“There. It’s done.”
His hands unclenched, and his face relaxed a fraction, but not completely. He was still in pain. Helen rinsed the blood from the rag then folded it over and used the damp cloth to wipe his brow.
Slowly, his lashes lifted. “Thank you,” he croaked, “Helen.”
She froze. Hearing her name from him set her heart to sputtering and her lips to muttering nonsense like, “Well, I couldn’t just let you die.”
“You could have,” he argued as his lashes lowered again to hide his green eyes, “but I’ll be sure to thank God that you didn’t.”
A smile touched her lips. She might just thank God herself.
If he lived.
“I need to fetch someone with medical training,” Helen murmured as she set aside her basin and pressed a dressing to his wound. Taking another bandage, she held the end in place atop the dressing, then bent his leg at the knee so she could wrap it around his thigh. “We have a healer in town, and her apprentice is a friend of mine. She’ll know how to treat the infection that’s building and can finish patching you up.”
The stranger’s eyes flew open. His razor-sharp gaze slashed at her as his fingers latched onto her wrist. “No one can know,” he ground out. “No one can know I’m alive.” His hand fell away, his strength suddenly depleted. “A woman’s life . . . is at stake.” His eyelids began to droop. “Only chance . . . is for him to think . . . I’m dead.” His body went lax.
Well, at least they agreed on one point. They needed to keep his presence a secret. Helen just wished she knew which woman he was protecting. Grace or someone else?
“I’m gonna tell Claire whether you like it or not,” she whispered as she tied off the bandage and gently straightened his leg. She stood and, on impulse, brushed his disheveled hair to the side. Heat seeped from his forehead into her fingertips. Helen frowned. The fever was getting worse. “Unless you want to be dead for real, we gotta get help.”
She glanced at the cotton strips she’d set aside for binding. The poor man was in such sorry shape, she didn’t have the heart to tie him up. Thankfully, her mind overrode her heart, just as she’d trained it to do all those years ago in her father’s house.
Taking care to make the strip tight enough to be effective but loose enough not to chafe, she lifted each limp arm and tied it to the iron bedstead, close enough to the mattress to allow him to rest comfortably with his arms bent near his head. He’d be none too pleased when he awoke, but maybe she’d get lucky and return with Claire before he regained consciousness.
“Sorry, mister.” Her heart panged in sympathy even as she backed toward the cabin door. “I hate to leave you like this, but until I know I can trust you, I won’t be taking any chances.”
Ignoring the guilt jabbing at her chest, Helen stiffened her spine, lifted her chin, and walked out the door.
18
Helen approached the clinic from the east to avoid riding through the middle of town. It had been tricky retrieving a horse from the farm without rousing suspicion, but she’d managed to avoid Katie by dropping off the half-full basket of pecans by the back door instead of taking them into the kitchen, and Betty’s respect for her girls’ privacy kept the older woman from pressing for details when Helen proved reticent. Now all she had to do was get to Claire without attracting any undue notice.
After dismounting, she tied her horse to a fence post then pushed through the gate. Before she reached the porch, the front door opened, and a middle-aged woman with a black leather doctor’s bag stepped out.
“Helen.” Maybelle Curtis drew up short and raised a concerned brow. “Has something happened out at the farm? I was on my way to check on Daisy at the boardinghouse, but if there’s an emergency, I can visit her later.”
“No, no.” Helen waved away her offer, silently thanking God for removing another obstacle for her. “I’m here to see Claire. You go on and tend to Daisy. I remember that awful cough she was struggling with at the town meeting two nights ago.”
Maybelle nodded. “It’s settled into her chest, a dangerous thing for someone of her age. Claire mixed up a mustard plaster for me, a recipe her mother swears by. I thought I’d try it and see if it helps break up the congestion.”
“I’ll pray it does.”
Maybelle patted Helen’s shoulder and gave her a grateful smile. “I’m off, then. Claire’s in the examination room. Just go on in.”
“Thank you.” Helen moved past the midwife-turned-doctor and into the clinic, saying a quick prayer for Daisy’s recovery as she went, then adding a petition for her stranger, as well. Heaven knew he needed it.
Helen passed through the front parlor that doubled as a waiting room and knocked on a partially open door on the far side. “Claire?”
The young redhead spun around from where she’d been staring at something in the glass cabinet across the way. A gasp echoed loudly through the room.
Helen winced. “Sorry. It’s only me.”
The Irish woman scowled. “Merciful stars, Helen. Ye nearly had me droppin’ the digitalis. Maybelle would’ve boxed me ears for sure.” She relaxed her fisted hand from against her bosom, where it had flown when Helen startled her, and revealed a small brown vial.
“I’m sorry,” Helen repeated. “I ran into Maybelle outside, and she told me to come in. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Och! Pay me no mind. I’m only snappish because me own clumsiness served me a fright.” An apologetic smile bloomed across Claire’s face a moment before she turned, carefully placed the vial back on its shelf, then closed and locked the cabinet.
Claire was more girl than woman, having only turned eighteen a month ago, but she had the kind of disposition that put the sun to shame. Always vivacious, eager to learn, and more importantly today, always ready to help. As if on cue, Claire tucked the key she wore around her neck back into her bodice and spun to face Helen. “So? What can I do for ye on this lovely day?”
“I found a patient in need of medical attention. Gunshot.”
“Lord preserve us! We must fetch Maybelle at once.” Claire grabbed Helen’s arm and started dragging her toward the entrance. “Whisht, lass. Why did ye not stop her when ye saw her in the yard? She’s the one ye’ll be needin’. Not the likes o’ me.”
Helen tugged her arm free. “No, Claire. I need you. And you mustn’t say anything to Maybelle about it. It has to be kept a secret.”
“Why? If someone’s in trouble, Maybelle—”
“Will report to Emma and Malachi,” Helen interrupted. “And that can’t happen. Not yet. Other lives are at risk.”
Claire stepped backward and frowned. “I don’t hold with keepin’ secrets from me employer, Helen. It isna honorable.”
“But it’s necessary in this instance. It’s also what the patient demanded.” Helen stepped closer, desperation clawing at her insides, urging her to grovel if need be. “If it’s too much to ask, I’ll understand. I don’t want to pressure you to do anything that violates your conscience.” Actually, she did want to pressure her if it meant getting the stranger the help he needed, but not at the cost of Claire spilling the secret later when guilt wore her down. “If you aren’t comfortable keeping this quiet, say so, and I’ll leave. No hard feelings. I might ask for some medical advice, but I promise not to ask you for anything more.”
For a nerve-wracking minute, Claire paced back toward the examination room. “Tell me about the wound,” she finally said, and Helen’s heart thumped with hope.
“It’s in the upper thigh. I’m not sure if the bullet is still inside or not. I cleaned it as best I could, but I’m worried about the pus. I think there’s an infection.”
Claire stared at the medicine cabinet, a thoughtful look on her face. “Does she have the fever?”
“Yes.” Helen didn’t correct her friend on the patient’s gender. She couldn’t afford to until Claire committed to confidentiality. “And is unconscious more than awake.”
“It sounds bad
, it does. I better come with ye.” As if that decided matters, she immediately started rummaging through drawers and shelves, collecting various supplies and stuffing them into a small carpet bag she’d dragged out from under the examination cot.
“Does this mean you’ll keep quiet about the situation?” Helen hated to pester, but she needed confirmation.
Claire paused long enough in her packing to meet Helen’s gaze. “Aye. Me conscience would fret more if I did nothin’ and the poor lass died than over keeping a little secret. I’ll hold me tongue.”
Helen coughed in an effort to find her voice in a throat that had suddenly shrunk in on itself. “Thank you.”
Understanding softened Claire’s gaze, but only for a moment before she started calling out orders. “Fetch me the day-old loaf from the kitchen and the jug of milk from the pie safe. Me mam says there be nothin’ better at drawin’ out infection than a good bread and milk poultice. I’ll jot a quick note to Maybelle to let her know I left with ye on a house call so she won’t fret when she finds me gone. Then I’ll meet you out front.”
Helen nodded and dashed to the kitchen to collect the items Claire had requested. She had just walked into the parlor, arms full, when the front door opened and a man she’d never seen before stepped across the threshold.
He pulled his hat from his head and curved his lips in a seductive smile that immediately put Helen on her guard. The Colt that rode his hip as if it were an extension of his body didn’t set well, either.
Never in a hundred years would she picture this man working in a telegraph office and riding bicycles through the streets.
“Miss Nevin, I presume?” His deep voice purred but left her feeling like a cat that had just had its fur stroked against the grain.
Distaste soured Helen’s mouth. It was her usual reaction to men, but the intensity surprised her, perhaps because the sensation hadn’t once afflicted her in all her interactions with the man at the cabin.
“No, sorry. Claire’s in the office.” She tipped her head toward the examination room. “Maybelle handles most of the doctorin’ around here, though. If you’ve got an ailment, you can find her at the boardinghouse down the street.” She mentally shooed him with all her might. She’d left her stranger alone too long as it was. She didn’t need some crazy velocipede-riding fruitcake holding them up longer.
“Oh, I’m not here seeking treatment. Just answers to a few simple questions.” He advanced a step closer, his smile warm and friendly, yet Helen felt about as reassured as a rabbit in the sights of a coyote. “I’m Detective Dunbar,” he said, pulling a badge out of his pocket. “Pinkerton Agency.”
Detective? Pinkerton? Helen froze where she stood, her pulse throbbing. This wasn’t Grace’s harmless bicycle beau. This was a threat. One who wore a gun slung low on his hip and projected enough steel in his bearing to assure her that he knew how to use it.
Perhaps he already had.
Helen swallowed the trepidation softening her insides and instead armed herself with the familiar spikes of animosity that usually sprouted in the presence of swaggering men like this, ones who thought they had the right to interrupt a woman’s schedule with their personal agendas.
“Does Emma Shaw know you’re pestering her citizens?” No way was she going to let this slick newcomer steer her into a corner with questions. “If you don’t need medical assistance, there’s no reason for you to be here, so I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”
The detective’s brows rose a fraction, and his smile slipped a bit, but the appendages she cared about most—his feet—remained stubbornly fixed to the floor.
“With all due respect, ma’am,” the Pinkerton said as he pulled his hat from his head—a blatant thumb of his nose to her demand that he depart, “if you’re not Miss Nevin, and you’re not Mrs. Curtis, you aren’t in a position to ask me to go anywhere.”
He wanted to challenge her? Fine. He’d learn she wasn’t one to be intimidated.
“That’s where you’re wrong, mister.” Helen glared up at him. “This is a women’s colony, and we look after each other.” She took a step forward. His expression lost a touch of its smugness. Satisfaction surged inside Helen, making her bolder. She took a second step. “We protect each other from men who think they can barge in and make demands. Pinkerton or not, you and your questions are not welcome.”
“You got something to hide, sweetpea?” He advanced a step. A long, man-sized step that brought his too-large, too-cocky self within about a yard of where she stood.
Helen’s pulse ratcheted up from a canter to a full-out gallop, but she didn’t back away. Her gaze remained locked on the Pinkerton.
“Helen? Is everythin’ all right?” Claire emerged from the examination room, her face a mask of concern as her gaze swept from her friend to the man standing in her parlor.
In a blink, the Pinkerton’s eyes softened from cold stone to warm chocolate as he turned to smile at Claire.
“Ah, you must be Miss Nevin. There’s no reason to be alarmed, I assure you.” He pivoted away from Helen and strode toward Claire, all traces of hostility swept under the rug. “I’m with the Pinkerton Agency. Elliott Dunbar, at your service.” He dipped his head. “I was just stopping by to ask a few questions, if you have a minute to spare before you leave on your”—he glanced from the small carpetbag Claire carried to the bread and milk in Helen’s arms—“outing.”
Claire shot a nervous glance Helen’s way, one the far-too-perceptive Pinkerton no doubt picked up on. The girl’s face displayed her emotions like a shop window showed off the latest bonnet styles.
“I asked him to leave.” Helen jumped in before Claire could give anything away. “We have a commitment that we’re already running late for.” She directed her comment to the detective, praying that Claire understood the need to be vague about their errand. “If you have questions, I suggest you visit with Emma Shaw. She runs this town and knows everything that goes on here.”
Emma might know everything that went on in town, but thankfully she was ignorant of happenings out by the pecan grove.
“I’ve already visited with Mr. and Mrs. Shaw,” Dunbar said, shooting a frown at Helen before turning a smile on the more susceptible Claire. “And while they were helpful, I’m sure they don’t know everything. In my experience,” he murmured in that panther purr Helen despised while sidling closer to the redhead, “it’s the quiet observers who notice the most pertinent details, especially ones with the intelligence to process what they see and make meaningful conclusions. And you”—he pointed his hat toward Claire—“are exactly that kind of person. I can see it in your eyes. You’re clever, kind, and—”
“Late for our appointment.” Helen lunged forward and physically inserted herself between the detective and Claire. “Sorry, Pinkerton, but we’ve got to go. There are people waiting on us.” She grabbed Claire’s hand and started tugging her toward the front door. “This town is full of smart, kind women,” Helen tossed out over her shoulder. “Go pester one of the others with your questions. Start at the boardinghouse for the largest selection.”
Helen didn’t stop until she had Claire out on the porch, but once there, the younger girl stood fast.
“I can’t be leavin’ him inside, Helen,” she whispered in an urgent undertone. Then she raised her voice to carry to the snail-paced detective still in the parlor. “If ye’ll kindly exit the clinic, Mr. Dunbar, sir. I be needin’ to lock up afore we set out.”
The irritating man moved as fast as a tortoise stuck in molasses. Finally his boots cleared the threshold, and Helen yanked the door closed behind him, enjoying the little jolt of annoyance that flashed through his eyes when the wood smacked him in the rear.
He fit his hat back on his head and nodded to Claire. Helen, he ignored. “I’ll call again tomorrow, Miss Nevin, when you’re less . . . occupied.”
He was still going to be here tomorrow? Helen clenched her teeth. Not only were the men multiplying in Harper’s Station, but thei
r quality was deteriorating rapidly. And the one person she’d chosen to share her secret with now had a date with the man who was probably responsible for her stranger’s injuries.
“I can’t imagine what help I’d be to ye,” Claire said, and Helen’s hope began a cautious glide upward at her friend’s evasion, “but if our paths cross, I suppose I could find time to answer a question or two.”
And just like that, hope dropped out of the sky like a duck peppered with birdshot.
Dunbar sketched a bow. “I’ll look forward to crossing your lovely path tomorrow then, Miss Nevin.” He barely flicked his gaze toward Helen before tipping his hat to Claire. “Good day, ladies.”
And finally—finally—he strode away.
“Good riddance,” Helen muttered under her breath. Then she turned to Claire. “You can’t tell him anything about what you see today. Promise me.”
“I’ll do me best to keep mum, but he’s a lawman. I can’t be lyin’ to the law.”
Helen grabbed her friend by the arm and steered her toward the waiting horse. “He’s not the law, Claire. Malachi’s the law. He’s just a detective snooping around where he don’t belong.” They passed through the gate, and Claire twisted to pull it closed behind them. “There ain’t no law that says you have to answer his questions.”
“But don’t ye suppose refusin’ to answer makes us look a mite suspicious? He might not be the law, but I’m thinkin’ he’s got a nose that can sniff out secrets. If ye don’t want him sniffin’ too close, ye gotta throw him off the scent with something sweet enough to satisfy him.”
Helen paused in stuffing the milk jug into her saddlebag. “You might have a point.” She shot a stern glance over her shoulder. “But you’ve got to be careful with that one. I saw the way your eyes went all dewy when he turned the force of his charm on you. He’s dangerous.”
“Aye, he’s bonny, all right, but I got more sense than to let a fine-lookin’ lad turn me head into a mush pot.” Claire reached up to loop the leather handles of her carpetbag around the saddle horn. “Ye can trust me, Helen. If ye say our errand today must be kept secret, I’ll not tell a soul.” She smiled, and her blue eyes twinkled. “With seven younger sisters at home, I’ve had me share of secret-keepin’ experience.”
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