Charlene Sands (3 page)

“Trying, Emmy,” he muttered. “Trying hard.”

Emma sent up another prayer for Bodine. All of this was her fault. She’d acted on impulse and taken money that wasn’t rightfully hers, by accident. She’d been so angry that she’d just grabbed a handful of cash, never realizing she’d taken too much from a man who wouldn’t allow anyone the slightest edge. Now men had come after her and Bodine might lose his life protecting her.

Should she have stayed in River Junction, returned the money and paid for her actions? Emma would always wonder if she’d made the right choice. But as she kicked Lola into a fast trot she knew she couldn’t look back. The past was the past and couldn’t be changed. She needed to worry about her present state of affairs, getting Bodine to safety and nursing his injuries, praying to the Lord Almighty that she hadn’t caused his sudden and untimely death.

Emma worried the whole time whether Bodine would make it or not while on the trail heading toward the foothills of the great Sierras. His breathing shallow, his body slumped forward against hers with his chest to her back, she managed his weight the best she could. Holding firm on to the reins with one hand, she’d used the other to hold Bodine’s arms in place around her slight middle to keep him from swaying too far off. If he fell, she feared she’d never get him back onto the horse.

And she worried, too, that Hurley might have sent more men looking for her. She’d thought to leave the cash with the two men they’d tied up and hope for the best, but she figured those two scoundrels wouldn’t return the money to their boss anyway and if she ever had the occasion to give back the cash she’d taken, she’d be at a loss.

Yet, with Bodine nearly fainting from blood loss, Emma couldn’t find enough charity in her heart to worry about Hurley’s money. The way she figured, he deserved every bad thing that might happen to him. She believed Bodine when he said he was a cheat and meaner than a grizzly. Emma had firsthand knowledge of that now.

Emma spoke softly to Lola, encouraging the mare to press on as the northern air turned increasingly colder. Instead of heading west, toward the ocean and San Francisco, they aimed east. In the distance, tall oaks marked the foothills to the snowcapped Sierras. “Just a little while longer,” she encouraged herself, the horse and the man who may not have even heard her.

Two hours later, Emma’s heart sped at the sight of the small mining town of Oakhurst. Partly relieved that at least they’d made it this far, she reined Lola to a halt when she came upon a man exiting the livery. “Pardon me, sir. Can you tell me where I might find a doctor?”

The whiskered man, late in age and small in stature, shook his head. “Sorry, miss. Ain’t got a doctor here.”

“No doctor?”

The man glanced at Bodine, who wasn’t moving at the moment. “Looks like he needs doctoring, don’t it?”

Emma nodded. “Where’s the next nearest town?”

“Hmm.” The man thought a second, stroking his chin. “That’d be North Fork, I guess, but they ain’t got no doctor, either.”

Emma sighed and darted a glance at the few crude surrounding buildings that made up the town—a livery, an eatery of some sort, two saloons, a dry-goods shop and the trading post. “Do you know where Ed Minton’s place is?” she asked, hoping for a little better news.

“You mean Big Ed? Yep, I do. But he ain’t there. Went trapping and won’t be back until Christmas, most likely.”

It wasn’t the news Emma had hoped for. Apparently, Bodine trusted this man named Big Ed Minton, and she’d hoped he would lend a hand in nursing Bodine back to health. She’d been bred with manners and decorum, taught to never encroach on another’s property, but Emma didn’t have much else at her disposal now.

And she took Bodine’s almost imperceptible grunt from behind as encouragement. “Would you know the way to Big Ed’s place?”

He stroked his face some more. “That part’s easy. Him and me take back a few when he’s in town, down at his place. Overlooks the lake. Real pretty in the spring.” The man eyed Bodine again. “He get shot?”

Emma shook her head. “No, but he needs shelter quick.”

The man caught on and started rambling. “Go through town and then head south a ways toward the lake, about four miles in. You can’t miss his place, only one up there, off to the right, surrounded by pines. Like I said, looks onto Bass Lake. Almost ready to freeze over by now.”

“Thank you,
Mr….?
”

“Name’s Bartholomew Morrow, miss.” He tipped his old straw hat.

“Thank you, Mr. Morrow.”

“It’s Bart to most folks. You take good care of him. If you need anything much, Fender’s Dry Goods got just about everything.”

Emma stole a glance at the shop, doubting that the dry goods had much of anything of value, but she offered her thanks again and took off.

In less than an hour, Emma found Big Ed Minton’s place and, finally, luck was in her favor. The place was rugged, made of rough stacked logs, but bigger than she imagined and in good enough shape to house them. Right now, it looked like a palatial estate.

Exhausted, Emma closed her eyes and thanked the Almighty for small miracles, then unhinged Bodine’s arms from her waist and turned to him. He nearly fell over. “Bodine!”

She grabbed him and only by his slight help in his semiconscious state was she able to right him. “Bodine, wake up! I can’t get you inside without your help. Try, Bodine. Can you get yourself down from the horse?”

He grunted again. His eyes were pinlike slits, yet he managed to lower himself off the mare, his legs buckling as they touched the earth. “No. No, Bodine. Please, stay upright. Please!”

Bodine seemed to understand. It seemed to sap his strength, but he rose to stand, leaning heavily on her. With all of her God-given effort, slowly, carefully, Emma walked him to the door. She grabbed the latch, and both leaned in so the door creaked open.

Emma glanced around quickly. Inside, everything appeared as she’d hoped. She found a stove, table and chairs, and saw that a room off to one side housed a bed.

Finally.

Emma struggled with Bodine’s body weight nearly crushing her. “We’re almost there.”

And then, once inside that small room, she angled his body to face her and let him drop. He fell onto his back on the soft goose-down bed.

Emma nearly collapsed from relief and exhaustion. But she had more work to do. Bodine needed tending. She fought her fatigue, praying that his injuries wouldn’t claim his life.

T
he rain had let up hours ago, yet biting northern cold still found its way inside the cabin. Emma couldn’t wait to peel off her damp clothes and sit by the fire to thaw out, but one glance at Bodine’s listless face and his blood-soaked clothes reminded her of the task ahead.

She had no time for comfort now.

She left Bodine for a moment to light a fire. The warmth would do them both good. The hearth faced the bed, and luckily Big Ed Minton saw fit to keep a healthy supply of wood, both beside the fireplace and in the small shed that would serve as Lola’s home for a time.

Emma didn’t know much about doctoring, but she knew enough to get Bodine’s wet clothes off to check his wounds. Undressing a man the size of Bodine wouldn’t be easy, but Emma had to try. She faced him on the bed, staring down, again noting his pallor.

Without hesitation, she removed his hat, which had twisted sideways on his head from his fall onto the bed. Next she unfastened his slicker, spreading the coat out wide while trying to keep blood from staining the patchwork quilt Bodine rested upon.

She studied him. “Somehow, I’ve got to get this off you,” she muttered, gently tugging his arm free of the slicker on the left side.

Bodine let out a cry of pain and Emma froze, biting her lip. Her heart raced. He was dying from loss of blood, she feared.

“Get…it…off,” the half-conscious man agonized in the quietest of whispers. “Go…on.”

Hastily, Emma pulled at the arm of the slicker, ignoring Bodine’s next grunt of pain.

Then she moved to the other side, noting the blood on his shoulder seemed more profuse. Bodine managed to open one eye, catching her attention and seemingly giving her silent permission.

This time, her quick yank caused him to yelp in anguish. He struggled to remain awake, but Emma noticed the exact moment he drifted off.

“Better for you, Bodine,” she said, praying her ministrations wouldn’t cause him more injury.

From there, she managed to remove his slicker entirely, tossing it onto a slant-back chair. She unbuttoned his shirt and spread it out, refusing to cause him any more pain by yanking his arms free of the sleeves.

Ripping more of her petticoat into strips, she wadded them up in both hands and pressed the dry cloth to the bulk of his slash wounds. One injury stood out above the rest—a hole, still healing in his shoulder.

He’d been shot.

And not that long ago.

That wound bled the most, so that’s where Emma pushed hardest with her petticoat bandage. She stood there for long moments, breathing in the odor of rotting skin and stale blood. Her stomach rebelled from the putrid scent, but she held on until she managed to quell the seepage.

All through it, Bodine slept restlessly, his face marked with anguish, his breathing labored.

Emma left him then to search the cabin for the supplies she needed. And as she lit the cookstove, poured water from a kitchen barrel into a pot and set it to boil, she sang.

Her body fatigued, her mind in turmoil, the lyrics came to her instantly, a mellow ballad her mama had taught her years ago. She sang and it soothed her. She sang and it encouraged her. She sang and the empty room filled with sounds of life.

Emma continued to sing quietly, her voice trained to belt out boisterous brash tunes or to lay peace upon a tortured soul. She moved in rhythm to the ballad and stood by the fire, swaying slightly, warming herself through and through, waiting for the water to heat. And once the water boiled, Emma moved to the stove to dip strips of cloth into the pot. Then she returned to Bodine with the heated strips and a fresh bowl of warm water.

And as she sang her quiet tune, she pushed and pulled until she had removed both of his muddied boots. A knife fell out of one boot, and Emma lifted her lips in a small smile. Lord only knows, what other weapons she might find once she removed all of his clothes.

The thought of seeing him naked heated her flesh. He was a powerfully built man, strong and broad. And her traitorous mind thought of other delights. What would it be like to lie with him? To bear his weight, not from horrific injury, but from unmeasured lust?

Emma sighed then, the thought interrupting her song, as she knew she’d never entertain such yearnings if she hadn’t felt his touch on her skin, hadn’t slept in his arms. Silly of her to give it a moment of thought.

Bodine would have no use for her.

She didn’t inspire passion in men.

Well, at least not men like Bodine. Grant Harper had always seemed intrigued though. And her Gram had seen fit to persuade her into an engagement, ready to see her granddaughter settled. Emma had gone along with her Gram, hoping that Grant was the answer to what felt hollow in her life. But after she found out the truth about her father, suddenly, life in Fresno with a good friend like Grant offered no appeal. She’d been betrayed by her family, and then she’d finally come to realize the betrayal would be her own if she agreed to a life she didn’t want.

“Oh, Gram,” she sighed, “I wish you hadn’t lied to me.”

Now Emma’s purpose in life was twofold. To find her father and pursue her dream of entertaining with the gift she’d been given.

Emma hummed another ballad, this time a cowboy’s lament over losing a powerful love. While she hummed, she took Bodine’s knife to slice away what remained of his bloodied shirt and undergarment. With his chest bare and the bleeding stopped but for minor seeping, Emma gazed readily at the uppermost part of his body and the manly hairs that curled every which way and that.

As she mopped up the dark crimson remnants of blood, cleansing his body thoroughly, her bones melted at the sight.

Bodine was handsome in his own right, with silken black hair, dark lashes and a sculpted jawline. Once again, she recalled the brush of his fingers on her breast, the heat that touch inspired, and she wondered at her lusty musings for a man who was more stranger to her than friend.

Yet he’d come to her aid.

Emma owed him her life and here, in this cabin, she planned to repay the debt.

When she had finished bathing Bodine’s wounds, she ripped the remainder of her petticoat to wrap the injuries, taking special time and care with his shoulder wound. Once done to her satisfaction, she covered him with a buffalo robe that she’d removed off the wall and tucked it around his outstretched body.

But Emma’s work wasn’t done.

Lola, the mare that had brought them to safety, needed her, as well.

Emma buttoned her coat and ventured outside, fighting the bitter cold to stroke Lola’s mane in reassurance and lead her inside the shelter of the barn.

Bodine drifted in and out of sleep, his conscious moments plagued by frightful nightmares. The Great War had left its mark on him, unwilling to give him any peace. Faces of lifeless soldiers, bloodied in battles between countrymen, destroyed hope of restful slumber. Then Josh, his twin, flashed through his mind, just as vividly, first as the young drummer boy, his side-by-side companion then later, as a grown man, content with wife and child. The dream wrestled away any chance for solace as his grown-up brother beseeched him with those honest eyes while Bodine held him in his arms that one last heartbreaking time. “Care for them, Bo. Make my family, yours.”

Bodine promised. And because of that promise he couldn’t succumb to the pain that ripped his shoulder to shreds. Or the burning cuts that flamed raw on his arms. He needed vengeance. He needed to uphold the vow he’d made.

Bodine fought the pain, struggled to recover. He couldn’t give in. He thrashed on the bed, tossing his head back and forth as raging fever seized him. “No, no. Josh. Not Josh,” he called out wildly.

And then an angel’s voice thrummed gently in his ears, the melodious song flowing soft as a peaceful river.

Bodine calmed. The sound lifted him, drawing the ache from his shoulder, erasing the nightmares from his soul and lulling him like a baby being rocked in a cradle.

Someone touched him. He felt the steady coolness of her hands on his forehead. Bodine heard her tranquil voice, the song of an angel, the sound too beautiful to be anything but from somewhere higher up, a power that could heal and soothe.

Bodine surrendered his nightmares.

He slept.

Emma lay awake nights tending to Bodine’s bouts of fever, succumbing to sleep in the wee hours of the morning. She slept at peace only when Bodine was at peace, and when he woke, burning up, his skin raging with heat, she cooled him with barrel water and sang to him, the same nighttime lullabies her mama Elena had crooned to her as a child.

The first night she tried sleeping in the slant-back chair in the room, but it proved too uncomfortable, so the following night she took up the outermost part of the bed, covering herself with the woolen blanket from Bodine’s bedroll. With him going in and out of consciousness, Emma didn’t dare sleep in the main room, where a big fur-lined chair sat nestled in the opposite corner from the cooking area. Fearful that she’d lose him during the night, she kept up her vigil by his bedside, watching him sleep, under the buffalo robe unless his fever raged.

When that happened, she’d dump nearly a full bucket of water on him, washing him down methodically, learning his body, the cords of muscle, the sinew and tight pull of skin. His color came back gradually. His nightmares waned.

And by the third day, Emma had exhausted herself.

“Wake up, Bodine,” she said with a heavy sigh. “We’re almost out of food.”

Emma had rationed the pitiful fare left by Mr. Big Ed Minton. Of course, he had no way of knowing he’d be entertaining two houseguests, one who hadn’t eaten a thing, and the other who’d eaten only enough to sustain her. The jerky was all but gone. The smidgen of stale bread and preserves were gone, too. She had water by the barrelful and a fire that warmed the inside of the cabin quite adequately, but she worried that soon she’d fall beside Bodine from fatigue and famine.

After a short nap, Emma rose, feeling refreshed except for the grumble in her stomach. She patted the area as if notifying her insides she recognized the problem. Only Lola had enough to sustain her, the grain and straw enough to last through the winter.

At least, that was one worry off her shoulders. Lola wouldn’t starve. As she gave her situation some thought, she realized that the town of Oakhurst, with the meager general store, wasn’t overly far from here. If she could manage her way there and back while Bodine slept, she could purchase the supplies she needed.

With that in mind, Emma set out to boil water for a quick bath. She’d been wearing one of the clean shirts she’d found in Bodine’s saddlebag. She’d tied it at the waist by a measure of rope. Her dress had seen better days, soiled and stained with blood and ripped in many places. She’d washed it out every day hoping for improvement. She’d given little care to her appearance, but even under these dire circumstances, she’d not venture into town looking much like a nearly drowned critter.

Big Ed Minton’s tub had more than enough room for her, she mused, as she dragged it to the center of the kitchen area, close enough to the cookstove to lend her some added warmth. She’d love to wash by the fire, but she wouldn’t dare, not with Bodine sleeping in the bedroom.

She figured the stove lent enough warmth for this great room anyway. And the water would be plenty hot.

Twenty minutes later the tub was filled halfway, enough for her small stature. Emma dared a quick glance at Bodine, still sleeping peacefully on the bed, before she untied the cord around her waist. She unbuttoned the shirt and slipped it off her shoulders, anticipating what was to come. Then, with closed eyes, she sank down into her bath, the heat surrounding her, the warmth thawing her as she felt days of toil and trouble gently ease away.

Soothing sweet sounds surrounded him. The song drumming in his ears was a call for him to wake and see the cherub face of the heavenly creature who had come to his aid. Bodine pried an eye open. A glow of light streamed in from the window, a force so brilliant and powerful he was sure he’d be taken up in that radiance to float away into the next life.

But the song continued, beautiful to his ears, and he opened the other eye, squinting both now to adjust. When he moved slightly, his shoulder rebelled and he attempted a curse, but his voice wasn’t there.

His mouth was dry, parched like spring cotton, and he realized he hadn’t spoken for days. How long had he been here like this? Unable to move? Unable to speak worth a darn? And where was he?

He searched his mind thoroughly, but the sirenlike voice wrought with emotion, soft and utterly alluring, interrupted his thoughts.

Bodine had to find the source of that sound. He lifted the heavy buffalo robe, pushing it from his body. Then with great care, he turned his head and slanted his body to peer out the wide-open bedroom door.

There he saw a woman, more like a slip of a girl, her form so small within the overly large tin bathtub. Her back was to him, her hair falling like a long sheet of onyx, her skin pale and appearing as soft as the underbelly of a pup.

Memories flooded in then and it all came back to him.

The girl was his job. His mission was to play nursemaid to her until she decided to return home to marry her beau. But more importantly, he was to keep her from harm while she searched for her outlaw father. He was here at her grandmother’s request.