by Jodi Thomas
He stared at her, his broken heart showing in his eyes. “All I can do is pray for them. Father Michael was our doctor of sorts, but he died of a fever six months ago. The mission in San Antonio promised us help.”
As her gaze moved from cot to cot, Molly’s mind raced. Some of the occupants were old, crippled by life, their eyes vacant and unaware. A few could have been broken soldiers with no family to take care of them after the war. Placed in between them were temporary beds soaked in blood. Children in too much pain to cry, a few adults with open wounds seeping, a woman who cradled a child with bloody hands.
If medical help didn’t arrive soon, there would be few alive to doctor. She’d seen field hospitals better organized an hour after battle. These people had been suffering for two days.
“Where’s my husband?” Molly asked as she passed the beds. She wanted desperately to stop and help them, but she had to see Wolf first.
“He’s in the storage room. I put a bandage across his head and wrote the sheriff in Austin. I thought he might know what to do with a Texas Ranger.”
Molly hurried into a dark cramped place where Wolf lay stretched out on a table like a fallen warrior lying in state. Taking his face in her hands, she called his name, her heart aching at the sight of him. She didn’t care that he was covered in mud and blood. All that mattered was that he was still alive. “Come on,” she prayed. “Wake up, Captain.”
Slowly, he groaned and opened his eyes. “Morning, Molly, my girl.” His words were low, pushed through gritted teeth. He tried to smile as she unwrapped the filthy bandage and checked his wound, but his efforts failed.
Her fingers moved lightly over the wound, checking for infection, making sure the bullet had passed across and not lodged. Despite the dirt, the wound showed signs of healing.
“Wolf, I have to know, can you hang on a few hours? There are…”
“I know,” he answered gritting his teeth once more as she covered his injury. “I’ve heard them crying. Do what you can for them.” His voice faded. “I’ll just sleep awhile.”
Molly hesitated. She was here to help Wolf, but she couldn’t turn her back on the others. His wound was deep but he wasn’t losing enough blood for it to be life-threatening. From his few words and clear eyes she guessed there was no brain damage.
She kissed Wolf’s cheek and whispered, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She looked up at the priest. “I’ve never practiced medicine, but I do know how to help. Have you someone who can unload boxes from my wagon? I’ll be glad to share my supplies.”
The priest smiled as if his prayers had been answered. “I have a boy who can help. And Brother Luke. His mind is weak, but his back’s strong. I’ll get them both.”
“Good.” Molly pulled off her traveling jacket and rolled up her sleeves. “I’ll need water, lots of water, boiled and cooled to warm if possible. And light—all the lamps you have.”
The priest hurried out. She moved into the room where the injured waited. There was no time to think. No time to hesitate. Quickly, as her father had done many times, Molly surveyed the people. She tried to guess who needed to be treated first. After two days of suffering, it was more a guess than a decision. By the time Brother Luke arrived with the water, Molly was hard at work.
She asked that all the elderly and crippled who were not part of the raids be helped outside in the shade so that she’d have room to move. The boy didn’t want to get close to blood, but he was willing to tote and stay with the aged.
The priest rolled up his sleeves, as well, and followed her directions. Like many of his day, he’d thought leaving the blood around the wound was nature’s way. When Molly ordered him to start washing, he hesitated.
Her voice hardened with authority, and he began cleaning.
Again and again, she checked on Wolf. She put a cool, damp cloth on his wound to soften the scab that had started forming and catch blood that still seeped out. He seemed to be resting quietly.
The priest delivered word that Early and Callie Ann were in the kitchen. They kept a constant stream of water coming and made soup for everyone. Early told the priest to say she was sorry she couldn’t be there to help with the injured, but she didn’t want Callie Ann catching anything.
Molly smiled and wiped the sweat from her forehead. Bullet wounds were seldom contagious, but she understood Early’s desire to stay away. Some folks didn’t have the stomach for the work; others thought trouble was catching. Early was obviously trying to do her part.
The priest proved more helpful than she first thought he might be. He held the children in his arms while she doctored them. His low, caring voice was as soothing as medicine. Most of them were cut or scraped from falls when they’d run from the raid. One had a broken arm.
Two men needed bullets removed. One from his chest, not an inch away from his heart. The other had a gut wound. Molly did her best with both patients but knew their chances were slim.
The woman with a baby had only scratches and cuts from falling. Reluctantly, she allowed Molly to examine the tiny child in her arms.
Molly fought to whisper her words only to the priest. “The baby’s dead,” she said. “There’s nothing I can do.”
For the first time, she saw the strength of the old man. “I can,” he answered. “This time I know what has to be done.”
As Molly moved away, she heard the woman’s cries and the priest’s soft words. No mixture of medicine could take away the mother’s pain.
It was almost dark when Molly treated the last patient, a little boy with scratches and a cut along his arm. He couldn’t be more than five and didn’t know the whereabouts of his parents. But he didn’t cry.
The grieving mother, who’d just finished washing her baby and dressing him for burial, looked over as Molly worked on the boy. “I know your ma and pa,” she said in a deep Southern accent. “You can stay with me until we find them.”
Molly lifted the boy and sat him beside her. The young mother set aside her sorrow long enough to comfort the child. Molly couldn’t stop her tears. She moved close to the now-empty boxes she’d brought so that no one would hear her crying.
As she pulled her emotions under control, she realized most of the medical supplies were gone.
The priest offered her a cup of soup, but she had one more injured to attend to first. Wolf. The nagging thought that she risked his life to save the others had been in her mind all afternoon. He would have wanted it that way, she knew. But what would she tell herself if she’d waited too long to treat him, or if his wound needed medicine she’d already handed out?
She entered the small room that reminded her of a cell in some dark, ancient prison. Wolf hadn’t moved since she’d checked on him an hour before. He looked like a giant spread across the table with his arms hanging off the sides. The priest had removed his boots and gun belt. They lay, covered in mud, next to him.
“Wolf?” she whispered, realizing how few times she’d said his name. It seemed strange to call him anything except Captain Hayward, but that didn’t sound right now that they were married.
She placed the lantern a few feet from his head. Light fell across clutter piled in every corner of the room. She thought she could smell onions and earthy potatoes. “Wolf?” she whispered again.
He moaned.
“I’m here.” Molly let her hand slide along his arm. “I’ll try to make it better.”
When she removed the blood-stained cloth and cleaned the wound, he didn’t open his eyes. As she’d thought, the bullet must have caught him at the temple and slid along the skull. She knew immediately the danger would be infection.
As she cleaned, he called her name once—a haunting cry as though he’d said it a thousand times. The cut was deep, and even with stitches, there would be a scar at the hairline.
“I’m here,” she whispered and was surprised when her voice calmed the giant.
While warm water dripped along his face and shoulders from a cloth moving in ge
ntle strokes, Wolf relaxed. Unsure if he was asleep or unconscious, Molly worked as quickly as possible.
By the time he moaned again, she was bandaging his forehead. The cotton strip banded across his tan skin and dark hair. She knew pain now gripped him. She could see it in the clench of his jaw. There was nothing more she could do. Except fight the fever—the fever that might kill him when the bullet didn’t.
To settle him, Molly slowly rubbed a rag over his chest and arms, washing away layers of dirt. His strong chest reminded her of the dream she’d had of Benjamin. The two men must be near the same size, she guessed, only Benjamin had stayed young, not hardened to life like Wolf.
Benjamin was a dream, she reminded herself. Wolf was reality. Her reality. Their marriage might have been in name only, but from this point on, it would be more. She was bound to this man, not by a piece of paper he’d tucked away in his metal box, but by a promise. The preacher’s words came back to her. In sickness and in health. At the time she’d added, For six months, no more. But now, with Wolf hurt, the words might truly mean for the rest of his life. Until death.
He caught her hand suddenly, stopping her daydream.
“Molly.” His eyes stared directly at her. Feverish, but clear. “Get me out of this place.”
Most women would have asked why, or tried to talk him into staying. Any doctor would have advised against moving a man so ill. But Molly heard the desperation in his voice. He wasn’t asking. He was demanding.
She called for Brother Luke and the priest, who were busy helping the elderly in from where they’d enjoyed an afternoon outside. The two men braced Wolf’s weight as he shuffled into the night air.
For a long moment, Wolf closed his eyes and breathed. Brother Luke returned to his duties, leaving Wolf resting heavy against Molly’s shoulders. “If I am to die,” he whispered more to himself than to her, “then let me breathe fresh air until my last.”
They stumbled, nearly falling with his weight several times. Finally, Molly and the priest got him to the river’s edge. The boy ran ahead of them and spread a blanket beside Molly’s wagon. Callie Ann and Early slept inside the wagon, too tired to wake when they passed by.
Wolf sank onto the blanketed grass, exhausted by his journey.
Molly knelt beside him and glanced up at the priest. “I’ll check on the others in an hour. Call me if you need me, Father. Otherwise I’d like to stay beside my husband.”
The priest nodded. “You’ve done your work this day, my child. Rest.”
Until that moment, Molly hadn’t thought about how exhausted she felt. She’d gone the night before without sleep, then ridden a stage all morning and worked into evening. She was so weary she felt her bones might shatter if the wind blew.
Looking up at the stars, she realized it had to be almost midnight. There was still much to do. She covered Wolf with a thin blanket and brought water from the stream to wipe his face and shoulders. Above all else, she had to keep him cool but not chilled.
The night was alive with sounds, and the air stirred slowly around her, too gentle to be a breeze. Wolf’s skin felt warm. The heat passed up her arm into her entire body as she touched him.
This was her man. The only husband she would probably ever have. He wasn’t what she would’ve chosen, or dreamed of, but for all the world, he was hers.
He wasn’t a gentleman who’d been a dashing officer. He wasn’t rich. But he was kind and good. He’d been there when she needed him. In the end, maybe that was the most important thing.
Molly curled beside him and placed her arm across his chest. The real world is where I belong, she decided. The real world.
But as she dreamed, Benjamin came back to her. She felt him beside her, keeping her warm, protecting her from harm. She slept soundly to the rhythm of his breathing, so close against her ear.
When she awoke he was gone, as before, leaving only the memory of his heartbeat next to hers. “Benjamin,” she whispered, wishing for more of the dream.
It took Molly a moment to remember where she was. The forest, the stream, all looked foreign to her. Then she saw the mission and remembered. It hadn’t been Benjamin beside her, but Wolf. His arm had protected her. His heartbeat had pounded next to her. Not Benjamin, but Wolf.
She stood, hoping that he might be much recovered. Logic told her otherwise. A man who couldn’t walk alone the night before would not travel far at dawn.
She glanced in the direction of the mission. Nothing. The woods. Nothing. But when she turned to the river, she saw his dark form close to the water. The white bandage across his forehead shone bright in the dawn light.
Molly ran to him, kneeling on the wet grass only a foot from the water. She lifted his head and supported it on her lap, feeling the fever even through the bandage.
“If I could get in the water,” he mumbled, “I could cool off.”
“You’d catch pneumonia.”
“I can’t take it any longer. I’m going in the water!” He tried to raise his head.
“You are not!” She put her hands on his shoulders and held tightly. He was talking out of his head and she had to protect him. “I’ll not have you dying on me, Wolf Hayward.”
Anger fired Wolf’s strength. With one mighty effort, he pushed her away and rose to one knee.
She landed in the mud. Rage rumbled through her body unlike she’d ever known. She clawed her way to her feet and faced him, preparing to ram him with her entire body if she had to, in order to keep him down.
But just before she jumped, she saw the pain in his eyes. He was fighting to stay conscious. When she stepped toward him, he crumbled in her arms and she sank to the ground.
For a while, she just held him, having no idea what to do. Finally, she pulled him back to the blanket and bathed his face with cool water.
As the day aged and warmed, so did Wolf. The fever raged no matter what she did. The air was dry and hot, pressing against the skin as if one were standing too close to a fire.
Molly left him twice to check on other patients.
On the noon stage, two priests arrived with more supplies and word that a young woman was missing. Her mother claimed she must have fallen off the top of the stage between San Marcos and San Antonio, but they’d seen no body on the road. Molly and Early promised to keep an eye out for her.
The capable priests took over the other patients but offered only an herb called feverfew for Wolf’s fever. Molly knew the powder was made from chrysanthemum flowers. Early brewed him willow tea, swearing it would help but Molly could get only a few drops down him.
Wolf mumbled, out of his head. One moment he would be at a battle from long ago, the next he called her name as though she were the one lost and he had to find her.
“Help me,” Molly finally called to Early. “We have to do something. Maybe he was right. Maybe we should take him to the water. I have to try. I can’t just watch him die.”
She cried as Early helped her drag him, blanket and all, to the river. They slipped him into the shallow water a few inches at a time. When he shivered suddenly Molly went fully clothed in beside him, holding him as he shook.
Cool, but not cold, the water lapped over him.
Molly cradled his head and waited. It seemed forever before he opened his eyes. “Better,” he whispered, hugging her. “Stay close, my Molly.”
She moved her hands gently across his shoulders and along his back. Over the hours she’d grown used to the feel of him. “Of course I will. I’m right here.”
As the sun lowered, Brother Luke helped Molly carry Wolf from the stream to the wagon. They removed his wet clothes and dressed him in a clean set she’d found in his saddlebags. His fever had lessened, and he slept peacefully. Molly took down the sideboards so he could feel the breeze off the water. Then she helped Early and Callie Ann stack hay for a bed several feet away near the trees.
When all were asleep, Molly pulled a change of clothes from her bag and undressed in the relative privacy between the wagon and the
river. She knew she was out of sight of the mission and hoped anyone walking past didn’t have great night vision.
Her clothes had dried all afternoon on her body, chafing her flesh at the shoulders and waist. After she stripped, she carefully rubbed into her skin a powder made of lycopodium, oxide zinc, and carbolic acid she’d learned to carry during hot months. The mixture would ease her discomfort and prevent any further chafing.
As she dusted the excess powder off with a clean undergarment, Molly smiled. All she needed was a few more ingredients, and she’d smell like an apothecary. The fine powder made her body ghost-white against the night.
She slipped the thin cotton of her camisole over her head, then glanced in the direction of the wagon and froze.
Like a silent animal in the woods, Wolf’s alert eyes stared back at her.
EIGHTEEN
THE THROBBING IN WOLF’S HEAD FELT LIKE A CANNON shot reverberating to his heartbeat. The pain moved down his body in echoes of agony, making his stomach churn. However, the fever had passed, and for that, he was thankful.
He struggled to remain still to lessen the pain, but even his breathing disturbed the balance. He tried to sleep, but that proved impossible. So he waited and fought the urge to swear to high heaven. Wolf was not a man who took kindly to his own illness.
After he saw her dressing, Molly disappeared into the night. She hadn’t said a word when she caught him watching—watching, hell, he was staring. She just turned her back to him and walked away into the night as though he’d been no more than the man in the moon looking at her.
By now she was probably digging up a gun to put him out of his misery. He couldn’t picture her remaining calm and asking him if he enjoyed the view over breakfast in the morning.
The moon had drifted halfway across the sky when he heard her moving about the wagon. He didn’t open his eyes. If she were mad at him, he was in no shape to face a fight. He tried to build an argument that watching could fall on either side of the “in name only” fence standing between them.