Did this happen before or after he’d been stabbed?
There was no time for questions. Reducing the fever was far more important. She pressed on, dampening his face while he thrashed in the small amount of space given him.
“No,” he muttered, rolling his head from side to side.
“Mr. Grayson, please. Work with me. I’m not going to lose you to the fever.” The tone she used as the doctor disappeared. Helping him right now overrode everything.
She left his side, ran to the windows, and opened them to let in the cool air. When she returned, the blanket had slipped down his body, exposing his navel and the top of one hip. Trying to ignore the amount of skin displayed, she dipped the sponge back in the water and soaked his face, hurrying to wet his neck and chest. She repeated the process several times.
Fever still sizzled over his body.
A muscular arm whipped out and slammed into her shoulder, knocking her off balance. She grabbed the bed to keep from falling.
“Lord, please help me,” she prayed aloud, holding him down with her hands but to no avail. He pushed her away, but she forged forward and leaned her whole body into him. Coating his feverish skin with water became harder, but she tried her best.
Time seemed to stand still as she repeated the process of soaking him with water while holding his body down with hers. Soon everything around them became wet—the sheets, her clothes, even the floor. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t.
After emptying the bucket for the third time, her body collapsed, and she fell on him. She realized his breathing maintained an even rhythm, his skin had cooled slightly, and he didn’t fling his arms about.
A lump formed in her throat, and tears stung her eyes. The pounding of her heart and the knots throbbing at her shoulders seem to lessen. He was out of danger...for now. Thank you Lord.
Finding more strength, she pushed off him and straightened. She continued the process of heating the alum and removing his bandage. A thin layer of yellow crust covered his wound. She dabbed the vinegar sponge on the cut to remove the infection, then placed new gauze over the area and wrapped the bandage around his middle.
With a deep sigh, she stepped away from the bed. Through the dim lantern, the contours around his face seemed more relaxed than before. Thick lashes made shadows underneath his eyes, and his dark stubble only enhanced his ruggedness. He was definitely one mighty fine looking man. One that she could stare at forever.
She shook her head. In all of her years as a doctor, she’d never thought—or imagined—such thoughts. Heavens, what was wrong with her?
She touched his forehead again. Warmth still covered his skin, but not dangerously so. Before she tried to change the sheets, she’d wait for his body to cool more. Until then, she needed to rest, or she wouldn’t have the strength to help him.
First she needed to find her fake facial hair, just in case.
When she walked to the uncomfortable cushion she’d napped on earlier, she crouched, visually searching, and swept her hands across the chair. Her heavy eyelids threatened to close, but she focused on the task at hand to stay awake.
Behind her, Mr. Grayson mumbled. She stopped and glanced at him over her shoulder.
“No. Please don’t...” His forehead pinched, his mouth drooping. “Please don’t take away Granddaddy’s home.” His voice turned small like a child’s.
Curiosity piqued, she raised her head.
“Don’t worry, Granddad. I’ll get the money. I’ll get our home back.”
Her heart clenched.
How sad.
“No!” He jerked his head to the side, the lines in his face creasing deeper.
She jumped to her feet and hurried to him, laying her hand on his shoulder. His head snapped her way, and his eyes opened.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, and her knees grew weak. Can he see me?
No. He must be in a fever-induced dream.
“Mr. Grayson, lie back,” she whispered.
He bolted upright, and her breath caught in her throat. His face came much closer than she’d wanted, especially since she wasn’t in her doctor’s clothes. She swallowed the lump threatening to choke her.
“Mr. Grayson,” she said in a deeper whisper. “Please lie down.”
His gaze moved over her hair, over her face, and down her neck. Except for her heart, which nearly leapt from her chest, she remained still.
Soon, his lids drooped, and he nodded. When he closed his eyes, his head fell forward into her chest. Heat speared through her as his warm breath on her neck made her shiver. She could not have his face there, for Heaven’s sake! Especially if she was supposed to think straight. Carefully, she laid him back and turned him on his stomach. The muscles in his face relaxed, and his breathing grew deeper, slower.
What a fool she’d been! Why had she undressed in the first place? If she had remained in her doctor’s clothes, she wouldn’t have had been vulnerable to the kind of feelings women experienced. She wouldn’t have thought about his breath on her skin, or how his lips might feel brushing against hers.
She clenched her teeth. Live and learn...and she had. Never again would she put herself in this situation. From now on, she’d always wear her fake mustache and beard, and the padding that hid her womanly figure.
PETER SWALLOWED, BUT it felt like he had gargled cotton. His head beat like an Indian drum, and the stabbing pain in his back matched it. Every muscle in his body cried out. It took much of his strength to peel his eyes open. He hadn’t felt this awful even when he broke his leg a couple years ago.
A bright light shone through the window and touched his face. He squinted, and even that hurt. The events of last night came pouring through his memory. The poker game. He’d won all that money, bringing his total to a grand ten thousand dollars.
Yet what was he doing here? The room didn’t seem familiar. It definitely wasn’t the one he rented at Deborah’s Delights. And why did his body ache like he’d just had the tar beaten out of him?
My money!
He sat up with a jerk. Pain sliced through his back, making him cry out. He dropped the upper half of his body to the mattress and squeezed his eyes closed. He desperately needed to remember what happened.
Struggling to open his eyes again, he lifted his head. Moisture gathered on his upper lip from the excruciating strength it took to move. His breathing quickened, but soon he focused on his surroundings. Bottles of medicines, alcohol, and whiskey lined the top shelf near the opened window. Below that, tools, scalpels, sponges, and gauze filled the shelves.
A doctor’s office.
A small sigh broke the silence in the room, and he turned his head in the direction from which it came. A sharp pain shot through his body, and he grimaced. He closed his eyes and breathed slower, willing the sting to disappear. When it eased, he opened his eyes again.
In another corner of the room, slumped in a brown cushioned chair, a man sat with his head tilted back, his mouth opened as a hint of saliva gathered on the corner of his lip. The man’s heavy breathing made the ends of his mustache move. Thick brown hair stood up in certain places, and smudges of blood traced areas of his face. A delicate looking face, though. Definitely the youngest doctor Peter had seen in quite a while. The doctor must be taking care of him.
Peter sighed and closed his eyes, other memories breaking through. A warm hand, a woman’s voice, and a soft body. He opened his eyes and took another glance around the room, wanting to see the woman who’d pushed herself against his as she held him on the bed.
He shook his head. It must have been a dream. The doctor looked to be the only person who lived here—or could the woman have been the doctor’s wife?
Peter swallowed again, his throat burning. He needed a drink.
“Excuse me.” His voice cracked, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Doc? Could I get a drink?”
The young man in the chair snapped to attention, his eyes still dazed with sleep. He looked toward Peter and blinked.
“Sorry to wake you, Doc, but I’m thirsty.”
“Certainly.” The young man’s voice pitched higher than what Peter had figured it’d be, and the man cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I fell asleep.”
The doctor jumped to his feet, swayed, then seemed to gain his bearings. Running his hand through his hair, he stepped to Peter. The doc withdrew a pair of spectacles from his breast pocket, then slid them on his nose and hooked them around his ears. “How do you feel this morning?” His voice came out much lower now.
Peter narrowed his eyes. Something wasn’t right, but he still ached too much to figure it out. “My head’s throbbing, and there’s a stabbing pain in my back. My whole body hurts.”
The doctor walked to the bottle of whiskey and poured a small amount of the amber liquid into a glass. “Here, drink this. It’ll help with the pain.”
Peter took the drink and gulped. It left a burning path down his throat, and he grimaced, but the familiar burning calmed him. “Thanks. Can I have another?” After the doc filled his glass again, Peter tossed it down his throat and nodded. “Tell me, Doc, do you know what happened to my money?”
The man’s eyes widened. “Your money?”
“I won a mother lode in a card game last night, but I don’t see my saddlebag.”
The doctor shook his head. “Don’t you remember what happened?”
Peter’s head pounded harder, his heartbeat matching the rhythm. “No.”
“I found you in an alley last night. You had been stabbed in the back.”
A fierce pain cut through him, alerting him to the exact location of his injury. He clenched his teeth, fighting the sting. “Where’s...where’s my money? Where’s my saddlebag?”
The doctor refilled his glass for the third time. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” His voice rose, making his head throb harder.
“When I found you, I didn’t see any saddlebag.”
Peter rubbed his forehead, squeezing his eyes closed. Stabbed in the back, left for dead, and perhaps even robbed? This couldn’t be happening. “Does the sheriff know?”
“Yes.”
Peter squinted and met the doctor’s blue eyed stare. “Does he know who stole my money?”
“He didn’t last night when I talked to him.”
Peter cursed, then took the drink and swallowed. The burn in his throat lessened this time.
The younger man stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Who do you think could have robbed you?”
“It might have been the kid playing poker with me. He bet all his money, and when I won the game, he called me a cheat. He also threatened to kill me.”
The doctor gasped, his face losing color.
Peter continued. “The sheriff stepped in and told the kid to back off.” He shrugged. “I think it was him. He had the only reason to hurt me that I know about.”
The doctor’s lips thinned, his jaw tightening. “Well, I’m certain the sheriff will want to talk with you. Would you like me to go fetch him?”
The ache in Peter’s head increased the longer he tried to read the man’s expression. Obviously, the information upset the doctor. Peter rubbed the back of his head. When his fingers brushed across a lump, he winced and gritted his teeth.
“What’s wrong?” The doctor’s voice lifted.
Squeezing his eyes closed, he fought back the slicing pain. “My head. There’s a lump.”
“Let me look at it again.”
The doctor laid his hand on Peter to remove them from that spot. Doc’s tender touch was accompanied by stirring warmth that nearly stroked his skin. Peter jerked away, snapped his head around toward the other man, and scowled.
Impossible. Why had he felt that?
The doctor shook his head and turned Peter’s chin the other way. “Let me see. I can’t tell what happened if you don’t let me touch you.”
As much as it strained his body to remain stiff, Peter stayed still while the doctor inspected his head. With closed eyes, he concentrated on the physician’s touch...the man’s gentle touch, and it disturbed him greatly.
Heat oozed through Peter’s skull from the other man’s fingers. The whiskey must be working.
When the doctor came in contact with Peter’s injury, the strange warmth disappeared, and pain replaced the throb. He clenched his fists, and even that hurt. Sweat broke out across his forehead, and he breathed slower, trying to control the pounding in his skull.
“Do you know how you got this?” the doctor asked.
Peter blinked his eyes open. “No. All I remember is going up to my room to count my winnings. I secured it in my saddlebag before heading downstairs to get a bite to eat.” He shrugged. “Next thing I knew, I’m waking up here.” Excitement rushed through him, and he looked at the doctor. “Perhaps my money is still in the saddlebag inside my room.”
“We can only pray it is there.” The doctor stepped around the bed and stood in front of Peter. “Well, your head wound doesn’t appear to need stitches, but I’ll keep an eye on it.”
A wave of dizziness swelled through his body, and he lay back down. His stomach churned, and his head spun. He closed his eyes to keep the room from doing the same.
“Mr. Grayson? Are you feeling lightheaded?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s expected with the injuries you’ve sustained.”
Peter adjusted his body to lie on his stomach, trying to keep from touching the back of his head and his stab wound. “Thanks for taking care of me, Doc.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Peter opened his eyes and peeked through slits. “Do you have a name besides Doc?”
“Lee Copeland.”
“Nice to meet you, Doc Copeland.” He closed his eyes again, the room continuing to spin.
“Mr. Grayson, would you like another sip of whiskey?”
He nodded. Without looking, he lifted his head enough to let the younger looking man place the glass to his lips. Peter opened his mouth and sipped. The fiery drink slid down his throat, dulling his senses. Right now, he needed that. Maybe it would take away the memory of his missing money, too.
“Doc?”
“Yes, Mr. Grayson?”
“I really would like you to fetch the sheriff, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a nap first.”
Copeland chuckled. “Go right ahead. I’m going to get cleaned up, but I’ll still be here if you need me.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
He opened his eyes again as Doc Copeland left the room. Shadows formed around the window. Must have slept the day away. That’s all right.
His lids drooped. The shading of the late afternoon lulled him. His body needed rest. Then he could gain his strength back and find the person responsible for stealing his money. The thief would pay. Peter would make certain of it.
CECILIA STARED AT THE handsome man on the bed. Mr. Grayson had slept for an hour now. Deep breathing took over, relaxing his face and body. It was safer watching him this way. She couldn’t slip up and give away her dove-eyed stare. To be sure, he was a handsome man—and that wasn’t something she saw a lot around these parts.
She closed her eyes and visions of him filled her head. So tanned, so muscular, so bare... She snapped her eyes open. No!
Remembering that was not a good thing. Her cheeks burned, and she quickly turned away from his sleeping form.
It was hard to stop her heart from going out to him. When she first heard his voice, it had sent shimmers up her spine and created butterflies in her stomach.
Night shadows crept into the room, so she lit a lantern but dimmed it. Certainly he had taken enough whiskey to keep him asleep for the rest of the night, which was good because she didn’t know when she’d get the time to freshen up if she didn’t do it now. Her body longed for a nice warm bath, and her hair needed to be washed. She hadn’t been clean since before she traveled to help Mrs. Upton two days ago.
Cecilia leaned over the
bed and brushed the back of her hand across Mr. Grayson’s forehead. His warm skin still held the reminder of a slight fever, but within time that would pass.
Her bath would have to be quick. She kept a hip tub in the small coatroom in the back of the office. It took a half hour to heat the water, but as soon as she filled the tub, she propped a chair under the door handle. She stripped off her clothes and submerged in the hot, soothing water.
Closing her eyes, she smiled. Of course, she couldn’t compare this to the tub she had at home, but it was enough to get her clean. She poured water over her head and then took the bar of soap and scrubbed it through her hair. It wasn’t the rose-scented soap she used when she dressed like the mistress of Belle Grove, but it would do for now. Besides, she didn’t want Mr. Grayson wondering why the doctor smelled like flowers.
And he would. He’d been studying her when she stood close to him. Especially when she’d touched him. She hoped he wouldn’t suspect the doctor was really a woman.
After she rinsed her hair, she leaned back and brought her knees to her chest. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She’d put off thinking about Hank until now, but she couldn’t ignore the inevitable. Her heart clenched. She’d have to confront him with what she saw last night. Did he really stab Mr. Grayson? And did he take his money?
Why would he?
She frowned. All these questions would be answered when she talked to her brother. It would have to be soon, but she didn’t want to leave her patient this early. Many things could still go wrong. Hank should count his lucky stars she couldn’t come home yet. She would wring his scrawny neck in her mood right now.
She climbed out of the bath and toweled her body dry. Through the silence, the breaking of a bottle yanked her out of her thoughts. She froze. Her heart pounded, but she held her breath. Mr. Grayson couldn’t be awake yet.
Breathing slower, she tried to regulate her heartbeat as she listened for any other sound. His moans echoed through the air, and her heart jumped to her throat. Something was wrong. Hopefully, his fever hadn’t returned.
Glancing around the room, she spotted her nightshirt. She grabbed it off the hook on the wall and yanked it over her head.
Touching Heaven Page 3