Touching Heaven

by Marie Higgins

  Peter chuckled as he turned onto his side. That alone would make getting to know the doc a little better worth his while.

  CECILIA PULLED HER horse to a stop in front of the plantation. The unkempt yard grabbed her attention. Weeds grew in the flower garden out front, and the grass needed cutting. The servants had been lazy. She glanced up at the two overpowering sets of four Corinthian columns that rose upward to the second-floor balcony of the house. In certain areas, the paint had chipped away. This wasn’t right.

  It’d been a month since she’d been home, and yet, looking at her surroundings, it appeared as if a year had passed. Her busy career as a doctor had taken her away from the plantation, and now she wished she’d been more attentive to her home. Then again, she didn’t have a choice since she wanted to make a good doctor.

  Cecilia hurried up the cement stairs and across the porch. She walked into the house and slammed the door. “Hank!”

  With a tight set of her jaw, she folded her arms and listened. Nothing.

  Where’s that blasted kid who was too foolish to know any better?

  “Hank? You’d better answer me if you know what’s good for you.”

  Shuffling came from the second floor, then a door closed. Cecilia hurried up the stairs as fast as her legs would carry her in men’s boots. She ran straight to her brother’s room and flung open the door.

  “Hank?”

  “What?”

  She snapped her head toward the closet where his voice squeaked. She marched to the double-doors with her hands balled at her side. “Why are you hiding from me?”

  She yanked open the barriers standing between them. Hank crouched in the corner, his knees pulled up against his chest, his head resting on his folded arms. Unkempt and dirty, his blond hair hung around his face.

  How pathetic.

  “Hank.” She kicked his boot with hers. His head popped up, his gaze meeting hers. His eyes glassy from the effects of liquor—just as she thought they’d be.

  She scowled. “Tell me the truth for once, will you?” She took a deep breath. “Did you stab Mr. Grayson?”

  Hank’s brown eyes clouded with tears. “No.”

  “Did you steal his money?”

  He looked at his feet. “Yes.” His voice came out softer.

  She squeezed her eyes closed, fighting the urge to give him a good whipping. Taking another breath for control, she looked at him. “If you took his money, then you must have stabbed him, too.” She narrowed her eyes. “Hank, you cannot lie. I saw you running out of the alley that night.”

  Her brother jumped to his feet. Thin shoulders squared as he lifted his chin. “I ran out of the alley because I didn’t want people to think I stabbed him.”

  “Then why did you take his money? Didn’t you think the sheriff would suspect you of stabbing him, too?”

  He pushed past her and paced the bedroom floor. He swiped his hands through his messy hair, then ran them down his wrinkled brown pants. “I needed the money. He wasn’t supposed to win.”

  She glared at him. “So you waited until dark, hid in the alley, and pounced on him when he walked by.”

  “No.” He stopped and turned toward her. His face beamed red, making his freckles stand out, and his eyes could have shot fire. “I didn’t jump him. When I walked into the alley, he was already lying on the ground. He looked as if he was almost dead, anyway. I saw the chance to get my money back, so I took it. Although...I didn’t get as much as I’d wanted.”

  She thinned her lips and bit out, “But it wasn’t your money. He’d won it fair and square.”

  Hank growled and rubbed his temple. “You don’t understand. I needed that money.”

  “Then make me understand.” She folded her arms. “Tell me why I shouldn’t drag you by the ear to the sheriff’s office right now.”

  His jaw tightened, and he looked away. “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “I don’t want to tell you.”

  Cecilia breathed in deep, trying to calm her growing temper, but it wasn’t working. Her head throbbed, and she wanted to throttle her brother no matter how painful her headache. Yet her heart ached, too. She couldn’t take him to jail. Nineteen was too young to live a life of crime. Besides that, he was her only family.

  “Why don’t you want to tell me?” She paused and added in a calmer voice, “Please tell me.”

  He glanced at her then switched his focus to the floor. He clenched his fists. “Because...because if I didn’t get the money to the bank...they would have called in the note.”

  She sucked in her breath. “Excuse me? Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  He nodded. “Our taxes are due. We don’t have the money. I had to do something, or we would have lost Belle Grove.”

  Heat rose from her chest up her neck to her face. She gritted her teeth. “What happened to all the money I gave you to pay the taxes? What happened to all the money Pa left us?”

  He lifted his gaze briefly to hers then back to the floor. “Gone. It’s all gone.”

  “Where did it go?”

  “Lost it at the gaming tables.”

  Shaky legs collapsed beneath her, and she sank to the floor beside the bed, her heart sinking even lower.

  “All of our money is gone?” Cecilia’s voice quivered as tears filled her eyes. She sat, stunned. Her body didn’t want to move, her mind refused to think. Yet she had to think. She had to get them out of the mess her brother created.

  Hank shrugged. “We do have a little—very little.”

  “What about the plantation? Are you still supervising the sugarcane fields? We should be able to pull money from selling our sugar.”

  He shrugged. “I left that to Homer, our overseer, but he walked out a little while ago when I told him I couldn’t pay him.”

  “What about the servants?”

  “A few are still here.”

  She closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest. Her hands covered her face. They would lose everything.

  Hank moved toward her, and the floor squeaked. His hand touched her shoulder. “Now do you see why I needed that money? I couldn’t let Mr. Grayson take it.”

  She lifted her head and met his sad eyes. “So did you give the money to the bank?”

  He nodded. “Yes, but—”

  “But what?”

  “But it wasn’t quite enough. It got us by another month, but they want more.”

  “How much more?”

  “Another thousand.”

  “What? Why so much?”

  “I’ve been putting them off for a couple of years now. They can’t wait any longer.”

  She groaned and lowered her head into her hands. Tears ran down her cheeks, her heart breaking with every heartbeat. This couldn’t be happening. When her parents died, they’d left their children with enough money to live. With judicious use, the money should have lasted ten years.

  Her brother had always been trustworthy and responsible before their parents died. The gambling habit quickly destroyed him, and she berated herself for being so involved in her doctoring that she couldn’t see his habit worsening right before her eyes.

  Hank squeezed her shoulder, and she slapped his hand away. She glared at him. “This is all your fault.”

  “I know,” he whined.

  “If you hadn’t started gambling—”

  “Yes, I know.” His voice lifted. “But it’s too late.”

  “Hank, if you ever go into another saloon, I swear on Ma and Pa’s graves—”

  He held up his right hand. “I won’t. I promise.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Why don’t I believe you? If I recall, we’ve had a similar conversation about six months ago and about six months before that. Blast it, Hank, when are you going to grow up and take some responsibility?”

  He furrowed his forehead, his lips thinning. “And when are you going to help me around here? When are you going to come out of hiding and become the mistress of Belle Grove again?
” He reached over and ran his fingertip across her mustache. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here having this talk with my sister, and she looks like a man.”

  She scowled. “If it weren’t for my disguise, I wouldn’t be able to perform as a doctor, and you know it.” She folded her arms across her chest. “And if you recall, money from my doctoring has helped save your hide from time to time.”

  He lowered his gaze. “You’re right.” He sighed heavily and looked back at her. “What are we going to do, Sis? What if the sheriff comes looking for me? What if I’m put in jail? There’s no way you can run the plantation by yourself.”

  “I can’t run it while I’m still Doctor Copeland, either.”

  “And I can’t run it if I’m in jail.” He scratched his chin. “I’ll have to find who really stabbed Mr. Grayson. Then I won’t be put in jail.”

  Her headache grew by the minute, and she rubbed her forehead. “You’ll be arrested. You stole from him, Hank. Stealing is a crime, too.”

  “What if I get his money back?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “And how do you think you’re going to do that? For Heaven’s sake, we don’t even have enough to pay our taxes.”

  “I can leave town and hit the bigger gaming places. I can travel to Galveston. They always have the best games—”

  “Hank, didn’t you just promise you’d never gamble again?”

  He frowned. “Then what do you suggest?”

  Blowing out a heavy breath, she leaned against the bed. She rolled her head across the quilt. The soft fabric rubbed like a cloud stroking her cheek. The truth was she didn’t have any ideas. She and her brother were sinking, and she couldn’t find a paddle to row them back to shore.

  “Give me a few days to think about it.”

  Hank nodded. “In the meantime, what should I do?”

  “Stay in hiding.”

  “What about the plantation?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose it’s time for Doctor Copeland to take an extended vacation, and time for the ailing mistress of Belle Grove to have a sudden recovery.”

  Chapter Four

  Peter groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face. Heat still consumed his body, and it was like touching fire. He ached. Even thinking hurt.

  This couldn’t be happening. He had to recover. Had to search for the person who did this to him.

  He opened his eyes, then squinted against the glow from the sun dipping into the horizon. The effort it cost him hurt unlike anything he could describe. Once he closed his lids, the pounding in his head decreased.

  Trying not to move overly much, he adjusted himself on the bed, but every muscle in his body screamed. Where was the Doc? Where was the magic drink he poured down his throat?

  Peter concentrated on breathing. In. Out. In. He’d burn to death if the Doc didn’t return soon and see to his fever. A wave of dizziness assaulted him. Pain shot up his arms, and he clenched the sheet in his sweaty fists. His thoughts entered a fog, and remarkably enough, the soreness eased.

  He was younger. His granddaddy was alive. Memories of happier times when Peter spent the summers on his plantation passed through his mind. He had run through the cane fields, hiding from Granddad. On a few occasions, his cousin Abigail visited with her family. Peter enjoyed teasing her, too. That girl was more fun to irritate than her older sisters, Melanie and Sarah.

  The fields faded, and he lay under the stars watching weekend gatherings that his grandparents had held. Everyone around these parts had attended, and he and his cousins were supposed to be on their best behavior. Of course that didn’t happen. If Peter wasn’t pulling the girls’ pigtails, he was hiding under the night sky just to watch Melanie and Sarah sneak around to private corners with their beaus.

  Another pain shot through his back. He groaned and rolled to his stomach. Within minutes, his foggy memory picked up again.

  The war had started. Times were harder then, and Peter couldn’t visit as often. When he did visit, food was harder to get than before. Even though Texas wasn’t damaged as some other states had been, they were still affected.

  Grandma cried more, and Granddad hardly ever smiled. Peter helped work the sugarcane fields along with his grandparents’ slaves. Soon, the slaves were turned into servants, but only a few stayed.

  When Granddad announced they were losing the plantation, Peter’s world came crashing down around him. Nothing was the same after that. Granddad got sick a lot. Grandma died from pneumonia. Peter and his cousins weren’t allowed to visit any longer, but he was kept informed through letters sent to Peter’s pa.

  Peter groaned and tossed his head on the pillow. He crunched his forehead into a scowl. How he missed his grandparents. He’d do anything to get Belle Grove back into the family.

  Soft hands placed against his hot face, and he snuggled toward the coolness. Tender words encouraged him to open his mouth. Cool liquid slid inside and down his throat. He opened his mouth for more. Gentle fingertips touched his lips.

  My night angel?

  He struggled to open his eyes, but his lids weighed down and kept him from his task. It had to be her—the same woman who’d been with him the other night. He recognized her touch.

  Pain pierced his back, and he groaned. A woman’s chest pressed against him as she rolled him over. He wanted to feel her against him all the time...needed it to take away his agony.

  Soothing words whispered in his ear. He would be all right. He would get well. She promised.

  Cold water touched his face, and he relaxed. After a few minutes, she instructed him to open his mouth again. The same liquid from before drenched his tongue and washed down his throat. Little by little, the heat from his body disappeared.

  Rest. He needed rest. He also wanted his night angel to cuddle against him.

  She feels so good. Nice. Perfect.

  She hummed. He didn’t know what tune. It didn’t matter because her soft tone lulled him, made him forget about his fever, about his pain. He concentrated on her angelic voice, hoping to brand it into his memory.

  A SWEET MUSICAL SOUND brought him awake, and he blinked. Two birds perched on the branch of a tree outside the nearby window. A gentle breeze ruffled the leaves on the limb, but the birds continued their morning song. He frowned. It appeared his night angel hadn’t been humming to him after all.

  Lifting onto his elbows, he waited for the searing pain to run across his body, but only a twinge pulled at him. He stretched his neck. Nothing ached like it had last night, thank goodness.

  His gaze searched the empty room. Where was Doc Copeland? No clanking noises came from the other room. Could he be the only one here? And where was the woman who’d helped him last night? Although most of the night seemed like a dream, her touch and the soothing lift of her voice were real.

  “Doc?” His voice croaked, so he cleared his throat. “Doc? You there?”

  He rolled to the side of the bed and straightened. His weak body swayed, and he cursed his limitations. He didn’t want to spend another day in here. Right now, finding the person who’d robbed him became more important.

  On the table near his bed sat a teacup. He lifted it to his mouth and sniffed. Smelled like that liquid his night angel poured down his throat. Whatever the concoction, it’d certainly helped.

  His stomach grumbled in protest. Food. Where could he get some?

  On shaky legs, he stepped away from the bed to the corner of the room where his clothes were stacked. He creased his forehead. Folded? Whoever did this was certainly an odd stick...but Doc Copeland gave the impression of being a tidy man, so why wouldn’t he fold clothes?

  As Peter slipped on his long johns and pants, a small measure of pain shot through him, but his shirt proved more agonizing. Muscles in his arms and back cramped. He clenched his teeth and continued despite the soreness. Once dressed, he fell into the only cushioned chair in the room. Moisture gathered on his forehead.

  How soon before he fully recovered? He couldn’t waste another day
. Finding his money was essential, especially now.

  Collecting what little strength he possessed, he lifted himself out of the chair and walked into the kitchen. In the icebox he found cheese, and on the counter, a loaf of bread. He bit into the food like a starved man, his hands shaking as he gobbled it down.

  After swallowing the last bite, his stomach still growled for more, but at least the little nutrition had settled his shakes.

  Another room lay off to the side of the kitchen. He hobbled to the door and pressed his ear against the wood but didn’t hear anything. He knocked, and when nobody answered, he twisted the knob and walked in.

  The room looked to be only big enough for a small hip tub and a chair, but it was the items hanging on the wall hooks that drew his interest. Doc’s clothes—his overcoat, his pants, even a padded looking garment. He stopped his wandering gaze when it rested on something totally different.

  A nightshirt.

  It wasn’t the actual article that bothered him but the size. It appeared it would cover a slim body, not the doc’s bulky mid-section. He picked up the sides, holding it out.

  Yessiree.

  This belonged to a much thinner person, perhaps even a woman.

  Peter creased his forehead. What’s going on? Unless...

  He grinned. That scallywag. Doc Copeland did have himself a little honey keeping him warm at night.

  My night angel.

  It had to be. He scratched his head. Then why would she have kissed him and let him paw at her the way he did if she belonged to Doc?

  Letting out a deep sigh, he dropped the garment back into place. Better leave well enough alone. She was taken and not for his pleasure.

  He turned and made his way into the other room to the bed. His weak body cried out for rest, and this time he gave in, yawning and closing his eyes. Lately, he liked it better with his eyes shut. Gave him room to dream about her. Although she might never be his, in his dreams she would be.