Hummingbird (12 page)

"And what's that, Doc?"

"You mean you don't know?"

"Well, I've got a pretty fair idea, but I'd like to hear your version."

"I can tell you, but it's nothing you don't know after spending any time with her at all. I'm sure you've divined she's no floozy. Miss Abigail is more or less the town yardstick." Doc scratched his head thoughtfully, puzzling out a way to describe how everybody felt about her. "I mean, if you want to see just what a proper lady ought to be, you measure her against Miss Abigail, 'cause she's the damnedest most proper lady this town's ever seen. You want to know what a devoted daughter should act like, you measure her up against Miss Abigail, after the way she saw to her old man in his last years. There's a few women in this town could take a lesson from her on keeping their noses out of other folks' business, too.

Oh, she's exactly what she appears, make no mistake about that—every inch a lady. I guess that's why the townspeople were pretty surprised that she'd take in a gunslinger like she did." The word might have rankled, but Doc had a way of saying it, offhand, as if it didn't matter to him.

"Has she ever been married?" Jesse asked.

"Miss Abigail? No…" Then, recalling back, Doc added, "Now wait a minute. She almost did once. A rounder he was, never could see the two of them together. But, as I recall, he courted her right up until the time her father got bad. Seems he wasn't willing to take on a bedridden old man along with his bride, so he left her high and dry. You know, over the years a person forgets those things. She was different then, of course. But it's hard to think of Miss Abigail as anything but a maiden lady. Guess that's why we were all so surprised when she took you in." Doc looked up. "How's she bearing up?"

"Staunch as a midwife."

"That'd be typical of her too. She's that way, you know. When she takes on a responsibility she's prepared to see it through, come hell or high water. She gave up the better part of her youth seeing after her father, and by the time he died, we all kind of took for granted that she'd become the town's resident old maid. Some folks thought she got a little uppity, but then you can't blame her. Hell, who wouldn't, being so young when all your neighbors labeled you a spinster? Ah well, in any case, we'd all appreciate it if you gave her her due respect."

"You've got my word on it. Oh, and Doc, could you check this hand of mine?"

Doc pronounced the hand only bruised, then summed up his findings. "Well, you're healing fast, thanks to her, but don't push it. Take 'er slow and easy. Try sitting up tomorrow, but no more than that. I'd say, by the looks of you, you'll be managing a slow shuffle by the end of the week anyway. Just don't overdo it."

Jesse smiled and nodded, liking the man more than ever as Doc prepared to leave.

"Doc?"

"Yup?"

"What's up with that Melcher fellow?"

"Wondered when you'd ask about him." Doc could see the first hard lines in Jesse's face since he'd walked in the room. "Seems he's leaving town today. Went to the depot and bought himself a ticket for Denver on the afternoon train. Did you know you shot his toe off?"

"I heard."

"He probably will limp for the rest of his life. Plenty of grounds for a lawsuit, huh?"

"You'll pardon me if I'm not overcome by guilt," Jesse said with a bitter edge to his voice. "Look what he nearly did to me!"

"Around here that's not going to count for much, I don't think. You see, you're the villain—he's the hero."

Strange, but even at those frank words, Jesse felt no criticism from Doc. As the two eyed each other, it was with mutual silent approval.

"Tell Miss Abigail I'll try to be around if she needs me again, but I don't think she will."

"Thanks, Doc."

Doc stopped in the doorway, turned one last time, saying, "Thank Miss Abigail. She's the one that kept you alive." Then he was gone.

Jesse lay thinking of all Doc had told him, trying to imagine a young and vibrant Miss Abigail courted by an ardent suitor, but the picture wouldn't gel. The image of her taking care of a sickly father seemed far more believable. He wondered just how old she was, guessing her to be thirty or thereabouts. But her bearing and actions made her seem far older, stodgy, and fusty. To picture her with a husband and children seemed ludicrous. She would seem miscast in that role, with a child's sticky fingers pulling at her spotless apron or admiring a mud pie brought for her approval. Neither could he imagine her moaning in ecstasy beneath a man.

But like the change of cards in a stereoscope came the picture of Miss Abigail as she'd been that night fighting for his life, hair and gown and skin a mess, leaning over him, pleading, urging him to fight with her How intense she'd been then, all fire and dedication, so different from the primness which she usually exuded. The two just didn't go together But according to Doc Dougherty, he owed his life to her. He felt a prickle of discomfort, thinking about how she'd been jilted by that other man so many years ago just because she'd accepted the responsibility of caring for a sick man, and now the same thing had happened again and it was his fault. Guilt was a new thing to Jesse. Still, he decided he owed her something and would temper his tongue because she'd lost her boyfriend on his account.

But I'll surely miss teasing her, he thought. Yup, I'll surely miss it.

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All the way home Miss Abigail knew she couldn't avoid shaving him any longer. He was bound to find out sooner or later that she'd shorn him, if he hadn't already! She'd intended to get the ordeal over with at the same time as his bath, but he'd riled her so that she simply couldn't face it. Oh, if only it were all over He was simply going to explode when he found that moustache gone, and now that she knew how volatile he was, the thought made her quaver.

"I'm home," she announced from the bedroom doorway, surprising him, as usual. How a woman could move through a house without making a sound that way beat him.

"Aha."

With a half sigh of relief that he still hadn't made the discovery, she came into the room, pulling the white gloves from her hands on her way to the mirror. He was surprised to find himself glad she was back.

"And have you brought your flax seed?" he asked, eyeing her in semiprofile as she raised her arms above her head and removed the ornate, filigreed hatpin. He noticed again that she had generous breasts. Her usual starch-fronted blouses concealed the fact, but from this angle, and with her arms raised that way, they jutted forward, giving themselves away.

"Indeed I have," she said, turning now. "And some fresh lemons for a cool drink."

He bit back a cute remark about Melcher and asked instead, "Did you bring a beer for me?"

She soured up. "Your days of ebriosity are recessed temporarily. Lemonade will have to do while you're here." He understood her now, the way his teasing made her pluck some pretentious word from her ample store of them and use it to bring him down. Ebriosity! But again his newfound agreeability stopped him from teasing, and he agreed pleasantly, "Actually, lemonade will do quite nicely, Miss Abigail."

She stood there in the center of the room, ill at ease for some reason she couldn't define, and the shifting breeze from the open window caught her skirt, billowing it out before her. She took her hat and used it to flatten the skirt down again, the gesture very youthful and enchanting, making him wonder again what she'd been like as a young girl.

"I… I'll shave you now, if you like." Her eyes avoided his, and she fussed distractedly with the daisies on her hat. He rubbed his jaw while her heart jumped into her throat.

"I probably look like a grizzly bear," he ventured, smiling.

"Yes," she agreed rather weakly, thinking, and you'll probably act like one in a minute, too. "I'll go heat water and gather the necessary things."

She left the room to stoke up the fire, then found clean cloths and her father's old cup and brush. She was reaching for the basin when his voice roared from the other room.

"Miss Abigail, get your ass in here and fast!" She straightened up as if the toe of his boot had given her a little impetus, then closed her eyes to count to ten, but before she finished, he was yelling again. "Miss Abigail…
now
!"

He had completely forgotten his promise to be nice to her. She came in holding the washbasin like a shield before her.

"Yes, Mr. Cameron?" she almost whispered.

"Don't you 'yes Mr. Cameron' me!" he roared. "Where the hell is my moustache?"

"It's gone," she squeaked.

"I've just now discovered the fact. And who is responsible?"

"Responsible? I don't see why you put it that—"

"I'll put it any way I damn well please, you interfering—" He was so angry he didn't trust himself to call her a name, not knowing what might come out. "Who in the hell gave you permission to shave me?"

"I didn't need permission. I am being paid to see after you."

"You call this seeing after me!" His black, piercing eyes held no softening hazel flecks now. "I suppose you figured as long as you were changing everything around here—sheets, bedpans, bandages—you might as well keep right on changing. Well, you changed just one thing too many, do you hear me, woman! Just one thing too many!"

Though she quailed before his wrath, she was unwilling to be spoken to this way. "You're shouting at me and I don't like it. Please lower your voice." But her very control seemed only to raise his temperature and his volume.

"Oh God," he implored the ceiling, "save me from this female!" Then he glared at her. "What did you do, decide the big bad train robber needed his fingers slapped, is that it? I suppose you picked this way to do it. Or did you shave it off just for spite because it's masculine? Oh, I've got you pegged,
Miss
Abigail.

I've seen your kind before. Anything male is a threat to you, isn't it? Anything that smacks of virility dries you up till you squeak when you walk. Well, you've picked the wrong man to wreak your puritanical vengeance on, do you hear me, woman? You'll pay for this and dearly!"

Miss Abigail stood red-faced, horrified that he'd struck so near the truth.

"I am paying for this, just standing still for your abuse and your name calling, which I do not deserve."

"You want to talk about deserving? Did I deserve this?" He made a disgusted gesture near his wounded leg. "Or this?" He next pointed to his upper lip. She was again struck by the fact that he looked very naked and unnatural without the facial hair.

"I may have acted hastily," she began, still trembling but willing to compromise now with a sort of apology, if only to silence him. He let out a derisive snort and lay there glaring at the ceiling. "If it makes you feel any better," she said, "I'm sorry I did it."

"Believe it or not, it doesn't make me feel a damn bit better." Then he went on in an injured tone, "Just why the hell did you do it? Was it bothering you?"

"It looked dirty and gave you the appearance of a typical outlaw." Then her voice brightened noticeably.

"Why, don't you know that some of the most famous outlaws in history had moustaches?"

"Oh?" He raised his head a little to peer at her. "And how many of us have you met?"

"You're the only one," she answered lamely.

"I'm the only one."

"Yes," she said very meekly.

"And you shaved me sol wouldn't look like the others, huh?"

Miss Abigail, who always had such control, came very close to blubbering. "Actually n…no. Well, not…

I mean, it is very much trouble when… well, when you're eating. I mean… well, it tickled."

His head came up off the pillow. "It what!"

"Nothing!" she snapped. "Nothing!"

"It tickled?"

Mortified by her traitorous tongue, she was forced to expound. "Yes, when I was feeding you." That brought his head up even further.

"Would you care to explain that, Miss Abigail?" But she had turned so red he could almost smell the starch scorching in her collar as she spun from the room. While she gathered his shaving things, he lay considering. A crazy notion took hold of him, and being very much a ladies' man, it swelled his considerable ego and cooled his anger somewhat. But common sense told him it couldn't be true—not of the ramrod-spined Miss Abigail! Still, the notion gained credence when she returned, for she was skittish as a cat at howling time, fussing around with that shaving stuff, avoiding his eyes, and obviously very uncomfortable.

She felt his eyes following her with a feral glint, but steeled herself and approached, poured some hot water into the cup, and worked up a lather But when she made a move toward his face, his black eyes snapped warningly.

"I'll do it myself," he protested, and grabbed the soapy brush from her hand. "Just hold the mirror," he ordered. But once he got an eyeful of his naked face in it, he grew disgusted again. "Damnit, Abbie, you might as well have changed the shape of my nose. A moustache is part of a man he doesn't feel the same without." He managed to sound quite wounded now. Looking into the mirror, he shook his head woefully at his own reflection, then started lathering as if to cover up what he saw.

As the black whiskers became covered with white he looked less fearsome, so she admitted, "I knew that as soon as I did it. I'm sorry." She sounded genuinely contrite, so he stopped brushing the soap on his jaws and turned to study her. She kept her eyes on the mirror but said, "I… I found that I'd liked you far better with it." Fearing she'd again said the wrong thing and given him ammunition, she ventured a peek at him. But his scowl was gone and, surprisingly, so was much of the anger from his voice.

"It'll grow back."

Something told her that the worst was over, that he was trying, really trying to control himself for her.

Pleased, she offered, "Yes, your beard grows exceedingly fast." They assessed each other for a few seconds, and in that time he realized she'd studied him in his sleep long enough or hard enough to mark the speed with which his beard grew.