McCrory's Lady (22 page)

      
“The wound is clean. Here, help me turn him so I can check the back,” he instructed as he rolled Colin onto his left side. “Excellent. The lower-level bleed has nearly stopped.” He carefully swabbed the angry punctures with carbolic, then poured a dark yellow powder over the wounds. Maggie helped him wrap Colin's waist with clean bandages. Then they rolled him onto his back and covered him.

      
“No vital organs seem to have been hit. The real enemy now is fever. You'll have to watch him closely·”

      
“Eileen said you have some unorthodox treatments for fever.”

      
“I'm unorthodox in most ways. I'm a member of the Reformed Movement of Judaism,” he said with a wry smile. “But I do come from a long line of excellent physicians. A distant great-grandfather of mine learned from the Caribbean natives that cooling a fevered body is far more effective than overheating it. I want you to follow my instructions precisely. I'm overdue at the Zeller place to deliver a baby, so I have to leave. Mrs. Zeller's already suffered two breech births and she'll be needing my help. I should be back here by morning.”

      
Maggie nodded, listening to every word he said, intuitively trusting the earnest young physician with the gentle sense of humor and skilled, patient hands.

      
By evening Dr. Torres's worst fears were realized when Colin began to thrash with a burning fever. Maggie at once set to work, stripping the bed linens back and covering him from head to foot with wet cool towels while Eileen and Eden fetched fresh ones and took the used ones to re-soak in cold water. They continued the process for hours.

* * * *

      
Colin was burning up. It was the damnable heat of Sonora, like the furnace of hell. The sun beat down on his half-naked body as he plied his task.

      
He could dreaded the hated sucking noise as he tugged with one hand while the sharp tip of his blade sheared around the dead Apache's scalp. Plop! The nasty trophy came free. His keen eyes swept the chaotic scene surrounding him as he tied the scalp to his belt and moved on to his next victim.

      
“You only shoot the bucks, kid. Got a weak stomach for killin' she cats 'n cubs?” a grizzled old mountain man with one eye missing asked as he tied a dozen bloody hairpieces to his scalp pole.

      
Colin McCrory shrugged as he went methodically about his task. “A buck brings a hundred dollars. Women fifty, children only twenty-five, ” he replied in his soft Scot's burr.

      
Lebo spat a lob of tobacco into the thick red dust and laughed, revealing blackened stubs of teeth. “You ain't got no stomach fer killin' a female. Admit it.”

      
“Leave the Scotty be, Ernst,” a big black scalper named Amos said quietly. “He done his share o' the fightin'.”

      
“Yeah. And he don 't puke no more when he has to cut 'em up,” a huge Kanaka added. His big belly rolled with laughter as he hefted his scalp pole onto his horse.

      
Colin could smell the acrid sweetness of blood congealing in the intense heat. Flies droned hungrily around the mutilated corpses, landing on his hands and greasy stained buckskin pants. He swatted them away furiously.

      
The big Kanaka finished his task, then reached into the mochila on his saddle and pulled out a sack of pinole. Using some of the pooled blood from a dead squaw to moisten the cornmeal, sugar and cinnamon into a pasty ball, he licked the noisome mess from one big paw.

      
“Bloody hell! I told you not to do that, you craven barbarian!” The words were barked in the sharp, twangy accent of Jeremy Nash. Colin had quickly learned why their leader held his Brit employers in such contempt. He was called the Aussie, and was an escapee from a British penal colony in Australia.

      
McCrory refused to watch the confrontation between the big Kanaka and Nash. His stomach was never the best after a raid, anyway. He had already seen the sticky pink goo Kahoo found such a delicacy. Pinole was hard enough to eat when mixed with brackish water. McCrory swatted angrily at the swarming flies and stood up, grimacing in pain as he bore weight on his injured leg.

      
“They's a doc in Chihuahua City. Best git that looked at afore it festers,” Lebo said, eyeing the slash on McCrory's thigh made by an Apache war lance.

      
Colin scoffed. “Some doctor. He'd as soon poison me and saw off my leg as spit. “ Damn, but it ached like a bitch. In this heat and filth, he knew he was in mortal danger even now that the fierce no-quarter fighting was over. He finished tying his prizes to the scalp pole on his pack mule, then limped to the small stream that meandered through the Apaches' camp, intent on washing the wound with clean water.

      
Death lay indecently littered around him, a whole village of Chiricahua Apaches. He had never gotten used to the slaughter. The Aussie's band of scalpers had swooped down on them at sunrise. By full light they had finished their fatal business. The enemy were all scalped, and their hairpieces had been tallied and placed on poles. The Apaches' Mexican slaves were readied to march to freedom, and the horses and mules had been rounded up for the drive to Chihuahua City.

      
Quite a haul. Over l50 Apache scalps, 15 freed captives and at least 200 sturdy animals. The Sterling Mining Company who paid them would be pleased.

      
Jeremy Nash, wearing a rakish grin and a flashy feathered bush hat, strode over and watched as McCrory washed the angry red gash. “Pour some of this onto the wound after you clean it out, mate.” He tossed a small leather pouch to the youth. “ ‘Ow long you been ridin' with me now? A year? Two? Funny. A bloke loses track, ya know.”

      
“Nearly two years,” Colin replied as he poured a thin line of the yarrow powder onto the oozing gash.

      
“You was 'ardly outta short pants when I found you in St. Louis.”

      
“And out of the kindness of your heart, you took me under your wing,” Colin said lightly, tossing the sack back, his golden eyes meeting the shrewd slate gaze of the Aussie.

      
Nash threw back his head and roared with laughter. “The scrawny young Scotty's gone and gotten cojones. Don't say I never taught you nothin', mate. A right tidy profit we made today. Them Brit swells'll bloody well pay up—in silver—for every scalp. Yer a rich man, Scotty.”

      
Colin studied Nash 's toothy grin. “You must 've made a dozen fortunes by now. Why do you keep coming back to this hell?”

      
The Aussie shrugged. “I was born on the Sydney waterfront. Me mum was a ‘hore. Got no desire to go home, mate. What about yerself?”

      
McCrory shrugged. “Never knew my mother, but my father was the town sod. I always dreamed of coming to America. I admit when I landed in New York I never thought I'd end up in this godforsaken place. ”

      
Nash chuckled. “You'll get used to it. I like it well enough. No rules, no coppers. Lots of whiskey 'n women—and all the silver I need to buy anything I want. You 'll get used to the killing, too, ” he added with a leer.

      
“You 've grown to enjoy it, I think.” Shrewd whiskey eyes measured the Aussie. “But I never will. ”

      
“Best ya get out then—before the nightmares start.” Nash's voice was hard.

      
McCrory's eyes flashed away from the Aussie's level gaze. He tied off the wrap on his injured leg and they began to walk toward their mounts.

      
The Aussie let out a low chuckle. “So, sweet dreams already began.” A smirk creased his beard-stubbled cheeks. “You see the bloody bodies, even smell the sour stink of yer own fear. ”

      
“Actually, it's the flies I hate the most. Carrion eaters, gorging on the dead.” The heat enveloped him, blurring the Aussie's face in a wavering haze. Then everything faded to black…

* * * *

      
Exhausted and frightened, Maggie held him down and listened to his feverish ravings. Mostly disjointed phrases, peculiar comments about the Aussie—whoever that was—and complaints about blood and flies, which she supposed referred to his being shot. Later on he called out for Eden or Elizabeth. Every mention of his dead wife's name was like a dagger in her heart, but Maggie swallowed back her tears and kept bathing him with the cold towels.

      
At one point when he struggled to sit up, she could find no other way to get him into a prone position but to lay her full weight on him. Finally, he seemed soothed, and drifted into a deep sleep.

      
Around midnight the fever broke. Greatly relieved, Maggie sent Eden to bed, insisting the maid Rita could fetch anything she needed. Getting rid of Eileen was a bit more difficult.

      
“I'll be fine,” Maggie said firmly.

      
“Yer exhausted. The circles beneath yer eyes are wide as saucers 'n ye haven't eaten since morning,” Eileen scolded. “I'll not budge until you at least take a good hot bowl of stew.”

      
“Bring the stew,” Maggie capitulated.

      
After forcing down half of the rich beef and vegetables, she shooed Eileen out and turned back to the bed where her husband slept peacefully now.

      
The housekeeper had been right. She was exhausted, but she did not want to leave Colin to be watched by any of the servants. Then an idea occurred to her. The bed was big and wide. Surely, she could lie down next to him without hurting him.

      
Slipping off her clothes, Maggie quickly sponged her body and donned a nigh trail and robe, then climbed beneath the quilts with Colin and lay alongside him, feeling assured by the drop in his body temperature and the strong, steady beat of his heart. Sleep quickly claimed her.

      
Colin awakened to darkness and pain. He stared at the moonlight bathing his room and recognized where he was—home safe at Crown Verde. Then, everything came back to him—the bushwhackers and being shot. He thought he remembered Maggie crying over him. The subtle essence of lilies of the valley touched his nostrils. He became aware of the soft curves of her body and knew his wife slept beside him. Colin tried to raise his hand to stroke her dark auburn curls, but the pain in his side prevented him. Wincing, he gave up and let sleep claim him once again.

      
Softly, unaware he did so, Colin murmured her name and took comfort in her nearness. She stirred but did not quite awaken as he whispered, “Maggie...my wife.”

Chapter Ten

      
The sound of voices coming up the stairs awakened Colin the next morning. Thin streams of sunlight bathed the room. He could still smell the faint essence of lilies of the valley, but Maggie was gone from his side. The bed felt empty without her. He lay staring at the ceiling, feeling his side throb while he tried to sort through his tangled emotions.

      
If not for the soft indentation in the pillow and the trace of perfume, he would have thought he had imagined that she had slept with him last night. Vague images of her bathing his body with cool cloths flashed through his mind. He thought he remembered her tears as she threatened him if he dared to die. He even vaguely recalled that she had thrown herself across him, pressing her soft curves against his heated flesh.

      
“I must've been crazy with fever.” Then a horrifying thought dawned on him, causing him to bolt upright in bed. At once, the pain slashed wickedly across his side, driving the breath from his lungs as he fell back onto the pillows. Had he raved about his past, about being a scalper with the Aussie? What if Maggie knew?

      
He had castigated her enough about her past. Even if he had spent all his respectable years in Arizona trying to atone for the sins of his youth, his own past bore no close inspection; but a man's morals were accounted differently than those of a woman. Anyway, he had left his sordid occupation as soon as he could escape it. She had chosen to remain in hers even though she was financially independent enough to quit whoring.

      
His thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and Aaron entered with Eileen. Perversely, Colin felt a stab of disappointment that Maggie was not with them.

      
As if in answer to his reaction, Eileen beamed and said, “I told Miz Maggie not to be frettin' when I sent her down for a good hot breakfast. She's done nothin' but stay at yer bedside since they brought ye in, scarce eaten a bite.”

      
“Good morning, Colin. You seem much improved since yesterday,” Dr. Torres said with a smile.

      
“Easy for you to say, Aaron. You aren't the one whose side's on fire,” Colin groused.

      
“Let me take a look at the wound,” the physician said as he unfastened the bandages.

      
“I'm not too full of holes to hold whiskey.”

      
“A prime consideration for a Scot, I'm sure,” Aaron replied gravely, but mirth danced in his eyes as he gently rolled his patient over and checked the exit wound.

      
Sweat beaded Colin's brow. Fiery pain lanced through him with every movement, but he made no sound as Aaron applied fresh bandages.