”

  “No, sir. We’re in this together. Jenkins was shot, and his leg’s broke. So we have a head start. We’re okay for now, and besides, I’ve got to get you to a doctor.”

  He mouthed the word. “Vernal?”

  “Yes, and we’re nearly there.”

  It took several long moments for him to form his words. More beads of sweat rolled down his face. She brushed them away with her fingertips. “Won’t make it . . . . Leave me.”

  “No.” She checked the blood-soaked bandages and noted his colorless face in the evening shadows. “You just hush and save your strength.”

  She mounted her horse, and Stoney trudged ahead. Soon darkness wrapped its cloak around them and concealed the pair from the daggers of night. A clear sky filled with glimmering stars, and a slice of moon offered a silver path. Every step inched them closer to safety.

  In the wee hours of the morning, they arrived in Vernal. The town resounded with drunken men and laughter, and the crack of rifle fire sparked a wave of anxiety. Were they waiting at Doc’s, hiding in the blackness and waiting for her to appear? She dismounted and cautiously led the horses in the hope that one of Jenkins’s men wouldn’t emerge from the faceless voices.

  Only Morgan’s needs kept her planting one foot in front of the other. He was the driving force that pushed her on past the extreme exhaustion and hunger warring against her body. Each time she felt like giving in to fatigue, she recalled the deeds of the injured man tied to the travois. And her mind wrestled with the whole matter again.

  She slipped within the shadows of the main street and pulled both mounts through a pathway wide enough for a wagon. It turned sharply to the left and down a dark, narrow street to Doc’s house. Rifle in hand, cocked and ready, she peered around for one of Jenkins’s gang, the men she knew by name and deed.

  Standing motionless, Casey studied the small frame house belonging to Doc. When reasonably assured no one shared the surroundings, she mounted the steps to the porch, silently cursing their creaking. She rapped lightly, then harder when Doc didn’t answer. Only silence greeted her. She kicked the door, partly in anger and partly in frustration. A bellowing voice responded.

  “I’ve got a badly injured man.” She stared into the darkness behind her and wondered if another pair of ears heard her plea. Her voice lowered. “He’s been shot in the chest and lost a lot of blood.”

  Doc cleared his throat. “He’s most likely dead.”

  “Doc, this is Casey O’Hare. Please, open up.” Not prone to emotion, she knew any more words were locked in her throat. She took a breath. “I don’t think this man is an outlaw. He got hurt trying to help me.”

  “All right,” Doc said. “The whole town has heard how you left Jenkins.”

  She swung around, expecting the click of a trigger and a bullet etched with her name on it. In the next instant, she fought the urge to blow a hole through the door. “Are you going to open up or not?”

  “Oh, I guess I’ll see what I can do. Bring him in.”

  Casey looked back at the sad remains of Morgan. “I need you to give me a hand. I’ve got him tied to a travois.”

  She heard Doc utter a long string of complaints—“How is a man supposed to get any sleep,” and “I’m not about to get myself killed over any outlaw dispute.” The latch lifted. He towered in the doorway and lifted high a kerosene lantern.

  Barefoot and bare chested with suspenders holding up loose-fitting trousers, Doc presented a less than welcoming figure. His shoulder span reminded her of a grizzly. For certain, his size alone caused most men to think twice about crossing him.

  Doc cut Morgan from the wooden frame and lifted him into his arms. “Best hide those horses in the shed behind my stable,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s empty right now, but there’s extra feed and water. I wouldn’t want any of Jenkins’s men finding your horses.” He handed her the lantern. “Get on out of here. I’ve got plenty of work to do. This man is more dead than alive.” His voice thundered, but that was Doc’s way.

  “One of Jenkins’s men may be here to fetch you.” She hoped the warning didn’t change his decision to treat Morgan. “Jenkins’s leg’s broke, and he’s been shot.”

  Doc nodded and disappeared into the small house. She stared after him a good bit before turning her attention to the horses. The animals needed to be fed and rubbed
down. Besides, what could she do for Morgan?

  Her heart plummeted with the realization of just how quickly Jenkins could find them. In one fleeting breath, she considered running, but her commitment to the injured man robbed her normal way of thinking. She couldn’t leave him with Doc, not just yet. For now, she must stay in Vernal until Morgan took a turn for the best, or she learned he was one of them, or he died. The not knowing clawed at her heart.

  Morgan had mentioned Vernal when talking about his family, said he had a few friends there but didn’t say what kind. The decent folk stayed off by themselves. They avoided the wanted men and didn’t deal with them unless forced to. Past emotions, past deeds, and a yearning for a clear conscience stopped her from contemplating that the injured man might walk among the corrupt. She wanted to believe he had the same values as she yearned to find. Then again, she’d never learn the truth if he died.

  Chapter 5

  Casey stole into the bedroom where Doc labored over Morgan. A yellow glow from a lantern lit up the blood-soaked cloths on both sides of Morgan’s chest, and a pan on the floor held another blood-soaked cloth. The harsh, acidic smell of carbolic spray met her nostrils and burned her eyes. The odor was characteristic of Doc. A few years back, she’d heard him say it kept his instruments clean and free from dirt that could cause infection. She’d seen a few other doctors who worked in filth. They said cleaning everything was a waste of time, but they lost a lot more of their patients than Doc ever did.

  “Did you wash up?” A sable and silver beard covered Doc’s face, and the same color of coarse hair sprouted from every exposed portion of his body. He did look and sound like a grizzly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hold this lantern over him,” Doc said. “He’s lost too much blood, girl, and I still need to yank out that bullet.”

  She snatched up the light. Morgan looked bad, really bad. She thought he must be dead, but Doc wouldn’t be working so hard if he was.

  Doc’s huge fingers wrapped around a two-pronged instrument. “I want that lantern right over the hole.” He adjusted the light to suit him, then dug through the raw flesh. A few moments later, he released a heavy sigh and pulled out a bloody piece of lead. It landed with a ping in a pan. He proceeded to stitch up Morgan’s chest and then bandaged him. The process intrigued her, but doctoring always had. Doc didn’t speak or lift his gaze until he finished.

  “What do you know about this man?” He picked up the blood-soaked instruments and tossed them into the pan with the bullet. “You can set that lantern on my dresser.”

  “Not much.” She obliged him, then studied Doc’s face. “He was after Jenkins, but he ended up saving my life. You know him, don’t you?”

  “I might.” He wiped his hands on a clean cloth. “In my profession, it’s best not to offer much information. Could prove dangerous.”

  Casey stared into Morgan’s pale face. “It’s hard to trust anyone, Doc, and when you do, well, someone gets hurt.” She hesitated. “Is he going to make it?”

  Doc picked up the pan and walked into the next room, where he lifted a hot kettle of water from the stove and poured it over the instruments. “Hard to say, Casey. He’s strong and a fighter, but it’ll take several hours before we know. Right now, both of you need to get some sleep. There’s nothing more you or I can do for him but wait.”

  “Jenkins might be here anytime about his bad leg.”

  Lines creased Doc’s brow. “You aren’t going to do anyone any good in your condition. Tomorrow morning we’ll work out this mess.” He took another clean cloth and dipped it into a bucket of water. Wiping her cheek, he shook his head. “I’m not looking at this blood a moment longer. At first I thought it might be yours.” He swiped at the other cheek. “I’d like to offer you better sleeping quarters than the floor, but he has my extra bed. If Jenkins does need my attention, I’ll have the other room free.”

  She rinsed and dried her hands. The calluses stained from dirt and blood stared back at her. Some things never came clean. “The floor is just fine, Doc. Believe me, I’m just grateful for what you’ve done. Helping me with him and knowing Jenkins is after us puts you in a real nasty position.”

  “I’ve been there before.” For the first time, he smiled. “Jenkins isn’t going to bother me. If he does, who’s left to piece together the rotten bunch around here?”

  She liked Doc. The first time she’d met him, nearly three years ago, one of Jenkins’s men had gotten shot. The fellow died while Doc tried to remove a bullet. She remembered the sweat dripping from his forehead as he worked to save the man’s life. The droplets hadn’t been from fear of the outlaw leader but from the intense effort to keep the man alive. Doc had impressed her as a man of honor and respect, something she craved even then.

  “I’ve heard rumors.” He filled the kettle with fresh water from a bucket. “And I wish you luck. You’ve a good head on your shoulders and an obvious sense of right and wrong. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be trying to get away.” He studied her face in the shadows. “You aren’t having a baby, are you?”

  The thought revolted her. “No, Doc.”

  “Just needed to make sure.”

  She understood. If she carried the outlaw’s baby, Jenkins wouldn’t kill her. If a baby wasn’t his, he’d peel the flesh from her body.

  Casey watched Doc open the cookstove, stir the embers, and add firewood. With his massive shoulders and arms, his efforts looked like child’s play.

  “I’ll make it through this.” She leaned against the doorway. “I don’t have much choice. Jenkins will kill me, given the first opportunity.”

  “I thought he only wanted you back.”

  “Maybe at first. I imagine the thought of me getting away has him powerful mad.”

  He slammed the top of the stove, and the sound startled her, reminding her of gunfire.

  “Too bad Morgan didn’t finish him off for you,” Doc said as he headed into Morgan’s room.

  Her gaze flew to his back. “I didn’t tell you his name. In fact, I wondered if he’d given me his real one. Guess you know more about him than I do.”

  He turned and eyed her curiously. “Maybe so. I haven’t seen him in quite a spell. Knew his folks well. That man lying in there is a whole sight better than the likes of Jenkins and his bunch. He comes from a good family—educated, churchgoin’ folk.” He shook his head. “Right now, I wish I could do more for him. I tell you this. He’s one of the finest men I’ve ever known.”

  Exhaustion tore through her, but she craved to hear more. “What else can you tell me?”

  He scratched his bearded cheek. “Ah, I’ll let him tell you when he’s feeling better.” His words rang with finality. “Right now, you come with me.” He headed into the room where Morgan lay, and she followed like a child who knew better than to disobey. He pulled out two neatly folded quilts from a leather-strapped trunk.

  Most likely somebody’s payment for his doctoring. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any money and nothing to give in trade. Both thoughts worried her.

  Doc fashioned a pallet on the floor beside the bed. She couldn’t remember feeling so tired, but she ought to be sitting by Morgan’s side and tending him. She glanced up at Doc as he examined the bandages, clean and unstained with blood.

  “If you don’t lie down and get some rest, I’m going to have two patients.” Doc’s tone would have caused the worst of men to take notice. “The circles under your eyes could bury a man.”

  She merely nodded, too weary to respond. Suddenly the room began to spin, and the horrible pounding in her head nearly blinded her. In one stride, Doc caught her before she tumbled to the floor.

  Through the haziness clouding her mind, she sensed Doc tugging at her boots. She wanted to focus on his previous words about Morgan. What did he say? Morgan is one of the finest men he’s ever known?

  *****

  Casey woke with stinging, sleep-robbed eyes. Groggy and disoriented, she stretched sore muscles and pieced together
the events of her last waking hours. Light filtered in through the closed window blinds. Panic raced through her. What time was it?

  She rose slowly from the floor, dizzy with the telltale signs of extreme hunger and the weakness accompanying it. She grabbed the iron bedpost and battled a surge of blackness. Morgan, what had happened to him? She had to make sure he was still alive.

  She blinked away her mind’s confusion and focused on the man’s face. He seemed to be asleep, and his coloring looked better. His forehead felt cool. Morgan had survived the night.

  She searched the room for her boots. Usually she slept fully clothed, a habit formed years ago to protect herself from Jenkins and the other outlaws who craved women like babies craved milk. Casey spied her boots at the foot of the bed. Doc.

  The tantalizing smell of food tugged at her stomach. She listened at the door, and when silence greeted her, she slowly opened it. The aroma of eggs, biscuits, potatoes, fried ham, and real coffee nearly made her crazy. Her attention focused on a plate on the cookstove, heaped high with the food. Beside it sat a coffeepot and a full mug of steaming coffee, certainly not the dirt-tasting brew she often made by the fire.

  Doc paused from reading a newspaper at the table. In the daylight, he didn’t look nearly as menacing, but his huge frame spilled over the chair. “I heard you get up. The food and coffee are hot and ready. Are you rested?”

  “Yes, sir, and I’m starved.” She smiled. “Thanks. I feel so much better.”

  “There’s water in the basin, and any other business can be taken care of out back.” He frowned. “You’re skinnier than a fence post.”

  “I know, Doc. I’ll take care of myself real soon. What about Morgan? How’s he doing?”

  “He’s holding his own, and that’s a good sign. The crucial hours have passed.” He folded his newspaper and stood from the chair. “I’ve given him something to make him sleep for a couple more hours.”