Whirlwind Wedding (2 page)

Finally, Dr. Butler dropped the bullet into the soap tin's lid. The ping sounded sharply in the quiet room. “There's just the one. Looks like the other one in his leg and the one in his arm went on out.”

With one hand, Catherine held the lamp for the doctor and with her other she continued to stroke the Ranger's forehead. His skin was flushed and burned her palm.

She counted each of the twenty-seven stitches it took to close the wound. She knew the danger lay in how deep the injury had gone, the degree of infection and the risk of the man ripping open his stitches.

Dr. Butler cleaned the wound again. He washed his hands, then, as he stared down at the patient, dried them on the fresh cloth she'd laid on the bedside table. “I fully expect he'll go, Catherine.”

“Maybe not.” She could only think that her fervent desire for the man to live was due to the fact that her mother had died so recently. “He could pull through.”

“Maybe.” The doctor looked doubtful. “I'll leave some laudanum in case he wakes up at all.” He placed a small brown bottle on the washstand next to the bed. “That will ease his suffering. Just try to make him comfortable. I'll check back tomorrow.”

Catherine nodded, then glanced at her bed. Even unconscious, Jericho Blue made her leery. She didn't care to have the big man under her roof for a prolonged period, but whatever her intention when she'd answered the door, she wasn't getting rid of this man tonight.

D
arkness shifted into light. Day into night. Jericho was swept along on a vicious red tide of pain. He burned, then froze. Searing agony gripped his leg and throbbed in his arm. Images floated through his mind. The face of his partner, Hays. A dark-haired boy. A woman with a soft voice and gentle hands that soothed his blistered flesh. He rocked on the ebb and flow of hurt before sliding into sweet surrender.

Something woke him. Pain or the light spilling through the window?

He struggled to open his eyes against the glare of the sun, awareness trickling back. A sharp ache pierced his skull. His right leg felt as if it were on fire. And he was naked. He didn't recognize the soft bed that held the clean, comforting scent of a woman. His gaze tracked from the right, noting a tall, dark-wood wardrobe in the middle of the wall, an open door, a small dressing table, a stand to his left holding a pitcher and washbasin. None of it was familiar. The window stood open a few inches to let in fresh, warm air, and a lacy curtain fluttered there. He was in someone's house.

He sorted through the blur of memories in his head. The
ambush outside of Whirlwind, a young boy shooting with the McDougal gang. Bullets tearing through his arm and leg. His partner's scream of surprise. Hays Gentry had been dead by the time Jericho dragged his own lead-riddled carcass over to his side.

Using a length of rope from his saddlebag, he had fashioned a tourniquet for his thigh. He had wrapped a bandanna around his bleeding arm, then clumsily secured his lanky partner onto Hays's dun mare, and trailed the McDougal gang as far as he could while the tracks were fresh. Hours later, he'd lost them and returned to the scene of the ambush, picking up a single set of hoofprints. Hoofprints that had led him
here.

His gaze shot to the open doorway and he tried to sit up. Agony clawed through his lower body and he cursed. Easing down, he panted with the effort not to cry out. A clean white bandage wrapped his right wrist up to the middle of his forearm.

He recalled waking a couple of times and a woman holding a cup of cool water to his lips. Cool dampness on his forehead and chest. He'd been shot in his gun arm. And his right leg. With his left hand, he weakly patted his way across the sheet and felt the bulk of bandages beneath.

His thigh was wrapped tightly and throbbing as if a coyote had made two meals out of it.

“Sir?” The sweet, lilting voice was tentative. The speaker sounded breathless, as if she'd hurried to him. “Oh, good. I thought I heard you.”

Jericho struggled to focus on the figure in the open doorway. Her voice. “You helped me.”

“Yes.” She moved toward him, concern drawing her finely arched brows together.

Sweat stung his eyes and he blinked. She was pretty. More
than pretty. Was he conscious? Her long black hair was pulled back with a white kerchief and flowed over one shoulder like ebony silk. He registered strong features and porcelain skin before his vision hazed. She leaned over him, smelling of sunshine and soap. A low humming sounded in his ears. She was talking.

“Dr. Butler removed a bullet. There was one in your leg, but not in your arm. You were shot twice in the thigh.”

“What's my leg look like?” The room spun and he felt himself sliding away. He'd seen men with the same injury lose their leg to rot. “Will it keep?”

“I think so. You seem to be fighting off the infection.” She smiled and he could see her eyes were blue. Clear blue like that fancy bird made of colored glass his ma had.

“I made it to Whirlwind.”

“Yes. You were tracking the McDougal gang.” Her hand fluttered over the bandage on his arm. “Dr. Butler will check your leg when he comes.”

Jericho's head swam and he felt himself slipping away. “I came to your door.”

“Yes. You told me your name, then went unconscious.”

“How long have I been here?” The pain pulled at him, dragging him into a black hole of helplessness.

“Three days.”

He grunted. “Your name?”

“Catherine Donnelly.”

“Cath—” Everything went black.

 

The next time Jericho awoke, the sun was setting. His mouth was as dry as wool, the pain deep and gouging. He felt someone in the room and turned his head to the right, staring into the prettiest blue eyes he'd ever seen.

“Hello,” she said softly.

“Hello.” His voice sounded rusty and dry. He remembered her. “Miz Donald?”

“Donnelly.”

“Catherine.”

“Your fever broke.” Triumph underscored her words as she fussed with the blanket draped over his body.

Pain pushed the fog from his mind. He felt as weak as a newborn babe.

“Let me get you something to eat.”

“Was I out a long time?”

“You woke earlier today. Do you remember?”

He nodded. Three days he'd spent in this bed. Useless. Helpless.

“Dr. Butler will be pleased when he comes by to check on you.” She seemed to glide out of the room, her fluid movements economical and controlled.

The plain gray dress and white apron draped her body in long, sleek lines. Curved in all the right places, she had full breasts and a slim waist. If a man weren't careful, her blue eyes could draw him in, distract him enough to forget why he was here.

She returned with a thick crockery bowl and a spoon. Pulling a ladder-back chair close to the side of the bed, she set the bowl on the bedside table. A fragrant steam drifted to him and made his mouth water.

“Do you think you can sit up?”

He tried, bracing his weight on his left arm. The movement had his thigh jerking in agony, but he managed to get his shoulders against the wooden headboard at his back. Sweat broke across his face.

The woman carefully spooned soup into his mouth. He hadn't thought he was hungry, but the rich chicken broth made him ravenous. Still, being forced to let someone feed
him made Jericho feel as useless as a teat on a boar hog. His good hand clenched into a fist. “I can feed myself.”

Her face didn't change, but he felt her doubt. “I'll hold the bowl if you want to try.”

He nodded, taking the spoon from her. His hand shook as if he had the palsy.

Regarding him steadily with a hint of wariness in her eyes, she held the bowl. He dipped the spoon into the broth and brought it to his mouth, dribbling half of it down his chest. “Damn.”

“Here.” She rose and leaned toward him, using her apron to blot up the liquid.

Her touch was brisk and impersonal, but as she swiped the cloth from his chest to his belly, Jericho felt a jolt of heat. His grip tightened on the spoon.

She sat down, her fresh scent teasing him. “You're very weak. Please let me help you.”

He didn't have any choice if he wanted to eat his food rather than wear it. What little energy he did have had been used to sit up. Frustration rolled through him, but he relinquished the spoon. “All right.”

He sounded grudging even to his own ears, but she didn't seem to mind. She took the spoon and fed him another bite.

“My partner?”

“Sheriff Holt took care of the man who was with you. The sheriff said you were his cousin.”

“Davis Lee buried Hays?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.” Jericho's mouth tightened. If he and Hays hadn't already been single-mindedly pursuing the murderous McDougals on special commission from the governor, yesterday's ambush would've assured that Jericho would hunt them down and exact justice for all the people they'd
killed. The gang had unleashed hell throughout all of Texas, parts of Kansas and Indian Territory. Jericho had no intention of letting them continue any longer than it took for him to heal.

“I want to pay you, ma'am.”

“Your cousin has already taken care of it.”

“And my horse?” He swallowed the last bite of broth.

“In my barn. The sheriff took your friend's to the livery.”

“Thank you.” What the McDougals had done to Jericho was the least of it. He itched to lift the sheet and peel back the bandages on his thigh to judge for himself the damage those murderous bastards had wrought. His entire lower body was a throbbing mass of pain.

Alarm pricked him. Just what all had gotten shot off down there? It felt as if his leg was still attached, but what about his manhood?

“Are you all right? Maybe you should rest again.”

“I'm wonderin' about my injuries. When do you think the doctor will come?”

“He's been stopping by late in the afternoon, but it depends on his patients.”

“Humph.” Jericho wished Miz Donnelly would leave the room so he could just look at himself and get it over with.

“I can probably answer any questions you have.”

With that virginal face? “I doubt it.”

“I'm a trained nurse. Are you concerned about your leg?”

“I'll just wait until he gets here to ask my questions.”

“I helped him remove the bullet. I'm more than capable of telling you what you need to know.”

Her clear, guileless eyes hinted that she had no idea what he really wanted to ask. “Somehow I don't think so,” he muttered.

She pursed her lips and looked affronted. “You had lost a lot of blood by the time you showed up here. Part of your wrist
bone was chipped, but there was no bullet. The tissue inside is damaged.”

“You say the doc will be by sometime this afternoon?”

She rose from the chair. “Yes, but there's no need for you to wonder and worry. I'm sure I can put your mind at ease.”

She might be soft-looking, but she was as persistent as a hungry mule. He gritted his teeth and stared her right in the eye. “Was my manhood shot off?”

She nearly dropped the bowl in his lap. They both grabbed for it. Her hands fumbled over the top of his and she pulled away with the crockery.

Her face flushed bright red and she choked out, “You'll have to ask the doctor.”

“That's what I figured,” he growled.

She hurried out of the room. “I'll get you something to drink.”

While she was gone, he patted his groin but all he could feel was bandages.

A few minutes later, she returned with a tin cup, which she held for him. Jericho sipped at the cool water as he studied her. Slight pink still tinged her lovely face and her eyes were bright. She kept her gaze averted. For some reason, her embarrassment caused him to smile.

He'd thought a trained nurse would be more pragmatic about the human body. Her obvious discomfort sparked a long-buried need in Jericho, a purely male urge to find out how much experience she'd had. Man-to-woman experience.

Where had that thought come from? His brain was muddled from the injuries, that's all. The questions he needed to ask had to do with the ambush that had left him laid up and Hays dead.

Jericho glanced around the room. “I think I remember seeing a boy in here a couple of times.”

“My brother, Andrew.”

“How old is he?”

“Twelve.”

That could be about the age of the boy he'd spotted riding with the gang at the ambush. Was Andrew Donnelly the one who'd shot and killed Hays? Jericho needed to see that kid and examine the horses around here to check if any of their shoes matched the tracks he'd followed.

A knock sounded on the front door and Catherine placed the tin cup on the bedside table. “I'll be right back.”

He closed his eyes as she left, as much to rest as to try and make out her words in the next room.

She reappeared with a thin, brown-haired man who appeared to be a few inches shorter than Jericho's six-foot-four.

“This is Dr. Butler,” she said. “He couldn't believe it when I told him you were awake.”

Jericho wasn't sure how much longer he'd stay that way. Reaching out with his good hand, he awkwardly clasped the other man's. “Thanks for what you did.”

“Captain, you should be thanking Catherine.”

“It's Lieutenant, Doc.”

The doctor aimed a warm, affectionate smile at her. “Well, Lieutenant, you're lucky to be alive, and it's because of her. She saved your life.”

A slight blush stained his nurse's cheeks as she moved to the left of Jericho's bed. He looked over and nodded. A brief smile touched her lips before her gaze skittered away.

The doctor eyed Jericho critically. “You surprise me, sir. I didn't expect you to survive.”

“You can call me Jericho.”

“Your color is much better and your fever seems to have gone down a bit. I'd like to take a look at your wrist and leg.”

“All right.” Jericho wasn't too keen on having anything looked at, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

The doctor moved around the foot of the bed and up beside him. He cut away the bandage wrapping Jericho's wrist and forearm. The flesh was raw and torn. His hand lay limply, curled inward on top of the clean white sheet.

“Can you move your fingers?”

He could, but couldn't straighten out his hand.

“Hmm. Can you bend your wrist?”

Jericho tried and jagged pain flashed through him. “Can't. There's no give in it.”

“Don't force it.”

“What does that mean, Doc?”

“Some tendons were torn by the bullet.”

“But I'll still be able to use this hand again, won't I?”

“I'm not sure yet.”

“I will. I have to.” Jericho was a lousy left-handed shot. He had every intention of making the McDougal gang pay for what they'd done, and to do that he had to be able to use his gun hand.

“I need to see how it heals up,” the doctor said.

“How long?”

The other man raised an eyebrow. “Longer than three days. You're getting stronger. I sure didn't hold out hope for that, not like Catherine did. Let's check your progress in another couple of days.”

“I'm gonna be gone by then. The gang's trail is already cold. The longer I'm laid up, the harder they'll be to find.”