Christine Dorsey (4 page)

S
he couldn’t answer, only stared at the stranger—no, Jacob Morgan, she knew his name now—and clutched the daguerreotype tighter. He gazed at her through narrowed eyes, and Samantha wondered how she could ever have thought them sad.
Angry
was the only word that came to mind.

He shifted, the brackets around his mouth deepening in pain, and Samantha flattened herself against the stall. Her eyes strayed to the musket still leaning in the corner and her heart sank as she realized it was out of reach. Carelessly she’d placed the gun on the other side of him. He could seize it easily.

Samantha’s gaze flew back to his face to see if he was aware of it, but he wasn’t looking at the musket. Though somewhat relieved, Samantha now realized he probably wouldn’t need it to hurt her. Even wounded, he possessed a strength she couldn’t match. His shoulders were broad, and though he was lean, the stark white sheeting wrapped around his torso emphasized his muscular build.

But at the moment he didn’t seem bent on hurting her. He looked at her now, a frown furrowing the brow she’d soothed with cooling cloths. “Who are you?” he demanded in a voice with just a hint of a drawl.

“S—Samantha Lowery.”

He seemed not to understand her, his head cocking slightly to the side. A lock of hair, shining gold in the lantern light, fell over his forehead. Samantha leaned forward to brush it back, jerking away when she realized what she’d almost done. This man wasn’t Will, for heaven’s sake.

He didn’t seem to notice her actions as he continued to study her, an expression on his face as if he didn’t comprehend what was going on.

He was getting weaker.

His wound had opened again, and his eyelids were drooping. He took a deep breath, keeping his focus on Samantha with difficulty. “What happened to me?”

“You were shot.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said before falling back onto the straw-covered floor.

Samantha scurried to her feet, staying as far from him as she could. He swallowed, and Samantha watched the muscles in his neck as she inched back toward the gun. She reached behind her with the hand not clutching his daguerreotype. Her fingers just grazed the muzzle when he spoke again. Samantha jumped and knocked the gun over.

“May I have my picture?”

Samantha looked down at the frame she’d forgotten she held. Her heart beat faster than a midsummer rainstorm as she moved toward him. Quickly, hoping he wouldn’t grab her, she leaned over, dropping the picture on his lower chest. His hand came up and covered it, nearly hiding it from view.

“Thank you.” The words were barely a whisper, and Samantha ignored them as she dove for the musket. She shouldered it and turned, aiming toward the man lying in the straw but he didn’t notice. He was asleep or unconscious, Samantha couldn’t tell for sure.

Taking a deep breath, Samantha lowered the gun and leaned against the rough wood. She tried calming herself. “It’s over. He didn’t hurt you,” she mumbled, reassured. She’d felt vulnerable, hardly a new feeling, but with him it was more intense. And she didn’t like it

Looking down at him now, he didn’t seem frightening. Samantha studied his face closely as a vision of the man in the daguerreotype flashed into her mind. Was he the same person? His hair was lighter, his face darker, and leaner. But she imagined those changes could come from the war. And of course he looked older and sadder. No question
that
could be the result of war.

But now that she studied what she could see of his features beneath the beard, she thought maybe they were the same. Same eyes, framed by long dark lashes that now rested in crescents above his cheeks, same straight nose, same mouth. His lips were firm and nicely shaped, and she imagined he’d look good smiling—as in the daguerreotype.

Pushing that foolish thought aside, Samantha started toward the barn door. She’d done enough to help him. His wound had stopped bleeding, and he seemed to be resting as well as could be expected. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed his bare chest. Why did she have to see that? Grimacing, she moved back to cover him.

When she did, his hand slid from the golden frame to rest on her arm. It wasn’t an aggressive move, but still it frightened her. Steeling her heart, she did one more thing—what she’d threatened to do this afternoon—before leaving the stable.

~ ~ ~

Something wasn’t right.

Samantha knew it the instant her eyes opened. Sunlight streamed through the window, superimposing squares of brightness on the patchwork quilt. Pretty, Samantha thought vaguely, wondering why she’d never noticed it before. She sat up, brushing corn-colored curls out of her face. Why wasn’t her hair braided, and why was it so light outside?

The answer hit her like the recoil of a gun and she jumped off her bed, stubbing her toe on the leather shoe carelessly left out on the floor.

The stranger... Jacob Morgan. He was the cause of all this. Sleeping late—she always rose before dawn; going to bed in her clothes, without even taking the time to brush and braid her hair. She glanced down at her pillow and began gathering the pins that had escaped her hair during the night.

She felt wrinkled and scruffy, and one glance in the mirror her parents had brought painstakingly from Massachusetts told her she looked that way too. And regardless of her “stay abed” problem this morning, mauve crescents shadowed her blue eyes.

Samantha bent back, hands on hips, trying to rid her body of its aches. She had stayed up way too late last night. And it was all the fault of Captain Jacob Morgan, late of the Confederate Army. Well, today would be different, she decided, taking a brush to her hair with a vengeance. She didn’t have time to fool with an ex-Confederate soldier and a member of Landis Moore’s gang to boot. He’d make it or not without her assistance. Will could check on him now and again. No need to worry since she’d tied the Rebel up before she went to bed. She wasn’t taking any more chances.

“The one smart thing you did,” Samantha assured herself. All that worrying about his identity, and Lydia’s, was a waste of time. Samantha leaned forward, grabbing her hair in one fist and circling it around her head. She jammed one pin through the wrapped curls, then another, but the third, along with the others she held in her mouth, went flying to the floor when she heard Will yelling and the dog barking.

Tearing out of her bedroom, she ran into her brother as he and Charity, the dog, burst through the front door. Samantha grabbed his shoulders. “My heavens, Will, what is it? Moore’s men?”

Samantha glanced toward the window expecting to see hordes of ruffians headed their way, but she couldn’t see out. They’d draped a blanket over the broken window yesterday in a futile attempt to keep out the flies and mosquitoes.

“It’s not Moore,” Will said. “It’s the stranger.”

Samantha searched around the room for the musket. Where’d she put it last night? With a sigh of relief, she turned and reached for it over the mantle. Some habits die hard. “What about him?” she asked Will as she headed through the door. Had she failed to tie him tightly enough? Had he gotten loose and —

“I think he’s dying, Sam. He keeps calling out, and he’s hotter than blazes.”

Samantha stopped and swirled on her brother, Kansas dirt drifting up around her skirt hem. “You mean you scared ten years off my life because that bushwhacker has a fever?”

Will swallowed. “But Sam, you don’t understand. He’s mighty sick.”

“I understand perfectly.” Now that the imagined crisis was over, Samantha’s knees felt weak. She took a deep breath and started back toward the house.

“You mean you ain’t going to do nothing?”

“Anything.” Samantha glanced over her shoulder. Her brother, his too-short trousers showing pale skin above his shoes, just looked at her, his face incredulous. It struck her how much he reminded her of Pa. She sighed again. “I’ll see to him. But first I’m going to get dressed.” She shouldered the musket. “Fetch me some fresh water. I’ll brew some ginger tea for Captain Morgan.”

Will was back from the stream before she’d finished fixing her hair. Samantha could hear him banging around in the other room looking for the tea leaves. Stepping out of her bloodstained skirt, she pulled on a clean one—same color, same style—and went to help him.

Walking to the barn, Will carried the tea and a pail of water while she carried Captain Morgan’s sidearm.

“How do you know his name?” His hands full, Will blew at a fly buzzing around his head. “Did he tell you last night?”

“No.” Samantha could hear her patient raving again through the open door of the barn.

“So how did you find out?”

“I looked through his saddlebag,” Samantha confessed, hoping he didn’t fault her for invading the man’s privacy. But he only shrugged, spilling some water in the process.

“You hear him?”

“Yes, I hear him.” It was like last night, only his voice sounded more hoarse... and weaker. Was he dying?

“I done fed the animals,” Will told her. Though a part of her registered the need to correct his speech, Samantha was too engrossed in looking at the captain to do it.

“Thanks, Will. Set the bucket down. I’ll call if I need you.” She worked on the knot she’d tied around his wrists, finally getting them loosened.

“I think I should stay here.”

Will’s tone made Samantha look up from where she’d knelt in the straw. The Rebel’s skin scalded her hand and she dipped a cloth into the bucket, wiping it over his face, before she answered her brother. “There’s too much to do for both of us to take time away from the chores—not to mention the work made yesterday by this man’s friends. Now if you want to nurse him, it’s fine with me. I’ll work on re-staking the fence.”

“Naw.” Will kicked at the floor. “I’ll see to the chores. I don’t know what to do for him.”

I don’t either, Samantha thought, though she noticed he’d quieted down with her ministrations. “Will.”

Her brother jammed his hat over his nearly white hair and glanced around.

“Don’t stray far from the house, and let me know if you see any sign of visitors.”

“You think Landis Moore will be back today?”

“I don’t know.” She dragged the cloth back through the water and wrung it out. “Just let me know if you see anything.”

By the time Samantha finished sponging off his face, neck, and chest, he was calm. She figured it was as good a time as any to fill him with tea. He fought her at first, spitting out more than he drank; making her inexplicably angry. She wanted him well, well and gone, and he was doing nothing to speed the process.

Was she losing her mind? No one wanted to feel the way he obviously did. She couldn’t blame him for that. Samantha brushed at hair curling over her forehead and tried again. Lifting his head, she guided the tin cup to his mouth.

“Drink for me, Jacob,” she said, her voice soft and coaxing. His lips opened. She poured a little tea into his mouth then, with the fingers of her other hand, massaged his neck. He swallowed, and she smiled, repeating the process until he’d drunk most of the liquid in the cup.

Then she lay him back down. But she couldn’t help noticing how uncomfortable he looked lying in the straw. The blanket he’d writhed off of was bundled in the corner of the stall. Samantha grabbed it and, moving away from Captain Morgan, gave it a good shake. Laying it out flat beside him, she slowly inched his body onto it. She didn’t want his wound to start bleeding again, and it only took a moment to remind her just how heavy he was. But she finally had him on the blanket.

The day was hot, no breeze as yet to soften the heat. Samantha leaned against the stall side, wiping perspiration from her brow. But she had no time to rest.

Carefully, Samantha unwrapped the bandage and covered the wound with a fresh pad of linen. The heavy bleeding had stopped, but the wound still seeped. She couldn’t tell if infection had set in, and didn’t know what to do if it had. All she could do was make him comfortable and hope for the best.

His skin needed bathing again, and so she started. Down from his forehead, across his cheeks, under the chin she could barely see beneath the growth of whiskers. Then she rinsed the cloth and skimmed down his neck and over his shoulders, careful not to disturb the bandage. His chest was broad, with a wedge of curly hair that narrowed into a line which arrowed down into the waistband of his uniform pants.

She washed his arms, wondering if maybe his skin felt a little cooler. His hands were large with long tapered fingers. And clean nails. Samantha sat up, his right hand resting in her lap. Turning his hand over, she studied it, noting the calluses on his palms and the pads of his fingers... and the lack of dirt. His fingernails were trimmed short with no crescents of grime.

It suddenly hit her that he was clean all over. Oh, not spotless to be sure, but not filthy. He’d been covered with dust and sweat and blood yesterday, but even then there hadn’t been the foul stench of uncleanliness she’d expected... expected from one of Landis Moore’s men.

She had to squeeze by several of them in town when they taunted her on the sidewalk. And she always wished she were upwind of their foul odor.

What had Will said? This man seemed different? Samantha sat thinking about that until his moan stirred her from her musings. “Silly, Samantha. You’re being silly,” she chided herself. But she did it in a soft tone that quieted the Rebel.

By the time she’d sponged him down again and taken care of his personal needs, Samantha’s back was stiff and sore. She stood, hanging his butternut trousers over the stall divider and stretching. It made more sense to keep his clothes off, she told herself, trying to ignore the blush she felt creeping up her neck. What with all she had to do, it was stupid to repeatedly pull his pants on and off.

Knowing the truth of something and being able to deal with it were two different things. She knew that yesterday when she lowered his pants for the first time. And today, she realized, the chore was not getting any easier, or any more routine, as she’d assured herself it would.

If anything, she noticed more about him each time she undressed him. Like his legs were long and sturdy and covered by thick, curly, brown hair. And his hips were narrow, with protruding hip bones that emphasized his thinness. And other parts of him were... Samantha squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to think of the other parts of him she’d seen. It was disturbing. It was unsettling. And it made her skin burn as if she were the one with a fever.