Texas Twilight (3 page)

“Take another one, son,” Chester said. “Can’t
hurt nothin’.”

He did, ignoring the burn as it slid down his
throat. He looked at Lily. “Ready?”

When she nodded he settled in a chair. She
sat opposite and pulled in close between his legs, studying his
face.

Just yesterday he’d been thinking how pretty
her wheat-colored hair looked sparkling in the sunshine and how her
blue eyes reminded him of hyacinth in spring. Now, with her up
close and personal, he noticed a light sprinkling of freckles over
the bridge of her nose and a minute beauty mark at the outside
corner of her left eye. He was surprised he’d never seen it
before.

She softly cleared her throat. “I think you
should close your eyes.” Her warm breath, laced with coffee and
sugar, tickled his senses. “Dr. McCutcheon?”

Although reluctant to lose sight of her
pretty face, he complied, willing himself to relax. When the sharp
prick sent fire into his temple he sucked in a great draught of
air, stilling her hand.

“Go on,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Don’t mind me. I’m toug...”

Pain ripped through the hours-old wound. He
clenched his jaws tighter, breathing through his nose. Lily pulled
the thread through, making sure it was snug, then tied the knot and
snipped it, again making him grimace. With a clean cloth, she
applied a little pressure as he’d told her to do, to keep the
bleeding down and allow her to see the wound easily.

“There. The first one is done.”

Lily held the mirror up. A perfect little
knot, done exactly as he’d shown her. It was tied off at the top of
the slash in his skin, still oozing a little. “Very nice work,” he
said. She blushed and he couldn’t stop his mouth from curling up
into a smile. “That wasn’t so bad.” He looked over at Chester.
“But—I think I’ll have another drink now.”

“Thought as much,” Chester said knowingly,
handing him the bottle.

Time crawled, marked by the ticking of the
clock. The sound kept Lily’s thoughts straight, as if it were
directing her hand. After each stitch was finished Chester would
hand Doctor McCutcheon the bottle of whisky. After the fourth
round, her patient didn’t even flinch when she poked the needle
into his cheek, and she knew he was feeling no pain. Chester picked
up the bottle, intent on giving the doctor with the charming smile
another swig, but she motioned for him to put it away. He was going
to be in enough discomfort in the morning without a pounding
headache and rolling stomach to contend with.

“I’ll say it again, Lily. You have a fine,
steady hand. Are you sure you’ve never been to medical school?”
John asked in a teasing tone.

Hank and Chester who watched nearby,
chuckled.

“No, Doctor McCutcheon, just many hours
stitching dresses for my Tante. But, I respect doctors very much.
It is the noblest profession. At least that is what I believe.” Her
comment drew another chuckle from the men.

Lily tried to concentrate, to keep her mind
on what she was doing, but it was proving extremely difficult. Dr.
McCutcheon was the most handsome man she had ever seen, let alone
been this close to. He was the epitome of everything western, with
his long legs and muscular body. Why, he didn’t look like a doctor
at all. His fine, straight nose complemented the hard angle of his
jaw. And his hair, oh—it was so silky and smooth; it practically
begged to be touched. When she felt her face warm she hardened her
resolve not to be distracted, but his intriguing scent—of outdoor
freshness mixed with something else she couldn’t put her finger
on—circled around her. Without even taking her gaze from what she
was doing she could feel that he’d opened his eyes and was looking
at her.

“Ouch!”

She pulled back, embarrassed. “I am sorry.
I—”

John chuckled. “I’ll let it pass—but, just
this once.” He scrunched his face, as if working to relieve the
pain. “You’re a regular little Florence Nightingale, aren’t you?”
He winked at his spectators, drawing more laughter from them. “I’ll
be your pin cushion anytime.”

She smiled. He’d loosened up considerably
since drinking all the whisky. His face was flushed, his eyes a bit
glassy. With relief, she tied off the last knot.

“All finished.” She handed him the
mirror.

He inspected her handiwork closely as she
dabbed it again with iodine. “We need to cover it,” she said, more
to herself than to the three other people watching with
interest.

“I’ll be right back.” Lily went behind the
screen and lifted her bag onto the log-cabin-patterned quilt of her
cot. She hurried, digging around inside until she came to the small
squares of fabrics she had brought along. They were wrapped in
brown paper and tied with a yard’s worth of twine.

She went back to the table and untied the
bow, sorting through the contents until she found the gauze. She
handed it to John, along with a small roll of gummed paper for
hemming.

“Sure you don’t mind?” he said, his eyebrows
lifting in surprise. “I’ll be sure to replace it when we get to
town.”

“No need. You saved our lives today, Dr.
McCutcheon. I am happy I can repay you at least by helping.”

“Lily? Where are you, girl?”

Lily hurried to her aunt’s side. “You’re
awake,” she said, holding back her emotions. “I was afraid—” She
stopped and exhaled. “How do you feel?”

John gathered his stethoscope from his things
and followed, his legs a bit wobbly, and hunkered down beside the
old woman. He felt her forehead, then took her pulse. Putting the
ends of his stethoscope into his ears, he leaned close to her
chest, listening to her heart. “She’s getting stronger. I’m still
concerned, though, that she was out for so long.” He lifted each
eyelid and looked into her pupils. “Does anything hurt?”

“I’ve a terrible headache, young man.”

“Have you a history of passing out for long
periods of time?”

“No, I don’t.”

Alarmed, Lily spoke up, “But, Tante Harriet,
what about the times...”

“Hush, Lily. I’d had too many sips of
champagne. I’ve explained that to you several times. My Lily,” she
laughed softly, as she regarded her niece. “Always so worried about
her feeble old auntie.”

Lily bit the inside of her cheek. She’d found
her aunt passed out more times than she’d like to remember. Lily
had been petrified each time it happened, but she usually came
around pleasantly rested and calm. Her doctor seemed unconcerned,
telling Lily not to worry so much. “Just old age,” he’d say before
leaving. She wasn’t so sure.

***

John’s head throbbed painfully. The sun was
already hot for the first day of May; it blasted the stage and its
inhabitants like a furnace.

“Whoa,” Hank shouted to the horses as they
pulled in next to Rio Well’s stage office midway down Main Street.
Several people milled about on the boardwalk waiting for the stage
to arrive.

When John climbed down and stood in their
company, opening the coach’s door for Lily and Harriet, they gaped
at the sight of his face and some turned and backed away. In the
heat of the day the bandage had curled and fallen off, leaving the
raw flesh exposed. The puffy skin, pulled together with sixteen
stitches, was enough to make the strongest stomach lurch.

A heavy man in a dapper hat stepped forward
expectantly and peered inside the coach. “Miss Abigail Smith?”

“Miss Smith is dead,” John said as gently as
he could under the circumstances. Several bystanders gasped in
horror. “She’s buried out at the swing station along with Cyrus and
Jeremiah Post.” He helped Lily to the ground, and then reached for
her aunt.

“John McCutcheon. Is that you?” a deep voice
called out.

John turned to find three men striding up the
boardwalk. They were tall and rugged and the oldest bore a strong
resemblance to his father. “Yes. You must be Uncle Winston.”

The man gripped him in a strong embrace, then
set him away to get a look at his nephew. “You’ve been hurt. By the
bullet holes in the stage, I can guess what happened.”

“Three passengers and two employees have been
killed.”

“Comancheros?”

“Yes. A whole band of them.”

Uncle Winston shook his head angrily. “They
get more brazen every day. Thank God you made it here in one piece.
Here, meet your cousins. This is Dustin.” John gripped the hand of
his older cousin who was his brother Luke’s age, the two standing
eye to eye. Then Chaim, who was John’s age, also twenty-five. While
they talked, John was conscious of Lily scurrying around, gathering
their things while holding onto her worn out and disheveled
aunt.

He motioned with his head to the women. “Give
me a few minutes, please.” He turned to Lily who was holding her
aunt’s elbow while staring at her trunk with a perplexed look. Her
cloth satchel, and that of her aunt’s, sat close by.

“What are your plans?”

Startled, she looked up. “Oh. Dr. McCutcheon.
Are you still here?” She smiled, but he could see something
different in her eyes, as if somehow he’d ruffled her feathers.
How, he couldn’t imagine.

“Our plans? Well, for tonight we will secure
a room at the hotel. Then tomorrow we will settle into the shop we
have leased at 33 Spring Street. It has living space upstairs.”

“Let me help you take your things to the
hotel.”

“We can manage.”

They bent at the same time, both taking hold
of the two smaller bags. Her eyes challenged his as the satchels
were pulled back and forth between them.

“Stop being so stubborn,” he said, chuckling.
Her feisty expression said she wanted to do this on her own.
“What’s gotten into you?”

“
I am not
being
stubborn
.”

“
You are
.”

“Children. Children. Is this really
necessary?” Harriett said, placing the back of her hand on her
forehead. “This heat is stifling.”

“The hotel is just across the street,” Lily
said, her chin raising a notch. “We can manage. But, thank you all
the same.”

Ignoring her remark, John lifted his hand and
called to a Wells Fargo employee standing nearby. “Can I trouble
you to take this trunk over to the hotel for the ladies?” Then, one
by one, John pried Lily’s fingers from her hold on the bags, then
took Harriett’s other elbow.

In the hotel John tapped the bell several
times until a man came scurrying out of a door.

“These ladies need a room for the night.”

“Certainly,” he replied, eyeing the side of
John’s face. He produced a large ledger and held out a feather pen
to John, who handed it over to Lily.

“And once they’re settled I’d appreciate it
if you would have the restaurant send them up a hot meal. Charge it
to me.”

“Doctor,” Lily sputtered at the exact same
time Harriett said, “Thank you kindly.” Startled, the women looked
at each other for a moment.

“Stop being so prickly, Lily,” Harriett
admonished. “If he wants to send us dinner, let the man.”

Finished with signing in, Lily put down the
pen and opened her mouth to object further, but John silenced her
with a smile and a finger pressed to her lips. “Ah-ah-ah, your aunt
was my first patient. It’s just a small gesture of thanks.”

“But, we should be paying you...”

“Your name?” the little man asked him. “For
the food bill.”

“John McCutcheon. I’m the new doctor in
town.”

The hotel clerk scribbled a little note and
held it up for John to sign. Finished, John leaned close to Lily
and whispered, “Will you two be okay?”

She nodded, then after two heartbeats her
lips curved up into the soft smile that he’d come to know so well
in such a short time. Aunt Harriet reached out and laid her hand on
his forearm. “We’ll be just fine, Dr. McCutcheon. Thanks to
you.”

“Anyone would do the same,” John replied.

“Perhaps,” Harriet said, letting her hand
fall away when a bald-headed man picked up their bags and headed
for the stairs. “But, it wasn’t anyone, was it, Dr. McCutcheon?
Will we see you again?” she asked over her shoulder as she and Lily
turned to go.

John took another fleeting glance at Lily.
“Without a doubt.”

U
ncle Winston
and his two cousins helped John find overnight storage for his two
boxes of medical equipment, books and small safe that they had
unloaded from the stage while he was getting the women settled. As
soon as that was accomplished Uncle Winston presented John with a
horse, chosen from their best stock, and gave it to him as a gift.
When John tried to refuse, Uncle Winston’s face fell so far John
reversed direction immediately and thanked him kindly.

“He’s beautiful, Uncle Winston. What’s he
called?” John asked as they rode down the trail. He liked his
glossy chestnut color and fine conformation. A white blaze ran down
evenly between the gelding’s eyes.

“Hobo, but I call him Bo,” Uncle Winston
said. “He’s a four-year-old and is as intelligent as all get out.
Was keeping him for myself until I got your last letter. We’re all
excited to have family moving to Rio Wells. Aren’t we, boys?”

“Yep,” Dustin replied after several
beats.

“Sure,” Chaim added.

Was it his imagination or was there a lack of
sincerity in their tone? Who knew, maybe he’d feel the same if one
of them was moving into Y Knot. John shrugged it off. His uncle was
glad to see him and that was a fact he couldn’t deny.

“I like him, Uncle Winston. But like I said
before, it wasn’t necessary.”

“Of course it was necessary. It’s been
twenty-nine years since we had a Montana McCutcheon come to visit.
Last one was my little brother Flood. He brought your two older
brothers with him when they were just wee lads…” His uncle’s voice
trailed off and it was a moment or two before he continued in a
sober tone. “Six and four I think they were. Your pa wanted them
here while he was off searching for your mother after she’d been
abducted.” He shook his head. “That was a few years before you were
born. Regardless of the reason, we enjoyed having them. And now,
it’s been much too long in-between. We’re glad you made the
decision to take the job in our town and make Rio Wells your home.
I couldn’t be prouder if you were my own son.”