Lady Fugitive (34 page)

His words came out all the faster as he
neared the door. He realized he sounded ungrateful, but he couldn't help it—he
had to get out. He couldn't take their eyes on him a moment longer. He hadn't
come expecting anything like this. He mumbled an excuse about documents
awaiting him at the holding company and stepped into the pale sunshine.

"Morgan!" David followed.
Morgan quickly climbed up into the wagon. "Expecting an invitation to
supper and see the new Tremayne soon as your wife's back on her feet. And a
last drink with you over your bar, son."

Morgan waved and gave the reins a slap.
Patrick slobbered over his master's face as they made the sweeping turn across
the fields and started back down the road into Crowshaven.

"A last drink across my bar,"
Morgan repeated aloud. "I'm beginning to see there's much I don't know
about my old friend and partner, Atkinson. First that stunt with Richelle and
now this. Hell, I haven't a clue about being mayor, Patrick!" The dog
thumped his tail.

"Running the inn, trade
negotiations, dickering over prices...that's what I know. Hell, I've only recently
begun to believe I can make Richelle a decent husband. Haven't the faintest
notion how I'm going to be a good father. And atop all that they want me to be
the town's first mayor? Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"

Morgan raced back toward the village,
his mind in turmoil. The wagon lurched abruptly. Too late, he mentally flashed
on the image of a large rock he'd glimpsed in the roadbed. A splintering sound
accompanied the wagon skid as he pulled the horses up short. "Bloody
perfect! Busted a frigging wheel! Why today, of all days?" 

He was still cursing and struggling
nearly an hour later.

As partner in the livery, he'd insisted
spare wheels be stored beneath the beds of all service wagons. But it wasn't
easy working to change a wheel alone in the icy cold; Patrick kept loping
across the moors threatening to wander off, Morgan's fingers were numb. He'd
propped the left side of the rig by tipping the big crate on end and was
positioning the new wheel when one of the horses stamped from the cold, jerking
the wagon. The crate tipped. The wagon tilted crazily and skidded backward,
knocking Morgan to the frozen ground.

There was momentary blinding pain.
Morgan inhaled and forced his voice to sound calm. He clucked his tongue.
"Forward, Midnight! Steady." The mounts were well trained. In unison
they took one step, two. Then they halted, brought up short by the wagon's
immobile dead weight. Morgan roared in pain as the load shifted and brought
fresh misery to his pinned right leg. He couldn't get his shoulders positioned
to apply full upper body strength. Forcing his arms against the wagon bed was
useless and merely caused spikes of agony to shoot into his leg.

He glanced around and felt his spirits
sink. The road was empty in both directions. No farmers appeared to be working
their perimeter tracts near the roadway. In desperation, Morgan whistled to
Patrick, grateful now that he'd taken the pesky cur along. The lanky hound
trotted up to sit beside his master.

"Patrick, go home," Morgan
ordered. "Go get Richelle. I need her, need help. Go, Patrick!" He
waved his arm in dismissal, grimacing as the pain in his leg became one long
incessant throb. The dog fretted and whined, sniffing at the dark stain
spreading near the lower half of his master's body. "Get Richelle,
Pat," Morgan gasped out.

The dog turned and trotted back toward
the village. Morgan watched until the moving shape was beyond his blurring
vision. He silently prayed the animal wouldn't be distracted by a cat or loose
hen along the way. He begged God to let someone find him before he slowly froze
to death. As the minutes dragged on, he realized he barely felt the pain in his
leg now. He mostly felt cold.

Not so bad any more. Can hardly feel
my leg at all...Christ, I'm bloody freezing to death!
Richelle, I don't want to die here. HELP ME!

* * *

Dr. Rowe addressed her in a somber voice
while Richelle straightened her garments. "We may have a problem. The
child hasn't turned. I've seen cases where the head repositions at onset of
labor and things proceed normally, but I need to be alerted as soon as your
labor begins. I'd judge that to be in less than a fortnight."

Before Richelle could respond, there was
a banging and commotion downstairs. Richelle and the doctor hurried down to the
parlor. Boyd was there, questioning Lorella about Morgan's whereabouts, worried
since he'd missed making a delivery to old Cramden.

Dr. Rowe spoke up. "He was by my
place early this morning. He's probably just been delayed somewhere."

Richelle didn't think so. Not when
Morgan had sworn to return early. "Boyd, you're sure he didn't make that
delivery? He was going past the outskirts of the village to see David
Entwistle. He wouldn't forget the time. He promised it shouldn't take long. I
hope nothing's happened to delay him."

Boyd got no chance to respond, for at
that moment, Malcolm Entwistle came out of the kitchen. "Saw a crate in
the back of Morgan's wagon this morning. He was visiting with my father and
some of the other men when I left."

There'd been a moment of awkward
embarrassment earlier that morning, when Morgan's chimney mason turned out to
be the same young man who'd given Lorella a lesson in selecting the best
pumpkin.

Lorella had instantly flushed beet red
when she'd let him into the parlor, but he seemed to take no notice,
professionally surveying the premises and taking quick measurements upstairs.
As he descended the staircase, though, he cleared his throat and inquired
whether she'd enjoyed the ripe pumpkin last month.

Lorella announced she'd baked it and
another she'd purchased later into pumpkin bread. She inquired whether he'd
like a taste and a cup of tea. Richelle wandered into her own kitchen to find
herself about as welcome as a tax collector. The two young people had eyes only
for each other. Dr. Rowe had arrived a short time later, going upstairs to
conduct his physical examination of Richelle.

She'd forgotten about their brash young
visiting mason until he'd spoken just now. But thoughts of where Lorella's
flirtations might lead were interrupted by their mutual concern over Morgan's
whereabouts. Richelle recalled Boyd's summons when she and Morgan had been in
Philadelphia. Tales of past deliveries gone terribly wrong.

She tossed a worried glance at Boyd.
"Dear God, you don't suppose Morgan could have encountered highwaymen? You
had freight robberies and problems like that before."

"Now hold on," Lorella
interjected. "Mr. Tremayne took Patrick with him. You know that dog
doesn't trust strangers, particularly menfolk. I'll wager a month's pay Patrick
would never let anything happen to the master. He'd lay down his life for Mr.
Tremayne."

"Yes, that's true," Richelle
agreed. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right.

She walked out onto the front porch and
peered down the lane. A vague shape approached from a distance. Gray, low to
the ground. She knew even before she heard the distinctive bark that it was
Patrick, running at full speed toward her and the cottage. Alone. Her shriek
brought Lorella and the others out.

Richelle spotted the dark red on the
animal's fur. "There's blood on him!"

Dr. Rowe bent to examine the hound.
"Not his own, I'm sorry to say. Come on, men. We'll take my rig."

"I'm coming, too," Richelle
insisted. She seized Patrick's head between her palms. "Pat, show me where
Morgan is. Take us to him, boy."

They flew out of the village, leaving a
trail of dust and a tearful maid wringing her hands in their wake. Richelle
scrambled out of the doctor's rig before it came to a full stop behind the
stalled delivery wagon partially blocking the road. She gasped as she dropped
to her knees beside the still form on the ground. "Morgan! Dear God, his
leg! Hurry, Dr. Rowe!"

Morgan's eyelids fluttered opened as she
lifted his head and gently laid it on her knee. "Richelle...Sent the
dog," Morgan mumbled. "Mess. Should have listened...stayed
home."

"It doesn't matter. You're alive,
Morgan, that's all that matters. Dr. Rowe's with us. He'll patch you up."

Boyd and Malcolm lifted the wagon so the
doctor could slide Morgan out. "Get him into the bed of that bloody
wagon," Rowe barked. "He's losing a lot of blood. Got to sew the torn
leg now. No time to move him to my surgery."

Richelle cradled Morgan's head as the
doctor prepared to suture the lacerated flesh. As his breeches tore with a
harsh rending sound, Morgan clutched at Richelle's hand with icy fingers.
"Don't let them take my leg, Richelle!" he croaked. "Child needs
me whole. You do!"

"Dr. Rowe has to sew your leg,
that's all. Like my shoulder, remember? Try not to think about the pain."
Her voice was low and soothing. "Sweetheart, it won't be long and we'll
have you home by the fire. Here, let me warm you." She removed her shawl
and wrapped it around his upper body, kissing his forehead. She held him
securely in her arms and nodded to the doctor to proceed.

"Foolhardy...like you," came
Morgan's ragged whisper. He tried to smile, managed only a grimace of fresh
pain.

Tears streamed down Richelle's cheeks.
"Not foolhardy. Determined. There's a difference."

* * *

Morgan awakened to vague images of
Richelle weeping copiously over some tragic event he'd dreamt about. Or thought
he'd merely dreamt about, until a throbbing in his right leg made him aware the
something horrible must have been very real. He opened his eyes. He was in a
dark room. His own, he realized, recognizing the canopy overhead.

"Richelle?" He heard the
mounting terror in his own voice and tried to swallow his fear.

Then came a sleepy murmur and he
realized her warmth was there, close beside him. She flung an arm over his
chest. "I'm here."

"What happened? Feels like my leg's
in a vise. Jesus, do I still
have
a leg?"

"You have your leg, and I need to
check it," she muttered. She rose and lit both bedside lamps. "You
were trying to change a wheel and the wagon slipped. If the pain gets too bad,
Dr. Rowe said I can give you more laudanum."

"Aye, it's bad." She spooned
some of the liquid into his mouth. He swallowed and winced. "Feels like
someone ran over my leg with a loaded wagon. Right—I did that, didn't I?"

She gingerly sat on the edge of the
mattress, trying not to jostle him. "
Now
you're jesting? You might
have been killed, Morgan! I would have been left to raise our child
alone."

He stretched to lay a hand over her
swollen belly. "Everything's all right?" She ignored his question,
peering at the bandage over the stitching. It was clean and dry. The flesh
around it was swollen and pink, but not hot to her touch. She glanced up at her
husband's face. Morgan's eyes were clear, not glazed.

"The doctor says you were fortunate
it was so cold out there on the road. Lessened your chance of infection. Of
course, that wouldn't have been much consolation had you frozen to death out
there under that rig." She shook herself and stood up. "Can I get you
something to eat? You haven't eaten since breakfast."

"Thirsty. Need some tea." She
started for the door. "No! Have Lorella fetch it. Stay here with me."

"I'll only be a moment. She's
asleep, Morgan. It's the middle of the night."

"It's all right, Mrs. Tremayne,"
came a muffled voice. "I heard him cry out and thought you might need
help. I'll fetch the tea."

Richelle turned back to Morgan.
"Where did you get the cradle you had in the wagon when we found you? It's
beautiful."

He tried to sit up. Richelle helped prop
him against the headboard. He seemed a bit stronger after the hot tea and a few
bites of Lorella's soft biscuits with butter. He was at least able to offer a
weak smile as she lowered the teacup. "Wench makes fine biscuits. Young Malcolm
shall grow fat."

She had no idea how Morgan had learned
of the budding romance between their maid and the mason, but it was clear from
the kindly look in his eye that he approved. "The cradle," she
reminded. "It was supposed to be a surprise for me, wasn't it?"

"Aye. David's been saving it for my
firstborn. I didn't listen to your female intuition about riding to the
outskirts of the village. Remind me next time I'm being stubborn of how you won
this argument. Trust you won't resort to having a wagon strike me for your future
victories."

"This is certainly not my idea of a
victory," she protested. "You're injured. You need to rest. Let's go
back to sleep." She helped him slide back down under the covers.

She put out the lamps and settled next
to his left side. His whisper was hoarse in the darkness. "I can't sleep
like this, Richelle. It's bad enough lying on my back. I much prefer resting on
my side, curled around you. I need to feel you."