Dear Lord…please spare him.
* * *
Emma settled onto a stool beside the bed. Cole had fallen into a restless slumber, thrashing against the bedclothes. Kicking off the quilt, he sprawled across the mattress, his chest shuddering with each ragged breath.
With Emma’s help, Miranda had managed to strip him down to his cotton drawers. While they’d struggled to remove his clothing, Emma hadn’t stopped to think about her actions, but now, sitting beside him, the reality of what she’d done washed over her like a storm-tossed wave. She’d seen and touched this man so intimately—more intimately than many wives had seen their husbands. How natural it seemed. How right.
She’d had no choice, she told herself. Any compassionate woman would have done the same. But compassion alone hadn’t driven her actions. She traced the edge of his jaw, over the tiny bristles that had erupted since he’d last shaved. Gently, she trailed her fingertips over the planes of his face. So warm, and yet, beneath her touch, he shivered. Such a strong, vital man, felled by an injury he’d suffered protecting her. When he recovered…if he recovered—
A dull blade sliced through her heart. She blinked away defiant tears. Drat it all, thinking the worst would do no good. He’d beat this. The marks on his torso bore silent testimony to the other wounds he’d suffered and survived.
Rising, she drew the quilt to his chest, but Cole tugged at the cover again and cast the patchwork blanket aside. Even in this, he was determined to have his way. Well, two could play that game. She wouldn’t chance him taking a chill. She rearranged the quilt again, this time tucking the ends under the mattress to anchor it.
His coloring worried her. The skin beneath the dark hair feathered over his chest was pale, other than the scarlet streaks that radiated from the wound. And yet, he was burning up. Ignoring the knots in her stomach, she pressed a cool compress over his flushed forehead and cheeks.
The damp cloth seemed to soothe him, and he relaxed. His lids lifted.
“Emma…you’re still here.” His lids looked so heavy, he could barely hold them open. “Staton. He’ll hurt you. Stay away.” His voice drifted off, and his eyes closed.
She stroked his forehead with her fingertips. “You will not let this get the better of you,” she said in a fierce whisper against his ear. “You will fight this.”
“Is he still sleeping?” Miranda asked from the doorway. She carried a bowl of steaming water.
“For the moment,” Emma replied, still bathing his skin with the cool cloth.
Miranda placed the bowl on the table. She turned down the quilt to expose the inflamed wound. “We’ve got to get this infection out. We need to make sure these compresses are as warm as we can stand to touch. Cole won’t like this. He’ll probably fight it. But the heat will draw out the infection.”
“I understand,” Emma said, thinking back to the hours she’d spent with the wounded at the military hospital.
Miranda’s brow furrowed. “You’re certain nothing is trapped in the wound?”
Emma gulped a breath at the distressing thought. If something had been buried under his skin, how could they possibly remove it?
“He said the blade felt like it glanced off his collar bone. I don’t believe any part of the blade broke off.”
Miranda pressed a quick kiss to Cole’s cheek. “Don’t even think about leaving this family. We’ve already buried Walter. I can’t bear—”
Emma wrapped an arm around Miranda’s shoulder. “We’ll get him through this,” she vowed. “He won’t die.”
Miranda nodded as she brushed away the single tear streaming down her cheek. “I won’t lose another of my kin to Frederick Staton’s treachery.”
* * *
Emma brushed her fingertips over Cole’s brow. He stirred, murmuring some words she couldn’t understand, then sank back against his pillow.
Fever still heated his skin. The stiletto in her heart twisted.
“You will not die,” she said with fierce conviction. “You will fight this.”
“Tired. Damned tired.” His voice came as little more than a moan.
“Rest,” she coaxed, though she knew the moment she applied the hot compress, he’d be miserable again. But there was no choice.
Miranda placed a towel in the steamy water. She removed it from the basin, allowing the excess liquid to drip from the cloth before she wrung it out and folded it over Cole’s wound.
Muttering a curse that did not deter Miranda from her task, he arched against the bed. She held the heated cloth in place over the abscessed flesh.
“How often must we do this?” Emma asked.
“Every half hour. This will soften the wound and allow the infection to escape.” Miranda swept soothing fingertips over his brow. “He will come out of this. He’s endured much worse.”
Emma’s attention lit on a scar. A long-healed bullet wound, most likely. Pulling in a breath, she veiled her eyes from Miranda’s perceptive gaze.
“We need to treat the wound.” Miranda said, motioning for Emma to take her place securing the hot compress. She opened a leather bag, retrieved fresh, clean bandages and a jar of thick, black ointment. As she removed the lid, a foul, tar-like odor assailed Emma’s nostrils.
Emma eyed the substance. “Good heavens, what is that?”
“Drawing salve,” Miranda explained. “An Amish woman in a nearby community makes the ointment from a secret recipe. She uses honey to help rid the body of infection, though from the smell of this stuff, I suspect there’s a heavy dose of pine tar. Remove the compress, please.”
Miranda dried the wound, then applied a heavy coating of the vile-smelling compound to the injury.
Cole’s eyes opened a sliver. His nostrils quivered, and he glared through the slit of barely-separated lids. “What the hell did you put on me?”
“Just some ointment.”
“You trying to finish the job?”
Miranda fashioned a bandage and secured it in place. “Just because you’re laid up in this sick bed doesn’t mean you get to be an ornery goat.”
“If I have to smell this stuff the whole time, dying might not be so bad.”
She ruffled his hair, the loving gesture of an aunt who remembered the man as a boy.
A hint of a smile curled his mouth. “No one’s done that to me in twenty years.”
Affection gleamed in Miranda’s eyes. “And most likely, no one will for a very long time. You’ll always be my Hez—”
“Miranda, don’t you dare.” Cole’s voice held surprising strength.
“Oh, all right. They’ll be plenty of time later to reveal your deep, dark secret. For now, you’d better rest.”
He lifted his head a few inches off the pillow. “Take care of her. Don’t let anyone get to her.”
Miranda nodded. “You know I will.”
“Send for reinforcements. You’re going to need them.”
“I’ve already sent word to your partner.” Miranda stroked his brow. “Close your eyes and rest.”
Without another word, he complied, his lids drifting closed. Miranda turned to Emma, eyeing her with a knowing gaze.
“I’ve never seen him worry so much about anything as he worries over you.” Miranda replaced the lid on the jar and placed the ointment on the table. “You care about him, don’t you?”
Emma blinked at the question. A knot scalded her throat. There was no point lying to Miranda. She saw the truth as clearly as if Emma had stitched it onto a sampler.
“Heaven help me, but I do.”
* * *
Emma huddled in the rocker near Cole’s sickbed. She drew her legs to her chest and rested her head against her knees. She wanted nothing more than to close her eyes for a few minutes. She was so weary, yet every nerve was on edge. Even though Miranda had urged her to leave his side long enough to steal a bit of sleep, she knew her mind would not allow her to slip away into slumber.
A low moan escaped his throat. Emma stretched out of the ball she’d
formed on the chair and padded over to him. He whipped restless arms and legs against the mattress, but when she placed her hands on Cole to calm him, his flesh felt cooler to the touch. She raised her eyes to heaven in silent thanks.
When the grandfather clock in the hall chimed in the midnight hour, Emma rushed to heat a pot of water on the stove. She quietly returned to Cole’s chamber, poured the steamy water into the basin, and soaked a clean cloth in the hot liquid.
She grasped the uncomfortably warm cloth in her hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, unsure if he would hear her. “So very sorry.”
Emma placed the cloth over the wound. Cole arched his back and struggled to jerk away. Undeterred, she held the compress in place, biting her lip when he groaned.
“Hurts like hell,” he muttered, opening his eyes to glare daggers at her. “Is this your idea of revenge?” A faint hint of a smile curved his lips despite his question.
“This is actually my idea of trying to keep you alive. What fun will my vengeance be if you’re not here to experience it?”
His eyes seemed more alert, and he clasped her free hand in surprisingly strong fingers. “This isn’t a fit task for a lady.”
“Miranda can’t do this alone. She’s already exhausted.”
Cole lifted his head to sit up, but he collapsed against the pillow. “I don’t need a nursemaid,” he rasped. “Get some sleep.”
“Not yet. Not until we get this wound to drain a bit more.”
His lids grew hooded again. “You never fail to surprise me.” His grip tightened around her fingers. “Have you always been this headstrong?”
“Only when I care about something a great deal.”
Cole struggled to lift his head again. “This is damn ridiculous,” he grumbled in a low rasp. His gaze softened as he reached out to caress her face. “Promise me you won’t go to Staton.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“If I don’t make it—”
She caught his hand in hers. “You mustn’t think that way. You’re getting stronger every day.”
“Tell Miranda to send for Dunham. He’ll get you home.” Cole’s voice was scarcely more than a rough whisper. His head tossed back and forth against the pillow as his lids shuttered his eyes.
Emma brushed a kiss against the rough beard on his cheek. “You will not surrender. I won’t let you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Two days later
Heavy footsteps thumping up the stairs jarred Emma from a daydream. Seated at Cole’s bedside, she’d rested her cheek against a pillow and closed her eyes for a much needed moment of rest. Her back went ramrod straight as a familiar drawl announced his partner’s presence.
“How is he?” Steve closed the distance from doorway to bed in three long strides.
Cole’s words echoed in her head. If I don’t make it… A chill washed over Emma. Her stomach twisted into a knot, but she swallowed hard and met his question with a shush.
“Come with me,” she said, motioning him toward the hallway. “We can’t talk here.”
Steve nodded and left the room as quickly as he’d entered. She followed him and bowed the door in an effort to maintain the quiet of the sickroom.
“How’s he doin’?” Steve’s broad features betrayed his concern.
“The fever has broken, but he’s still weak.”
“Weak?” Steve’s brows hitched. “Don’t let that pitiful act fool you. He’s strong as an ox and stubborn as hell. The devil’s not ready for him yet.”
The crude words, voiced with undisguised masculine affection, warmed away the chill of apprehension. Steve was right. If anyone could defeat death simply through strength of will, Cole was that man.
“Miranda told me how much you’ve done to help him. I’m much obliged,” Steve went on. “That was mighty kind of you.”
“I only did what any compassionate woman would do,” she said, hoping he couldn’t read the truth in her eyes. She’d spent days and nights at Cole’s side, tending his needs and praying for his recovery, but benevolence had little to do with it. She’d stayed by his side because she couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing his crooked grin or feeling his touch again. She’d stayed because she couldn’t bear to leave him.
“Steve, what the hell are you doing here?” Cole’s raw croak barely penetrated the quiet.
Steve flung open the door. “I was going to ask you the same question. You let a little knife half kill you. I thought you were tougher than that.”
Cole mumbled something Emma couldn’t quite make out, though the words son of a bitch made their way to her ears, followed by his partner’s hearty laugh. Smiling to herself, she turned and headed down the stairs.
Miranda bustled around the kitchen, making preparations for supper. “I’ll need to cook up some more food since Steve’s arrived. That man sure can eat.” Her forehead furrowed as if she’d drifted into thought, and she frowned as her brisk motions slowed. “I’ll ask Steve to take you home whenever you’re ready.”
“I can’t leave now. You still need my help.”
“I can manage for a day or two. I’ll put Steve to work, let the man earn his keep.” She seemed to search Emma’s eyes for the truth. “You must be homesick.”
Emma avoided Miranda’s knowing gaze. “You need me here. I can’t go. Not yet.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Completely.” Emma reached for an apron dangling from a peg on the kitchen wall. “What can I do to help?”
“I would be in your debt if you’d convince that big oaf to come downstairs. Cole needs his rest.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
Miranda laid her hand on Emma’s shoulder. “If you change your mind and decide you want to go home, tell me.”
Emma met her words with a little shrug. “I suppose that will depend on Cole.”
* * *
Emma ignored Cole’s fierce scowl as she placed a tray over his lap. “If you are going to get well, you need to build up your strength. Miranda asked me to bring your lunch.”
Since his partner’s arrival three days earlier, Cole had become the most difficult patient she’d ever dealt with. His fever broken, he resented every minute in the sickbed. Even her experience at the Armory Square hospital had not prepared her for his foul mood.
“I don’t need a nursemaid,” he growled. “I am not a child.”
“I have no intention of treating you as such, so I would appreciate it if you would stop acting like one,” she snipped back.
“I can come downstairs to eat,” he muttered between his teeth. “I need to get out of this damn bed. God only knows what the hell Steve’s into.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m surprised he hasn’t sweet-talked you out of your skirts. He sure as hell wanted to.”
“You’ve no worry about his sweet talk or my skirts.” She flashed a smile. “Or my drawers, for that matter.”
Maneuvering to brace himself against the headboard, he jolted at her words. A bowl of steamed carrots toppled to the floor.
“I am not an invalid. This is ridiculous.”
“Invalid is doubtful. Jackass—that’s a different story,” Emma retorted as she bent to clean up the mess.
“At least I enjoy the view,” he said, a bit of humor creeping into his voice.
She straightened, meeting his gleaming eyes. Pulling in a breath between her teeth, she crouched to retrieve the vegetables scattered over the oak floor.
“I’ve always known you were an infuriating man. Illness has not changed that one bit.”
A slow smile spread over his features. “This view also has its merits.”
Emma jerked upright. “Perhaps I’ll leave you to pick this up yourself.”
“I’ve got a better idea. How about if I get the hell out of this bed and go downstairs?”
“But Miranda—”
“She still thinks I’m ten years old. I’m a grown man, for God’s—”
“Don’t you dare take the
Lord’s name in vain,” Miranda’s voice rang out from the doorway. “Since you’re a grown man, you can take care of yourself. Come along, Emma.”
Emma nodded her thanks and joined Miranda in the hallway. The sound of Cole milling around the room, banging dresser drawers open and shut as he searched for his clothes, drifted down the hall.
“Good heavens, he’s cantankerous,” Miranda said. “I suppose it won’t hurt him to get up and about.”
Emma smiled despite her aggravation with their ornery patient. “You may be right.”
She took a step back as the door crashed open and Cole lumbered out. The shirt he’d slipped on was open to the middle of his chest, while his trousers hung loose on his lean frame.
Miranda’s brows lifted. “Can you make it down the stairs?”
“Of course I can,” he mumbled as he headed for the staircase. Seizing the railing with a death grip, he steadied himself as he took one step at a time.
“He’s definitely going to live,” Miranda observed with a wry smile. “If he doesn’t fall and kill himself first.”
* * *
Cole wolfed down his food. His appetite had returned with raging force, and the scrambled eggs and bacon Miranda prepared for breakfast seemed a meal fit for a king.
After downing the last bite, he excused himself and carried a pot of heated water upstairs. He caught a glance of his reflection in a hallway mirror. Christ, he looked like hell, even by his standards.
Once inside his room, he poured the liquid into the basin and cleaned his face and neck. The hot cloth scrubbing against his skin triggered memories of Emma. How many times had he awakened to her touch on his cheek, soothing him with moist cotton cloths and a resolute tenderness that pulled him from the brink of a cavernous oblivion? Her tireless presence at his bedside, her sweet yet strong voice, forbidding him to give in—infusing him with the strength to survive.
She’d seldom smiled during those days, her mouth pursed in a serious bow. She was determined to have her way. And what she’d wanted was his survival.
She could have run off again. Miranda wouldn’t have stopped her. Hell, she probably would have sent Daniel to escort Emma to the nearest train station if she’d wanted to leave.
Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies (Secrets & Spies) Page 20