Bluebonnet Belle (26 page)

“He's hit,” she heard someone say.

April rose slowly to her feet, slightly light-headed. Numb. She was numb. She couldn't feel anything. No pain. Lifting her head, she looked around. Grace was still standing, but Henry was kneeling over a figure on the ground.

“Gray!” Shock seized her. Gray was lying prone on the earth, holding his calf while the doctor leaned over him.

Apparently, Grace's shot had hit…Gray? Racing to where he lay, April fell to her knees. “What happened?”

“Miss Pruitt shot him,” the doctor said gruffly. “Said that all along—women should
not
duel. Someone's bound to get hurt.”

“Oh, my goodness…” April bent down, patting his cheek. “What have I done?”

“Help me get up,” Gray choked out.

“Oh, dear!”

“Miss Truitt fired at the same time Miss Pruitt turned,” the doctor explained, tearing Gray's pant leg and clapping a pad of cloth against the bleeding hole in his calf. “Fortunately, Miss Pruitt is an even worse shot.”

Henry was on the sidelines, comforting an obviously distraught Grace. April watched as the man she'd once thought was the love of her life walked away with his arm around another woman.

“Gray, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry—”

“Just get me to the carriage.” He reached for her hand, struggling to climb to his feet.

Laughing and crying at the same time, she leaned toward him, intending to give him a hug, but knocking him to the ground.

As he fell to his back, she landed on top of him, giggling.

“I don't see what's so funny—watch the leg!”

“Me.” She giggled, her laughter subsiding as she lay on his chest, his big, broad, wonderful chest, gazing at him in wonder. “I'm alive. I'm alive!”

His gentle camaraderie and subtle wit managed to come through in spite of his pain. “I'm bleeding, and you're laughing.”

Getting to her feet, she held out her hand. “Come on, we need to get that wound taken care of.”

“What? No vegetable compound?”

She leaned closer and kissed him—a very thorough kiss that Francesca would resent. But at the moment gratitude—and something deeper—made the opportunity irresistible.

A faint light twinkled in the depths of Gray's eyes when their lips parted. “That was nice—almost worth taking a bullet for.”

T
he doctor loaded Gray into the carriage. April climbed aboard and picked up the reins.

“Can you drive a buggy?” he asked, grimacing as he maneuvered his injured leg inside.

“Fortunately, I drive better than I shoot,” April assured him.

“Ah, thank God for small favors,” Gray said.

“I'll go straight to the doctor's office—”

“No, you'll go directly to Dignity.”

“But your leg—”

“Will heal better there. Besides, I've got patients to see. Datha needs attention.”

“All right.” April grinned, relieved. At the moment all she wanted to do was go home, give Grandpa a grateful hug and kiss the ground.

Being alive was indeed beautiful!

 

Flora Lee was sitting beside Datha's cot when April helped Gray into the office.

Seeing the doctor's predicament, she immediately got to her feet. “What happened to you?”

“A little accident,” he grumbled, sitting down. “Think you can help me with this?” he asked April.

“If you'll tell me what to do.”

“How is Datha?”

“Quiet,” Flora Lee said, sitting again. “She woke up a couple of times, but I'm not sure she knew who I was or what's happened. I tell her she's all right, just like you told me to do, and I talk to her. That uppity boy's been here, doin' the same. But she don't seem to know where she is.”

Frowning, April went to kneel beside her chair. Rarely would she argue with an elder, but Flora Lee's animosity toward Jacel had to stop—for her granddaughter's sake. “Flora Lee, I know you don't approve of Jacel, but is it necessary to refer to him as ‘uppity'?” Jacel deserved her respect. “Datha loves him very much, and when she's better she'll resent your sarcasm.”

Turning her troubled gaze on April, Flora Lee said, “But he
is
an uppity man. I don't like him.”

“I know you feel that way now, but in time you'll have to learn to get along with Jacel or you'll lose Datha. You don't want that, do you?”

“I'll cross that bridge when I come to it….” Her tired eyes rested on Datha, lying so deathly still. “If I come to it.”

“She's young and strong, Flora Lee. She's going to pull through this,” Gray told her.

“Yes, my girl's strong,” the woman murmured. Turning back to her granddaughter, she softly hummed the same lullaby Jacel had hummed earlier, a haunting melody April had heard since she was a child. A tune, Flora Lee had told her, she'd sung in the fields as a young girl.

Gray oversaw April's efforts as she cut his trouser leg off at the knee, cleaned and dressed his wound. She clenched her teeth when he flinched at the sting of antiseptic. Somehow Grace had managed to shoot him in his left calf, but the bullet had gone completely through, which was good, he told her.

“Wrap it snugly,” Gray instructed, holding one end of the gauze as she maneuvered the other.

When she was through, she saw that his face was pale and sweat glistened on his brow. “I think you need to lie down.”

“I need to check Datha first.”

“You said yourself that there's nothing more you can do but wait, try to keep her fever down and rouse her enough to take nourishment. Flora Lee and I can do that. But if something happens to you,” she said, taking his arm and urging him out of the chair, “we're all in trouble.”

Gray tried to protest, but she could see he didn't have the strength.

“You go on up and rest a spell,” Flora Lee said agreeably. “Me and the uppity boy can see to Datha.”

Sighing, April realized her efforts to change the older woman's attitude had fallen on deaf ears.

Helping Gray up the outside staircase, she unlocked the door to his living quarters with the key he gave her. Her eyes swept the out-of-character furnishing.

She helped him across the room, and he sank down onto the bed, then attempted to remove his boots.

“Well, when you're married, you'll have to convince your wife to let you have some say in decorating,” April said as she helped him with the task. Tossing a boot in a corner, then another, she watched as he fell back across the bed.

By the time she returned from the stove with a cup of steaming tea, Gray was lying beneath the sheet.

“Drink this. I put some honey in it.”

He managed to push himself upright and take a couple of sips of the hot liquid before lying back. “I'm sorry, I'm suddenly very tired.”

“Then rest,” she said softly. “If you're needed, I'll wake you.”

She stood holding the cup, watching him drift off to sleep. Over the weeks his hair had grown longer until it now nearly covered his ears; his strong jaw was marked by a day-old beard. He was pale, too pale. He'd lost more blood than he wanted to admit.

Lifting the sheet, she checked the bloody bandage. Guilt ripped through her. Gray was in this condition because of her stupidity. She'd made a grave mistake putting her trust in Henry, against the advice of Grandpa and Beulah. Yes, she'd be more sensible in the future.

She owed Gray more than a simple “thanks.” Until he was fully recovered she would see to his every need and do whatever she could to keep his practice running smoothly. It was the least she could do.

Gently settling the sheet around his leg, she slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

 

The following week, April split her time between taking care of Gray and watching over Datha.

When Riley heard the doctor had been wounded, he was upset until April explained it was purely accidental and wasn't thought to be serious.

“A hunting accident?” Riley scratched his head. “Didn't know he hunted. When does he find the time?”

“Oh, I don't know,” April said without bothering to correct him. “You know men—I guess he makes the time.”

Riley walked off grumbling. “Wish Datha would get back. Flora Lee's making gravy, and I'm not supposed to have it.”

 

By the third day, infection set into Gray's wound. A fever kept him rambling, half out of his head, leaving him weak and incapable of arguing with her.

April saw to his care and even doled out advice to patients who needed it. By now Grandpa had come to see how Gray was feeling. When he found April there, she was forced to be inventive, telling him she was working as a volunteer nurse. Gray was her first patient.

Grandpa went away mumbling under his breath.

When Mary Rader came to the office demanding her tonic, April was stymied.

Mary, almost hysterical when she found out Gray was indisposed, insisted that April wake him.

Running upstairs, she roused Gray out of a deep sleep to ask him what he gave her.

Staring at her wide-eyed, he muttered something that resembled “pinkhamsgoofycompound.”

April mulled the garbled words over in her mind. Mmm. Pinkhamsgoofycompound? A light suddenly clicked on in her head. Pinkham's Goofy Compound! He had been doling out Lydia's tonic to his women patients!

Picking up a pillow, she whacked him soundly over the head.

Grunting, he fell back to the mattress, succumbing to a laudanum-induced sleep.

 

A fourth day passed, and April decided the doctor was not a good patient. He complained incessantly, found fault with every morsel of food she brought him, and when confronted with the news that she knew he'd been giving Lydia's compound to his patients, he turned downright surly.

Still, she owed him much.

He'd taught her to shoot, had supported her, stood beside her, solved the problem of Grace and what had she done for him? Called him a quack, criticized him and got him shot.

She'd just settled him for a nap Thursday afternoon when a knock came at the door. Blowing a strand of hair off her forehead, she ran lightly across the room to answer it so Gray wouldn't be disturbed. Patients came at all hours of the night and day, depriving him of much-needed rest. She'd made up her mind she was going to get firm with the incessant disturbances. They had to stop if Gray was to recover his strength.

“Yes?”

Francesca stood on the small landing, her mouth open in surprise. “Oh…you're the…mortician's daughter. I've seen you downstairs.” A frown creased her perfectly made-up face. “You are here…for what reason?”

“Shh, Gray's sleeping.” April stepped onto the landing and closed the door behind her. This wasn't the ideal person to take a firm stance with, but she had to start somewhere.

“Gray's what?”

“Sleeping.”

Francesca's eyes narrowed. “I think you'd better explain.”

Lowering her voice, April did so. “Gray's been injured—not seriously,” she added at the stricken look on Francesca's face. “But nonetheless, enough that he hasn't been able to work. I've been seeing to his needs.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Seeing to his needs? In what way? Oh. You're cleaning for him. He is very bad at housekeeping. I have asked him to—”

“I'm not his cleaning lady,” April said, recalling the woman's autocratic attitude the first time they'd met.

“Then why
are
you here?”

“Gray is ill, and I'm caring for him.”

It seemed to April that the woman didn't care one whit for Gray, or anyone else, for that matter. Why else would she insist upon staying in Dallas while he was here? She was constantly showing up unannounced, demanding his attention when he had an office full of sick patients!

What kind of love was that?

Francesca's eyes widened. “How hurt is he? Oh, I must see him—”

“No, you don't want to. He's…caught something. It might be contagious.”

Shame on you, April Truitt!
Lying was getting to be second nature to her!

“Contagious?” Francesca drew back.

April was ashamed of herself, but her nurturing side was stronger at the moment than her conscience. Besides, Francesca deserved it.

“All kinds of ugly blotches. Really ugly.”

Cocking her head, Miss DuBois glared at her. “Then why are you here?”

“I've already had…it.”

“It? What, may I ask,
is
it?”

 

Disturbed by the commotion outside the door, Gray stirred, opening his eyes. When he recognized Francesca's voice, he groaned.

When the women's talking grew louder, he struggled to the side of his bed, sitting up. Clasping the bedpost, he pulled himself to his feet, then slowly inched across the room on rubbery legs.

By the time he'd reached the door, the loud voices had turned to shouts that half the town was surely able to hear.

Yanking the door open, he looked out. April and Francesca were face-to-face on the small landing.

“You will move away from the door!” Francesca told April in a tone colder than a Minnesota January.

She stubbornly held her ground. “The doctor is
resting
. I won't have him disturbed.”

Francesca took a threatening step toward her. “Why, how dare you—”

“That's enough, both of you.”

April turned at the sound of his voice, her bravado slipping. “Gray—you shouldn't be out of bed.”

“What is all the racket out here?”

“She said you were contagious!” Francesca accused, shooting poisonous looks at April. “She won't let me in to see you.”

“I didn't say never,” April protested mildly.

“You might as well have!” Francesca was worked up now, and getting louder. She stared at Gray. “You don't have any hideous blotches on your face!”

He frowned. “What blotches? What are you talking about?”

“She said you had something terrible!”

“I did not—not exactly.”

“Francesca, lower your voice.” Motioning for the two warring women to come inside, Gray limped back into the room.

“I will not enter that room with
her
in it.”

The ultimatum in Francesca's voice was hard to miss. Gray was being asked—no, ordered—to choose. The mortician's granddaughter or her.

His choice.

And he'd better make it snappy, her tone implied.

Throwing up his arms in exasperation, he limped back to bed. “Do whatever you want, Francesca.”

She stamped her foot. “Gray Fuller!” she yelled. “You come back here! How dare you walk away from me like that!”

Pushing April aside, she stormed into the apartment, slamming the door behind her.