To Know Her by Name (8 page)

“Do you ever ask yourself if there's more, Pup? Do you ever wonder if there's more to this life than panning gold, drinking, and then dying?”

She was silent for a moment and then admitted, “I did when I was a child, but I've seen ugly things since then. It's easier to believe when you're a child.”

Mud's mind went back to his own childhood. His father had been a mean man, but his mother, in his mind, had been a saint. The thought of her made him want to weep, so he forced her face from his thoughts.

“How's the patient?”

“Fine. His wound is healing fast. As soon as he gains a little strength, he'll be on his feet.”

“I sent word.”

“I'll tell him.”

Mud turned and looked at her, and Pup returned his stare. Although bloodshot, his eyes still reflected the concern he felt. Why couldn't Pup find someone? She wasn't pretty, but she was kind and smart. Why couldn't McKay see something in her that would make him want to stay?

“Go on home, Mud,” Pup said softly, having read the fatherly look in his eyes. “I'll be fine.”

“Come and tell me when he leaves,” Mud ordered.

“I'll do that,” Pup promised, and watched as Mud went on his way.

7

His pants buttoned into place, McKay stood very still at the side of the bed and contemplated his next move. He'd been sitting up in bed and doing a little more in the last few days, but this was the first day he'd even considered moving from the room. He had to try. The days were starting to blur again. Mud had been here on Wednesday, and this was Sunday. At least McKay thought it was Sunday.

“Actually,” he said softly, “it might be Monday.”

With that he took a step toward the door. The floor was a little gritty, but his mind barely registered this fact in his effort to stay on his feet. Moving slowly, his hand first on the bed and then on the wall for balance, he passed over the threshold and got his first look at the whole room. His eyes skimmed over the small stove and cupboards, table and two chairs, but then centered on a high-backed, faded sofa to his right. He made a beeline for the seat. Working at not jarring his shoulder, he lowered himself onto the cushions, the effort causing his breath to come in uneven gasps. McKay let his head fall against the back, his eyes closed.

I made it, Lord. I actually made it out here. I'm too tired to even look around, but I made it.
McKay felt himself dozing off, but no more than a few minutes passed before he heard movement outside. He lifted his head in time to see his hostess come in the door. She stumbled slightly on a raised board that ran across the threshold but didn't lose her balance. In fact, she didn't even seem to notice. She glanced his way but continued on to the table to set down a basket of clothes. She then turned and looked at him.

“You must be feeling stronger.”

“Somewhat,” his voice sounded a little weary. “I couldn't find a shirt.”

“I've got one washed for you. Do you want some help?”

“I would love to refuse, but I can't.”

Pup needed no other urging. She went back into his room, opened the closet door and emerged with a denim shirt. It wasn't pressed but it smelled fresh and looked clean. Pup helped him ease it over the bandage on his shoulder and even held the side when he put it on his good arm. She hadn't stared or made any fuss, but she was relieved when he buttoned the front and covered his chest.

“Hungry?” Pup asked; it was nearly lunchtime.

“A little. More thirsty than anything.”

Pup walked back to the kitchen area and returned with a mug full of cloudy brown fluid. McKay took it from her hand and sniffed.

“Cider?”

“Yeah,” she answered as she went back to her clothes basket. “I've got a press out back.”

McKay took a long, satisfying pull. It was tart, but cold and wet.

“By the way, is this Sunday or Monday?”

“This is Tuesday,” Pup said as she folded the clean clothing. Her back was to her guest, and she missed the surprised lift of his brows.

McKay sat in silence and watched her work, noticing for the first time how tall and slender she was; so tall that her dress didn't go past her ankles. She wore heavy leather men's boots, thick-soled and mud-brown. He also realized that she could be anywhere from 20 to 30 years of age. He knew better than to ask, but her age was a curiosity. He watched as she carried the basket to the room next to his and knew it must be her bedroom. When she came back, she went again to the table and began to work over a plucked chicken. She was facing him now, but she still didn't feel a need to look at or speak to him.

“You live here all alone, Callie?”

“Most of the time.”

“Do you prefer to be alone?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“On if I want to be alone or not.”

All of this was said with her head bent over the bird. McKay was fascinated by her economy of words. The women he knew—girls he grew up with, his sister, his mother, all of them—loved to talk. He wouldn't go so far as to call them chatterboxes, but they never seemed to run out of things to say. Thinking of them with fondness, his voice now took on a teasing tone.

“You must certainly want company when you're feeling as talkative as you are now.”

A smile pulled at the corners of Pup's mouth, but she didn't comment or look up.

“I tell you, Callie,” his tone was still exaggerated, “my recovery is probably going to take weeks longer.”

She finally raised her head and looked at him.

“It's all the talking you do. It wears a man out.”

A smile spread across her lips, and laughter lit her dark eyes, but she still didn't speak before going back to her work.

Once again McKay let his head fall back against the seat. He took time to carefully study the cabin. It was well laid out, with two bedrooms and one large room set up for the living area. It also appeared to be solidly built, but there was a haphazardness to the contents and placement of furniture. There were no frills—no little lace mats, dried flowers, or pictures.

It wasn't hard to see that domestic life was not overly important to his hostess. The pantry cupboard was in need of painting, and there were several dark, charred smudges on the wall by the stove. His mother would have sanded those off the day after they were burned. With this in mind McKay remembered the meals Callie had served him. They'd been filling and sometimes flavorful, but not fancy by any stretch of the imagination. Sometimes things were rather burnt.

When McKay's eyes slid shut he couldn't remember, but when he awoke he was lying on the sofa, not sitting on it, and there was a pillow under his head and a thin sheet over his body. He shifted his head to look for Callie but found only a plate with some bread, cheese, an apple, and another glass of cider on the little table she'd moved in front of him. He pulled himself into a sitting position and reached for the mug. What had he been thinking about when he fell asleep? He was certain that it had been Callie.

When was he going to have strength enough to keep his thoughts clear and stop nodding off at the drop of a hat? When no answer came to him, he reached for the food, just now realizing how hungry he was. He ate rather absently but felt very full when the food and cider were gone; he was also sleepy all over again. It would have been more comfortable to move back to the bed, but he didn't have the energy. He fell asleep wondering where Callie had gone.

“You're a little way from home.” Pup stood in the clearing some yards below the cabin and greeted Travis Buchanan when he walked into view. Pup had heard someone coming and simply waited, her rifle in her hand, to see who it was.

“I am, aren't I?” the tall man agreed with a smile, stopping a few yards off on the other side of Pup's garden. “How are you doing, Pup?”

“Can't complain. Something I can help you with, Travis?”

“I'm looking for a man named McKay Harrington. Have you seen him?”

“He's at my place,” she said simply.

“Is he all right?”

“He's getting there.”

Travis nodded. He'd not had many conversations with Pup Jennings, but he knew enough about her to know she normally kept to herself.

“I got word from someone in Denver that he might need help.”

“He'll be glad to know that his message got through.”

“Did you send word?”

Pup shook her head no. “Mud was going to town.”

“Mud?”

“Mud Dougan. He and his brother Percy live above me on the creek.”

“I guess I have heard of them. Well, do you mind if I go on up?”

“Doesn't make any difference to me.”

“All right.”

He walked toward the cabin, his horse's reins in his hands. Pup went back to her garden. Things were in good shape now. The weather was finally warmer, and they'd had some rain. With satisfaction she gathered some small beans from the vines. From there she moved to the beets, onions, and tomatoes.

The small of her back was beginning to ache when she heard movement behind her. She straightened to full height and faced Travis.

“He's asleep,” he said by way of explanation.

“He does that a lot.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Govern shot him.”

“Govern Hackett?”

“Yes.”

“I didn't realize he lived this far up.”

“He doesn't anymore.”

Travis stared, taking in her stoic expression. “I don't want to mistake your meaning, Pup,” he said slowly. “I take it Govern's dead?”

“Yes.”

Pity filled him. Govern Hackett was only a name to him—Travis had never actually laid eyes on the man. But Pup was different. Travis had felt compassion every time he'd seen her in town, and it was worse now knowing she'd been involved with an immoral man like Hackett. He found himself hoping she'd not been left alone with any children. It was a temptation to ask, but he refrained.

“Are you all right?” he finally managed.

“I'm fine.” Again the words were simply stated. “The stable's around back,” she went on hospitably. “You can feed and water your horse if you've a mind to.”

“I think I'll do that,” Travis told her and moved off with a brief word of thanks.

Pup finished loading the greens into a basket and headed toward the house. McKay was still sleeping, but she saw that he'd eaten the food she left. Pup was rinsing the vegetables in a pan of water when Travis knocked on the door and stepped in. The knock woke McKay.

“Buchanan,” he said with surprise, coming instantly awake. He attempted to sit up, but when he grimaced with pain, Travis came forward to help him.

“Thanks,” McKay said on a deep breath. He looked at the other man. “What brings you up the mountain?”

“This telegram.” Travis took the paper from the table and handed it to McKay. The treasury man read it.

TRAVIS BUCHANAN
BOULDER, COLO.
HAVE HEARD FROM MCKAY HARRINGTON
STOP WAS HEADED INTO HILLS STOP TROUBLE
HAS BEEN REPORTED STOP ANY INFORMATION
YOU CAN SUPPLY CONCERNING THIS
MATTER WOULD BE APPRECIATED STOP
CARLYLE CRAWFORD, DENVER, COLO.

“Did I tell you about Carlyle?” McKay asked.

“I think so. You work for him.”

“Yes. One of the men who lives and prospects up here sent word for me. I was hoping to be on my feet by now, but Callie tells me I lost a lot of blood.”

“Callie?”

“You must call her Pup.”

Both men turned to look at the woman who was working just five yards away, but she never looked up or even appeared to be aware of them.

Travis looked back at McKay. “Do you want me to try to help you ride out of here?”

Regret passed over McKay's face. “I would love to get back to town, but I know I'd never make it. A few more days and I'll try it on my own, but not today.”

“In that case, what message do you want sent to Carlyle Crawford?”