by MJ Fredrick
Yet questions ran through her mind as she shifted in the chair. “Angel,” he’d called her. Was that his wife’s name? If he loved her so much, why was he here, wandering to “anywhere?” Why wasn’t he with her? Where had he come from? Another adventurer, probably, looking for a new life in Texas. Another man ready to uproot his family to satisfy his own need to wander.
She sat back and closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind, to banish her resentment toward John for bringing her here and leaving her. He had warned her the experience would be rough but had assured her it would pay off in the long run. She wished she had that vision of an end goal to anticipate instead of just the constant worry how they would struggle through each day.
A rattling sound echoed through the room and she awakened to see Mr. Watson quaking on the bed, his arms limp at his sides. Terror choked her. Seizures. Daniel had suffered from them the day before the fever took him. She had to get this fever down.
Instantly awake, she rose from the chair, grabbed his wrists and pinned them to his sides, hoping that would still his quaking. When it didn’t, she released one wrist and reached for the cloth she had folded over the head of the bed, wet it, and smoothed it over his face. He fought the cloth, and she had to lean further over the bed, bracing one hand by his naked shoulder. The heat pumping off his body nearly seared her own flesh. The soothing nonsense she murmured was as much for herself as for him as she wet the cloth again, gliding it down his throat, behind his neck. She hesitated a moment at the base of his throat and contemplated his wide chest. Just the thought of touching the expanse of skin made her own flesh heat.
No, he was a patient. She couldn’t think of him in any other way. She would think of him as a very large little boy who needed her help. She wet the cloth again and slid it down the center of his chest, over his breastbone, then up again to his shoulder. She had to lean over to lift his right arm. Cooling Daniel’s arms and legs had helped bring down the fever for a bit, but he’d been so little, the fever came roaring back again and again.
She pushed the memories out of her head. She had to, to survive. No mother could dwell on such an event and remain sane. She took a deep breath, which brought with it the musky scent of man, and went to work.
She smoothed the cloth down sinewy arms, to square-palmed hands. What did this man do for a living to keep his body so fit? A horseman, perhaps, with those arms. Gently, she eased the fabric across his chest to his other shoulder, down the arm closest to her, and saw gooseflesh rise in the wake of the caress. His quaking had eased, but for how long? She wet the cloth again, bathed his arm, his chest, his flat stomach, and tried to think of his Angel, his wife. Was she proud to call this man husband? Was she waiting for him to return home? Kit had to ensure Angel didn’t suffer the same loss as she had.
She sat back, laying the cloth on its spot at the head of the bed. It would need laundering, since it now carried the dust of Texas trails. She took a blanket from her chair and draped it over Mr. Watson as his breathing became even once more.
And she was left with her own thoughts.
***
He was still asleep when the morning light glimmered through the oiled parchment on the window. Kit came awake with a jolt, her neck stiff. If it was light enough outside that this western-facing room was bright, the sun must be fairly high, and Mary and Agnes would be wondering where she was.
With a last check of her patient—still warm, but less so than last night—Kit gathered herself and stepped out into the frosty yard. She was right, the hour was late. The sun peeked over the eastern edge of the fort, and the clouds that usually framed it were gone, leaving the sky a sparkling blue.
Finally, sunshine.
“How is he?” Agnes asked the moment Kit slipped into their room.
“He had a bad night,” Kit murmured, dropping into her chair at the table for, yes, more porridge. But she was hungry enough not to care. She said a brief, silent prayer of thanksgiving before taking a bite. “Seizures.”
“If he dies, what then?”
Kit didn’t want to think about it. “I’ll bury him and see if I can find out who he is so I can notify his family. I’m doing all I can.”
“More than you should,” Agnes murmured.
Kit’s defenses stiffened her spine. “So I should have left him to die?” Without waiting for a response, she finished off her porridge in just a few bites, her spoon scraping the bowl. She had to check their stores today. Not that she could do anything about replenishing them, but she could ration better. And perhaps, if Mr. Watson got healthy soon, he could accompany her out of the fort to find something they could eat.
“Mary, come with me. It’s time to fire the cannon.”
The girl recoiled. “I hate doing that.”
“But you need to know how. It’s the only way I know to let our enemies know we’re not defenseless.”
“It’s so loud.”
“That’s why we do it. Get your wrap.”
They left Agnes to clean up the breakfast dishes and headed up the steps to the northern wall where the cannon sat. Kit’s box of supplies was nearby, and she picked up the charge to slide down the mouth of the barrel. She nodded to Mary, who took the ramrod and jammed the charge to the base of the barrel. Then, Mary hefted a cannonball into the cannon as Kit drew a fuse out of the box. She removed the vent at the top of the barrel and slipped the fuse in, knowing after weeks of doing this how deep it should go to make contact with the charge. When the cannonball rolled to the base of the gun, Kit nodded at Mary to return downstairs as she touched the smoldering length of rope that she kept on hand to light the fuse. She hurried to the corner of the fort as she did every day, ducked down and covered her ears, keeping her eye on the cannon. The sparkling fuse disappeared, Kit braced and the cannon jumped, the percussion of the exploding charge and flying cannonball echoing over the flat, empty land.
Ears still ringing, Kit straightened and started downstairs, coming to a halt when she caught sight of Mr. Watson swaying in the doorway of his room, bare chested, his pistol in his hand at his side.
Fear weakened her knees for an instant, and she cast a glance about, grateful Mary had already gone inside. Kit hurried across the yard to Mr. Watson, heart thudding as she waited for him to raise his pistol and shoot her.
“Are we under attack?” He struggled to focus as he lowered his gaze to her.
“No. I fired the cannon—it’s just a daily exercise.” His appearance at the doorway made her remember that he didn’t know only three women lived here.
“I heard it,” he said, his speech slurring, his swaying more pronounced.
She tucked an arm around him to guide him back to bed. His skin was dry and warm, but not as warm as earlier. Had the fever broken? “How could you not?”
“Yesterday. The sound was how I found you.”
Hm. Was that good or bad? That remained to be seen. “I’m glad you did. There’s not much else around. You need to go back to bed and get well.” As she said it, she dropped him to the mattress.
He fell onto his back without urging, pulled his legs up as she fussed with the blanket. “What’s your name?”
Something in his voice had changed, become smooth. “Katherine. They call me Kit.”
“Kit,” he repeated. “To the point. I’m Trace.”
She nodded her acknowledgement, unwilling to use his given name so freely, regretting that she’d told him hers. She didn’t want to become friends, only to have him leave her behind. “I need to get to my chores. Is there anything you need?
But he didn’t release her. “You’re very lovely, Kit.”
She coughed out a dismissive laugh, swiped her wild hair from her wind-reddened cheeks and pulled away. “That I know to be untrue, sir. There’s still porridge from last night. I’m sorry, our stores are low and I can’t refresh it for you.”
“It’s fine.” But he hadn’t looked away, as though he was trying to figure something out by watching her.
&n
bsp; She twisted away, her face heating. “You should stay in bed and recover. Besides, we don’t know if you’re still contagious, and you don’t want to sicken the entire fort.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get sick?”
If she did, at least she’d be off her feet. She pushed the uncharitable thought aside. “I’ve helped several sick soldiers and haven’t sickened yet.”
“Too stubborn?” he asked.
“Very likely.” As she snapped the blanket over him, she could no longer resist meeting his gaze. Those brown eyes laughed at her, and beneath the stubble, not one but two dimples winked. “However, the soldiers died. I’ll not allow the same to happen to you. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit. Your saddlebags are by the fire if there’s anything else you have need of. I’ll ask you to put your pistol away, just in case one of the soldiers gets antsy at you being here.”
“Miss Barclay,” he said as she reached the door. “You don’t happen to have any books? I’m not too good at being still, but a book might help.”
She hadn’t expected a request like that. John had never read, had thought it a waste of time. She had a feeling anything she learned about Trace Watson would be a surprise, especially after the stories she’d told herself about him. “I have a few. I’ll bring them when I come back.”
***
Trace lowered himself to the bunk, cursing the illness that made him too weak to sit upright for long. He’d fallen off his horse, something he hadn’t done since he was five years old. What would his father say? His would probably call him a drunk, but he wasn’t. Trace had wanted to lose himself in liquor, but didn’t want to numb the pain. Trying to forget Angelina wouldn’t be fair to her memory.
His limbs trembled and his body ached as he reached for the shirt at the foot of the bed. As he shrugged into it, moving as slow as an old man, he recalled the tender strokes Kit Barclay had made across his face, his chest, her breath coming in gentle puffs against his skin. The touch of the pretty young woman had a strong effect on him, one he hadn’t expected to feel after Angelina died. How could he look at Kit Barclay without feeling unfaithful to his wife? How could he be so aroused by a stranger’s touch?
The sickness was taking his self-control—that was it. And his energy. He stretched out on the bed. He would accept Miss Barclay’s hospitality long enough to recover sufficiently to stay in the saddle. Then he’d be on his way. The destination didn’t matter. All that mattered was creating more distance from his life with Angelina.
But as he drifted to sleep again, he didn’t smell the rose water Angelina had used, didn’t see the spill of dark hair against his skin. Instead, he smelled lye soap and saw wild blonde hair.
***
Trace sat up when the door scraped open. His heart bumped when he saw the swish of Kit’s skirt around the corner. He wished for the strength to get the door. She backed in, her elbow depressing the latch, a bowl on a plate in one hand and a cup in the other. The scents that accompanied her made his mouth water.
“Is that coffee?” he asked with reverence, bracing his hands behind him on the bed.
“Weak, but it’s real coffee, not chicory. I’m making it last as long as I can,” she apologized, crossing to hand him the bowl of gruel and thick hunk of bread before setting the coffee on the seat of the chair beside him. “It’s been a while since the last shipment came through.”
And would be a while until the next, if what he’d seen in the area was any indication. He’d managed to stay beneath the notice of the Indians who roamed the area, but he’d seen a number of them sporting weapons that likely had been meant for this fort. They probably had stolen the coffee too. Still, Indians or no Indians, a fort of soldiers couldn’t last long without supplies.
“Your men should go out to meet the supply wagon instead of waiting for it to arrive.”
Though, where were the soldiers? Why was Kit the one taking care of him? And though he hadn’t thought the garrison was large, he never heard men about. Then there was Kit’s appearance…her dress hung so loosely on her, as if she’d lost weight suddenly. Was she here alone?
A flash of memory—Kit standing on the garrison wall with a young woman, near the cannon. Not alone, then. But protecting someone.
From him.
She busied her hands folding the blanket and tucking it at the end of the bed. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
He tried to push himself back to sit against the wall, but his arms trembled. She bent close and curved her arms around his chest, letting him lean against her. He’d been wrong about her scent. The scent was strong and clean, but softer than lye. Gentle. Soothing. The hands that rested against his chest were not too small, creased with work, nails short but neat. A working woman’s hands, but still tender, feminine. He wanted to cover her hand with his, just in thanks, but knew she’d draw away. He leaned his head against her breasts as he eased into a sitting position, more slowly than he needed to, just to keep the contact. Regret twinged through him. He missed the softness of a woman, the softness of Angelina. The hard earth was no replacement for sleeping beside her body, but at least he wasn’t in the bed he’d shared with her for three years, the bed they’d conceived their child in.
The bed she’d died in.
He pulled away from Kit as she arranged his pillow against the head of the bed. He sank against it and immediately missed her warmth.
“Did you find the books you said you’d bring?” he asked to distract himself from his sorrow, and his longing.
She nodded toward the window, where three well-worn books sat on the sill. He twisted, slowly, and picked up all three in one hand. Just that effort taxed his muscles, but he didn’t want her to see, and tucked them against his stomach on the cot, lifting one at a time to read their titles. Scott’s Ivanhoe and Rob Roy, and Byron’s The Corsair.
Surprise quirked his lips, and he looked up. “You like adventure?”
She swept loose curls back from her face, but didn’t meet his gaze. Something had her on edge. “If you’ve read them, I can find The Vampyre.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Your husband’s books?”
A small smile played at her mouth. “No.” She glanced over. “Have you read them?”
“Rob Roy is one of my favorites.” But he didn’t want to talk about the books. He wanted to know about her, and what brought her here. “Is your husband a soldier?”
Her body became even more tense, and her mouth tightened. “Not anymore. Your porridge is getting cold.” She picked up the plate with his bread and gruel.
He took it, concentrating to capture the spoon, and then lifted it carefully to his lips. The liquid splashed back into the bowl as his hand shook. He grumbled in frustration and tried again. He hadn’t even wanted the blasted porridge, but now he wanted nothing more than to taste it.
Finally he curved his fingers around the bowl and raised it, manners be damned.
The gruel was still warm, and while a bit salty, it felt good sliding down his throat. He moaned in pleasure as it hit his empty stomach, and then opened his eyes to look into her amused ones. The sight of her mirth hit him in the gut.
He hadn’t been around a woman in months. That had to be why his reaction to her was so strong. He wasn’t betraying Angelina. He shifted and picked up the bread, which crumbled on the dish. He frowned.
Her cheeks tinted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t take the time I should have with the bread.”
He merely gathered the crumbs and dropped them into the soup, watching them soak up the gruel. “I think I can manage this way.
Kit hovered a moment, then stood, brushing her hands down her skirt.
“Don’t go.” He’d been alone for so long, and while he’d initially wanted to remain that way, now the thought of the door closing behind her filled him with an emptiness he didn’t want to name.
She stopped, a shiver of nerves running the length of her body. At being with him? She’d been in here with him for…well, he didn’t k
now how long.
“Is there something more you need?”
He took a breath. “I haven’t had company for a meal in a while.”
The pitying look she gave him grated on his nerves, but she swept the seat of the chair clean and sat on the edge. She didn’t relax, even when she pulled out her sewing.
“What are you making?” he asked when she remained silent.
She held up the fabric for his inspection. “A new shirt. Yours is in tatters, and I didn’t see another in your things.”
He set the spoon back in the bowl, his skin chilled. “You went through my things?” His voice was gruffer than he intended.
She stiffened, her mouth forming an indignant line. “I wasn’t spying on you, merely looking for a change of clothes. You were filthy when you came in, your clothes no better than rags.”
Because he’d left home with only one change of clothes, unable to bear going into the chifforobe he’d shared with Angelina, unwilling to look at her pretty dresses and remember her in them. He studied Kit’s face, searching for a sign that she’d seen more than he cared for her to know, but she merely returned his gaze, eyes snapping with temper.
God, she had pretty eyes.
And he was being ungracious. “Thank you for the shirt.” That she was making from another man’s. Her husband’s? “Has he been gone long?”
He hadn’t thought it possible for her to stiffen further, but her lips thinned and she turned back to her sewing. That action more than anything reaffirmed what he’d already suspected. A woman wouldn’t make a stranger a new shirt from her husband’s old ones unless the husband wasn’t coming back.
“What do you mean?”
“Was it the Indians?”
She kept her head turned. “Outlaws. On the Louisiana border.” Her voice was soft, sad, but not tearful.
“And he left you here with the soldiers.”
Her head came up then, her expression tight, her eyes narrowed. “John didn’t expect to be killed.”
“No, that’s true.” Every man thought he had all the time in the world, time to love his woman, to build his fortune. He understood that pride very well. “How long, Kit?”