“You already know, darlin’.” He absently fondled the lobe of her ear. “You’re my type—beautiful, smart, a woman I care for and enjoy being around, and one who’s looking for the same thing as me.” He caressed the tip of her chin with the pad of his thumb. “A way to chase our loneliness away without tying each other down.”
His stomach cramped at a sudden sheen in her eyes, and he quickly cradled her face in his hands, voice husky with concern. “Rachel, when we started all of this, you told me that was what you wanted too,” he whispered, alarmed that her feelings might be deeper than his.
“And it still is, Blaze.” Any moisture he thought he’d seen was gone in the blink of an eye, chased away by a smoky look that accompanied the touch of her hand on his leg. Rising up, she gave him a kiss that lured a groan from his throat while she slowly tugged him down on the seat. “For now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Sooo …” Abigail Grace Mitchell leaned in, voice rife with gossip as she finished her stew in a nook of the hospital kitchen, where the nurses ate their lunch. “How is it living under the same roof as Virginia City’s number one heartthrob?” She wiggled her dark brows for good measure, a sparkle dancing in eyes as black as the cup of coffee steaming next to her bowl. “Running low on smelling salts, are you, with all the swooning?”
Maggie rolled her eyes to deflect the warmth that invaded her cheeks, blowing on her spoonful of hot stew Ida Mae had just dished up. “No smelling salts, I assure you, Miss Mitchell, just a brain chock-full of common sense, unlike you and half the women in this town.”
“Half? Ha!” Andrea Jo Stephens cut loose with a low chuckle, her brown, almond-shaped eyes sparkling as much as Abigail Grace’s over the rim of her cup. “Try ‘all’ except the ones buried in the graveyard at St. Mary of the Mountains and you, Miss Mullaney, which frankly, I’m finding rather hard to believe. Especially since said heartthrob drove you to and from work every single day for weeks.”
“Well, believe it,” Maggie said dryly, her smile sliding off-center. “Blaze Donovan and I are friends and only friends. And for your information, he only drove me the first week in case you haven’t noticed the rig parked behind the hospital.”
Abigail Grace pushed her empty dish away and bent in, crossing her arms on the table. “Aw, come on, Maggie—admit it. Blaze Donovan is every girls’ dream come true, and every woman in this hospital is just waiting for you to wake up and realize it.”
“Not Sister Fred,” Maggie said with a heft of her chin, grateful she had at least one ally in her quest to stay as romantically far from Blaze Donovan as she possibly could. “Besides, Blaze has made it perfectly clear he’s sweet on some girl named Rachel at the Ponderosa Saloon. Who is, and I quote—his ‘special girl,’ and the ‘only lady’ to whom he’s ‘committed.’”
Ida Mae grunted at the sink where she was peeling carrots for the dinner meal, apron haphazardly tied around her barrel waist. “‘Committed,’ maybe, but not to marriage, I can tell ya that. Men don’t marry women like that.”
Maggie glanced at Ida Mae, brows pinched in a frown. “But Blaze says the Ponderosa Saloon isn’t like most of the saloons in Virginia City where girls are expected to”—Maggie’s cheeks throbbed with heat, hotter than the blasted stew—“well, you know. According to Blaze, the girls who work for Rachel’s uncle only sing and dance with customers, nothing more.”
“Except with Blaze Donovan, I’ll wager,” Andrea Jo said with a wink, her prim and proper bun belying the flirtatious nature that always appeared whenever Blaze Donovan was in the building. She plunked her elbow on the table with chin in hand, the bodice of her pinafore uniform rising and falling in a wistful sigh. “Lucky dog.”
Maggie gaped at the young woman who’d become one of her best friends. “Andrea Jo Stephens, I’m tempted to wash your mouth out with soap! There is nothing ‘lucky’ about a woman giving into a man’s advances, no matter how handsome he is.”
Properly chastened, Andrea Jo actually blushed. “Oh, I know, Maggie, don’t worry. But even so, I can’t help but be a wee bit jealous of any girl who catches the eye of Blaze Donovan even if she does work in a saloon. At least it’s the Ponderosa Saloon and not The Silver Pistol or Naked Lady, where you have to make the sign of the Cross if you even walk by across the street, for heaven’s sake! In fact, I heard from Millicent Gilroy, who heard from a teller at the bank whose neighbor frequents the Ponderosa, that Clyde is a stickler about his girls’ reputations as far as …” Two blotches of pink actually braised Andrea Jo’s cheeks, relieving Maggie that at least she had some moral compunction. Her young friend nibbled the edge of her smile. “Well, you know.”
“One can only hope.” Abigail Grace sighed and took a sip of her coffee.
“And pray,” Maggie emphasized, grateful that at least Rachel wasn’t that type of girl.
I hope.
Maggie tore off a piece of her bread and dipped it into her stew, striving for nonchalance. “So … what is this Rachel like anyway?” she asked in a casual tone, blowing on another spoonful.
“Gorgeous, of course,” Andrea Jo said with a wry smile, “and a favorite at the Ponderosa according to Millicent.” Her mouth took a hard slant. “Especially with you know who.”
Abigail Grace finished off the rest of her roll, licking the crumbs from her fingers. “I heard she does the bookkeeping for her uncle as well as being his most popular dance girl, so she has to be smart.”
“Not necessarily,” Ida Mae said with another grunt.
“Hey, Maggie …” Andrea Jo’s smile suddenly veered serious, but that couldn’t hide the wicked gleam in her eye. “Maybe you ought to go down to the Ponderosa Saloon sometime and tell Rachel all about God like you always do with us.” She fluttered her lashes before giving her friend a wink. “Knowing Blaze Donovan’s reputation, I bet she sure could use it.”
“You,” Maggie said with a teasing stab of her finger, “are a little brat, Andrea Jo Stephens, and I am going to say extra prayers for you tonight.” She rose and pushed in her chair before picking up her tray, returning Andrea Jo’s wink with a saucy one of her own. “Which could take all night.”
“Maggie Mullaney!” Andrea Jo feigned mock offense. “Now who’s the brat?”
“You are,” Ida Mae said in her no-nonsense tone, not even bothering to glance up as she dumped a bowl of carrots into a boiling pot of water. A barely perceptible lift of her lips was the only indication she was teasing.
“Why, thank you, Ida Mae.” Maggie delivered her tray to the sink and washed her dishes before pressing a kiss to the old woman’s wrinkled cheek. She tossed a sassy grin over her shoulder on her way out the door. “Take your time, ladies. Heaven knows I do most of the work anyway.”
Humming on her way down the hall, Maggie poked her head into Sister Fred’s office. “I’m finished with the sponge baths, Sister Fred. I was planning to head up to collect lunch trays unless you have something else you’d like me to do.”
Sister Fred glanced up from an intimidating stack of papers with a heavy sigh, her triple chins sagging so much, they multiplied to four. She waved Maggie in. “How did Mr. Gristle do today, my dear—any problems?”
Maggie bit back a smile. “Not since I put ice into his sponge-bath water like you suggested, Sister, assuring him only cooperative patients deserved hot water.”
“Ah, yes,” Sister Fred said with a loud squeak of her chair as she sank back with a weary groan. “Threats do work rather nicely with some of the element in this town, unfortunately. But regrettably, it always costs me a trip to Father Daly for absolution, I’m afraid. But oh well.” Snatching her pen, she sat up straight and tall to tackle her papers once again, her smile suddenly as bright as the sun streaming into her window. “Hopefully the good Lord will see it as a fair trade, mmm?” She scrawled her signature across the bottom of her top page before giving Maggie an audacious wink. “A small smudge of dirt on one’s soul for the sake of a clean body.”
CHAPTE
R THIRTY
“Uh … excuse me, SSister Fred?”
Maggie turned to see sweet Sister Elma wringing her hands in the doorway with saucer eyes, ridges crisscrossing her brow. Her normally rosy cheeks were white as the bib of her habit, where a Crucifix quivered on her chest. “Please p-pardon the interruption, Sister Fred, but oh my goodness—there was a brawl at one of the saloons! We have a number of casualties, but I can’t find Dr. Murray.”
“Ah, yes, just another day in Virginia City,” Sister Fred said with a wry smile, lumbering up from her chair with a groan. “Calm down, Sister Elma, Dr. Murray is on lunch break, but we can handle this till he returns. Please round up several of the senior nurses, and we’ll get the process started. Come along, Maggie,” she said with a firm hook of Maggie’s arm, “and you can help.”
Even before Sister Fred marched into the waiting room like an army of one, you could hear a loud ruckus, as if whoever awaited had brought their noisy brawl along. Swear words sizzled the air along with threats and shouting, broiling Maggie’s cheeks.
Shreeeeeeeeeet!
Maggie froze on Sister Fred’s heels at the entrance of the waiting room, the sound of the nun’s deafening two-fingered whistle shocking Maggie as much as it did the motley group who gaped back. “This is a hospital, gentlemen,” she said in a tone of authority that brooked no argument, chins high and voice low. “Not your favorite saloon.” She aimed a steel finger at the hospital entrance with all the impact of a Colt 45, cocking the imaginary trigger with a steel press of her jaw. “So, I suggest that anyone who would like to be treated sit down quietly now, or I’ll be tempted to add to your injuries by tossing you out that door.” Her dark brows beetled low as she burned each and every one of six men with a warning glare that immediately put their bottoms in a chair. “Thank you.” One hand clasped over the other on her formidable stomach, she assessed their injuries like a general assessing his troops while Maggie trailed behind.
As far as Maggie could see, she hoped the injuries looked worse than they were. She winced at one man whose nose was obviously broken and shaped like a swollen comma. There was so much blood from a gash in the middle, he was striped from nostril to chin. Another’s eye was swollen completely shut with purple bruises above and below while Sister Fred questioned a third bloody man who groaned as he cradled his arm.
Three senior nurses arrived to usher some of the men to rooms for treatment just as the hospital door flew open with a loud crack to the wall. “So help me, JR, you and Murdock will pay every red cent for damages to my saloon, you hear?” The tall, barrel-chested man with stormy gray eyes ushered a woman to a seat on the far side of the room before Sister Fred could even turn around. Settling the injured woman into her chair, the man descended on one of the brawlers, a bloody man with a red scraggly moustache. “Or so help me, I will make sure you can’t show your ugly mug in any saloon in this city.”
“Oh, pipe down, Bruner, you know we’ll cover the bill.”
“You’re darn tootin’ you will, or I’ll see your sorry carcasses thrown in jail.”
“Ahem.” Meaty arms crossed, Sister Fred loomed over the red-haired man and the newcomer like a pending sandstorm, her gritty gaze actually forcing the newcomer back. “One more threatening word out of you, Mr. Bruner, and I’ll see your ‘sorry carcass’ tossed out on its ear, understood?”
With a duck of his Adam’s apple, Mr. Bruner took a step back and his Stetson off, intimidation thick in his tone. “My apologies, Sister Fred, but my place looks like a stampede hit it with broken chairs, tables, and glass, and I aim to see JR and Murdock make it right.”
“And I’m sure that will happen, Mr. Bruner, but not before I get these men patched up. Then you can take them apart all over again if you like, but not in my hospital, is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bruner fiddled with his hat in hand, eyes flitting to the woman sitting in the far corner. “And if you wouldn’t mind looking at my girl, either, I’d be most obliged.”
“Nurse Mullaney,” Sister said with an impatient flick of fingers, motioning Maggie forward. “Please see to the young woman while I attend to the ruffians.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Without another word, Maggie hurried over to the girl who was hunched in her chair, head in her hand. “Pardon me, miss,” Maggie said in a gentle voice, “are you hurt?”
Without a word, the girl slowly raised her head, and Maggie tried to restrain a gasp, mortified at the damage done to this poor creature’s face. One eye completely disappeared into a pulpy balloon of shiny purple like an overripe plum, and the other held a nearly vacant stare as if she were in shock. A trickle of dried blood trailed at the edge of her mouth while a crimson scratch jagged over greenish-black bruises that mottled her skin from hairline to chin.
Moisture stinging the back of her lids, Maggie squatted before the girl and took her limp hand in hers, covering it with her own. “I am so sorry, miss,” she whispered. “Are you in pain?”
The girl didn’t speak, but the sudden sheen of tears in her eyes did.
Maggie rose and gently helped her up, wrapping an arm to her waist as she led her to a vacant room down the hall. “I’m Nurse Mullaney,” she said softly while she guided the girl to a chair, stooping once again to look her in the eye. “And I’m going to do everything I can to ease both your pain and the swelling. But first, can you tell me your name?”
The girl merely stared at the floor for several moments before her gaze lifted to Maggie’s. “I’m so tired.” Her voice was no more than a whisper, as frail as the poor girl appeared to be. “So very tired.”
“Here,” Maggie said, coaxing her to lie down on the bed, “put your feet up and rest while I fetch a cold compress and antiseptics to clean up any scrapes. Do you have a headache, miss?” She placed a hand to the girl’s forehead, grateful her skin was cool.
“No way out …” The girl’s desolate tone was as lost as the faraway look in her eyes.
Maggie gave her hand a light squeeze. “Oh, sweetheart, there’s always a way out with God,” she whispered, thumb grazing the girl’s wrist.
The girl shook her head, saltwater spilling down her bruised cheek. “I wish I could believe that, ma’am, but it’s too late.”
“It’s never too late,” Maggie said softly. “And after we clean you up, I’m going to tell you why, all right?”
For the very first time the girl’s gaze connected with Maggie’s, and a thrill coursed through Maggie’s veins when she saw the faintest glimmer of hope flicker in the young woman’s eyes. She gave a slow nod.
“Good.” Maggie patted her hand and hurried to the door, turning to offer her most assuring smile. “Everything’s going to be all right, you’ll see, Miss—” She paused and tipped her head, hand to her chest in apology. “Goodness, I didn’t even get your name.”
The seed of a smile shadowed the girl’s lips as a lump dipped several times in her throat. It’s Dixon, ma’am,” she said in a voice almost too soft to hear, “Rachel Dixon.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Here you go, girl.” Blaze pulled an apple from his pocket and fed it to Minx, loosening her girth after he put her in the paddock. “A quick snack before we head back out,” he said, absently running his hands down the mare’s legs to feel for cuts, bumps, or rubs from his boots. He stroked her mane and huffed out a sigh, his mind far more tired than his body after seeing Rachel.
He unbuckled the holster and gun he only wore on the range or in town at night and hooked it on Minx’s wall before tugging his string tie off. Shoving it into his pocket, he unbuttoned his collar, making his way to the house where the sound of laughter carried on a breeze along with the smell of fried chicken. A faint smile lifted the edges of his mouth as he remembered how much Rachel had enjoyed the dinner plate he’d asked Angus to fix for them, a private picnic in her bedroom at the Ponderosa. The smile dissolved when he thought of just why she was holing up in her room, too embarrassed to show her face in public until the bruises
faded.
Which’d be a whole lot sooner than Murdock’s would, that’s for darn sure.
Undoing a few buttons of his silk vest, Blaze grunted as he trudged up the porch steps, absently touching his sore lip. At least Murdock would suffer more than Blaze tonight after the battering he’d given him. Accident or no, Murdock had hurt Rachel with a punch meant for JR when she’d tried to break up a fight. Blaze’s jaw ground tight. The last punch he’d ever throw at the Ponderosa.
Before the screen door squealed, Scout was waiting for him, tail wagging while Frannie merely hissed like the silly thing did whenever anybody entered the room. “Already took one weasel down tonight, rodent,” he muttered to the ferret, scowling at Frannie while he gave Scout a good scrub of her snout. “Don’t make it two.”
“Noooo … not the whipping post!” someone moaned, and Blaze smiled his first honest smile all night. Recognizing Maggie’s mournful cry from the parlour, he surmised a game of The Mansion of Happiness was in progress, a board game where Sabbath-breakers were sent to the whipping post. He quietly moved to the wide beamed doorway of the log parlour, where Uncle Finn concentrated on chess with Aiden on one side of the massive stone hearth. On the other side, Blaze’s sisters, Maeve, Aunt Libby, Gert, and Maggie played a rather noisy game of Mansion of Happiness. Blaze grinned straight-out when Maggie—in true Mullaney fashion—dropped her head in her hands with great drama, her lingering groan reminding him how badly she hated to lose. “But I was so close …”
“Uh-oh,” Shaylee said with a hint of the devil in her eyes, “maybe you should have gone to our church on Sunday instead of that Catholic one with Aunt Libby and her parents.”
“Shaylee Donovan,” Uncle Finn called from his chess game, focusing on the board while his tone veered toward dry. “Might I remind you that God is no respecter of persons? Nor churches for that matter.”
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