The Sister and the Sinner (2 page)

Still, Mary Francis had never undressed a patient before, nor had she ever had to treat one who held a knife.

He snarled something incomprehensible, then shrugged out of his dirty, stained shirt, wincing in pain. His shirt was ruined, but there was a closet full of gently-used clothes in the back. Twice a year a missionary barrel arrived from the east, filled with clothing, school books, medicines, and other donations that kept the little convent afloat. She would see about finding him something suitable, as soon as possible.

The hard planes of his chest were very distracting. His well-defined muscles drew her attention, causing a blush to creep up her neck. His little male nipples were dark, covered with a light dusting of black hair. She had the strangest urge to touch him, which she refrained from doing only with the utmost concentration. She dipped a clean rag in the warm water and gently dabbed at his injured shoulder.

The wound went clear through, smaller in the back and slightly larger in front, indicating that his pursuers had shot him in the back. At least she would not have to dig out the bullet. She'd seen Sister Brigit do that once, and had promptly thrown up all over the floor. Brigit wouldn't let her help her for three days, saying she must develop a stiffer constitution if she ever wished to become a healer herself.

The wound was dirty. If she didn't get it thoroughly cleaned, infection would set in. Maybe it would even kill him. She bit her lower lip, considering her options. Let him die, and protect herself and her Reverend Mother... or treat his injuries, and pray that he left her unscathed out of gratefulness. But he was here. God could have made him run in another direction. He might have run into Deadwood, nearly a ghost town after the devastating fire back in '79. Or he could have headed towards the mining camp, and the miners would have finished him off, for sure. Instead he was here, at the nearly abandoned convent with but one novice and an ailing Reverend Mother. And the novice knew how to treat wounds. No, God's hand was in this, she was sure. And God loved the outlaw just as surely as he loved all sinners. She applied more soap to the wound and scrubbed a little more vigorously.

"Jesus, woman! That hurts!" he belted.

She planted her hands on her hips and glowered at him. "If you want to die from infection, just keep it up. I will not tend you if you take the Lord's name in vain again." He chuckled again, with annoyed her. "I'm glad you find this funny," she said. "I could give you some laudanum for the pain."

"No! Don't you dare!"

"It would be easier to cleanse your wound."

"I've seen too many men reduced to idiots from drug addictions. I need my wits about me. Do what you must. I'll not swear at you again."

He was true to his word. Mary Francis worked diligently on his shoulder, then packed the wound with a crushed garlic paste to fight infection. Finally, she wrapped it with clean bandages. The outlaw looked quite pale by the time she had finished that she feared he might pass out on her. It did not fill her with any hope, though, as he had quite effectively trapped her inside.

"Let me make you some willow-bark tea, now," she said as she put away her herbs.

"No. I told you, no drugs to dim my senses."

"Willow bark tea is not like that," she insisted. "I would drink a cup with you, as proof."

He ignored her, staggering to his feet instead. "Take me to your Reverend Mother now."

"Not dressed like that! Follow me. We might have a shirt to fit you in the back room."

"What would a bunch of nuns be doing with mens' clothes?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Not what you think. Whatever you're thinking," she snapped. "The Sisters of Mercy serve the poor. We ran a small school here for children. We treated the sick, fed the hungry, and provided clothing to those who need it most. At least, we did, until recently. Deadwood's had its share of murderers and cutthroats, which doesn't attract a lot of settlers. Measles wiped out a share of the town, and two years later fire took out the rest."

He had followed her while she ranted, through the dining hall, past the rooms that had once been filled with young scholars, then into the back room where the missionary barrels were sorted. Mary Francis scrounged through shirt after shirt until she found one that might fit his broad, muscled form. It was almost too nice for him, being snowy white and of fine linen, but the sleeves were full and would accommodate his large shoulders, bandages and all. She helped him into it, then fastened half a dozen of the small buttons until he slapped her hands away.

"Enough, wench!"

"It's Mary Francis," she corrected him.

"Sister Mary Francis," he amended, although he said the word "sister" without an ounce of respect.

God would just have to forgive her, for she wasn't going to enlighten the outlaw on her status within the convent.

"And you? Who are you?" she asked. "And what are you doing here?"

"It's better you don't know," he said.

"Better for whom?" she whispered, but he ignored it.

She took him upstairs then, to the first bedroom, where her patient lay. Mother Agnes looked so small and frail, her now shrunken body weakened by age and illness barely making a bump in the heavy quilts spread over her. The room was spartan, as all the rooms in the convent were, with only a small end table by the bed, a well-used Bible on the table, and a crucifix on the wall at the foot of the bed where it would be the first thing seen upon rising, and the last thing seen before going to sleep each night.

"Mother Agnes? It's Mary Francis... are you awake?" She tip-toed into the room and perched lightly on the edge of the bed. She took one cold, frail hand in hers and patted it gently.

Mother Agnes had been a powerful woman in her day. Though she'd never quite made it to five feet in height, no one ever thought of her as tiny. She'd been nearly as wide as she was tall, with thick arms and strong hands that could wield a hairbrush with as much accuracy as a sharpshooter wielded his guns. Mary Francis felt a strange tingle flush through her as she recalled the many times she'd bent over a chair or table to feel that hairbrush on her bared bottom for some infraction, venial or mortal. She knew that the Reverend Mother punished her only because she loved her, for she had often been directed to copy chapter and verse from the Bible after a thorough chastising, pertaining to the rod of correction. Even now, those familiar verses echoed in her mind...

"He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is careful to discipline him."

"Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline will drive it far from him."

"The rod and reproof give wisdom: but the child that is left to his own will bringeth his mother to shame."

Perhaps the outlaw behind her was the very example of an undisciplined youth. The thought of him draped over Mother Agnes's lap made her smile.

"Mary Francis? Is that you?" the old voice crackled.

"Yes, Mother," she answered, still massaging the cold, stiff fingers.

"Have you heard from Father Michael yet? Surely he has heard of our plight... and sent help. We cannot minister to the community, just the two of us. We need experienced sisters, teachers, and healers! Deadwood will recover... there will be children here again. Mark my words, Katie dear. Mark my words!" The sick woman began to cough, at first just a little, but then once begun it was as though she could not stop. Mary Francis helped her to sit, and pounded gently on her back to loosen the congestion. Mother Agnes coughed into her kerchief, and it was stained with red when the fit passed. Mary Francis tucked the bloody kerchief into her robe and offered the old woman a fresh one.

"Yes, Mother. I know. There will be children here again. But I'm afraid something must have happened to Father Michael. I have not heard from him in months. It is not like him to stay away so long."

"He must have gone back east, to speak to the Bishop about sending reinforcements. That's it. That's what he's doing," Mother Agnes crooned, although her voice was fading.

The outlaw cleared his throat then, startling them both. Mary Francis had almost forgotten he was there, with her concern for the Reverend Mother.

"Um, excuse me, ma'am," he mumbled, extending a hand awkwardly.

Mother Agnes's eyes grew large, and a rare smile spread across her face. "Jake! My boy! You've come back! You've forgiven me after all of these years! I can die peacefully now. Glory be to God!"

Her outburst caused the coughing to return with a vengeance. The outlaw sat on the other side of the bed and held her, patting her back as he had seen Mary Francis do moments before, with all the tenderness that a son would show his own mother. Mary Francis gaped stupidly. How could this be? Not the holy Reverend Mother! No!

The outlaw looked at her then, and his expression was just as perplexed. He shook his head, silently answering her unasked question. He was not this 'Jake' that the old woman spoke of.

Mary Francis refilled a glass with water and offered it to her to help calm the coughing spasm. When Mother Agnes returned to her pillow, she was exhausted. Her eyelids drooped, and her hand was limp in Mary Francis's hand. Alarmed, Mary Francis pressed a finger to the vein at the base of her jaw and waited. She relaxed when she found a pulse.

"How long has she been like this?" the outlaw whispered.

"Too long, I'm afraid," Mary Francis answered. "She survived so much - measles, fire, hunger, poverty - perhaps if I'd been able to get her proper medical care, she might have recovered, but I fear it's too late for that now."

He didn't answer, but backed out of the room and waited for her. Mary Francis rinsed a cloth with water and wiped the perspiration from Mother Agnes's brow. Then she straightened the blankets and tenderly kissed the only mother she had ever known.

Chapter Two

Reluctantly, Mary Francis returned to the outlaw in the hallway. She clenched her hands inside the folds of her black robe, praying for strength for whatever evil he had planned for her. Tears filled her vision and trailed down her cheeks. She had been holding so much inside for so long: worry for Mother Agnes and Father Michael, a bit of envy for the sisters who had gone on to California, grief for the sisters she had buried. And loneliness! Oh, there were days when the silence was almost more than she could bear! Sometimes, outside the convent walls she would sing at the top of her lungs, as she tried to drive away the aching loneliness that was her constant companion.

And now, for whatever reason she could not comprehend, God had sent this outlaw to her. She murmured the words to her favorite prayer, as they seemed most appropriate now. "Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death..."

All of the bedroom doors were open. He must have checked each of the rooms while waiting for her. Now he leaned against the wall, his face ashen and beads of sweat plastering tendrils of dark hair to his face. Perhaps he would also be facing the hour of his death? Fear lanced through her chest. He couldn't die! Not now! Not after she'd treated him... she felt responsible for him. And she'd be so alone. More tears ran down her face, but these were for the outlaw and his immortal soul.

"Which room is yours?" he barked, with a gesture toward the row of bedrooms.

Hers was not among them. First as a child, and later as a novice, she had occupied a tiny room in the attic, away from the sisters and the Reverend Mother. Even now, with all the bedrooms empty and Mother Agnes ill and infirm, she had not felt bold enough to move her meager belongings down into the sisters' quarters. "You may choose any of these rooms," she offered. "No one uses them now."

"You didn't answer my question, and I'm not in the habit of repeating myself."

She gulped anxiously. "No, sir. I'm sorry, sir. My bedroom is upstairs in the attic. But I think I should stay down here closer to Mother, in case she calls for me tonight."

"Fine," he snapped.

Didn't the man ever just speak in a normal voice? She wondered what his voice would sound like, if he weren't in pain, or angry, or both.

He snatched her wrist and tugged her into the bedroom closest to Reverend Mother's, then kicked the door closed behind him. He leaned against the door, breathing heavily as though he'd run a great distance.

"Take off your clothes," he demanded.

This was it. This was the moment she had feared, although she wasn't even certain what it was that she was afraid of. Everything she knew about the relationships between men and women was what she could learn in the Bible. "And Adam knew Eve and she bore him a son..." Somehow, that little word "knew" must encompass quite a lot! Was the outlaw going to "know" her now? She would be ruined, defiled. Did not Dinah's brothers slaughter an entire community after the king's son raped her?

"Please, sir, please don't do this," she begged.

"I have had it with you! As soon as I'm able, I'm going to put you over my knee and give you the spanking you so justly deserve! I am not going to rape a nun, Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What sort of man do you think I am!"

"The sort of man who tackles a nun to the ground, drags her around by her wrist, and threatens her, sir," she retorted tearfully.

"All right. I had that coming," he said quietly. "I am not going to hurt you tonight. But I need to sleep, and I need to know where you are, and that you aren't going to try to leave here and tell someone where I am. So I plan to take your clothes from you, and hope that if you're naked, you'll stay right here."

She quivered, making the sign of the cross repeatedly. What he said was shocking! She never went naked. Never! Why, Mother Agnes had even insisted that she leave on a slip when she took a bath! Just once she'd been caught bathing in the altogether, and had been quite thoroughly chastised for it! It was the only time she had ever had to cut a switch. And while the welts were still swollen and painful, she'd had to sit at her desk and copy pages and pages from the Holy Scripture. It wasn't that the human body was believed to be sinful or ugly, only that the urges of the flesh were the way to wickedness. If he saw her naked, both of them might be tempted to sin.