Painted by the Sun

by Elizabeth Grayson

  Cam flinched away from the doctor's touch and stifled a moan. For an instant Shea's knees went weak and she had to fight down the burn of bile that backed up in her throat.

  "He got both Wes Seaver and his brother before they shot him," Sheriff Cook answered with a hint of admiration in his voice. "Looked like quite a fight to me."

  "Good for you, Cam," the doctor said giving Cam's wound another poke. "Didn't think for a minute that rubbish in the papers about him riding with the bushwackers could be true."

  "Is—is he going to be all right?" Shea asked, in spite of herself.

  "Oh, Cam's as tough as they come," the doctor answered gruffly, "but we need to cut that bullet out. You going to be able to help me with that, little lady, or are you going to up and faint on me?"

  Shea had tended Simon all through his illness, but she'd never had experience with bullet wounds. Nothing with blood and the kind of pain that was hovering just beneath the surface of Cam's tense features. But she didn't want to be shunted off into a corner somewhere to wait for word, either.

  She stiffened her spine. "I can help."

  "Good," the doctor murmured. "Go get some water boiling. I'm going to need a pan to soak my instruments, and something to use for bandages."

  The doctor tugged off his coat, then opened his bag and pulled out his case of instruments and several glass-stoppered bottles.

  "Just get the damned thing out," Cam muttered when he saw that Burns was opening a bottle of chloroform. "I don't need that."

  "The hell you don't," the doctor muttered and lowered a gauze mask over Cam's nose and mouth.

  * * *

  Shea was asleep in the chair in the corner of the bedroom when someone came scratching on the door of the studio. She roused with a blink and looked across at where Cam was lying on the bed, pallid and still as a corpse. Alarm crushed down on her at the pale waxen look of him. Though she could see the regular rise and fall of his chest and hear the rhythm of his breathing, it didn't help what she was feeling.

  When the scratching came again, she rose stiffly and gathered up the blanket she'd wrapped around herself for warmth. She took up her Winchester, too, and went to see who was disturbing them now.

  Emmet Farley stood hunched and shivering on the landing.

  "What time is it?" she asked around a yawn.

  "About three o'clock in the morning," he told her. "I was out delivering a baby and heard about Cam when I got back. How is he?"

  "Doctor Burns says he's doing well enough, but he's scaring me half to death," she told him honestly.

  Emmet pressed his lips together before he spoke. "Would you mind if I had a look?"

  Her instinct was to let him in, let him examine Cam, let him reassure her. Instead she hesitated. "Why didn't Cam want you taking care of him?"

  Emmet let out a heavy sigh. "It's as cold as the backside of the moon out here. Can't I come in before I explain it?"

  She could see the droop of his shoulders and dark smudges of fatigue beneath his eyes. His concern warred with her need to stand by Cam and what he'd wanted. Still, Emmet had come here instead of heading home to bed...

  Shea capitulated and opened the door.

  Emmet stepped past her and hooked his coat over the coatrack. Then, taking his bag in hand, he went directly into the bedroom. Without so much as a word, he took Cam's pulse, listened to his chest, and checked his bandage.

  Cameron never moved.

  Shea hung tight to the rail at the foot of the bed until Emmet finished his examination. "So how is he?"

  "He's doing as well as can be expected. Dr. Burns did a fine job getting the bullet out, and there's no sign of infection. Cam's a little feverish, but that isn't uncommon as the body starts to heal itself. He lose a lot of blood?"

  Shea inclined her head.

  "That will slow him down some."

  "But he's going to be all right?"

  "He's going to be fine." Emmet did his best to smile at her. "But he's a damned lucky man. An inch or two in any direction and..."

  Shea had figured by the cautious way Dr. Burns probed for the bullet that the wound could have been a whole lot more serious than it was. She couldn't bear thinking about how close Cam had come to getting himself killed.

  She shuddered in spite of herself and pulled the blanket tighter. "If I make you a cup of tea," she proposed, "will you tell me why Cam didn't want you here?"

  Emmet rubbed at his long, stubbly jaw and heaved a tired sigh. "I suppose I've done a whole lot more to earn a cup of tea. But, Shea..."

  "Yes?"

  "You wouldn't have a 'wee dram' of whiskey to put in that tea, would you?"

  She saw all at once how shaken Emmet was that Cam had been shot, how much he regretted whatever it was that had come between them.

  She flashed him a smile. "I've got a key to downstairs, and I know where Agnes Franklin hides her nip bottle."

  A few minutes later they were seated on either side of the desk in the entry, drinking tea laced with Agnes Franklin's excellent brandy. As the liquor started to warm her from the inside out, Shea glanced across at Emmet.

  "So what was it that happened between you and Cam? Why didn't he want you here last night?"

  Emmet braced his forearms against the table and looked at her. "Did you know Cam rode with the guerrillas during the war?"

  Shea nodded.

  "Did you know before you saw it on the front page of the Rocky Mountain News?" he demanded. When she nodded again, he went on. "Well, I didn't. I was stunned when I saw the newsboys hawking the paper on the street. At first I thought it must be some kind of mistake, but once I'd read the story and realized it was true, all I could think about was Lily. All I could think about was what that news was going to do to her. I thought I should be the one to tell her since Cam hadn't had the courage to do it in all these years.

  "So I hightailed it out to the farm. I'd barely arrived, barely had time to show Lily the newspaper, when Cam came riding up the drive."

  Emmet ran his hand through his already ruffled hair. "After I saw how devastated she was reading that news story, I would have done anything in the world to protect her, to spare her the pain of confronting him. So I met him on the porch and told him to go away."

  "And she let you do that?" Shea asked, surprised that Lily had been so meek. "Didn't she want to know what Cam had to say? Didn't she want to give him a chance to explain? Didn't you?"

  "She came to the door while I was talking to Cam. It was seeing how upset she was, seeing that she was crying that made him leave."

  Having Lily refuse to see him, refuse to hear what he had to say must have all but torn out Cam's heart. Small wonder he'd showed up at the studio the way he had, so much the worse for drink, so in need of solace. In need of her.

  "Is Lily all right?" Shea asked him. She knew what it was like to have your whole word crumble beneath your feet, to have everything altered from one moment to the next.

  Emmet stared past her for a moment, then his angular face softened with the wisp of a smile. "Lily is a remarkable woman," was all he said.

  "Should I send word to her about Cam?" Shea wondered. "If she hasn't heard about what happened already, she'll want to know. She'll want to know he's here with me, and that as bad as he looks right now, he's going to get better."

  "I'm headed out there now. I'll explain everything that's happened," Emmet assured her and set his cup aside. "And now that you've let me examine Cam, I'll be able to reassure her."

  "Do you think Lily will be in to see him soon?" she asked hopefully.

  Emmet rose and reached for his bag. "I expect she'll come by in a day or so when his head is clearer so they can talk. But I doubt Rand will be able to wait that long."

  "All this has upset him, hasn't it?" Shea asked softly, concern for the child as strong as it was for his father.

  "He doesn't know what to think, and I hardly blame him," Emmet admitted on a sigh and pulled a small, corked bottle of amber-brown liquid out of
his bag. "Did Dr. Burns leave you any laudanum?"

  "For Cam, you mean?"

  Emmet laughed and shook his head. "Not for Cam; for you."

  "But surely I shouldn't be taking—"

  "For your peace of mind," he clarified. "Cam's the worst patient I've ever treated. When he broke his ankle a couple years back, Lily was ready to throttle him before a week was out." Emmet pressed the square little bottle into her hand. "Cam's as strong as an ox, and he'll mend fast if he stays in bed. This is how you keep him there—for a couple of days, at least."

  Shea looked down at the laudanum. "He won't like this."

  Emmet raised his eyebrows. "Well, no, he won't. But it's what's best for him."

  He reiterated Dr. Burns's instructions about Cam's food and medicine, and what she could do to make him more comfortable.

  The night was turning to hazy gray when they stepped outside. "Thank you for coming, Emmet," Shea said quietly. "I appreciate it, even if Cam probably won't."

  "Then just don't tell him I was here," he offered with a shrug. "And, Shea, I truly am sorry about Owen. He was a good man, and just beginning to find himself again."

  "I think he found himself yesterday afternoon."

  She reached for him, hugged him, and let him go. She watched him down the steps, then turned and went back into the studio. She glided through those dim, quiet rooms, checking on Ty, downing the last of her tea, and returning to the bedroom.

  In spite of Emmet's reassurances, Cam hadn't moved and his stillness frightened her. She settled gingerly on the edge of the bed and took his hand. For a moment it lay cold and lax in hers, then slowly Cam's fingers curled, clasping hers even in sleep.

  She let out her breath and stared down at him. How had this man come to mean so much to her? When had she begun to feel so much a part of him, so interwoven in his life and family? What would she have done if he'd died out there on the prairie today?

  Stark, breathless dread quivered at the core of her, a feeling that was resonant and ominous, and far too familiar. She'd lost so much over the years, so many of the people she loved that Shea didn't think she could bear losing anyone else. Especially Cam.

  Seeking closeness and reassurance and surcease, Shea eased down on the bed along Cam's uninjured side. She pressed her face against the smooth, firm flesh of his upper arm, and sought his warmth. Yet close as she was to him, as solid and safe as he seemed, the fear lingered in her as slow, silent tears crept down her cheeks.

  Chapter 19

  "How is he?"

  Shea had opened the studio door to find Lily Gallimore hovering on the landing. It was four days since the hanging, four days since Cam had been shot. Rand had come to the studio every day to see his father and be with Ty. Now Lily was here, looking grim and a little pale, but armed with a crock of what smelled like chicken soup.

  Shea stepped back and invited her in. "You know how Cam is. You've taken care of him. He's disgruntled, impatient, cantankerous..."

  Lily handed the crock to Shea and hung up her coat.

  "Emmet says Cammie has remarkable recuperative powers."

  "That may well be," Shea conceded, with a wry twist to her mouth, "but that doesn't make him any the less peevish."

  The subject under discussion chose that moment to make his displeasure known. "Damn it, Shea!" he roared from the bedroom. "I can hear you whispering. Who's out there?"

  Shea raised her eyebrows.

  Lily raised hers in answer.

  But when Shea turned toward the bedroom, Lily hung back. Still balancing the crock of chicken soup, Shea gestured Lily forward. "He needs to talk to you."

  Shea thought what Cam had to say to his sister was at least half the reason he was so restless and out-of-sorts.

  "I know he has things he wants to tell me," Lily whispered. "I'm not sure I'll know how to answer him."

  "Just hear him out, Lily, please. Keeping this from you is killing him."

  Lily reached over and touched Shea's hand, though Shea wasn't sure if it was Lily's way of reassuring her or gathering the strength she needed to face her brother.

  In the bedroom, Cam lay propped up on pillows in the middle of Shea's bed, a bandage winding halfway up his broad, bare chest. Shea's stomach took that odd little dip every time she saw it there, every time she realized that in spite of his strength and vitality, Cam was fragile, vulnerable. He could be hurt, wounded in ways he might never recover from.

  Right now his sister was wielding the weapon that could slay him.

  As Shea set the crock of soup at the back of the stove, Lily crossed to the foot of the iron bedstead. "Hello, Cam," she greeted him.

  "I wasn't sure after that day at the farm—" Cam's muscles constricted as he spoke, as if he were bracing himself for his sister's censure. "—that you'd ever consent to see me again."

  Lily's soft chin rose. "Lord knows, I didn't want to see you—at least not then. Not when Emmet had just come storming into the house waving that newspaper. Not when I'd barely had time to read the headline, much less absorb what it meant. Emmet knew how confused and upset I was, and he took it upon himself to protect me."

  "Protect you from me, Lil?" The anguish in Cam's voice rippled from the core of who he was.

  Lily leaped to the doctor's defense. "Emmet did what he thought was right. You understand what that's like, don't you?"

  Cam aged ten years in an instant. The lines furrowed deep around his mouth and the set of his chin eroded.

  Until that moment, Shea hadn't known how brittle he was, how barren and depleted. She was suddenly afraid for him.

  "Was I wrong," he asked in a voice that was like the scuffing of dry leaves, "to shield you from what I'd been and what I'd done?"

  Lily spoke on a long-drawn sigh. "Oh, Cammie..."

  "Lil, please!" he begged her. "Let me explain about being with the guerrillas that day at Centralia."

  Lily tightened her hold on the foot rail of the iron bedstead and faced him head on. "That attack was eleven years ago. What's kept you from explaining before today?"

  A faint flare of color seeped into Cam's face. "I wanted to tell you; I swear I did. But every time I looked at you, I was so ashamed. Every time I saw how badly you'd been burned—"

  Lily recoiled, her eyes widening with outrage. "You were ashamed of me?"

  "No!" Cam pushed up from the pillows. "Oh, God, no! I could never be ashamed of you, Lily; I was ashamed of myself!" He slumped back wearily. "I was ashamed that I'd ridden with men who could do the things the guerrillas did in Centralia, do the things they'd done to you."

  "How could any decent man have ridden with them?" his sister hissed at him.

  Shea bit her lip to hold back her instinctive defense of Cam. He would never have consorted with outlaws, would never have switched sides in the war unless he'd had reason.

  "While I was home recuperating after Spotsylvania," he went on, "an officer came to see me from the Department of the West. They'd had intelligence that General Price meant to join forces with the guerrillas in southern Missouri and march on St. Louis. The army needed someone to infiltrate the raiders and discover their plans."

  "And they asked you," Shea murmured half to herself.

  Cam started at the sound of her voice as if he'd forgotten she was even there with them. For a long feverish moment his gaze held hers, as if he wanted to draw strength and sustenance from her faith in him.

  "I'd heard about the guerrillas atrocities in Missouri and Kansas," he went on, turning back to his sister. "I did my best to refuse him, but he convinced me.

  "In the end, I was able to send back valuable information about both Anderson's activities and Price's plans." His eyes went dark, the specters of those days astir in them. "But I hated what I had to do to stay alive. I hated being party to their burning and their looting."

  I hated myself.

  Shea heard the words as if Cameron had spoken them aloud and she knew he would go on punishing himself until Lily forgave him. Until he found
a way to forgive himself.

  He shifted against the pillows again. "I'd been detailed to another officer's bivouac to copy reports the day Anderson took his troops to Centralia. The morning was half gone when I heard where they went.

  "I tried to get to you, Lil, before they did." His voice disintegrated more with every word. "I swear I did. I tried to protect you and Mother, but I was too late."

  He raised his hand, beckoning Lily closer, needing the contact, the acknowledgment. Yearning for forgiveness. Shea prayed Lily would take it in her own. Instead she stood straight as a spire at the foot of the bed.

  The hope faded out of Cameron's eyes like the wick of a lamp turned lower and lower. His hand fell lax on the coverlet.

  When Lily spoke her voice was low and thick with years' old hurt. "Mother told me all of that before she died."

  With those few words, the world seemed to stumble to a stop. The only sound was the faint hissing of the coals in the wood stove, the only movement the few flakes of snow drifting past the window. Not one of the three of them seemed to be breathing.

  "Oh, Lil." Cam's words came delicate and friable, like motes of dust from a shattered soul. "I'm so terribly sorry."

  Tears pooled in Lily's eyes. "Don't you realize," she shouted at him, "that I've been waiting all these years for you to own up to this? You gave me a home and security and Rand. I love you for doing that—and I am grateful." Lily's tears spilled over. "But you refused to tell me the truth or trust me to understand it.

  "That day at the farm—you didn't come to tell me of your own accord. You came because what you'd been and done was in the newspapers. You came to me because you had no choice!"

  Lily relinquished her hold on the foot rail and swiped at her eyes. "I've been waiting all this time, Cam, for you to talk to me about Centralia. It's what I needed to put what happened to rest. Because you've refused to speak, you've denied me the chance to do that. Maybe now I can."

  She turned in a flurry of skirts and ran for the door.

  "Lily, wait!" Cam called after her. "Lily, please."

  Shea reached the entry just as Lily was stabbing her arms into the sleeves of her coat.