Hummingbird (14 page)

"I found some wild weeds that will help your hand," she said loudly, businesslike.

He roused at her words, clenched his good hand, and gave one of those shivering, all-over stretches. It was slow, masculine, and she averted her eyes, remembering how he'd earlier said that anything masculine threatened her. He growled lazily, deep in his throat, twisting and yawing. At last he opened his eyes and drawled, "Howdy, Miss Abigail. Have you been there long?"

"I just…" But she had. She'd been watching those muscles twisting and turning.

"Studying my beard grow again?"

"You flatter yourself, sir. I'd as soon watch grass grow."

He smiled, again slowly and lazily.

"I came to put a fomentation on that bruised hand. The sooner it heals, the sooner I'll be excused from wringing out your shaving cloths."

He laughed. He seemed for once to be in a halfway human mood. "Spoken like a true adversary, Miss Abigail. Come on in. I can use the company now that I've been so rudely awakened anyway. I expect you can too, now that Melcher is gone."

"Leave Mr Melcher out of this, if you please," she said acidly. "Do you want the compress on your hand or not?"

"By all means. After all, it's my gun hand, isn't it?" He extended it toward her and she came to unwrap the old gauze strips and pad. As she unwound the pieces, he added, "And my loving hand, too." She automatically halted all movement, realized her mistake, continued unwrapping while he went on. "Hard for a right-handed man to make love with only one good hand and that his left."

She could already feel the color creeping up behind her choker collar.

"How indelicate of you to say so."

The hand was free now and he flexed it only a little, at the same time moving it toward her face. She jerked back.

"And how indelicate of you to flinch, Miss Abigail, as if I had designs on you. After all, a hand like this is in no shape for loving or shooting, either one. When it is, you'll know it."

Rattled now, she turned her back on him, and her voice was almost pleading. "What do I have to do to keep you from teasing me this way? I am unused to it, thus I have no defense against it. I'm sure the women you've known in the past were quick with rebuttal, but I am simply tongue-tied, time and again, and deeply embarrassed. I realize this is precisely the outcome you hope to achieve with me, so it must pleasure you endlessly to hear me finally admit it. But I lay my soul bare to you and admit that these taunts are disconcerting. I ask you to make my job easier by treating me fairly and honorably."

"Do you want me to beseech you to put fresh nasturtiums in my room?"

When she spoke her voice was exceedingly quiet, almost defeated. "I want absolutely nothing from you except to be treated like a lady, as I was by Mr. Melcher. But then you obviously disdain Mr. Melcher.

His qualities of kindness and consideration are foreign to you, I know, but you only make yourself more offensive by making fun of him."

"Old Melcher got to you, did he?"

With an effort she kept her voice calm. "Mr. Melcher knows how to treat a lady, how to make her feel valued and appreciated, how to eke a bit of the sublime out of the everyday tedium. These things may seem soft and weak to you, but it is because you have never learned the strengths to be found in the beautiful and gentle things of this life. Strength to you is only… only… anger and cursing and goading and making others do what you want by the force of these things. I pity you, Mr. Cameron, for you've somehow been denied the knowledge that such well-worn attributes as politeness, respect, patience, forbearance, even gratitude, have a peculiar strengthening quality all their own."

"And you've practiced these virtues all your life?"

"I've tried." He saw her shoulder blades draw erect proudly as she admitted it.

"And what good did it do you? Here you are, polite and bitter, and left with me and deserted by Melcher."

Still with her back to him, she cried, "You have no right, Mr. Cameron! No right at all!
You
are the reason he is lost to me, you and your teasing tongue. I'm sure you feel supremely self-satisfied that he is gone and that with him went my last chance for… for…" But at last Miss Abigail broke down, lowered her face into her hands and sobbed, her small shoulders shaking as Jesse had never thought to see them.

The last woman he'd caused to cry had been his mother, the last time he'd left New Orleans to come back out West again. Seeing Miss Abigail cry now was equally as disturbing. It made him feel exactly as she had many times said he was: callous and coarse. And this feeling was something new and disturbing.

He wanted suddenly to make up for the hurt he'd caused, but before he could say more, she gulped,

"Excuse me, sir," and fled the room.

It struck him that even in her discomposure she clung to her impeccable manners as tightly as possible.

Miss Abigail was aghast at her own actions. Never in her life had she cried before a man. Strength came from many sources, but crying, she believed, was not one of them. Still, it was peculiar how purged she felt when she finished. All the bitterness and waste of her life, all the given years, all the unexperienced joys, all the foregone pleasures which she had never before begrudged her father or Richard… ah Richard… it was a blissful relief to even think his name again… welled now in a great, crushing hurt which she allowed herself to explore. All the pent-up frustrations which a lady never shows felt like a blessed release after years in prison.

She stood in her shaded backyard and cried at last for the loss of Richard, of her father, of David Melcher, of children and warmth and companionship. And for the first time ever she rued those years she had sacrificed to her father.

And her breakdown before Jesse made her something which she had never seemed to him before: vulnerable.

And his having caused it made him something she could hardly have suspected him capable of being: contrite.

And so it was that in the late afternoon, when she came to him next, there was a first hint of harmony between them. She came with the same self-assured dignity as before her outburst, as if it had never taken place. The only residual of her tears was a faint puffiness beneath her eyelids. Her face held neither challenge nor rebuke as she stood in the doorway, saying, "It seems I've neglected your hand again."

"My fault," he said simply. He seemed agreeable, no hint of teasing showed in his face.

"I'll take care of it now?" she asked more than stated.

"Come in," he replied. "What have you got this time?"

"The trappings for a fomentation. May I put it on?" What she was really asking was if she could come in without being tortured again by his tongue. He nodded, fully understanding. She entered, took his bruised hand, and began working over it. A grudging admiration once again overtook him. Time and again she came to him, no matter what he did or what he said. There seemed no end to her tenacity in the face of duty.

"How is it feeling?" she asked, studying the hand.

"Not good."

"Do you think any bones are broken?"

"Doc says no, but it hurts every time I move it."

"It would be surprising if none were broken," she said. The bruise was by now a ghastly yellowish-green.

She picked up a small, filled cloth bag from a steaming cup.

"What's that?" he asked suspiciously.

"Be still." Holding it gingerly between two fingers, she blew on it.

"Are you punishing me with that thing?" But she only squeezed it against the side of the cup and laid it on the colorful bruise. It didn't quite burn him, but was mighty uncomfortable. "I guess I deserve it," he ventured while she only concentrated on wrapping the hand. "What have you put in that?"

"Something that will take away the aching, heal the bruise."

"Well, is it a secret or what?"

"No, it's no secret. It's just a weed."

"A weed? What weed?"

"A weed called arsesmart."

"Arsesmart! Are you serious?" It was all he could do to keep from making choice remarks about that, but he resolutely refrained.

Meanwhile Miss Abigail thought, Is there nothing we can say to each other that hasn't some ulterior meaning? He was, of course, wearing a grin, which she ignored. To cover her discomfort, she lectured.

"My grandmother taught my mother, and she taught me the value of arsesmart. It can dissolve congealed blood, which is why I'm using it on your hand. My grandmother used it for everything. She even used it on a small mole she had on her chin right here." At last Miss Abigail looked into Jesse's eyes, touching her own chin. Lamely, she finished, "But as far as I can recall, that mole never disappeared. She never…"

Her words trailed off as she looked into Jesse's dark face, still painfully aware of the tears he had seen her shed earlier, wondering if he would mention them. But he said nothing and now looked deep in thought.

She gathered up the roll of gauze. "I believe that by morning you'll find those muscles noticeably relieved."

Her eyes slid to his hand. Now, she thought, now he will taunt me. But instead he only held out the hand, shook his head as if scolding himself.

"Well, that puts one pistol hand out of commission. But it feels much better."

It was not a thank you, but it was close, and Miss Abigail thought about it all the while she fixed his supper tray. An apology was too much to hope for—he had probably never apologized for anything in his life. Still, her outburst of tears had mollified him somewhat, and to let him know she would not be faulted for a genteel life style, she picked a small nosegay of nasturtiums and put them in a delicate cut glass ewer on his tray, which was again spread with a spotless linen liner.

When he saw the neat tray and fresh flowers, he quirked an eyebrow questioningly but took it all as a peace offering and decided he'd accept.

"Is it these things that smell so sweet?" He flicked a petal.

"It is."

"Nasturtiums, I presume?"

"They are."

They eyed one another like two bighorns deciding whether to butt or back off.

"With this hand I won't be able to handle a knife." And with those words her olive branch was accepted.

"I'll handle the knife," she offered. Then added, "I hope you like liver, Mr. Cameron. It was simply too warm a day to keep the range stoked for long. Liver and onions was the fastest thing I could think of."

At her words he felt a curious swelling at the base of his tongue, warning him not to open his mouth for any liver. But there she sat on the sewing rocker beside his bed, cutting the meat, extending it to his mouth, some sort of unspoken, rocky truce at last between them. So he took it, chewed slowly, and swallowed, willing himself not to gag, not to displease her again as he seemed to do so easily. But oh!

how he despised liver!

She kept it coming and coming and finally he had to think of something. "What's in the cup?" he asked.

"Coffee."

"Where's your straw?"

"Right here." She produced it from under the linen napkin on the tray.

"I'll have a drink of that." He was in too much of a hurry and burned his mouth, opened it wide, exclaiming, "Waugh!"

"Oops," she said innocently. "I guess I should have warned you it might be too hot."

But by this time he was too concerned about finishing that liver to ride her about scalding him with coffee.

She wanted peace and she would have it, by God! He steeled himself for more liver and never uttered a word, but ate dutifully until the plate was empty.

Meanwhile she rambled on, talking about the many home cures and remedies she'd learned from her mother and grandmother, telling him about the book where she'd found the yeast and charcoal remedy that had saved his life.

And all the while his stomach rebelled.

At last she said, "By morning your hand could be so much improved that you might be slicing your own liver… I mean, slicing the liver by yourself."

But he was lying with closed eyes, curiously impassive. Please, no, he was thinking. Anything but liver.

Unaware of his roiling stomach, she left with the tray, gratified for the first time at how docile and obedient he had been.

Halfway through the dishes she heard him weakly call, "Miss Abigail?" She cocked an ear, smiled, pleased that he at last was calling her Miss Abigail without his usual annoying tone, yet wondering at the same time what trick he might be up to now.

"Miss Abigail… bring me a bucket, please—quick!"

Was that
please
she heard? Then suddenly she realized he'd asked for a bucket. His silence during supper, his closed eyes right afterward, his uncharacteristic passivity… oh no! "I'm coming!" she bellowed at the top of her lungs.

The bucket had no more than hit the floor beside the bed when he groaned, struggling to roll over toward it. She whipped the bolsters from under his leg, reached across, and grabbed him—sheet and all—by the buttocks and rolled him to the edge of the bed just in time. He upchucked every bit of her fried liver, onions, coffee, green beans, and even the cherry cobbler. He lay sweating, face down over the edge of the bed, his eyes closed.

At last he took a fortifying gulp of air, then said to the floor, "Has it occurred to you, Miss Abigail, that perhaps we're fated to aggravate each other without even trying?"

"Here, roll over," she ordered. "You must not lie on your wounded leg that way." She helped him onto his back again and saw his chalky complexion beneath the black, black whiskers. "Perhaps I'd better check your wound again."

He flung an arm across his forehead and eyes. "It's got nothing to do with my wound. I just detest liver, that's all."

"What?" she gasped. "And still you ate it all anyway?"

"Well, I tried," he managed with a rueful laugh. "I tried, but it didn't work. I was bound and determined not to antagonize you again, especially when I saw how you'd done up that tray. But it seems I can't keep peace even when I try." He flopped his arm weakly away from his eyes to find Miss Abigail McKenzie in a state of suspended humor, her wide smile hidden behind both hands, and he couldn't help his own sheepish grin from spreading across his face. And then Miss Abigail did the most amazing thing! She collapsed onto the rocker, sending it rolling backward while she laughed and laughed, clutching her waist and letting her merriment fill the room. It was the last thing in the world Jesse had expected her to do.