When a Texan Gambles (5 page)

“And I’m sick!” she yelled at the body wrapped up in a buffalo robe. “Bailee says I’m fragile. I should take care of myself.”

He didn’t move.

“Fragile people can die anytime, you know.” She pulled another log forward. “They’re breathing one minute and the next thing they’re gone. Snuffed out like a candle with too much wax and too short a wick. That’s me, husband. Near death and I still have to haul the wood for a fire so you won’t die on me, too.”

Back on the wagon train she’d tried wishing herself dead, but it appeared neither heaven nor hell wanted her, for she still breathed.

Glancing at Sam, she remembered something Lacy said about how every person has to live until they’ve fulfilled their destiny.

Sarah picked up an armful of sticks. “I find it hard to believe my purpose for being on this earth is to marry a drunken, mean outlaw of a man who can’t leave my sight for five minutes without getting a knife stabbed into his back. I haven’t seen much of this world, but if you are the best man to come out of that hat back in Cedar Point, the whole population is in big trouble. I could have done better marrying the old sheriff. At least he was breathing, which is more then you are probably doing at the moment.”

As usual, Sam made no comment.

In less time than she thought possible, Sarah gathered enough wood for a fire and unloaded several of the boxes. Denver hadn’t lied about the supplies; with care they might last a month. Everything needed had been packed.

Everything except matches.

Sarah mumbled to herself as she went back through the stash, hoping she’d overlooked them. She came across the knife she’d pulled from Sam’s back. After washing it in the river, she tucked it away with care.

It was dark when she finally gave up looking for matches.

“We can survive without a fire, I guess,” she told him, as if he listened. “It probably won’t freeze tonight, and you’re covered with blankets.”

When he didn’t answer, she added, “I’ve been cold before, you know. But this kind of damp cold just might be the death of me.”

Curling into a ball at the back of the wagon, Sarah remembered the nights Harriet Rainy used to lock her out of the house. She’d pretend like she wasn’t cold ... like she wasn’t hungry ... like she wasn’t all alone....

She would build a home in her mind where the cupboards were stocked and a fire blazed in the hearth. Sarah imagined lace curtains on the windows and a wool blanket beside her very own chair. She’d think of details down to the way the air smelled of fresh bread, and how it warmed her lungs when she took a deep breath.

Sarah looked over at the mound of blankets taking up most of the wagon bed. Was she alone, or could some small part of Sam Gatlin still be alive and with her? The sheriff had told him to take good care of her or Sam would have him to answer to. She hated criticizing the man after one day of marriage, but so far he was falling down on the job.

“Hello.” She leaned closer. “You still there, Sam Gatlin?”

She wasn’t sure he even breathed.

“Are you alive?” She poked his arm.

No answer.

Sarah brushed her finger along the line of his shoulders to his throat. There the skin was warm to her touch.

“You’re alive,” she whispered more to herself than him. She wasn’t alone. “Wouldn’t happen to have a match?” As she said the words, hope crept into her voice.

She moved closer. “You might have a few. My guess is they’d be in your pocket. Most men carry them, I think.” Her knowledge of men consisted of one husband who never said more than a few words to her and the few men she’d met on the wagon train.

Hesitantly she slid her hand along Sam Gatlin’s side until she reached his waist. “You wouldn’t mind if I take a look would you?” If she hadn’t been so cold, she never would have been so brave.

As the blanket slipped away, she saw a dark spot below his shoulder blades. Blood soaked through the towel bandage Denver had tied around him. He might not be doing anything else, but the man was still bleeding.

“The wound needs to be cleaned,” she whispered as she felt for his pocket. “But first we have to have a fire.”

She couldn’t reach inside the pocket and she doubted she had the strength to roll him over, but giving up didn’t seem to be an option.

Bracing her back against the side wall of the wagon bed, she offered, “How about I give you a hand to move over?” Not waiting for an answer, Sarah pushed with both her hands and feet until he shifted with a groan.

It was too dark to see his face, but she felt his breathing as she brushed her hand down his chest to the leather of his gun belt. Slowly she pushed her fingers into his pocket. Nothing but a short comb and some coins, which she kept. Sarah leaned over him so she could reach the other pocket.

His hand moved so suddenly she didn’t have time to retreat. His powerful fingers gripped her wrist with bruising force.

“I’m not dead yet, lady. It’s a little early to pick the bones.”

Sarah tried to pull away. His hold tightened.

“I ... I was only looking for matches.”

He didn’t move or show any sign of understanding her words.

“I need to light a fire. I can take care of your wound, but first I have to see it.”

Slowly his grip lessened. “In my vest.”

The iron in his voice slipped, and she wondered if he’d used the last of his reserves defending himself.

She rubbed her wrist. “You didn’t have to grab me so hard. I told you I was fragile. It’s a wonder you didn’t snap my bones right in two. Then who do you think will clean the wound and bandage you?”

She pulled the small tin of matches from his vest pocket and climbed from the wagon. Anger made her march around the wagon. “Serve you right to freeze to death, Sam Gatlin. I’ve seen wounded snakes that were friendlier. You haven’t even bothered to thank me for pulling that blade out of your back.” Frustration flavored her words as she worked. “You’d probably still be sitting in that bar bleeding on that dirty floor if I hadn’t helped you.”

Even after she got the fire going, she still couldn’t stop shivering. What kind of monster had she married? What kind of man, even near death, thought only of protecting himself?

As she added wood, Sarah tried to piece together all she knew about her new husband. The sheriff called him by name when he’d married them. Had he known Sam as a friend? No, she decided. The greeting was too formal to be friendly and held enough respect to discount the two as enemies. Apparently, according to Denver, several people in the town wanted to kill him, or at least watch him die. Gatlin had money, he’d bought supplies, rented a buggy, paid her way out of jail.

She glanced toward the wagon. She owed him for that. No matter how mean a man he was or how many people hated him, Sam Gatlin saved her from a life in prison. Clubbing Zeb Whitaker seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but she’d met nothing but trouble for her effort when she had been honest enough to confess to the crime.

“By the way”—she poked at the fire—“thanks for getting me out of jail. I’ll be your wife, just like I said I would, but don’t forget you owe me one. You said so in the bar.” She wanted to add that being a complete wife wasn’t the “way” she had in mind, but there was no use wasting time explaining anything to a man who was busy pounding on death’s door.

As the fire warmed the little clearing, Sarah collected all she needed to help Sam. Whiskey, if he woke up. Boiled water for cleaning the wound. Enough wood to keep the fire blazing so she could see. And the pouch of herbs Granny Vee had given her over a year ago. She’d said to use it only if the wound was a matter of life or death, and Sarah decided Sam’s wound would qualify.

Bandages would also be needed. The only clothing packed in the boxes was two cotton shirts. They’d been wrapped separately and mailed in brown paper with a note scribbled on the package, “For Sam. Hope they last you through the winter.”

Sarah ran her hand over one of the shirts. Unlike her dress, the shirt was well made with extra care taken to add strength. It wasn’t a farmer’s shirt, or any other kind of working man’s garment. Sarah decided it was the kind a gentleman would wear.

It would be a crime to destroy something someone had spent so much care to make. Sarah lifted the knife. There was no time to hesitate, she needed bandages. With a determined slice, she cut into the scratchy material just below her waist and sliced her skirt all the way to the hem.

She hadn’t felt so good about doing something since she clubbed Zeb Whitaker. Cutting the skirt of her dress into bandages was as much fun as opening presents. She didn’t even mind that her mended petticoat showed. As soon as she had time, she’d wash her old ragged dress and wear it. Sam could keep his fine shirts, but she had no plan to keep the dress he’d bought her.

Supplies in hand, Sarah climbed back into the wagon and rolled Sam Gatlin onto his stomach.

A complaint slipped from between his clenched teeth. He didn’t answer when she asked what he’d said, but she guessed the comment was one she would be better off not understanding.

Working in the firelight, she removed the blood-soaked towel, then his vest. As she cut away his old shirt, Sarah couldn’t help but notice the solid wall of muscles running across his shoulders. He was well built, this no-good husband of hers.

He reminded her of a rock-hard statue. Broad shoulders, trim waist, powerful arms. Only this statue, so perfect in form, had weathered many storms. Scars marred the excellence.

She cleaned the wound with a mixture of whiskey and warm water, letting her fingers brush across his back. The warm skin seemed to welcome her caress. She touched his hair and was surprised at its softness. He’d taken her as wife without question; maybe she should try to do the same.

She forced herself to concentrate on the wound. Before Sarah made up her mind if she liked the man or not, she had to keep him alive. Burying two husbands in less than a year seemed a grim prospect.

Blood still oozed in tiny trails from the opening in his back. “A fresh bandage wrapped tightly over the wound might help,” she mumbled as she braced herself once more against the side of the wagon. Rocking him in one direction, then the other, she wrapped a strip of her dress around his chest and tied it over the bandage.

“There, Mr. Gatlin, that’s the best I can do for now.” She leaned forward and listened for his breathing.

It came in a slow steady rhythm.

“You are more than welcome,” she said in answer to his silence as she covered him with a blanket. “Would you like a bit of supper now that you’re all cleaned up?”

She knew he wouldn’t answer, but she needed to hear a voice, even if only her own. The stillness of the clearing wore on her nerves.

Sarah reached for the rifle beneath the wagon’s seat as she looked around. The water shimmered silver in the river, mirroring the firelight in places. The trees beyond the clearing were black with night. Fear made her want to look away, but curiosity forced her to study the shadows searching for someone, or something looking back.

If his cabin lay beyond the trees, it was well hidden. If she could get him there tomorrow, they might be safe until he recovered enough to take care of himself. Until that time she’d offer him care, doing all she could. Granny Vee would have told her it was a rule to take care of one’s own husband. And Sarah believed in following the rules. Only this time Sam Gatlin had told her he owed her one, and as soon as he came to, she planned to ask for her favor. One slight change in the rules between man and wife.

Sarah grinned to herself. If he didn’t honor his agreement, she’d offer to put the knife back.

A few leaves stirred to her right. Sarah pulled the rifle closer. It was only the wind, she told herself. Or a rabbit or a squirrel.

Somehow Sam’s warm body comforted her even though she knew he would be no help if trouble rushed in.

“I might just heat up a can of those beans,” she said, hoping to convince whatever waited in the shadows that Sam was with her and could help if needed. “There’s plenty if you decide you want some.”

Something moved in the blackness again, stirring leaves, snapping a branch.

They were not alone.

“What did you say, Sam?” She leaned closer to him without taking her eyes off the darkness just beyond the fire. “You think you’ll just rest here in the wagon for a while? All right, but keep those guns handy. I put your Colts within easy reach just like that bartender did back in town.”

She slipped from the wagon and tied her shawl around her waist. “If there’s anyone out there, he’d be more than welcome to share the fire and supper!” she yelled. “Provided you come in unarmed.”

Turning slowly, she set the rifle down on a box and pulled a can from their stash of food. With an easy skill, she hit the handle of the knife and slid the blade around the top of the can.

She paused a moment, listening. Maybe she was being foolish. No one would be near. Even if someone had been beyond the wall of cottonwoods, they would have had to stumble and fight their way into the clearing. It couldn’t have been accomplished with only the slight rustling of leaves.

Pouring the beans into a tin plate, Sarah turned back to the campfire. As she set the food to warm, she looked up, across the flames into the shadows that had taken on shapes.

Three pair of frightened eyes stared back.

FIVE