Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (27 page)

A soft whisper from around the corner brought the dog to his feet, and Beau wriggled with excitement. An eager bark cost him the flowers, but he managed to pick the bundle up in his mouth again after two tries. He glanced back into the hallway as though awaiting further instruction.

Elizabeth’s reaction came out part laugh, part exhausted cry.
Adorable.
Both the dog
and
his master.

The sheriff walked to the door. “We’ll talk tomorrow sometime, Miss Westbrook.” He gave the beagle a pat as he left. “How you doin’ there, Beau.”

A murmured exchange in the hallway, followed by the snap of
someone’s
fingers, and Beau came bounding toward her.

She readied herself in case he jumped, but he didn’t. Accepting the flowers from between his teeth, she couldn’t decide whether he really wanted to give them up or not. She bent to his level and kissed the soft white tuft of fur between his eyes. Once, twice. Which only encouraged his wriggling. She tipped her head back so he could lick her neck.

“If I’d known what reception a few wild flowers would get, I would’ve delivered them myself.”

The slow, measured drawl of the deep voice encouraged her to smile, in the midst of the chaos surrounding her.

Ranslett leaned against the doorway, freshly dressed, one long leg crossed in front of the other, with a cloth-covered tin in his hand. Better that than between his teeth. . . .

He touched his coat on the desk chair as he passed. “Thanks for taking care of this for me.”

“Thank you for lending it to me.”

He came and knelt beside her, his close attention giving silent comment on her damp clothing. “As I recall, Doc gave you two orders earlier this evening, ma’am. I figured I could help with the warm meal”—a wickedly charming smile tipped his mouth—“but I can’t do much about the other.”

Elizabeth could only stare. How could he say something like that—with that scoundrel’s grin—and still sound respectable? Her thoughts went to whatever was on that plate. It smelled
delicious
!

He rubbed the scruff of Beau’s neck. “I’m sorry about all this mess, and about your money.” He nodded toward the door. “McPherson told me. It’s not right what happened in here.”

His compassion evoked emotions best left untouched, and she forced them back down. “I appreciate that.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ll understand if you want to keep a formality between us . . . Elizabeth. But . . . in my mind, we kind of got a jump on things today, and I’m wondering if you might consid—”

“Are you going to hold that plate all night, Daniel?” Seeing the dimples in his stubbled cheeks, she knew she’d read him correctly. “Or will you allow me to eat sometime before sunup?”

He lifted the cloth to reveal a tin full of fried chicken and mashed potatoes, along with three biscuits, sliced and slathered in butter. Two cookies hugged the side of the metal plate. Oatmeal-raisin if her nose was correct. Her favorite. Her mouth watered. But how much did the man think she could eat?

He covered the plate again, rose and helped her to her feet. “Lest you think this is all for you”—he gave her a wink and walked to the door—“why don’t you go ahead and get changed and come on downstairs. I’ll find us a place to eat, then walk you to the doc’s.”

“You don’t have to look if you don’t want to.”

Daniel smiled down at her. “It doesn’t bother me to look.” But from the pallor of Elizabeth’s face, he guessed it
did
bother her. Good thing she was lying down atop the doctor’s table. Bad thing was . . . the doc hadn’t started stitching her yet.

“Would you like a shot of whiskey, Miss Westbrook?” Dr. Brookston held up an earthenware jug.

“I beg your pardon?”

The young doc grinned. “Part of working in such a remote area is making do with what we have on hand. Customarily, I’d administer a mild dose of ether to dull the pain as I suture, but my shipment hasn’t come in yet. So . . .” He lifted the jug again. “I’m afraid this is the best I can do. It won’t take much, ma’am. It’s powerful stuff. Locally brewed from the mountain streams, they tell me.”

She shook her head. “I do not partake in libations, Dr. Brookston. I’m sure I’ll manage fine without it.”

Daniel watched her as she watched the doc thread the needle, and he doubted whether
fine
would describe her state of mind once things got going in a minute. He was tempted to encourage her to have just a nip or two—the nerves in the palm could be awful sensitive—but he recognized the prideful little jut in that jaw of hers. She’d made her mind up, good and hard, and he’d be wasting his breath to try and convince her otherwise.

Unlike earlier, her breathing wasn’t erratic. She might get close to swooning from the doctor’s stitching, but he didn’t think she’d pass out completely. Daniel didn’t peg her as the swooning type.

Although . . .

He hid a rueful smile, remembering how she’d gotten all still and quiet when they were alone in the cave. He might like to test that swooning theory in other ways, given time, if that Yankee mouth of hers could ever be tamed, which was doubtful. But what an interesting challenge it would make.

He hadn’t held a woman in years, and—God help him—even under the circumstances, he’d enjoyed being close to her. Of course, she hadn’t been talking to him at the time, which might account most for the pleasure he’d gained from the experience.

He countered another smile and took the opportunity to look at her, focused as she was on the doctor’s preparations.

There was nothing like the softness of a woman. The smell of her hair, the way she moved, the curves of her body that God had fashioned uniquely in the fairer sex. And Elizabeth’s curves were
nicely
fashioned. She was an assertive sort and could be downright difficult when she put her mind to it, but she possessed a vulnerability that he found attractive. And that hair . . .

It spread full across the doc’s table in a riot of reddish curls, some of them still damp, spilling over the side and brushing against Daniel’s thigh. Seeing her lying there sent his thoughts over the edge and careening down a hill he hadn’t traveled in a long time, one that left him short of breath and glad for the cool breeze issuing through the open window.

She had reawakened something inside him that made him remember what life had been like before the war. Before the loss. Before he’d learned how cruel life could be.

Fear sharpened her features. Her uninjured hand trembled as she fingered the tiny buttons on her shirtwaist. “I don’t particularly care for needles, Dr. Brookston. Despite having much experience with them.”

“Really? I’d hardly noticed.” The doctor shot Daniel a discreet wink. “If it comforts you at all, ma’am, when someone else is doing the suturing, I don’t particularly like them either.” Dr. Brookston gently took her right hand and positioned it, palm up, by her side. “Now just lie still and I’ll be done in no time. You’ll be happy to know that, with the direction of the gash, there’ll hardly be any scarring.”

She exhaled through pursed lips. “A comfort indeed. Scarring is
just
what I’ve been lying here worrying about.”

Her sarcasm earned a grin from Dr. Brookston and a quiet shake of Daniel’s head. Even under duress the woman’s mouth didn’t let up. He thought of something else the doctor might want to sew up once he finished with her hand but kept the thought to himself.

He peered over her body to observe the doc’s handiwork. He’d seen his fair share of suturing back in the war. Had even done some himself in emergencies, but he lacked the finesse of this young physician.

Sounds of the night and of a passing wagon drifted in through the window. The doc’s office apparently served as his home, as Daniel saw a cot nearby, as well as trunks and boxes piled in a corner. From what he saw, the man hadn’t been in town too long.

Softly humming a familiar tune, Dr. Brookston had completed his third suture when Elizabeth’s eyes started to flutter and roll back in her head. Daniel took hold of her free hand and gently rubbed it between his own, anticipating the move might catch her off guard.

She snapped back, blinking, her cheeks flushing a healthy pink. He thought he heard the doctor chuckle but on closer look realized he was mistaken. The man was hunched over her hand, intent on his task, still humming away.

In a bolder move and wanting to see what she’d do, Daniel brought Elizabeth’s hand to his lips and gently kissed her fingertips, tasting remnants of oatmeal cookie. With little effort, he took on a deeper accent from home. “It’s all right, darlin’. ” He kept his voice hushed. “Just concentrate on something else. Whatever comes to your mind.”

Her no-nonsense look communicated more than words could have, and he admired her ability to say so much without even opening her mouth.

“And just what is it . . . Daniel, that you think might come to my mind other than this needle of Dr. Brookston’s”—she winced—“weaving its way in and out of my flesh?”

Her pasty expression lacked bravado, but her tone didn’t. And she’d called him Daniel, on her own, with no prompting. That was something.

He laughed and was pleased when she did too, shaky though her laughter was. But he wasn’t giving up. “Tell me what brings you out to this territory. A young woman . . .” He chose his next words intentionally. “Traveling on her own—independent, tenacious . . .”

“Tenacious?” A familiar edge lined her voice. “What makes you think I’m tenacious?”

She was too easily baited. “Would you prefer
persistent
?”

“I’d prefer to be off this table and”—she winced again—“on my way to Mesa Verde.”

That reminded him of an apology he’d intended to issue. “About earlier today, when I warned you off your expedition . . . I’m sorry, Elizabeth. It’s none of my business what you do. I know it doesn’t help the situation, but my concern
was
genuine.”

“Well . . . it’s a moot point now anyway, isn’t it?” Her voice went flat, all playfulness gone.

Daniel clenched his jaw. This wasn’t the turn in conversation he’d anticipated.

“We’re through, Miss Westbrook.” Dr. Brookston slid back the stool he’d been perched on and rose. “I’ll bandage this and send you home with instructions, which will include a good night’s rest.”

Doc Brookston wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to her. Daniel helped her sit up, watching for signs she might still be dizzy.

She read the paper. “There’s no medication you want me to take? Seems doctors are always prescribing something.”

“No, ma’am. Nothing besides this.” He handed her a small container. “If you’ll rub this salve on the cut, twice a day, morning and night, it will help with the healing and will minimize discomfort. I’m also prescribing rest, Miss Westbrook. Your lungs are clear, for now, and rest will aid in strengthening them.” He paused, his brow knitting. “You’ve referred to this ailment from which you suffer as a lung condition, and I’m assuming that’s what you’ve been told.”

“Yes, all my life.”

“I believe, as do a growing number of my colleagues back east, that, in cases such as yours, the problem may actually originate here.” He touched her throat. “In the air passage, rather than in your lungs. However, over time the lungs will indeed be compromised due to the struggle for air, as your lungs clearly have been.”

She nodded. “Is there anything I can do to avoid a recurrence of what happened today?”

“Unfortunately, we don’t always know what triggers these attacks, and this one was especially severe.” He seemed to be contemplating something. “You handle various chemicals in your avocation, do you not?”

She nodded again. “But I’m familiar with each of them, and I assure you, I take necessary precautions.”

“For my benefit, ma’am, would you list the chemicals currently in your inventory?”

“You mean that
used
to be in my inventory.” She sighed. “There’s pyroxylin, ammonium iodide, and ammonium bromide.” She glanced at him and he gestured for her to continue. “Iron sulphate, pyrogallic acid—”

“Which is classified as a mild poison.” The doctor’s tone adopted an instructional quality. “And can be absorbed through the lungs. At which time difficulty in breathing will ensue. It causes extreme irritation to the respiratory tract, and if absorbed through the alimentary canal, it can—”

“Cause damage to the liver and kidneys. Yes, doctor, I’m fully aware. That’s why I’m especially careful when handling that solution.”

Elizabeth’s tone was genteel. A bit
too
genteel, Daniel noted, for the glint in her eyes. However, Dr. Brookston’s stare remained patient, unruffled—a clear sign for her to continue.

“There’s also silver chloride, sodium hyposulphite, silver nitrate, and potassium cyanide.”

The doctor’s expression sharpened. “Before the seizure, Miss Westbrook, how long had it been since you’d eaten?”

“I wasn’t hungry when I first awakened. I had a cup of tea for breakfast later in the morning, and then another cup around noon. I didn’t eat any lunch. Why do you ask?”

“Because the reaction a person has to some of these chemicals can vary widely depending on two things. The strength of the body’s immune system—we already know yours is weakened—and the amount of food present in one’s stomach when they imbibe or inhale the substances. Potassium cyanide is worthy of extra caution, Miss Westbrook, especially in your instance. Even in small doses, it can be lethal, and can produce effects quite similar to the seizure you had today, and far worse.”