by Rachel Bird
“Let me through.” Doc pushed Polk aside. He must have heard the gunshot from the jail. He didn’t have his doctor bag with him, but he turned Red John over. The poor fool had been shot in the head. Blood was pooling in the street, but still Doc felt for signs of life.
Everybody stared daggers at Harman Polk, who seemed sincerely confused that he wasn’t being congratulated and praised.
“Idiot? I saved your life, little lady!” By his changing expression, it had slowly dawned on him that his dream of being a real sheriff would not come true in Break Heart. “I don’t have to put up with this crazy town. No man with any self-respect would work with a lady deputy.”
Chapter 30
Declan insisted on taking Deckom’s body to his infirmary, and he commandeered Rafe’s help. Once again, his efforts to come clean with Naomi were stymied.
He’d been walking with her to the dressmaker, the words I’m not Preston Morgan poised to leave his mouth, when Red John came tearing out of the general store, dragging Charity with him and holding a gun to her head.
“You’re doing swell, Morgan.” Holding a magnifying glass above Deckom’s head, the physician retrieved yet another minuscule bullet fragment or piece of dirt from the man’s skull. Rafe played physician’s assistant, blotting the wound with a clean towel on command and whatever else the doctor ordered.
It had been several hours. Miraculously, Red John still breathed. Rafe didn’t see how that could last.
“I have to hand it to you, Doc,” Rafe said, still picturing Charity’s terror, still feeling his own when he saw that pistol at her temple. Desperate agony had nearly ripped him apart in that moment when he feared she might be torn from this mortal life. “I wouldn’t have it in me to work so hard to try to save such a worthless cuss.”
Doc’s hard stare made Rafe ashamed. After another minute and another retrieved bullet fragment, Declan said, “I have the luxury of the Hippocratic Oath telling me what to do. I never suffer the agony of having to choose.”
Rafe got the feeling the doctor wasn’t talking about his patients. That he wasn’t even talking about himself.
Am I that much of an open book?
He was in love with Charity Steele!
That settled it. He’d speak with Naomi today—or tonight—when he was relieved of duty here, no matter how late the hour.
Clay Callahan came through the front door. Bold as brass, he ignored the doctor’s grunt and started toward the operating table, notebook in hand and pen at the ready. “What’s your prognosis, Doc?”
“Stop where you are, you imbecile, and keep the filth you brought in from the road with you.” Doc didn’t take his eyes from his patient. “It took me long enough to clean this wound, and I’m not interested in doing it again.”
The newspaperman had helped Rafe and the doctor carry Red John to the infirmary earlier, but he’d left when all had appeared lost. It seemed he wanted an update. “Will Deckom live?” No doubt he’d write a salacious account of today’s events for his newspaper and give it a banner headline.
“Not likely.”
“Then why do you strive so hard to battle the inevitable?”
“St. Jude is my patron.”
Jude was the patron saint of medical men—and lost causes.
“Excellent.” Callahan grinned, scribbled the quote in his notebook, and was gone.
“Get that, would you, Morgan?” Doc laid his instrument down and nodded at Deckom’s scalp. He washed his hands in a basin of water that had been boiled. “I believe that’s the last one.”
With the extraction of the last fragment, there was another spurt of bleeding, but this time it wasn’t too bad. Rafe gently blotted the area. “I’d think he’d wake up, what with all the poking and digging you’ve been doing.”
“Head wounds are tricky. I don’t like the way his pupils look.” The doctor dried his hands. For several minutes, he wrote in a journal. Then he poured two glasses of bourbon and handed one to Rafe. “If he doesn’t die in the next few hours, he’ll need constant observation for the next few days. Please give my apologies to your bride if I miss the wedding.”
Rafe felt his face warm, and not from the doctor’s fine liquor.
“I’ll convey your message.”
The door opened again, and both men relaxed when they saw Teddy Gensch. “Mr. Morgan, good.” The mayor handed Rafe a piece of paper folded in half. “I’ve been dispatched by my wife to bring you this note from Miss Steele. Also to let you know your suit is ready and hanging in your room at the hotel.”
In hushed tones, Gensch inquired about the patient while Rafe scanned the lines Charity—not Naomi—had written.
Dear Mr. Morgan,
We’re told you’re assisting Dr. Declan in trying to save poor Red John. We are all praying for the endeavor’s success, hopeless as things look.
Naomi will be occupied with wedding preparations for the duration of the day and evening. Please do not attempt to see her, for that would be bad luck!
Mrs. Vanderhouten has informed us that Hortensia Hood will make sure the preacher is at the church tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, ready to make you and my sister man and wife.
Yours sincerely,
Charity Steele
There it was, plain as the nose on his face. She was letting him know there was no hope for the two of them. In his heart, Rafe believed Charity felt about him the same way he felt about her, but he accepted that she wouldn’t come between him and her sister.
But he still had to tell Naomi who he was. He’d have to see her before the wedding.
“What’s eating you, Teddy?” Doc said. “You seem preoccupied.”
“It’s Polk,” the mayor said. “He’s cleared out. Said he won’t stay where he isn’t appreciated.”
“I didn’t credit the man with such keen powers of insight.” Declan poured Gensch a glass of bourbon.
“He was a yellow-bellied blatherskite, but he was better than nothing.” The mayor downed the shot in one swallow and refused another. “If word gets out that Faith Steele is the only law in Break Heart, it’ll be more than just the Deckoms who try to take advantage.”
Rafe knew what he had to do. “Mr. Gensch, if you don’t mind, I’d like to walk with you back to the hotel.”
Chapter 31
Charity’s dream that night was worse than ever. After Pa went under the water, Matthew and Mark and the angel vaquero stared at her wordlessly from Naomi’s raft. They seemed bitterly disappointed in her for writing that note to Mr. Morgan, but what else she was supposed to do?
She woke to a stifling bedroom and rushed to open the window. The sun was well up and the day already warm. She must have slept late.
A feeling of dread consumed her—but why should it? She’d done the right thing.
She’d refused to acknowledge her feelings for Mr. Morgan—out loud, anyway. The memory of his touch wouldn’t go away. It had felt so right, that brief moment in his arms, and she was sure he’d felt the same way.
Which was terrible!
He was an honorable man, and she’d been afraid he might say something to Naomi, maybe even call off the wedding. So she’d written the note, made it clear in no uncertain terms that today Mr. Preston Morgan and Naomi Steele were going to be married, and had told him to stay away until the ceremony.
So far, so good. Why were her guardian angels upset?
She threw on her wrapper and went downstairs. The aroma of coffee welcomed her to the kitchen. “Faith, I love you!” she said aloud. There was a pot on the stove and biscuits with butter and jam set out on the worktable.
Charity was pouring herself a cup when Faith came into the kitchen, wearing her Sunday dress and carrying a stockpot.
“Good morning, sleepy head.” She set the empty pot on the stove. “Good, we’re on time. Naomi just got into her bath, and you’re up. We decided you needed your rest after your ordeal yesterday, but I was about to go upstairs and wake you.”
Her ordeal. C
harity couldn’t talk about yesterday. About Mr. Morgan. Naomi. Red John… “What time is it?”
“Just after nine. Hannah and Luke are at the church with Jane and Mrs. V. I’m going over there now to help them decorate. You can help Naomi get dressed, then just make sure you get her to the church by ten.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Charity couldn’t help smiling. She loved watching Faith in her element, taking charge in full deputy mode.
“And you get dressed too,” Faith called out over her shoulder as she headed for the door. “The wedding’s in less than an hour!”
After downing her coffee and swallowing a biscuit practically whole, Charity went upstairs to do just that. Naomi’s wedding would be no less celebrated than Belle’s had been, with food and dancing at the Lilac afterward. But it all felt so thrown together. So rushed. And so it was!
This was Saturday. Mr. Morgan had come to Break Heart on Tuesday. Surely that wasn’t enough time to fall in love. Not true, abiding love. This longing Charity felt for him, this delight in the very idea of him—it must be mere fancy.
A week ago, her heart had been her own. A week from now, it would be again.
She reached for her hairbrush and remembered Ma’s mourning brooch, there on her dressing table. Yesterday, after giving Charlotte Gensch the note for Mr. Morgan, she’d gone back to Tagget’s to retrieve the brooch so Naomi would have it back before the ceremony. At least she’d done that right!
She scooped up the piece of jewelry and took it to Naomi’s room. The Worth wedding dress was laid out on the bed. So beautiful—so elegant. Just like Naomi.
Charity would never be beautiful, and she’d certainly never be elegant. She’d never wear any wedding dress, either, let alone one so magnificent as this.
Without thinking, she ran her fingers over the intricate embroidery on the front panel. The white-on-white birds and flowers and butterflies were delightful. What would it be like to wear such a dress?
She held the gown up against her chemise and looked in the cheval mirror. It could have been tailored for her. She and Naomi were the same size, after all.
An urge seized her and would not let go. She wanted—she needed—to try on the dress. Just to see. This will be the last time.
After today, Naomi would be gone. They’d see each other from time to time. Once or twice a year, if they were lucky. What was fifty miles of good road? It was fifty miles of road, good or not.
Today their daily routine would end. Her sister’s voice in the morning, cajoling her, and at supper, laughing at her, and with her. Never again would Charity borrow Naomi’s things and ruin them and bear the exquisite guilt of making a terrible fist of it all. Naomi’s example would always be with her, but Naomi would be gone.
Naomi was the family’s strong core, even more than Pa had ever been. Charity knew that now.
“Charity?”
Great thunder on the mountain! Caught in the act!
Charity swung around. Naomi was standing in her bedroom doorway, and Charity was wearing the dress, the back gaping open, unlaced. Somehow, she’d stepped into it, slipped her arms into the sleeves.
“Cat got your tongue?” Naomi’s eyebrow did its very best work. She tsked her tongue, but she didn’t seem outraged.
“I… I… This isn’t what it looks like!”
“It looks like you’re trying on my wedding dress.” Naomi came to her and slid the dress off her shoulders.
Charity stepped out of it. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to see…”
“What it would look like? Why not? We’re the same size, after all. But if you’re going to try it on, best do it properly.”
Naomi picked up a pair of silk stockings with one hand and a corset with the other.
“No. I couldn’t.”
“Of course you can.”
It felt like she was dreaming again. Charity went through the motions, with Naomi helping.
“Let’s pin up your hair,” Naomi said after tying the laces on the dress. “And now the veil.”
This was so wrong!
“You’re lovely, Charity. It looks wonderful on you.”
“Wedding gowns are like that,” Charity said, utterly flustered. “They’re infused with some kind of magic that makes any bride look wonderful. Especially a gown from the House of Worth of Paris, France.”
But Charity wasn’t a bride. She was a thief.
“I think you might like my husband too.”
“No!” Charity whirled around. “I mean, yes, I like Mr. Morgan. But…”
“I see.”
Charity reached up to take off the veil, but Naomi stopped her.
“You’re dressed for the wedding,” she said. “I’m going to wear the promenade dress Jane and Hannah fitted for me—just in case, Hannah said. Though I think the just in case she had in mind was if Mr. Morgan had planned a honeymoon.”
“No.” Charity shook her head. “No, this is madness.”
“Oh, my dear sister! You can be awfully blind, for all the things you notice. Mr. Morgan loves you, not me. He would have gone through with it today, but only from a sense of duty, nothing more.”
Charity’s heart pounded. They couldn’t do this. “It’s madness,” she said again.
“It was obvious from the start he liked you better, but I’d taken Charlotte and Abigail’s advice and accepted him, so I made myself willfully ignorant of what was going on right before my eyes.”
“But you’d be a good wife to him. I know you would.”
“I could be an acceptable wife to him, but I wouldn’t be happy and so neither would he. He’s a good man, don’t get me wrong. I admire him. But I don’t think I could ever love him as a wife should love a husband. He’s too… well, he’s younger than I thought he’d be.”
Now there Charity was in agreement. On paper, Mr. Morgan was perfect for her sister. But it was true that in real life their temperaments were mismatched.
“But he came to Break Heart to marry you.”
“He came to marry the girl who wrote to him. That was you.” Naomi kissed Charity on the cheek.
“It was, wasn’t it?” Could this possibly not be madness?
“I’ve learned my lesson,” Naomi said. “Charlotte Gensch and Abigail Vanderhouten were both right. I should get married. And I will. But not to Mr. Morgan. I’ll know when the right man comes along.”
“But what will you do until then?”
“I don’t know. Luke will be starting school in the fall. Maybe I’ll ask Mae to give me your place at the store. Meanwhile, there’s Abigail’s book, and new men come to Break Heart every day.”
“Oh, Naomi.”
Charity looked at herself again in the mirror, and as the reality of what she was about to do set in, she was suddenly gripped by terror. “I can’t. I can’t do it.”
“Can’t do what?”
“I never wanted to get married. I still don’t.”
“But you love Mr. Morgan. You’ve admitted it.”
“I do! I do love him. Oh, Naomi, but don’t you see? That only makes it worse. What if he dies? What if we have children and they die? I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t!”
Her heart was racing fifty miles an hour, and it felt like the whole world was spinning around her.
“That’s just too bad!” Naomi grabbed her arms and shook her. “I never took you for a coward, Charity Steele. It’s this simple: grief is the price we pay for loving. There is no getting away from it.”
“I can get away from it,” Charity choked out.
“No. My dear, dear sister. No. You spend almost every waking hour of the day loving.”
“I’m the selfish one!” She sounded like a child.
“That may have been true, once upon a time. But you haven’t been that selfish girl since we came to Colorado. Break Heart Bend changed us all.”
“But—”
“No buts. I’ve watched how you look out for all of us—and Mae Tagget too. Even Red John Deckom—you were kinder to him tha
n he deserved.”
“Poor Red John. He was—or is—mostly harmless.”
Red John hadn’t died yet. He was up at the infirmary, still fighting for his life. Doc gave even odds whether he’d survive the shot that had torn through his skull.
“Now let’s get this veil situated.”
“But—”
“I said no buts! People die. The pain is unbearable. But we bear it anyway. Because the love always outweighs the pain. Would you rather have never known Matthew and Mark? Would you rather Ma and Pa had never lived? Would you wipe out their lives just so you didn’t have to feel?”
“I’m afraid.”
Naomi scoffed at her. “No, you’re not!”
Charity gave in. She was going to do this!
“What will everybody say?” But she wasn’t really fighting it anymore.
“Mr. Morgan will be relieved. It’s nobody else’s business. Now help me get that ridiculously complicated dress on, and let’s get you to the church.”
They were walking along the lane to the Little Church, when Charity gasped and looked at Naomi in dismay.
“What now?”
“I just remembered. Yesterday when I found Ma’s brooch, I promised myself I’d never take anything of yours again.”
They both burst out laughing.
Chapter 32
Twenty minutes earlier
For the third time in two minutes, Rafe checked his pocket watch against the grandfather clock in the lobby of the Lilac Hotel, as if either timepiece would tell him it wasn’t nearly ten o’clock.
He was supposed to be getting married in twenty minutes, and he still hadn’t spoken to Naomi.
As he put the watch away in the waistcoat of his good suit, the Gensches came through on their way out the door. Of course. They were going down to the church to see Naomi get married. By the way Mrs. Gensch looked at Rafe, she must know all.
“Mr. Morgan”—she said his name pointedly—“what are you doing here?”
Yesterday, walking back from the infirmary, owing to the nature of their conversation, it had been necessary to reveal to the mayor who he was. Rafe had asked Gensch to keep it under his hat until he had a chance to tell Naomi, and the mayor had agreed—with one exception.