Before James could lean back, Donovan grabbed his arm. "Listen," he said through clenched teeth. "If I don't make it, see that she and the old man get over the border."
James's expression went dark. "To Mexico?"
"They won't follow them there. Please. For me, James?"
The other man hesitated, then nodded curtly. "You'll do it yourself if I have anything to say about it. Anyway," he added, "you still owe me that game of backgammon, remember?"
One corner of Donovan's mouth lifted in a halfhearted smile and he swallowed thickly. "I'd only beat you again."
The humor vanished from James's expression. "You need a doctor, Reese."
He shook his head. "Too dangerous. Evie'll have to do it." His eyes dropped shut. "Sorry. Don't tell anyone we're here, James. Don't trust anyone... except Gil."
Reese's fingers relaxed around James's arm as his eyes closed and he slid into unconsciousness again.
For a long moment, James sat there, saying nothing. Then he and his wife exchanged a troubled look that Grace couldn't read.
"Grace," James began, "if you want to help Reese, then assist my wife in setting some water to boiling on the stove while I"—he cleared his throat—"free him of these bloody clothes and clean him up. Evie, make up a drawing poultice." His gaze returned to the man on the bed. "We'll do the best we can."
Chapter 9
Grace's hand shook as she ladled water from the stove reservoir into the large enamel kettle nestled on the firehole of the pitch-black Butler cast-iron. The heavy ladle rattled against the rim of the kettle.
Evie's fingers covered Grace's as she relieved her of the job. "Here, let me. You go sit down. You're absolutely dead on your feet."
"But I—"
"Don't argue, now. You're like to burn yourself on this stove as do any good. Now sit down before you fall."
Grace sat cautiously, lowering her sore backside into the seat. With a sigh, she dropped her face into her hands. Evie was right. She was exhausted beyond coherent thought, a danger to herself and possibly Evie as well. "I'm sorry."
"Hush. You've had an ordeal. Any fool could see that."
Grace pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. She didn't think she could bear kindness right now. If she let go and started to cry again, she wasn't sure she'd be able to stop. She shook her head and sniffed, straightening suddenly.
"Brew—where—?"
"You mean your father?"
"He's not really—"
"Don't worry. Cass, our hired man, settled him into a bed, and I'm quite certain he's asleep by now." She replaced the kettle lid and wiped her hands on the clean white apron around her waist. "Now, when did you last eat?"
"Uh, I don't—"
"Just as I thought." Pot lids clattered behind her and before she could argue, Evie placed a bowl of something that smelled heavenly in front of her. Her mouth watered.
Stew and biscuits.
She hadn't realized how hungry she really was. But as she dove into the savory concoction of tender beef and vegetables, she found she was starving. A steady diet of beef jerky and hardtack was hardly enough to keep body and soul together.
While Grace ate, Evie made an infusion of feverfew for Donovan to drink and a smelly drawing poultice of three parts milk, one part linseed oil. When she'd finished, she sat down beside Grace.
"Better?" she asked.
"Mm-mmph," Grace answered around the last mouthful of biscuit. She blushed and swallowed, brushing crumbs from her fingers. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid Miss Beauregard would've positively swooned if she could see what an absolute hog I made of myself over that stew, but it's just that... oh, my, it was so good."
Evie grinned. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment to my cooking or a statement on your hunger."
"A little of both," she admitted wryly. "Thank you."
Evie nodded and studied her hands for a moment, an awkward silence stretching between them. Grace spoke to fill the void.
"About what Donovan said—"
Evie laughed a little sadly. "He has an odd way of showing affection, doesn't he? He's always been that way."
"Affection?"
"Well, yes, he obviously cares about you."
"About me?" Her eyes must have revealed her shock.
"Well, yes. I could see it in the way he looked at you."
"Oh, no. No, you're wrong. He doesn't even like me."
"You said that before," Evie replied thoughtfully. "Forgive me for being so forward, Grace, but... is he... that is... are you and Reese...?"
Grace stared at the woman blankly. "Are we...?"
"Is he your husband, dear?"
"Husband? Donovan? No!"
"Oh," Evie replied faintly, sounding bewildered.
Heat crept to Grace's cheeks. "I know how it must look. After all, we're traveling together but we're not... together."
Evie touched her hand. "When we first saw Reese with you, I think James and I both thought—hoped, really—that he'd found someone."
Grace's head came up, remembering Maria's words. "But I was told he had a wife."
Smoothing her palm across the soft tablecloth, Evie said, "Did Reese tell you that?"
"No. It was Maria." She met Evie's steady look. "A saloon girl back in Pair-a-Dice."
"Ah."
"Does he have a wife?"
"He was married. Once. Before the war. It didn't end well, I'm afraid."
That made all the sense in the world. An odd feeling of relief drifted through her. More unfathomable than that, the news pricked at her heart. "I see. Is that why he's so"—she searched for the word—"bitter?"
"I suppose that's part of it. It was perhaps the final straw, so to speak. But then, he should be the one to tell you all this."
A bark of laughter worked its way past the lump in her throat. "Tell me about himself? I think he'd just as soon walk barefoot through a field of glass shards as confide in me."
"Mmm," Evie agreed, "well, you're not alone there. Reese has never been a man of many words. We knew him for two years and he shared very little with us about his past. I will tell you, though, he was a good friend to us when we needed one during the war, at great risk to himself. If not for him, we would have lost the livery and our livelihood to the marauding Yankees. Reese was running black-market cotton and other supplies around the blockades at the time. He convinced the Union officer in charge of the pillaging that a shipment of black-market cotton which made its way north under his command might be more beneficial to his blossoming military career than the requisition of a stableful of worn-out horseflesh. Reese told him he happened to have just such a shipment available if he and his men agreed to leave our horses alone. Naturally, the Yankee saw the political wisdom in this offer and promptly agreed."
"He was working for the North, then?" Grace asked, confused.
Evie smiled. "No. For himself, actually. And he did quite well, indeed. Indirectly, though, he helped Texans sell the cotton they so desperately needed for revenue. I'm afraid that left him quite in the middle of things here, politically speaking. There were those who weren't unhappy to see him go after the war. James and I weren't among them.
"He's a good man, Grace, despite everything. And he's stubborn, and angry, and even a little scared—"
Grace's eyes darted to Evie's in surprise.
"—but he'll never show it," Evie went on. "One must look beneath all that with a man like Reese. It's a bit harder to find, but what's there is worth the trouble."
"He doesn't trust me. He thinks I'm"—Grace looked miserably at her hands—"bubbleheaded."
"Oh, no," Evie said consolingly.
"Yes," she said, nodding with a sniff. "What I said upstairs was true. It's my fault he's here at all. My fault he was imprisoned for murder and has a bullet hole in his side. I never meant for any of it to happen, but I can't blame him for hating me. Why, I had to blackmail him to get him to come with us!"
This revelation made Evie press her lips together to hold
back a smile of disbelief. "You did?"
Grace nodded miserably. "It was all for a good cause, of course," she said, wiping her nose on the napkin Evie had given her, "that being my brother, Luke."
"Luke," Evie echoed, confused now.
"Mm-hmm." Grace sniffed. "And if it hadn't been for him... well, I'd be home, safe and sound in Virginia simply reading about adventure instead of living it. But I couldn't just leave Luke there, could I?"
"Of course not, dear. Where?"
"Querétaro."
"Ah-hah." Evie's smile faded. "You mean Mexico?"
"Exactly!"
"Oh, dear. There's a revolution going on in Mexico."
Grace's head bobbed again. "I know. The emperor Maximilian means to have him shot as a spy."
"Oh, dear." Evie paled. "Your brother?"
Grace nodded behind the napkin.
"Is he?" Evie asked gently.
Grace blinked uncomprehendingly. "Is he what?"
"A spy?"
"Heavens, no! Why, he's an American. A lieutenant in the United States Army. He was working in the diplomatic service," she admitted, "but a spy? He's never even been to Mexico before. And no one will even tell us why he went there in the first place. It's as if they've washed their hands of him. I've tried everything. Donovan is my last hope of getting him out." Grace dropped her face into her hands. "So you see, it's a terrible mess."
"Yes," Evie murmured, "I see." She stood, smoothed her hands down the sides of her cotton wrapper. Then, deliberately, she drew down the shade on the kitchen window and bolted the door. For good measure, she propped a spindle-back kitchen chair beneath the handle.
Fresh guilt assailed Grace. "I'm so sorry. We shouldn't have come here. We've probably put you all in danger."
"Nonsense." Evie's expression was adamant. "We wouldn't have had it any other way. But"—she brushed her hands together—"precautions are prudent, don't you agree?"
Steam rattled the large kettle on the stove, and Evie hurried to remove it. Wrapping her hand in her apron, she lifted the kettle off and poured some into the feverfew decoction. She glanced up at Grace. "You should rest. I have a room just upstairs—"
"I'm not tired." It was a blatant lie, but regardless, she knew she couldn't sleep with Donovan upstairs fighting for his life.
"Well, in that case, I could use a hand with Reese."
"He probably doesn't want me there. After all," Grace said abjectly, "who knows? I might just stumble across some sharp object, or something to wound him with."
Evie smiled slowly. "On the contrary, I think you might be just what that bullheaded man needs."
When they reached the room, James had undressed Donovan and washed the trail dust from his face and arms. A cool cloth lay across his forehead. He was still, with blankets tugged up beneath his armpits, his eyes closed. Grace couldn't help but notice the strong, thick muscles of his arms and the relaxed curl of his powerful hands against the blankets.
Heavens, he was a beautiful man, Grace thought. No, not beautiful—magnificent. It seemed unlikely that she'd ever see Reese Donovan so vulnerable again—if he lived, that is. He'd spent a lifetime erecting walls around himself so high and so thick that few ever penetrated them. Perhaps it was that very challenge that made Grace want to do just that—made her want to discover the man behind the wall, the one Evie seemed so convinced was worth the trouble.
Resisting the temptation to reach out and smooth back the dark hair on his forehead, she curled her hands into fists and watched as James applied the steaming poultices on either side of Donovan's waist.
James looked up at Grace. "I don't know when he'll be fit to travel. He's lost a lot of blood and he's fighting this infection. If he comes through it, a day, maybe two."
If he comes through it. "Will he live?"
"Reese is strong. It depends on him, now."
Grace moved to an open window and looked out into the darkness. "We haven't much time."
"So he said." James wiped his hands on a clean linen towel. "Which leads me to the next piece of bad news, I'm afraid. Gil Lambert."
She met his eyes. "What about him? Donovan said he'd take us over the border and even as far as—"
"Grace," James interrupted. "Gil died three months ago."
* * *
The duster-clad men rode three abreast down the center of Elizabeth Street, Brownsville's main thoroughfare, drawing curious glances from the few pedestrians still roaming the darkened span of roadway. The grim purpose of the strangers' steady advance discouraged any friendly greeting. If anyone questioned the unusual firepower each of the men carried, or the lanterns tied to the cantles of several saddles, none dared question the trail-weary travelers.
Dusk had fallen two hours ago. Here and there, light still spilled from a false-fronted building. Strains of a slightly off-key hurdy-gurdy drifted from a saloon called El Caballo Blanco, The White Horse. Connell Smith gave it only a passing, wistful glance before Sanders pulled his horse to a stop in front of the Miller Hotel, a two-story balconied affair with rolled canvas awnings and thick hitching posts sunk like so many tree stumps at the entrance. Inside, beside the narrow stairway leading to the rooms, were a small registration desk, a barroom, and a restaurant. The registration clerk eyed them nervously as the men strode through the small lobby, then heaved a silent sigh of relief when they didn't stop at his desk.
Instead, they followed the swell of noise to the smoke-filled barroom, one of the hotel's finer selling points. A long oak bar with brass foot rail and appointments lined one side of the room. The bar-keep, a burly hulk of a man, assessed them as they walked in, then turned to lift a bottle of whiskey onto the bar for an already drunken patron.
It didn't take long to find Mollen, one of the men Sanders had sent on ahead, sitting alone at an empty table. With his chair tipped back on two legs, he was in the process of polishing off the last in a long string of whiskey shots when Sanders kicked the chair out from under him.
Hardly a head turned when Mollen landed with a crash, cursing until he looked up and saw his attacker. Eyes wide, he reached for his fallen hat and stuffed it back on his head as he got to his feet.
"Marshal... I, er... I was waitin' for you."
"You jackass!" Sanders growled in a low voice. "I hired you to do a job."
"An' I was. I was. I been watchin' for 'em all evenin'."
"Through a shot glass?"
Mollen uprighted his chair. "It wouldn'ta mattered none. He ain't here."
"I can see that, you idiot. Where the devil is he?"
"Never showed. Me an' Tobins, we stationed ourselves at the waterfront and on the road comin' into town. He woulda come through one o' them, sure as rain—but nothin'. Tobins is still down by the river, lookin' out. You said to meet you at the Miller Hotel. That's what I'm doin'."
Sanders cursed foully and dropped into a chair, pouring himself three fingers of Red Dog from Mollen's bottle. Tossing it back in one gulp, the marshal hissed a breath through his teeth and backhanded the line of whiskey that trickled down his chin.
Mollen watched him warily. "I thought you was followin' 'em. Did ya pick up their trail?"
Hidalgo spun a chair around and straddled it backwards, arms folded against the back. "Si, hace tres horas." He glanced at Sanders and brushed his long ebony hair over the bandolier crossing his shoulder. "Three hours ago. We find the trail. But in town, en la calle—the street, no?—it vanishes." He picked up the Red Dog. "Like good whiskey, no?" Tipping the bottle back, he took a long swig.
Connell slumped into a chair. His eyes stung from the smoke in the room. He was too tired to talk. Too tired to think. Donovan had outwitted them somehow, taking a serpentine route through town and losing his tracks amidst the thousands of others. It would suit Connell just fine if Sanders accepted that he was gone and let the thing go now that they'd made the border. But he knew that would never happen.
He glanced up at Sanders. It didn't seem to matter that he'd left his jurisdic
tion six hours ago, or that the border looming across the wide river was off limits to U.S. law officials. The look in Sanders's eyes was glacial, driven. Not a shred of mercy in that man's bones, Connell thought. For Donovan, or for him. Donovan had killed Sanders's only kin, worthless though he may have been. His retribution would be biblical, if not legal. An eye for an eye. A life for a life.
On the ragged-sounding piano, a black, derby-hatted musician started playing "Dixie." Several drunken patrons lent their voices to the familiar melody.
"Maybe they crossed over already on one o' them lighters," Mollen suggested over the noise. "'Fore we got here."
"No," Sanders said, shoving out of the chair, "they're here, somewhere. Hidin' out like wood rats. I can smell 'em. We'll smoke 'em out of their little hole. I figure it's Donovan that's hurt." He turned to the half-breed. "Hidalgo, find Tobins. Put the word out on the waterfront. Let it be known there's reward money in it if they turn Donovan and his bunch in to me."
He shifted his Henry rifle onto his shoulder. "At daybreak, we canvas the shops. See if anybody's buyin' bandages, medicine. Find out who Donovan knows." He glared through the painted window toward the darkened street. "Me, Mollen, and Smith'll check the hotel, then take the first shift for sleep. We'll relieve you and Tobins at three a.m."
Hidalgo got to his feet. "And if we do not find them, patron?"
With eyes cold as flint, Sanders took a step until his face was only inches from the half-breed's. "That ain't a possibility I want to hear comin' out o' your mouth again, Hidalgo. Comprende? We'll find 'em, all right. Then God help the sons of bitches."
Chapter 10
Fire. Flames licking at every edge. Gunsmoke. Death. Faces—young, old, pleading.
The river of blood deepened, sucking at his feet, trying to pull him under. Stop! Make it stop!
Don't make me shoot you, John! Don't make me! The woman's scream echoed the retort of the gun. Tell them the truth, Jake. You saw me warn him. But Jake only laughed, his hands holding the rope of betrayal. Adriana, her face floating over him. "Fool, did you really think I loved you... loved you... loved you... loved—"
The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) Page 12