His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2) (3 page)

"You don't want to catch your death of cold," she explained.

He might have laughed if he weren't so certain the pain wouldn't be worth the attempt. He didn't give a damn about his own health. Living didn't have much appeal to a man who was a failure.

To the best of his ability, he screwed his features into a frightening expression. "I told you to go away."

"You didn't mean it." She dipped the hem of her apron in the bucket of water.

"The hell I didn't."

"Talking Raven told me sick people always say things they don't mean."

"Ow!" He jerked away as she dabbed at the gash above his eyebrow.

"It wouldn't hurt," she retorted matter-of-factly, "if you'd stop fussing."

"God almighty. When was the last time you had a spanking?"

A dimple creased her cheek. "You won't hurt me. What's your name, mister?"

"None of your damned business. This isn't a church social. Do you have any idea what your father's going to do when he finds out you've been holed up in a stable with a man? A bad man?"

Her hands hesitated in midwring. He thought he'd finally put the fear of God in her until she shrugged, twisting the apron free of sullied water.

"You're not so bad." She darted him a sideways glance. "Aside from your manners."

Michael groaned, dropping his head back against the stall's wall. Just what he needed: a smart-aleck nursemaid too naive to know her peril.

Still, he mused in growing resignation, to sit in fresh straw and suffer the ministrations of a pretty little red-haired maid wasn't the worst torment he'd ever endured. She was neat, in spite of her poverty, and she smelled clean, which was more than he could say about the whore whose fingernails had gouged his back the night before.

Cynicism carved his lips into a half-smile. Brawling, whoring, drinking, lying—in only twenty-four months, he'd made up for twenty-three years of misplaced faith. Now he knew why his father's "flock" repeatedly broke God's Commandments. Sinning was a hell of a lot more fun than squirming on a hard pew.

Oblivious to his corrupt nature, his Good Samaritan rocked back on her heels and frowned at her handiwork. "Your face is all swollen."

He watched her through heavy-lidded eyes. Her face was beautiful. Endearing in its worry. Transcendent in its compassion. Too bad she was such an innocent angel of mercy, even though she appeared about seventeen.

"Who did this to you?"

Her question reminded him forcefully of the iron-fisted bully he'd become that night. "What difference does it make?"

She seemed surprised. "Don't you want to tell a tinstar?"

"What for?"

"He'll arrest them."

"Not if I deserved it."

Her brows knitted. "But... you didn't, did you?"

He averted his gaze. "Someone died because of me."

"Oh."

A long silence stretched between them. She busied herself with her apron. "Is that why you aren't wearing any guns?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"Well, I figured you must have shot someone, and since you feel so bad about it, you went ahead and gave up gunfighting."

His lips quirked. She really was naive.

"Gunfighters don't think that way."

"They don't?"

"No. They just go ahead and kill someone else when they want to feel better. They don't have a conscience."

She grew grave as she considered this viewpoint.

"Well, you have a conscience. Otherwise, you wouldn't feel so bad."

"I suppose."

"So you're not as evil as you think."

He arched an eyebrow. "Are you calling me a liar?"

She blushed, red cheeks against red hair. He found it charming.

"Well... no. I mean, even if you are, it's none of my business."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you."

Her heart-shaped face grew even redder, if that was possible. "You don't have to be so surly. I'm just trying to help. Papa's a doctor and—"

"The rain stopped," he interrupted sharply, having no desire to explain himself to a doctor. Especially a competent one.

She cocked her head, listening. The droning on the tin roof had dwindled to an occasional plop. The thunder was a mere whisper compared to its former cannonading.

"The storm's over," he insisted more gruffly. "You can leave now."

Anxious eyes, darkly fringed and greener than spring, delved into his. "I can't leave you alone."

"I'll survive. Unfortunately."

"That's a terrible thing to say."

"Which part?"

She opened her mouth, hesitated, then pressed her lips together. "You're just trying to make me mad."

"Nope. I'm trying to make you leave."

She wrinkled her nose, crowding her freckles together. "So you can die?"

Her question hit his gut like a sledgehammer. As little appeal as living held, dying, apparently, held less.

Craven
,
he scorned himself.
Gabriel had more courage in his big toe than you do in all your two hundred pounds. My God, he crossed the threshold of death all alone! He did it bravely, while you dozed at his bedside.

Michael began to quake, remembering that horrible discovery and the scene his reverend father had made.

"Laggard!" Jedidiah Jones had railed, his forefinger trembling. "I send you to school to make your brother well, and what do you do? You snore through his death throes!"

Michael choked. Squeezing his eyes closed, he clutched his chest, trying to force back the waves of grief that wrenched him from bone to soul.
Damn the plague.
He'd tried so hard to find consumption's cure. Awake before dawn, burning candles long into the night, he'd studied feverishly, finishing his university courses in record time so he could spend the last few months with Gabriel.

But none of his new-fangled prescriptions, none of his research findings or fancy instrumentation had even eased Gabriel's pain. Weeping uncontrollably over the emaciated little corpse in his arms, Michael had been forced to surrender his kid brother to the undertaker.

I'm sorry, Gabriel. It should have been me, not you. It should have been me!

"I'm sorry, mister," the girl murmured, her breath warm and sweet against his cheek.

Soft fingers laced through his, holding his hand over his crumbling heart. He blinked, and his angel swam above him, a vision of autumn-colored hair and golden lamplight shining through his tears. When she brushed a curl from his forehead, he flinched. He didn't deserve tenderness.

"I didn't mean any offense," she whispered, contrite. "Papa says I shouldn't always say the first thing that pops into my head."

Michael sniffed, dragging his last shreds of dignity like a suit of armor around him.

"Your father's right," he growled, pushing her away.

Shaking his head at the assistance she offered, he reached for the stall wall, hauling himself up, hand over hand. When he straightened, his knees wobbled, and his head spun. She reached for his arm, but again he shook her off, self-loathing roiling through his innards.

"Bring me Brutus, and I'll take you to your father."

"Brutus?" she repeated uncertainly.

"The black gelding. Last stall on the right."

"Oh. That's okay, mister. We can walk. I mean, I can walk. The wagon's not far, just a block or two—"

"You're not walking anywhere by yourself in this neighborhood. And especially not at night."

She bit her bottom lip. "Oh."

Thanking God when she demurred for once, he clung to the top slat of the stall, his head bowed, his teeth gritted against the pain of each breath. "The saddle's... with the bridle... on the post," he gasped.

"Found them!" she called.

He shook his head, fighting the creep of fever. It occurred to him she might have trouble with Brutus. He was just thinking he should work his way to the rear of the livery when he heard approaching clip-clops. To his amazement, his three-year-old terror walked eagerly after her, wicked brown eyes trained on the pockets of her pinafore. She patted the gelding's nose, slipped him a carrot slice, and smiled shyly at Michael.

"All ready."

So she has a way with four-legged beasts too?

He heaved himself into the saddle. The floor shifted disconcertingly beneath him; still, he managed to hold on to his blanket and right himself without diving headfirst across the pommel.

"Open the door," he rasped.

She hurried to obey, the essence of cooperation—until he lowered his hand for her.

"Um..." Doubtful eyes swept up his boots, rested fleetingly on his hips, then bypassed the grip on his reins to lock squarely with his. "You sure you aren't going to fall off?"

"You ask too many questions."

She blushed again. Hiking her skirts, she grabbed his hand, her fingers all but disappearing in his fist. When he hoisted her before him, he marveled that anyone so full of spunk could feel so weightless.

Woozy with fever, he nevertheless felt a resurgence of clarity as the tang of a rain-washed autumn slapped his senses. He braced himself against the wind, doing his best not to be distracted by the silken curls that floated like a cloud, caressing his throat and chin.

"That way," she said, pointing to a vacant lot at the top of the street.

Dimly, he saw the outline of a wagon, reminiscent of a house on wheels, as the moon steered through the thunderheads. He nodded, wrapping an arm around a waist no wider than his thigh, and spurred Brutus past the clapboard gaming houses of Whiskey Bend's tenderloin district. Shattering glass and raucous laughter mingled with the plinking of off-key pianos; the stench of offal floated past him on the wind. But honeysuckle, too, was carried on that breeze, wafting from the angel in his arms. He hated the fact that his baser nature could be stirred by anything as sweet and trusting as that woman-child. The sooner he got rid of her, the sooner he could find a hole to crawl into.

An interminable five minutes later, he reined in before the crate that served as the wagon's doorstep. He had the fleeting impression of bold black lettering on the wall, a calligraphic scrawl across chipping blue paint. An Irish name, "Mallory," was splashed above "Medical Doctor" on the door. Two windows were set into the compact quarters. A lamp burned in both, but he couldn't see beyond the pristine muslin to the furnishings inside.

"Looks like your father's been waiting for you," he said gruffly.

He swept her off the saddle, and she clung to his forearm, kicking up her petticoats until her toes touched the crate.

"You could at least come in," she said in disgruntled tones, tossing the hair out of her eyes.

"This isn't a courting call."

She shot him an exasperated look. "I didn't mean it like... Hey! Mister!"

He was already turning Brutus back toward the saloon district.

"You can't ride off. You need help!"

"Forget it. Forget me," he added bitterly under his breath.

He cantered for an alley and reined in. Peering around the corner, he squinted back through wisps of fog. He wanted to be certain she'd gotten safely inside.

Lamplight flooded the crate, illuminating the girl and her father. Her gestures were animated, her features anxious, as she communicated to a wiry, fortyish man, blocking the doorway. Michael caught a glimpse of thinning auburn hair, spectacles, and a stethoscope before Mallory stepped aside, urging the girl before him into the wagon. Then Michael watched the physician's head turn. Mallory seemed to be searching the mist and shadows, looking for some sign of the patient she'd described.

His chest flooding with shame, Michael ducked behind the wall, afraid the sawbones would spy him. He didn't want to contaminate souls worthier than his.

He turned Brutus north toward Blue Thunder Valley in Kentucky.

For a prodigal son living under Preacher Jones's roof, there was no hell like home.

Chapter 1