“I’ll hold up his arm. You wash the pit.”
Big sobs. “It’s hairy. Real hairy.”
“Good Ole Bess, get a hold of yourself. This man is gonna die if we don’t wash him up. You want him to die?”
He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t speak. He could twitch. He’d twitched his toes and his fingers. Every other movement he’d tried so far caused pain.
He was in everlasting, horrible pain, and he was being washed by little girls. He’d almost rather die. But aside from the pain, his predicament was laughable. He couldn’t laugh, either.
A soft wail. “You said he wasn’t gonna die. Lucy said Deacon woulden let him.”
“I know what Lucy said. Get some soap on that rag.”
Grant heard no movement from the tearful angel.
The bossy one’s sigh tickled the hairs on his wet chest. “I’ll tell Mae you didn’t help take care of the outlaw.”
“He’s not uh outlaw.”
“We don’t know what he is.”
“We do. He’s a cowboy.”
“Could be! Could be a cowboy, not for sure a cowboy. You gonna wash Mr. Cowboy?”
“I do it.”
Mae? The adult, maybe? Mae could be their way of saying Ma. Mae, Deacon, Lucy, Minnie Sue, Bess. Why Good Ole Bess?
A shudder tore his thoughts from mere names. Outlaw? Him? They couldn’t think he was an outlaw.
He wanted to speak. All he got out was a grunt. He felt them jump away. He heard the bowl clatter to the floor and the splash of spilled water. He heard his angel girls run and a door slam behind them.
Where were his little-girl angels? He’d been awake for ages. Hours maybe.
He still couldn’t pry his eyes open, but he’d managed small movements. His fingers and toes worked. He’d managed to turn his head to the accompaniment of excruciating pain. He’d inched movement out of both arms and one leg. The other leg was tied to narrow boards.
Was it day or night? He couldn’t hear a blessed thing. If people stirred beyond his door, they were doing it on tiptoe. Could silence drive a cowboy mad? Just a cowboy, not an outlaw.
From beyond that barrier of wall and door, boots clattered. Finally. Two thuds against the door, and it crashed against the wall. Sounded like the advance of soldiers storming a fort. The tramping across the floor could have been five or more men, but the footfalls were too light for adults. More children. How many? Surely not a dozen as all the noise would indicate.
“Be quiet! He’s injured.” A female voice he’d never heard. From somewhere outside his prison.
Not a prison, exactly, but he was trapped. Trapped more by his body than these jail-keepers.
“Shhh!” The hiss came from inside the room.
Boots shuffled across the floor. Yes, more than one pair. Two. One louder and pounding. One not so loud.
“You awake?”
Grant managed an “umm” and felt proud of himself. Communication. Soon.
“My name’s Joe-Joe. Not really. My name’s just Joe. I’m six.” A boy. Friendly.
“I’m Buckeroo.” He sounded like a buckeroo. “I’m s–six, too.”
“We’re twins.”
“Are you a g–good guy or a bad guy?”
“Buckeroo, he can’t answer that. You gotta ask one or the other, so he can grunt. And Lucy said it was hero or villain.”
“Are y–you a hero?” He could tell them apart. Buckeroo stammered. “Are y–you a villain?”
Oh, he’d waited too long to answer. He concentrated on his tongue, his lips, even his teeth. “No.”
“He talked,” Joe-Joe hollered. He ran to the door and bellowed, “He talked, Lucy!”
“You be quiet in there. That man’s sick.”
“Not sick, Lucy. The fever’s gone. Just injured. And he’s not a villain.”
“Good. Come get this broth.”
He was thirsty and hungry. A few minutes later, he knew he’d been fed before. And probably by these two wranglers. The method was vaguely familiar. Buckeroo sat on the head of the bed, seemingly cross-legged. Grant thanked God that the boy had taken off his boots. Nothing that had to do with his noggin caused anything but pain.
They lifted his head, pillow and all, onto the boy’s ankles. Joe-Joe put a cloth beneath his chin then spooned in broth. Warm, salty liquid seeped between his lips and covered his tongue with bliss.
“Wow! You’re doing lots better, Mr. Cowboy.”
“Almost n–no spills. L–lots b–better.”
Footsteps, light and cheerful. “Don’t get him all messy. Good Ole Bess and me cleaned him up.” Bossy speaking. Minnie Sue.
Joe-Joe corrected Minnie Sue. “Good Ole Bess and I.”
He scoffed with a humphing grunt that accentuated his superior maturity and wisdom. “You didn’t clean up all of him. Charlie will come roll him. Then we boys do the hard stuff.”
Grant had no memory of that. Where was the other angel? The tearful one?
The broth was good. Probably the best he’d ever had.
Minnie Sue’s small hand pushed into his large callused palm. “Lucy said he talked.”
Y–yep.”
Running footsteps. A small body fell against his chest.
“Wha–tee say?”
“Watch out, Good Ole Bess. You made me slosh.”
“Wha–tee say?”
“He said no.”
“Why?”
“C–cause I asked him if he’s a v–villain.”
The pressure left his side. Little feet tapped on the floor and hands clapped in glee. “I knew it. I knew it,” Good Ole Bess crowed. “Our mister is a good guy.”
“What’s all the racket?” A new voice. Boy. Older.
Good Ole Bess ceased her stomping dance. Her little feet in light-soled shoes skipped across the room. Grant heard an umph. She’d tackled the newcomer.
How many were in his room? Five. All children. Lucy made six in the family. There was a Mae and a Deacon. That was eight. Adults? Children? Five children to his count. Lucy was too vague to pin an age on her. Where were the others? Parents? Were there parents around? Surely a grown person had set his leg, bandaged his wounds, and wrapped his head.
“He probably wants to know what happened to him. Anyone tell him?” asked the boy.
A dozen denials mixed in the air.
“Y–you tell him, Charlie.”
“All right. I will.” The boy moved closer. “You got shot in the head and fell off your horse. Then three men came along, took stuff out of your pockets, took your holster and gun, then rolled you over the cliff top. Joe-Joe, Buckeroo, and I saw it all.”
“We st–stayed out of sight un–t–til they’d gone.”
Joe-Joe poured more broth in his mouth with the spoon separating his lips. “Then we hoisted you in the cart, and Jangles pulled you home.”
Good Ole Bess leaned against him again. He wished he could tell her to stop. The pressure hurt his ribs. But the comfort of her warm little self kept him from complaining. He couldn’t open his eyes, he couldn’t do a thing for himself, but this little angel gave him hope. She patted his cheek. “Jangles is our goat. She gives us milk, but not now. She’s with child.”
Giggling, girly and boyish. Lots of giggling.
So a pregnant goat hauled his sorry carcass to a house filled with children and no adults to be seen or heard or spoken of. He had a lot of questions if he could ever get his mouth to cooperate.
Lots of questions.
Chapter Two
Grant looked at the ceiling through tiny slits, his eyelids straining to part. He guessed from the light in the room that it was morning. He couldn’t even begin to calculate how many days he’d been under the ministrations of his angel children.
Lucy came to the door of his room. He recognized her scent, always something to do with cooking. Now the air around her wafted beef stew.
“You’re awake?” Her soft voice soothed his anxiety. “I’ll call one of the children in. They’
re out doing chores. More likely playing.” She didn’t approach his bed. “But they get things done while they play, so no need to fuss.”
Rapid footsteps denoted her quick retreat. She never stayed near him for long.
Grant wondered if the mature Lucy ever fussed. She called the others children, but she was only thirteen. Minnie Sue had divulged that information, along with the opinion that thirteen was old. What would she think of her cowboy’s twenty-five years? Ancient. He felt beyond ancient. He almost equated his aching body with dead, but surely dead would be more comfortable.
Good Ole Bess arrived with the expected bump against his side. The impact hurt, but he welcomed the angel who either laughed or cried.
Leaning over him, she giggled. “I’m not s’pose to tell you, you’s ugly.”
Her gentle fingertips stroked his scraggly whiskers. “I don’t think you is ’cause you’re our cowboy. Lucy says she’s gonna throw up when she sees you.”
“She didn’t really throw up, but she gagged once.” Minnie Sue’s voice came closer as light thuds on the wood floor announced her entrance. He could tell who was coming now by the sound of their footsteps.
He saw Good Ole Bess wrinkle her nose and purse her lips. “Ew!”
Each of his angels had a variation of a reddish-gold mop of hair. The tresses on Good Ole Bess were springs of curls. From having combed his nieces’ hair, he knew this could be problematic. Tangles lead to tears unless great caution was taken. But the girl’s curls were washed and free of mats. Someone cared for her grooming.
Surely there was a person around older than Lucy. An adult, perhaps. Just one. He wished he could get his jaw to work, loosen his fat tongue, and ask all the questions that revolved in a frustrating pattern through his thoughts.
Buckeroo approached with a heavy tread and grunts.
“H–here’s your b–bucket of w–wash w–water.”
Did he stutter more because he was out of breath?
It must be close to dinnertime. The morning always ended with a cool, sloppy bath given to him by Minnie Sue and Good Ole Bess. He’d gotten over being embarrassed by this ritual. He had no shirt. The legs of his pants had been cut off. Splints encased one limb. The girls never touched what was left of his britches.
The boys had helped him twice to void the little fluid that passed through him. Most of the time, the pain obliterated any need for modesty. The bath was a treat. But after…Rolling to remove wet bedclothes constituted torture. He supposed the boys were as gentle as they could be. They washed his back from neck to his heels with the help of the two little sisters. He had yet to remain conscious. As they yanked the wet material from under him, he gave up trying.
He blocked out the thought of the bath’s finale and concentrated on the cheerful prelude. The girls chattered nonstop and divulged scattered information, some of which might even be accurate.
Grandpa sat on the porch in a rocker with a shotgun over his lap. One day Grant latched on to that tidbit with relief. An adult. The next day, Good Ole Bess complained about having to restuff Gramps’s legs because one of the goats had pulled all the hay out before breakfast. A scarecrow? On the porch?
He learned that Mae and three brothers were out chasing horses. That fit in with his memory about the Seady horse breeders.
He’d pieced together a timeline. He’d left his family’s Wyoming ranch and ridden to Hopster in the Colorado Territory. Seady horses claimed the respect of the ranchers for two hundred miles to the north and east of the tiny town. He’d been a couple of days late. The Seady family had already sold their stock at the livery’s monthly auction.
On the chance they might have other horses available, he’d gotten directions from the man who hosted the horse and cattle sales. The next day, on the trail to the Seady ranch, he’d been bushwhacked.
Lucy’s voice carried from the other room. “You forgot to scrape your boots, Buck. Get out of here and take them off on the porch. Come back with the broom. You’re going to get every speck of that muck off our clean floors, or you won’t be eating dinner this noon.”
“Joe-Joe’s gonna be mad iffen I d–don’t come back pronto.”
“You think I’m not mad? He’s going to have to stand in line. And I’m in line ahead of him since I serve the food.”
Buckeroo shuffled off, mumbling about sisters and horses and needing more hay for the winter and someone named Stilling, who ought to be named Stealing. Grant’s keen ears discovered something amazing. When Buckeroo mumbled, he didn’t stutter.
He tucked that in his thoughts to cogitate on at leisure. He had plenty of leisure.
A rag of cold water hit him on the chest. He gasped at the shock, cringed at the onslaught of pain in his ribs, then relaxed as rivulets poured down his sides.
Minnie Sue clucked her tongue. “How come you always forget to wring out the first rag? He won’t be comfy if his bed is soggy.”
Good Ole Bess giggled and proceeded to push the sopping cloth back and forth over skin and bandages alike.
“You’re getting him all wet,” grumped Minnie Sue.
Good Ole Bess laughed. Splashes of water squeezed out of the cloth she held. “Of course I get him wet. He’s taking a bath.”
With a much drier rag, Minnie Sue wiped his brow, cheeks, and neck. Through the slits he had managed to keep open, Grant admired her honeyed hair, carefully parted down the center and captured in two neat braids. Her eyebrows and eyelashes grew dark and distinctive, setting off gorgeous blue eyes. If she matured to be a smiler, she’d have boys fighting to court her. Most often she frowned.
And who would guard these three beauties, Lucy, Minnie Sue, and Good Ole Bess, from unscrupulous suitors? And why in the world was Bess called Good Ole? The baby of the family had nothing about her to claim such a ridiculous nickname.
The sheets and blanket under him soaked up the excess water. The girls hauled the bucket away with no help from the boys. It must have been almost empty. In spite of the excessive splashing, Grant relaxed as pain eased out of his battered muscles. The bit of a breeze over the damp bedclothes provided some comfort in the warm afternoons.
“Dinner’s late,” said Good Ole Bess from beside him. She’d taken off her shoes and tiptoed in. He’d heard her and wondered what was up.
“I got you a biscuit, ’cause Lucy makes ’em good. You get nothing but broth. That’s not right. I get biscuit anytime I want. Open your mouth.”
Grant parted his lips as much as he could. His curly-headed angel poked a small pinch of bread past his swollen lips. The passage was a bit rougher than the liquid tipped into his mouth, but his tongue caught the crumb and relished the taste. She’d even put butter on her offering, and that helped it go down. Grant closed his eyes and wished he could thank her.
“Don’t go to sleep. You hafta finish ’fore the others come in.”
He opened his eyes. He wanted to ask where they’d gone.
“They think I’m too little to round up the horses and the chickens and the goats and Toomany the sow, she’s mean, and her babies. But I’m not.”
Grant’s lip twitched as if a grin might develop out of the swollen mess that was his mouth. Was his angel mean like the sow or too little? He knew which, but her chatter brightened his day.
Why were they gathering in the livestock?
Good Ole Bess smeared a chunk of buttery biscuit across his lower lip. He swiped it in with his tongue. Quite an achievement. Perhaps he would return to a normal, functioning man in time.
“We got black clouds rolling in from the plains and lightning way, way off where Hopster is.”
Storm brewing. If only he could get up and help.
“We got a root cellar to hide in, but if a twister comes, I’m gonna hide under your bed so you won’t be alone.” She poked a bigger piece between his lips. “I won’t be scared, if you won’t. I’ll sing loud. Maybe you could grunt. You’re getting good at grunting.”
One took compliments where one could get them.
Good Ole Bess sat up, moving her head out of his line of vision. She tilted forward again.
“You hear that?”
Grant listened. Thunder maybe. Far away. He hadn’t noticed a flash of lightning.
Good Ole Bess hopped down from the bed, leaving a fistful of crumbled biscuit on his chest. She ran to the open window. Straining his eyes to the left, he could just barely see her small body hanging out.
“Smell the rain?”
Yes, he could smell it.
“That’s not thunder.”
The rumble came in a steady flow, no breaks. He strained to pick up clues. The trees outside rustled but not with the torment of wild wind. Not thunder. Not a tornado.
“Horses!” Good Ole Bess danced around the room, clapping her hands. “Mae’s coming! And Deacon! And Robert and Tim!”
She ran from the room squealing and crowing. Gone for five seconds, she returned to throw herself against his side. She patted his cheeks then gathered up the crumbs. One hand brushed at what was left, spreading the butter around. He could feel it and smell it and would have laughed. But even the thought of laughing made his sides and head hurt.
“I won’t go far. I have to stay on the porch when the horses come.”
She ran off again, leaving her cowboy wanting to jump to his feet and run after her. Her excitement had energized him. He wanted to be on the porch as well. To see the herd of wild horses brought in, to see the lightning in the distance, hear the thunder mixed with the pounding of hoofbeats, and smell the rain. He rallied all his senses to capture the spirit of the outdoors.
Getting up. That had to be his next goal. He’d already opened his eyes. Big step forward. Talking would be nice. Moving would be better. He had to get up.
Chapter Three
Grant welcomed the sounds, smells, and utter chaos that flowed through the open window and the door to the big room. Someone was jumping on the porch. Most likely Good Ole Bess, if she’d put on her shoes. Minnie Sue, if Bess still had stockinged feet.
The Courageous Brides Collection Page 33