Texas Twilight

by Caroline Fyffe

  Lily glanced back at the coach and her heart did a somersault. All those people were dead. She and Miss Abigail had been discussing sarsaparillas and how they wanted one as soon as they reached Rio Wells. The thought of the teacher with the blood spot on the side of her dress made Lily’s throat threaten to close and her eyes felt as if hot coals were wedged behind them.

  The coach rocked slightly. She didn’t want to think about what they were doing in there. She tried to look away, over the desolate, dry lands, but couldn’t tear her gaze away. She watched Doctor McCutcheon as he approached, then set her cloth satchel at her feet.

  “Miss Anthony.” He looked uncomfortable. “I’d like to make it to the safety of the swing station before nightfall. I think it best if you ride up top with us.”

  “What about my Tante?”

  “She’ll need to ride inside.”

  “But what if she wakes up? She will be frightened if she cannot find me.” But I do not want to look at those dead bodies another time, she thought, suppressing a shudder.

  “She’s still unconscious.” His expression was soft but his tone said his decision was made. “Do you have a bonnet, or parasol, to keep off the sun?”

  Her emotions were all jumbled up inside and she struggled to understand. At her silence he squatted down and opened her bag, rummaging through it.

  “Here.” He placed the bonnet on her head and tied the sashes. The ugly gash of his wound stood out on his tanned cheek, and the purple stain of iodine confirmed he had done some doctoring to himself. Finished, he sat back and studied her face.

  “I killed a man,” Lily said under her breath. “I shot him dead. Maybe even more than one man. I am not sure.”

  Dr. McCutcheon nodded thoughtfully. “That you did.” He reached out and straightened her bonnet as if he were searching for the right words. “And, if you must know, I’m glad you did. Those men were killers. As bad as that might sound to you, it’s just the way it is out here. You have to be tough to survive.”

  He stood. “It’s best not to think about it too much. Now, up you go.” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, then gathered her Tante into his arms.

  At the coach Lily stopped him with a touch to his hand before he could open the stage door. “Please bring her up on top with us, Doctor McCutcheon. I’ll make a spot for her between the luggage. Watch over her. The fresh air will do her good and…”

  His jaw clenched and released. “Hank,” he called, and the man ran over and helped Lily to the top of the coach where just a few minutes before they’d been fighting off the Comancheros. Dr. McCutcheon climbed up with Tante Harriett in his arms. After laying her down he took his spot as lookout.

  Chapter Three

  By the time they reached the swing station the moon was overhead and the sky filled with stars. Not much more than a rundown shack, the stage stop had several corrals holding a dozen or so horses. It was the property of Wells Fargo, run by an employee who met and fed passengers along the routes. Smoke wafted from the chimney, attesting to the fact that there was indeed an able-bodied occupant within.

  In the soft moonlight, John watched a stout little man hurry out, followed by a shaggy black dog. The man took hold of the horses as the driver set the brake.

  “Hank, I was getting worried. Did you have trouble? Where’s Sam and Dalton?”

  “They’re dead, Chester.”

  John climbed down and reached up for Lily. Taking her hand, he guided her down, then made sure she was steady on her feet before releasing it. “We were attacked. They killed three of the passengers, too.”

  “Those Comancheros are getting as bold as brass around here. I fear for my safety near every day and night. Just a couple of nights ago I saw two up on the hill, watching. I’ll miss those boys...” His voice broke and he shook his head.

  “You have some supper ready for this miss?” John asked. “She’s had a rough go of it.”

  “That I do. Stew and corn bread. Come inside.” The man walked ahead and opened the creaking door.

  Lily waited for him as he climbed back to the top for Harriett. It was strange the woman was still unconscious. Inside, he laid her on a small cot on the far wall.

  “Go ahead and dish up Miss Anthony’s dinner,” John said. “Hank and I have business to take care of outside.”

  “Understood. There’s a small graveyard out back. If you use the lanterns on the porch you won’t have a problem finding it. You can bury them there.”

  John motioned to the cot. “Come and get me if she wakes up.”

  It took the better part of two hours before John and Hank had the bodies of Abigail Smith and Cyrus and Jeremiah Post buried in the sandy loam and covered with rocks. John had gathered the few personal belongings off the men’s bodies and stuck them into their luggage, along with some blood-soaked sheets of a letter. They’d been loose in Jeremiah’s breast pocket, and John had folded them and stuck them back into an envelope addressed to the sheriff of Rio Wells.

  He and Hank washed up and hurried inside, hunger gnawing their bellies. Lily had changed and now sat by her aunt’s cot, holding the older woman’s hand.

  Chester dished the men’s food and watched as the two wolfed it down, refilling their bowls to the brim for a second go round. “That’s a nasty cut. Are you going to do something with it?”

  John swallowed. “Just as soon as I eat I’m going to stitch it up.”

  “How you gonna do that?” Chester asked, skeptical.

  “He’s a doctor,” Hank responded, over a mouthful of potato and meat.

  “It’ll hurt like hell,” Chester said as he came close to get a better look. “I suggest you take some whisky first.” The dog followed his master over. He whined once, then made a small circle and lay down by John’s chair.

  “Don’t I already know that, but I have to be steady.” Finished, John went to his black leather bag and pulled out the things he needed, along with a pie-sized mirror. “Bring me all the light you have in this place, if you don’t mind.”

  He was surprised when he found Lily standing next to him with a lantern. “I can do it, Dr. McCutcheon,” she said, her eyes assessing his wound. “I am a seamstress. I have a year and a half of experience working for my Tante, as well as before coming to America.” She put the lantern on the table and picked up the needle in a steady hand, the one that had been shaking not all that long ago. “You can trust me.”

  John looked down at her slim fingers holding the needle. They were lean and long and a bit roughened at their tips.

  “Okay. Let me get prepared.”

  He washed up, then slicked his hair away from his face. Taking a tub of clean water and soap, he tackled the painful job of cleansing the wound thoroughly, having to stop several times to slowly breathe in and out through his nose. He then irrigated it over and over with handfuls of water. Afterwards he swabbed it generously a second time with iodine, bracing against the pain. He took the needle and held it in the flame of a lamp for several seconds. Looking into the mirror, he pointed out to Lily where he’d like her to make the stitches. When he was finished, he took the bottle of whisky Chester held out to him and took a long drink.

  “Take another one, son,” Chester said. “Can’t hurt nothin’.”

  He did, ignoring the burn as it slid down his throat. He looked at Lily. “Ready?”

  When she nodded he settled in a chair. She sat opposite and pulled in close between his legs, studying his face.

  Just yesterday he’d been thinking how pretty her wheat-colored hair looked sparkling in the sunshine and how her blue eyes reminded him of hyacinth in spring. Now, with her up close and personal, he noticed a light sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her nose and a minute beauty mark at the outside corner of her left eye. He was surprised he’d never seen it before.

  She softly cleared her throat. “I think you should close your eyes.” Her warm breath, laced with coffee and sugar, tickled his senses. “Dr. McCutcheon?”

  Alth
ough reluctant to lose sight of her pretty face, he complied, willing himself to relax. When the sharp prick sent fire into his temple he sucked in a great draught of air, stilling her hand.

  “Go on,” he said through gritted teeth. “Don’t mind me. I’m toug...”

  Pain ripped through the hours-old wound. He clenched his jaws tighter, breathing through his nose. Lily pulled the thread through, making sure it was snug, then tied the knot and snipped it, again making him grimace. With a clean cloth, she applied a little pressure as he’d told her to do, to keep the bleeding down and allow her to see the wound easily.

  “There. The first one is done.”

  Lily held the mirror up. A perfect little knot, done exactly as he’d shown her. It was tied off at the top of the slash in his skin, still oozing a little. “Very nice work,” he said. She blushed and he couldn’t stop his mouth from curling up into a smile. “That wasn’t so bad.” He looked over at Chester. “But—I think I’ll have another drink now.”

  “Thought as much,” Chester said knowingly, handing him the bottle.

  Time crawled, marked by the ticking of the clock. The sound kept Lily’s thoughts straight, as if it were directing her hand. After each stitch was finished Chester would hand Doctor McCutcheon the bottle of whisky. After the fourth round, her patient didn’t even flinch when she poked the needle into his cheek, and she knew he was feeling no pain. Chester picked up the bottle, intent on giving the doctor with the charming smile another swig, but she motioned for him to put it away. He was going to be in enough discomfort in the morning without a pounding headache and rolling stomach to contend with.

  “I’ll say it again, Lily. You have a fine, steady hand. Are you sure you’ve never been to medical school?” John asked in a teasing tone.

  Hank and Chester who watched nearby, chuckled.

  “No, Doctor McCutcheon, just many hours stitching dresses for my Tante. But, I respect doctors very much. It is the noblest profession. At least that is what I believe.” Her comment drew another chuckle from the men.

  Lily tried to concentrate, to keep her mind on what she was doing, but it was proving extremely difficult. Dr. McCutcheon was the most handsome man she had ever seen, let alone been this close to. He was the epitome of everything western, with his long legs and muscular body. Why, he didn’t look like a doctor at all. His fine, straight nose complemented the hard angle of his jaw. And his hair, oh—it was so silky and smooth; it practically begged to be touched. When she felt her face warm she hardened her resolve not to be distracted, but his intriguing scent—of outdoor freshness mixed with something else she couldn’t put her finger on—circled around her. Without even taking her gaze from what she was doing she could feel that he’d opened his eyes and was looking at her.

  “Ouch!”

  She pulled back, embarrassed. “I am sorry. I—”

  John chuckled. “I’ll let it pass—but, just this once.” He scrunched his face, as if working to relieve the pain. “You’re a regular little Florence Nightingale, aren’t you?” He winked at his spectators, drawing more laughter from them. “I’ll be your pin cushion anytime.”

  She smiled. He’d loosened up considerably since drinking all the whisky. His face was flushed, his eyes a bit glassy. With relief, she tied off the last knot.

  “All finished.” She handed him the mirror.

  He inspected her handiwork closely as she dabbed it again with iodine. “We need to cover it,” she said, more to herself than to the three other people watching with interest.

  “I’ll be right back.” Lily went behind the screen and lifted her bag onto the log-cabin-patterned quilt of her cot. She hurried, digging around inside until she came to the small squares of fabrics she had brought along. They were wrapped in brown paper and tied with a yard’s worth of twine.

  She went back to the table and untied the bow, sorting through the contents until she found the gauze. She handed it to John, along with a small roll of gummed paper for hemming.

  “Sure you don’t mind?” he said, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “I’ll be sure to replace it when we get to town.”

  “No need. You saved our lives today, Dr. McCutcheon. I am happy I can repay you at least by helping.”

  “Lily? Where are you, girl?”

  Lily hurried to her aunt’s side. “You’re awake,” she said, holding back her emotions. “I was afraid—” She stopped and exhaled. “How do you feel?”

  John gathered his stethoscope from his things and followed, his legs a bit wobbly, and hunkered down beside the old woman. He felt her forehead, then took her pulse. Putting the ends of his stethoscope into his ears, he leaned close to her chest, listening to her heart. “She’s getting stronger. I’m still concerned, though, that she was out for so long.” He lifted each eyelid and looked into her pupils. “Does anything hurt?”

  “I’ve a terrible headache, young man.”

  “Have you a history of passing out for long periods of time?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Alarmed, Lily spoke up, “But, Tante Harriet, what about the times...”

  “Hush, Lily. I’d had too many sips of champagne. I’ve explained that to you several times. My Lily,” she laughed softly, as she regarded her niece. “Always so worried about her feeble old auntie.”

  Lily bit the inside of her cheek. She’d found her aunt passed out more times than she’d like to remember. Lily had been petrified each time it happened, but she usually came around pleasantly rested and calm. Her doctor seemed unconcerned, telling Lily not to worry so much. “Just old age,” he’d say before leaving. She wasn’t so sure.

  ***

  John’s head throbbed painfully. The sun was already hot for the first day of May; it blasted the stage and its inhabitants like a furnace.

  “Whoa,” Hank shouted to the horses as they pulled in next to Rio Well’s stage office midway down Main Street. Several people milled about on the boardwalk waiting for the stage to arrive.

  When John climbed down and stood in their company, opening the coach’s door for Lily and Harriet, they gaped at the sight of his face and some turned and backed away. In the heat of the day the bandage had curled and fallen off, leaving the raw flesh exposed. The puffy skin, pulled together with sixteen stitches, was enough to make the strongest stomach lurch.

  A heavy man in a dapper hat stepped forward expectantly and peered inside the coach. “Miss Abigail Smith?”

  “Miss Smith is dead,” John said as gently as he could under the circumstances. Several bystanders gasped in horror. “She’s buried out at the swing station along with Cyrus and Jeremiah Post.” He helped Lily to the ground, and then reached for her aunt.

  “John McCutcheon. Is that you?” a deep voice called out.

  John turned to find three men striding up the boardwalk. They were tall and rugged and the oldest bore a strong resemblance to his father. “Yes. You must be Uncle Winston.”

  The man gripped him in a strong embrace, then set him away to get a look at his nephew. “You’ve been hurt. By the bullet holes in the stage, I can guess what happened.”

  “Three passengers and two employees have been killed.”

  “Comancheros?”

  “Yes. A whole band of them.”

  Uncle Winston shook his head angrily. “They get more brazen every day. Thank God you made it here in one piece. Here, meet your cousins. This is Dustin.” John gripped the hand of his older cousin who was his brother Luke’s age, the two standing eye to eye. Then Chaim, who was John’s age, also twenty-five. While they talked, John was conscious of Lily scurrying around, gathering their things while holding onto her worn out and disheveled aunt.

  He motioned with his head to the women. “Give me a few minutes, please.” He turned to Lily who was holding her aunt’s elbow while staring at her trunk with a perplexed look. Her cloth satchel, and that of her aunt’s, sat close by.

  “What are your plans?”

  Startled, she looked up. “Oh. Dr. McCu
tcheon. Are you still here?” She smiled, but he could see something different in her eyes, as if somehow he’d ruffled her feathers. How, he couldn’t imagine.

  “Our plans? Well, for tonight we will secure a room at the hotel. Then tomorrow we will settle into the shop we have leased at 33 Spring Street. It has living space upstairs.”

  “Let me help you take your things to the hotel.”

  “We can manage.”

  They bent at the same time, both taking hold of the two smaller bags. Her eyes challenged his as the satchels were pulled back and forth between them.

  “Stop being so stubborn,” he said, chuckling. Her feisty expression said she wanted to do this on her own. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “I am not being stubborn.”

  “You are.”

  “Children. Children. Is this really necessary?” Harriett said, placing the back of her hand on her forehead. “This heat is stifling.”

  “The hotel is just across the street,” Lily said, her chin raising a notch. “We can manage. But, thank you all the same.”

  Ignoring her remark, John lifted his hand and called to a Wells Fargo employee standing nearby. “Can I trouble you to take this trunk over to the hotel for the ladies?” Then, one by one, John pried Lily’s fingers from her hold on the bags, then took Harriett’s other elbow.

  In the hotel John tapped the bell several times until a man came scurrying out of a door.

  “These ladies need a room for the night.”

  “Certainly,” he replied, eyeing the side of John’s face. He produced a large ledger and held out a feather pen to John, who handed it over to Lily.

  “And once they’re settled I’d appreciate it if you would have the restaurant send them up a hot meal. Charge it to me.”

  “Doctor,” Lily sputtered at the exact same time Harriett said, “Thank you kindly.” Startled, the women looked at each other for a moment.