Desert Angel (36 page)

“Perhaps so, perhaps not.” March folded a blue gown of such gloriously soft fabric that she couldn’t resist stroking it. “I’ve seen her bedroom, and now this. I never met her, but from what you’ve said, I don’t think she ever grew up. I think she wanted to stay a little girl forever.”

“You’re probably right, but that doesn’t make it any easier for me to accept my cruelty to her.”

“Cruelty is seeing a hungry child and not feeding it. Cruelty is watching a horse with a broken leg suffer rather than shooting it. Cruelty is telling yourself that it’s your fault that Melanie wasn’t happy.” Suddenly the lovely gowns and trinkets weren’t nearly as attractive to March.

They were reminders of a life wasted. “It’s sad that she’s gone, that Jamie will never know his mother. But life continues, day after day. Keep her as a gentle memory in your heart, and let the rest go.”

“It’s not that easy,” Jim said quietly.

“Nobody ever said it would be, but you don’t deserve to spend the rest of your life regretting hers. With time and a little practice, your memories will be pleasant ones. The sorrow and guilt will fade.”

All ready Jim was beginning to find that the guilt of Melanie’s death was lighter. Somehow this woman, with a few words, had helped him to see and accept that it hadn’t been his fault. “How’d you get so wise?”

“Nothing wise about it. Common sense tells me that she had everything to live for, and yet she chose to give it up. That wasn’t your fault. Why should you be the one to suffer?”

It was the same things he had told himself since Melanie’s death, but for some reason, it sounded more convincing coming from March. He could almost believe that he hadn’t been at fault, that Melanie had been a spoiled, pampered little girl who wasn’t ready to be a wife; who would have never been ready to grow up. Maybe, someday, he would believe it.

TWENTY-TWO

In the main room of the old adobe house, March sat on the multicolored rag rug that graced the floor, and smiled at Jamie’s antics. The baby gurgled happily at her, his grin displaying four pearly white teeth; two on the top and two on the bottom.

Rolling over to his plump belly, he struggled to get his hands and knees beneath him. Successful, he turned to look at March, batting his thick eyelashes. With a shriek of carefree glee, he used his newly learned technique to crawl over to her.

“You’re so silly.” March picked him up high over her head and kissed his tummy, smiling at his pleased giggle. He was a beautiful baby with dark brown hair, and deep blue eyes surrounded by the thickest eyelashes she had ever seen. No longer content to stay where he was put now that he had discovered mobility, he was becoming a little person with a definite personality and a growing list of likes and dislikes.

Putting him back onto the rug and handing him a wooden toy Hank had carefully carved to fit a tiny grasp, March picked up her sewing. Adding the few final stitches to the shirt that was to be a Christmas present for Jim, she sighed with contentment.

She couldn’t quite believe how happy and satisfied she was in her role of wife and mother. Jamie was a pure delight, the light of her life. With Jim, she found a contentment she hadn’t known existed.

The old adobe house had become her own private domain, to her knowledge no one else ever entered the structure. Jim was aware that she spent time there several days each week, but never intruded on her privacy. With a few touches strictly her own, a colorful pillow here, a coverlet there, she had turned the abandoned house into a home.

She often wished that she had the nerve to suggest to him that they move into the adobe, but she was afraid that he would be offended. The big house was beautiful, the furnishings luxurious, but coldly impersonal. It would never have the appeal of the adobe nor the warmth of a real home.

Of course, they would soon need the extra bedrooms of the big house, March thought with a satisfied sigh. Since she’d had her monthly time only once shortly after their marriage four months earlier, she had every reason to believe that she was in the family way. It gave her a deeper feeling of contentment to know that she was carrying Jim’s child.

Along with the shirt she planned to give him next month for Christmas, March decided to give him the news about the baby. By then it would be definite, not just a suspicion.

“What do you say about heading home, young man?” Folding the finished shirt, March gathered her sewing supplies together and placed them in the quilted bag she had made.

“It’s getting late, and I need to get your daddy’s supper cooking and give you another bath.” She gathered the gurgling baby into her arms and bounced him on her lap. “How one little baby can get so dirty is a mystery to me. You seem to find dirt even when there isn’t any. You’ve got enough under your chin to plant some corn.”

March tickled his neck, delighting in his giggle. “We’ll plant corn here.” She tickled him just beneath his right ear, “And some beans along about here.” Kissing the flesh along his jawline, she wiggled her fingers under his other ear. “And maybe some squash here, and a few potatoes beside them.”

Suddenly the door to the house was thrown open with such violence that it bounced against the wall. Clasping Jamie against her chest, March looked up with alarm as she reached for the single-shot derringer in her apron pocket.

“Come quick, missy,” Woods gasped between strangled breaths.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, climbing hastily to her feet.

“Give me that youn’en and hustle over to the big house.”

“Woods, what’s wrong?” Alarm raced down March’s spine as she clutched the baby tighter.

“The boss’s been shot. It’s bad, missy, real bad,” he replied gruffly.

“Shot … oh, my God, no …”

“There ain’t no time to waste. Breed said to get you there quick-like.”

Knowing that Jamie would be perfectly safe in Woods’s care, she placed the baby in his arms. Pulling her skirt up nearly to her knees, she raced from the house.

Jim had been shot! She couldn’t believe that Jim, so strong, so vitally alive, could now be in danger of dying. Only last night he had picked her up in his brawny arms and carried her up to the bedroom. His lovemaking had been wickedly teasing, bringing her to the point of madness, before he had taken them both over the edge of fulfillment.

Was he still alive, or had he already been taken from her?

Never before had the distance to the big house seemed so long, or her feet so heavy.
Too late, too late,
her running footsteps seemed to mock. By the time the big house came into sight, March was breathing heavily and a stitch pulled in her side, but she didn’t slow her pace. Her thoughts were centered on Jim and the very real possibility that she would, indeed, be too late.

The house was alive with activity, men seemed to be milling around everywhere. Each one of them looked at her gravely, a few nodded, a few turned their faces away.

March flew up the steps, her gaze riveted on the open door of the bedroom she shared with Jim. Her attention was drawn immediately to the still figure on the bed, and the spreading red stain on his dusty shirt.

At her moan of anguish, snarling silver eyes lifted to her. Breed said something quietly to the man beside him, before he rose gracefully to his feet. His tall, powerful body loomed over March, as he reached for her shoulder and forced her from the room.

“He needs you,” Breed said quietly when they were alone. “But he doesn’t need someone to hang over him wailing with grief.”

“How bad is it?”

“Bad.”

“Will he live?” Though her words were whispered, her fear was a viable thing.

“I don’t know.” It never entered his mind to lie or to soften the blow with a half-truth. “He needs someone who is willing to fight for him. If you can’t do that, then go back to your house over the hill.”

March felt anger creep in around the edges of her fear. “I will not moan and groan, nor will I run away and hide. I’ve seen blood before and managed not to swoon. He is my husband; my place is at his side.”

“Good.” Breed nodded once, turned, and headed back to the bedroom. He was aware of March at his side and the fact that the next few hours would take all of the strength of will she possessed, and then some.

The man at the bedside nodded when they approached, then left the room after a few words with Breed. A bucket of warm water and some clean sheets waited on the table nearest the bed.

March was proud of the fact that she didn’t blink an eye when Breed pulled the big knife from its sheath on his thigh. Her teeth bit into her bottom lip, as she fought to remain quiet when he slipped it under Jim’s bloody shirt, splitting the fabric from hem to neckline. Only the barest hint of a sound passed her lips, at the tiny hole low in his shoulder that oozed dark-red blood.

Breed was too busy to pay attention to March. If he had, he would have seen the tears that she made no attempt to wipe away. He only knew that when he started to remove Jim’s shirt, she was there to help pull away the fabric. Her hands were steady as she sponged away the blood, giving them a better view.

“I need to roll him over,” Breed stated, gently moving the injured man.

“Why?” She knew how badly he was hurt, and couldn’t stand the thought of moving Jim unnecessarily.

He didn’t reply as he carefully turned Jim to expose his heavily muscled back. Seeing what he’d expected to find, disappointed that there was no exit hole, Breed slowly lowered him back to the bed. He carefully palpitated the bruised flesh, feeling the grate of bone against bone in at least two spots.

“The bullet’s still in there, and he’s got at least two broken ribs we’ve got to worry about. There’s no air bubbles around the hole, so I’d say it missed a lung, but one of the bones could still do the damage.”

“He’ll make it,” March stated firmly. “Tell me what to do.”

“You ever remove a bullet before?”

“No, but I will if I have to.” She raised her chin, unaware that the tears on her face gave her a vulnerability even the hardened warrior admired. “I take it we don’t have time to send for the doctor?”

“It’d be better, if we don’t wait.” Breed stood and looked down at her. “Besides, I don’t want word getting out yet that he’s been shot.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know who did it, or why. If they know he’s alive, they might try again.”

“You mean this was deliberate? Someone pointed their rifle at Jim, and intentionally pulled the trigger?”

He didn’t answer, choosing instead to remove the remainder of Jim’s clothing. “We’ll need more rags, a bucket of hot water, some sewing thread, a needle, and whiskey.”

“I asked you a question,” March stated firmly. “Did someone intentionally shoot my husband?”

Breed dropped the dusty pants. “He came riding in alone, barely hanging onto his horse. His gun hadn’t been fired, so he didn’t do it to himself. Been more than one man who’s found himself dead when his gun went off at the wrong time.”

He removed the cloth thong that held the long blond hair at the nape of his neck and tied it around his forehead just above his eyebrows.

Annoyed that he hadn’t answered her, March reached out and grabbed his arm. “I asked you a question; did someone intentionally shoot him?”

Breed looked down at her hand on his arm, but didn’t shrug it away. “My guess is that he was ambushed. I’ll look for signs later, but if you intend to see him live past tonight, we’ve got to get that slug out now.

“Go get the things we need while I get him ready.”

As he moved away, March reluctantly left the room. Her thoughts were frenzied as she wondered why someone would deliberately shoot Jim. He knew most of the people in the area as friends, except maybe for Bud Hamner. The old man was grieving, but after their confrontation at the Fourth of July celebration, she didn’t think he would harm Jim.

She thought briefly of Light, but discarded the idea almost immediately. The Indian had brought her back of his own free will, she couldn’t believe that he would now go after the white man who had claimed her.

So the question remained unanswered for now. Whoever had shot Jim was still roaming free, while he was fighting for his very life.

With the help of two ranch hands, March gathered up the things Breed needed and carried them back upstairs. She had to bite back a protest, when she saw that he had tied Jim spread-eagle on the bed. His ankles and wrists had been wrapped in several layers of fabric, so that the ropes didn’t cut into them, but she still objected to the cruelty of tying him.

“Is that really necessary?” She nodded toward the ropes.

“If you have the strength to hold him still, I will release him.”

Unable to fight the wisdom of his decision, March made no further protest as she began to cut a sheet into usable sizes for bandages. The next hour and a half was torture, plain and simple torture, for both the injured man and the woman who helped to cause him further pain. From the moment when Breed had enlarged the bullet opening, until she carefully sewed the last of the fourteen stitches needed to close the wound, March fought back a constant need to cry against the agony they were causing.

After a thick pad had been placed on the incision and several layers of fabric had been wrapped around him to try to hold the broken ribs in place, March pushed her hair out of her eyes and stood in a daze as Breed untied the ropes.