Authors: The Lone Texan

Jodi Thomas (18 page)

BOOK: Jodi Thomas

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The last big building was set back from the others, at the end of the small town. It could have easily passed for a Virginia plantation house with a wide porch and high columns. Trees, a story high, had been transplanted from somewhere and now stood dead at the corners of the house.

“That’s the count’s place,” Charlie said. “Henry Harrison Hanover, a real member of the royalty, owns everything in this town. Every man and woman who lives here works for him. In exchange we get food and board along with enough pay to frequent the saloon and whorehouse. If we don’t follow the rules he sets, he pays for our burial.”

Sage knew Charlie well enough to know he wasn’t just talking to her. He’d probably been given orders to give the same speech to anyone riding in. No wonder Mr. Nobody didn’t want to come with the rest of the gang.

Charlie pulled her off her horse and almost dragged her up the steps to the house. A guard at the door looked her over as she moved past him but didn’t say a word.

Once inside, she waited in the foyer with the wiry man while Charlie made his report. The English accent she heard had to be the count. He seemed pleased with the haul from Shelley’s place and asked twice if they left the gambler alive. It was obvious that the gang planned to bleed him again. Sage almost felt sorry for Shelley. Almost.

“One more thing,” Charlie said as he backed though the door and grabbed her arm. “We brought you a doctor.”

One second later she stood before a man dressed in an elaborate red bathrobe with a family crest embroidered on the pocket. He had flowing white hair that seemed to slide off the back of his head, and he wore a ring on every finger of his left hand.

She met his eyes and saw easily that he was ill, far more ill than he was allowing the others to see.

The strange man stared at her. “You’re a doctor?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” she answered. “I am. I’ve just arrived from Boston.”

He touched her cheek with a soft hand. “Who damaged you?”

“No one,” Charlie said. “She fell a few times.”

The count stared at her. “Never lie to me, Doctor. I hate it. How did you get this cut?” He touched her bruised forehead.

Sage glanced at Sneezy to make sure he wasn’t about to hit her again. “My head fell against the butt of a rifle.”

Hanover looked like he was trying to decide whether to be angry, then suddenly, he smiled. “I’m in need of a doctor. We deal with my problem first.”

Sage thought she saw a flicker of insanity in his gaze. “If you’ll allow me to clean up, I’ll try to help you.” She flavored her words with the Boston accent she’d practiced.

He smiled and waved at a squatty little man standing behind him. “Take her somewhere she can wash, Myron. Don’t let her out of your sight, but don’t harm her.”

The man, who looked like a proper butler, nodded and motioned for Sage to follow him.

She turned to Charlie. “I’ll have my hands free first.” She glared at the man who’d treated her like an animal for a week.

He pulled out his knife and slit the last of her ropes.

As soon as she was alone with the butler, she whispered, “I was brought here against my will. Kidnapped.”

He didn’t look interested. “Half of the people here are in the same boat. Including me. I’m a third-generation butler. Do you think I picked this residence for employment? I’ve got the seat next to you in misery, dearie.”

“Isn’t there a way out of here?”

“Only if you’re bound for heaven or hell. No one leaves this place alive unless you’re one of the count’s trusted men.” He made a face. “And never, never, trust one of those men.” He held up his hand to show her that his little finger was missing.

She didn’t ask more.

They went into a kitchen at the back of the house, and he handed her a towel and soap. She washed as she asked, “What’s wrong with the count?”

“He’s got a bullet stuck in his shoulder blade. It’s poisoning his blood, but he’s accused everyone who’s tried to get it out of trying to kill him. Most of us have been waiting around praying he’d die, but Charlie, the snake, seems to have a fondness for the man. No one else suggested bringing in a doctor.” Myron held her bag.

Sage took the time to doctor the cuts on her hands and the small cut on her forehead, not because she was worried they might get infected or leave scars, but so she could have time to form a plan.

Myron stayed in the room with her but didn’t hover. He made her tea with honey. She drank the tea slowly as she thought.

“Are you ready, Doctor?” Myron finally said.

“Yes, but I may need boiling water to treat Hanover. Would you put kettles on?”

“Of course.”

“Is he really royalty?”

Myron shrugged. “Who knows. He says he’s twenty-third in line, but his father fell out of favor with the court of Queen Victoria. Something about bodies of servant girls turning up in the pond, he said. I try not to ask too many questions. If he wants to be a count, what do I care?”

“Twenty-three seems pretty far away from the throne.”

“So does Texas, but I hear him mumbling that he’ll be moving up soon.” He led her back to the downstairs room that looked like it had been an office and now served as a sickroom.

Hanover lay on his stomach on top of a bed by the window. Sage guessed he wasn’t asleep. She walked to the edge of the bed.

“What do I call you?” she asked.

“Everyone calls me Count Hanover,” he answered without opening his eyes. “If you’re a doctor, then get to it. My pain is in my back.”

Sage lifted the robe back almost to his waist. The pus-filled wound almost made her gag. Dark veins grew from a core of scabs and open wounds as if something had taken root in the center of his back.

“I was shot,” he said. “Several have tried to get the bullet out.”

Sage didn’t miss the signs that he’d been bled as well in an effort to get the poison out. “They’ve done more harm than good.”

He looked at her then. “I agree. The question is, will you be yet another waste of time?”

Sage looked steadily back at him. “I can help you, Count Hanover, but you’ll have to do what I say. It will not be painless, and I cannot make the healing fast.”

He nodded. “I’ve endured much already.” He motioned for the guard at the door. “Move closer, Luther. If she does anything to shorten my life, kill her.”

The guard didn’t look at her; he just nodded and pulled his knife. Apparently, he didn’t plan to waste a bullet.

She turned to Myron, who was still standing near the door. “I’ll need boiling water and lots of towels. I’ll also need the fireplace lit and kept burning. As soon as it’s afire, I’d like you to move him close to it.”

Myron looked at the count, then hurried to do as she said. Within the hour, she’d begun. The temperature in the room had to be eighty. The guard Hanover had called Luther was sweating, but he never moved from watching her hands.

She’d stripped the count to his waist and placed a cold cloth over his head as she began to clean the wounds with water so hot it almost burned the pus away. The crude attempts to remove the bullet had left infections, and each had to be almost as painful as the embedded lead.

She made a tea out of the last of the willow tree bark her brothers mailed her from her Apache grandfather each year, and added a touch of opium from her bag. The tea helped him sweat, the willow bark eased fever, and the opium dulled the pain. Nothing stopped his complaining. He called her every name she thought women had been called since time began, but he never told her to stop.

Finally, sometime long after dark, he slept. Sage laced clean bandages over the wounds she’d packed with a poultice of powdered paper and tobacco to draw out the infections. She stood and told Myron to let the fire die down. She knew the count would sleep the night, and tomorrow they’d operate to remove the bullet.

Myron brought her what looked like a tablecloth and draped it around her like a shawl. “No one, not even me, sleeps in the count’s house, but I’ve told the guard to take you somewhere safe.” He patted her shoulder. “I’d never hurt you, dearie, and Luther won’t either, unless he has to. He’s not cruel for no reason like some of them are.”

She nodded and followed the guard down the dark street to the building that looked like a boardinghouse. They went in a side door. He lit a lantern and motioned her forward. Sometime during the day he’d stopped bullying her and started treating her with a small degree of respect. After Charlie and his gang, even a small allowance was appreciated.

“Thank you,” she said when he opened the third door they passed.

There, on the first floor was a line of rooms that looked like cells, boarded in on the sides, but barred at the door and window. Inside her cell was a bed with blankets, a tray of food, and a small bathtub surrounded with all she’d need.

“Myron set this up for you. He said after what you did today, you deserved a little peace.” The guard backed away. “I’m the only one who has a key to this cell and the door beyond, so you can sleep until I come get you.”

When she heard the door lock behind her, she knew she was being locked in for her safety. She tossed the shawl over the window and took a bath. Then she ate everything on the tray and crawled into bed, loving the luxury of covers. For the first time in a week she slept soundly.

CHAPTER 18

I
T WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT WHEN BONNIE FAYE FELT HER cowboy pull the reins on his horse and stop. She’d been sleeping in his arms as they’d traveled, loving the blended sounds of the night and his heartbeat. Even though they might not have enough in common to carry on much of a conversation, his nearness made her feel safe, truly safe.

He hadn’t said much to her all day, but his touch was gentle. They both knew what was expected. She’d agreed to be his lover until dawn, and he’d promised to give her a night she’d remember.

They’d made love for the last time at dawn, a sweet kind of love that made her cry as a gentle rain tapped against the cabin windows. Neither talked afterward, but he’d held her to him until she’d drifted to sleep.

When she woke, he had the horses ready. The cold, gray morning reflected her mood as she stepped outside. The plainness of his land, now brown with fall and dead all around, made her feel sorry for him. A lonely man on a lonely spread. She fought not to show how she felt, but he probably read it in her eyes. This isolation would be a dull kind of hell for her.

She tried to ride the horse he’d saddled for her, but after a few minutes, it was obvious she knew nothing about handling a mount, so he climbed up behind her, and they’d ridden double, switching horses every time they stopped.

Neither had wanted to eat, and he made no attempt to kiss her when they stopped. It was as if the storm had passed, and they were once again two strangers. He’d left his land holding her tight, but now there was a formalness about his touch.

“Galveston’s just up ahead,” he said when she raised her head off his chest. “Do you want me to take you to the Ranger station or the hotel?”

For one wild moment she considered telling him to take her back to the cabin. One wonderful night could never be enough. She realized they didn’t even know each other. The shyness she’d always had around men blanketed her. She couldn’t talk about what they’d done, couldn’t even think about it without blushing.

“The station,” she whispered. “They’ll know about Sage and the Smith boys.”

She didn’t say anything about how she’d explain the time she’d been gone. She couldn’t tell him what it had meant to her. She could have told him their night was her first and probably her only time to be loved, but he knew. He understood what it had meant to her, just as she knew how it had changed him.

She smiled. He’d called her Pretty Lady and touched her as if she were a treasure.

He nudged her head with his chin. “Look at me,” he said.

She looked up; the flickering lights of town sparkled in his eyes.

“I want to give you something.” He reached in his pocket. “So you’ll remember me and our one night.”

BOOK: Jodi Thomas

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