Dorothy Garlock (36 page)

With the knife in her hand, she hesitated. She wasn’t sure she could cut into his flesh. As she hesitated, Billy’s gnarled hand came down on her shoulder.

“Ya wantin’ me to do it?”

“No.” She ground her teeth together. “I started it; I’ll finish.”

“Ya be a good lassie. Smith’ll be thankin’ ya.”

“I don’t want his thanks,” she said grimly. “I don’t want anything from him.”

She was thankful that Smith didn’t flinch when she made the incision. She reached in with the pincers, pulled out the bullet, and dropped it on the table. After she swabbed the cut with listerine, she soaked a pad and placed it over the wound.

Billy eased Smith onto his back.

With the tweezers Willa picked out fragments of cloth from the jagged hole and disinfected the lacerated flesh. Smith
didn’t move or make a sound even when she put in the stitches to hold the flesh together.

“Smith’ll be happy we didn’t waste good whiskey,” she said, and dabbed at the crease on the side of his head with an antiseptic-soaked cloth.

“Yup. He be known to take a drink or two.”

“A drink or two?” The strain of working over him had stretched Willa’s nerves as tight as a fiddle string. Her voice was harsh. “More likely a whole bottle or two.”

“Yup. He done that too, but not lately.”

“Not lately.” She looked at Billy with cold disdain. “What do you call lately? The last hour or two? Are you saying that he
hasn’t
been shacked up with a . . . a loose woman for a week and that he
hasn’t
drunk himself into a stupor? Did she get tired of him . . . pawing her . . . and shoot him?” Pride and only pride kept Willa from crying and throwing something against the wall.

“What in tarnation are ya talkin’ ’bout?”

“I merely wanted to know who shot him. But I’m sorry I asked. It’s no business of mine,” she said briskly, dropping the bloody rag in the wash basin. “Absolutely no business of mine.”

“I’m a knowin’ that, but I’m tellin’ ya anyhow cause I’m a thinkin’ ya got thin’s back-sackered, girl. Feller named George Fuller bushwacked him and Sant down by the creek. Sant trailed ’im and killed ’im. He’s takin’ the buckboard and bringin’ him in to the marshal at Buffalo.”

“Fuller? Oh—” Willa’s eyes sought Smith’s face. Her hands stilled; one was resting on the top of his head, the other held the cloth she was using to wash the blood out of his hair.

“Sant said Smith’d tangled with him over you women folk.”

“But . . . I’m the one who bit him. Smith wasn’t even there.”

“He found his camp and kicked the sh . . . stuffin’s out of him. Then he shot him in the butt for shootin’ yore dog.”

“When did this happen?”

“Before ya got here, I reckon.”

“He never said anything to me about seeing Fuller again.”

“Don’t surprise me none a’tall.” Billy picked up the wash basin. “I’ll fetch ya some clean water.”

The light from the window shone on Smith’s face. He looked so tired and pale beneath several day’s growth of whiskers. His lashes were long and gold-tipped. His brows curved in a high arch. Willa ran her fingertip lightly over one of them, then moved it away guiltily.

“Do you think I want to love you?” The words came on a breath of a whisper. “I don’t! You would give me nothing but pain, and I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.” She choked back the sobs as she thought of the long, lonely future that lay before her.

Billy returned and set the wash basin on the table within easy reach. He stood back and watched Willa clip Smith’s hair so she could smear ointment along the cut on his head.

“When do you reckon he’ll come to? He’s been out a long time.”

“I don’t know if he passed out because of the whiskey or loss of blood—”

“Because of whiskey? Ya keep harpin’ on that. Are ya one of them prohibition woman goin’ round bustin’ up saloons and preachin’ hell-fire and brimstone?”

“I am not,” she said staunchly, turning to glare at him. “I believe that liquor has its place if it’s not misused. It has a certain medicinal value. It’s also addictive. Some men and some women, I might add, can’t leave it alone.”

“Ya think Smith’s one of them, and he passed out ’cause of whiskey? Far as I know he ain’t had any since he come back.”

“Of course he hasn’t.” She wanted to shout but controlled her voice with effort. “He’s been unconscious.”

“Let’s me and ya get a thin’ or two straight, missy. Ya think he’s drunk
now
?”

“I don’t think anything. As I said before it’s none of my business if he drinks himself into a stupor. I’m just trying to help another human being.”

“I’m gettin’ yore meanin’ clear as a bell. I’m a tellin’ ya Smith ain’t been off on no drinkin’ spree. He’s been herdin’ a pack a ornery steers for a week.”

“He came back—”

“If’n he did I didn’t see him.”

“You sent the Indian to get him—”

“I ain’t sent that clabber-head nowhere.”

“—It was no use. He wouldn’t come. He was with a woman who . . . sells her services.”

“That’s pure sh . . . horse-hockey!”

Willa’s throat filled up as the truth hit her. Billy would have no reason to lie—to try to hide Smith’s . . . activities from her. A wave of pure joy washed over her, followed quickly by self-condemnation. She had been so gullible, so easily convinced by Jo Bell’s spiteful words that Smith was a despicable degenerate. Oh, she had known about the drinking; she had seen that with her own eyes, but it was the other that had hurt so damn bad. Tears she could not control rolled down her cheeks. She tried to turn her face away, but Billy’s hands on her shoulders turned her toward him.

“I’m not knowin’ much ’bout women folk, but I know one don’t cry lessen’ she’s feelin’ bad ’bout somethin’. If yore thinkin’ Smith’ll die, there ain’t much danger of it less he gets blood poison.”

“I thought . . . someone told me that he’d come back and left to meet a . . . woman and get drunk.”

“It ain’t so. But why’er ya feelin’ bad? Ain’t ya glad, lass?”

“I’m tired and discouraged, but mostly I’m ashamed. I was duped into thinking the worst about him.”

“Reckon it was that gal. Smith said she was pure poison—”

“She’s that all right. I’ve never met anyone like her.”

“Ya’ve had ya a hard time, ain’t ya? Charlie told how ya happened to be with the Franks. Smith’s had a hard time too, but he’s a tryin’ to make the best of it.” She leaned her forehead against Billy’s shoulder for an instant. “I know fer a fact Smith ain’t been drunk since ya been here. I ain’t sayin’ he didn’t use to do that some. More’n some. The boy had a load to carry that’d break a weaker man.”

“Thank you for telling me that, Billy.” Willa pulled away. “We’ve got to watch him. He may go into shock. It worries me that he hasn’t regained consciousness.”

“If he’d a’been drunk, lass, ya’d a knowed. He’d a smelled like he been wallerin’ in a hog trough.”

“Smith dead yet?”

Willa and Billy turned to see Plenty Mad. His face was covered with gray ashes. He had smeared something black on his nose and had tied black feathers to the braids on each side of his face.

“No, ya blasted dog-eatin’ jackass!” Billy’s voice thundered in the quiet room.

“Why you get all mad, Billy? Plenty Mad ready for death ceremony. I sing songs of friend Smith’s courage in battle and hunt for the big buffer.”

“Get yore tail out before I kick it out!”

“Ahhh . . .” Plenty clamped his hands over his ears. “You make me not to hear with loud voice.”

Willa looked down to see if the shouts had disturbed Smith. His eyes were open and he was looking at her.

“You’re . . . awake,” she whispered breathlessly. “You’re awake,” she repeated as if she couldn’t believe it. “How do you feel?”

“I’m thirsty—”

“He’s awake, Billy. And he’s thirsty.” Willa’s voice had a smile in it.

“Well, dog my cats. Howdy, boy.” Billy came to the bed with Plenty Mad close at his heels.

“You ain’t goin’ to be dead, Smith?” Plenty asked, jabbing an elbow in Billy’s ribs to push him aside.

“Don’t know yet. I see you’re ready for it.” Smith moved his head slightly and grimaced.

“Plenty Mad looks plenty damn good, huh, Smith? Dance all night for good friend. Plenty Mad ready to build good, high scaffold.”

“It’s good of you, but don’t trouble yourself.” Smith closed his eyes wearily.

“No trouble. No plenty damn trouble. No wolves get to friend Smith. Plenty Mad build damn fine scaffold.” He slapped away Billy’s hand on his shoulder. “Stop pushin’, Billy. Stop hell damn pushin’.”

“Then get out, ya gal-durned dumb-head. Get out before I throw ya out.”

“Kiss my damn hell ass, Billy. You make me plenty damn mad. I tell spirits make you plenty damn sick. Hair fall out, teeth rot, manroot fall off.” He made a breaking gesture with his two hands. “You see. You see plenty damn quick.”

“Horse-hockey!”

“I go, Smith, or I skin Billy like jackrabbit. Don’t worry, friend Smith. You die, Plenty Mad make plenty big to-do. Give friend Smith plenty good send-off.”

“That’s comforting to know. Thanks a lot.” Smith spoke with his eyes closed.

Growling like a bear with a sore tail, Billy grabbed up the water bucket and followed the Indian out.

“Here’s some water,” Willa said. “Can you drink or would you rather I spoon some into your mouth?”

“I’ll drink.”

She put her hand under his head to lift it. He drank thirstily, emptying the glass.

“I thought I was seeing things when I saw you standing there.”

“Do you know where you are?” she asked as she gently lowered his head to the pillow.

“Sure. My head’s clear as a bell. It’s strange having you in my house, but good too.”

“I . . . well . . . Billy asked me to help. I’ll have to be getting back—”

“Don’t go.” He reached for her hand, turned her palm to his and interlaced his fingers between hers. “How bad am I?”

“You’ve got a new part in your hair—over your ear. A bullet went through your leg, but missed the bone. I’d say you’re in pretty good shape.”

“Then why am I so weak? I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“You lost a lot of blood. I was worried you’d go into shock. You still could. You must stay still and stay warm.”

“It was Fuller. If I’d known it was him Sant went after, I’d not have worried so much while he was gone. That backshooter didn’t stand a chance against Sant.”

“Billy said you went to Fuller’s camp that night.”

“Billy talks too much.”

“You shot him.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have, but he shot your dog.”

Willa looked down at their two hands. His fingers were squeezing hers so tightly that they were almost numb. She could feel his eyes on her face and, not ready to meet his direct gaze, she looked toward the window.

“Look at me.” His quiet words dropped into the stillness.

There was a strange quietness about him. They looked at each other for a long while. His eyes were like clear green pools of mountain water.
They were beautiful.
Into her clouded mind drifted the thought that she had never seen such beautiful eyes on a man, but then she had never looked into a man’s eyes as she was looking into Smith’s.

She didn’t know what to say. He lifted her hand to his chest and clasped it in both of his.

“I tried not to think about you while I was gone.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But it was no use.” His eyes moved to her mouth and lingered before lifting to stare intently into hers. “I dreamed about kissing you.”

Willa saw deep tension in his face and something she hadn’t seen before. She wasn’t sure if it was a hunger for something or if it was a pleading for understanding. She took a deep breath that quivered her lips. Her eyes softened and caressed his face.

He watched in fascination as her eyes smiled warmly into his. The look warmed him to his very soul, and a trembling joy came over him.

“While I was on that damn bumpy travois, I thought of you. I tried my level best to stay awake until I got here so I could see you.” His voice was low but vibrated with emotion.

“I saw Sant bring you in.”

She tried to smile while the fingers of her free hand poked strands of hair into the knot at the nape of her neck. He lay there, his eyes glued to her face.

“You’re even prettier than I remembered.”

She responded to the tug of his hand and sank down on the bunk beside him.

“That bullet must have damaged your eyesight—”

“You’re tired. You have blue circles under your eyes. Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Of course. I’ve not given Mrs. Eastwood laudanum for several days. Inez is a big help. And . . . I like her. She makes the best pie. Even Mrs. Eastwood—” Her words trailed when she realized he was watching the movement of her mouth but not hearing a word she said.

“Will you kiss me again?”

She swallowed. It took her a full thirty seconds for the import of his words to take root in her mind. She shook her head.

“No. No, we shouldn’t—”

“I’ve thought about it for a week. I’ll not ask for more.” The low, husky whisper came to her ears.

She stared into his eyes and then, as if mesmerized, she lowered her head, placed her lips on his and pressed gently. His cheeks were rough, his lips soft, yet firm and gentle as they moved beneath hers. Willa closed her eyes. Her heart was racing, thundering in her ears as his hand moved to the nape of her neck and his fingers spread into her hair. He took only what she offered voluntarily and didn’t try to hold her when her mouth moved away from his.

His hand moved slowly over her shoulder and down her arm as if reluctant to lose contact with her. Time assumed a dreamlike quality as they looked at each other. As his eyes searched her face, a wave of helplessness came over her. He had become everything to her. She had never really understood the magnetism between a woman and a man before. It was both wonderful and devastating.

Finally it was Willa who broke the silence.

“I should go see about Mrs. Eastwood.”

“I wish you didn’t have to.”

“So . . . do I—”

“You’ll come back?”

“When I can.”

“There’s something about you that’s . . . peaceful.”