Texas Angel, 2-in-1 (82 page)

When he came to the outskirts of the town, he tried to sit upright in the saddle. Some crazy pride made him not wish to ride into his town pitifully half dead. But the exercise was misplaced. The world spun, and Micah slipped from the saddle as the ground careened up to meet him.

“Pride goeth before a fall. . . .”

The words came to him as he hit the dirt.

CHAPTER

32

D
EATH WAS MORE PLEASANT THAN
Micah had imagined it would be, especially when he’d always been fairly certain he’d end up in hell. But here he was lying on something soft as a cloud, clean and white, too. Just as he’d imagined heaven to be.

He opened one eye, a little afraid at what he’d find. If this wasn’t heaven, if he wasn’t dead, then he’d have to keep on facing life, and he just didn’t feel strong enough to do that. But his vision was blurry, and he could not tell much with only one eye, so he opened the other. What he saw were the rough wood beams of a ceiling. There was a cobweb in one corner. He’d bet money there were no cobwebs in heaven. He tried to move, and the sharp pain from several different places in his body quickly proved his fears.

He was alive.

“Hey!” he called, but he could not get his voice to rise above a whisper.

In a moment the door, which the bed faced, opened, and he thought if he wasn’t dead he must still be dreaming, for the figure stepping into the room was garbed in checkered green calico and had hair like the night caught on fire.

“Lucie . . .” he breathed.

“You’re awake,” she said, her voice causing an ache inside him that had nothing to do with his wounds.

“What are you doing here?”

“I live here. This is my house.”

“Then . . . what am I doing here?”

She smiled and drew closer to the bed. He noticed now that she was holding a small basin and a towel. She set these on the bedside table.

“I had them bring you here,” she said. “The trip was risky from town, but Mr. Paschel had his hands full with so many down with fever. And he’s not a doctor. He’d given you up for dead. And . . .” She lowered her eyes to gaze directly into his.

Her expression was not one of revulsion, which he knew she had every right to feel after what he’d tried to do to her that night in the stable. A lump formed in his throat.

“I told him I would nurse you, and you would not die.”

“Why . . . ?”

Ignoring his question, she opened a drawer and removed a few items. “I was about to change your bandages. Let me just lift the blanket.”

“How long have I been here?” he asked, unable to recall anything since riding into San Antonio, clinging to Stew’s neck.

“You’ve been back for four days now and in my house for nearly all of it. I happened to be in town the day you got there, and that’s when I heard what had happened. Now let me get to work and clean your wounds. There’s still a chance of them festering, and you have been feverish, so you aren’t out of the woods yet.” She put her hands on her hips and directed a stern don’t-argue-with-me gaze at him.

“Why can’t Juana do it?” he asked, not sure he wanted Lucie doing that unpleasant job.

“Well, if you’d rather she care for you—”

“No!” he said quickly. He couldn’t believe he had nearly rejected her again. But what good could come of it? Nevertheless, he was simply too weak—and not just physically weak—to give up the prospect of her tender care. And he knew it would be tender despite who or what he was. “I . . . I haven’t said thank you yet . . . for taking me in. I expect I’d be dead now if you hadn’t.”

“We’re even, then.” She smiled.

Micah knew he was powerless against that smile, and he might have been afraid for both of them if he didn’t feel so downright good just then.

“Let me have a look at your wounds,” she added.

He lifted his arm from under the covers. It was quite weak, and he had difficulty moving it. He wondered if he’d ever be able to shoot again. He forgot all about that when Lucie took his arm and helped him. There was a bandage wrapped around the fleshy part of the upper arm where the arrow had penetrated. Lucie removed the ban.dage, swabbed some creamy concoction over the wound, then put on a new bandage. She did the same to his head. Luckily, the arrow hadn’t penetrated his skull, but it had made a deep gash four inches long over his left ear.

“Juana stitched up your head wound,” Lucie said. “I think she did a nice job. It’ll scar, but your hair will cover it eventually. Thank goodness you’ve got a hard head.”

Then she lifted the lower part of the blanket to reveal his right side. Her mouth puckered in concentration as she worked. Her eyes were grave.

“Is it bad?” he asked.

“It’s getting a bit purulent. At least the arrow went all the way through and didn’t break off inside.”

“I pulled it through,” he said.

“Oh my!” Lucie’s eyes flickered to his face, then back to her work. “You have much courage, Micah. Not just because of the arrow, but in making that journey back to San Antonio.”

“I didn’t have much choice. It was either lie still and die or try to make it back,” he answered matter-of-factly, but inside he was pleased she still thought highly of him. “Lucie . . . is it true about Tom? Is he dead?”

She nodded, keeping eyes intent on her work. “I’m afraid so.”

“I’m beginning to think I’m just plain bad luck to anyone I get close to.”

“Don’t you even think such a thing!” she exclaimed, and in her emotion she pressed too hard on his wound.

“Ouch!”

“I’m sorry.” She paused a moment, then added, “Micah, people die and that’s that. I’m very sorry about Tom. He was a good man, but his death has nothing to do with you.”

Micah shrugged, not convinced. Desiring to change the subject he asked, “Do you know what happened to Baker and Lowe?”

“Who?”

“The fellows that left me for dead.”

“Oh, them!” her voice rose indignantly. “Captain Hays gave them a severe tongue-lashing. But if you ask me, it wasn’t enough.”

“I would have slowed them down, gotten them both killed. And me too.”

“But you didn’t die and neither did they.”

“Well, I ain’t gonna defend them. I thought about killing them both when I was crawling across the prairie.” He sighed. It was very hard to be angry at anyone with Lucie’s slim, soft hands caressing him. “Most anyone would have done the same.”

“Not you.”

He could not fathom how she could say such kind things about him. He just shook his head in disbelief. “Lucie, I don’t know how you can say that when you know the kind of man I am. I am still completely befuddled that you took me in after what I did. Nothing I ever did was out of courage. You hinted at it the last time we saw each other. Anything I’ve done was from pure orneriness and hate, too. Honor, courage—they just have nothing to do with me.”

“I’ll agree you are ornery, and you have more than your share of hate in you, but it’s only part of you. You have good in you, Micah. You’ll never convince me otherwise.” She finished her work and tugged the blanket back in place.

Micah smiled at her. He just didn’t feel like doing any soul-searching at the moment. “You bring it out of me, if it’s there.”

“And don’t you forget it!” she said with a tart smile, then gathered up her things and moved to the door. “I’ll bring you some broth if you feel up to eating it.”

“Yes, thank you.” He didn’t know if he could eat, but he’d take any excuse to have her return.

The fever hit hard in the night. Micah faded in and out of consciousness for two days. Nightmares assailed him. Goliad, San Jacinto, battle, slaughter, death. And, as nightmares will, his made no sense at all. The victims were not always soldiers, Mexican or Texan. Sometimes his father was one of the victims, sometimes even Micah was cut down. But the worst nightmare was the one in which Lucie was hewn down on the battlefield.

Yet woven into and around the horror were moments that did not fit. He realized later that these were the moments when he came out of the nightmares into reality, a reality that seemed even less real than the nightmares. For they were moments of sweetness and peace. In them Lucie figured strongly, sitting at his bedside with her head bowed and her dear voice murmuring over him.

“Dear Lord, spare Micah that he might know you, that he might truly see you for the loving, merciful God that you are. . . .”

Micah never thought prayer could be so good. He never thought he might actually desire to reach out for it. It was like an island of calm in the midst of a hurricane. Was it just Lucie, or was it the words she was saying?

Finally the fever passed, and he woke again with a clear mind. Lucie was there at his bedside, and he wondered if she’d ever left. She wiped a cool damp cloth across his forehead.

“You were praying for me,” he breathed.

“I have been praying for two days. I couldn’t help it.”

He smiled at the hint of apology in her tone. “Thank you.”

“Really?”

“I just remembered something. . . .” He spoke dreamily, his eyes half-closed so as not to break the wonderful spell of the moment. “When I was a boy, before I came to Texas, I caught a bad fever. My mother sat by my bed as you are doing now, and she wiped me with a cool cloth and . . . and she prayed over me. I had forgotten how many times she . . .” He turned his head away as sudden tears sprang to his eyes. “I had forgotten . . .” he murmured, then he closed his eyes, his speech exhausting him. In a moment sleep engulfed him. A sleep without dreams, without nightmares.

He awoke a while later, and Lucie was still there. He gave her a weak smile but could not speak. He slept again, and when he awoke, she was still there. He continued thus for two more days, waking for a few moments, then sleeping. He had never slept so much in his life, nor had he ever lain still for so long, especially without a gun at his side, ever alert to danger. Yet he never grew restless, and he was never afraid. The sleep was delicious. And when he was awake he often did not talk, nor did Lucie talk much to him. They were simply quietly aware of each other. Sometimes she held his hand. But she required nothing more of him.

When he finally woke and felt truly rested, Lucie was gone. His disappointment went deep to his core, but he chided himself for his selfishness. It was probably the first time in days she’d left his side. He told himself this was for the best because he feared he was becoming far too dependent on her, on seeing her dear face each moment on waking. He could easily desire a lifetime of that.

She returned a few minutes later and seemed to immediately perceive that this waking was different from the others.

“So you have decided to join us for a while,” she said.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Two days.”

“And no nightmares,” he said, amazed.

“Not after the fever passed.”

“You knew—about the nightmares, I mean?”

“You talked a lot. They must have been terrible.” She reached out and adjusted his pillow behind him. “Are you hungry?”

His stomach rumbled as if in response. Surprised, he said, “I am . . . mighty hungry.”

“Juana has been dying to fatten you up. I’ll tell her you are ready.

Though we should start slowly. Some broth and a glass of milk, perhaps.”h She turned to go.

Micah laid a hand on her arm. “I wasn’t dreaming, was I, about you praying for me?”

“No.”

“I guess you have a captive audience now,” he said.

“What do you mean by that, Micah?”

“Only that . . . well, I ain’t going nowhere if you get the urge to talk religion to me, that’s all.” He smiled, abashed at his own words.

“I do declare, Micah! Maybe you are still delirious after all!”

Then she grinned, and he smiled, too, with abandon. And it felt good.

CHAPTER

33

L
UCIE DID NOT TAKE FULL
advantage of Micah’s offer. Oh, she had thought about doing just that at first. In fact, when he had first regained consciousness, she had even thought that now God had him where He could knock some sense into him—a captive audience, as Micah had put it. And then when he had actually given her leave to talk about God, well, she nearly attacked him with her zeal. But she remembered what he’d said once, that he knew a lot about religion. He had many Scriptures memorized and probably knew the Bible even better than he would admit to. She knew Micah did not need to be told anything about faith.

However, Lucie wasn’t exactly sure what he did need or how to go about directing him. She prayed about it and realized that the best approach was to leave it in Micah’s hands, let him do the reaching out.

And he did so, but slowly. A question here or there woven into a conversation. Often it was nothing deep or earth shattering. It seemed right now that Micah needed most of all to relax, to enjoy the moment, to rest from all intensity. God seemed to sense this as well. The talk was casual and even fun. They told each other stories of their adventures. Of course Micah had more exciting adventures. Lucie just had little tales of her growing up, but Micah listened as if hearing
The Arabian
Nights
. They learned much about each other during this time, the kinds of things Lucie always wanted to know about Micah. And often matters of faith just flowed naturally from this.

Once Lucie brought Micah his supper and watched his eyes widen with wonder at the contents of the tray.

“Is that pecan pie?” he asked, indicating the dish next to his stew.

“Yes, and I made it myself.”

“I thought Juana did all the cooking.”

“Well, I confess I don’t enjoy cooking.” Lucie blushed at having to make such an admission to the man she loved, but she had to be truthful. “However, Juana has insisted I learn. Still, the men shouldn’t be made to suffer more than once or twice a week.”

“You can’t be all that bad,” he said.

“I’ll cook for you tomorrow, and you can judge. But I do have one specialty—pecan pie. I love it and Juana hates it, so if I want it, I must make it, or so she says. Knowing Juana, she would make it if I pouted a bit.”