“Now you stay just like that for five minutes—understand?”
She knelt on the bed like a Moslem facing Mecca, bleeding onto the sheets, her hip feeling as if it were breaking all over again. Five minutes or five hours, she was incapable of knowing which had passed. She only knew he’d thumped out the door and there was only one other way out of her apartment. She took it. Out the window, onto the narrow shelf behind the false storefront to the first window she found. She pounded, but Jube didn’t come. Frantic, she groped her way to the next, pounded again, too dazed to realize it was still Jube’s room. She groped to the next, banging on it with her fist, but it was the hall window. Crying, whimpering, she stumbled along the wall to the next window which was open several inches at the bottom. She pushed it up and went over the sill into Scott’s bedroom.
She stood in the dark, chest heaving, hyperventilating, fighting for control of something more powerful than she’d ever faced before. “S... S... Scott...h...h...h... help... me,” she pleaded. “S... S... Scott...”
Scott Gandy came out of a deep sleep at the sound of a whisper. He opened his eyes and wondered if Jube was mumbling in her sleep. No, she was crying. He rolled to look over his shoulder and saw a figure in white standing at the foot of the bed. His first instinct was to reach for his gun. But then the whimper came again, jagged, broken.
“S... S... Scott... pl... pl... please...”
Buck-naked, he leaped from the bed. “Agatha! What’s the matter?”
“A m... m... m... m...”
In the grip of shock, she could only stammer. She quaked so violently he heard her teeth rattling. He took her by both shoulders, feeling his own heart jump with fear. “Easy, easy now, breathe deep, try it again.”
“A m... m... man.”
“What man?”
“A m... m... man... c... c... c...”
“Take your time, Gussie. A man...”
“A man c... c... came int... t... to m... my r... room and he h... had a kn... kn... kn... kn...” The longer she tried, the more the word stuck. “Kn... kn...” Tremors shook her entire body and she breathed as if she were thrashing in deep water.
He pulled her against him and held her steady, clasping her with hands and elbows, one palm on the back of her head. Still she panted in short, inadequate gusts, much like a winded dog. Against his chest he felt each sharp rise and fall of her ribs. “You’re all right now. You’re safe. Just take it a word at a time. A man came into your room and he had a—what did he have, Gussie?”
“Kn... kn...” She panted fast against his ear, as if summoning her vocal powers, then burst out, “Knife!”
“Sweet Jesus! Are you all right?” Each of his heartbeats felt like an explosion. He drew back but held her securely by her upper arms, bending close until he made out her wide, terrorized eyes.
“I d... d... don’t kn... kn...”
Jube woke up and asked sleepily, “Honey? What’s going on?”
Gandy paid no heed to her. “Did he hurt you?”
“I th... think I’m bl... bl... Hmp... Hmp... bl... bleeding.”
He swung her into his arms just as her knees buckled. “Jube, get up! Agatha’s hurt. Wake the men and run for the doctor!”
“Hmm?” she mumbled, still disoriented.
“Now, Jube!” he roared. “Get Doc Johnson!”
She pulled herself off the bed by her heels and found her robe on the way to the door.
“Send Jack in here!” he ordered as he laid Agatha on the warm bed. When he’d lit a lantern he immediately saw the blood on her white nightgown. Terror gripped him as he searched for its source and found the wound beneath her jaw. He scanned her body but found no tears in her nightgown.
She folded her arms up the middle of her chest, closed her eyes and shuddered. “I’m s... s... so c... cold.”
He covered her to the neck and sat over her, feeling his own fear give way to rage. “Who did this?”
Still with her eyes closed, she stammered, “I d... d... hmp... hmp... d... don’t kn... know.”
“What did he want?”
“S... s... saloons... p... prohib...” She shook so hard the remainder of the word fell off into silence.
Gandy’s words grew hard, clipped. “Did he hurt you in any other way?”
Her only answer was a tighter huddling and the tears that seeped from behind her closed lids as she ashamedly turned her head aside.
Through the covers he found her shoulder and squeezed it. “Gussie, did he?”
Biting her lips, squeezing her eyes closed, she shook her head violently.
Jack burst through the door dressed in nothing but his union suit.
“Somebody’s attacked Agatha. Have a look out back.” Marcus and Ivory arrived, too, dressed in nothing but trousers.
“Is she all right?”
“She’s been stabbed. Maybe worse.”
Jack’s teeth grated, his jaw bulged. “Let’s go!” he ordered, and took off at a run with the other men at his heels.
Gandy looked down at Agatha, tightened the covers beneath her chin, and demanded, “He put more in you than just a knife blade, didn’t he?” He leaped to his feet.
“Goddammit! I’ll find out who the son-of-a-bitch is and he’ll pay. I swear to God, he’ll pay!”
Her eyes flew open and she sat up supplicatingly. “No... please, he’s d... dangerous... and strong!”
Gandy stormed across the room, swiped up his trousers, and stepped into them, turning to face her as he angrily closed the buttons up his belly. He swallowed the epithets that bubbled in his throat and crossed hurriedly to the bed, pressing her shoulders down. “Lie back, please, Gussie. You’re still bleedin’.”
Her fingertips slipped up to test her wound. He caught them before she could touch it.
“Please... don’t.”
“But your sh... sh... sheets.”
“It doesn’t matter. Please don’t move till Doc Johnson gets here.” He put her hand beneath the covers and covered her securely again. Then he sat beside her, silent, staring into her wide, dazed eyes, stroking the hair back from her forehead again, and again, and again.
“Scott,” she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes, making them appear transparent, like deep green water.
“Shh!...”
“He didn’t...”
“Later... we’ll talk about it later.”
The tears ran in silver paths down her temples. He dried them with his thumbs.
“Don’t leave me.”
“I won’t,” he promised.
Her eyes grew wild with fright when Doc Johnson arrived and took Scott’s place on the edge of the bed. He cleansed the wound with boiled saltwater, then announced no stitches would be necessary. He liberally dampened a gauze patch with tincture of arnica, then applied it to the wound and fastened it in place with another strip leading around the top of her head. Meanwhile, Ruby, Pearl, and Jube hovered anxiously in the doorway. The men reported they’d found nobody in the alley, nor in Agatha’s apartment. Doc Johnson washed his hands at Gandy’s shaving stand, and, drying them, advised, “She’s going to be in some pain tonight. A touch of whiskey might dull it. She’ll be chilled
until the shock wears off, but other than that, she should recover nicely.”
“Jack, go down and get a bottle, would y’?” Gandy said, without removing his eyes from Agatha’s pale face.
Jack disappeared without a word.
“Marcus, Ivory, thank y’ for lookin’. If one of you would get the sheriff, I think it’s best if I talk t’ him tonight.”
“I already told him. He should be here any minute.”
“Good.” Gandy turned to the women. “Girls, go back t’ bed. I’ll stay with her.”
Jube hovered a moment after the others had left. He cupped her jaw tenderly. “Sorry, Jube. She asked me not t’ leave her. Do you mind goin’ t’ your own room for the rest of the night?”
She kissed his jaw. “Of course not. I’ll check in on her in the morning.”
Scott was the only other one in the room while Ben Cowdry asked his questions. Agatha had calmed down somewhat, and answered lucidly, repeating the threats her attacker made, recalling that he’d smelled of cigar smoke and seemed to have a big belly and a raspy voice. But when Cowdry asked if the man had harmed her in any other way besides the knife wound, her troubled eyes flashed to Scott’s. He boosted himself away from the corner of the chifforobe and ambled forward.
“No, Ben, nothin’ else. I already asked her.”
Cowdry’s eyes swerved from Gandy to Agatha, then back again. Rising, he adjusted his gun belt. “Good enough. I’ll need to have you sign some papers regarding the attack when you’re stronger. Don’t worry, Miss Downing, we’ll get him.”
Gandy closed the sitting room door behind the sheriff and returned to the bedroom. Agatha’s round, frightened eyes were trained on the doorway, waiting for him.
“I shouldn’t be here, in your room.”
He picked up the whiskey bottle and a glass on his way past the shaving stand. “Doctor’s orders,” he said softly, crossing to the bed, sitting on the edge of it with one knee updrawn. He uncapped the bottle, poured three fingers, then
set the bottle on the bedside table. “Can you sit up?”
“Yes.”
She struggled up, wincing as she strained her neck muscles, and he leaned close to stack the pillows behind her. She fell back with a sigh.
“Here.” He held out the glass. She stared at it. “Have y’ ever tasted it before?”
“No.”
“Then be ready. It’s fiery, but it’ll help.”
She reached out tentatively and took the glass into her delicate fingertips. She glanced up uncertainly.
He grinned. “What’d y’ expect from a saloon owner?”
She braved a grin, but even that hurt her jaw. Clasping the glass firmly, she tipped it up and drained it dry in four gulps, squeezed her eyes shut, gave an all-over shiver, opened her eyes and mouth, and held out the glass for more.
“Whoa!” Gandy pushed her hand down to her lap. “Not so fast there. You’ll be seein’ pink prairie dogs if y’ keep that up.”
“I hurt. And my stomach is still jumping. And I’m not at all sure I still won’t fall into a thousand pieces. If the whiskey will help, I’ll take seconds.”
She held up the glass and he eyed it dubiously, but reached for the bottle again. This time he gave her half as much. When she lifted it as if to swig it straight down, he stopped her. “Not so fast. Sip it.”
She sipped, lowered the glass, and held it in both hands, then touched the bloody sheets and her bloody nightgown. “I’ve made a mess of your bed.”
He smiled at her wan cheeks. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”
“And I’ve chased Jubilee away.”
Their eyes met directly and held. “It’s all right. She doesn’t sleep here all the time anyway.”
She became aware of his knee flanking her thigh and lifted the drink as if in refuge. This sip drained the glass. Then she self-consciously backhanded the side of her mouth without looking up at him again.
“I feel better now. I can go to my own apartment.”
“No. You’ll stay here.”
He reached for the empty glass but closed his fingers over both it and her hand. “What did he do to you, Gussie? I need t’ know.”
She raised her eyes and his were waiting, concerned, dark with emotion. She swallowed—it hurt terribly, all the way to the top of her skull. When she spoke, her voice trembled and new tears balanced on her eyelids.
“He didn’t do what you think. He only... only t... t... t...”
Gently, he took the glass from her death grip and set it aside. “Lie down,” he ordered, lifting the covers, adjusting the pillows while she slid into the warm security of his bed once again. He covered her to the neck, then stretched out beside her and rolled her to her side, facing him. He spread a hand on her back, feeling through the bedding how the shudders had revived. He rubbed the hollow between her shoulder blades and stared at her flushing face.
“Open your eyes, Gussie.”
She did, and she met his fixed gaze, saw at close range his black spiky lashes and intent brown eyes, his well-defined eyebrows and somber lips. The whiskey had begun to relax her, though she huddled beneath the covers with her arms crossed protectively over her breasts. His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed.
“I care about you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Do you understand that?”
He moved not a muscle for several long, intense seconds. He stared into her distraught, green eyes until she, too, swallowed.
“He touched me,” she whispered, “in an awful way that made me feel dirty. And threatened to come back and do worse if I didn’t begin to discourage the local interest in the ratification of the amendment.”
“But it’s too late for that t’ do any good.”
“I know.”
With pillows cradling their cheeks, they lay and stared into each other’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, wishing he had the power to wipe away the violation she’d suffered. She blinked once,
slowly, and he saw that the alcohol was beginning to take effect.
“That’s enough,” she whispered contentedly.
“Is it?” It didn’t seem enough, to be angry, to send the men out searching, to fetch the sheriff and the doctor and feed her a few glasses of whiskey. She was a good woman, and pure, and she’d undeservedly suffered again at the hands of someone who worshipped alcohol.
Beneath his hand, her trembling had stopped. Her eyes, wide and so mesmerizingly pale, refused to waver. His eyes dropped to her lips—what raced through his mind had been a long time coming. There were times when he was certain she’d thought about it, just as he had.
He lifted his head only enough to miss her nose and kissed her—like the brushstroke of an artist who wished to bring a canvas to life in pastels. She lay as still as a drawing of herself, her eyes closed, holding her breath, her lips still.
He lay back down, watching. Her eyelids fluttered open. She breathed again, as if testing her ability to do so. He tried to read those eyes, searching for willingness, then realized she would be too timid to grant it knowingly. But he saw the pulse beat fast at her temple, and it was answer enough. He didn’t know where it would ultimately lead, only that they’d both wondered for a long, long time, and that their curiosity needed satisfying.
He braced himself up on an elbow, clasped her shoulder, and gently rolled her to her back. Leaning above her, he searched her eyes for a long, ardent moment. Then, slowly, slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers. His tongue intuitively reached, but though she lifted her face, her lips remained closed. He stroked her lightly—once, only to touch the seam of her lips. It struck him fully: she didn’t know what was expected of her. He hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until the kiss lengthened and it rushed out against his cheek. His heart felt an odd catch—she was even more innocent than he’d guessed. He thought of asking her to open her lips, but it would startle her. So instead he told her with his lips, his tongue, with soft plucking bites, deft, damp strokes, the slow waggle of his head—
Gussie, Gussie, open up t’ me.