West of Paradise (14 page)

Chapter Nineteen
Doc McCabe

J
ack took Katherine’s hand, his fingers on her wrist, feeling for her pulse. Not as strong as he would have liked but not as weak as he feared considering how much blood she had lost. He reached under the seat for the blanket kept there and drew it out, covering her with it. How in hell had she managed to get herself shot? And who was the man? Did Alanna have a new lover? Something gnawed at the back of his mind but he shook his head as the carriage turned into the drive, rolling to a stop.

Jack gathered Katherine into his arms as carefully as he could and got out slowly, wincing at the extra weight on his leg.

“Get the door, will you?” he called up to George.

George jumped down from his perch, flicking the reins aside and setting the brake. The air had begun to mist, a fine light mist that caught the light from the lamps hanging from either side of the carriage.

George hurried up to the front entrance and opened the door. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Hot water, bandages, I think,” Jack said.

George nodded and Jack stepped inside, wondering where to put Katherine. Although there were four large bedrooms upstairs, that part of the house was closed off, unfinished and unfurnished. Of the available rooms downstairs there was only his bedroom or the study—and he couldn’t possibly put her in there. There were far too many things he’d prefer she didn’t see, prefer no one see, in fact. Which left his room.

He sighed and walked down the hall, through the pantry and dining room, past the parlor and study, all the way to the end of the house to his room, which overlooked the lawn and the river. At least it was clean, he thought, laying her down on the bed. Mrs. Henry always made certain the sheets were clean and fresh, everything dusted, polished, and swept.

He lit the lamp at the bedside first, then the candles on the mantle, and finally the hearth, which had been laid for a fire though it was hardly cold enough to need one. But Katherine’s skin was cold and her cheeks too pale, Jack thought, knowing he was going to have to do something unpleasant.

Either that or call Doctor Johnson, a man who had considerably less knowledge of proper hygiene than Jack was comfortable with. He might know what to do but whether Katherine would survive it was debatable. And of course Jack wouldn’t be able to say a word about the importance of proper hand washing techniques or sterilization procedures. Which meant that Jack would have to take care of the matter himself.

“Dammit!” Jack muttered, heading to the kitchen where George had the fire going and a kettle hanging. He was sitting at the table with the bag of rags his mother used to clean and dust, tearing them into strips. She would probably wonder what had happened to them but she would never ask. Same way George wouldn’t ask any questions about Katherine, not who she was or why she was here or what had happened. Same way Jack wouldn’t ask George about the scars on his face or where they came from. He knew George had been in trouble with the law, could see it in the way he ducked his head whenever he saw a uniform. But it wasn’t his business and as long as George did his job Jack was happy. He had his own secrets to keep. They both did.

Sitting on the table along with the rags was a bottle of whiskey and two short glasses. It had become a habit of theirs to share a glass or two in silence whenever Jack returned. It didn’t matter how long he’d been away, be it a night or a month. But not yet, Jack decided.

“Save it,” Jack said. “I’ll have it when I’ve finished.” He took the kettle, which had begun to steam, and the bowl of rags and returned to his room, setting everything down on a tray within easy reach.

Katherine was lying exactly as he had left her, quiet and still. He put a hand to her pale cheek, frowning. Too cool.

Jack closed the door and removed Katherine’s cloak and gown, leaving her in her chemise and drawers, which he cut off above the wound. He threw the bloody things aside and washed up, scrubbing his hands until he was sure they were clean. He placed a number of towels beneath her injured leg, knowing it was going to bleed like hell.

His instruments were all sitting in a dish of whiskey: scissors, two knives, a scalpel, and a pair of forceps as well as a needle and thread. This was not the first time he had performed surgery. It was, however, the first time he had performed it on anyone beside himself.

He used a rag to pull a chair close, and dipped his fingers in the whiskey before beginning, hoping that Katherine would not wake. He would be quick, he decided. He would find the bullet, stop the bleeding, and sew her up. Easy as pie.

Which was pretty much how it went. Except for the stopping the bleeding part. That took longer than expected and both the towels and the sheets were soaked through before he was done. Mrs. Henry would not be pleased. She would have questions. But she would not ask them, Jack knew, threading the needle again.

Surprisingly, Katherine never moved the whole time. She was pale as death, a light sweat beading her brow, and once or twice she turned her head, murmuring something, but he was quick, having learned to sew quite well in the time he’d been here. He wrapped her leg tight, like a pressure bandage, and tucked the clean sheets in around her before covering her with a heavy quilt. He gathered the soiled linens in one hand and a candle in the other to light his way.

George was still waiting, the glasses untouched on the table. Jack set the candle down and took his glass, tipping it back. He took the linens out to the scullery and filled the big sink from the pump, leaving the linens to soak. He rolled Katherine’s dress up into a ball and brought it in with him, cutting it up and feeding it to the fire. He washed his hands again.

Then he joined George at the table for a second glass.

“How’s she doin’?” George asked, pouring.

Jack shrugged. “She might make it.”

George nodded.

❧

Katherine woke to an amber glow and the close warmth of a stuffy room. She was practically smothered in quilts and blankets. The bed was high and hung with sheer linen, held in place with pale ribbon. Where was she? What had . . .

She raised the covers and looked at her leg, swathed in bandages and throbbing.

Poor Will was dead.

And she’d been shot, and then Jack had come and brought her here. She tried to sit up so she could see where here was, using the lone pillow as a prop. It took forever and she had to close her eyes for a minute against the deep thudding ache. Why was it so hard to move?

She breathed and inspected the room for clues. It was of good size, offering two tall narrow windows, both shuttered, an enormous fireplace, and lovely wainscoting. But despite the period details, which lent a certain charm, it was a distinctly male room, with dark, heavy furniture and the clutter of someone who tries to read too much.

It was a trait Katherine was familiar with: her grandfather’s room was always a mess of books and magazines, old photos, prints, things he would never let anyone put away.

This was Jack’s room, she guessed, wondering what it was he read. But she couldn’t see what from where she was and getting up was out of the question. Sitting had already sapped whatever energy she’d had and she was tempted to let sleep take her; it wouldn’t be hard. But the sound of the latch in the door made her eyes pop open and she did her best to appear alert.

.Jack came in with a tray, but no hat, no weapon she could see, and looking less like the rogue she’d first met and more like some of the gentlemen she’d passed on the streets of late. He was clean-shaven and had trimmed the hair from his eyes. But most notable was his almost congenial expression rather than the scowl she remembered. He walked with a slight limp.

“Hungry?” he asked. “I brought you some soup and bread.”

Katherine looked doubtfully at the tray. “Did you make it?” she asked.

“No.” Jack smiled. “My housekeeper made it.”

“What is it?”

“Chicken stew,” he said, “and the bread’s fresh. Baked this morning.”

The smell of it reached her and she felt her stomach rumble.

“I guess I could eat,” she allowed.

Jack set the tray down and pulled up a chair from the desk. “Mind if I ask a few questions?”

“I thought you already did,” Katherine replied, breaking off a piece of the bread, which was soft and warm.

“Maybe you’ll remember something more, something helpful.”

Katherine shrugged, dipping the bread in the thick stew. “Ask away, Jack, but I don’t think I’ll be able to tell you much more than what I already did. Maybe even less. It’s all fuzzy now. You know, like a bad dream. I remember Alanna, but the rest . . .”

“What about the well-dressed man. Was he just well-dressed or in fancy clothes?”

“Hmm, fancy; he had very nice shoes.”

Jack raised an eyebrow at that but Katherine shrugged.

“I saw them as he went by.”

“What about his voice, was it cultured, do you think, educated?”

Katherine closed her eyes for a second, trying to remember the words, the tone.

“I think he was educated,” she said, “but he didn’t say much.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing, just that they had to go,” Katherine said, laying the spoon in the bowl, feeling tired now, not hungry.

“What about Alanna, what was she doing? Was she still wearing her opera dress?”

“No, she’d changed into a brown dress and a red pelisse trimmed with gold piping. It was smart. She had a gun, and there was a boy in her arms.”

“A boy?”

“A child. Her child.”

Jack didn’t say anything.

Katherine supplied the conclusion he would have come to. “It’s probably Will’s.”

Jack nodded again. “Right. What about Alanna. Did she say anything to you? To the man?”

“Not to me. But she called him sweet, or maybe it was sweety. But he didn’t look very sweet. He looked like an . . . a—”

Jack raised his brow again.

“A not very nice person,” Katherine finished.

Jack repressed a smile. “Any idea how come Alanna looks like you? Any chance at all the two of you are related?”

Katherine pinned her eyes on a piece of floating celery and lied. “I can’t imagine how. My family . . .”

“Yes?”

She snapped her mouth shut.

“You were saying?” Jack prompted.

“Nothing,” Katherine said.

Jack searched her face for a moment before taking the hint and the tray. “All right then, I’ll let you get some rest, unless there’s something you need?”

She almost shook her head but instead she asked, “Maybe I could ask you a few questions?”

Jack paused in the doorway.

“What is it?”

“How did you find me?”

“Well, I already had a pretty good hunch that both Will and Alanna came from this area so I figured you all might be headed this way. Will for his revenge and you his captive. It took a week of asking, but I found where you were staying and that you’d be at the opera. Then I spotted Alanna there and I decided to follow her. I was half asleep when the shooting started.”

“Who fixed my leg?”

“I did.”

Katherine felt her face flush a little at the image but she forced herself to go on. “Are you a doctor too?”

“Not exactly, but I have some medical training.”

“Enough to get the bullet out?”

“Yes.”

“Am I . . . am I going to be all right?”

“I think so, as long as the wound doesn’t get infected, which is why I’ll be back later to clean it.”

“I’m sure I can do that myself,” Katherine said.

“Oh, have you had training as a doctor?” Jack asked.

“No, but it isn’t—” rocket science, she’d been about to say. She swallowed the words down, reminding herself where she was. “I’m sorry, I’m sure you know best.”

Jack gave her a curious look before heading for the door. He turned and said, “And I promise to do everything possible to preserve whatever modesty you think you have left.”

Katherine felt her whole face flush.

“Wait.”

Jack paused, facing her.

“Why?” she asked. “Why did you save me?”

“Because you aren’t Alanna,” Jack said.

“But how did you know?”

“Because Alanna would’ve killed me, because your hands trembled too much when you held the gun, and because you had tears in your eyes. But you should probably rest now.”

Katherine nodded and as soon as Jack had gone she sank into the pillow and stared up at the tin ceiling, trying not to think about her leg throbbing away, relentlessly. Instead her thoughts turned to Alanna and the expression on her face, curious and surprised, even a little bit regretful.

Katherine closed her eyes, tired now, wanting to sleep and forget about everything for a little while, especially Alanna and their uncanny resemblance. Of all the ancestors to look like! Not to mention that she was farther than ever away from the key she absolutely had to have. Otherwise, she’d be stuck here, in this time, forever.

Hours later she finally drifted off into something between dream and memory.

“This has to be her,” her father had said. “Look at the resemblance.”

“But according to this she was already dead,” her mother replied.

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know, maybe that’s what someone wanted everyone to think.”

“But why?”

“Because if it ever came out who she was, well, the entire fortune would be suspect.”

“But Alastair had already started the company, before she was even born. This is ancient history.”

“Yes, but after her death he was suddenly able to expand McLeod Shipping, remember? He bought out J. Gould & Sons that December and the purchase helped make McLeod the biggest game in town, which made the company what it is today. It’s a scandal no company would want.”

Katherine’s eyes flew open, her head throbbing. Was that it? Was Alanna McLeod’s criminal activities a contributing factor in the company’s early success? And what would happen now that the two of them had come into contact? Would Alanna change her course? Should she? She closed her eyes, trying to think now, trying to remember what was supposed to happen. Had her parents ever said?