by Cindy Nord
“It’s a nice evening,” he said around the tightness in his throat. “No doubt about it.”
She swatted at annoying mosquitoes buzzing around her face. “Thank you for the wonderful meal, too. If not for these pesky bugs, the night would be simply magical.”
Magical? Dillon snorted. The only magical ending he wanted this night was to toss her skirts and bury himself inside her. He slapped a dish against water in a futile attempt to banish the illicit thought. “Sorry ‘bout the ‘skeeters,” he mumbled after he’d regained control of his idiotic brain. “They weren’t as bad the last time I came through here. River’s a bit sluggish, though.” He angled a fork toward a boggy section. “Lots of low spots now.”
She smacked her right palm against her cheek. “Got one!”
For a long moment, Dillon stared at her, his gaze dropping to her sweet lips. He could still taste his mouth against hers.... He shoved to his feet. “Once you’re under your bedroll, the mosquitoes won’t bother you.”
Stumbling to her feet, she patted out the wrinkles from her skirt. “H-How much longer ‘til we rejoin civilization?”
“Should be at Camp Apache by Sunday. After that, the final leg of the journey will be much easier.”
“I’ve been through worse,” she said, grinning. A skip in her step brought her alongside him to the campfire. “I’m fearless…remember?”
Damn her for turning on her charms. He bit back a laugh. “Yes you are…and you’ve done a hell of a job staying in the saddle, too.”
“Praise?” With all the drama of a seasoned actress, she angled her head and laid the back of her hand upon her brow. “I feel I’m caught in some bizarre dream.”
He chuckled. “This ain’t no dream, Princess.” He shoved the clean tinware into his saddlebags. “And there’s no turning back for us now.”
The next five days passed without a hitch. Little conversation flowed between them as the miles blended one into the other. Twelve hours from Camp Apache, Alma awoke in a silent mood.
Dillon handed her a cup of coffee, and with a weak smile, she accepted. Something didn’t add up…where was her annoying morning perkiness? “What’s wrong?”
The smile wilted on her face. “I don’t know,” she whispered, setting aside the cup. “I’m just so tired, and my…my whole body aches.”
He knelt onto one knee before her, a niggling worry rising. Was she fevered? His hands fisted as the need to touch her face burned through him. “Are you ill?”
A sigh followed. “I just want to get off this trail.”
“You and me both. We’ll be in camp this afternoon. I promise we’ll rest up a day or two before heading back out.” Dillon frowned at her uneaten breakfast of dried apricots and bread. “Finish up. You need your strength.”
She pushed away the dish. “I’m sorry, I-I just can’t. I’m so tired.”
His concerns grew. The flushed color of her skin. Her lethargy. Good God, this could be something serious. He needed to get moving and find her a doctor. “Stay put, I’m going to get the horses ready.”
Minutes later he lifted her into her saddle. Alma swayed. “Whoa there, Princess. I tell you what. Today you’re riding with me.” He tied her gelding to his saddle, then hoisted himself up behind her, letting the lead rope drape across his leg.
Heat radiated from her fevered body, and she began to shake.
Fear gripped Dillon’s soul, and he dug his mount into a canter.
By sundown, he reached Camp Apache. Galloping past gawking soldiers, he made a beeline for the post infirmary. At the entrance of the long, log hospital dominating the north end of the camp, he pulled the lathered gelding up short. With Alma in his arms, Dillon swept from the saddle and pounded across the boardwalk. On a ragged breath, he kicked open the door.
A short, lean captain pushed away from a desk. “What the–”
“You’ve got to help her, Doc,” Dillon rasped, fear rolling through his voice. “She’s burning up.”
The man resettled his glasses and scraped an assessing gaze over Alma. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Shivering. No appetite. She must’ve picked up something while we were coming over the rim.”
The captain indicated the nearest bed as he picked up a journal. “Put her there. I’ll take a closer look.”
A half-dozen scuffed steps later, Dillon eased Alma onto the mattress. “You’re here, Princess,” he whispered, pushing away wisps of damp hair stuck to her fevered face. “I promise you’ll get better, now.”
The doctor pulled a Cammann stethoscope from its tin case and draped the instrument around his neck. “Wait over there while I examine her,” he snapped.
With a nod, Dillon obeyed. In a daze, he scanned the empty quarters, damning his decision to cut across this God-forbidden track of land. I should not have brought her this way.
We should’ve just taken the stage. She’s fragile. She’s not like all the others. He stumbled, and slumped against a support beam. Bile churned in his gut. My God, what if I…lose her?
Alma’s splash into his life, all of her colorful arrogance, collided with the empty void of his existence.
The truth hit him square in the heart.
His eyes slid closed as a deep, single groan spilled from his mouth.
Sonofabitch…I-I love her … this magnificent woman so out of his reach that right about now even the moon loomed closer. As if she could ever really want him, a man who’d dragged her through hell, damning society and every part of her world.
They didn’t fit.
Nothing about their relationship made sense.
And Twain’s life was far different from that of a man on the range, one facing danger at every turn.
A writer could offer a woman stability. He couldn’t give her even that.
Dillon inhaled and swiped a leather-gloved hand across his face as the ache inside him expanded.
After a thorough examination, the doctor straightened and reached for another book, skimming the pages. With a deep exhale, he glanced at Dillon. “As I suspected, looks like she’s got the shakes. Seen this too many times not to know.”
“T-The shakes?” Jeezus…Dillon’s panic grew. He’d heard of this sickness...entire regiments had fallen ill by ague. “W-What can we do?”
The doctor ignored his question and pushed his chair back to his desk. He picked up a lucifer from an open box. “Based upon what I’ve been reading, ‘the shakes’ is now being termed malaria.”
The stench of sulfur rose between them as light illumed the man’s face. The glass globe rattled as the doctor seated it atop the lantern. “They still don’t know what causes the illness, though, which is quite frustrating.”
He flipped through another journal, and paused at an entry. “Had a few patients in here last week with the same symptoms. Nothing like the outbreak I dealt with a couple years ago at Camp Goodwin, thank God. The sickness got so bad the army was forced to move the whole compound over here onto higher ground.”
The captain closed the textbook with a snap and glanced at Alma. “She sure is a pretty little thing.”
The last of his patience snapped and Dillon stepped closer. “Look, Doc, I don’t want a damned history lesson or your opinion on her good looks. I just need you to fix her.”
Their gazes reconnected and he shook his head. “Only quinine can do that, I’m afraid.”
“Fine,” Dillon snapped. “Give her some.”
“Can’t.”
Dillon stepped closer, towering over the man. At this point, violence seemed the better option. “And why not?” he growled.
“There’s none left.” The doctor thinned his lips. “Been waiting on another shipment for days. Might get here tomorrow. Might be next month.” He laid aside the book and rubbed his brow.
The hellish pain inside Dillon expanded. “Where are they coming from? I’ll ride to intercept, bring the medicine back–”
“I don’t know where the army fills my provisions. Wherever t
he shipment is, they’re all weeks away by horseback. Could be the Quartermaster’s Depot over at Fort Leavenworth or a half-dozen other locations. Not sure which one ‘til my supplies arrive and I sign for them.” Fatigue darkened his eyes. “I’m sorry. The only thing we can do is keep her comfortable until they arrive.”
Furious, damning his helplessness, damning his poor decisions that had tossed Alma into this dire circumstance, Dillon glared at the man. “I refuse to believe that’s all that can be done.”
Hard eyes narrowed. “I’m the doctor not you. My diagnosis stands.” He reached for another medical tome. “I suggest you prepare yourself, mister. Unless she gets quinine soon, your woman is going to die.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The half-day’s ride to the Indian reservation gave Dillon something to do instead of pace and worry. Keep her comfortable until the medicine arrived? Like hell! The arrogant I have a certificate of medicine and you can’t argue with me jackass. His princess needed help, and by God, she was going to get it.
Seated inside a dome-shaped lodge, Dillon narrowed his gaze on the medicine man opposite him. A smoke-filled haze from a small campfire in the center drifted around the enclosure and tainted each breath. Eyes stinging, Dillon rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the tension as he waited, cursing every second.
Alchesay, General Crook’s eyes among the White Mountain Apache, sat beside the shaman. A sun-scorched, coppery mass of muscles, the scout wore a muslin loin-cloth. Beading covered his knee-high moccasins, and a hawk feather lay woven into the side of his long, ebony hair.
Flame from the campfire flickered. A glint of light reflected across the recently received Medal of Honor swinging from a lanyard around the nineteen-year-old’s neck.
For a moment, Dillon recalled General Crook’s crusade against Cochise last winter, a campaign resulting in this Indian’s much-deserved tribute. Working alongside him and several other army scouts, Alchesay had played a crucial role in gaining the Chiricahua chief’s surrender. During the battle, Dillon had formed a lasting friendship with this wise-beyond-his-years young scout.
Relieved that Alchesay had returned to his home on the newly-created reservation outside Camp Apache, Dillon had shared his worries regarding Alma, thankful his friend now spoke to the revered shaman on his behalf.
Dillon leaned closer. He’d heard enough of the guttural words whispered between the two Indians to piece together the story Alchesay now shared with the wise-old shaman named Toggy: healing herbs from the spirits…his heart’s blood…death has come to visit him.
Nodding, the old man settled a watery blue gaze upon Dillon and then reached for his leather pouch. “Ctcimi zdza-I. Bida’a bitsits’in.”
He’s unhappy in his eyes and his head. Dillon swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding. Unlike the army doctor, this sagacious old healer had put the truth of Dillon’s heartbreak into words. Wormwood. Other spirit gifts. Doses throughout the night. The elder poured several powdered mixtures onto a leather hide.
Hope eked through Dillon.
“Shit’sa’ ndlaa tah ‘nnii,” the spirit leader stated as he stirred the powerful medicines together. With care, he slipped them into a smaller pouch. A deep, guttural chant followed as Toggy blessed the concoction.
The shaman’s eyes slowly opened. He relocked his gaze with Dillon’s.
“She must drink the mixture in clean water each hour,” the young scout translated, “and you must bathe her body beneath wet cloth until her fever breaks.”
Dillon nodded, and accepted the shaman’s gift, his breathing as uneven as his heartbeat. In the tongue of the Apache people, he whispered, “Ahee-ih-yeh…thank you, wise one. You have given me back my light.”
***
The last shimmers of sunset struggled within the sky when Dillon rode back to Camp Apache. Dismounting, he looped the reins of his horse around a railing, and then skimmed the cavalry compound. Quiet, except for the notes of an ill-tuned piano emanating from the saloon. He glanced at the soaring pines that hugged the edge of the outpost. Fading rays split around the trees in streaks of gold and white. Radiant…just like Alma. He’d administer the medicine, care for her. That’s all that mattered now.
Turning, Dillon hurried down the main road, crunching past the sutler store and brewery. He caught a glimpse of his cabin as he passed. A double-eagle had been the shop owner’s steep fee to secure a week’s worth of usage for the rickety shack. With a nod, Dillon had flipped his last twenty-dollar gold piece toward the shyster’s outstretched hand. He didn’t quibble the cost. The secluded dwelling was exactly what he’d needed, and he’d sealed the deal this morning before he’d rode to the Indian reservation.
An agonizing minute later and terrified of what he might find, Dillon shoved open the hospital door and made a bee line for Alma. The dozing doctor, body slumped over his desk, awoke with a start. The chair scraped back and wobbled as he scrambled to his feet.
“Y-You’re back.” He straightened his coat. “I’d wondered where you’d gone this morning in such an all-fired hurry.” He angled a thumb toward the back of the room. “Got you a bed over in the corner made up with clean sheets.”
Dillon glanced at the advancing man before leaning over Alma.
His blood chilled.
Oh my God.
Plum-colored splotches spread across the delicate skin beneath her closed eyes, her hair lay in damp, matted clumps across the pillow, and her breath rattled with each sputtering intake. The past few hours had taken their toll. Since he’d seen her earlier this morning, her condition had worsened.
He’d give his own life to see her smile again.
The doctor had removed her outer garments. Clad in her unmentionables, her chemise was soaked with sweat.
Stomach muscles clenched when he scooped her into his arms. “Come on, Princess. I’ve got you now.” A throaty groan fell from her lips, and her head lolled against his chest.
The doctor dug a hand into Dillon’s upper arm. “Good God man, y-you can’t move her.”
A shrug shook loose the captain’s grip. “Try and stop me.”
Dillon scanned the room for a blanket and grabbed the one that lay folded near the bed. A quick tug, and he draped the thin wool across his shoulder, covering Alma’s body from prying eyes. He strode toward the open door.
The doctor hurried around Dillon and blocked the opening, hands raised in a consoling gesture. “Now wait a damn minute, Reed. I realize you’re upset.”
The truth was he’d never been so shit-scared in his life. “Move.”
“Just listen to me for a moment…taking her out like this is not in her best interest. We…we need to wait–”
“We’re done waiting. If your quinine arrives, I’ll be caring for her in the cabin between the brew house and the mercantile.” Dillon shifted sideways around the man. “I’ve got my own medicines now that’ll help–”
The captain’s face flushed with outrage. “What medicines?”
Dillon dipped his jaw toward the leather pouch looped around his neck. “A remedy from the shaman on the reservation.”
“F-From old Toggy?” he scoffed, eyes widening. “Jesus Christ, Reed, he’s a damned redskin! You can’t believe all that peyote-induced lunacy he spews. His potion’ll probably kill her faster than the damned malaria.”
The nerves in Dillon’s gut wound tighter. He bumped the brim of his hat against the doctor’s forehead. “Can you do anything more for her without your medicines?”
“N-No…”
“Then it’s settled. Get the hell out of my way.”
The captain hesitated.
With a curse, Dillon shoved past, then maneuvered across the boardwalk, a breeze, punctuated with the aroma of brewing beer, swirling in the evening air. He didn’t give a damn about the doctor’s beliefs. He’d do whatever it took to keep Alma alive.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Firelight flickered across Alma’s naked body. For most of the night, her labored
rales had vied with the crackling flames. Awash in fatigue, Dillon eased himself onto the chair beside the metal-framed bed and again plunged a rag into the water bucket.
Her nearness. Her scent. Her need for him galvanized his every action.
Water dripped into the bucket as Dillon squeezed out the excess liquid. As the moon rode the night, he’d followed the same routine. He gave her a dose of the shaman’s tonic, and then he swabbed her from head to toe. He’d hoped that having stripped her of her undergarments to make her as comfortable as possible would’ve helped. Thankfully, she hadn’t worsened throughout the night.
That, he owed to the shaman’s herbs.
Dillon leaned forward and again skimmed the wet rag over her honey-hued shoulders and breasts. “Come back to me, Princess,” he whispered. His voice sounded desperate, even to him.
Her words played havoc in his mind. That ice you’ve built around your so-called heart…I strongly suggest you melt that. He sucked a lungful of air, then eased his breath out on a lengthy sigh.
This is all my fault.
The truth burned straight to his soul.
On an unsteady breath, he redipped the cloth, wrung out water, and swabbed her belly, his fingertips flexing against the suppleness. In gentle motions, he smoothed the rag over the swell of her hip, then further down her leg.
Over the past few hours, he’d memorized each precious curve.
Again he dipped and squeezed, then worked his way down her other side. In slow degrees, the anguish of Caleb’s death seeped over him. On the heels of that pain flooded his mother’s betrayal and his father’s downward spiral into drunkenness.
Dillon tightened his jaw.
Though just a child, he’d watched as his family frayed away from him forever. As the years unraveled, all alone, he’d conveniently used their deaths, the loathed deception by his high-society mother, as a means to distance himself from humanity. Safe. Protected. But, hidden behind his wall of ice, there’d still been a gaping void. And all the days spent carousing, killing, and dissention had put little distance between him and that damning truth.