Rocky Mountain Man (Historical) (6 page)

Exhausted and weak—she hadn't eaten nor drank—her feet seemed to trip forward and she wound up in her brother's firm grip. No, this was wrong. She needed to stay. She had to. “Please, Joshua. I can rest here and eat. That way I can be close—”

“You will do better in your own bed, and he has all he needs.”

Joshua lifted her into his arms, as if she were a child, and it was tenderness that gentled the fierce frown that made him look nearly as intimidating as Mr. Hennessey at his worst.

“No, please, you have to let me—”

“You are what matters to us. Come, let us take care of you. When you are stronger and rested, we'll talk about you coming back.”

It sounded reasonable. Even sensible. She was light-headed, she realized, from lack of food. Maybe that's why she was acting the way she was, as if everything was more intense than usual. Maybe that's why it felt as if she were breaking from the inside out, as if something vital were being wrenched from her innermost being.

She strained to look over her brother's shoulder as he carried her through the threshold, turning sideways so her dangling feet wouldn't smack against the door frame. She saw that Duncan was awake, twisting his head on the pillow, watching her leave. Struggling to keep her in his sight, although he was too weak to do more. His shadowed face was furrowed, his eyes intensely following her progress away from him, and it was almost as if he couldn't take her leaving.

As if he didn't want her to go.

Their gazes met and the impact was cataclysmic. As if the moon exploded and the earth cracked into pieces and the sun burned into the greatest darkness. She felt as if her will had helped him through the night. She had made a difference, even a little, and she didn't want to let him go. Didn't want to stop hoping.

“Joshua, please, I have to stay.”

But he whisked her onto the porch and the well-built log walls stood between her and Duncan. She tried to push out of her brother's arms, but it was as if she'd used up all her strength like kerosene in a lamp and it was gone. Tears blistered her eyes and she couldn't see as he laid her in the back seat of the family's surrey.

Joshua covered her with a wool blanket and kindly told her to rest, this was for the best, to trust him, but she felt betrayed.

How could her family do this to her?

The surrey jolted as the family horses leaped into a brisk trot, and on the leather-springed seat, she bounced and bumped and watched the cabin grow smaller. Her cheeks were wet and she felt as if she'd been the one clawed apart by a bear. It was wrong to leave him like that. When she'd promised him, she'd
promised
him, that she'd stay by his side.

Inside where Duncan Hennessey still fought to live. He'd made it to a new day and surprised the doctor, but he was too weak to lift his head from the pillow. Far too wounded to care for himself. Granny was magic—her home remedies legendary, and Betsy trusted her with all of her heart.

But I should be there, too.
A vow was a vow, and when she made one, she kept it. Duncan needed her. It had been so long since someone had truly needed her. She knew Granny would go about tending him. Gently cleaning off the poultice Betsy had boiled up in the night, and the doctor had applied over the red swollen gashes of flesh held together by her hurried stitches.

Granny would bathe him while she steeped her special willow-bark tea and simmered chicken broth and herbs on the battered potbellied stove. She'd do her best to care for him with the same loving warmth she gave everyone. Duncan couldn't be in better hands.

But she wanted to be the one to hold the cup to his lips. To sit by his side and comfort him, so he would not be alone. She knew, without knowing how she knew, that had she been injured instead, he would have moved heaven and earth to take care of her.

Mama perched on the front seat beside Joshua, who
was driving the team through the eerily dusky woods where the shafts of the rising sun did not seem to penetrate. The dry grasses rasped. The limbs overhead groaned. Remembering, Betsy closed her eyes. She'd give anything to have Duncan as he was when she'd first arrived yesterday, growling and caustic and hostile. His horrid demeanor was starting to seem less beastly to her.

“Good, she's asleep.” Mama's voice cut fearlessly through the shadows. “We got her out of there just in time. No one knows she was alone with him.”

“The doc does. And the mountain man, of course.”

“They can be managed. What matters is our dear Betsy. She's a fine girl, but you know how people are. They can be cruel, if they have the slightest reason, and I won't have Betsy hurt.”

“I won't allow it, Ma. You know that.” Joshua sounded fierce. “Since Pa's passing, I'm the head of the household and I will protect my sister with everything in me. There will be no damage done. I'll see to it.”

As if a person's reputation—simply what other people thought—could be weighed against a man's life. Betsy was too weary to argue and she knew the pointlessness of it. When Mama made up her mind, it would take an army more formidable than any on this earth to sway her from her course. She wanted to be angry with them, but how could she? They were acting out of love for her. Misguided, yes, but goodness, they loved her. She knew that. Her parents and her brothers had always wanted what was best for her.

Taking her from the mountain man was important to them, and she was too weak and weary to fight.
Granny was there, seeing that Duncan lived.
I can trust Gran, I know I can.

As the surrey jostled down the mountain road and into the bright expanse of prairie, the morning sun turned the insides of her eyelids orange. She screwed her eyes shut tight, but the brightness remained. All around her was life. The twittering larks and the cheerful robins and jackrabbits darting out of the road. Gophers popping out of their holes to stand on their back feet to watch the passing vehicle. Their gossipy chatter carried their excitement on the wind.

All of these things she always took such delight in. But on this new day, she felt as if a part of her had been irrevocably lost. It was foolish to think so much about a man who probably never wanted to see her again. But she felt as if a link of some kind had been forged between them and, like the sun to the earth, it remained.

Who knew what held the sun in the sky? It was the same with her heart. She did not love Duncan Hennessey. She did not like him. She knew he was an unpleasant loner who seemed to hate her.

But true need and sorrow had flashed in his eyes. It had been real, for she felt it still. A hard dark shell blotting out the light of day. As though a shadow had fallen permanently across the sun's face, and nothing would ever seem as bright or as warm again.

T
he side gate squeaked open, and Betsy leaned over the wooden rail on the back porch and squinted through the bright afternoon sun. She predicted it was Mother and resisted the urge to run into the house, bar the door and hide down in the cellar until her mother gave up and went away.

The only problem with that wish was the fact that Lucille Gable never gave up until she got what she wanted, so there was no point in hiding. Not that Betsy was someone who ran from her problems instead of facing them, it was just the hope of escape that was tempting.

Remembering how her mother had taken charge once they'd reached the edge of town, giving Joshua orders and escorting Betsy into the house and putting her to bed. She'd lain there to please Ma, but she hadn't been able to sleep. Her mother had stayed, and she'd never seen her mother more determined. They'd argued, and Ma had charged off in a huff.

Betsy was certain her mother would return with re
newed determination. Her stomach tightened. She loved her mother. She didn't want to fight. But she couldn't give up her life and her freedom, either. She loved this little home she rented. She even enjoyed being a laundress. It was better than living in her mother's house as if she was still twelve and her doting and well-meaning Ma would spoil her and suffocate her and, well…she'd be as good as jailed.

Dreading a certain confrontation, Betsy tucked the needle into the trousers' waistband, set it aside and tried to figure out how to manage it better this time.

But it wasn't the imposing form of Lucille Gable that came around the corner of the house, but one of her dearest lifelong friends. Rayna Ludgrin Lindsay, glowing with her pregnancy, barely noticeable behind the gathers of her full skirt, nearly stumbled in her relief.

“Good afternoon!” Betsy had never been so glad.

“Oh, there you are! Your mother had me believing you were knocking on death's door, but look at you. You're in one piece. You're safe. You're not harmed?”

“Heavens no. I've lost one good night's sleep, and that's not so terribly serious. You know how my mother can be.” Betsy eased her steaming cup onto the flat of the porch rail. “I'm just sorry I missed getting together with everyone. And I was supposed to bring dessert.”

“I know. To think the lengths you will go to get out of baking.” Rayna, with a small basket on her arm, swept up the porch steps. “I'm glad you're safe and sound. You have no idea how Mariah and Katelyn and I worried.”

“And all for nothing.” There was so much she could
say, but she was ashamed to have come out of the ordeal with nothing more than a few bruises and scratches. “What about you? How are you feeling?”

“I hate to speak too soon but, knock on wood, I think my morning sickness is finally over.” Rayna set the basket she carried on the seat of the empty chair and wrapped Betsy in an exuberant hug. “It is so good to see you.”

“Me, too.” Warmth coiled tight in Betsy's chest, making it hard to breathe. To think all this—her life, her friends, her pleasant days—could have vanished in a blink of an eye. She held on extra tight for a moment longer, grateful.

Rayna stepped back, her voice choked. “Oh, we were so scared when you didn't show up. And then, when your horse came in with a lather, with broken traces and his reins dangling and no buggy, why, we all feared the worst.”

Betsy saw the genuine fear in her friend's blue gaze. “I hate that anyone became so worried over me. I didn't look beyond taking care of Mr. Hennessey. Rayna, he was incredible.”

“I heard what he did. Your brother told my husband last night.”

And that's why Rayna was here bright and early with muffins and her comforting presence. “Any spare good wishes and prayers you have, please send them his way. I don't even know how he's doing.”

“Your grandmother's taking care of him, isn't she? Hasn't she sent word with one of your brothers?”

“I don't know because Mother thinks hearing anything about Mr. Hennessey will overset me. I just
wish—” She couldn't rid her mind of the images of him lying there in bed, his unblinking gaze like a lasso trying to pull her back. “I should have stayed with him.”

“But what about your reputation?” Rayna asked quietly, so different than her family's boisterous concern. “What about your safety?”

“No, he'd never—”

“You don't know him. You were alone with him out there in the wilderness. The few folks who know about him say he's no gentleman.”

“No. He certainly isn't.” She couldn't imagine Duncan Hennessey in a jacket and tie. She couldn't picture him as the local banker. Duncan Hennessey was everything that ought to be bad in a man—except he wasn't a bad man. She'd never thought so. “There have been plenty of respected men in this town who have been less than gentlemanly since I've been widowed. You know how it can be.”

“I do.” Rayna, after her first husband's sudden death, had had her share of troubles from a neighbor. So it was with honest empathy she said, “You enjoy your independence from your family. Staying with them after Charlie died was one thing. But it's been, what, five years?”

Betsy nodded. She missed so many things about Charlie and being married to him, but time had dulled the ravaged edges of her grief. When she looked back, it was the good memories she felt. Their happy times together as man and wife, and there were so many. “I know what I'm doing, Rayna. This makes me happy. You don't agree with my mother, do you?”

Rayna looked stricken. “No! Of course not. But there
are bad men out there. We like to pretend that's not true, but it is. And you can't always tell. A man who behaves decently in public, in private may be completely different.”

“I can take care of myself. It wasn't the man I had problems with. It was the bear! Goodness.” There she was, thinking of him again. And not just thinking—picturing him. The hard plane of his chest, the horrible wounds, the way he'd acted as if being touched by her—and having her sew up his wounds—was the worst insult.

She yanked open the pink mesh screen door and led the way into the kitchen. “Mr. Hennessey would have rather bled to death than let me close enough to touch him. The bear, however, came at me with his big shaggy paws and salivating at the sight of my strawberry pie, I tell you. My family should be on a campaign to keep me away from bears, not from people paying me good money to wash and iron their clothes.”

“We all love you so much. What would we do if anything happened to you?”

Betsy plucked the whistling kettle from the stove. “That goes for you, too. Now go sit down and put up your feet.”

“I'm pregnant, not sick. I'm perfectly fine.”

“So I worry. What would I do if anything happened to
you?
”

Understanding softened Rayna's lovely face. “You're trying to change the subject.”

“Yes, I am.” She poured steaming water into the delicate china pot. “Go outside, sit down and rest. We will pretend that you are trying to set me straight, so
after you leave here, you can tell my mother that you tried your best.”

Rayna opened her mouth as if to protest, but then her lovely face softened. “If that's what you want.”

“It is.”

“Then don't forget plates for the muffins I brought.”

“Would those be your magic muffins? The best blueberry muffins in five counties?”

“It was four, and I took second place at the fair the following year. I wonder who took first?” As if she didn't know the answer, Rayna shouldered open the screen door and the hinges rasped pleasantly as they laughed together.

The door slapped shut, leaving Betsy alone with her memories. Okay, so she'd won first place with her strawberry cobbler, but she'd never been able to match Rayna when it came to muffins.

As she set the teapot on her pretty silver tray that Mariah had given her for a wedding gift when they were all so young, just out of public school, she was grateful for this life she'd been given. Look at the friends and family who cared about her and fussed after her and mattered deeply to her. She'd had her sorrows and heartbreaks like anyone else, but she had so much.

When some people had so little.

Duncan Hennessey. She owed him a debt she could never repay. It was natural that she'd think of him. Natural that she couldn't stop. As the warmth of an Indian summer's sun sifted through the cottonwoods and the leaves sang in the warm breeze, she set the tray on the small table between the two porch chairs.

All the while they chatted of small everyday things, and as they enjoyed the flavorful muffins and the comforting goodness of freshly steeped English tea, Duncan remained in her thoughts.

It was as if an invisible rope connected her to him and tugged at her heart. At her conscience.

Was he in much pain or had the doctor's laudanum helped? Was he gaining strength or slipping away? Did he awake to bright sunshine streaming through his windows and realize she wasn't beside him? That she'd broken her word?

Or was he simply relieved she was gone?

 

“There now, swallow this.” It was a woman's voice, but not the laundry lady's.

He was still groggy, lost in the cloudy haze of a deep dreamless sleep, but he knew he was home. That he was in his bed. That pain raked from his back over his shoulder and throat to his chest. The only good thing about pain was that it let a man know he was alive. Some days, that was a victory.

Light seared his eyes and he could make out a woman's silhouette. Curly hair and the scent of lavender, not honeysuckle. Before he could think on that, a wave of bitterness filled his nose. The cool edge of a spoon cut against his lower lip. Wetness spilled across his tongue. He'd never tasted anything so horrid. He choked, coughed, and what tasted like skunk spray remained thick on his tongue.

What was that and who in the hell was trying to kill him? He shoved at the spoon. “Get that damn stuff away from me.”

“Fine. So you want to be a tough man, go right ahead. I won't stop you.”

For a brief moment, he heard Betsy Hunter's cheerful voice, as light and weightless as the larks in the meadows, but the light shifted as the wind teased the boughs of the trees outside the window, and he saw Betsy's profile become someone else's. Someone with the same sloping button nose and rosebud mouth and dainty chin. Those thick locks of corkscrew curls gained the tarnished elegance of silver, and it was an elderly lady who smiled down at him with Betsy's irresistible smile.

Not that her smile affected him, because he was immune. Immovable when it came to the charms of womankind.

“I suppose you'd like a bit of water to wash that nasty taste off your tongue?” Her eyes were Irish green, where Betsy's were blue, and wreathed by smile lines etched deep into her papery skin. “Go ahead and be gruff about it. The likes of you don't frighten me a bit.”

Apparently not only the curls and the smile were inherited, but that aggravating lightheartedness.

Shit, but he hurt. He had no more strength than a baby, and it was shameful and unmanly and weak—he hated weakness. He strained every muscle in his tortured body, but he couldn't lift his head off the pillow. Shame burned in his eyes and smoldered in his chest and he had to look away as the tiny, fragile old lady handily lifted his head for him and held a cup to his mouth.

He swallowed and the tendons and muscles in his neck and throat resisted. Pain grew like a fire, crack
ling and consuming ever higher, and the moment his head hit the pillow, he screwed his eyes shut and cursed all women. If it wasn't for a woman, he would be outside chopping wood, splitting and stacking and enjoying his peace and quiet.

That was all blown to hell. He was just glad that awful medicine was fading from his tongue. Maybe it was some powerful sleeping draught the doc left, and he'd be lucky enough to sleep long and deep and when he opened his eyes, he'd be alone. There'd be no women anywhere within fifteen miles. Just the way he liked it.

“Oh, you can't fool me, mister, you're still awake. Open up now, like a good patient.”

He slitted one eye. The lady was still here, amiable and chipper and as merry as the larks singing outside the window, holding a loaded spoon as if it would cure him of all his ills. “I've had enough of your medicine. Go away.”

“O-oh, you are a testy one. Betsy warned me you had a gruff manner, but fortunately for you, I married the roughest log skinner this side of the Mississippi. Growl all you want. I mean to get this soup in you, and I will.”

He wasn't troubled by the tiny woman's announcement. No one made him do anything he didn't want to do. But what really troubled him— “You mean, that was
soup?
”

“My own mother's recipe. Does the trick, don't you worry. After a bowl of that, you'll feel as right as rain.”

“After a bowl of that, I'll be dead. I don't eat poison.”

“It's just what you need. Trust me. I haven't been around for seventy years without learning a thing or two.” Those green eyes twinkled in the same glittering way Betsy's did.

If it was soup, it was the least appetizing he'd ever eaten. The vile liquid slipped over his lip and clung to his tongue like a leech and didn't let go. His stomach rolled, his vision blurred. He swallowed until he couldn't. Until he was too exhausted and greedy sleep snatched him into darkness before he could try to look for Betsy in the room.

Alone, in the dark sanctuary of sleep, he dreamed of lying with his head in her lap and listening to the sound of her tears calling him back and keeping him here.

 

“Return the gelding when you get a chance.” Rayna leaned down from the buggy seat as far as she dared. “I'll be all right driving with one for as long as you need him.”

“Only until Morris has regained his composure.” Betsy held tight to the big gray gelding's reins as Rayna pulled away. The horse nickered, and it was a lonely sound. No doubt he was probably wondering why he was being left behind.