The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) (17 page)

Don't let him die. Please, God, don't let him die.

The litany repeated itself over and over in her mind as she stood swaying from exhaustion and emotion.

He'd been strong for them all day, getting them here—to safety. For now, they didn't have to look over their shoulders for the men who were chasing them. It had cost each of them, she thought, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, but most of all him. Perhaps it had killed him.

"Miss... I'm sorry, what was your name, dear?" Evie prompted softly in a voice that brought to mind magnolia blossoms and cool mint juleps.

With her smooth, toffee-colored hair, kind gray eyes, and starched calico wrapper, she looked every bit the lady that Grace did not in her raggedy clothes. For the first time, she felt self-conscious.

"It's Grace," she said at last, tugging together the edges of her coat. "Please call me Grace."

"An' you can call me Evie. Perhaps it'd be best if you and I go downstairs and let my husband—"

"No, please, let me stay with him."

James pulled away the blood-soaked bandages to reveal what was underneath and cursed softly.

Grace's stomach roiled at the sight of the infection there. A halo of swelling redness fanned out from the dark hole in his side. She leaned a hand against the bedside table.
Dear God.

"How'd this happen?" James asked quietly.

Her fingernails bit into the palm of her hand. "He was shot yesterday. It's a long story."

"Has Cass finished putting up the horses, Evie?" James asked, not looking up.

Palefaced, the woman stood with four fingers pressed against her lips. "I don't think I heard him come in."

"Reese needs more help than we can give him," he said. "Hurry on out to the barn and send Cass over town for Doc Kennedy, quick as he can. Tell him—"

"Wait." Grace broke away from the woman. "He said no doctors. He said it's the first place they'll go."

James stilled and frowned up at her. "They?"

Grace swallowed hard, afraid to tell them. Afraid not to. Tears crowded her eyes, making the sharp edges of things blur.

"Exactly what kind of trouble has Reese gotten himself into?"

Her throat felt tight. So tight she couldn't breathe. She could see the accusation in James's eyes. It was her fault. All of it! "It's bad. In fact, it's just awful."

"I can see that," James allowed, glancing at Reese's festering wound.

"There's a posse after him. After us."

"A posse," Evie echoed. A tremor that hadn't been there moments before now sounded in Evie's voice and her face had gone pale. "Dear Lord, for what?"

Tears that she'd been holding back erupted out of the corners of her eyes. "Well, I... oh, it's a long r-ridiculous story. It's
all
my f-fault that he was going to h-hang and... and all I've done is argue with him. He's done everything h-he said he would. I was the one who started it all." She snorted involuntarily and clamped a hand to her mouth. "And now Donovan is paying for it!"

The Richardsons exchanged looks.

"No," Donovan croaked beside James. "'S not true."

"Donovan!" Grace moved beside James and Donovan met her worried expression with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Reese." James clamped a hand over Donovan's arm, a mixture of relief and concern evident in his voice. "My God, man, this is a helluva way to get a free bed for the night."

Pressing his head back against the soft pillows, Donovan said, "You know me. Never was much in the way o' manners." He slid a puzzling, almost fond look at Grace, pausing on each of her features as if cataloguing them into his memory. "Don't let her tell you it was all her fault," he said at last. "You know me better. She's a bit of a storyteller, this one. But she's all right."

Grace steepled her fingers over her mouth, choked back a sob. "Oh! There, you see? He's out of his mind with fever. He doesn't even know what he's saying!"

Donovan rolled his eyes. "
Ach
!"

Evie put a hand on Grace's arm. "I think he does, dear."

"No, you don't understand. He's being nice to me! He's n-never been nice to me before!"

That odd comment raised both the Richardsons' eyebrows and they turned back to the man on the bed.

Now Grace knew he was dying. His shoulders shook as he pressed his lips together and clutched his side in pain.

"She's harmless," Donovan confided weakly, "if you lock her in a room... with no sharp objects, or... spittoons to trip over."

No sharp objects!
Grace sniffed louder, knowing she'd been insulted. She glanced at the Richardsons. James was smiling. Well, she consoled herself, at least that sounded more like the old Donovan.

Evie patted Grace's hand and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, a mock reprimand in her eyes for Donovan. "There, there, dear, you needn't worry," she murmured. "There are no spittoons in this house. Nor locks on our doors."

James poured water into a porcelain cup from a handpainted pitcher beside the bed. He slid a hand beneath Donovan's head and made him drink. A sip was all he managed. The effort to talk had drained him. His face was a grayish pale, his eyes glittering with heat.

Before James could lean back, Donovan grabbed his arm. "Listen," he said through clenched teeth. "If I don't make it, see that she and the old man get over the border."

James's expression went dark. "To Mexico?"

"They won't follow them there. Please. For me, James?"

The other man hesitated, then nodded curtly. "You'll do it yourself if I have anything to say about it. Anyway," he added, "you still owe me that game of backgammon, remember?"

One corner of Donovan's mouth lifted in a halfhearted smile and he swallowed thickly. "I'd only beat you again."

The humor vanished from James's expression. "You need a doctor, Reese."

He shook his head. "Too dangerous. Evie'll have to do it." His eyes dropped shut. "Sorry. Don't tell anyone we're here, James. Don't trust anyone... except Gil."

Reese's fingers relaxed around James's arm as his eyes closed and he slid into unconsciousness again.

For a long moment, James sat there, saying nothing. Then he and his wife exchanged a troubled look that Grace couldn't read.

"Grace," James began, "if you want to help Reese, then assist my wife in setting some water to boiling on the stove while I"—he cleared his throat—"free him of these bloody clothes and clean him up. Evie, make up a drawing poultice." His gaze returned to the man on the bed. "We'll do the best we can."

Chapter 9

Grace's hand shook as she ladled water from the stove reservoir into the large enamel kettle nestled on the firehole of the pitch-black Butler cast-iron. The heavy ladle rattled against the rim of the kettle.

Evie's fingers covered Grace's as she relieved her of the job. "Here, let me. You go sit down. You're absolutely dead on your feet."

"But I—"

"Don't argue, now. You're like to burn yourself on this stove as do any good. Now sit down before you fall."

Grace sat cautiously, lowering her sore backside into the seat. With a sigh, she dropped her face into her hands. Evie was right. She was exhausted beyond coherent thought, a danger to herself and possibly Evie as well. "I'm sorry."

"Hush. You've had an ordeal. Any fool could see that."

Grace pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. She didn't think she could bear kindness right now. If she let go and started to cry again, she wasn't sure she'd be able to stop. She shook her head and sniffed, straightening suddenly.

"Brew—where—?"

"You mean your father?"

"He's not really—"

"Don't worry. Cass, our hired man, settled him into a bed, and I'm quite certain he's asleep by now." She replaced the kettle lid and wiped her hands on the clean white apron around her waist. "Now, when did you last eat?"

"Uh, I don't—"

"Just as I thought." Pot lids clattered behind her and before she could argue, Evie placed a bowl of something that smelled heavenly in front of her. Her mouth watered.

Stew and biscuits.

She hadn't realized how hungry she really was. But as she dove into the savory concoction of tender beef and vegetables, she found she was starving. A steady diet of beef jerky and hardtack was hardly enough to keep body and soul together.

While Grace ate, Evie made an infusion of feverfew for Donovan to drink and a smelly drawing poultice of three parts milk, one part linseed oil. When she'd finished, she sat down beside Grace.

"Better?" she asked.

"Mm-mmph," Grace answered around the last mouthful of biscuit. She blushed and swallowed, brushing crumbs from her fingers. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid Miss Beauregard would've positively swooned if she could see what an absolute hog I made of myself over that stew, but it's just that... oh, my, it was so good."

Evie grinned. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment to my cooking or a statement on your hunger."

"A little of both," she admitted wryly. "Thank you."

Evie nodded and studied her hands for a moment, an awkward silence stretching between them. Grace spoke to fill the void.

"About what Donovan said—"

Evie laughed a little sadly. "He has an odd way of showing affection, doesn't he? He's always been that way."

"Affection?"

"Well, yes, he obviously cares about you."

"About me?" Her eyes must have revealed her shock.

"Well, yes. I could see it in the way he looked at you."

"Oh, no. No, you're wrong. He doesn't even like me."

"You said that before," Evie replied thoughtfully. "Forgive me for being so forward, Grace, but... is he... that is... are you and Reese...?"

Grace stared at the woman blankly. "Are we...?"

"Is he your husband, dear?"

"Husband? Donovan? No!"

"Oh," Evie replied faintly, sounding bewildered.

Heat crept to Grace's cheeks. "I know how it must look. After all, we're traveling together but we're not... together."

Evie touched her hand. "When we first saw Reese with you, I think James and I both thought—hoped, really—that he'd found someone."

Grace's head came up, remembering Maria's words. "But I was told he had a wife."

Smoothing her palm across the soft tablecloth, Evie said, "Did Reese tell you that?"

"No. It was Maria." She met Evie's steady look. "A saloon girl back in Pair-a-Dice."

"Ah."

"Does he have a wife?"

"He was married. Once. Before the war. It didn't end well, I'm afraid."

That made all the sense in the world. An odd feeling of relief drifted through her. More unfathomable than that, the news pricked at her heart. "I see. Is that why he's so"—she searched for the word—"bitter?"

"I suppose that's part of it. It was perhaps the final straw, so to speak. But then, he should be the one to tell you all this."

A bark of laughter worked its way past the lump in her throat. "Tell me about himself? I think he'd just as soon walk barefoot through a field of glass shards as confide in me."

"Mmm," Evie agreed, "well, you're not alone there. Reese has never been a man of many words. We knew him for two years and he shared very little with us about his past. I will tell you, though, he was a good friend to us when we needed one during the war, at great risk to himself. If not for him, we would have lost the livery and our livelihood to the marauding Yankees. Reese was running black-market cotton and other supplies around the blockades at the time. He convinced the Union officer in charge of the pillaging that a shipment of black-market cotton which made its way north under his command might be more beneficial to his blossoming military career than the requisition of a stableful of worn-out horseflesh. Reese told him he happened to have just such a shipment available if he and his men agreed to leave our horses alone. Naturally, the Yankee saw the political wisdom in this offer and promptly agreed."

"He was working for the North, then?" Grace asked, confused.