The Wedding Ransom (25 page)

Maggie blinked back the tears that flooded her eyes at the thought. Funny how she could lie in bed tormented by waves of racking pain, and she never cried a drop. But all she had to do was think Rafe’s name and the waterworks commenced. “You’re pitiful, Maggie St. John. Purely pitiful.”

She was also getting tired.

Turning away from the window, she eyed the bed. It seemed so very far away.

A knock sounded on the door. “Magpie? Are you awake?” Lucky’s muffled voice called.

He had arrived yesterday, and Maggie had to admit she’d been happy to see him. She’d known from the start that at least one of the papas would come after her, but she had fully expected to have tricked the treasure away from Andrew Montgomery by the time her grandfathers arrived. She hadn’t planned on getting sick. “Come in, Papa.”

Door hinges squeaked and Lucky stepped inside. He took one look at her and scrunched his face into the scowl that had struck fear into men across the seven seas. “What are you doing out of bed! You’ll cause yourself harm walking around when you’re in the shape you are in. Come now, girl, haven’t you a lick of sense?”

Maggie smiled and asked softly, “Help me back to bed, Papa?”

A thread of fear entered Lucky’s narrowing eyes, and Maggie silently cursed herself. One of her methods for fighting the illness was never to ask for help unless she truly needed it. She’d learned long ago that maintaining her independence in little ways made a big difference in how she felt about herself. Her grandfathers understood that, so when she’d requested Papa Lucky’s assistance, she’d inadvertently caused him added worry. That only made her feel worse.

Lucky put his arm around her waist. “Lean on me, child.”

“I’m not a child,” she protested, because he would expect it.

“Then quit acting like one.” He lowered his voice to a mutter as he escorted her back to bed. “Only brings one bottle of Bliss water with her. Won’t stay in bed when she needs to. Frets herself into sickness.”

“Now, Papa,” Maggie said.

“It’s the truth, Magpie. I know in my heart that worry brought on this spell. Ben was wrong. We never should have told you about Drew.” He emptied the last of Maggie’s bottle of Bliss water into a glass and held it out for her to take. “It’s been too much for you. Losing the hotel, losing the treasure, almost losing Snake, then taking off on this fool’s mission—it’s little wonder you’ve stirred up the Old Devil.”

Old Devil was the pirates’ nickname for her rheumatism. Maggie couldn’t argue with him. For one thing, she agreed that anxiety played a negative role in a person’s health. Things simply didn’t flow right when a person was tied up in knots. Second, Maggie didn’t have the energy to argue. Her excursion to the window seemed to have sapped the energy right out of her bones even as it fed the flames in her joints. “I think I’ll sleep some more, Papa.”

“That’s a good idea, but I want you to drink your water first.” Lucky supported her back while she took the tonic. When she emptied the glass, he lay her gently upon the mattress and tucked the covers up around her chin. She gritted her teeth against the groans that moving wrenched out of her.

Hovering, Lucky sighed. “I need to tell you something, sweetheart. I’ve spoken with Mrs. Craig. She’s agreed to let you stay here as long as we need. She’s promised to keep an eye on you for me while I’m gone.”

The feverish feeling that accompanied particularly bad attacks swept over her, and Maggie had to force her eyes open. “Gone?”

Lucky nodded. “You just drank the last of your bottle of Bliss water. If I leave today, I should be able to get back with a new supply before you empty the bottles I brought along.”

“But you shouldn’t leave so soon,” Maggie protested weakly. “You rode too hard and fast getting here. You should rest.”

“You’re a fine one to talk, missy.” Lucky leaned down and kissed her brow. “I’ll be fine. I’ll rest better when I know you’re on the mend. But I need you to promise me you’ll quit fretting yourself to death. Otherwise, I’m liable to worry myself into a sickbed, too.”

Maggie nodded. It wasn’t a difficult promise to make. She hardly had the gumption to even think, much less worry. With each minute that passed her strength slowly ebbed, sapped by the influenza-type ache settling into her bones.

“Rest now, Magpie. I’ll be back quick as a rumor, and once we get you watered up, we’ll kick the Old Devil’s butt all the way to hell.”

Maggie hummed a sigh in response, then sank into the dark, swirling vortex of pain-haunted sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rafe spent the first day of the ride cussing Maggie’s foolishness. He passed the second day blaming the pirates for not teaching her better. The rest of the trip he chewed out himself for being stupid enough to spend days in the saddle to rescue a woman who would likely do her best to kill him once he saved her.

But beneath all the chiding lay a bedrock of concern. Maggie intended to steal a fortune in gold and jewels from a man whose motives for doing the things he’d done remained suspect. She could end up getting herself hurt.

The summer afternoon was hot, still, and stifling as Rafe arrived at the shamrock-shaped wind chimes that marked the turnoff to Gallagher’s Tavern and Travelers Inn. He eyed the dark cloud billowing in the western sky, noted the tinge of green that often meant hail, and was grateful he’d managed to reach his destination before the storm descended. Riding past the summer kitchen on his way up to the main building, he caught a whiff of cinnamon in the air and hoped he’d find a slab of peach cobbler on his dessert plate that evening. He knew from previous visits that Gallagher’s cobbler was a treat not to be missed.

Rafe reined his horse to a halt at a hitching post in front of the inn. As he swung from the saddle, the front door opened and a cloud of dust billowed out onto the porch, followed by a woman wielding a broom. Rafe’s lips tilted in a grin. The widow Craig was an old acquaintance of his. He’d lived in her Nacogdoches boardinghouse for a time a few years back. He tipped his hat to the robust woman and said, “Afternoon, Martha.”

Her head snapped up. Slowly her eyes widened and a smile wreathed her face. “Gentleman Rafe Malone, you scoundrel! What brings you back to this neck of the woods? Are you running from the law again? Will you hide in my flour barrel like the last time?”

“It was an inspired hideout, you must admit. Fooled Luke Prescott but good.”

“He walked right past you,” she replied, chuckling. “So can I expect to see that handsome young man later today, too? Seems like the two of you always ran in a pair.”

“Not this time. I’m here by myself. In fact, this time I’m the one doing the hunting instead of the other way around.”

The widow Craig shook her head. “Not for the law, surely!”

“Nope, this is personal.”

“Well, I want to hear all about it. You’d best go stable your horse first, though. It’s fixing to come a toad-strangler. I’ll have a drink waiting for you in the tavern. Do you still prefer cider to spirits?”

“Most of the time. But today I think I’ve earned a whiskey. Pour me one of Gallagher’s Irish, would you?”

Ten minutes later, Rafe shut the barn door and hurried up toward the inn. A blast of wind whipped across the yard. Rafe made a grab for his hat as it threatened to blow off his head, while above him an upper-story shutter tore loose of its latch and banged against the wall.

He made it inside just as the first raindrops fell. Martha waited for him in the large room that opened off the entry hall. Rafe hung his hat on a wall hook, then took a seat on a stool beside a long, polished oak bar. They discussed changes at the inn since the last time he’d visited. She informed him of John Gallagher’s recent death and passed along news of Gallagher’s young son and married daughter. “Rowdy Payne and I are taking care of matters here at the inn until Katie comes home,” she told him. “I’ve enjoyed the job. All the hustle and bustle keeps me young.”

“Have you been busy?”

“Very. In fact, our rooms are booked up for tonight. You’ll have to take one of the cots up in the attic.”

Rafe sipped his whiskey. It burned a trail of fire down his throat. “Speaking of guests, I mentioned earlier that I’m looking for someone.”

Martha set her own drink down on the bar and leaned forward. “What did he do? Rob someone? Kill someone? Did somebody dare to cross Gentleman Rafe Malone?”

“I reckon you could look at it that way if you wanted.” Rafe swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Actually, the person I’m looking for is a woman. A lady by the name of Maggie St. John. I doubt she’d be using an alias. She’s tall for a woman, five foot six or seven. She has the prettiest blue-green eyes I’ve ever seen.” He paused, trying to decide how best to represent her indescribable beauty.

“What do you want her for?”

“Her family sent me. She’s on the verge of doing something really stupid and I need to—” He broke off abruptly when he looked up and saw the peculiar expression on the widow Craig’s face. “Martha? Do you know something about her? Have you seen her?”

“Oh, I’ve seen her, all right. And I’m afraid you’re wrong. That poor little sweetheart isn’t on the verge of doing anything.”

Rafe’s heart all but stopped.
Dear God. I’m too late. Montgomery must have hurt her
. He forced words past the lump in his throat. “What do you know about Maggie?”

“She’s here.”

“Here? Now? At Gallagher’s?” Rafe shoved to his feet. “Which room? What’s the matter with her? Why did you say she’s poor?”

Martha shook her head and snorted. “Maybe because she has you on her trail. Settle down, Rafe. I won’t have you barging in on her. Not the way she’s feeling now.”

“She’s hurt?”

“She’s ill. Rheumatism. In a girl that age, don’t that beat all?”

Rafe’s heart pounded. She was sick? “That’s all that’s wrong? He didn’t wound her or anything?”

“That’s all!” Martha scoffed. “Well, I should think it’s enough. And you will, too, once you see her. The poor thing is suffering.”

“But she’s not shot or anything.” He needed to be clear on that.

“Of course not. Why would you say that? Who would hurt that sweet child. Certainly not her grandfather. Never in my borned days have I seen such a hard-looking man treat a woman with such gentle care. That scar around his neck is downright frightening.”

Lucky had found her. Suddenly Rafe needed to sit down. His knees had gone weak and wobbly. He took a fortifying sip of his drink, then asked, “Is her grandfather with her now?”

“Oh, no. He left a few days ago. He’s gone after her medicine, some special tonic water they’ve run out of. He said that’s the only thing that’ll make her better.” Her brow crinkled in a worried frown as she added, “But to be honest, he seemed worried about whether the medicine would do the trick. He said when it gets this bad she really needs the mud baths, but that she couldn’t tolerate the trip home in the shape she’s in.”

“The shape she’s in?” Rafe repeated, his throat tight.

“She’s in such awful pain, Rafe. But she won’t let me give her any laudanum, just a little of the Irish now and again. I’m worried about her. Her grandfather asked me to watch over her until his return. I do hope he hurries, though.”

“How long has she been here?”

“Going on eight or nine days, now.”

“And she’s been sick all that time?”

“Not as sick as she is now. It got much worse once we ran out of her medicinal water.”

Bliss water. He remembered the bottle one of the pirates had stuck in his saddlebags before he left the hotel. Thank God he had never removed it.

Rafe needed to see her. Right then. “Which room is she in?”

“She’s not in a room. I gave her Katie’s room down at the kitchen. She couldn’t climb the stairs in the shape she’s in, and besides, it’s much easier to heat water for her baths down there. Hot baths seem to help. In fact, I intended to fix one up for her just before you arrived. Rowdy has already hauled the water and put it to heating for me.”

Before she finished speaking Rafe was moving toward the door. He would stop and grab the water on the way. “I’ll take care of it, Martha. Thank you.”

“Wait one minute, Rafe Malone. I’ll do it. You cannot give that dear a bath. You’re a man!”

“I’m glad you noticed. Don’t worry, Martha. Maggie and I are close friends. I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I promise. That’s who I am, don’t forget. Gentleman Rafe Malone.” He lifted his hat from the hook and shoved it onto his head.

The widow hurried after him. “I don’t know about this, Rafe. The thought of you bathing that poor sick girl just doesn’t seem right.”

Rafe paused at the top of the porch steps and glanced back over her shoulder. Martha Craig was all but wringing her hands in worry. “Don’t fret, ma’am. Maggie won’t mind.”

“Well, if you’re certain. Oh, and Rafe, check the Dutch oven. I mixed up an embrocation, hoping that might give her ease. I used my best brandy and butter in it, and my homemade rose-scented soap to offset the smell of the onions. She may want to apply it after her bath.”

“Liniment,” Rafe said, nodding. “That’s good. I have a recipe for horse liniment I sometimes use for my own aches.”

Martha stared out across the yard toward the kitchen, then back at him. “I don’t feel right about this, Rafe. How do you know she won’t mind? Who is she to you?”

Rafe met her gaze and said simply, “She’s my Mary.”

Then he dashed out into the pouring rain.

~~~~~~~~~~

Maggie lay in a haze of pain, uncertain what day it was and not entirely positive where she was. She drifted in and out of sleep, one state just as bad as the other. Awake, she had to deal with the fire burning her joints; asleep, the nightmares.

It was as if the rheumatism had a life and a mind of its own. An evil but intelligent creature, it refused her the rest her body required to battle its effects by filling her sleep with monsters both real and imagined. In her sleep, Maggie clashed with a fire-breathing Barlow Hill. She dueled an Andrew Montgomery whose sinister grin revealed teeth made of shards of ruby-colored glass. In her dreams, Maggie swam surrounded by slithering eels. She ran from rabid javelinas and wrestled hungry coyotes. She warred with the monsters all by herself.