High Country Bride (21 page)

She immediately turned around, against her will, and went straight back upstairs. She rapped at the spare-room door, praying that Mr. Cavanagh had finished answering the call of nature, and stepped over the threshold. He was lying quite still, the pitcher-turned-urinal standing on the floor beside his bed.

When Emmeline closed the door behind her, he smiled, as though he’d been expecting her.

“What do you mean,” she demanded, in a frantic whisper,“by ‘blood relative’?”

She saw the same mischievous light in his eyes that she’d seen in Jeb’s, on several occasions since her arrival in Indian Rock. She waited.

“Suppose I his you that your husband is my half-brother?” he said.

She was sure she’d faint, just slide right down the door into a heap on the floor.“You can’t be!”

“I am, though. I’m Angus McKettrick’s eldest son. Left behind in Texas, right after I was born.” He paused, watching the color drain from her face, his own features void of any emotion at all. “I wouldn’t say anything right away if I were you, though,” he added. “I believe Angus wants to speak with my half-brothers himself. It seems they don’t know about me, either.”

Emmeline put a hand to her throat. It was bad enough that she’d been—indiscreet—with this man, worse still that he’d turned up on the Triple M, but the fact that he and Rafe were brothers was downright calamitous. Even if he managed to overlook what she’d done, and decided not to expose her for a harlot, her husband would be reminded of her mistake every time he looked at Holt Cavanagh, and that was bound to poison whatever portion of love and trust fate might allot them.

“Emmeline?”

She straightened, patted her hair with one hand, waited miserably for him to go on. She would need every ounce of dignity she possessed in the days to come, and whatever she could feign, as well. “Yes?” she asked, very crisply.

“I wonder if you’d read to me awhile,” he said, surprising her. “I could use something to take my mind off this leg.”

She hesitated; then, knowing she couldn’t refuse, and not really wanting to, odd as that seemed, she nodded. “I’ll find something in Angus’s study,” she said, groping behind her back for the doorknob.

“Thank you, Lola,” Holt said.“I’m obliged.”

Sleep soon overtook Holt, or maybe it was the British history text that numbed him senseless. In any case, he was grateful for any respite, however brief and fitful, from the dozens of teeth gnawing at his right leg. All too soon, however, the creatures of his dreams drove him back to the surface again, and he came up gasping.

Emmeline, his reluctant nurse, had slipped away, leaving the book behind.

If he had rested a little, so had the pain, and it came back with breathtaking force. Gasping, he groped for the bottle of distilled opium the doctor had left behind and, not bothering with the spoon, took a great, bitter gulp. He might have been sorely tempted to swallow the rest, had he been anyone other than who he was, and give up the struggle, but he was a hardheaded Texan, half again too cussed to die in bed like some old woman.

He set the vessel down again, with a thump, and lay stiff in the sweat-soaked sheets, waiting, enduring. Finally, the laudanum began to take effect, and he was at least a little more comfortable than he had been before.

He occupied himself by thinking about Emmeline, also known as Lola, and a smile touched his mouth. The temptation to tease her had simply been too great to resist, especially since it had allowed him intermittent moments of forgetfulness—presently, those were at a premium.

A tap sounded at the door, different from Emmeline’s, less tentative, and the housekeeper stepped into the room. He remembered seeing her face looming over him a time or two, before the doctor had started cutting on him, and though he’d heard her name, he coun’t grasp it.

She seemed to know that he was searching his memory, for she smiled a little and inclined her head. “I am Concepcion,” she said. Bless her soul, she carried a syringe in her right hand, no doubt filled with morphine, left behind by that burnt-out old sawbones, Boylen.“Your father’s housekeeper.”

So she knew. She and the old man must be close, if he’d confided in her before he had a chance to tell Rafe, Kade, and Jeb about their long-lost big brother. He knew Angus hadn’t, since none of them had been in to size him up. They were at a disadvantage in that way, because he’d been taking their measure, separately and as a group, from the beginning.

“Holt,” he said, by way of introduction.

“Give me your arm,” she replied.

He obeyed gladly, and she stuck him. He felt the morphine and the laudanum doing a merry dance in his bloodstream. After the war, a lot of men had gotten addicted to one or both of those substances, and he could certainly see why—it was the devil’s own bliss, far better than whiskey.

She set aside the syringe and threw back the blankets to tug at his bandages. He was glad he’d dosed himself with liquid poppy seeds; the injection hadn’t gotten that far yet, for all its frolicking, and it felt as though she were tearing off chunks of his hide.

He drew in a sharp, hissing breath, but that was all he was willing to give up.

“You are a very strong man,” she said, without admiration. It was merely a remark, but at least she’d stopped tugging at the bandages.

“Thank you,” he replied, “but inside, I’m screaming like the town drunk’s third wife.”

She smiled again, moved Emmeline’s book, and sat down.“We’ll wait a few minutes, that will be better.”

“I hope you’re not telling me, in a roundabout way, that you plan on changing my bandages?”

Concepcion looked rueful, and about as strong willed as old Santa Anna himself. “Doctor’s orders,” she said. “A new dressing every day. It’s very important to keep such wounds clean.”

He swore, but under his breath. Concepcion was, after all, a lady. “Have you known my father long?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said in a quiet voice. “I came to work in this house when my husband was murdered. The boys were small then, and Mrs. McKettrick was still living.”

Holt was glad he hadn’t known about Angus’s second family when he was young. He’d been a hotheaded kid, in trouble more often than not, and, most likely, he’d have been eaten alive by his own jealousy. As it was, he had trouble warming up to Rafe, Kade, and Jeb.

“I’m sorry about your husband,” he said, after some time. A delicious numbness was just beginning to creep through his system.

“So am I,” Concepcion replied. “Manuel was a good man.” She stood up and started pulling at his bandages again. It hurt like hell—that part hadn’t changed—but thanks to the laudanum and the morphine, he didn’t give a damn.

She removed the dressings, set them aside, and left the room, returning a few minutes later with a bottle, clean rags, and more bandages, already torn into long stripsAnguspan>

The stuff in the bottle felt like horse liniment on his ravaged flesh, and he damn near bit through his lower lip again, like he’d done up on the mountain, right after the accident.

“Sweet God,” he muttered.

She paused to cross herself, but she was smiling a little. “You are very like your father,” she said, and she sounded almost fond.

Under other circumstances, he might have taken issue with that statement, scorning any comparison between himself and the man he’d trained himself to despise, but he just plain didn’t have the strength at the moment. “How’s that?” he ground out.

“You are bone stubborn. For you, that quality is both a blessing and a curse. You will succeed at anything you attempt, because you don’t know how to give up, even when it would be best for all concerned. But you will also suffer more than you need to, because you cannot ask another person for help.”

Holt waited for her to finish her work. Only when she’d stopped cleaning his wound and started replacing the bandages she’d removed, working carefully around the improvised splints, did he realize that he’d been holding his breath most of that time. He drew in great gulps of air.

“Do you think you could eat something?” she asked, as she went to the window and raised the sash a little way, letting in a soft, clean breeze that swept over him like a blessing.

He’d had nothing since the soup Emmeline had brought, but he didn’t feel hungry. “I don’t want anything,” he said.

Concepcion came back to his bedside. “I didn’t ask what you wanted,” she said reasonably. “I asked if you could take food. You can’t expect to get well if you don’t eat.”

He sighed. “All right,” he said. He definitely wanted to get well, and the sooner the better. Now that he’d had a look at the old man, and found out he didn’t have horns and hooves and a pointy tail, he was ready to make some new plans. Maybe he’d hit the trail again.

“I’ll bring you some of the pudding Emmeline made for supper,” Concepcion said.

And maybe not.

“I want a word with the three of you,” Angus said that evening, when the day’s work was done and he and Rafe were in the barn, both of them stone weary, putting away their horses for the night. “Find your brothers and be in my study in twenty minutes.”

Rafe wanted to see Emmeline, not his brothers, but he knew by the grim set of his father’s face that refusal wasn’t an option. In point of fact, the old man had been testy and preoccupied all day long, though he’d worked as hard as anybody else in the outfit. “Sure,” he said. Jeb was just rolling in, since he was driving the supply wagon, and Kade was probably back from Indian Rock. Generally, when he had time on his hands, Kade liked to hole up someplace with a book. He’d be easy enough to locate.

He left the horse to its feed and his father to his thoughts, whatever they were, and went outside to meet the supply wagon.

“Have Charlie there put up the team and rig,” Rafe told Jeb. “Pa’s holding some kind of powwow in the study. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

Jeb simply nodded, turned the wagon and mules over to Charlie, who’d ridden down the mountain with him, and ambled off toward the house.

Passing through the kitchen, Rafe hoped to catch a glimpse of Emmeline, and he was disappointed when there was no sign of her. He mounted the rear stairs and strode along the hall, rapping at Kade’s bedroom door.

The reply was an annoyed grunt.

Rafe pushed open the door. Kade was stretched out on his bed and, just as he’d expected, there was a book propped on his chest.

“What?” Kade asked, none too friendly-like, marking his place with one finger.

“Pa’s got something on his mind,” Rafe answered. “He wants to see us all in the study. Ten minutes.”

Kade swore, but he set the book aside, sat up, and reached for his boots.“What’s it about this time?”

Rafe shrugged.“Damned if I know,” he said.“Whatever it is, it’s been chewing on him awhile. Let’s just say, this is no time to give him any guff.” He paused on the threshold, in the act of turning away. “How’s that Texan fella doing, anyhow?”

“Concepcion says he’s holding his own,” Kade said, standing, making sure his shirttails were tucked in right. “She and Emmeline and Phoebe Anne took turns looking after him all day.”

Rafe felt a stab of displeasure at this news, and no amount of cool reasoning would have assuaged it. He didn’t know why, but he purely disliked the idea of Emmeline spending time alone with Cavanagh. “You seen her?”

“Emmeline?” Kade asked, as they headed down the hallway to the front staircase. “She was helping hang out laundry when I got back from Indian Rock. Why?”

Rafe didn’t answer.

The three brothers converged in the study well before Angus arrived. Jeb stood at the window, with his back to the room, looking out toward the creek and keeping his thoughts to himself, if he had any. Kade took a post beside the fireplace, where a nice blaze was crackling, and Rafe drew up a chair. He realized, with a mild sense of amusement, that they’d always taken those same spots when Angus handed down one of his summonses. They’d marked out their positions as boys.

Angus had changed into a clean shirt and creased trousers before he finally put in his appearance, a full ten minutes past the time he’d decreed that his sons be present.

Rafe, Kade, and Jeb looked at one another, and then at their father.

Angus closed the door carefully and faced his sons with both resolve and reluctance. “I’ve got something to tell you boys,” he said, “and it isn’t going to be easy to say. I should have done this long before now.”

Rafe felt a tightening in his gut. If Angus was fixing to go back on his word about his being foreman and all, he intended to raise hell about it. He was doing a good job running the ranch, he’d gotten himself a wife, and he was working on siring a child.

Dammit, a deal was a deal.

Angus held up a hand, palm out. He was pretty good at reading Rafe. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions,” he said. “This isn’t about the ranch.”

Rafe relaxed for a moment, then waxed fretful again.

“You’re not sick or anything, are you, Pa?” Jeb asked, from his place by the window. He was facing their father as he spoke, and his arms were folded.

“No,” Angus said. He sat on the edge of his desk, looked long and hard at each of his sons in turn, as if trying to see right through bone and flesh to the very core of the man. “That fella Cavanagh,” he began, and stopped to clear his throat. “He—well, he’s not exactly a stranger to me. I was married to his mother, a long time ago, down in Texas.”