His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2) (19 page)

"Collie." He spoke softly, deliberately. "You know nothing about medicine."

"Miss Eden does. She cured me."

The blood rushed to Eden's cheeks. "Um, Collie," she croaked, looking like she might like to slink under a rock, "if you don't mind, I'd like to have Dr. Jones's help. When you asked me to mix a deworming tonic, I didn't realize you had so many animals."

She smiled shyly at him, and Michael felt his heart trip. The mere thought of lingering, of breathing her lily-and-lavender fragrance and watching the dimples flirt with her kissable lips, was enough to fire his blood.

He cleared his throat, doing his best to rally the discipline that had always been his salvation from temptation.

"Jamie, didn't I tell you not to come back here last night? Your ma's going to be worried."

"Ma thinks I slept over at Bobby Buchanan's."

"I don't like the idea of you lying to your mother. Or Mrs. Buchanan. Or anyone else, for that matter," Michael added sternly. "And you have no right to involve Bobby. It'll only get him in trouble too."

"Bobby ain't in any trouble," Collie retorted, "unless
you
plan on squealin', Doc."

Jamie looked aghast. "He swore a pinky oath!"

"Pinky oaths don't make no nevermind to him. Don't you know? He's on the
orphan committee."

Michael heated under his collar. Collie's dig had hit home.

Eighteen months ago, three men, wearing gunnysacks over their heads, had somehow breached the county jail's door, dragged Bartholomew MacAffee from his cell, and hanged him on the sycamore outside. An investigation ensued, but no one had much liked MacAffee, and no witnesses stepped forward. Some folks speculated that MacAffee's cantankerous manner had alienated the wrong people. Others had whispered that MacAffee had tried blackmailing one too many people in Blue Thunder.

In any event, someone had had to break the news to Collie. Michael volunteered, along with Henry Prescott and Lydia Witherspoon, headmistress of the Thunder Valley Orphanage. Sheriff Truitt had accompanied them. Riding out to the crumbling hovel MacAffee had shared with his thirteen-year-old son on Blue Thunder Mountain, they had found Collie faithfully bottling his father's latest vat of moonshine. A heartrending scene ensued, particularly when Truitt started shooting up MacAffee's illicit kegs of whiskey.

Howling, Collie had lunged at the lawman with his knife, and Michael had been forced to tackle the boy to keep Truitt from beating him—or worse. Lydia, the most motherly woman Michael had ever met, had sought to calm the boy with assurances that new brothers and sisters waited for him in her care, but the mere mention of the orphanage sent Collie into another fit.

At a loss, Prescott had suggested the boy be placed with foster parents closer to his home; this idea had led them all to swear pinky oaths at Collie's insistence. They'd promised he would only stay at the orphanage for a week or two, until arrangements could be made.

Everyone had sincerely intended to find Collie a home. But the boy's reputation, coupled with that of his father's, had made the task nigh impossible. Six weeks dragged by, and Collie ran away from the orphanage. Truitt tracked him down, brought him back to live with a grudging farmer and his miserly wife, but Collie ran away again. The pattern repeated itself several times.

Nobody wanted Collie.

And Collie wanted nobody.

"You aren't gonna tell my ma, are you, Doc?" Jamie grabbed his hand and blinked beseechingly. "Not about the animals, I mean. Ma won't let me keep them. You know she won't! And no one else'll want them, 'cause they're orphans, like Collie." His brown eyes brimmed. "Please, Doc. Promise you won't tell!"

Michael fidgeted, glancing at Eden. The amusement had ebbed from her features, leaving them soft with compassion and an almost breathtaking beauty. Even in his dreams, she hadn't appeared half as desirable. The realization did something strange to his insides. In that moment, captured by the warmth in her gaze, needs he hadn't even known he possessed stirred in his chest—needs that transcended the physical.

Damn.
The only reason he'd made his promise to Jamie in the first place was because he'd been so distracted by the memory of Eden's kiss. After so many torrid, lonely nights of writhing, of dreaming of her scent, her taste, her touch, kissing Eden had been a mistake. Indulging in his fantasy hadn't slaked his desire; if anything, it had stoked his loins to a fever pitch. He feared he would never rid himself of his dreams now.

What was worse, some silly, infatuated part of him was eager to redeem himself so he wouldn't appear the villain in this episode.

"All right, Jamie," he said grudgingly. "I won't tell your mother. But only if I can trust you to keep your word. And that means doing your chores, and eating your meals, and going to Sunday meeting like you're supposed to."

Jamie nodded hurriedly. "I promise!"

Michael sighed. Collie was still glaring at him as if he were Satan's own messenger.

"I have a busy schedule, boys. I'm due at the orphanage by ten o'clock." He tucked his valise under his arm to roll up his sleeves. "And I suspect Miss Eden has a store to open shortly. Let's proceed with the examinations. Jamie, fetch the coons. Collie, bring me a bucket of water so I can wash up."

The younger boy scrambled to obey. Collie snorted.

"You ain't the boss of me." He folded his arms and turned his back. "Miss Eden, is there anything you need?"

She clasped her hands, the picture of diplomacy in her riding tweeds, ruffled white muslin blouse, and cameo brooch. It was the lilt in her voice that belied her intent.

"Why yes, Collie. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, please fetch my satchel from Aunt Claudia's nag. I'll need to add garlic and honey to the syrup of onion. Oh, and I'll need to mix a preventative, too, so a bucket of water would be grand for washing up. I'll share it with Dr. Jones so you don't have to fetch two."

Collie "humphed" over his shoulder at Michael. Retrieving a rusted pail, he strolled with elaborate nonchalance toward the rain barrel. Eden tried to smother her giggle behind her hand, and Michael's lips twitched. Smug little trouble maker, wasn't she?

"If I didn't know better," he said, "I'd think you were gloating."

"That wouldn't be very professional, would it?"

"Professional?"

She avoided his eyes, her color on the rise again. "What I meant to say is, there's more than enough work here to keep two healers occupied."

Belatedly, he remembered what Collie had said: that Eden had cured him. He recalled, too, the wagon she'd directed him to all those years ago in Whiskey Bend, and the balding, spectacled man who'd stood on the stoop with his stethoscope. Did Eden think that growing up under the tutelage of a medicine show quack qualified her to diagnose and prescribe?

"So you've decided to follow in your father's footsteps?" he asked more cautiously.

"What do you mean?"

He bit his tongue. Wasn't the man's medicine show common knowledge? Michael wracked his brain to remember Sera's gossip. Damn, but he hated gossip.

Still, he'd rather have Eden think he'd learned of Andrew Mallory's quackery through the grapevine. The last thing he wanted was for Eden to remember him as the "champion" who'd defended her from Black Bart in a Whiskey Bend alley. She'd only use the memory to further her fantasies about him. After he'd kissed her breathless the night before, she did, unfortunately, have good reason to think he would court her. He might be a bastard, but he wasn't cruel enough to mislead her.

"Your father operated a medicine show, as I recall."

She nodded, and he wished he'd kept his mouth shut as he watched the clouds roll across those candid eyes.

"He was a good doctor, Michael," she insisted. "People would condemn him because traveling physicians have become suspect. But Papa was wise in the conventional methods for treating the body. Just as his... uh... assistant, Talking Raven, was wise in the ways of treating the spirit. Together, they could heal almost anything, if given the chance."

Goosebumps scuttled over Michael's skull. He couldn't have said why he grew so uncomfortable; he knew only that he had to change the topic of conversation.

"Well. If you're determined to assist me, then I suggest you scrub up."

He turned away from her, striding through streams of sunlight filtered by tangerine clouds. She had a point about the workload here, and since he was on a tight schedule, he wasn't opposed to letting her help—under strict supervision, of course.

He headed for the center of the clearing. His goal was the hickory stump, but he slowed long enough to cast a critical eye over the emergency repairs he'd made the previous night. Since the boys had carried the animals and all their cages out to dry, he suspected his pine needle thatch hadn't diverted the deluge any better than Collie's straw had.

Still, even with last night's rain steaming from the roof, Michael could see by day what the lightning hadn't fully illuminated: substantial wood rot. It would take more than a barrel of tar to seal out predators and elements; it would take a whole new roof.

And four new walls wouldn't hurt, either.

He shook his head, setting his valise on the stump. The boys meant well, he knew. But they weren't thinking ahead to the time when their charges would outgrow their cages. Michael didn't know which was the lesser of two evils: keeping wild animals that yearned to be free, or loosing half-tame orphans to fend for themselves amidst the foxes, martens, weasels, cougars, and bears that prowled Blue Thunder Mountain.

Tugging off his gloves, he snapped open his valise and began the precise ritual of arranging his instruments: the thermometer beside the tongue depressor, the probang next to the eyedropper. He did all this to distract himself from the disturbing notion that he might not be able to work side by side with his living fantasy without pulling her into his arms.

Above the clatter of his serum vials and chemical powders, he could hear Jamie crooning to the coons, Collie prying off the rain barrel's lid, a stream gurgling somewhere to his left, and bunnies scampering across the dried leaves in their cages. One would have thought all that racket would be enough to distract him from the sounds of the woman picking her way through the wildflowers to join him.

It didn't.

"You're not mad at me, are you?" Eden asked meekly.

She halted at his elbow, and his palms grew moist.

Annoyed at these schoolboy jitters, he draped his stethoscope over his head. He wished he weren't so damned aware of Eden's perfume. "Do I look mad?"

"Most of the time."

He tossed her a withering look. She flashed an endearing smile. He wondered how much longer he'd be able to resist the allure of her charm. The woman was entirely too trusting to think she would be safe working within his reach. Little did she realize how many of his unspeakable fantasies had taken place in wild, woodsy locales just like this one... and how little subterfuge it would take to rid this clearing of their two witnesses.

He watched her flip open her satchel and kneel in a patch of buttercups. Her fist-thick braid swished against the swell of her buttocks, and his groin tightened as he envisioned that shy, tender flesh in his palms. He chastised himself, but it did little good. His eyes seemed to have a will of their own, conjuring erotic imagery from the sunburst of gold, red, and ivory that framed her against the eastern sky. He imagined her as some sylvan nymph, her skin pearlescent with dew, as she withdrew her mystical wares from the bleached doeskin in her lap. He half expected a Pan flute to materialize in her hands.

When she swept aside his instruments to make room for a mortar and pestle, he arched an eyebrow at this take-charge attitude.

"Who would have thought Jamie Harragan and Collie MacAffee would wind up in cahoots?" she asked in conspiratorial tones, reaching once more inside the bag. "Have you ever seen a more unlikely pair?"

He shook his head and folded his arms, more interested in the curiosities she was unloading on the stump.

"Collie swore me to secrecy," she continued. "About the animals, I mean." A bone-handled knife replaced his thermometer. "Unfortunately, I took the oath before I realized what I was getting myself into." Next to the knife, she piled a collection of fringed rawhide pouches, each one bearing the painted replica of some flower or plant. "I don't like the idea of lying to Bonnie and Mrs. Buchanan, even by omission, but I don't dare break my word now that Collie finally trusts me." Her brow furrowed, which made her nose wrinkle and her freckles crowd together in the most appealing way. "Do you think that's a mistake?"

"I don't see any reason to raise an alarm—yet," he admitted, momentarily distracted from her Indian relics. "I made a cursory examination of the animals yesterday. None of them shows signs of fever. Gunther's animals have always been his bread and butter; he wouldn't have been negligent enough to let rabies spread through his pens. So the boys don't appear to be risking disease. And since Collie was careful to steal whelps, the coons and the pups aren't difficult to handle, like their feral sires."

"Well, that's a relief." Next to the pestle, she laid a notched measuring stick and a dipper made from a tan-colored gourd. Then she withdrew a corked bull horn and shook it, as if to mix its contents.