Bride On The Run (Historical Romance) (15 page)

Malachi’s eyes followed the quick, sure movements of her hands. There was an undertone of urgency in the way she thrust the needle into the cloth, as if she were racing against time—a race she knew she was going to lose.

She had said she was leaving. Malachi knew that, and had even agreed it was the right thing to do. But how could she even think of going when the children needed her so much—when
he
needed her, damn it.

“Anna.” He had not planned to speak, but her name had flown from his mind to his tongue. She glanced up, her eyes meeting his, and in the flickering lamplight, Malachi caught the glimmer of a tear.

“You don’t have to go,” he blurted, the words tumbling out faster than coherent thought. “Whatever trouble you’re in, we can work it out. If you’ve broken the law, my cousin Stuart can take your case—”

“The same cousin Stuart who arranged for me to come here in the first place?” A bitter little smile twisted a corner of her mouth. “That doesn’t say much for his judgment, Malachi, or for his acumen as a lawyer.”

“Then we’ll find someone better. Stay, Anna—for the children’s sake. They—need you.”

They need you
.

Anna forced herself to look directly at him, to meet his earnestness with the steel of her own resolve—only to find that the steel had dissolved into mist. Dear heaven, how she wanted him—this big, stubborn, awkward, growling enigma of a man! She wanted to share his lonely life, raise his beautiful children and feel his strong, male body clasping her close in their marriage bed. She wanted to grow old with him, to see the sun rise and set on their days in a symphony of color above the canyon walls. She wanted his love, his sorrow, his hopes and fears. She wanted all of him, and all that was his.

But it was an impossible dream, she knew. Even if Malachi were to offer her his love, she could no more stay with him than she could be empress of Russia!

“Anna?”

Struggling to ignore him, she glanced at Josh. The boy was sleeping fitfully, his breath wheezing raggedly in and out of his throat. “There has to be something more we can do,” she said, putting off her answer to his question, the only answer she could give him.

“What did they do for fevers in the orphanage?” The question carried an edge. Malachi was no fool. He knew she was putting him off.

“Not much,” Anna answered dully, remembering. “Any child who died meant one less mouth to feed. But I remember…” She groped for the memory that had just flickered in her tired brain. What was it she’d heard, and when?

Malachi watched her expectantly, as if waiting for any scrap of hope she might find to toss his way. For his sake, and for Josh’s, Anna struggled to push back the edges of her memory, far back, to a time she had long since buried.

“After I ran away from the orphanage,” she began, groping her way, “I was taken in by a woman who let me do laundry and kitchen work for my board. It wasn’t a good place—in fact, it was the worst kind of place. I left when she wanted to promote me to one of the upstairs rooms.” Anna shook her head in frustration. “Why am I telling you this? None of it means anything!”

“Go on,” Malachi prodded her. “It’s not always easy to remember things. But if you keep talking, maybe you’ll find your way.”

Anna sighed, slowly remembering. “The cook—she was kind to me—she used to tell me stories about her family while we worked. One story was about the
time her younger sister got pneumonia, and they saved her life by making a tent out of quilts and putting her inside with tubs of boiling water. The heat made her sweat, and the steam cleared her lungs.”

“I’ve seen pneumonia,” Malachi said. “I’m no doctor, mind you, but Josh’s lungs seem fine. It’s the fever I’m worried about.”

“Yes, I know.” Anna swept her hair back with an agitated hand. “But we’ve tried other things, none of which seem to have worked. Short of sending for a Navajo medicine man, what would you suggest we do?”

He hesitated, his silver eyes darkening to slate gray in the lamplight. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet, looming above Anna in the small room. “We can make a tent in the kitchen, between the chairs,” he said. “If you’ll sit inside and hold him, I’ll haul the wood and water.”

“Wait—” Anna caught his sleeve as he turned to go. “I remember something else. The cook said they gave her sister pennyroyal, in a tea, and in the steam.”

Malachi scowled at her. “There’s no pennyroyal here. It’s a mountain plant. The canyon’s too low.”

“Something else, then. Something to make the steam stronger—”

“Indians use sage. Plenty of that. I’ll cut some once the water’s heating.” He strode from the house, clearly relieved to be back in action. Anna had never known a man to be any good at waiting. Waiting tended to be a woman’s lot, a woman’s own brand of torment.

Moving quietly, to avoid waking Carrie, she
walked into the kitchen and began stacking chairs to support the quilts.

Like beads of desperation strung on a thread of despair, the hours passed. Anna sat beneath the tented quilts, hunkered on the milk stool with Josh in her arms as Malachi shoved buckets of boiling river water, laced with sage, into their tiny chamber. Her limbs had long since ceased to feel their cramped discomfort. As for her mind, it had slipped into a leaden stupor, aware of nothing but the weight of the precious child in her arms, the heat of his small, burning body.

Early on, she had managed to get some tea down him, brewed from more willow bark and a few sprigs of the sage. But now the heat and the steam had sapped her senses to the point where she could scarcely think, let alone take intelligent action.

“I can spell you for a while.” Malachi raised the hem of the quilt to thrust in another pail of boiling water and remove the one that had cooled.

“Don’t bother,” Anna mumbled. “I don’t think I could get out of here if I tried.”

“How’s Josh doing?” The hope in his voice almost broke her heart.

“The same. Hot. Wet. In and out of sleep. He’s stirred and tried to speak a couple of times, but I don’t think he knows what’s happening.” She could not bear to tell him the most wrenching thing of all—that for a time the boy had clung to her with small, frenzied hands, whimpering, “Mama…Mama…”

“What time is it?” she asked, shifting Josh’s weight in her arms.

“Around midnight.” He straightened with a long, anguished exhalation. “Let’s give both of you a rest, Anna, get him into the air and see how he’s doing.”

“All right. But get a dry blanket. We can’t let him chill.”

He lowered the quilt, and she sat waiting in the steamy darkness, cradling the boy against her chest. The fever had drained him of substance until he seemed no more than a bird in her arms, all hollow bones and weightless flesh.

“Ready—” He tugged away the quilt and she passed Josh into the heavy Navajo blanket. Malachi wrapped his son tenderly, swaddling everything but his small, peaked face. Josh’s brown puppy eyes blinked drowsily up at his father, then slipped shut again as Malachi gathered him close.

Anna’s legs had lost all feeling. She strained to get up, but only succeeded in toppling sideways off the milk stool onto the floor. She lay there with no will to move, the wood grain pressing into her cheek.

“Anna.” She was aware of Malachi’s boot toe nudging her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Anna moaned. As she lay still, wanting only to rest, she felt his hand slipping around her ribs. Then he was lifting her, supporting Josh against his shoulder and, with his free hand, dragging her toward the massive leather armchair that sat before the darkened fireplace. How strong he was, she thought groggily. And how gentle, as he settled her in the curve of one arm, with his son in the other.

“I’m soaked!” she protested weakly. “I’ll get you all wet—”

“Hush, Anna.” He tugged another dry blanket
around her. “Be still and rest,” he murmured, pulling her against the warmth of his chest. “You’ve done all you can. What happens now is beyond your power or mine.”

Anna closed her eyes, letting herself be lulled and soothed by the steady beating of his heart. She could feel Josh beside her, snuggled into the thick Navajo blanket. The woolen folds rose and fell with the light cadence of his breathing.

“How does he look to you?” Anna whispered the question to Malachi.

“Peaceful. Sleeping.”

“Good,” she muttered through a cloud of exhaustion. “Sleep’s the best thing for him.”

“And for you.” His throat moved against her hair. “Close your eyes. Try not to worry.”

She did as he asked, snuggling close against his broad, hard chest. There would be more room on the bed. But she had no will to get up and move. It seemed so right, so perfect being here in his arms. She had never felt more protected, more cherished….

The dog nudged her feet as he made room for himself next to Malachi’s legs. Anna felt herself begin to slip away, then stop with a sudden jolt.

This was the time. It had to be. She could hold no more lies, no more evasions between herself and Malachi. She owed him the truth, no matter what it might cost her.

“Malachi?” she whispered, her lips moving against the roughness of his shirt.

“What is it?”

“Earlier you asked me a question.” She fumbled
for a way to begin. “I owe you an answer. A lot of answers.”

He did not speak, but she felt the tension building in his body as he waited for her to go on.

“There’s no easy way to tell you this,” she continued, choking on the words. “You’re right. I’m wanted by the law—wanted for a crime I didn’t commit.”

Still he was silent, waiting, probably doubting her words already. Didn’t all criminals claim to be innocent?

“So what was the crime?” he finally asked.

Anna willed herself to speak clearly and boldly. “The crime was murder.”

A
nna felt his heart jump. His muscles jerked tight, and she sensed the raging struggle inside, as if part of him wanted to shove her off his lap, away from himself and his innocent son. An eternity seemed to pass before he spoke.

“Tell me what happened.”

So Anna told him. At first the words came with difficulty, but then, as if a dam had burst, the story came tumbling out of her—how she had met Harry Solomon when she sang at the Jack of Diamonds in St. Joseph, how Harry had asked her to wed, and how she had climbed the back stairs to his quarters on that terrible night and met Louis Caswell and his looming cohort, The Russian.

“I didn’t give them much thought at the time,” she said. “Not until I walked into Harry’s suite and found him lying on the floor with the knife in his back….” The memory surged, its horror threatening to strangle her words. Not once in five long months had she told anyone about that awful moment. Not until now.

“I ran to him,” she said, forcing the words. “I
threw myself down beside him, trying to save him, to pull the knife out of his back and stop the bleeding. He was dead by then—I’m certain of that now. But I was in a state of shock. His blood was all over my clothes, my hands, leaving bloody prints on everything I touched. Harry’s safe was open. The papers had been scattered on the floor. I remember gathering them up, looking at them, smearing them with blood—”

“Papers?”

“I think Harry must have had some evidence against Caswell—maybe that he was taking protection money from some of the saloons. That would have given Caswell a reason to kill him and go through his safe. At least that’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

“And you didn’t call for help?”

She shook her head. “I knew I’d be blamed, especially since Louis Caswell was the law in town. All I could do was run. I left town that very night—that very hour.”

“And you’ve been running ever since.” Malachi’s flat voice told her nothing. Was he shocked? Disgusted? Did he hate her for the treachery she’d committed against his family? Did he even believe her?

“Yes, running,” she said. “And hiding. And dodging. And lying. Anything to stay alive and free for one more day, even marrying a complete stranger.”

That would get a rise out of him, she thought. But it did not. When he spoke again, it was in that same calm, flat voice.

“And you’ve never thought of stopping long enough to try to clear yourself?”

“Clear myself?” Sweet heaven, did he really believe her? Anna’s heart jumped, and plummeted again as she realized it made no difference. “That’s impossible,” she said. “I played right into Caswell’s hands that night. That’s why he didn’t kill me on the spot. He knew exactly what I would do. I was so frantic to get away that I even left my shawl next to poor Harry’s body and my bloody clothes in my dressing room at the Jack of Diamonds. All that evidence! Caswell was in the clear! No one would think of blaming anyone but me!”

“So why do you think he’s still looking for you?” Malachi asked quietly. “The time, the expense—Why hasn’t he just let you go?”

Anna turned in his arms, so that she could gaze up at him. The lamplight had deepened the lines at the corners of his eyes and darkened the stubble on his cheeks and jaw. He looked unspeakably weary, drained by the ordeal of his son’s illness.

“Caswell won’t sleep well until he’s silenced me for good,” she said. “If I’m caught, I’m done for. He’ll make sure I never live to tell my story to a judge.”

“Then it appears Caswell still has something to fear from you.” Malachi hesitated, then continued without waiting for Anna’s response. “You saw him and his hired thug leaving the murder scene. You
saw
him, Anna—and who’s to say you didn’t find something among those scattered papers? Something that would link him to Harry’s death?”

“But I didn’t!” Anna was losing patience with this hopeless game. “I found nothing, Malachi, nothing at all.”

“But does Caswell know that?” Malachi’s eyes narrowed like a cat’s in the lamplight. “Haven’t you ever played poker, Anna? Don’t you know the value of a good bluff?”

“When it comes to poker, I could bluff you out of everything you own!” Anna said. “But there’s nothing to bluff with here. Caswell is holding all the cards, and he knows it!” She glared up at him, overcome by sudden despair. “Why are you doing this to me, pulling me this way and that, getting my hopes up for nothing? For that matter, why should you even believe me? I may not be a murderess, Malachi, but I’m not a good woman, either. I’ve lied to you all along. I’ve even lied to your children—”

She broke off as Josh began to stir. For a long moment he whimpered, then sighed and settled into sleep once more. Anna lowered her voice as she took up the thread of her tirade. “I’ve lied to all of you, about everything—”

“Hush.” His finger, laid lightly on her lips, blocked the rest of her words. “Be still Anna. Close your eyes and rest. Neither of us is thinking very clearly right now.”

“But—”

“Tomorrow,” he said softly but firmly. “We’ll talk then, when we’re both seeing things more clearly.”

Anna exhaled, willing herself to be silent. He was right, she knew. Her nerves were raw with worry and exhaustion, as were his. Yes, tomorrow they would talk. Tomorrow…

Her mind was already spiraling into sleep. She halted the spinning long enough to remind herself that
she should slip off Malachi’s lap and go to bed. But the enfolding warmth of the blanket was pulling her into slumber. The strength of his arms made her feel safe and protected. She closed her eyes, fear and uncertainty falling away as she drifted deeper…deeper.

Malachi cradled them both—his slumbering son and the woman he had come to love. Anna’s head lay against his collarbone, her hair damp and tangled. Her gold-tipped lashes caught opalescent glimmers of lamplight where they lay against her ivory skin. She slept, now, like a child, her strength utterly spent.

Had she been honest with him this time? Had her wild tale been true, or was he holding a murderess in his arms? By her own admission Anna had lied at every turn. Why should he believe her now?

She moaned softly in her sleep, butting her head into the hollow of his throat like a small animal seeking nourishment. How trusting she was, how needful of love. How could he not believe her? He had seen her kindness. He had seen the devoted care she gave his children, her passionate concern for the lost mule and the mired cow. This woman was no killer. She was not capable of such a violent act.

But, unless he could find a way to prevent it, she would leave him. Malachi felt the certainty of reason as he held her. She was too frightened to take a stand, too fearful of bringing harm to him and his family.

He brushed his lips against her damp hairline, aching to hold her like this forever, to make her his, to bind her to him as the wife of his heart, his soul, his body. What could he do? How could he keep this precious woman in his life?

Josh wriggled against his other arm, sighing in his
fitful sleep. Malachi tested the heat of his fever by laying his cheek against the boy’s forehead. His skin felt much the same as it had for the past twenty-four hours. But at least he was sleeping. His body was at rest, gathering strength to fight for life.

Josh needed Anna, too, and so did Carrie. They needed the laughter and music in her and the guidance of her hardwon wisdom. They needed her motherly love.

Malachi’s arms tightened around Anna and Josh, even as his thoughts embraced Carrie where she slumbered behind her closed door. He would die protecting these three precious lives. He would do anything to keep them safe, to keep them together.

But tonight an army of adversity was lining up outside the walls of their sanctuary—dark forces, any one of which possessed the power to shatter all their lives.

The dog pressed against his leg, its big body warm and reassuring in the darkness. The lamp wick sputtered and died to a vermilion glow. Malachi felt the peace of the house, the canyon and the river around him. He felt his loved ones in his arms. Treasuring the moment, he drifted into a doze.

He awakened to darkness, his mind a blur. How long had he slept? An hour? Two? And what had awakened him?

Anna was still fast asleep, the arm that held her numb beyond all feeling. Josh, however, was stirring restlessly, his small voice whispering, “Pa…Pa…”

Malachi was instantly alert. “It’s all right, son,” he whispered. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. How do you feel?”

“I…had a dream, Pa.”

“A good dream?”

The boy nodded drowsily. “I saw Mama. She looked beautiful, like an angel, and she held out her arms to me.”

“And did she say anything?” Malachi clasped his son close, suddenly fearful.

“Uh-huh. She said I could come and live with her—that it was nice there and we’d be happy together.” His fingers found the front of Malachi’s shirt and clutched at the fabric, wadding it in his small fist. “She said that if I stayed with her, I could have anything I wanted. Even a pony.”

“And what did you tell her?” Malachi was dimly aware that his heart was pounding—a foolish reaction to a child’s dream.

“I told her no—I mean, no thank you,” Josh answered. “She asked me why, and I said that I needed to stay with you and Carrie and Anna—and that I wanted to grow up.” His dark eyes were round with childish wisdom. “If I stayed where Mama was, I knew I couldn’t grow up. I’d have to be a boy, always. Was that all right, Pa, to tell her no?”

Malachi hugged his son close. He had never been much of a believer in dreams, but if this one had brought Josh back to him, he was in no position to argue. “Yes,” he whispered, choking on emotion. “Yes, it was all right.”

As he held the boy, Malachi became aware of a dampness through the thick wool blanket. His heart leaped as he pulled aside the folds and layers that swathed the small body. Beneath the perspiration-soaked
flannel nightshirt, Josh’s wet skin was smooth and cool. The fever had broken.

“Am I better?” Josh whispered hopefully.

“Do you feel better?”

“Uh-huh.” He yawned like a sleepy pup. “Just tired.”

“Want to go back to your own bed?”

The boy nodded. Still dizzy with relief, Malachi turned himself to the task of rousing his own benumbed limbs and waking Anna.

Anna stirred at the touch of his hand on her shoulder, struggling toward awareness like a swimmer rising out of a deep, warm ocean. “What…what is it?” she mumbled sleepily.

“Look.” Malachi cupped her chin, turning her face toward Josh. “The fever’s broken,” he said. “And I think it’s time for all of us to go to sleep in our own beds.”

“Oh—” Anna’s eyes shot open. The room was dark except for the gleam of moonlight through the window and the red glow of embers through the small mica panes on the stove. Josh lay nestled against his father’s shoulder, his peaked little face split by a gaptoothed grin.
Thank heaven
, she thought.
Thank heaven
.

Stumbling in her haste, she clambered off Malachi’s lap. Her body felt as if it had been broken apart limb by limb and stuck together with corn syrup. She ached in every joint and muscle. Her clothes were plastered to her skin, and her hair was a clammy mass of knots and tangles. She dragged herself upright, clinging to the back of the chair for support while the circulation returned to her limbs.

Malachi’s efforts to rise were even more pathetic than her own had been. He lurched to his feet, groaning like a wounded bull elk as his bloodless legs collapsed beneath his body. Laughing in spite of herself, Anna reached out and lifted Josh in her arms. Only then was Malachi able to stagger to his feet and, little by little, recover his balance.

“You need a dry nightshirt,” Anna said to Josh. “Let’s go in your room and look for one.”

“All right,” Josh said solemnly. “But you’ll have to go out while I put it on. You’re a girl, and you mustn’t see me.”

Anna hugged him. Yes, the real Josh was back. Only now did she realize how much she had missed him.

She waited in the kitchen while Malachi tucked his son into bed, then tiptoed into the next room to whisper the good news to Carrie as he had promised. By the time he came out, closing the door quietly behind him, Anna was dismantling the makeshift steam tent they’d set up. The quilts on the bottom layer sagged with moisture, and even the blankets they’d piled on top to seal in the steam were damp. “These need to go out on the line tonight,” she said. “They’ll be musty if we leave them till morning.”

Without a word, Malachi bent down, gathered up an armful of wet quilts and strode toward the door. Anna followed him with the lighter blankets. The night was cool and moist, almost tropical in the lushness of stars, the mellow gold of the low-hanging moon.

They worked, the two of them, with a quietly shared jubilation. Tomorrow, in the harsh light of day,
the realities of the outside world would come crashing in on them again—the bounty hunters and lawmen who haunted Anna’s dreams and the court-appointed do-gooders on whose judgment hung the future of Malachi’s family. But tonight there was an air of unspoken celebration between them. The fever had broken. Josh’s tender young life would continue. Fate and heaven willing, he would grow, learn and become a man to make his father proud.

The joy in this simple knowledge glowed when their eyes met and sang between them when their hands touched. When they stretched the wet quilt to hang it over the line, the feeling rippled between them like an electric current along a telegraph wire. Anna was aware of it in every nerve, cell and fiber of her being—and so, she knew, was Malachi.

Both of them knew how the celebration would end. Every touch, every caress of his eyes told Anna how much he wanted her.

Caution shrilled in her head, telling her that she should run, that she should get away before someone got hurt. But the clamor of warning bells was overpowered by the eager drumming of her own heart. She had nowhere left to run, no time but now. She needed this man’s love as she had never needed anything in her life. The future might be filled with heartbreak and separation, but now, in the peace of this night, sheltered by towering canyon walls and lulled by the murmuring river, she would allow herself this one time to remember—for now and for all the lonely tomorrows to come.