A Marriage By Chance
Page 24
Gus glanced once in their direction and rode ahead to where the rustler lay on the ground, his horse beside him. Dropping from his saddle, he lifted the wounded man and draped him over the saddle, then snatched up the reins and mounted his own horse.
“Don’t shoot him, Cleary,” Chloe said quickly. “He told me from the beginning he’d help me escape.”
“Move out,” Cleary told her harshly. “Take cover behind those trees. I’ll be right behind you.”
She turned the paint, and encountered resistance, the horse’s training urging him toward the herd behind them. And from the men riding point in front of the thundering steers came a shout. “The woman’s getting away!” One of the rustlers turned his mount in a tight half circle, heading in her direction.
She clung to the paint, digging in her heels as he heeded her hold on the reins, and bending low over his neck, she headed due south, where Cleary’s instructions had bid her go. Behind her, shots were fired and men shouted, and racing beside her was a dun-colored pony with one of the rustlers astride.
He cursed loudly, aiming his gun in her direction, forcing her toward a rocky area. Behind her, another gun spoke and the rustler fell from his horse. She glanced to her right, spying Cleary as he rode apace, and then watched in horror as he jerked in the saddle and fell against his horse’s neck. Blood covered his shoulder, quickly soaking his sleeve, and his gun fell to the ground.
The paint stallion obeyed her hand on the reins and turned back to where Cleary’s horse stood, eyes rolling in his head, pawing at the ground as the reins fell to either side of his head. Chloe edged as close as she could, grasping Cleary by the belt and calling his name.
“Can you get on behind me?” she asked as his eyes squinted at her, and his mouth opened as if he would speak.
“Yeah.” The single word seemed to take every bit of his energy, but the stallion stood as if made of stone as Cleary lifted himself from the saddle and fell across Chloe’s horse. “Go,” he said, sagging on either side of the stud’s barrel behind her.
She moved ahead cautiously, aware of gunfire, and the pounding hooves of the cattle behind her, praying that they would not veer from their path. The stand of trees concealed them as she rode past the edge of the wooded area, and as the ground sloped upward, she slowed the pace of the stallion.
Beneath a tree, she halted, looking quickly over her shoulder lest they be followed, and then with a sigh of relief, slid from the stud. Leaning her forehead against his shoulder, she murmured words of praise, then lifted the reins to twist them around a branch. Beside her, Cleary slid to the ground, crumpling at her feet, and she bent to him.
Blood flowed from the front of his shoulder, and she tore the tattered remains of his garment from the spot where the bullet had erupted, taking flesh with it. Sliding from her shirt quickly, she tore off a double strip from the hem and knotted it together. Then, folding the rest into a thick pad, she pressed it against the gaping wound. The strip reached from his shoulder, across to his waist on the opposite side, and the rest of it she managed to slide beneath him.
Cleary watched her, lifting his head and breathing fitfully, groaning as she moved him to tie the bandage in place. He was sweating profusely, his countenance almost gray, and as she worked, he lost consciousness, his head falling to the ground.
Loading him back on the horse was impossible, and Chloe could only kneel beside the wounded man and wait for help to arrive.
“Chloe?” She heard the familiar voice and rose quickly, lifting her bloodstained hands from the man at her feet. J.T. rode beneath the overhanging branches of a tree, then straightened in the saddle and their eyes met, his making a swift survey of her, her own gaze unable to swerve from his face.
“I put some pressure on the wound, but he’s still bleeding,” she told J.T. and his attention turned to the man on the ground. He slid from his horse and reached for his saddlebag, opening it quickly and removing a towel.
“This ought to do the trick till we can get him back to the house,” he said, folding the heavy fabric and sliding it into place beneath the wadded material of Chloe’s shirt.
“What happened?” she asked. “Did you get all the rustlers?”
“A couple of them took a bullet. The rest gave up when they saw there wasn’t much chance of getting past us.”
“They were going to use me as a hostage,” she said. “If it hadn’t been for Gus and Cleary…” She inhaled deeply, thinking of the men who had paid so little attention to her well-being, and were so willing to put her life in peril.
“Micah knew Cleary would watch out for you,” J.T. said, feeling for a pulse in Cleary’s neck.
“He’d have had a hard time if Gus hadn’t cut my wrists free,” she said. “And Gus told me—”
“Later,” J.T. said, cutting her off mid-sentence. “We need to get Cleary loaded up and on his way to a doctor.”
“Let me look for his horse,” she said, hurrying through the trees to where the sounds of men shouting and cattle lowing could be heard.
And then she halted, watching as Lowery rode toward her, Cleary’s horse in tow. Beyond him men worked the herd, while others stood in a circle, hands over their heads, as two cowhands took their weapons and then tied their hands.
“Those fellas are in for a long walk,” Lowery said with a grin. “Hale Winters’s boys are takin’ them to town.” He looked beyond Chloe to where J.T. knelt next to Cleary. “They didn’t kill him, did they?” Lowery asked, his grin turning to concern.
Chloe shook her head. “No, he’s still alive, but he’s got a nasty hole in his shoulder.”
“He’ll probably be back on his horse in a week,” Lowery told her. “My guess is it won’t be the first time he’s had a bullet in him.” He turned his horse and headed back to the milling cattle. “It’ll take a while to get these animals sorted out, Miss Chloe. You and the boss better take Cleary back to the house.”
You and the boss. She mulled over his words as J.T. lifted the wounded man to his horse.
The man she’d married had taken control, and she’d allowed it. Yet it rankled and she determined to dig in her heels.
Tilly decreed there was no need for the doctor to be called out so late in the day. For by the time Cleary was installed in a bed on the second floor, the sun had been below the horizon for almost an hour. Washing the wound in carbolic soap, then stitching the raw edges of the wound with heavy thread was a job Chloe was only too glad to give into Tilly’s able hands.
J.T. knew she’d done her share of stitching in times past, but as she watched, her face turned pale, and he reached to catch her as her legs gave way beneath her. In moments she was seated on a chair, her head held between her knees. J.T. squatted by her side, one big hand on her nape, the other holding a cold cloth against her forehead.
“Just stay right there,” he said sharply. “I don’t want to scrape you up off the floor.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she muttered. “I never get puny at the sight of blood.”
“Could be the past two days kinda got to you,” he said, sarcasm alive in his tone. “Maybe it has something to do with ridin’ off on the paint stallion and gettin’ yourself in a peck of trouble. And then being the cause of a man getting shot when he tried to rescue you.”
“Are you going to be mad at me forever, or can I look forward to a little sympathy after while?” she asked in a whisper.
“I just can’t believe you went off half-cocked, Clo. I told you—”
She lifted her head abruptly, and the cloth he’d held against her face dropped to the floor. “Listen to me, Flannery.” She snarled the words, her eyes flashing temper at him. “You’re not going to spend the rest of our lives together telling me what to do, and you’d better get that through your head right now.”
He looked fully into her eyes, then surveyed the bruised lines of her face. One hand reached to brush her hair back, and his heart thumped an extra beat as he saw the lump on her forehe
ad, dried blood caking the jagged cut that ended at her hairline.
“What happened to your head?” he asked, cutting off her protest midsentence.
“I got dumped and landed on a rock.” She spit the words in his direction and brushed his hand aside. Angry tears fought to be shed, and she lifted one hand to brush them away.
“Don’t touch that cut,” he said gruffly, fearful of dirt entering the open wound. “Why didn’t you tell me you needed stitches on your forehead?”
“You didn’t ask.” Chloe set her jaw and rose from the chair, making her way to the dresser where a pitcher of water waited next to the china bowl. She lifted the pitcher and found it taken from her grasp.
“I’ll do that,” he said, pouring the bowl half full. “I washed up downstairs. My hands are clean.”
Chloe looked up at him and he felt his heart lurch within his chest. The anger had been a cover-up, his worry about her well-being making him cross and fit to be tied. And now he looked into weary eyes that begged silently for understanding. He reached for a clean cloth and wrung it out in the water, then pulled the chair closer.
“Sit down, Clo,” he said quietly. “Let me bathe that cut and see how bad it is.”
“It’s already healing,” she said, obeying, as if her legs would no longer hold her upright. And then she lifted her face, closing her eyes as he held her hair back and washed the edges of her wound.
“You need me up here?” Micah stepped through the doorway, surveying the two patients. “I’d better be getting to town. Don’t know where we’re going to put that bunch of rustlers. If I had my way, there’d be a hanging party tomorrow after the judge holds court early in the morning. But I don’t think that’s gonna happen. They’ll probably all get sent to Laramie to prison.”
“Micah!” Chloe jerked in her chair and made an effort to stand. Only J.T.’s hands on her shoulders kept her bottom pressed against the seat.
Micah turned to her, frowning as if he caught the edge of panic in her voice. “What’s the problem, Miss Chloe? I know you’re averse to hangin’ anybody, but the law’s the law, and doggone, a few years back that’s what would have happened to them. And I’m not sure it wouldn’t be a good idea now.” His firm tone left no room for appeal, and J.T.’s private opinion was much the same.
One look at Chloe told a different tale, however. And her voice trembled as she spoke. “The man, Gus…the one who cut the ropes and turned me loose. He told me early on that he’d help me, Micah. Said he didn’t hold with hurting women.”
She closed her eyes for a moment as J.T. nodded his agreement. “I saw him cut her free,” he told Micah.
“That’s not all Gus had to say,” Chloe whispered, and J.T. bent low to hear her words. “He said that Pete was killed by one of the rustlers. Gus told me Pete was trying to get out of the whole thing that night.”
J.T. felt a load lift from his shoulders. He’d never known, had not been absolutely certain that his gun wasn’t the one that felled Pete from his saddle. For sure, he had never deliberately aimed at the man, but in the heated exchange of bullets, the possibility had remained. And it was that possibility that had almost severed the ties that bound him to Chloe.
She leaned her head against his shoulder now, and he nodded at Micah over her head. The lawman’s eyes were narrowed, his lips pursed, and then he spoke to Chloe. “I’ll see what I can do, Chloe. I’ll put Gus in a separate place, and if the judge will listen, we’ll see if we can get him a shorter stay in Laramie than the rest of them. I’d say the man is owed a debt, even if he is a low-down rustler. Must be some good in him.”
Chloe shivered, and J.T.’s arms circled her, holding her slight form against himself. “Come on, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Let me clean you up and we’ll tuck you into bed.”
To her credit, she made no protest, uttered no claim of well-being. Only allowed him to thoroughly wash the wound on her head with carbolic soap, wincing as it burned the tender skin. And then he followed Tilly’s instructions and applied a bandage with salve smeared thickly across its surface. He thought Chloe looked like a waif, a wide-eyed child, as he led her from the room.
And if he noticed Cleary’s gaze following, he set the knowledge aside, aware that J.T. Flannery was the man doing the job of undressing, washing up and tucking in the female creature he’d taken as wife.
“She’s some woman.” Cleary’s voice spoke the words in an undertone, and Tilly mumbled a reply, the sound lost as J.T. picked Chloe up and carried her to their bedroom.
Her clothing was filthy, and he piled it in a heap for disposal in the morning. She shivered as she stood naked before him, and his hands were gentle as he washed her from top to bottom, leaving only her hair untouched by soap and water. It was snarled and dusty and only a thorough sudsing would accomplish much, he decided. And Chloe was not in fit condition for that tonight.
Her nightgown, folded neatly in a drawer, had not been used of late, and he shook it from its folds reluctantly, knowing she would welcome its warmth tonight. Sliding it over her head, he regretfully covered the firm breasts and rounded hips that drew his gaze. And then watched as it drifted to the floor, until only her pink toes were exposed to view. A quick flip of his wrist tossed the quilt and sheet aside and Chloe was deposited on the fresh bed linen. Before her head touched the pillow, her eyes closed and a sigh escaped her lips.
His own ablutions were taken care of quickly, his body yearning for the closeness of his marriage bed, and in moments he’d blown out the lamp and found his place beside her. She nestled closer in her sleep, and he blessed the day he’d found a place in her life. His arms surrounded her, lifting her gently, holding her against his chest, her feet tangling with his calves and her nightgown pulling up to expose the lush curves of her bottom.
His hand rested there, holding her firmly, his own need put on the back burner as he breathed soft words into her deaf ears. No matter that she could not hear him speak the tender scoldings that poured from him. It counted for naught that she slept through his litany of worry and pain as he’d watched her struggle to ride the paint, hands bound and body aching.
And even when he murmured soft words of praise for her bravery and courage as she’d brought Cleary from the midst of the conflict, she only muttered beneath her breath and wiggled closer to him. He smothered a chuckle then, aware of the stalwart spirit of the woman he’d married. The strength that drove her to do as she saw fit, damning the consequences. The future would indeed prove interesting, J.T. decided.
You’re not going to spend the rest of our lives together telling me what to do. She’d spit the words at him, and there was not a shred of doubt in his mind but that she would battle him on that point for years to come. But for tonight, he could allow her the space she needed. Tonight, he would hang a second moon in the sky if she asked.
Chapter Sixteen
Nursing the patient was a task shared by Tilly and Chloe. Carrying trays at mealtimes up the stairway fell to Chloe’s lot after her first glimpse of Tilly’s cautious treading of the steps. “I’ll do the running up and down,” she said firmly, and Tilly gave her little argument.
Listening for Cleary at night fell to Tilly, since their bedrooms were directly across the hall from each other. And changing the bandage on his wound was the last thing she did before she sought her bed at night. It was healing well, she told J.T., only a bit of festering causing fever, but that would soon fall prey to the healing poultices she and Chloe applied daily.
On the fourth day of their vigil, Cleary pronounced himself able to come to the table for breakfast, and the sight greeting J.T.’s eyes as Chloe assisted the patient down the stairs, was enough to make his blood boil. Cleary’s arm was draped across Chloe’s shoulder and she watched attentively as he took his good old time finding his way from one step to another.
Chloe murmured soft words, and Cleary laughed aloud at her, his grin fading as J.T. caught his eye. “Your wife’s quite handy to have around,” he said.
“Tilly says I need another day or so to rest my shoulder before I ride a horse,” Cleary said, obviously smothering amusement as he read J.T.’s expressive face aright.
“I think we need to talk,” J.T. said shortly. “Right after breakfast, in fact. In the study.” And then his gaze touched Chloe, a stern look she ignored as J.T. added a single word to his demand. “Alone.”
Breakfast was hearty and J.T. noted that Cleary’s appetite was pretty well restored, the man plunging into a plate full of ham and eggs, with pancakes on the side. Tilly, appreciative of his words of praise for her food, fawned over him unduly, J.T. thought. And Chloe rose quickly as she noted his coffee cup was empty. The fact that she paused by his own chair to refill his was but a minor detail. Cleary was obviously the man of the hour.
And in the study, half an hour later, the man from the U.S. Marshal’s office sat comfortably in a chair near the desk, his half smile an aggravation J.T. could not tolerate.
“You know, I resent the fact that you came here under false pretenses,” he said, seating himself behind the big desk. “I told Micah I didn’t appreciate you taking a job here without telling me what was going on.”
“I just do what I’m told,” Cleary said briefly, and then crossed one long leg over the other, examining his boot as he spoke. “I was sent by the Wyoming Cattle Owner’s Association. I used to be what they call a stock detective, and when this mess came up, they asked for me. My boss said to get in with the rustlers if I could. And then to hire on at a ranch and play cowboy for a while. Micah knew what the story was.”