Healing Hearts (Easton Series #2) (12 page)

Chapter 18

  
H
annah’s laughter drifted from the passenger seat as they drove out to
the Mineral Creek Ranch. An ill cowboy had advanced the time of their monthly
visit to the Easton place. Sarah Easton sent the message, and she made it
clear: She’d be disappointed if Rutherford’s calico partner didn’t show. For
Jed, inviting Hannah along was easier than facing Sarah’s wrath and Cal’s
inquisition.

  
“Thank you for hanging my
painting,” Hannah sang gaily as she bounced over the buggy springs. Jed snapped
his head around. Her hair was tied back, but a blossom of tresses curled over
her back in feminine fashion. She looked sweet and eager, like she was going to
her first ball. At that moment she was the prettiest woman he’d ever set his
eyes on.

  
The corners of his mouth turned up.
“I realized your art is functional. It perfectly covers a crack in the wall.”

  
She tapped his thigh with her
slender hand. “All right. It’s not my best, but you had to do something with
the extra frame you made.”

  
She laughed, and his smile reached
to his eyes.

  
Hannah had, literally, painted the
town. Her work hung in the hotel, general store, newspaper office, and the
jailhouse. The piece he’d framed and hung in the surgery depicted the main
street of Wounded Colt, a lonely humanity of false fronted buildings set
against the prairie. He had to admit it was a fine artistic rendering, but it
also revealed her conflicted feelings about the town. It was lonely, yet
hopeful, with rays of sunshine peeking over and between gray structures. Her
paintings melted away her shield, and he’d found pain and hardship, beauty and
wonder, hope and despair, all exposed in colors, composition, and even the
brushstrokes.

 
Such reflection was useless. The threat of
her leaving crashed over him, like waves in a storm. He’d grown to trust and respect
her, yet he acknowledged the truth of his position: He had no one else to fall
back on. He loathed his vulnerability and the raw exposure of his condition.

 
Jed turned his face to keep his profile
to her, while silently chastising himself for his recent behavior: Just the day
before he’d frantically searched for extra morphine to hoard. Suspecting Hannah
had hidden the supply, he’d searched in her desk and found letters from her
mother, along with a recent reply she’d penned. The message was clear: Hannah’s
mother insisted she marry or leave him.

  
He couldn’t give her up. Wounded
Colt couldn’t let her go. Like her patients, he loved her calm, soothing voice.
He loved to imagine more picnics with her, endless breakfasts, and tender
moments when they watched mule deer shyly grazing around their house on the
outer edge of town. He’d come to enjoy the daily interaction and Hannah working
by his side. He’d learned as much from her as she had from him, although he’d
be the last to admit it.

  
There was one way to keep her in
his house, and permanently.

  
He cleared his throat and kept his
eyes fixed forward. “You know, lots of talk goes around town about us. Gossip,
mostly. Old biddies question the propriety of you living with a man. I’m sorry
you have to endure it. You know why I don’t marry.”

  
She nodded briskly. “Yes.”

  
“But what about you? Why are you
adverse to knowing a man and marrying up?”

  
He felt her leg stiffen against
his thigh.

  
“I think I have a right to know.
You know my secret. How can I understand you if I don’t know your story?”

  
She was silent and looked away
from him. “I’m not whole,” she whispered.

  
“You can’t bear children?” His rich
voice was low and deep.

  
“No. Well, yes . . . I mean . . . it’s
something else.”

  
Abruptly, with hands shaking,
Hannah raised her trouser leg up to her knee. “It goes to the middle of my
thigh,” she explained reluctantly. She let the fabric fall as quickly as she’d
raised it. If he’d blinked he would have missed seeing the scar.

  
Jed knit his brow. He’d seen the burned
flesh before, and now he feigned surprise.

  
“It happened when you were young?”

  
“Yes.” She bit her lower lip. “I
don’t want to talk about it further.”

  
He was silent for some minutes.
He’d known about the scars, but now he thought about how this injury -- and her
family’s reaction to it -- had shaped the woman. “You have no intention of
marrying anyone, ever?”

  
“No. Of course not. You see why
not.”

  
He frowned. “No, I don’t
precisely.” He squinted. “It’s not a tarnished reputation or a crime that holds
you back.” He slapped the reins in frustration. “You know, the talk in town
about us is like a fever.”

  
She seemed relieved at this turn
of the conversation. “Oh, my mother makes mention of it in her letters.” She
slapped a hand to her mouth, as if she wanted to take the words back as soon as
she’d said them.

  
The air hung thick between them. Jed
decided to throw to home plate. He couldn’t lose what he was already losing.
“We could marry, and continue to live as we do now.”

  
She inhaled sharply. “A marriage
of convenience?”

  
“Yes, if you’d like to call it
that. It would solve the problem of people talking.”

 
 
“Isn’t it lying?”

  
“I think not. You are fond of me,
as you would be fond of a brother, are you not?”

  
“Y-yes, but—“

  
“We are family to each other, and
marriage is to create family, is it not?”

  
“Yes, but –“

  
“Older couples often aren’t
physically intimate, and they can no longer have children, yet they are
married,” he argued. “Hannah, you know this from your work. Look, we’re being
honest with each other. I don’t hesitate to tell you: You’re the closest woman in
my life. You know my greatest secret.”

  
She slanted her gray eyes in his
direction. “That’s true . . . all right. . . . I’ll marry you,
if
you agree to the treatment.”

  
“The treatment?”

  
“Quit the morphine.”

  
He grimaced and swallowed. “After
we marry.”

  
“No,” she stuck her chin out. “Before.
And you have to do it my way.” She clasped her hands tightly together in her
lap, as if she were praying. His gaze wandered to her white knuckles.

  
“All right.”

  
Hannah’s shoulders dropped. “We’re
going to make you well,” she said, but her tone included a note of doubt.

  
“Right,” Jed forced through
clenched teeth. He couldn’t believe he’d made the bargain to go through hell
for her, but it was the only way. He’d lose her if he didn’t secure her with
matrimony.

Chapter 19

  
   
O
n the first day she reduced his
dose to five grains. Within hours a migraine ricocheted through his head,
throwing him down to his cot with cruel vengeance. Hannah pulled the shades,
blanketed his chilled body and fed him hot broth. She moved the surgery to the
porch, and she treated patients with extreme haste and efficiency.

  
He’d never felt more useless in
his life.

  
On the second day she gave him two
grains. He heaved up his breakfast, and continued heaving every hour. When he
wasn’t doubled over, he was berating her or begging for morphine.

  
He was thrashing, and it was all
she could do to control him as she sent for the blacksmith, Farrel, who held him
down while they chained his arms to the cot.

  
After that, Hawkins and Easton and
Farrel alternated assisting.

  
Hannah was there throughout his
ordeal, wiping sweat from Jed’s brow and cheeks and giving him water to drink. She
didn’t sleep for three days.

  
Jed felt vulnerable as a newborn.
For the first time in his life he was completely and utterly lost, at the mercy
of others, and he no longer felt a part of the world. What did he have left if
this didn’t succeed? Failure was not an acceptable outcome for the patient, and
if he lived he’d cherish the one person in his life and make her his family. It
didn’t matter that the marriage would be in name only; he decided he’d let it
be, as long as Hannah needed it that way. He’d have companionship and comfort
and partnership. It was more than enough.

  
He was hot. Then he was cold. Hannah
added blankets, but they could not protect him from the harsh wracking of his body
crying out for the drug. He prayed for death when he thought he would live. He
prayed to live when he felt like dying. Most of all he prayed Hannah would not
leave him.

  
She’d tell him he was getting
better when he wasn’t so he wouldn’t give up. She’d lie about how close he was to
relief, and she’d say the shakes were a good sign. She said it was like breaking
a horse, and he’d break this one good. Just mount again, and let it buck, she
murmured. When he begged shamelessly, looking into her bloodshot eyes
underlined with dark exhaustion, she told him he couldn’t let the devil win. He
looked past her ragged frame, at the wall, and tried desperately to put himself
into her painting. He closed his eyes to relive the tranquility of the picnic,
the day he’d kissed those soft lips. He decided he’d do it again, if only he
got through this hell.

 
 
By the fourth day he took only one grain, and twice she relented and
added a shot of whiskey. He heaved up the warm milk. He’d lost weight, felt
weak. Hannah’s hands rubbed his back, attempting to make pain tolerable with
her kindness and strength. She stroked his shoulders and leaned into his lower
back.

  
“Does this help?” she whispered.

  
“It does.”

  
“You know the dangers of
addiction. You know this is good for you,” she repeated it like an endless
mantra.

  
“Yes. I know,” he grunted, as an
icy shiver played up his spine.

  
She reminded him, over and over,
as her hand wandered up and down his chest, wiping with a cool cloth, how good
he’d feel when it was over. He’d be in control of his life, his destiny.

  
During the quieter times she read
aloud and bathed him, and the warm gentle cleansing eased the blackness. She
combed her fingers through his coarse hair to work in the soap, and then worked
from his neck to his toes, lathering and rinsing and repeating the process
until the water lost its warmth. His half-smile was all she needed to keep up
her spirits.

  
“Who took care of you when you
were burned?” he asked while she lathered soap onto his back.

  
She paused. “My mother, mostly.
She read to me and sang so I wouldn’t think about the pain. She had a knack for
it.”

  
“As do you. You alleviate
suffering for others.”

  
“I know what it is, firsthand, and
how much it means when someone gives comfort.”

  
“Hannah, you’re pretty. Pretty as
your paintings. No, prettier,” he muttered. She had the most beautiful eyes and
skin he’d seen. He’d skirted around conscious notice of it before, but now as
she swept close to his face to nurse him he was awakened to her loveliness.

  
She blushed and waved a hand
dismissively. “You’re addled with fever, Doctor Rutherford.”

  
“No, I’m not,” he protested. “Sing
to me?”

  
Hannah obliged him with a sweet
lullaby from her childhood as he ambled off to sleep.

  
On the fifth day Hannah and Roy
hauled him outside for fresh air and exercise. They walked to Main Street and
back. His head and back were throbbing, but he was determined to complete the
treatment. He ate toast and eggs. When other patients arrived Hannah now ceded
his care to Roy or John.

  
“You need your sleep,” he said.

  
“I will, soon. Don’t worry.”

  
But she did not, and would not, as
long as his life was in danger.

  
In ten days he was weaned. The
chills and fever and headaches were gone, and his appetite had returned. If
he’d had any qualms about his future wife, they’d been dispelled. She’d
ferociously guarded his life and well-being.

  
After he was dressed and moving
about he requested a conference with her in the parlor. She sat across from
him, on a horse-hair stuffed chair.

  
“Thank you, Hannah, for saving my
life.”

  
She stared soberly into his dark
eyes. “It’s not over. We have to guard against relapse.”

  
He rolled his shoulders and
grimaced. “Yes.”

  
“To such end I’ll control the
supplies. There will be no cheating.”

  
“I agree,” he pledged.

  
“Your habit was not a primary
malady. It was secondary. Now we treat your original disease.”

  
“I’m making progress on that.” He
took her hand and locked his eyes with hers. “Having you here does me good.”

 
 
“I believe you are recovering. You were
fortunate. As you were a mouth taker of morphine, your withdrawal symptoms were
not as severe.”

  
“I thought I’d survived the worst
personal challenges during the war,” he admitted. “I was wrong. This was hell
to me. I can’t imagine worse.”

  
“Well,” she tucked loose tresses
into a bun at the back of her head before rising from her seat, “I can fetch
our knives and pans from Roy’s, now that you are well. I thought you might use
them.”

  
“Good thinking.”

  
“You made a try for them when you
entered the delirium.”

  
“Oh.” He reddened.

  
“It’s ok. Sheriff Easton assisted.
How do you feel?”

  
“Out of reserves. It felt like I
was locked within prison walls for an eternity.”

   
“You’re a free man now. You’ll
be weak for a while, but I plan to take you on long walks.”

  
He reached forward and took her
hand. “Hannah, we made a deal. As soon as I gain some weight you’ll be marrying
me.”

  
“Right.” Her voice quavered. “As a
convenience.”

  
“Yes.”
 
Jed stumbled over his response. His
platonic heart had begun to struggle. Other appetites were beginning to return.
It was a turn he hadn’t expected.