Deborah Camp (6 page)

She picked up the sheet and covered him with it, moving around the bed to tuck the corners in under the feather mattress. She felt foolish for having stared at him. What had gotten into her?

“Where am I?”

Cassie’s head jerked up when his voice came out stronger and more lucid than it had been before. He was looking at her with dark, glittering eyes that held a million questions.

“Arkansas. Near Eureka Springs. I’m Cassie Potter, and this is my place. Ever heard of a place called Hog Scald Holler?”

He rocked his head from side to side on the pillow.

“Well, that’s where we are.” She propped her fists at her waist and lifted an inquiring brow. “Who shot you, mister?”

“Outlaw.” He wet his lips with his tongue. “Water. Can I have some?”

His request made her remember Jewel’s instructions. She nodded and went into the other room to fetch him a dipper of water from the bucket. When she returned he was trying to sit up.

“You shouldn’t be moving around so much,” she scolded, afraid he’d topple out of bed again. “Here’s your water. If you can stay awake for a little while, I’ll fix you some tater soup.”

He was having trouble raising his head, so Cassie slipped a hand to the back of his head and helped him. His hair was springy and softer than she’d thought it would be—sort of like eiderdown. He drank from the dipper, his throat moving up and down with each swallow. When she removed her hand from his head a few dark hairs clung to her. She shook her hand to be rid of them, but they curled tenaciously around her fingers. She gritted her teeth, angry that such a small thing could make her so irritated, and plucked the ebony strands from her skin and let them drop to the floor. She felt his roving gaze and it upset her further, so that when she spoke her voice was gruff and hard edged.

“Do you want that soup or not?”

“Yes, I’m hungry.”

“It’ll take some time to fix up.”

“I’m not going anywhere, lady.” He peered down at his bandaged shoulder. “Did you get the bullet out?”

“The bullet went plumb through you. Which outlaw shot you?”

He closed his eyes. “He didn’t offer his name.”

“Then how do you know he was an outlaw?”

His lips dipped into a frown. “Just a hunch.”

“I think you’re a liar. I think
you’re
an outlaw!” Cassie said, then whirled and left him to chew on her last statement.

Rook lifted his lashes just enough to see her stride from the room. “And I think you’re a bitch,” he whispered and felt better for saying it.

When Cassie returned an hour later with a warm bowl of potato soup held between her hands, she found that he had dropped off to sleep again. She set the bowl on the bedside table and tapped her fingers against his whiskered cheek, realizing for the first time that his whiskers were too short to be a beard. This man must usually be clean shaven, she thought. Not like Pa, who had always worn a bushy beard and mustache that tickled her whenever he’d given her an affectionate kiss. Her patient stirred, grunted, and opened his eyes.

“Got your soup,” she said, motioning for him to sit up. She turned and started from the room.

“Hey, lady!”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. “What?”

“I’m going to need a little help.” His elbows wobbled with the effort of lifting his upper torso.

“Can’t you say please?” Cassie snapped. “I ain’t your servant.”

“What are you?” he asked, pausing in his struggle to glare at her. “Besides a sharp-tongued little bitch.”

“What did you say?” Cassie spun around to face him.
“You watch your mouth, mister, or I’ll pour that soup out the window and let you starve to death!”

A wicked smile slanted across his mouth. “Got my grave ready, don’t you? I saw you digging out there. You just love to dig graves, don’t you? I remember riding up and finding …”He looked toward the window, narrowed his eyes, and clamped his teeth together. “I thought that … What were you doing out there?” His black gaze came to bear on her again. “Planting a garden?”

“That’s right.” Cassie folded her arms across her breasts as her hatred toward him blasted through her. “I was burying my pa yesterday, and believe you me, if you were to die I sure as hell wouldn’t bury you on
my
property!”

She expected him to sputter angrily at her as Shorty had done when she had flung insults at him, but this man surprised her by smiling. The smile made him look younger, lighting his dark eyes and stretching his full lips until dimples buried in his cheeks.

“You’re a little hellcat, aren’t you?” he asked softly, then nodded once as if to confirm it. “Could you help me sit up, please? I’d love to sample that soup if I could just get at it.”

His cultured, carefully constructed speech made her revise her opinion of him. He sounded as if he’d been educated, and she doubted if outlaws went to school. Her temper cooled, and she moved cautiously to the head of the bed and helped him sit up. He leaned forward while she plumped up the pillows to brace him, then fell back with a labored sigh.

“I must have lost a lot of blood.” He placed a hand to his brow. “I’m dizzy headed.”

“Hope your fever has broke,” Cassie said, handing the bowl of soup to him. “Eat up.”

“Thank you.” He took the bowl and it quivered in his hands. “Damn it all,” he cursed when some of the soup spilled onto his fingers. “This is hot.”

“Here, let me hold it.” Cassie sat on the edge of the bed and took the bowl from him. “You’ll spill it all over the sheets and make more work for me.”

“I’m nothing but trouble, right?”

“That’s right.” She refused to smile back at him. “I got enough worries without having you adding to ’em. Open your mouth and stop your grinning. You look plumb stupid.” She held the spoon to his lips and he opened his mouth to receive it. The spoon clattered against his teeth and a drop of the milky soup pooled in the corner of his mouth. Cassie sighed and lifted a corner of her apron to scoop it up. “Just like a baby,” she complained.

“Sorry. I’m not used to being spoon-fed, and you, obviously, aren’t used to spoon-feeding. You almost missed my mouth.”

“If you can do better, do it!” Cassie snapped, tired of his bellyaching.

He opened his mouth wide and his eyes laughed at her. Cassie beat back her irritation and poked the spoon into his mouth until he almost gagged on it.

“Jesus Christ, woman!” he bawled, coughing and batting her hand away. “Can’t you be gentle?”

“No.” Cassie held up another spoonful of soup. “Open up.”

He obliged but cringed a little when she moved the soup forward. An inner voice chastised her for taking advantage of his predicament; she gave in to it and tried to be more obliging. He ate in silence, taking in one spoonful after another until the bowl was half empty; then he shook his head.

“That’s all I can manage.” His voice was weaker and Cassie noticed that much of the energy had waned from his pitchy eyes. His head fell back against the pillow and his lashes made dark crescents on his pale cheeks.

“You feeling sick?”

“No, just tired. Worn out.” He wiggled his hips and inched down into the bed. “Thank you for the soup.”

Cassie placed the bowl on the table and helped position the pillows more comfortably under his head. When she stood up and started to leave the bedroom, she heard him stir and paused to glance back at him.

“Did you say your name was Cassie?”

“That’s right. Cassandra Mae Potter.”

“I’m Rook.”

She started to tell him that she already knew his name, but he closed his eyes again, shutting out the rest of the world. Cassie shrugged and closed the door behind her. She went to the stove and helped herself to a portion of the soup.

Sitting at the kitchen table where she and Shorty had shared many a meal, she felt the emptiness again, a deep, gaping hole in her soul that made her want to cry out. Pa had been crazy about her tater soup and had never failed to lavish her with compliments when she served it. He had bragged to everybody who’d listen about what a great cook she was—just like her ma.

On impulse, she went to Shorty’s cot and sat on the floor beside it. Reaching under it, she pulled out the flat iron trunk that held Shorty Potter’s belongings. The lid opened on squeaky hinges and Cassie smiled as she spotted Shorty’s folded clothing: longhandles, suspenders, pants, shirts, and a pair of dress shoes that she’d never seen him wear. She removed the clothing, letting her fingers glide over the familiar items while her nose caught the woodsy scent of Shorty Potter. The smell of him brought sentimental tears to her eyes as she recalled the feel of his whiskers when she’d kissed him and the touch of his calloused hands on her face. The tears spilled over onto her cheeks, and she didn’t bother to try to keep them at bay. It felt good to cry.

She held up one of the shirts, measuring it with her eyes, and decided that it was too small for Rook. She folded it again and placed it on top of the others; then she set the two pairs of suspenders to one side. The suspenders might be useful, but the shirts and pants would never fit that long-limbed, tall stranger. Eben Potter hadn’t been called Shorty for nothing. Rook probably was a good foot or more taller than Pa and would never fit into these clothes. She’d have to wash his dirty garments like Jewel had said.

Yellowed papers and brown photographs were strewn across the bottom of the trunk, and Cassie sorted through them. Most of the people in the photographs were relatives and friends she couldn’t remember. She found her birth certificate among the papers and her parents’ wedding license, both issued in St. Louis. The last paper she picked
up was the one she’d been looking for—the deed to the land. She studied it, reading it several times and trying to understand each word. It looked legal. It was deeded to Eben Potter, but one line said that the property would pass on to his closest relative upon his death. Just like Pa had said, Cassie thought with a smile of relief. The land was hers now that Pa was gone.

She started to put everything back into the trunk but paused when she saw a piece of paper stuck in the underside of the lid. It wasn’t yellowed like the others. The heavy parchment was stiff and the fold was barely creased. Cassie’s lips parted in surprise when she saw the fancy, black-inked scroll at the top of the page. It wasn’t Shorty’s writing. It was legal writing.

Last Will and Testament
.

When had Pa drawn up a will? Cassie wondered as she read the contents, her lips moving slowly at first before she began reading aloud:

Cassie stared at the last signature. Tom Cuddahie. The lawyer in Eureka Springs? She folded the document again and pressed it to her heart. Pa had drawn this up four months before he’d been shot to death. Had he had an inkling that his life might be in danger? She placed the document on top of the folded clothes and closed the trunk’s lid, then shoved it back under the cot as questions crowded her mind. Next time she was in town, she’d pay a visit to that lawyer and—

A loud crash and the tinkling of glass brought Cassie to her feet with a startled cry. She threw open the bedroom
door and her gaze took in the broken lamp and the thrashing man in the bed.

“What the—” She went to stand over the shattered lamp and the pool of kerosene that darkened the wood floor. “Look what you’ve done! What’s wrong with you?” Her whining ceased abruptly when she saw the stain of blood on his bandage. “Damnation, you’re bleeding again,” she murmured, placing her hands firmly on his shoulders and forcing them back down onto the mattress.

He was out of his head, murmuring nonsense and struggling against her constraints. The arm nearest her swept up, and his knuckles rammed into her cheek. Tears sprang to her eyes and Cassie let out a yelp of pain. She grabbed his hands and pinned them to his sides, throwing all her weight into the task to keep him still.

“Rook! Rook, calm down, for pity’s sake,” she begged breathlessly, and, miracle of miracles, the fight went out of him. “Rook?” She leaned closer to his face, suddenly afraid that he’d died, but she felt his warm breath on her face and relaxed. Once she got her wind back, she removed the bandage and her stomach lurched. The wound was bad and, Cassie decided, getting worse.

She straightened up with renewed determination. “You’re not gonna die on me, mister,” she said sternly. “If you’re an outlaw then I’m getting you well and collecting the reward. If you ain’t, then I’m getting you well so’s you can get back on your horse and get out of my way!” She whirled from him and went back into the other room to the cupboards. “Don’t have time to mess with you,” she grumbled as she rummaged through the cupboards until she found the cigar box full of salves and bandages and Indian potions Pa had sworn by. “Jewel don’t know nothing about fixing up ailments! Can’t just clean a hole like that and ’spect it to mend. Gotta help it along.”

She remembered having a fever once, and Pa had poured some of the Indian potions down her throat. It had tasted like rusty water, but it had killed her fever and put the spark of life back into her.

Cassie unscrewed the lid of one of the jars that held a pinkish liquid. She sniffed it, recognized the vile stench,
and took it with her back into the bedroom along with a pot of salve.

“You ain’t gonna like this,” she said, sitting on the side of the bed and forcing Rook’s lips apart. “But it’s better than dying.”

Mild spring weather spread across the hills and valleys of Arkansas. Wildflowers carpeted the ground, and birds began to build creative nests in the budding trees. The weather brought renewed hope. It was a season for planting, growing, and forgetting the hard winter.