The Devil of Whiskey Row (9 page)

“Shh, it's all right,” he murmured, wiping the fresh tears from her eyes with his thumb, then continuing his petting of her head. “It's over now, little doll. All is forgiven.”

His kindness brought on a fresh wave of sobs and in response, he pulled her even closer to him, curling her body around his seated form before beginning his stroking of her hair again. She soaked up his tenderness like bread sops milk. Her entire being buzzed with raw emotion and pain, yet she drew from him a sense of comfort and calm.

She was just starting to drift into sleep when a scream pierced the air.

* * *

Jake shot out from under the weight of Cora's head. “Stay here,” he barked, leaving the room at a run. Olive's scream had come from a room down the hall. He tried one door and found the chamber empty. When he flung the next door open, he was greeting with a horrific sight. A customer was straddling Olive on the bed, brandishing a knife while holding up a small, bloody piece of flesh with a maniacal glee. Olive's neck was coated in blood and it pooled on the quilt beneath her. She was clutching at her ear and screaming.

At Jake's entry, the man scrambled off Olive and whirled to face him, holding his knife at the ready, crazed excitement on his face. Jake reached reflexively for the gun he normally kept at his waist, but he had taken it off to punish Cora.
Dammit.
He crossed the room in a few strides to where the lunatic stood holding his knife defensively. Jake kicked him square in the gut, catching a slash of the knife to his thigh before he knocked the man to his arse. Not waiting for him to get up, he charged, managing to stomp on his knife hand and kick the weapon free before his own foot was wrenched from him and he fell headlong to the floor. He took an elbow to the kidney, which momentarily stunned him, but then he threw his full weight on his opponent, rolling to the top of him and landing a punch on his jaw. His second punch missed and connected with the hard wooden floor, the crack of bone sending shooting pain up his arm. His fingers didn't respond to his attempt to make a fist after that, so he used his left arm, swinging wide to catch the man in the ribs just as he started to stagger to his feet. He lunged away from Jake and Jake followed, only to be thrown several feet back as the deafening sound of a gunshot rang in the room.

He was hit. He narrowed his eyes, trying to bring them into focus on the gun. A pocket pistol. One shot only—thank God. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the terrible burn in his left shoulder, hoping to reach the miner before he retrieved the knife for which he was scrambling.

“Hold it right there!” Olive yelled. Both men whirled to see Olive holding his Colt Walker revolver, which she must have retrieved from his room. She was standing with her feet planted wide, aiming his gun very carefully, with the nine-inch barrel resting on her forearm to keep it steady just the way he'd taught her. Cora stood behind her in the doorway, and Hank had just arrived and was trying to shove her back to safety.

The miner's lip curled derisively. “You ain't gonna shoot me,” he taunted.

“No?” Olive demanded, looking demonic with the thick coat of blood covering half her torso. “Watch me.”

With that, she pulled the trigger and the shot deafened him again as the miner was thrown back. Jake ran to him, ready to finish him off, but there was no need. Olive had shot him clean through the center of his head.

“Well done, little girl,” he said, turning to Olive, but his knees buckled and he landed gracelessly on his arse, next to the dead miner. Stars swam before his eyes and his vision tunneled. The need to control the situation quickly became more dire. “Cora, send Joaquin for Doc Smith first, then the sheriff. Hank, clear everyone out and close up for the night. Olive, sit down before you faint.”

“Only the Devil Diggory would still be giving orders after he'd been shot down,” Olive said with a shaky voice and a wry smile.

He watched hazily as time sped and then stopped and then sped again. The people in the room moved and shifted. He was hauled up onto the bed and Olive lay down next to him, holding his hand. Then Doc Smith was there, pouring whiskey on his gunshot wound, setting his hand bones, and stitching up his leg. He dimly remembered the sheriff's presence, then having water pressed to his lips much later.

The next time he woke, he staggered to his feet reflexively, and then paused as a wave of dizziness overcame him. He was alone in the room. His head, hand, and shoulder all throbbed to the rhythm of his heartbeat, a slow but hypnotic pace. His hand hurt worst of all—it was swollen a dark blue and purple, with two of the bones between his knuckles and wrist buckled up from the break, despite the work Doc Smith had done to set it. Blood stained the wood floor—his and the dead miner's. He moved slowly, awkwardly making his way to use the chamber pot and then walking carefully down the hallway to his own room.

When he woke again, it was to his door being thrown open and a worried-looking Cora bursting in. “There you are! For heaven's sake, did you have to move? I couldn't find—” she broke off when she saw his wince and rushed to his side. “I'm sorry,” she said in a much quieter voice. “How do you feel?”

“Like I've been flattened by a train,” he grunted. “What's that?” he asked, seeing she carried a glass of whiskey.

“It's for your wounds, not to drink,” she chided and gently tugged at the bandages on his shoulder. He hissed and cursed softly as she poured it over his wound. “Doc Smith said you're lucky. The bullet went clean through. Said if we can keep it clean like this, you'll heal.”

“Thirsty.” His lips were dry and cracked and his head pounded, as though he were dying of thirst.

She pressed a glass to his lips and he drank a few sips of water, then closed his eyes again and slept.

The next time he woke, he felt hot. He kicked the covers off his legs and saw Gigi there, mopping his brow with a wet cloth. That scene repeated itself several more times, though the girl with the cloth changed. He realized, distantly, that he'd turned septic, which didn't bode well for his survival. As his dreams began to take on the colorful and surreal quality of a fevered mind, he began to prefer them to waking, especially when the discomfort of his body overwhelmed him. He was back in Ireland, riding across the green meadows of his family estate, walking the forest, and standing in the sea. He was a child and everything was simple.

He played with Eliza again, sometimes as a girl, sometimes as the lovely young woman she grew up to be. The next time he opened his eyes she was there with him in the room. He blinked at her. “Eliza?” he croaked.

“It's Cora.”

He blinked at her, confused. “Eliza?” he said, feeling alarmed, knowing something was amiss, but unable to understand what it could be.

“Shh,” she touched his face with the wet cloth. “Tell me about Eliza,” she said.

He screwed up his brows. “You're Eliza. No,” he shook his head, memories colliding into one another as the present slammed into his past. “No, I remember you now. Not Eliza,” he shook his head. “Not Eliza.” He eased his head back to the pillows and closed his eyes. “Almost Eliza,” he murmured.

* * *

Jake Diggory was going to die. His cheeks were flushed with fever and the smell of the wound on his shoulder was fetid. Cora had stopped putting the bandage back over it, hoping the fresh air might help it dry out—it was an oozing mess. It made her hair stand on end just to look at it.

No matter how she might pretend that she didn't care about Diggory, she did. Her fear of his death had her wound so tightly she could neither eat nor sleep. Nor would she leave his room, insisting that she be there at all times in case he needed something.

“How is he, Doc?” she asked anxiously when Doc Smith stood and snapped his bag closed. He simply shook his head.

Her eyes filled with tears and panic swelled, literally rocking her on her feet. She'd been so desperate for the doctor to come back—she had sent Joaquin first thing that morning to fetch him again. But it seemed he could do nothing. She watched him leave, brushing the tears that were already falling down her cheeks with the back of her hand. Surely there was something else they could do for him?

She remembered, then, the Chinese doctor who had treated one of the Chinese whores during a pregnancy. He'd had his own herbs, and small needles he poked into her skin. They said he'd caused the baby to turn from breech, and she'd given birth successfully. Running downstairs, she called to Joaquin and asked him to go to the Chinese settlement just out of town to see if he could find Dr. Yee.

The Chinese had come in droves to “Gum Sham” or Gold Mountain, as they called California. They were hated by the white miners because they were willing to work long hours for little pay. They lived separately in Dorado Hills, on the outskirts of town. Joaquin left for their camp at a run and returned with the doctor and a young woman.

“Mei!” she cried. Mei had worked for Smoochy as a prostitute, and Cora hadn't been sure whether she'd survived the fire.

“Cora,” Mei said with a faint bow. She'd always been reserved—Cora had never known whether they were friends or not. “This is Doctor Yee,” she said, introducing her companion. It appeared she had come to translate, which was a relief to Cora.

Cora bowed to Dr. Yee. “Thank you for coming,” she said and led them upstairs.

In Diggory's room, Dr. Yee uncovered the bandage over the gunshot wound and made a clucking noise, saying something to Mei.

“We need hot water,” Mei said. Joaquin went to fetch it.

She crossed the room to Diggory's side. “This is Dr. Yee,” she said pleasantly. “He's going to help you.”

Diggory's eyes swiveled to her face and he made a barely perceptible nod. Dr. Yee mixed powdered herbs into the pot of boiled water, and then he poured a small amount into a glass and spoke to Mei again.

“Make him drink,” Mei translated, pointing at the glass.

Cora nodded.

Dr. Yee then pulled out a rough cloth which he dipped in the mixture and began to scrub rather viciously at the wound. Diggory started and flinched, making a grunt of pain.

“What's he doing?” she asked Mei anxiously.

“Debriding. Cleans rot from wound.”

Dr. Yee spent a long time on this painful treatment, scrubbing the edges of both the entry and exit wounds. Then he brought out the needles she remembered from his satchel. He placed them in his mouth first, and then tapped each one lightly into Jake's flesh, all around the wound.

“Surrounding the dragon,” Mei explained.

He placed additional needles down his arms and in his hands. They stuck out like porcupine quills. Jake's eyes were open slits and he observed Dr. Yee with brows drawn, but did not protest any of it.

Leaving the needles in place, Dr. Yee rubbed a camphor-smelling brown liniment over Jake's broken hand, which had been splinted across the palm by Doc Smith.

“To knit bones,” Mei offered.

Cora felt a rush of gratitude for Mei and her help and vowed that if Jake recovered, she would ask him to hire her—
if
Mei wanted to work, of course.

Removing the needles, Dr. Yee packed a poultice of the bitter smelling yellow herb concoction over the wound and explained through Mei that they should apply it several times a day.

“Fever should get better. We'll come back in two days.”

Cora fumbled in her corset, pulling out the money she'd earned to pay them, but Diggory interceded, “No.” She looked over her shoulder to see him frowning at her. “My pocket,” he grunted, slowly moving the hand attached to his injured shoulder.

“I'll get it,” she snapped, rushing to his side and then reaching her hand into his pocket, thinking that in other circumstances this might be an erotically charged moment. As it was, the sound of Diggory's ragged breathing made her eyes smart. She found a roll of bills and extracted them.

“How much?” she asked Mei, seeing her calculating look. Mei could have named any amount, though, and Cora wouldn't have blinked. She had a feeling Dr. Yee was Diggory's best chance at living through this.

“Ten dollars,” Mei said. Cora guessed it might be more than he normally collected, but she handed it over without hesitation.

“Thank you, Mei. Thank you, Dr. Yee,” she said, repeating the bow.

The two of them bowed to her and departed.

She curled up beside Jake on the bed and was surprised to feel a heavy hand on her head. It was his splinted hand, and he moved it awkwardly, as if it were a brick attached to his wrist rather than articulating joints, but he was clearly petting her as best he could. She scooted closer to him, nestling her body against his, resting her hand on his thigh.

When she woke later that afternoon, Jake was clumsily stroking her hair again. “Eliza?” he croaked.

She got up and brought the draught to him, pressing it to his lips. He drank a sip and then grimaced. “Go on,” she urged. “It's medicine, to help you heal.”

Obediently, he bent his head to the glass and took a few more sips, then leaned his head back against the pillows. He looked better—his cheeks were not so flushed and the glazed look that had been in his eyes had receded. If he hadn't just called her Eliza, she would have thought he had regained his senses.

“I'm not Eliza.”

He blinked, and then shook his head impatiently. “I know,” he said hoarsely. “I know. I know who you are, lass.” His Irish brogue seemed even thicker than usual. He patted the bed next to him and she sat down. His arm wrapped behind her and he pulled her into him. “Cora.”

She thought he would slip back into slumber, as he'd been doing for the past two days, but he surprised her, speaking completely lucidly. “The Cora who will not be stealing any more, right?”

Her face flushed and her awareness flew to her bottom, where she still felt residual pain from her whipping. “No, sir,” she mumbled. Then, to redirect the conversation, she asked, “Who was Eliza?”

Chapter Six

Cora cast a sidelong look at him. Melancholy washed through him, but he took a breath and answered. “My fiancée. Back in Ireland. We were betrothed from the time we were children.” He lifted his chin toward the draught and she brought it to his lips again.