Hummingbird (8 page)

"You were shot, Mr. Cameron, while attempting to hold up a train…" She arched a brow, then added,

"As if you didn't know." And with that she was gone.

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He clenched his good fist. Oh, she was some smug bitch! What train? I'm no goddamn train robber! And who is this Melcher anyway? Obviously not her husband. Her protector? Ha! She needs protecting like a tarantula needs protecting.

Miss Abigail stood in her kitchen quaking like an aspen, looking at the broken fragments of china, wondering why she hadn't heeded Doctor Dougherty's warning. Never in her life had she been spoken to this way! She would have him out of here—out!—before this day ended, that much she promised herself.

Pressing a hand to her throbbing forehead, she considered running down to Doctor Dougherty's and pleading illness, but if she did that he would certainly remove Mr. Melcher, too. Then she remembered how desperately she needed the money and steeled herself for a long day ahead.

In the bedroom, he longed to raise his voice and bellow like a bull moose until somebody told him what the hell was going on around here. He lay instead sweating profusely, having writhed far more than he should have. His leg, hip, and lower stomach had turned to fire. Resting the back of a hand across his eyes, he gritted his teeth at the pain. That was how she found him.

"It has been two days since…"

He jumped and another pain grabbed him. Damn her! Did she have to pussyfoot around like that all the time?

Very collectedly now, she began again, with exaggerated control. "I thought you might have to relieve yourself." But she looked at the knob on the headboard while she said it.

Eyeing her mistrustfully, he knew she had him over a barrel. He did have to relieve himself, but he knew he wasn't going anywhere to do it. So just what did she have in mind?

With a voice like ice, she issued orders. "Don't try to speak or strain your leg in any way. I shall help you roll onto your side first." And coming to the side of the bed, she removed the bolsters from under his knee, lowered it with surprising gentleness, then snapped the ends of the under sheet loose from their moorings and rolled him with it until he faced the wall, still covered by the top sheet. She laid a flat porcelain pan next to him and without another word left the room, closing the door with not so much as a click of the latch.

What kind of woman was she anyway? She sashayed in here carrying that bedpan as if she had no idea that he was the one who'd only minutes before shattered her china soup bowl and called her a bitch.

Most women would have refused any further services on spite alone… but not her. Why should that aggravate him too? Maybe because she looked frail enough to cow with a savage glare. Maybe because he'd tried it and it didn't work.

She came to collect the bedpan with the same silent poker face as before. They needn't have spoken anyway to tell each other they'd met their matches.

She had the perfect revenge for his insufferable attitude this morning: she left him alone. Miss Abigail knew perfectly well he was lying there with a hundred unasked questions eating him up. Well, good! Let them eat him up! It's no more than he deserves.

In the flowery bedroom that's exactly what was happening. Bitch! he thought time and again, unable to shout, to ask anything he wanted now worse than ever to know. He seethed for the remainder of the day, caught like some damn fool bumblebee in a glass jar, in that insufferable yellow flower garden she'd trapped him in. Once he even heard her humming out there in what seemed to be the kitchen, and it made him all the madder. She was out there humming while he couldn't make so much as a squeak without paying dearly.

Much later he heard her go upstairs, then the two of them come down to supper. Snatches of their conversation drifted through the quiet house, and he heard enough to know they were feeling pretty cozy with each other.

"Oh, Miss Abigail, nasturtiums on the table!"

"Ah, how pleasant it is to find a man who can actually identify a nasturtium."

"How pleasant it is to find a woman who still grows them." The eavesdropper in the bedroom rolled his eyes.

"Perhaps tomorrow you'll feel well enough to sit in the backyard while I do some weeding."

"I'd love that, Miss Abigail, I truly would."

"Then you shall do it, Mr. Melcher," she promised before inquiring, "Do you like fresh lemonade?"

"I wish you'd call me David. Yes, I love lemonade."

"We'll have some, tomorrow… in the garden?"

"I'll look forward to it."

She helped him back to bed. The man downstairs heard them go up and a silence that followed and thought to himself, no it couldn't be. But indeed it could be, and David Melcher kissed Miss Abigail adoringly, then watched her go all peach-colored and fluttery.

She came back downstairs from her pleasant interlude to face the horrifying prospect of feeding that black brute again. She'd like to let him starve to death. Furthermore, she was afraid to go near him, and more afraid that it might show. She prepared milk toast for him, and entered the bedroom armed with it, ready to fling it on him and scald him should he make a grab for her again.

"I've brought you milk toast," she informed him. He thought she looked like it had soured in her mouth.

"Bah!" was all he could get out to let her know just what he thought of milk toast. "I'm starving!" he mouthed.

"I wish you were," she said, all honey-voiced, and rammed a napkin under his chin. "Hold still and eat."

The hot milk nearly gagged him, the lumps of slimy bread slithered down his throat, disgustingly. Even so, every swallow was torture. He wondered just what had been in his mouth to make it hurt this way, but it appeared she was still in a snit and wasn't going to tell him anything.

They eyed each other menacingly. He, waiting for the chance to ask questions, she, ready to spring to safety at the first sign of brutality. She could hardly stand the sight of him and thought the only good thing about feeding him was that he couldn't speak. And since he looked in no way ready to carry on a dignified conversation, she left him to stew. She put her kitchen back in order and found herself exhausted. Alas, all of her night things were in her bedroom and the last thing she wanted was to go in there again. So she dreamed up an excuse: a gargle.

Before entering, she tiptoed to the doorway, peeped in, gathering her courage. He faced the window, jaw muscles tensing repeatedly. Ah, so he is still angry, she thought. His beard had grown again, darkening his entire face. Studying the lip, which she had willfully denuded, she trembled to think about what would happen when he discovered his moustache gone. She willed it to please… please, hurry up and grow back!

She tread soundlessly across the threshold, her insides ascatter with apprehension.

"Are you ready to act civil?" she asked. His head snapped around and his good fist clenched. Then he grimaced in pain.

Damn that pussyfooting! he thought. "Are you trying to kill me with neglect?" he whispered stridently and pressed a hand to his abdomen, "or just let that slimy milk toast do the job for you?"

The thought of David Melcher's warm compliments made her voice all the more frigid as she replied, "I attempted to teach you a lesson, but apparently I failed." She turned to leave.

"No… wait!" he grated hoarsely.

"Wait, Mr. Cameron? For what? To be insulted and cursed at and to have my possessions shattered as repayment for bringing you food?"

"You call that slop food? I'm half starved and you bring me broth and milk toast, then hustle your fanny out of here without so much as a fare-thee-well! I've been laying here waiting for some answers for who the hell knows how long, so just keep your bones where they are, missus!"

Appalled by his rude outburst, she attempted to level him with a little cool, sarcastic superiority.

"My! What an extensive vocabulary you harbor, Mr. Cameron. Slop… fanny… bones… spoken like a true scholar." She threw him a disparaging look, then stiffened her spine and tried to give the impression she was taking command, although she felt far less cocksure than she sounded.

"If you want answers to any questions, quit your cursing,
sir
, treat me with respect, and stop issuing orders! I shall issue orders if any are to be issued, is that understood? You have fallen under my care and

—despicable as you are—I am committed to giving it to you. But I do not—repeat,
do not
—have to accept your grossness or your abuse. Now, shall I leave or will you comply?"

He jerked his chin once, gave her a withering look, and whispered something that sounded like,

"Sheece!" Then in a guttering voice he obliged, "Enter, Goody Twoshoes, and I'll try to hold my temper."

"You had better do more than try,
sir
." She could say sir in the most cutting way he's ever heard, considering that sweet little voice she had.

"Yes,
ma'am
," he countered, giving her a dose of her own hot tongue.

"Very well. I've made a gargle to ease your throat. If you use it, I'm sure it will offer some relief by morning." But she hesitated, just beyond his reach, as if still unsure of him. He considered winking at her just to see her jump, but nodded instead, agreeing to lay off the rough stuff.

She came nearer "Here, just gargle, don't swallow." She helped him sip sideways. He pulled half the contents into his mouth, but it flew out again in a flume.

"What kind of piss is this!"

"
Missster
Cameron!" she hissed, pulling her blouse from her skin.

He really hadn't meant to spray her that time. After all, he wanted his questions answered, even if he had to toe the line to get his way.

"Sorry," he whispered insincerely.

It seemed to appease her momentarily, for she shoved the cup in his direction and he grimaced, gulped, and gargled while she took vast pleasure in informing him, "It's an old remedy of my grandmother's—

vinegar, salt, and red pepper."

This time he hit the bowl, but he couldn't help gagging.

"Rinse!" she ordered imperiously, handing him a glass. He eyed it suspiciously, finally taking it. But it was only water this time.

"What the hell happened to my throat?" he guttered.

"As I said, it had some foreign objects in it while you were unconscious. It should feel better by tomorrow. I'd appreciate it if you would keep your crudities to yourself."

"It's not enough I get shot… I have to get choked, too. That would make any man cuss. And what's the matter with this hand?"

"Your gun hand?" she inquired sweetly, intimating a gross guilt upon him with that single arched eyebrow of hers.

He scowled, causing forbidding creases to line his forehead.

"I assume somebody trounced on it in the scuffle, since it has the perfect imprint of a boot heel on its back."

"It hurts like hell."

"Yes, it should, from the looks of it. But then you brought it all on yourself by robbing that train."

"I didn't rob any goddamn train!" he whispered fiercely. Across the room, where she'd been taking things out of a dresser, her back stiffened like a ramrod. It was obvious to Miss Abigail that cursing flowed from his lips more readily than blood from his wound. She would be hard put trying to keep a civil tongue in his head. But there were other barbs with which to admonish him.

"Then why is Mr. Melcher lying upstairs at this very moment, wounded by you, and why has he sworn out a legal complaint against you for the damage you've done?"

"Who is this Melcher anyway?"

"The man you shot… and who shot you."

"What!"

"The two of you were carried off the train here at Stuart's Junction, and there was a car full of witnesses to prove you attempted to rob the R.M.R. passengers and he attempted to stop you. In the tussle, the two of you shot each other."

He couldn't believe it, but apparently she did, and a few others in this town, too, by the sound of it. At least he knew where he was now.

"So, I'm in Stuart's Junction."

"Yes."

"And I'm the villain?"

"Of course," she agreed with that uppity look.

"And this Melcher's the town hero, I presume."

This she declined to answer.

"And why did you get the honor of caring for us…
Miss
Abigail, is it?"

She disregarded his sarcastic tone to answer, "I volunteered. The R.M.R. is paying me and I need the money."

"The
R.M.R
. is paying
you
!"

"That's right."

"Hasn't this town got a doctor?"

"Yes, Doctor Dougherty. And you'll probably see him again tomorrow. He didn't come by today, so I expect he was called out to the country. You may save the rest of your questions for him. I am extremely fatigued. Good night, Mr. Cameron." She sallied out with her head up like a giraffe, cutting off the rest of his queries, and he got mad all over again. He'd seen some cold-hearted women in his day, but this one beat them all. And stiff! She was so stiff he figured she'd go lean herself in the corner out there someplace and go to sleep for the night. Good night, Mr. Cameron, my eye! My name's not Cameron, but you didn't give me a chance to say so. Just come strutting in here throwing orders around like some pinched-up shrew who takes pleasure from paining a man just because he is one. Oh, I've seen your kind before—bound up so tight with corset stays that you've got permanent indigestion.

Still, from what he'd heard of the conversation between her and this Melcher, he wondered if Melcher had miraculously made some of her juices flow. Then, glancing down at his own bare hip, he wondered what the old shrew's reaction had been to him sprawled out naked in her bed. If it wouldn't have hurt so bad, he would've laughed. No, he decided, she's as cold as frog's blood, that one. He fell to plotting how he might get even with her for shutting him off like this.

In the darkness, a light rustling sounded. He supposed she was changing clothes out in the parlor He half expected to hear an explosion when those corset stays came undone.