The Prospect: The Malloy Family, Book 10 (6 page)

The next time she woke, he was going to pour the damn soup down her throat if he had to. Or at least pinch her until she got some soup inside her. The woman was going to die from not eating or drinking if he wasn’t careful. Caring for Jo had resurrected memories he had forgotten. How to care for someone who was ill had come back to him without effort. His mother’s teachings had lain dormant for more than a dozen years. Her death had been the turning point in his life, the end of his childhood, such as it was, and the beginning of adulthood at the ripe old age of nine.

His father, Michael “Mick” Callahan, had been around at that point, but he had never been much of a parent. Enough to smack Declan around, to teach him to fight and steal. Beyond that, he was another drunk Irishman who worked when he needed money for booze or women.

He was also a murderer.

The death of Eileen Callahan might have gone unnoticed or dismissed by the police in New York, but Declan knew better. His father had strangled his mother after she refused to give him money. Declan had heard the argument, the sound of the slap, the crunch of her bones as she fell down the stairs. Oh yes, Mick Callahan was a murderer.

Now he was dead, and the one person who hated him worse than Declan, Oliver Peck, had been responsible. The only constant in his life had been shadows and turmoil. Declan’s life had taken so many strange turns and he’d been subject to the dark fingers of fate for so long, he never expected anything good to happen. If he didn’t hope, then he couldn’t be disappointed when bad things happened.

One dismal moment, when Mick begged Peck for another extension on his loan, the path of Declan’s life changed for the second time. Because he’d been a party to the crime, and he was already adept at stealing, Peck had forced Declan into his gang. Now, five years later, Peck was also dead, killed by Declan. It was a vicious circle that never seemed to get any better.

Now after a third hard right turn in his life, Declan had lost his first legitimate job and spent his time keeping a typhoid victim alive. Not just any typhoid victim, the sister of his last job for Peck. Francesca was as tough as hell, and so was every one of the females in her family. Jo might even be tougher than her older sister. He owed the Chastains for what he’d done. No matter how much penance he had served, it wasn’t enough. Declan accepted his sins and knew a lifetime of good deeds would not make up for what he’d done to the family. Regardless if he had killed Peck, the man who had chased, threatened and hurt her.

Because Declan had done the same.

Somewhere deep inside, he remembered what his mother had taught him. Eileen Callahan had been a good woman, a talented midwife and a loving mother. She tried to keep him on the straight and narrow, but Declan was never one to be controlled. He and trouble were bosom friends, always hand in hand.

Twelve years after his mother’s death, Declan finally listened to the small voice deep inside him. The echo of a mother’s love thrummed through him, plucking at his heartstrings until he had no choice but to listen. She had guided him for the first nine years of life, or tried to, and now, so many years later, he was honoring her memory.

She would have been proud of his choice to take care of Jo. It was the first unselfish thing he’d done that he could remember. Although it wasn’t truly unselfish. Helping her was a redemption of sorts for the dark stains on his soul. He had done many things in his life he wasn’t proud of, bad things, including hurting people. The one thing he’d never done, ironically, was kill someone…until he shot Oliver Peck.

He ran his hands down his face, still surprised to find no beard on his chin. Then he remembered what she’d said.
Handsome
. Him! His ugly mug could frighten children and she called him handsome. She hadn’t been wearing her spectacles, after all. That explained her temporary foolishness. Or the fever had addled her brain.

“Declan.” Her husky voice startled him. The sickness had scratched at every bit of her, including her melodious voice, not that he would ever tell her he thought she had a lovely voice. He’d always thought her as beautiful as any woman he’d met and now he had done more for her than any female he’d been intimate with. Their connection now ran deeper than a purely physical one. He was embarrassed to have taken care of her nude form, cleaning up after her exquisitely formed body.

“You’re awake again, lass.” He reached for the soup. “You need to eat.”

“Not hungry.” She tried to sit up but failed. “What’s wrong with me?”

He helped her into a sitting position, her bones so fragile beneath his hands. “You haven’t eaten in days and the fever is taking a bite out of you every minute of every hour.”

She snorted. “You need to stop letting it bite me, then.”

Oh boy. He took the bowl of soup, now lukewarm, which was perfect. When he put the spoon up to her mouth, she didn’t open her lips. “Eat, Jo.”

“Uh-uh.”

He huffed out a breath and closed his eyes, the grit from too little sleep making them sting. “Please, lass.”

The sound of slurping surprised him. His eyes popped open to see the soup disappearing into her mouth. He was surprised but took advantage of the opportunity. He spooned more soup into her, getting at least half a dozen good mouthfuls in before she turned her face away.

“Has it really been that long?” Her eyes were a glassy brown, shining in the lamplight.

“Aye. Three weeks.”

She looked stricken and he wanted to take the words back, even if they were true. “I think you’ve survived the worst of it. The fever doesn’t seem to want to let you go, though.”

He set the bowl of soup down and picked up the cloth in the washbasin, wringing out the cool water. As he wiped her face for the thousandth time, he hummed beneath his breath. He knew the contours of her body better than his own, the curve of her jaw, the slight tilt of her ears, the tiny spot between her collarbone and shoulder he wanted to kiss.

Declan, foolish man that he was, had developed a liking for an unconscious woman. Not only because he had been with her more than any other person in his life, but because she was everything he wasn’t. Smart, strong, courageous and kind. She had taught him who he wanted to be. Now he was a cow-eyed fool over her.

“The wagons are gone.” It wasn’t a question and it made him worry she didn’t remember her family leaving, albeit tearfully. What else did she not remember?

“Long gone. I sent word to your sister and Malloy, but I haven’t heard back.” He continued wiping the sweat from her skin without even thinking about what he was doing. It had become second nature.

She blinked up at him, looking for all the world like a tiny owl lost in the woods. He threw the rag in the washbasin and scooped her up in his arms. Other than a little squeak, she didn’t make a noise or protest as he settled into the rocking chair with Jo on his lap. He’d been wanting to do just that since he saw the damn chair.

It was a small piece of heaven. One that made that sleeping soul inside him shift dangerously close to waking. He didn’t want the emotions that threatened to bubble to the surface, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from holding her. She was sized perfectly for his arms, even if he outweighed her by a hundred pounds.

She snuggled against him. “You’re comfortable.”

He chuckled, amused by the things that came out of her mouth. “I don’t believe anyone has ever said that to me.”

“Good. I do not want to think you have had dozens of girls in your lap.” She made a kittenish sound, then a small sigh tickled across his neck, sending a shiver through him. He’d never had much of a chance to have any kind of sweetheart before. His life had been mired in shit and there was no opportunity for soft things.

Now he had a lapful of soft. She didn’t smell sweet, but she smelled
alive
. Hers was a unique scent all her own. After three weeks of being confined with her twenty-four hours a day, it was as familiar as his own. If any of the men he’d known in the Five Pointers gang could see him now, they would laugh until they pissed their britches.

“No, not many girls.” He wasn’t going to admit to none at all. Declan wasn’t a virgin, but his female companions had all been paid for their time and services. It was evident he had no idea how to be with a proper lady such as Josephine Chastain.

“I have never had a beau. Isabelle has.” Jo sniffed. “You smell.”

This time Declan laughed. “I haven’t had time to take a bath, your majesty. You’ve been taking up all my time. This whole place smells like sweat, piss and shit. Er, it smells bad.”

“You know, Charlie keeps cursing. She is trying to learn as many as she can. I cannot quite figure out why.” She was silent for a few moments. “It does smell bad in here. Is that because of me?”

He didn’t know what to say other than be honest. Declan wasn’t a smooth talker nor did he know how to put things delicately for female-type people.

“Yep, mostly. I empty the chamber pot regular, but there isn’t much air in here.” One tiny window that didn’t open meant the smells were trapped in the building. He didn’t leave the door open for fear people would gawk. They weren’t in the main thoroughfare of the fort, but there were enough people passing by to keep the door shut.

Besides all that, Frank Drummond had nailed a quarantine sign to the door. Declan didn’t know what it said, but it had turned the little shack into an attraction for people.

“Open the door and let some fresh air in. You’re making my eyes water.”

Declan hid his smile when he stood, then balanced her weight in his arms and walked to the door. He wasn’t done holding her yet, but she was right—they needed some fresh air. Summer was in full swing and it was hot as hell outside, but the blast of outside air on their faces felt like a caress. He reached from beneath her legs to turn the doorknob, swinging the door wide.

She breathed in deep, pressing her breasts against his chest and making his dick wake up. It was bad enough he had dreams of her when he finally slept. He sure as hell didn’t need to have his staff poking her hip in broad daylight. Declan forced himself to focus on the clean breeze and not on the bundle in his arms. He breathed in and out steadily until his wayward body relaxed.

Foolish man.

He returned to the chair and sat down. Jo dozed on and off for the next hour. Then Declan closed his eyes, relaxed and content for the first time since he was a child. He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but he didn’t plan on many things that happened, whether he was ready or not.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Callahan?”

The voice was vaguely familiar, but Jo didn’t know who it was. She managed to crack one eye open to find a man standing over her. She frowned, trying to remember who he was.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Callahan, but I’m to collect the week’s rent for the cabin.” The stranger had walked into the cabin, uninvited and unannounced apparently, and woke her up. The sun was behind him, turning him into a silhouette.

“Who are you?” She tried to wipe the sleep from her mind. Her hand landed on something warm and hard. Her eyes flew open, and she realized she still sat on Declan’s lap and he snored beneath her. What in the world was going on?

“Frank Drummond. I’m the medic who has been taking care of you.” The memory of the man was faint, but it was there.

“I believe Declan has been taking care of me, Mr. Drummond. What is it you want?” She stopped and stared at the man, realizing he had called her Mrs. Callahan. Twice. Something she’d have to clarify with the sleeping
Mr
. Callahan immediately. A memory tickled at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t latch onto it.

“The rent. It’s Monday, which means it’s due for this week.” Mr. Drummond rocked back on his heels and waited.

Jo had no idea what the man was talking about and had only snatches of memories since she’d gotten sick. The cool breeze felt good on her face as she struggled into a sitting position. She tapped Declan’s cheek.

“Wake up.” He didn’t stir. She tapped him harder. “Wake up, Declan.”

Nothing.

“Heavy sleeper, hm?” Mr. Drummond seemed amused, but Jo was anything but.

“Declan!” she shouted into the big man’s ear.

He was on his feet in a second, her waist secured under his arm and with a knife miraculously gripped in his hand. Where had that weapon been? And how did a man that big move so fast?

“Let me down.” She pushed against his grip and he dropped her in a flash. She landed hard on her hip. “Ouch!”

Declan glanced around with a wild look on his face. His eyes widened when he spotted her on the floor. “Lass, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” He helped her to her feet. “I must’ve fallen asleep and I don’t—” He saw Mr. Drummond standing there.

“Callahan.” The other man inclined his head. “I came by for this week’s payment for the cabin. Your wife was gracious enough to wake you.”

Declan’s gaze snapped to her and he masked his expression, but she saw it nonetheless. He had some explaining to do. She had been in his care for three weeks and now people were calling her Mrs. Callahan. The idea of being married to him made her cheeks flush hotter than the fever.

She sat down in the chair, winded and embarrassed. Declan reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out coins, depositing them in Mr. Drummond’s outstretched palm.