Margaret Brownley (19 page)

She leaned toward him, but kept from touching him. “Are you all right?”

He rubbed his chin. “I could use a razor,” he said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble.” She unscrewed the cap of the flask and poured hot soup into the cup. At least she didn’t have to feed him. Forcing nourishment down his throat was a chore she’d come to dread.

He looked at her askew. “Do people still think I’m a danger to society?”

She bit her lip. Even though she blamed Barnes for Wolf’s predicament, she couldn’t help but feel guilty. “I’m afraid so,” she admitted.

“Then I better leave before someone finds me here.”

She nodded. She was so convinced that someone would discover him during worship service, she had been sick to her stomach with worry.

He glanced around. “Why did you bring me here?” he asked. “To a
church
?”

He made it sound like bringing him to a church was a sin.

“I didn’t know where else to take you,” she said. “I needed some place safe.”

“Safe?” He repeated the word as if it were foreign.

She nodded. “When I was a little girl, I used to hide here whenever I was afraid,” she explained. Though at the time, she didn’t remember the room being so small or drafty. “The church was deserted back then, but it still felt safe.” It wasn’t until Reverend Wells came to town that the church was restored.

He looked puzzled, as if he couldn’t understand how she would think a church safe. “What were you afraid of?” he asked.

Feeling self-conscious and maybe even a little bit foolish, she brushed his question away with a shrug and handed him the cup of soup. “Every child is afraid of something.” She smiled at him, which was a mistake because it drew his gaze to her lips. She recapped the flask, giving it more attention than was necessary.

He blew on the hot liquid and took a sip. After drinking half he handed the cup back to her. “Not only is she a most efficient nurse, but she can cook,” he said, his voice warm with approval.

His praise only added to her discomfort. Now came the hard part. “I have to change your bandage.” If only Caleb were here.

Wolf started to push the blanket away. Fortunately, he thought better of it and stuck his leg out from beneath the cover.

She kneeled down and probed the area around his wound as she’d watched Caleb do. The skin was only slightly red with very little swelling. It looked ninety-nine percent better than it had a few days earlier. Her eyes locked with his. Something in the way he returned her gaze made her cheeks blaze, and she quickly averted her eyes.

“M-most of the infection is gone,” she stammered, keeping her lashes lowered. Hands shaking, she carefully applied salve per Caleb’s instructions, then wrapped clean gauze around his thigh.

She was accustomed to changing his bandage when he was asleep. Now that he was awake, the task seemed that much more formidable. Though she tried to focus solely on his wound—and was careful where to look and put her hands—she was totally aware of how close she was to . . .
him
.

Her stomach clenched with nervousness. It didn’t help that she could feel the heat of his gaze while she worked. As usual when she felt nervous or anxious, she began to talk, and once started, she couldn’t seem to stop herself. After snipping the gauze with her scissors, she tied it in a neat bow. She then pulled her hand away as if it were on fire.

“. . . and the sheriff should be ashamed of himself for releasing you when you were naked . . . I mean injured.”

Horrified by the slip of her tongue, she tried to avoid his amused smile but her already reddened cheeks burned.

“The sheriff had nothing to do with my current state of nudity. Whereas you . . .”

She stood abruptly, sending her scissors and gauze flying. “My brother undressed you.”

“Then I am eternally grateful to him. I would hate to have robbed you of your innocence.”

She looked him straight in the eye. “No danger of that. My brother is very discreet.”

“I’m sure his patients appreciate his discretion.” His mouth quirked with humor. “Especially those with any . . . shortcomings.”

To hide her heated cheeks, she wiped the salve off her hands with a cloth and quickly changed the subject. “I looked for your horse but couldn’t find it. I do hope he’s all right.”

“Shadow takes care of himself. He’ll find
me
when I need him to.”

Shadow
. She knew so little about him that even the name of his horse seemed significant.

He regarded her for a moment. “Why did you help me?”

“Not only was it the Christian thing to do . . .” She glanced at him through lowered lashes. “It was partly my fault you landed in jail.” Trusting Barnes to print the truth was a mistake she wouldn’t make again.

He gave her a wry look. “Partly?”

“I took the photograph but Barnes replaced my article with his own. Had he published what I had written, people would know the truth about you.”

“And what would that be?” he asked. “The truth.”

“Like I explained . . . I wrote that the rumors about you were false.”
The truth is that your kisses are like fire and your arms are like—

Chest hammering, she quickly scooped the scissors and gauze off the floor and dumped them into the basket. “You saved the stage from being robbed.”

When he said nothing, she moved away from him before meeting his gaze. “Had my article been printed you would have been treated as a hero, not a wild man.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“I’m a very persuasive writer,” she said.

The corners of his mouth twisted upward. “
That
I don’t doubt.”

She smiled back at him. “What are you doing in Rocky Creek?” she asked with more than a little curiosity.

In his delirium he’d said things she didn’t understand. There were questions she wanted to ask him, questions about the boat that caused him to cry out in his sleep. And who were all those people he kept mentioning?

He took so long to answer that at first she thought he wouldn’t. “I have business here,” he said at last.

“What kind of business?”

A muscle clenched at his jaw. “I’m looking for . . . some men. They have something of mine.”

“Are they the men in the boat?”

A dark expression flashed across his face so quickly she could barely discern its meaning before it disappeared. She’d seen a similar look on her father’s face many times through the years.

“How do you know about the boat?” he asked, his voice not rough, exactly, but jagged.

Fearing she’d gone too far, she quickly explained. “You were delirious and . . . and said things—”

“What things?” he demanded.

“I couldn’t really make out much. Just something about a boat.”

He studied her as if to determine whether she spoke the truth. His furrowed brow disappeared as quickly as it came. He held her gaze for a moment before looking away.

She moistened her lips. “I know everyone in town. Maybe I can help you find the men you’re looking for.”

He shot her a penetrating look. “It would be better if we don’t see each other after today. I don’t belong in your world.”

She moistened her lips. “Because of your Indian blood?”

His jaw tightened. “I don’t belong in that world either.”

The man spoke in riddles. Irritated, she tossed the flask into her basket. “If you don’t want my help . . .”

“Forgive me, I . . .” A shadow of indecision scurried across his brow. “One of the men I’m looking for has a scar.” He indicated on his face, running a finger from his brow to his chin.

She stilled. “I know of only one man who fits that description.”

He stiffened. “Who?”

“The newspaper editor.” She could barely keep the rancor out of her voice. “His name is Jacoby Barnes and you’d best stay away from him. The scar was inflicted by his drunken father. He’s the one who wrote the article about you.”

“This Barnes—” He frowned. “Is he the man you work for?”

“Not anymore. I quit.”

He tilted his head in surprise. “Surely you didn’t quit because of me?”

“I quit because he’s more interested in selling papers than printing the truth. As the article he wrote about you proved.”

A shadow of disbelief flitted across his face. “I thought your occupation was of prime importance to you.”

“Truth is more important,” she said. “That’s why I take photographs.”

“You think photographs capture the truth?” he asked.

Confused by the question, she frowned. “Don’t you?”

He shrugged. “I guess it depends on which truth you’re looking for.”

His comment surprised her. Years ago she’d seen a stranger photographing a horse he wished to buy. Never having seen a camera, she bombarded the man with questions. He explained how a camera focused on an object with such intensity it was able to pick out traits in an animal that a human eye might miss.

Intrigued, she could think of little else for weeks afterward. The possibilities seemed endless. She became convinced that a camera would illuminate the secrets that surrounded her. Help her make sense of the dark looks on her father’s face, the shadows that seemed to fill every corner of the house.

During all the time she spent searching her photographs for answers, not once had it occurred to her that there could be more than a single truth.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Nothing.”

“Then why so silent? It’s not like you.”

She looked up at him, her finger gripping the handle of her basket. “Do you think Mr. Barnes is the man you’re looking for?”

Again the dark expression. She felt the strongest urge to run her fingers over his forehead to smooth away his frown as she had soothed his feverish brow.

“Perhaps,” he said at last.

It was obvious by his closed expression that he wasn’t about to reveal his business with Mr. Barnes. Not wanting to deal with more secrets, she started for the door. “I have to go.”

“When will you be back?”

Hand on the doorknob she hesitated. “Tonight . . . after supper.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll bring you food and clothes.”

“Whatever you can round up will do,” he said.

Tightening her hold on the basket, she left and he called after her. “I’d be mighty grateful if you could bring a razor.” She kept walking and didn’t look back.

Fifteen

If your hands are red and wrinkled, do not allow them in camera
view unless clad in gloves. Better still, clasp them behind your back.
Clenched fists hide nothing and reveal everything.

—M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

A
fter Lucy left, Wolf tried to decide how best to confront the man named Barnes, but he couldn’t focus. He didn’t have his strength back yet, and the memory of a certain smile and two pretty blue eyes kept intruding upon his thoughts.

He clenched his hands and tried pushing the vision away. He had more important things to think about than Lucy Fairbanks. He was grateful to her, of course, for nursing him back to health, but it was the least she could do. It was Lucy and her confounded camera that got him shot in the first place and pretty near cost him his life.

She talked too much. Was too darn inquisitive. Stubborn. Overly ambitious. The list went on. She was all the things he hated in a woman.

And yet . . .

He was keenly aware of another side of her—a soft, gentle, and compassionate side that pulled him out of his delirium like a lighthouse guiding a ship through stormy seas.

A Christian, she called herself, but even that didn’t explain why she looked puzzled when he mentioned that he wasn’t of her world. Was she really so naive as to think that his mixed blood was of no consequence? How he wished that were true. He’d tried living as a white man, living as an Indian, but the blood that ran through his veins was like oil and water, keeping him from either world.

That’s why he came back to Rocky Creek. If only he could find the box taken from him all those years ago, the box that was left in his cradle with him when he was abandoned. Maybe then he would at least know his real name, where he belonged. It wasn’t much but it was something.

It was crazy to think the box snatched out of his hands so long ago still existed after all this time. Or even that it contained answers to his questions. Still, Combes’s deathbed plea had somehow triggered David’s overpowering need to find his roots.

He was close. He felt it in his bones. Already he knew one of those youths by name and, thanks to Lucy, maybe even the name of a second one. It was a start.

Feeling restless, he looked around for something to do. There wasn’t anything to read but a stack of McGuffey’s schoolbooks and a Bible. He touched the leather cover of the Bible but didn’t open it. Couldn’t. When he lived at the mission, the students were required to memorize scripture. Recalling the punishment he endured for misquoting a verse, having to sit on his knees for hours on a hard tile floor, he quickly removed his hand.