The Doctor's Lady (11 page)

All he needed to do was reach up and wrap his arm around her, and she would tumble down on top of him. He couldn’t think of a better way to forget about his pain.

Her eyes widened, and he had no doubt she could see his desire.

“I’ll find a bandage for your wound.” She moved away, and disappointment swept through him. She was not only one of the most beautiful women he’d laid eyes upon, but underneath her polite reserve she was one of the most kindhearted too.

If God had given him such a woman for his wife, why had he made the business deal with her? Why hadn’t he taken her their first night together when she’d been waiting for him on the bed in her nightgown?

Henry’s suave, handsome face flashed to his mind, and his gut twisted. Henry Spalding was the kind of man Priscilla could have married—would have married. He was educated and cultured in a way that made Eli look like a backwoods bumpkin. After having the interest and admiration of a man like Henry, why would she ever want a man like him?

“Must be hard to be around Henry, huh?” He searched her face when she returned to his side with a bandage.

“It’s awkward at times.” She wrapped clean linen around his wound. “But Mabel is so sweet and does most of the talking whenever we’re together.”

Did she still care about Henry? The question nagged him and begged to be asked.

But he closed his eyes, refusing to give in to the question, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

Besides, it didn’t matter if she liked Henry better than she liked him. His gut told him that in the long run he’d need to cut ties with her and send her back to New York, where she’d be safe.

Why waste the energy on jealousy? Why make more out of their situation than it warranted?

There were too many other more important matters—life and death matters—that needed his full attention, especially when the success or failure of the trip rested upon his shoulders.

Priscilla pressed a gloved hand against her nose to block out the putrid odors of the St. Louis waterfront—decaying fish, rotting pelts, filthy river water, maybe a mixture of it all. Whatever the cause of the stench, she breathed carefully against her glove, relishing the faint remains of the scent of home that lingered in the fabric—one that was fading all too quickly.

Eli stalked down the long landing stage onto the waterfront, which was dirty and rugged and like nothing she’d seen in any of the other places they’d stopped. In the early evening, the crowds still teemed along the banks of the Mississippi, and the number of steamboats lined up along the levee was equally staggering. As far up and down the river as she could see, smokestacks rose into the air.

She was praying that their next boat would be as clean and sturdy as the
Siam.
Thankfully, the boat hadn’t sustained any damage from the crash of the previous evening.

The captain and crew had managed to loosen the steamboat from the sandbar in the morning, and they had made good time the rest of the way to St. Louis. Yet the crevices across Eli’s forehead reflected his fear that they had missed their connection with the American Fur Company.

He pulled his hat low and wove through the crowd, dodging the traffic of those both coming and going. He’d stayed in the cabin all night, and she’d slept in a chair next to the bed, wanting to watch over him and care for him. But when she’d awakened, he was gone, and she hadn’t seen him all day until he’d found her just as the pilot had moored the boat at sunset along the riverfront of St. Louis. He’d told her to wait on board until he learned what they needed to do next.

She’d wanted to ask him about his hand, change the bandage, and just be near him again.

But he’d been too busy to search her out. And he certainly didn’t need her feeble attempts at doctoring.

“I hope we have letters from family waiting for us.” Mabel leaned against the rail next to her. She breathed heavily into her handkerchief, her face a sickly olive.

Priscilla’s heart bounded. “Yes. We’ll have letters.” She’d instructed her family to send their correspondence to St. Louis. She’d been gone from home for a month, plenty of time for her family to have written.

“Reverend Spalding told me this would be the last place to get letters until we reach Oregon Country. And who knows how often or even
if
letters will reach us there.”

An ache squeezed Priscilla’s throat. Oh, what she would give for a letter from home. She’d tried to tell herself she wasn’t homesick, but a longing so strong and sudden gripped her heart that she didn’t know how she could stand under the pressure. She needed some word from her family, no matter how small.

Her gaze sought out the steamboat office, a dingy building on the crowded waterfront. Surely she would have letters from family and friends awaiting her there.

“I’ve often heard it said from other sisters in Christ,” Mabel said wistfully, “that one of the hardest things about mission life is the sporadic nature of hearing from loved ones.”

Priscilla swallowed the lump in her throat. “I haven’t wanted to admit just how much I’m missing them, even to myself. After all, it’s such a privilege to go forth in the name of the Master, and I want to cheerfully stand against the toil and privation we encounter. . . .”

“But it’s only normal to miss our families.”

“Then you miss yours too?”

Mabel nodded and her eyes clouded with tears. “Very much. Especially now when I’m not feeling well.”

Priscilla reached for Mabel’s hand and squeezed it. Determination surged through her. “Don’t worry, Sister Spalding. I’ll retrieve our letters this very instant.” She pushed away from the rail.

“Oh, my dear, please stay. Our husbands told us not to leave the boat for any reason,” Mabel called after her. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m sure I shall be just fine.” Priscilla hastened along the verandah toward the stairway. “Besides, the men are occupied with other things. Someone needs to make sure we get our mail.” She blocked out Mabel’s protests as she made her way down the narrow flight of steps. And she didn’t hesitate when she reached the top of the landing platform. Her boots clomped against the length of plank, and when her feet hit solid ground, she stumbled, her knees unsteady with their first touch of land since the previous Sabbath.

Enormous piles of logs sat near the water’s edge, ready for loading and refueling the boilers that powered the steam engines. Stacks of pelts sat outside warehouses, and the stench of their bloody flesh permeated the air.

Priscilla bunched her skirt so the squelching mud wouldn’t splatter the hem, and she started toward the building Eli had entered. With each step, she tried not to notice that men were stopping their conversations and work to stare at her. With their scruffy, weather-wizened faces, rugged clothes, and hungry eyes, they weren’t the sort of men she was accustomed to seeing.

When one of the men smiled at her and another whistled, she picked up her pace. Her heart sped forward with fear. Had she made a mistake in leaving the boat?

Out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the men start toward her. She hiked her skirt higher and started to run, panic slapping after her. She was glad Mother couldn’t see her unladylike behavior. It was downright scandalous.

When she came to the office door, she burst through it. With gasping breath, she slammed it shut and leaned back, lifting a hand to her forehead to smooth away loose tendrils.

Only then did she realize the office had grown completely silent and every man in the crowded room had turned to stare at her—more of the same grizzly men she’d hoped to escape outside. Some were sitting at tables smoking cigars; others were lounging against the wall. A few were leaning against a long counter and conducting business with the uniformed men on the other side.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

Her rasping breath froze. Regret poured over her. She’d been rash to disobey her husband’s orders. The danger of her predicament swarmed at her from all sides, and she could see no escape.

A towering bearlike man wearing a black patch over one eye lumbered toward her. “Ain’t you the purtiest little thing.”

She shrank against the wood.

“What cloud did you fall from?” The man’s coarse hair curled in disarray down his neck and around his face, ending in an overgrown beard. His fringed buckskin breeches and tunic were stained dark. A leather belt surrounded his hefty waist, holding a sheathed knife and pistols. A bullet pouch hung from his neck, and a powder horn was strapped under his arm.

She didn’t know whether or not he expected her to answer his question, and she wasn’t sure she could get her voice working if he did.

“This ain’t no place for a real lady like yourself.” His one good eye took her in with a giant sweep. “But I can find you a nice place to stay if you need one.”

“I’m just fine, thank you.” She tried to keep her voice from trembling.

“I got a perfect place. . . .” He came a step closer, and the staleness of his body odor assaulted her. He tossed a grin over his shoulder at the spectators. “And there ain’t no better place than here in Black Squire’s arms. Right, fellas?”

Panic rustled over her skin, giving her chills. Her fingers went to the cameo pinned at her throat.

He held open his long, beefy arms. And the men hooted and encouraged him with words that burned Priscilla’s ears.

“That’s enough, Squire.” Eli shoved the man aside and grabbed Priscilla. “Leave her alone.”

Black Squire growled at Eli. “You got a wife now, Doc. So for tonight, this purty thing is mine.” He lunged for her, and his enormous hand grazed her cheek.

She slapped his hand away. “I beg your pardon.”

Squire’s grin widened, and the other men called out encouragement to him.

Eli tugged her against his side and slipped his arm around her.

“She’s mine.” His voice was low. “This
is
my wife.”

At the fury of his hold and the possessiveness of his tone, relief drained away her fear. She sidled against him. The security of his embrace reassured her. Whatever else happened, now she was safe—completely and utterly safe—even if his eyes chastised her for her foolishness and warned her of the tongue-lashing he would give her later.

“Besides, you’ve got a woman already.” Eli nodded toward the corner.

Priscilla peeked at the lone Indian woman standing by herself with a papoose strapped to her back.

Eyes as black as midnight met Priscilla’s. For an instant she felt as though she were looking into a dark empty cave. There was nothing—no emotion—not even curiosity, almost as if the woman wasn’t really there.

Her buckskin dress was splotched with stains and her skin darkened with dust and mire. But underneath the grime, the woman’s features were soft and beautiful.

“This here’s your wife?” Black Squire’s voice boomed through the room.

“Yep.” Eli’s arms tightened. “Don’t ever touch her again.”

Priscilla shuddered to think of life with a man like Black Squire. No wonder the Indian woman was a walking tomb.

“Well, why didn’t you say she was so purty?” The man rubbed his beard and tilted his head to center his eye upon her. “That changes everything.”

Henry appeared from behind Eli. “Then you’re willing to have the women come along?”

“How can I say no now?” the big man said. “What red-blooded man wouldn’t want this little lady riding along?”

The tension in Henry’s face eased.

Priscilla’s heart sputtered with dread. Surely they wouldn’t have to travel the rest of their trip with this bear of a man.

“It really doesn’t make much difference if you’ve changed your mind.” Eli’s muscles tightened. “We already paid. Captain Fitzpatrick agreed to take us. Parker will be waiting for us at the Rendezvous. The deal’s done.”

A hard glint flashed in Squire’s eye. But he shrugged. “You’re right. You made your deal with a bunch of schoolboys back East who wouldn’t know the butt end of a buffalo if they saw one.”

A chorus of guffaws erupted around them.

“But,” he continued, “if you wanna jeopardize the whole trip by bringin’ your women, then you just go ahead.”

“You know it wasn’t my plan,” Eli said.

Squire shrugged. “Guess if something happens to you, Doc, then I’d have me another woman. A real purty one.” He grinned. “And if I don’t need her, I bet I could find plenty of young braves who’d pay me a fortune for her.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Priscilla said with breathless distress.

Squire threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“Don’t listen to him,” Eli said into her ear. “He blows a lot of hot air.”

Squire drew himself up and shook his head. “You want to ride on the
Diana
with us, be ready to go first thing in the morning.”

“But tomorrow’s the Sabbath,” Henry said, his brow creasing.

Squire nodded at the Indian woman, and she started toward him.

“We can’t possibly travel on the Lord’s Day,” Henry insisted.

“It’s fine, Henry.” Eli glared, his eyes cautioning Henry against saying anything else. “We’ll be ready in the morning.”

“But we received explicit instructions from the Mission Board that we shouldn’t fail to observe the Sabbath for any reason.”