My Heart Stood Still (Sisters Of Mercy Flats 2) (8 page)

“Fine with me, ma’am.”

Oh, he was smart, all right. If he and Creed were working together, she’d never hear it from John Quincy Adams.

The morning turned to one of waiting. Snow cleared and a cold wind rattled the old dwelling. Eulalie waited for bread and pies to come out of the oven, while Anne-Marie and Quincy waited on Creed’s return to consciousness. Eulalie wondered aloud if she’d baked enough bread for everyone and had put enough cinnamon in her apple pie; Anne-Marie wondered if Creed was really going to be all right and why Quincy was deceiving her; and Quincy wondered what he and Creed were going to tell Anne-Marie to satisfy her curiosity when his friend finally woke up.

It seemed the whole world waited on Creed Walker.

Creed drifted between awareness and unconsciousness. In lucid moments he recognized the smell of cinnamon and baked apples, but that wasn’t what Anne-Marie and the old woman were forcing down his throat. When he tried to swallow the bitter concoction, he was reminded of the time he’d been sick with the white man’s fever and the medicine man had forced something equally vile through his parched lips.

Occasionally he could hear Anne-Marie voice his concerns.

“He’s so weak.”

“He’s as strong as an ox,” a gravelly voice answered from somewhere above him. He felt a small, cool hand touch his face when the noxious brew was once again raised to his mouth.

“Will he live?”

Creed wanted to assure the voice that he would, but he couldn’t force the words from his throat.

“He’ll make it,” Eulalie confirmed.

Occasionally he could hear pounding in the background and could only surmise that Quincy was trying to repay the old woman for her charitable hospitality.

Mercifully he dropped into unconsciousness, his last thoughts being that of a lovely young woman with emerald-colored eyes.

By late afternoon Anne-Marie had grown weary of the wait. She decided the patient needed a good washing, if not for him, then out of respect for those around him. Armed with soap and hot water, the angels of mercy scrubbed, lathered, scoured, and powdered until they had the Indian, in Quincy’s stated opinion, smelling like a girl. He stood close by, trying to converse with a lifeless Creed. “I’d spare you this appalling exhibition of maternal clucking, but I am powerless to prevent it.”

“Don’t be so smug, Mr. Adams.” Anne-Marie filled the hot water kettle and set it on the stove. “You’re next.”

Quincy headed for the door but Anne-Marie blocked his efforts to flee. “You’re not going anywhere until you bathe. I’m sick of smelling you and your friend—and lay your clothes by the doorway. I want to scrub them too.”

Not long after, the freshly bathed Quincy excused himself and escaped to the lean-to, wearing a pair of clean breeches and a shirt Eulalie had provided.

Later, Eulalie settled down in the rocking chair and Anne-Marie decided to read a book of poems by the popular poet Walt Whitman. She loved poetry; she’d even written one or two poems herself—though they weren’t all that good.

“Where did you get a Walt Whitman book?” she asked, thumbing through the yellowed pages of
Leaves of Grass
. She would never think that Eulalie had a literary side.

“Can’t rightly recall.” Her host glanced at the book. “Don’t look familiar to me. You’re welcome to read it if you like.”

A gust of wind rattled the old shanty as Anne-Marie lost herself in Whitman’s words. The sound of a strangled snort distracted her, and she glanced up to see Eulalie’s head starting to nod.

Shaking her head, Anne-Marie returned to “Song of Myself” as the clock on the mantel methodically ticked off the long evening.

Smoke. Creed opened his eyes when the smell filled his nostrils. Coughing, he struggled to sit up.

Angry, red-hot tendrils licked a trail from floor to ceiling, devouring the dry timber. Heat suffocated him and he groped for the edge of the bed.

Where was he?

Rolling to the floor, he gritted his teeth when a white-hot pain shot up his leg. Through a thick blanket of haze he saw the old woman’s sleeping form slumped forward in her chair, the roaring flames, like a pack of wild animals coming closer.

He threw his arm up to shield his face from the scorching heat while his eyes searched the room. The flames were spreading, leaping across the dry timber, destroying everything that stood in their way.

“Quincy! Are you in here?” he called in a cracked voice. His lungs burned, and his eyes blurred when he rolled off the cot and tried to crawl across the room.

“Over here.” Anne-Marie’s barely perceptible voice came to him above the sound of the roaring inferno.

“Where are you?”

“Over here, near the kitchen table.”

“Can you crawl to me?”

He heard her gasp when she slid off her pallet and began to crawl on hands and knees across the floor.

“Where are you?” Creed insisted.

“Where are you? I can’t find you!”

Filled with panic, he searched the inferno. “Anne-Marie!”

He was so weak he could barely move. He had to get to her…

Quincy. Where was he?

“Over here—take my hand!” He blindly groped, hoping to feel her flesh.

Long moments passed before he felt a small hand latch firmly onto his. Relief filled him.

“Where’s Quincy?” he yelled.

“Outside—lean-to!”

Struggling across the floor, he half dragged, half pulled Anne-Marie along behind him. Every muscle in his body felt like hot coals. Gritting his teeth, he silently cried out against the pain but he held tight to her hand.

The fire raged out of control. Flaming arrows of destruction stuck him when rafters rained down on their heads.

“Eulalie!” Anne-Marie cried out. She struggled to break away but he held tight. “Where’s Eulalie?”

Clasping her hand, Creed felt his way across the plank floor. When he located the door, he realized he didn’t have the strength to reach the latch.

Rolling to his side, he gritted his teeth and kicked the door with all of his might. The panel gave way with a splintering sound. Flames gained new life when fresh air sucked into the room.

Grabbing Anne-Marie around the waist, he rolled out onto the porch and down the log steps onto the snow-packed ground.

Drawing in deep breaths of fresh air, Anne-Marie staggered to her feet and scrambled away, nearly falling over half a dozen cats in the process when she sought refuge beneath a nearby oak.

Collapsing, she remembered Creed and crawled back to help him to safety. As they fought for breath, she saw Quincy burst from the lean-to, leading the frightened team of horses.

Moments later the roof of the cabin caved in, and the shanty was engulfed in a ball of fire.

“Eu-Eulalie!” Anne-Marie buried her face in her hands and sobbed, her shoulders heaving. Eulalie had seen her through many a lonely time in life. The world wouldn’t be the same without the kindly woman who always made her feel like family.

Bracing his hands on a snow pack, Creed bent forward as a spasm of coughing choked him. When he could speak, he crawled to his feet.

Anne-Marie’s hand blocked him. “Where are you going? Creed!” she shouted when she noticed that he was already making his way back to the house. Relief surged when she spotted Quincy leaning against the horse rail, catching his breath.

“What happened?” Quincy shouted when Creed limped toward him. The wild-eyed animals shied away from the fire, and the man struggled to hold them. “How can you be on your feet? You were near death two hours ago.”

“I woke up and the cabin was in flames.” He fixed on Quincy. “Eulalie’s still in there. I’m going in after her.”

“Not alone, you’re not.” Quincy fell into step behind him and the two men disappeared into the flames.