Never Love a Lawman Page 22

  The edges of Wyatt’s mouth turned up a fraction. He closed his eyes again. “It is.”

  Rachel realized she was rolling Wyatt’s empty water glass between her palms. She set it aside and laid her hands lightly on her lap. She waited to see if he would ask another question, but the even rise and fall of his chest seemed to indicate he was drifting back to sleep. Leaning over him, she turned her cheek to feel the gentle exhalation of his breath against her skin. “Get well,” she whispered. She eased off the bed and returned to her chair at the window.

  Wyatt’s fever broke some ten hours later. Rachel was in the adjoining sitting room bent over the round dining table while she pinned a muslin pattern to Estella Longabach’s moss-green sateen. Her head came right up when she heard swearing and thrashing coming from the bedroom.

  “Don’t you move!” she called to him, dropping her shears. “Don’t you dare move. You’ll split your stitches.” He was propping himself on his good arm when she got to the threshold and kicking the covers off his bed by the time she reached his side. “I swear, Wyatt Cooper, if you—”

  “You don’t.”

  Hands planted on her hips, Rachel stared hard at him. “I don’t what?”

  “You don’t swear. I’ve never heard you swear.”

  “Well, it’s not because I don’t know how. Lie down. Let me look at you before you start pacing the floor. Dr. Diggins might still be in the hotel. I can get him.”

  It was improbably comforting to know she was as bossy as he remembered. He rolled onto his back. “Don’t take too long.” Rather than elaborating, he looked significantly in the direction of the bathing room.

  Rachel blinked but didn’t blush. “I’ll help you there in a moment.”

  Wyatt wasn’t certain he’d let her, but he didn’t argue about it now. He smelled the stink of sickness on him and didn’t know how she stood by without turning up her nose. Her movements were efficient, just as they were when she was cutting a pattern or placing her stitches. She briskly unbuttoned his nightshirt and laid it open so that she could tend to the bandage on his shoulder. Lifting it, she examined the wound and gave him a sour look.

  “You’re bleeding.” She washed away the blood and saw that he’d only cracked the scab, not torn the stitches.

  “You don’t look very happy that I’m going to live.”

  “Happy that you didn’t rip my best work.”

  “Your best work?” He winced as she pressed a clean bandage to his shoulder. “What does that mean?”

  Ignoring him, Rachel tugged carefully on the bandages that covered his chest wound. Her small, neat stitches still closed his skin. There was no foul-smelling pus or weeping around the injury, and his skin was warm, not hot. She replaced the bandages, then closed his shirt. “The fever’s left your body.”

  “Good riddance, I say.”

  She nodded. “Let me help you up.” Rachel slipped an arm under his shoulders and lifted. He’d lost considerable strength, but he still assisted her effort. “Put your legs over the side. Would you like your robe and slippers?”

  Now that he was sitting up the urgency was upon him. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll go as I am.”

  Rachel understood. She placed his uninjured arm around her shoulders and supported him as they came to their feet together. He was about as wobbly legged as a foal for the first few steps; then he managed to find his balance. Rachel stayed with him until he got to the bathing room door. “I’m going to find Doc Diggins,” she said. “I won’t be gone long.”

  Wyatt nodded and waved her off, shutting the door at the same time.

  Rachel stood staring at the door for a few moments before she rushed off in search of the doctor. He wasn’t in the hotel any longer, but after a few inquiries she was able to trace him to the Miner Key Saloon where he was playing cards with Ned Beaumont and two of Sid Walker’s boys. She had to shame him before he would leave his winning hand, and by the time she brought him back to the hotel, Wyatt had managed to get himself into his bathing tub and was soaking in hot water just below the level of his chest wound.

  When Doc Diggins backed out of the bathing room and told her what Wyatt was doing, Rachel was so astonished that she had to see for herself. She poked her head in the room, observed Wyatt resting comfortably in the tub with his head tipped back and his eyes closed, and made certain right then that he knew she could swear. Even Doc Diggins, who knew a thing or two about peppering his speech with blasphemies, was impressed with the deep blue color of her vocabulary.

  It was the doctor who sat with Wyatt until he was prepared to get out of the tub, and the doctor who helped him into a clean shirt and drawers and put him back to bed, and it was the doctor who finally convinced Rachel that Wyatt could benefit from some light fare and that she should arrange it.

  Rachel regretted that she had gone to get Doc in the first place.

  Diggins left instructions with her when she returned with Wyatt’s food. She was aware he didn’t share them with his patient because Wyatt would have argued his way out of them. The good doctor was expecting her to cage the wild beast and wanted no part of it himself.

  Rachel saw him out, picked up the tray, and carried it to Wyatt’s bedroom. He was sitting up in bed, not looking nearly as comfortable as he had in the tub. He’d exhausted himself already and was never going to admit it to her.

  Rachel set the tray on his lap. “Do you require help?”

  “I’m not an infant.”

  She resisted the obvious retort and uncovered the dishes, revealing milky rice soup with a sprinkling of brown sugar, two triangles of dry toast, and a baked apple.

  Wyatt stared at the plates. “I still have my teeth, don’t I?”

  “Very nice ones. Dr. Diggins suggested light fare. I would have chosen a thick steak, a little on the rare side, I think, and perhaps some stuffed potatoes, spinach, and warm apple cobbler.” Her smile was rueful. “But this is what you get, I’m afraid.”

  He didn’t for a moment believe she wasn’t enjoying herself. Curling his lip to let her know what he thought of her performance, he picked up the soup spoon and began eating.

  “Doc said you were the one who stitched my wounds. He said you stood by during the operation, helping him. I don’t remember that.”

  “That’s as it should be. The ether made you sleep. In fact, it made all of us a little light-headed until Will thought to prop open a window.”

  “Will was there?”

  She nodded. “Dr. Diggins examined him and turned him over to Gracie Showalter to clean up. He wouldn’t leave Doc’s office while Doc was working on you. He held a compress to his head and kept a bucket on his lap.”

  “Hard head. Weak stomach.”

  “Indeed.”

  Wyatt bit off a corner of toast. “Maybe I should ask who wasn’t in Doc’s office.”

  She chuckled. “It was only Will, Doc, Gracie, and me with you. The front room of Doc’s place was full, but I couldn’t begin to tell you who all was there. A lot of people were frightened for you. You were as pale as Morrisey and Spinnaker when you were carried out of the jail, and they were dead.”

  “Doc said something like that.”

  “Did you know you’d killed them?”

  Wyatt shook his head. “I knew I hit Morrisey. I thought I winged Spinnaker. I saw you go down, and I just kept firing.” His gaze narrowed on her. “Were you hit?”

  “A ricochet. Will explained it to me. A shot from Mr. Spinnaker’s gun hit the bars, glanced off, and I was far enough ahead of him that it caught me in the back.” She saw Wyatt’s face drain of color so that it looked very much like it had after the gunfight. Speaking quickly, she said, “I’m fine. Truly. The bullet hit one of the steel ribs in my corset. I have a lovely yellow and purple flower of a bruise on my back, but other than that I’m fine. It would be a good story if I hadn’t lost consciousness, and a better one if I’d shot someone myself, but I’d probably never tell it all that well anyway.”

 
Wyatt sympathized with Will’s need to hold a bucket in his lap. His own stomach was feeling a little weak. He bit off another bite of toast to settle it. “I find that I have a new appreciation for corsets.”

  “That’s as it should be,” she said. She set her mouth primly to mock him, quite content now to have the opportunity. “Go on. Eat up.”

  Taking up his spoon again, Wyatt tried some of the baked apple. He alternated between soup and dessert, occasionally dunking his toast into the warm, sweet milk of the soup. Rachel watched him for a while, offering no conversation; then she left his bedside and disappeared into the sitting room. While Wyatt didn’t particularly care for her hovering, he liked her absence even less. This perversity annoyed him, especially when he recalled his mother remarking on it when she nursed him through a bout of the influenza when he was eight.

  Rachel swept back into the bedroom, her arms filled with material and a sewing basket, and stopped abruptly when she glimpsed Wyatt’s face. “Do you want me to leave? You’re scowling.”

  He realized she was right. “Not intended for you.”

  She made a point of looking over her shoulder. “There’s someone else?”

  His scowl firmly in place now, he grunted softly and jabbed the spoon toward his chest. “Me.”

  “Would you like a mirror? Because I can positively say that I don’t like being on the receiving end of that look.” Ignoring him, she set the basket and fabric on the narrow window seat and positioned her chair so she had the best light. She sat, chose a needle and thread from the basket, and drew a portion of the moss-green sateen toward her. Bending her head, she applied herself to her work.

  “Can you talk while you do that?” he asked.

  “If you like.”

  Wyatt looked down at his tray. He’d finished half of the soup, a quarter of the baked apple, all but a few bites of toast, and he knew he was done. “Does Doc Diggins know you have experience caring for invalids?”

  “I’m surprised you’re admitting that you are one.”

  “It’s a temporary concession, and you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I have no idea what the doctor knows. He didn’t question my competency, and as far as I know, until I left you alone in order to find him, I never gave him a reason to.”

  “Are you still mad at me because I drew a bath?”

  Rachel glanced up. “I’m mad at myself for leaving because there was no opportunity to stop you. It was a foolish risk you took. You might have fallen. You were hardly steady on your feet. And you risked getting the stitches wet and causing the wounds to open.”

  A glimmer of a smile played across Wyatt’s mouth. “I think I liked it better when you just swore at me.”

  She scowled at him, a near perfect imitation of his own, and returned to setting the sleeve of Estella’s gown.

  Wyatt chuckled, finding that humor was sometimes worth the wince. “So, how many invalids have you cared for?” he asked as he moved his tray to the nightstand. “Not counting me.”

  “Two.”

  “Clinton Maddox was one, wasn’t he?”

  “He was, and he had as little liking for being an invalid as you.” Because she knew he would press the question, she went on. “The other was my father.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Rachel hesitated. Wyatt’s tone wasn’t demanding, merely conversational, curious. For Rachel it didn’t make it any less intrusive. Just thinking of what she might say brought the sting of tears to her eyes, and that was as unexpected as it was unwanted. She kept her head down and pressed her lips together.

  “Rachel?”

  She made a few blind stabs with her needle, knowing full well that she’d have to pull them out. Abandoning her work, Rachel fumbled under the fabric to find her handkerchief. She pressed it to her eyes, then blinked rapidly. Her smile was a trifle watery as she collected herself. “Forgive me. I didn’t anticipate that rush of feeling.” And because she felt she had to offer him something, she said, “What would you like to know?”

  “I’m sorry, Rachel. I didn’t—”

  “I know.” She put her handkerchief away and began removing the ill-placed stitches. “My father was an officer in the Union army. He and Benson Maddox enlisted together, and both of them were quickly promoted. Neither had fighting experience or an inclination for battle, but they were leaders and that’s what was recognized.”

  “They knew each other before enlistment?”

  “I suppose I didn’t say, did I? They were friends. Good friends. My father worked for Clinton Maddox. He kept the financial records for all of Mr. Maddox’s rail lines. When Mr. Maddox expressed interest in a western line, my father and Benson moved to Sacramento. Mr. Maddox came later. I think my father had it in his mind that he could protect Benson if they enlisted together, and perhaps that was even true for a while, but eventually their individual responsibilities separated them. Benson moved with the infantry. My father’s special financial skills kept him at the side of generals, figuring the costs of war, not only of supplies, but of men. Mr. Maddox was laying track all over the East, especially in the mid-Atlantic, so Union troops would have food and weapons. My father had a lot to do with helping to determine the routes. He would tell me later that he was Mr. Maddox’s government man, and he never said it as if it pleased him.”

  “No, I don’t imagine that it did.” Wyatt had been resting the back of his head against the Gothic-styled walnut headboard that Sir Nigel Pennyworth swore was reminiscent of European cathedrals. Now he tucked a pillow behind his back, because cathedral spires be damned, he wasn’t comfortable. “But he survived the war.”

  “A truth in the literal sense,” Rachel said quietly. “He was different afterward, at least that was what I understood. I was seven when he returned to us, so I’m sure that my view was colored by the perspectives of my mother and my sister, but I noticed things as well. He was quieter, more introspective. It was not uncommon to find him sitting alone in his study. He could appear deeply contemplative, but what he was studying was a wall, a window, or the tips of his own fingers. Melancholia was his companion unless he was trying very hard not to allow us to see it. That took its toll.”

  Wyatt realized he’d never been certain if her father was dead or alive. Now he knew. “How long ago?”

  “Ten years. It was just after my fourteenth birthday.”

  Offering his regrets seemed inadequate in the face of grief that was still so easily tapped. Rachel took the opportunity for unsolicited condolences away from him by quickly going on.

  “My father and I were very close. My mother and Sarah are the proverbial peas in the pod. I suppose that’s why I was the one who looked after him. I had the temperament for it, and they didn’t.” She laughed a little when she saw Wyatt’s skeptical look when she mentioned her temperament. “Caring for someone doesn’t mean giving in to their whims. There is a place for compassion and an equally important place for—”

  “A complete lack of feeling?” Wyatt interjected. “A cold heart?”

  “Common sense, I was going to say, but if you prefer either of the others, I don’t mind.”

  “You know I was teasing, don’t you?”

  She flashed her most slyly contented smile. “So was I.”

  Wyatt held his chest as he laughed this time, finding it hurt a great deal less. When he settled back again, he asked her if her father had worked for Clinton Maddox until his death.

  “He died in his office,” she told him. “His heart just gave out. Mr. Maddox was distraught. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I think that for Mr. Maddox it was like losing his son. He never held it against my father that he came back and Benson didn’t. My father’s feelings toward Mr. Maddox were more complicated, I think. He respected him, was more than a little in awe of him, but he was disappointed, too. That Mr. Maddox’s wealth increased tenfold during the war was difficult for him to reconcile. His own role troubled him. He urged Mr. Maddox to make gifts, contributions, set
up trusts, but that didn’t happen until years later.”

  “When you were living with Clinton Maddox.”

  “When Mr. Maddox decided he’d had enough of acquiring wealth,” she corrected. “Do not mistake his gestures for atonement. He never thought he had anything to atone for.”

  “Didn’t he? What about you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You came to live with him. How did that happen?”

  “My mother was his housekeeper, Wyatt. She took the position to support us after my father died. I lived in the mansion with my sister and mother. When my sister married, my mother left with her.”

  “But you stayed.”

  “Yes. I performed valuable functions for him, acting as his hostess from time to time, scheduling his appointments, and making certain he was available for them. Later, after his stroke, I took care of him.”

  Wyatt did not miss that her explanations were rendered defensively, but she didn’t seem to notice. He let it go. Her own feelings toward Clinton Maddox were as complicated as her father’s.

  “You’re tiring,” Rachel said, watching him rub his jaw. “Perhaps you should lie down.”

  It was an indication of how well she’d read his face that Wyatt didn’t argue. He lowered himself onto the mattress, taking the pillow with him, and drew the covers up to his chest. He didn’t remember falling asleep. It just happened.

  Over the course of the next ten days, a steady stream of visitors came to the Commodore to evaluate Wyatt’s progress for themselves. Rachel referred to it as a pilgrimage, a description that Wyatt had to admit had crossed his mind also. He appreciated Rachel’s common sense when she turned it on the pilgrims, insisting that they wait until after lunch to visit and leave before dinner. The only visitors she made exceptions for were Doc Diggins and that no-account Beatty boy.