Charlotte Atherton perched on the stool next to him, her back straight, her skirt smooth. Such rigid schoolmarm posture should make him think of lemon-faced disapproval, corner banishment, and rulers rapping knuckles. Heaven knew he’d experienced more than his share of such puritanical disdain. Yet Miss Lottie, as the kids called her, looked anything but rigid. Her posture struck him as composed. Serene. Warm.
“Stephen should be here any minute,” she said as she reached for the cuff on her left wrist. Her slender fingers pushed the button through its hole then rolled the fabric of the sleeve in methodic turns, each fold precise and uniform until it reached a spot just below her elbow. She repeated the procedure on the right side.
Stone watched, mesmerized, until the shuffle of footsteps passing through the bunkhouse door brought him out of his stupor.
Good gravy. Had his mind completely gone to mush?
“Oh, Stephen. Excellent. Bring those things over here.” Miss Prim-and-Proper waved the boy closer and relieved him of the basin he carried, placing it on her lap. A damp circle darkened the blue of the kid’s shirt where the rim of the bowl had pressed against his chest, but she praised him for his steady hands anyway and for not spilling much during his trek from the house. She lifted the washrag from where it lay draped over the boy’s shoulder then pointed a finger at the floor near her feet. “Set my box down there and slide off the lid, please. I’ll need the bandages that are inside.”
Stephen pulled the box from under his arm, arranged it as instructed, then stood like a soldier awaiting orders. “What else can I do?”
Stone caught him stealing a glance at the gashes on his chest and hated the guilt that flickered across the kid’s face. Stone cleared his throat. “Can you fetch me a few sheets of paper, pen, and ink? I’ve got a letter that needs to be written.” Which was true enough. But his real motive was to get Stephen out of the room when the teacher started cleaning. No need for the kid to see more than necessary.
The boy nodded. “Yes, sir.” He turned to leave, but Miss Atherton stopped him. She touched his arm, drawing him close so she could whisper something in his ear. Stephen’s eyebrows arched as he listened, but when the teacher finished, he stepped back and said, “All right.” Then he dashed out the door.
Charlotte Atherton dipped the cloth into the basin and squeezed out the excess liquid. The trickling water echoed loudly in the quiet room. She lifted the wet cloth to a spot above the largest of the wounds and tightened her fist until a small stream of water dribbled into the hole. He hissed a breath at the cold sting. His abdomen sucked in automatically, but he caught himself and willed his muscles still.
“I told Stephen you wouldn’t need those writing supplies for a while.” Her eyes made no effort to meet his, whether from shyness or attentiveness to her task he wasn’t sure. “He’s going to take John to the parlor and let him play on the piano so Lily can start warming up the leftover stew for supper.” She rinsed out her cloth and flushed out the second tear in his flesh near the bottom of his ribcage. “That will keep him occupied for a while. John will play the piano for hours if I let him.”
Kid seemed kinda young to have that kind of attention span, but some kids liked banging on things and makin’ noise. Odd, since the boy himself was so quiet. To each his own, though. If it kept Stephen away from the gory reminder of what had happened, Stone was all for a little piano banging.
“Good idea.” He fought a wince as she scrubbed the cloth over the smaller cuts on his shoulder. “This mess is too ugly for the kid to have to look at.”
She didn’t say anything, yet the way she tilted her head when he finished speaking felt like agreement. She continued working, and he continued watching her.
The woman never seemed to hurry. Her movements just sort of flowed. No rough jostling. No nervous shaking. Just gentle, smooth motions. By the time she’d finished cleaning his wounds, his breathing had slowed, and the muscles in his neck and back had relaxed in response to her calm manner. If his chest hadn’t been on fire, he would’ve curled up on the bunk and taken a nap.
“I’m afraid this next part is going to be rather unpleasant.” Her hands released the cloth to slip silently into the basin on her lap. She set the bowl onto the floor then reached for the medicine box. Her graceful fingers closed around the neck of a tall corked bottle. The lovely lethargy he’d been feeling vanished.
Whiskey.
He shifted on the cot, steeling himself for what he knew was to come. She looked at him, an apology in her eyes. He flashed his best cocky grin. “And here I had you pegged as the teetotalin’ type.” He dipped his head toward the bottle. “I ain’t a drinkin’ man myself, but if you need a sip for fortification, I won’t judge.”
“How open-minded of you, sir.” Her tone sounded prissy, but her eyes sparkled with humor. His grin spread wider.
She pulled out the cork, the small pop echoing between them. Her nose crinkled at the pungent fumes. “As tempted as I am, I’m afraid this particular spirit has been set aside for medicinal purposes.”
Stone shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Miss Atherton retrieved the water-soaked rag, squeezed it out, then met his gaze, all humor gone from her eyes. “Are you ready?”
Stone braced his arms on the bunk behind him to make the torn flesh more accessible. Then he tightened his jaw and gave a quick nod.
She held the cloth below the first gash and dribbled the liquid fire from the mouth of the bottle into his wound. Stone’s fingers clenched around the edge of the bare mattress. Every muscle in his body pulled taut. But he didn’t make a sound. Not even when she repeated the procedure on the second gash. Pride intact, he barely even flinched when she dabbed some of the liquor on his other scrapes. Breathing in through his nose, he forced his body to relax as she finished.
“All done.” Something in her voice brought his focus to her face. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I’m sorry I had to hurt you.” And she was. Genuinely.
His gut twisted in response. He hoped to heaven he didn’t have to return the favor and hurt her as well. Stone frowned and turned his face away. What did he have to feel guilty about? She was the one who had stolen the kids, not him. If he ended up taking Lily away from her, it would all be above board with the full blessing of the law.
So why was he starting to hope that her claim superseded Dorchester’s?
The teacher capped the near-empty whiskey bottle and returned it to the box at her feet. “I don’t want to put any of Mr. Dobson’s greasy salve on your wounds until the doctor has a chance to examine them. However, it will be at least an hour before my caretaker returns from town, and I don’t want any dust or dirt to undo the cleaning we just did. So I thought we’d go ahead and bandage you up. It will help stem the bleeding as well.”
Stone eyed the worst of the gashes. Most of the alcohol had already evaporated from his skin, but a new wetness oozed from the openings. It had a pinkish hue as new blood mixed with whatever other fluid was leaking from his body. “Seems like a sound notion.”
She shifted on her stool. “If you’ll just . . . ah . . . hold these two dressings in place, I’ll . . . ah . . . wrap the bandage . . .”
Stone shot a gaze at his nurse. Was the always-serene Miss Atherton actually flustered about something? Her cheeks were definitely turning pink. And her eyes were making a valiant effort to look everywhere except at his chest. Which, of course, meant that was exactly where she wanted to look. Was it the anticipation of touching him instead of just his wounds that had her suddenly ill at ease?
He straightened a little, ignoring the painful pull of the skin around his injuries, and reached for the cotton pads she offered. Biting back a grin, Stone glanced down to fit the dressings over the center of each of the large gashes. By the time he raised his head, he had his expression fully stoic and under control. “Ready when you are, teach.”
She startled a bit at his voice then rose off her stool to stand over him. “Of course.” She pressed the end o
f the bandage against his side, her fingers cool against his overheated skin. Slowly, she unrolled the cotton strip and passed it over the dressings. The back of her hand brushed against his, the touch sending odd little prickles down into his belly. Then she leaned close in order to reach the bandage behind him. Suddenly he was the one trying to look everywhere but at her. He stared at the ceiling as she continued binding his wounds. His breaths grew shallower with each pass she made. Even when he didn’t look at her, he could smell her. Clean. Like fresh-washed linen. Probably because of the laundry she’d been doing earlier in the day. But there was something else there, too. Something sweet he couldn’t quite name.
“There. All done.” She stepped away, and Stone finally managed a full-sized breath.
He had just mumbled his thanks when Stephen showed up in the bunkhouse doorway.
“I brought the stuff you asked for, Mr. Hammond. Miss Lottie told me to bring her travel desk. Said it would have everything you needed inside.” He held up an oak stationery box that had a series of flowering vines carved into the sides.
Stone waved him in. “Thanks, kid. Set it over here next to me.” He cast a sideways glance at the teacher, who was busily packing up her supplies. Should he thank her, too? He opened his mouth to do so, but she gathered up her medicine box, propped the basin on top, and retreated toward the door.
“I’ll go check on Lily and the stew. Stephen, keep Mr. Hammond company, would you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The boy set the writing desk on the bunk then plopped himself on the stool she had just vacated.
“But don’t talk his ear off if he wants to work on his letter, all right?” A fond smile curved her lips as she instructed the boy. Stephen returned the smile and nodded his promise, eager to please. And why shouldn’t he be? If Charlotte Atherton smiled at Stone like that, he’d be hard pressed not to agree to whatever she asked of him, too. Yet when her gaze brushed his as she left, the affection so evident only a moment ago disappeared behind wary concern. She might be tenderhearted and kind, but she still recognized the danger he posed.
Something hard tapped against Stone’s knee, bringing his attention back to the boy in front of him. “Here. This is yours.”
Stone looked down. Stephen held his boot knife, hilt out, waiting for him to take it. Stone’s palm itched to claim his property, but something held him back. It seemed disloyal somehow, a betrayal to the woman who had just tended his wounds.
“Thanks, but I think your teacher intended to lock that one up with the rest of my things. You should probably go give it back to her.”
The boy shook his head. “Miss Lottie was the one who told me to fetch it. Said if you’d had it when you went after that cat, you might not have been hurt so bad.” He lifted his arm and offered the blade again. “You probably shouldn’t let Mr. Dobson know you got it, though. He might not like it.”
Stone took the knife from the boy’s hand and slipped it into the small sheath-like pocket at the back of his right boot.
She’d given him a weapon. And maybe a touch of trust as well. It was a start.
9
Stone found himself trapped in the bunkhouse. The doc had stitched him up yesterday and then warned him not to attempt any strenuous chores for the next several days. Not even saddling his own horse. Which made him insufferably dependent on Dobson. Thankfully, the grizzled fellow hadn’t hung around to prod his pride. This morning, he’d dropped off a load of harnesses that needed oiling and left Stone to complete the task on his own. The harness straps filled a few hours, but he’d finished them by noon.
Miss Atherton brought him a heaping plate of skillet-fried potatoes with bacon and sweet onions for lunch. Tasty grub. The woman knew her way around a stove. She also knew how to sidestep a question. When he’d suggested that Lily pay him a visit that afternoon so he could talk to her, Miss Atherton had her excuses ready. The child had lessons to complete. And chores. And Stone needed to rest after his ordeal. All of which was true, but he recognized a dodge when he heard one. The teacher didn’t want Lily anywhere near him. So when the girl snuck into the bunkhouse a couple hours later, Stone had to look twice to make sure his head injury wasn’t playing tricks on him.
The girl didn’t knock, just cracked the door, slipped inside, and closed it behind her. He’d awoken from his doze the moment her tiny feet hit the steps and rolled over to grab the knife from his boot where it sat on the floor. As soon as he recognized her, though, he released his grip on the weapon and moved to sit the rest of the way up. Lily barely spared him a glance. Instead, she pressed her back against the closed door and splayed her arms beside her. Slowly, she turned her face toward him, lifted a hand to her mouth, and set her pointer finger atop her lips.
“Shhh.” She glanced both ways, as if searching out threats lurking behind the wool socks Dobson had hung to dry over the rafters or the blanket draped over the side of Stone’s cot. “You have to be quiet, Mr. Hammond. I’m playing hide-and-seek with Stephen, and I don’t want him to find me.”
Stone raised a brow but kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t about to risk running the girl off when she’d just given him the perfect opportunity to start his investigation.
She tiptoed with exaggerated precision over to his cot then stopped directly in front of him. She frowned at his chin and then at the bandages visible through the open neck of his shirt.
“Do they hurt?”
“Yep.”
“I’m sorry.” She tilted her head back to meet his gaze, her own looking far too moist for Stone’s peace of mind.
All he needed was for the kid to start bawling. What a picture that would make if the teacher came looking for her and found her in here crying her eyes out.
“You ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry about, kid,” Stone groused. “You weren’t the one who scratched me.”
She drew back, affronted. “Of course not. I’m a hero. Heroes don’t hurt other heroes. They only hurt the bad guys. And then, only when they have to.”
So she thought him a hero, did she? That could come in handy.
Stone shifted backward on the cot until his spine rested against the wall. He gave her a dubious look. “I’ve never seen a hero quite so short.”
“Yeah, well . . .” She threw her shoulders back in an effort to look taller. “That’s because I’m a hero-in-training.”
“In training? Who’s training you?”
“Dead-Eye Dan.”
Who in the world was Dead-Eye Dan?
“And Angus O’Connell,” she continued, gaining momentum. “He was from the first book I read. You’d probably like him. He’s a bounty hunter who’s trailing a mean bunch of hombres who robbed a bank, only he didn’t realize the gang’s leader wasn’t with them. Duke Mahone never goes on the jobs himself, you see. Doesn’t want to risk getting caught. He hides out along the trail instead and picks off any posse that comes after his men with his Henry repeater. That’s how he got Angus O’Connell. Shot him in the back and left him for dead. Kinda like how that big cat got you. Ambushed.” The girl’s eyes glowed as she recounted the bloody story. “Angus didn’t die, thank goodness. A lady helped him, just like Miss Lottie helped you. Except with Angus, it was an Indian maiden who nursed him back to health with her herbs.”
“You like bounty hunters, do you?”
Lily nodded emphatically then stunned him by climbing up onto the cot next to him. “Uh-huh. They’re my favorite, chasing down the bad guys when no one else will. Sending them to jail. Keeping people safe. That’s what I want to do when I grow up. Keep people safe. Just like Miss Lottie.”
“Miss Lottie?” This was getting interesting.
“Uh-huh. When my school shut down, Stephen and John didn’t have anywhere to go, so Miss Lottie let them come with us.”
“What about you?” Stone pressed gently. “Didn’t you have a safe home to go to when the school closed?”
“Of course. This one.” She looked at him as if she thought him an idiot.
&nb
sp; “But what about your family? Why didn’t you go stay with them?”
Lily’s forehead scrunched. “Miss Lottie is my family. My mama gave me to her when she had to go to heaven.”
That last remark brought the misty look back to the girl’s eyes, so Stone immediately changed the topic. “Did you know I used to be a bounty hunter?”
“Really?” The girl practically inhaled the word, her eyes growing as round as silver dollars. “Is that how you got the name Stone? All the best bounty hunters have tough-sounding names. Like Dead-Eye Dan and Hammer Rockwell.”
Stone worked extra hard not to roll his eyes at the ridiculous monikers. “Nope. My ma gave me the name. Here. I’ll show you.” He bent forward to retrieve his saddle bag from under the cot, holding in a groan when the movement pulled at his stitches. Once he had the bag, he sat back and caught his breath as he unfastened the buckle. He pulled out his mother’s Bible and opened it to the pages at the front, where the birth records were recorded. He pointed to the last name on the list. “See. That’s me. Stone Arthur Hammond. If you go up a couple lines you’ll see who I was named after. Beatrice Anne Stone. My ma’s granny. Everyone called her Bertie.”
Lily giggled. “That’s a funny name. Granny Bertie.”
Stone chuckled along with her. He’d never known the woman himself but liked the idea of having a Granny Bertie. He was about to ask Lily if she had a granny and therefore steer the conversation back toward Dorchester when a knock sounded on his door.
Lily gasped and dove off the bed.
“Mr. Hammond,” Stephen called through the door, “is Lily in there with you? I’m startin’ to get worried. I can’t find her anywhere.”
The girl in question crawled on all fours under Stone’s bed.
“Come on in,” Stone hollered.
“No!” she whispered, but Stone ignored her.
If Stephen didn’t find Lily, he’d go after the teacher. And if Miss Atherton found the girl here, she’d likely sic the gnome on him.
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