The Wedding Kiss

by Hannah Alexander

  There in his arms, her face had distorted, melted, until only her skull stared back at him, as if she’d just come to him from the grave that very night. He’d jerked awake, drenched with sweat, and tossed off the quilt. He hadn’t slept the rest of the night. After that, however, he’d recalled no more dreams, not of Gloria, not of anyone. Until now.

  Since Susanna’s arrival, Elam had begun to sleep, once more, with his dead wife. During his waking hours, he’d kept busy, comforted by Keara’s presence in his home, but these past two nights, with Susanna fighting for her life down the hallway, he couldn’t stop thinking about Gloria. And dreaming.

  If only a man didn’t need sleep to stay alive.

  After checking Susanna’s temperature and finding it down by almost a degree, Keara placed more cold cloths on her patient’s face and chest, gave her more tea. She hesitated at the side of the bed then turned to leave. What was there to say? She was so tired of arguing with the headstrong woman after two nights of fitful sleep.

  “Wait.”

  Keara stopped at the door, gave herself a moment to put on a pleasant face, and turned back, but instead of looking at Susanna, she allowed her attention to be drawn to something outside the window.

  “I can be a handful,” Susanna said.

  Keara nodded as a dark splotch on the horizon became horses, nearly half a mile away as the crow flew—though farther for the horses, as the dips and forests interfered with any kind of straight path. Two horses with riders. Looked like they might be following the same general direction as the river.

  “Yes, I know,” Susanna continued when Keara said nothing. “Nathaniel told me that often enough. Runs in the family, I suppose. Gloria had…her ways.”

  At the sound of her friend’s name, Keara looked at Susanna. “She did, yes. Especially early on, after she and Elam moved to this ranch.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t fit in.”

  Keara couldn’t resist a smile as she recalled her best friend’s outspokenness, her rebellion against what she called the “commonplace” lives of people in the valley.

  “When did Elam have this house built for her?” Susanna asked. “I imagine that’s when she settled a little.”

  “Elam didn’t have it built, he and the neighbors built it. She worked as hard as anyone.”

  “She was never afraid to work for what she wanted.”

  “They built this house five years ago, after Gloria had all but given up her dream of having a fine home like the ones in Eureka Springs.”

  “That’s about the time the tone of her letters changed.”

  “She changed,” Keara said. “Her tongue grew less sharp, and she learned to place the needs of others ahead of her own.”

  “She hated farm life when we were growing up.”

  “She loved Elam, and her priorities changed.” Keara remembered when it began.

  “That was quite a change,” Susanna said.

  “Gloria painted most of the house herself. She chose the colors. Every time I walked or rode up to the house, I was reminded of Gloria by the colors she chose.”

  Susanna chuckled. “I saw the colors and the gingerbread trim just before I fell off Duchess Monday night. I’d like to have seen Gloria with paint in her hair.”

  “God made the change in her.” Keara glanced again out the open window. The riders were in no hurry, it seemed, but they’d drawn close enough for her to see that one sat slumped low in the saddle. “We’ve got a lot of devoted Christians in these parts, and it took a few years, but she was impressed by the kindness of her neighbors—”

  “And, most likely, their patience with her. Our father always did say Gloria was the most headstrong child he’d raised. Gloria wanted to go to Aunt June’s when I did, and she threw a fit when she had to stay on the farm. She always wanted to live a life of refinement, with a proper home and well-educated children.”

  “She wanted more for her children than what she believed they could have here, but she came to realize that a relationship with God was more important than a fine home for her family,” Keara said.

  Susanna frowned at her. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

  “No, not me. I think her good marriage to Elam drew her to God.”

  “And it took.” There was a sound of wonder in Susanna’s voice.

  “You know your sister was serving those who had been stricken with smallpox when she was taken.”

  Susanna closed her eyes. “I’ve done that myself. I’ve put myself in harm’s way for patients, but I didn’t have children.”

  “You mean you would have stopped being a doctor if you’d had children? After all that training?”

  “And risk the lives of my own flesh and blood?”

  Keara stepped to the window, and her disquiet grew when the flap on the jacket on the rider on the right showed a shaped object that glinted in the sunlight. A badge?

  “She had a home and family,” Susanna continued. “Children who needed her, a wonderful husband who loved her enough to build her the house of her dreams. A colorful, elegant Victorian, of all things.”

  “In the end, the house never mattered,” Keara said. “Not really.” Outside, the breeze kicked up, and dust from the road rose like smoke around the riders—both men.

  Something wasn’t right. This felt off. Keara looked at Susanna, who had taken the cloths and rearranged them, cool side to her skin.

  “We have visitors.”

  Susanna looked up at her. “Your father again?”

  “Looks like the law, but not anyone I know.”

  Susanna tensed, tried to sit up, groaned. “Where’s Duchess? Get her into the barn.”

  Keara eased her back down. “I will. I think Elam’s out with the horses.”

  “Go. Now. Hide her. Close the window and pull the curtains. Close the door. Please, Keara, hurry!”

  Thirteen

  The familiar thud of horse hooves on grass drew Elam’s attention to the track past the orchard wall. He saw two men, one slumped in his saddle, with handcuffs clanking softly. The taller man, sitting straight, wore a brown, broad-brimmed hat and a long, tanned-hide coat with a US marshal badge prominently displayed on his chest. Dust covered both men.

  This was not a social call. This was an officer of the law and his prisoner. A glance at the prisoner’s left thigh told Elam the man had been wounded midway between knee and groin, possibly with a bullet or knife, and a stained rag of sorts had been tied around it to stop the bleeding.

  Elam’s first thought was for Keara. Word had spread about her abilities in these parts. She’d had the occasional visitor when she lived on her family farm, because it was a long ride to Eureka Springs when a patient was sick or in a lot of pain.

  His second thought was of Susanna, and then Duchess, and his conversation with Brute. Was it only coincidence that Brute had warned him about Susanna’s pursuer? Or maybe not a coincidence at all, but a nudge from God.

  He dusted off his hands and stepped through the open barn door. He usually left it open, but this time he turned and closed it behind him as if this were habit. He eyed the prisoner. Young man, looked to be in his early twenties, face as gray as a graveyard tombstone.

  Next, he eyed the man’s captor. As they drew closer, Elam stood a little straighter. He knew what the badge represented, but he could almost hear Brute’s voice in his ear, reminding him of a rogue marshal.

  A US marshal was required to be tough, spend long hours in the saddle, and hold to a high moral standard. Those few Elam had met would fit that definition. For all he knew, this one did as well. Right now, though, strangers of any stripe made him wary.

  “Afternoon.” Elam nodded to the man with the badge.

  The marshal nodded and eased from his horse as if he’d been riding a distance. “Elam Jensen?”

  Elam’s wariness felt like a knot getting tighter in his chest. “That’s right.”

  “US Marshal Driscoll Frey. Got a wounded prisoner.” He gestured to the ri
der slumped in the saddle. “Heard from along the river apiece that you have a doctor here.” The man had a voice that sounded as if he’d choked on too much dust over the years. He had a straight, silver-eyed gaze that seemed to look past Elam’s eyes and into the thoughts behind them.

  That gaze spooked Elam, and he couldn’t decide if it was the need to hide Susanna’s presence or the inflection of the man’s words.

  Whatever it was, Elam held the gaze without wavering. “You heard wrong about my wife. She isn’t a doctor, merely good with herbs and teas, roots, and plenty of prayer. She’s pulled a few bad teeth in her life, as did her mother before her, but little more.” He jerked his head toward the prisoner in the saddle. “You’ll find what he needs in Eureka Springs. Lots of doctors there.”

  The marshal turned to look at the younger man, and for the first time Elam noticed that the marshal’s hair was long, tied back with a piece of rawhide, and red as bonfire embers glowing in the dark.

  “Too bad for my prisoner we’re not headed that direction,” the marshal said. “We don’t have time for a dunk or a drink of the healing waters.”

  “Only five miles east of here, not a hard ride. Medical doctors there, with real medicines and utensils.”

  The marshal shook his head. “Man accused of murder in three states? Not one to allow near a populated city.”

  “And yet you’d risk my wife and family?” Elam swallowed, trying to judge how far he could push this. “Already stood trial, has he?”

  “About to.”

  “Then he’s still an innocent man.”

  The marshal held Elam in the steel of his stare.

  Elam returned it. “I’ve never met a US marshal given to vigilante justice.”

  “You know a lot of us?”

  “I’ve met a few, yes.”

  The prisoner raised his head for the first time. He looked at Elam, eyes imploring.

  The screen door of the house slapped shut, and Elam’s jaw clenched when he saw Keara stepping from the porch, hand shading her eyes from the glare of the sun. Something in the way she moved—something only those who knew her well would notice—betrayed tension.

  She met his gaze then quickly looked away, ignoring the caution she must have read in his eyes.

  “I thought I heard horses out here.” She gave a broad, visitor-welcoming grin that showed nearly every one of her small, white teeth. “Care to rest a spell? Refreshment?” She glanced at the prisoner, then at the bloody wrap around his thigh, and her grin died. “You folks need help?”

  The marshal raised his red eyebrows, gave Elam a narrow look, then removed his hat and nodded to Keara. “Ma’am, I’d be obliged.”

  “What did that to your leg, stranger?” Keara stepped toward the prisoner as if it were a natural thing for her. And it was. Keara feared no one.

  The young man gave her a quick glance then looked at Frey. “Lead.”

  His horse shied, and Keara calmed him then reached up and gently unwrapped the rag from the thigh, ignoring the handcuffs. “Deep?”

  “Can’t tell if it hit bone,” the prisoner said.

  Keara turned back to the marshal. “You know there are doctors who handle these kinds of things in Eureka—”

  Frey held his hand up. “I’ve been over this with your husband. I’m taking this man to Missouri for what will most likely be an execution. Be nice for him to be in good shape for the show, but that’s not my concern.”

  Elam could see Keara’s mouth twitch at the crude declaration.

  “We’re shorthanded in law enforcement lately,” Frey continued, “what with the growing population. I just came by out of good will—”

  “Bring him into the house,” Keara said, turning away. “I’ve already got water on to boil, I’ll see to him in the kitchen.”

  Elam was the only one who saw the darkening of her eyes and the grim set of her mouth. He thought again of Susanna, of the bloodstains on the front porch steps that had been washed nearly clean by the elbow grease from Jael and Keara. Why couldn’t he shake the idea that this visit brought trouble with it?

  Keara stepped hard on the stains in the porch wood with her dust-covered shoes, hoping the faint outlines would be covered by the loose powder of her tracks. Britte and Rolfe were playing in the front room with Cash, and Keara gathered them together.

  “Britte, I need you and Rolfe to take Cash out to the far side of the orchard to play. Keep a close watch for snakes, of course, but I don’t want you to come back in until I come get you. Can you do that for me?”

  Instead of the questions she could always expect from Britte, and usually Rolfe as well, this time they must have felt her tension. Britte picked up Cash, and then she and Rolfe went quietly to the back door.

  Britte turned and gave Keara a wide grin. “Auntie Pen said there would be times like this. Don’t worry, we’ll stay far from the house.”

  Rolfe nodded. “Just like Auntie Pen said to.”

  For once, Keara blessed her sister-in-law for her interfering ways as she rushed upstairs to Susanna’s sickroom. Susanna sat nearly upright, clutching the blankets across her chest as if they would protect her. It was exactly the way she’d been when Keara left the room.

  “What’s he look like?” she whispered.

  “Which one? There was a prisoner in handcuffs, who didn’t look old enough to shave, but I—”

  Susanna gasped. “So there was a lawman?”

  “Badge of a US marshal.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Tall. Long hair tied back, gruff, rude to his prisoner, talking about his execution.” She refrained from speaking her thoughts more completely.

  “Was his hair red?”

  Keara tried to remember. She hadn’t noticed. All she’d seen was the fear in the young prisoner’s eyes. “I believe he had reddishorange eyebrows.”

  The color in Susanna’s face drained away. “I have to hide.”

  “We’ll keep him away from you.” Keara dropped to her knees beside the bed. “Do you think he’s the man who shot you?” she whispered, listening for the sound of the door and for footsteps downstairs. Nothing yet. She couldn’t look out the window and see from this angle, and even if she could, she didn’t want to draw the marshal’s attention upstairs.

  Susanna took a deep, quivering breath. She studied Keara’s face as the lowing of cattle and the neigh of a horse reached them through the closed window. “If this is who I think it is,” Susanna said at last, “he’s followed me from Blackmoor to shoot me.”

  The words hit Keara with a jolt of shock, though with Susanna she’d thought she’d learned not to be surprised. “Why?”

  Susanna closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry I got you all involved.”

  “Nonsense. You came here for help, and that’s only right.”

  “I hadn’t realized he was so close behind me. I never dreamed I’d be followed here.”

  “Why is a US marshal after you?”

  Susanna began to tremble. “We’ll talk about it, just not now. You need to do whatever he says so you won’t raise any suspicion.”

  Keara reached up to feel her patient’s forehead. Her temperature was down.

  Another horse neighed out in the corral. Susanna looked at Keara. “Tell me Duchess isn’t in sight.”

  “She isn’t, but the marshal expects me to remove a bullet from his prisoner’s leg. You’ve got to tell me what to do.” Keara explained what she could about the prisoner’s wound.

  There was a sound from downstairs.

  “Use the hemostats,” Susanna whispered. “Whiskey, just like you did on me.”

  “You were unconscious when I removed your bullet. I don’t know if I can—”

  “I don’t have anything else for you to use.”

  Keara closed her eyes and prayed then took two deep breaths, reached into the top drawer for the utensil she’d used to remove Susanna’s bullet, and turned back to Susanna.

  “If you’ve ever considered prayer
, now would be a good time to try it.”

  Susanna nodded and laid her head back against the pillow, her skin as pale as it had been the first night she arrived.

  Elam had never been as proud of Keara as when he watched her move around the kitchen, looking calm and purposeful. He’d received a new keg of whiskey from Carl Lindstrom as a wedding gift—along with a great deal of razzing about his new bride. He fetched the keg from the top cupboard to apply not only to the wound, but also to pour down the prisoner’s throat to stave off some of the pain.

  The marshal had dusted off his clothing outside on the porch, removed his hat, and sat on the sofa at the far end of the room when invited.

  Elam studied the young prisoner as Keara worked around him. He was slender, with light brown hair, blue eyes, kind of a baby face. His forehead was dotted with droplets of sweat, and his jaw was clenched in an obvious attempt to not give away his fear or pain.

  “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in these parts before,” Keara said to him. “You from around here?”

  “Don’t get to Eureka Springs much. Come from Clifty.”

  “Nobody mentioned your name,” she said gently.

  “Tim.” He leaned forward then winced and stiffened. “Timothy Skerit. My father is Thomas.”

  Keara’s movements stilled. “Well, sorry we had to meet like this, Timothy,” she said. “I’ll do all I can not to hurt you, but you know we’ve got to pull the lead from your leg.”

  He nodded.

  She looked up at Elam. “I could use a cup of that whiskey, and then would you please bring a pitcher of water?”

  When Elam returned from the springhouse with the water, Timothy was choking, with tears running down his face as Keara held a cup to his lips.

  “I know it tastes bad, but it will help,” she said.