Pushing the door open wider, Tom said, “Put that gun down before you hurt someone.”
“It’ll be you I’m hurting,” the boy said, holding his stance.
No more than seven, maybe eight, the boy had guts, and that almost made Tom smile. Until he got a good look around the door, at the woman at the table. She wasn’t sitting; she was slumped. No, she was falling off the chair.
Tom shot forward, arriving in time to save her head from banging against the floor. She was warm, and breathing, but out cold. “Who else is in the house?” he asked the boy while glancing toward the open doorways of two side rooms.
“No one.”
“Your pa’s not out checking cattle, either, is he?”
“No, sir,” the boy answered, his voice quivering. “Is Ma all right?”
Never one to lie, not even to a child, Tom replied, “I’ll figure that out in a minute. Get me a pillow for her head.”
The boy was back in a flash. Tom pulled out his handkerchief and used it to wipe away some of the sweat covering her face before lowering her head on the pillow. She was burning with fever. “How long has she been sick?”
The boy shrugged. “Couple days. She cut her leg out in the barn going on a week ago.”
“Which one?” Tom knew which one as soon as he pulled aside the layers of her skirt. Her left leg was swollen twice its size, and a jagged and clearly infected gash marred the side of her calf. “Where’s her bed?”
“This way,” the boy said. “She told me her leg was getting better, just sore.”
“I’m sure she did.” Tom hoisted her off the floor. Out here alone, she wouldn’t want the boy to worry. “Bring the pillow.”
She moaned slightly, but didn’t regain consciousness as he carried her into the room and laid her on the bed. “Where is your pa?” Tom asked the boy while folding back her skirt to examine the gash thoroughly.
“Don’t know,” the boy admitted. “Ain’t seen him in months.” As if realizing he shouldn’t have said that, the boy added, “But he’ll be back. Soon, too.”
“I’m sure he will be,” Tom answered drily. That was the reason he was here. “What’s your name?”
“Billy. What’s yours?”
For half a second he contemplated using an alias, but since this was Wyoming, a place he’d never been before, he doubted anyone had heard of him. However, he did leave the title of Sheriff off because much like the pin he’d taken off his vest and put in his pocket, the title could cause some people to clam up. “Tom Baniff.” Resting a hand on Billy’s shoulder, he added, “I’m going to need your help. Infection has set in your ma’s leg.”
“Is it bad?”
There was worry in the boy’s blue eyes, but Tom still had to be honest. “It’s not good,” he said. “But once we’re done, it’ll be better.”
“What are we going to do?”
From the looks of her leg, lockjaw was a real concern, and there was only one thing he knew to do about that. Tom turned Billy toward the doorway. “To start with, we’re going to need fresh water.”
“Ma already had me haul some in. Just a little bit ago. She set it on the stove to boil.”
Tom nodded. She’d probably been preparing to do just what he was going to do. Lance her leg.
Billy stopped in the doorway leading out of the bedroom. “Her name’s Clara. Clara Wilson. My pa’s name is Hugh. Hugh Wilson. He’s tall, but not as tall as you, and he has brown hair.”
If Tom had needed confirmation that he was in the right spot, he now had it. Hugh Wilson was the man he was after. The man who’d shot and injured one of the mail-order brides on her way to Oak Grove, Kansas. She’d been on the train Hugh and two other men had robbed. The other two had met their demise by bullets from passengers on the train, but Hugh had gotten away on a black-and-white paint horse. The only clue he’d had to go on had paid off.
“Mister?”
Reining in his attention, Tom patted Billy’s shoulder. “Let’s see if that water is boiling.”
The kettle was on the stove, but the fire needed to be stoked. She must have been about to do that, considering two logs lay near the stove door. Tom grabbed the poker to stir up the coals. “What did your ma cut her leg on?”
“The side barn door is broken. Nellie, she’s one of our cows, stumbled and pushed Ma against it, and the hinge cut her leg. Ma said it wasn’t bad. It didn’t even bleed much. She’s been boiling onions to put on it for the past couple of days. I tried to fix the barn door, but couldn’t. I did pound the hinge off and...”
As Billy talked, Tom’s thoughts bounced from Clara’s infected leg to why Hugh Wilson would take to robbery when he had a wife and son and a pretty decent chunk of property. The house was small and needed some work, but it was solid and clean. Clara’s leg wasn’t. She’d have been better off if that hinge had sliced her leg wide open—the bleeding would have cleaned away the bacteria. As it was, the closed wound had given the bacteria the perfect breeding ground, which could lead to lockjaw. His father, a surgeon who’d served in the army, had told him all about lockjaw, gangrene and a plethora of other infections and ailments that had affected men during the war. Enough so that even at a young age, Tom had realized being a doctor was not his calling.
There’d been a time he’d thought being a lawman hadn’t been, either. Until Julia had died and finding her killer and knowing justice would be served—and had been—had somehow eased the pain inside him, and the anger. Now being a lawman was his life. When he’d taken the oath to protect the citizens of Oak Grove, he’d meant it, and wouldn’t let them down. It may have been a coincidence that the shot mail-order bride’s name was the same as his little sister’s, but he considered it more than that. To him, it was proof that he’d chosen the right path. That while the other men in town were head over heels at the idea of getting married, he was right in not having anything to do with the entire Oak Grove Betterment Committee.
“It’s boiling.”
Tom turned about.
“The water,” Billy said. “It’s boiling.”
“That’s good.” Tom walked back to the stove. While his mind had been roaming, so had he. The house was in better condition than his first glance had let on, and fully furnished with store-bought items. Not overly expensive pieces, but considering they were a two-day ride from the closest town, several things had him thinking about how long Hugh Wilson had been in the robbery business.
A knife lay on the top of the cabinet near the stove, as did several neatly folded cotton towels and a tin of cayenne pepper. More evidence Clara had been about to lance her leg herself. His stomach clutched slightly, thinking of how difficult and dangerous that would be for someone. The pain could have caused her to pass out, leaving her to possibly bleed out. Which in hand would have left little Billy out here all alone.
Bitterness coated Tom’s tongue as his thoughts hopped to Hugh Wilson again. How could a man leave a woman and child out here alone for months on end? The same kind of man who didn’t care that his bullet could have killed a woman on her way to getting married.
Tom sucked in the anger that circled his guts and picked up the knife. Lowering the blade into the hot water, he nodded toward the door. “Do you know how to unsaddle a horse?”
“Yes, sir,” Billy answered.
“Unsaddle mine, would you? Put him in the barn and give him some feed if you have any to spare.”
“Sure. We got some. I’ll hurry.”
“No,” Tom said, walking toward the sink to wash his hands. “Take your time. His name is Bullet.”
“You want me to brush him down?”
“That would be good,” Tom answered. It wouldn’t take long to lance the leg, but he wanted Billy away from the house in case his mother woke up screaming.
“Then I’ll help you with Ma,” Billy said, already opening the door.
“I’ll be ready for your help,” Tom answered. “Shut the door.”
Billy did so, and Tom scrubbed his hands a bit longer, watching out the window until Billy led Bullet into the barn. Then he dried his hands with one of the clean towels, gathered the other towels and the knife, and walked into the bedroom.
Copyright © 2018 by Lauri Robinson
Keep reading for a special preview of HIS WICKED CHARM, the latest book in Candace Camp’s popular MAD MORELANDS series!
His Wicked Charm
by Candace Camp
PROLOGUE
1892
THE DOOR OPENED. The room beyond lay in darkness, broken only by a swath of moonlight. There was no reason to be frightened, yet some nameless, faceless terror iced Con’s veins. Still, he stepped inside. The fear in him was worse.
The walls of the room were curved, disorienting, and everywhere he looked were clocks—standing, hanging, scattered over tables and stands, lined up in cabinets. Brass hands winked, catching the dim light. Con moved farther in, his heart pounding, and stopped at a narrow table. The tiered rows were padded with dark velvet, and they were lined with not clocks, but compasses, their needles pointing in unison toward the windows. Turning now, he saw that compasses stood in the cabinets and hung on the walls amid the clocks.
He was too late. He knew it with a certainty that closed his throat: he would fail. Con ran toward the window, but he didn’t move. The needles on the compasses began to whirl. Running, gasping, he reached out, knowing he’d never reach it in time. Someone screamed.
Con’s eyes flew open, and he jerked upright in the bed. His lungs labored in his chest, his heart thundering, and he clenched his muscles, fists curled so tightly his fingernails bit into his palms. Sweat dried cold on his skin.
It was a dream.
He glanced around him. He was in his own bed, in his own room. It was only a dream.
Through the open doorway to the adjoining sitting room, he could see Wellie perched in his cage, regarding Con with bright black eyes. That scream must have been the parrot’s screech.
The bird moved from foot to foot and rasped out, “Wellie. Good bird.”
“Yes. Good bird.” Con’s voice came out almost as hoarse as Wellington’s. He sank back onto his pillow, closing his eyes. It had been nothing but a bad dream and easily explained—today was Alex’s wedding day. He was worried about oversleeping and failing in his duties. The problem was he’d been having the exact same nightmare for weeks.
CHAPTER ONE
WHEN CON AWOKE AGAIN, sunlight was shooting through a crack in the drapes straight into his eyes. For the second time, he bolted upright. Heaven help him. After all that, he’d overslept. He jumped out of bed and began to shave.
Wellington called Con’s name and flew into the room, taking up his favorite position atop a bedpost. “You wretched bird—screeching like a banshee in the middle of the night, yet not a word when it’s time to get up.”
Wellie let out a noise that sounded disturbingly like human laughter. Con grinned and patted his shoulder for Wellie to perch on it. Con stroked a finger down the parrot’s back.
“It’s just you and me now, boy,” he said softly. “Alex is going on to better things.”
There was an odd pang in his chest; Con had felt it more than once lately. He couldn’t be happier for his twin—Sabrina was perfect for Alex and loved him madly. Alex was over the moon about marrying her. There was nothing in the world Con wanted more than his brother’s happiness. And yet...he could not help but feel as if a piece of him was leaving.
With a sigh at his own selfishness, Con set Wellie aside and headed downstairs. He found Alex in the dining room, gazing out the window—shaved, dressed and ready to go eight hours before the ceremony. Casting an eye over his twin, Con said, “Eager or terrified?”
“A little of both.” Alex let out his breath in a whoosh. “Thank God you’re finally up.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?” Con asked, going to the sideboard to fill his plate.
“Because it was four o’clock in the morning. Wellie woke me up screeching, and I couldn’t go back to sleep. I didn’t think you’d care to be awakened.”
“Where is everyone?”
“The women have gone to Kyria’s to help with the last-minute preparations. Though what any of them could do to set up a party, I cannot imagine.”
“Mmm. Maybe Thisbe has a formula for it.”
Alex grinned. “Or Megan and Olivia have investigated the subject.”
“I’m sure Mother will enjoy trying to persuade the servants to go on strike.” Con returned to the table.
Alex took a seat across from Con. “Not like Wellie to sound off in the middle of the night like that. One has to wonder what set him off.”
“Does one?”
“Con...did you have that dream again?”
“Yes. It’s not important.”
Alex grunted softly. “It certainly doesn’t seem to have affected your appetite.”
“Little does.” Con gestured toward the pristine expanse of table in front of Alex. “What about you? Have you eaten anything?”
“I had a cup of coffee.”
“No doubt that will calm you down.”
Alex rolled his eyes and went over to pull a piece of toast from the rack. “You’re not going to distract me from your dream.”
“I know. But there’s nothing new to tell. It’s the same dream I’ve had five times now. I’m in a bizarre round room. There are clocks and compasses everywhere, and I have this feeling of absolute dread.” He paused. “Maybe it’s panic rather than dread. I feel as if I’m late. I’m sure it’s just because of the wedding. I’m worried about not getting to the jeweler’s in time for the ring. Keeping this family in line. Being late to the church. All that.”
“I have never in my life known you to be so concerned about being late,” Alex said flatly.
“You’ve never gotten married before.” Con shrugged it off. “Speaking of being late, why the devil are you all turned out in your wedding coat this early? You’ll be creased and stained by the time the ceremony rolls around.”
“I know. I’ll change. It was just... I couldn’t think what else to do.” Alex sighed. “This is going to be the longest day of my life.”
“Why so nervous? You’ve been champing at the bit for weeks. I can’t imagine you’re having second thoughts.”
“Lord, no, nothing like that. But I can’t rid myself of the fear that something will keep it from taking place. That Sabrina will decide to call it off at the last minute.”
“The woman’s mad for you. Anyone can see that.”
“I woke up this morning thinking, what if the Dearborns grab her again?”
“Idiot. She’s at Kyria’s, with all that brood to protect her.”
“I know. Not to mention her friend Miss Holcutt.”
“Indeed. I’d warrant Miss Holcutt could scare off any chap with wicked intentions.”
Alex smiled. “You’re inordinately hard on Lilah.”
“It’s inordinately easy to be hard on Lilah,” Con tossed back.
“I think the reason is you’re also rather sweet on Lilah.” Con’s contemptuous snort only made Alex grin. “Not to mention the fact that she’s the only woman to turn down your advances.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh, really? What other girl has told you no when you asked her to take a stroll in the garden? For that matter, what woman has turned you down about
anything—excluding our sisters, of course?”
“Dozens, I’m sure.” Con paused. “Well, a few. I’m not universally approved of, you know. You’re the one who’s the perfect model of a marital prize.”
“I’m not the one who’s a charming rogue.”
“I beg your pardon. I am charm
ing, of course, but hardly a rogue.”
Alex laughed and reached over to steal a sausage from Con’s plate. “Actually, I’m surprised you aren’t pursuing Lilah. I would think she would be a challenge to you.”
“Maybe I would.” Con’s lips curved in a faint smile. “If she weren’t your future wife’s bosom friend. That makes things awkward.”
“Not necessarily. Not if the two of you suited.”
Con snorted. “What is it that makes a reformed bachelor want to take all the rest of us down with him?”
Alex ignored his plaintive question. “Miss Holcutt is rather attractive.”
Con thought of that bright hair, an indescribable color somewhere between gold and red, that dewy skin, the long slim body beneath her conservative gowns. “Rather attractive” didn’t begin to describe Lilah.
“That’s the problem. Lilah Holcutt is the sort of woman who leads you on a merry chase, and once you manage to catch her, you can’t imagine why you wanted to. She’s priggish, self-righteous, humorless and critical. She’d make any man’s life a misery. Besides, she’s made it quite clear that she detests me.”
Alex crossed his arms, regarding Con thoughtfully. Con was grateful that before Alex could speak again, their mother swept into the room. “Alex. Dearest.”
Both men rose. “Mother. I thought you’d gone to Kyria’s.”
“No, dear. I’m of little use there. Neither are the others of course. Kyria and Miss Holcutt could easily handle it all themselves, but it’s a nice bit of sisterly time. But I’m not going to pass your wedding day away from you.” She took Alex’s face in her hands. Tears glittered in her eyes. “I can scarcely believe you’re getting married. It seems only yesterday you were in leading strings.”
“I’m not the first of your children to marry,” Alex protested.
“I know. But those times, I knew I still had my babies. Now it’s my baby getting married.”
“You have Con.”
The duchess smiled at her other son. “Yes, but it won’t be long before you are married, too, Con.”
From Courtesan to Convenient Wife Page 23