Open Country (9 page)

How could that be? How did a man forget his own name?

“What the hell happened?” he muttered.

The woman jerked upright on the cot. Her head snapped toward him, eyes groggy and unfocused. “W-What?”

He squinted against the morning light, pleased that there was only one of her now and that the blurriness was fading, which told him at least his vision was improving.

The first thing he noticed was her conformation—small, long legs, trim through the waist, and a lot of shiny sorrel-colored hair that tended more toward brown than chestnut. And kind eyes. Hazel, with maybe a green cast—he wasn’t sure—and so charged with intelligence they seemed to shimmer in her pale face.

A pretty face. Strong. All cheekbones and deep-set eyes, with a determined chin and a mouth that might have been stern if not for the small crescent-shaped scar at the outer right corner of her top lip. Rather than disfiguring, it softened the angles of her face, making it seem she was on the verge of smiling even though her eyes told him she wasn’t, and probably didn’t very often.

In fact, she almost looked afraid.

Of him?

Hazy memories teased his befuddled mind—a crowded place, her looking back at him past rows of people—on a train? Then later, a gentle hand on his cheek—a soft voice with a Southern accent urging him not to give up. He wondered if it was hers.

“Say something,” he ordered in a raspy voice.

She blinked. “About w-what?”

“Anything. Just talk.”

“How do you feel? Are you in pain?”

Definitely her voice. “What happened? What’s wrong with me?”

She finally moved, almost leaping from the bed. In the time it took her to cover the short distance between the two cots, everything about her changed—her expression, her posture, even the tone of her voice. Within an eye blink, she had slipped behind a mask of cool efficiency as if the fear had never been.

“You were in a train derailment,” she said as she turned down the wick of the oil lamp sitting on the table between the cots. “Your injuries are substantial but not mortal. A broken arm, several cracked ribs, and a head wound. The head injury is why you’re confused now. It should clear up with time.” She looked down at him, hands clasped tightly at her waist. “Can you take some water?”

Just hearing the word awakened an overwhelming thirst. Although the effort brought wracking pain to his ribs, with her help he managed to sit up enough to drink from a cup. After two refills, he lay back, light-headed and dizzy. “Where am I?”

She set the empty cup on the table. “Dr. Murray’s infirmary in El Paso.”

“The man who was here earlier?”

“That was your brother, Brady Wilkins.”

The name meant nothing to him. “Who are you?”

“Molly.”

That meant even less. “Who am I?” He felt stupid asking it.

“Henry—Hank Wilkins.”

Panic surged through him. “Why didn’t I know that? Why is there an empty place in my head where all that should be? And why are these bindings so tight? I can’t breathe.”

“Try to remain calm, Mr. Wilkins.”

“I am calm. Get them off.” He tugged at the bindings on his ribs.

She pulled his hand away. “I realize you must be upset—”

“Damn right I’m upset.”

“And shouting helps, does it?” They stared at each other for a moment then she looked down and saw she still held his hand and quickly let it go.

“It should.” He threw his right arm over his eyes, hoping to mask his confusion. Who was this woman? And why was she in here and why was everything so jumbled up in his head? He wanted to ask her, but his stomach was churning again and he wasn’t up to conversation.

Apparently she was. “I know this is difficult for you, Henry, and I’m—”

“Henry?” He lifted his arm and looked at her. “I thought I was Hank.”

He saw her take a deep breath and let it out, and wished he could. “You are,” she said in a strained voice. “I’m just more accustomed to thinking of you as Henry.”

“Don’t.” He dropped his arm back over his eyes. Taking shallow breaths and speaking softly so the pain wasn’t so bad, he added, “I prefer Hank, I think. I don’t feel like a Henry.” He thought about it for a moment then lifted his arm again. “Do I look like a Henry?” He hoped not. Henrys sounded like tea sips.

She didn’t seem to have an answer.

“Is there a mirror? Maybe if I look in a mirror.”

She retrieved one from a cabinet by the door and thrust it into his right hand.

He stared into it at the face of a stranger. Brown eyes, brown hair, bruises, and bandages. Just a face. Nothing familiar. “Did I have a beard?”

“Yes. Do you remember that?”

She sounded so hopeful, he hated to disappoint her. “My face is paler on the bottom where a beard would be. I must have shaved it recently.”

She took the mirror from his hand. “You’re handsomer without it.”

As if that accounted for anything. “Why am I wearing a dress?” A Hank would never wear a dress. But a Henry might.

“It’s not a dress. It’s a nightshirt.”

“There’s flowers on it.”

When she leaned closer to study the cloth stretched across his shoulder, he caught a faint sharp-sweet scent. Lemons.
Lemons?
Why would a woman wear perfume that smelled like food?
Food.
His stomach rumbled.

She straightened. “Those are shamrocks. For luck.”

Bad luck, maybe.
“Feels like a dress.”

“Really?” She raised one gently arched brow. “How do you know?”

He squinted up at her. How
did
he know? While he pondered that, she pulled something out of her pocket, stuck one end onto his chest and the other end into her ears. “What are you doing?” he asked, alarmed.

“I’m listening to your heart and lungs. Hush.” After a moment she put away the contraption—which he could now see was a stethoscope—and started squeezing the tips of the fingers on his sore arm. She must have seen his flinch. “Are you in pain? Would you like laudanum?”

“Of course I’m in pain. You’re mashing my fingers. And no, I don’t want laudanum. It gives me bad dreams.” Suddenly he was so weary he could hardly keep his eyes open. She’d worn him down with all her fussing and mashing. Yet oddly, it had distracted him from his other pains and that smothered feeling, and although he was still a bit queasy, he was breathing easier and his headache was almost tolerable. His stomach rumbled again.

“How do you feel?”

“Hungry. And like a barn fell on me.” Realizing she wasn’t getting him food, he closed his eyes, feeling slightly nauseated again.

“Actually, it was the baggage car. You’re fortunate to be alive.”

“I don’t feel fortunate.” He heard her moving around him. Worried what she might be up to now, he forced open his eyes to find her looming over him with a worried crease between those almost-green eyes. It was unsettling. What was she doing? And what kind of woman carried a stethoscope in her pocket? “What are you, a lady doctor?”

Before she could answer, a voice spoke from the doorway, “You don’t recognize her?” It was the man she’d called Brady. His brother.

Hank studied him closely, trying to spark a memory. He looked like an arrogant sonofabitch. Tall and lean with black hair and a mustache. Big toothy grin and strange-colored eyes that were full of mischief.

Or suspicion, whenever he looked at the woman . . . who was wearing that frightened look again. Something was not right here.

His brother sauntered closer to loom over the bed. “You look like hell, little brother.”

Little? From what Hank could see, he was heavier than this man by at least forty pounds and probably even taller. “I feel like hell.”

His brother pulled out a pocket watch, checked the time, then snapped it closed. “I got word Jessica’s on her way, so I can’t stay long.”

“Jessica?”

“My wife. Her Ladyship. English, tall, red hair, crazy hats. Familiar?”

“No.”

His brother’s scowl deepened. “Give it time. It’ll all come back. It better,” he added, looking hard at the woman.

Hank decided he didn’t much like his brother and he especially didn’t like the way he taunted the woman. The woman. Who was she? He glanced from one to the other, which set his head pounding again, sending dagger thrusts of pain down his neck and across his shoulders. To change the subject, he asked, “How old am I?” A stupid question. Seemed he was full of stupid questions.

“Three years younger than me. Going on thirty-three.”

“Are there more like you? More brothers?”

“None like me, of course. There’s another brother, but he ran off.”

Hank wasn’t surprised. “Did I like you?”

The question startled a grin from his brother and reawakened the mischief in his blue eyes. “More than was manly, I suspect.”

“Well, I don’t now. So get out.”

Instead of being insulted, his brother laughed. “See, you’re better already.” His grin fading into a scowl, he turned to the woman, who stood watching with wide eyes and a grim tightness to her mouth. “He looks hungry,” he said. “Why don’t you get him something to eat?” It was more of an order than a request.

As soon as she’d left, Hank said, “Who is she?”

His brother’s gaze shifted away. “She saved your arm. Probably your life.”

Hank frowned, not satisfied with that answer. But before he could question him, his brother headed out the door.

 

 

“WHERE’S MURRAY?” BRADY ASKED WHEN HE WALKED INTO the kitchen and found his brother’s supposed wife stirring something on the stove.

“Gone.” She nodded over her shoulder at a piece of paper on the table. “He left a note. Said to take any medical supplies I need and lock the door when I leave.”

“Christ,” Brady muttered, scanning the note. This complicated everything. Tossing the paper back onto the table, he went to peer over the woman’s shoulder. Watery soup. “He prefers steak,” he told her.

“He’s too ill for steak. For now he’ll get broth.”

“He won’t like it.” Wandering aimlessly around the kitchen, Brady wondered what he should do now. He still didn’t trust this woman. But she did seem to know her way around a sick room, so she might yet be useful. And she needed money, so he had that to keep her in line. He stopped and glared at her back. “You didn’t tell him you were married. Why?”

Setting the spoon aside, she wiped her palms down her skirts and turned to face him. “I’ve been thinking.”

There’s trouble.
The woman was smart. No telling what mischief she had conjured this time. Crossing his arms over his chest, he waited.

“It appears your brother might recover, so I thought—”

“Might?” Brady cut in.

She made a dismissive gesture. “There’s always the risk of infection after surgery. Or a seizure after a head injury. Or, well, any number of complications. It might be touch and go for a while, but as I said, he’s strong. And a survivor.”

Hank was that. Which was why seeing him laid so low had been such a shock to Brady. He’d already lost one brother, and another was missing. He couldn’t tolerate losing this one too.

“So I thought,” she went on, “it might be best if we had the marriage annulled.”

Brady’s thought exactly, but finding the doctor had left put a kink in his plans. Who would tend Hank now? And if he managed to get his brother back to the ranch, he couldn’t expect Doc O’Grady to make the twenty-five-mile trek from Val Rosa every day to check on him. There was really only one solution, and he didn’t like it. There were still too many unanswered questions circling in his head. “Why would you want to do that?” he asked suspiciously. “Hank proposed. You accepted. But now that you’ve rushed him into marriage, you want an annulment?”

She started to speak, cleared her throat, and said, “I rushed it because he was dying and I needed the settlement money. But now that it appears he may recover . . .”

“You don’t want him anymore,” he finished acidly.

“Or perhaps he won’t want me,” she countered.

The woman seemed terrified, and he suddenly knew why. “Or maybe you tricked him and he never proposed. Maybe you married an unconscious man for the settlement, and now that he’s getting better, you’re ready to run.”

Her eyes looked huge in her frozen face. “I didn’t say that.”

But she didn’t deny it. “What about the money?”

“I, ah . . . thought perhaps I would get it from you.”

“Me?”

“You’re a rich man, Mr. Wilkins. Since you seem so disapproving of this marriage, surely it’s worth three hundred dollars to get me out of your brother’s life.”

He blinked in astonishment. “You’re blackmailing me?” he finally said, more surprised than angry. “And if I don’t pay?”

She gave a sickly smile. “Then I guess you could welcome me to the family.”

Surprise gave way to fury. “Or I could kill you.” But then who would take care of Hank?

Her smile became a smirk. “Back to that neck-snapping thing, are we?” Then the fight went out of her on a weary sigh. Turning back to the stove, she picked up the spoon and poked at the broth. “God, what an unholy mess.”

And then he realized what he had to do. He’d have to keep a sharp eye on her, of course—he still didn’t trust this woman—but it was the perfect solution to all his problems. “Okay, I’ll give you the money.”

She looked back at him over her shoulder. “You will?”

“Once Hank is fully recovered.”

Her hopeful look faded. She stirred so vigorously, broth sloshed onto the hot stovetop. “But that could take months. I can’t stay here that long.”

“You won’t have to. You’ll come to the ranch, instead.”

She whirled, the dripping spoon clutched in her hand. “I’ll what?”

He flinched and glanced at the hall. “Not so loud. He’ll hear you. We don’t want him to know what you did.”