Leslie LaFoy (28 page)

“Have you ever put a wheel on a carriage?”

“Of course not,” she retorted. “But I'm quite capable of following instructions. Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Get back in the carriage.”

“I won't,” she declared, vaguely aware that John was looking back and forth between them, following their conversation with an amused smile. “Think of something else; something that might actually be a step toward getting the wheel on.”

“Wheels are heavy and they're greasy. You'll ruin your dress.”

“It's already ruined,” she countered, holding her arms out from her sides so that he could see the truth of it for himself. “So are my gloves and my bonnet. And just in case you're wondering, I don't care.”

“And if I might point out the unfortunate obvious, sir,” John said with a decidedly pained and rueful expression. “You don't have any other immediate choice.”

Lindsay watched as Jack looked down the road and then back the way they'd come, then at the carriage. After a long moment he made a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh and climbed to his feet. Extending his hand, he helped Lindsay rise as he said, “See what you can find to bandage John's midriff and arm. The less he moves it all, the better. I'm going to unhitch the horses so they don't bolt on us and make things even worse.”

He hadn't offered his surrender outright and Lindsay accepted it in the same manner. As Jack strode to the front of the carriage, Lindsay touched her coachman's shoulder and said, “I'll be back in just a moment, John.”

“I'll be right here when you do,” he quipped. His effort to laugh was broken by a gasp that made Lindsay wince in sympathy.

Lifting her skirts again, Lindsay made her way to the rear of the carriage. Once there, she removed her pelisse and draped the sodden mass over the rear wheel. Free of its weight and bulk, she began the struggle to gather the rear of her skirt upward so that she could reach the ties of her petticoat. As she fumbled with the wet silk ribbons, it occurred
to her that for the second time in as many days, she was faced by circumstances forcing the sacrifice of a petticoat. It said something about Jack Stennett; that accidents seemed to follow him around, waiting for a chance to happen. First the beam falling on his head in the middle of a raging fire. Now it was a lost wheel in the middle of a torrential downpour. Lindsay smiled, undid the lower lacings of her corset so she could move and breathe at the same time, and then shook her head as she peeled the drenched petticoat down her legs. What would befall him—and her—next? An explosion amidst a wave of pestilence?

She paused, remembering. There had already been an explosion—when the windows of the apartment at the rear of the building had been blown out, knocking them to the ground and showering them with glass. Three potentially fatal accidents in a mere two days. It boggled the mind. Either Jackson Stennett was the unluckiest or the luckiest man she'd ever met. Which it was, she couldn't tell. But, she decided, tearing her undergarment into wide strips, life since his arrival had been anything except boring and predictable. She could only hope that she survived his stay. And all the others around them did too, she mused, heading around the carriage, fabric strips in hand.

As he'd promised, John was exactly where she'd left him minutes earlier. Jack was still working on the couplings and harnesses. Lindsay made a mental note to someday ask John to show her how it was all assembled. Had Jackson Stennett not been with them, she'd have had to manage the horses and the repairs on her own. In a driving rain—as night was coming on—was not the best time to approach the tasks for the first time.

Lindsay knelt down beside her employee, wondering how she'd managed to survive all of her twenty-five years so blissfully ignorant of the workings of her everyday world.
Because you're dependent on others, Linds
, she silently groused. If there came a day when she couldn't afford cooks and coachmen, she was going to be largely helpless and at the mercy of people kind enough to explain such simple things to a formerly wealthy and spoiled woman. It would certainly be difficult, but above all else it would
be humiliating. Better to learn before she actually needed to know.

“It'll be all right, Miss Lindsay,” John assured her as she made a sling for his broken arm. “Mr. Stennett's already checked the axle and he says that it's not bent. If the wheel's in one piece and can be got on, she'll roll just fine all the rest of the way home.”

It occurred to her that there were a large number of
ifs
in the situation. “Well, let's hope for just a sliver of good luck and a sound wheel, shall we?” Lindsay replied, wrapping a wide strip of cloth around his body, just above the elbow, effectively pinning his arm to his side. She pulled it tight and tied the ends together. “Is that too tight, John?”

“No, ma'am. Mr. Stennett's right; the tighter and stiller, the better.” He looked down at the configuration of bandages and then said, “I think you'd best put another one around me, over the break, to hold that half in place.”

She did as he asked, flinching when she pulled it too tight and he sucked a breath through his teeth. When she'd finished, she left John where he was and rose to her feet, realizing that the last two days of misfortunes had forced her to develop medical skills she'd never guessed she possessed. Heaven only knew what she'd be capable of by the time Jack went back to Texas. The way things had gone lately, she might well be a surgeon.

Lindsay wiped the water off her face with wet hands and shoved cascading tendrils of hair off her shoulders. Jack was leading the horses to the side of the road, the ends of their reins and harnesses trailing in the water behind them. She turned, lifted her skirts, and walked off in the direction from which they'd come, determined to start being useful. It would be nice to have found the wheel and have it back to the carriage by the time Jack finished with the horses.

She found it a quarter mile away from the carriage, lying half on the road, half in the water-filled ditch, and blessedly, mercifully in one piece. It took every measure of her strength to drag it fully onto the road. Once she had it there, she had to summon yet more strength to heft it up and onto the rim so that she could roll it back. She was
breathing hard and the muscles in her arms, back, and shoulders were burning by the time she'd managed the task. She was soaked. The rain was still coming down in sheets, whipped and driven by the wind. The discomforts paled beside her sense of accomplishment as she neared the rear of the coach.

“Jesus, you're a stubborn woman.”

Lindsay halted the wheel and looked up. Jack leaned against the carriage, one booted ankle crossed casually over the other and his arms folded across his chest. His smile was wide and amused and infectious. “Yes, I am,” she admitted, lifting her chin and grinning. “Thank you for noticing.”

“Capable, too.”

“So you're willing to concede that I might be trainable? And of some practical use?”

“All right, Lindsay,” he said, laughing and straightening to take the wheel from her. “You win.”

“I'll do whatever you tell me to,” she promised, walking beside him in the rain as he rolled the wheel toward its axle.

“For starters, don't ever open a door that wide for a man, sweetheart. We're predatory creatures to the bone. Even a half-invitation is sufficient to get you into a whole lot of trouble.”

Lindsay laughed, and scoffed, “You're not predatory, Jack.”

“Remind me,” he said, maneuvering the wheel close to the side of the carriage, “when I haven't got my hands full to prove you wrong.”

She nodded, but she doubted that he saw the gesture; his attention was focused on the axle. And then he removed his jacket. His shirt was plastered hard against his arms and torso and Lindsay couldn't resist the temptation of looking. “Nicely sculpted” was the most benign of the observations that occurred to her. The rest were as decidedly wicked as the hand that had molded the ripples and planes of Jack Stennett.

And he'd said men were predatory creatures? Judging by her own reaction to the mere sight of him in wet clothing, they didn't have exclusive rights to the claim. Women
were, she decided, simply less bold about it. She averted her gaze, but not enough that she couldn't see him at the edge of her vision. Jack was just too magnificent, too inspiring to ignore. She'd probably go to hell for ogling him, no matter how discreetly. At least it would be a quick and happy trip.

“Here's the plan, Lindsay,” he said a few moments later, forcing her to abandon her reverie. “I'm going to lift up the carriage and you're going to shove the wheel hub onto the axle. You're going to have to put your hands here and here,” he said, showing her where he wanted them. “And you're going to have to throw your entire body into the push in order to get the wheel into place. It's got to go all the way on, Lindsay. Halfway won't do. Understand?”

“Yes.” She'd managed to get it out of the ditch, on its side and back here, hadn't she? And she'd bet Agatha's wardrobe allowance that he'd tamped down his gentlemanly impulses and watched her do it, knowing that she wanted the satisfaction of doing it by herself, and willing to let her earn it.

“Now,” he went on, “I don't know how long I'll be able to hold the axle where it needs to be, so please move as fast and accurately as you possibly can. If I yell for you to let loose of the wheel and get back, for once in your life, do exactly as you're told, when you're told. I don't want you to get hurt. All right?”

“All right, Jack,” she said, stepping forward to take the balancing of the wheel into her own hands.

He moved to the corner of the carriage and studied it for a moment before squatting down and fitting his hands beneath the lower edges. “Ready?” he asked, looking up at her. His smile was reassuring and she thought that he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

She placed her hands on the spokes as he'd shown her. “Whenever you are.”

“On the count of three.” He seized a deep breath. “One … two … three!”

Lindsay held her breath, awed by the speed and apparent ease with which Jackson hefted up the corner of the carriage. In one smooth motion, the axle left the road and swung upward in a quick arc. As it neared the hole in the
hub, she leaned into the wheel and started to push it forward and onto the mating part. Even as she did, the axle rose higher. She tried to lift the wheel, but didn't have the strength. “It's too high, Jack!” she cried. “Lower it a couple of inches.”

He swore through his clenched teeth and bent slightly at the knees.

Lindsay sighted the alignment quickly and then shoved with all her might. She was rewarded by the the sound of metal sliding and then impacting metal. “It's there, Jack! It's on! I heard it hit something hard on the back side!”

“Stand back,” he growled through his teeth.

Lindsay obeyed instantly, her hands fisted in her skirts, dragging the sodden mass with her as she scrambled backward. Jack eased his grip with a heavy sigh and then stepped back as well, flexing his fingers as he studied the wheel.

“Well done, Mr. Stennett! Well done, Miss Lindsay!”

Lindsay turned to find her coachman leaning against the rear wheel of the carriage. Even in the rain and fading light, she could see the effort it took for him to stand and the pain he suffered in breathing and talking. “Oh, John,” she said sadly, moving toward him. “You shouldn't be on your feet.”

Jack stepped to her side, slipping his arms back into his coat, and said, “I'll pin the wheel in place and see to hitching the horses back up if you'll get John inside. There's no way he can do the driving as busted up as he is.”

“Can you drive, Jack?” she called over her shoulder as she opened the door.

“I've been driving wagons since I can remember anything at all. See to John.”

She did so, trying to assist him up the step and into the seat as best she could and as much as his pride would allow. It was a slow process, his breathing labored and his movements painful both for him to bear and for her to watch. When at last she had him tucked into a corner and a large wool blanket over his lap, she left, closing the door. Jack was hitching the horses and she stepped silently forward to watch and learn what she could.

He didn't look up from his task as he said, “What are you doing out here? Get inside with John before you catch your death of cold.”

“Do you know the way to Dr. Bernard's house?” Lindsay asked calmly.

He hesitated. “No.”

“Then you're going to need someone riding up there with you who does, aren't you?”

He went about his task muttering under his breath. Lindsay smiled and watched as he efficiently fastened buckles and pinned things into place. She had no idea what was what and why it was all done the way it was. She had the distinct impression, though, that Jack could have done it all in his sleep. How wonderful it must be, she thought, to have the skills necessary to take care of yourself in any circumstance.

When he was done, he straightened and motioned toward the driver's box with a jerk of his chin, saying, “I'll give you a lift up.”

She managed it with his gallant assistance, but not without silently cursing those who thought women weren't properly clothed unless they were swathed in sixteen thousand yards of fabric. Settling into the box, Lindsay noticed that the rain was finally beginning to lighten. She smiled wryly. Of course the rain was easing—now that they were as soaked as people could get. But where there was one positive, there was an accompanying negative; the sun was setting, and as it dipped, so did the temperature. Drenched to the bone, Lindsay was all too aware of the chilly edge to the gathering night air.

“Have you ever ridden shotgun before?” Jack asked as he nimbly climbed into the box beside her.

“Shotgun?” she repeated warily.

“The man—or in this case the woman,” he explained, grinning, “who sits beside the driver and fends off any would-be marauders.”

“With a shotgun,” she guessed.

“Yep.” He flicked the reins along the backs of the horses and made a clicking sound. As the animals started forward, he continued, saying, “Personally, I prefer a rifle;
it's more accurate and gives you a longer range. But some men couldn't hit the broadside of a barn with a big stick and they need all the scatter they can get.”