Every Perfect Gift (29 page)

At last the train slowed and, with a screech and grinding of wheels, lurched to a stop. Mr. Worth rose and helped Sophie to her feet. “This won’t take long,” he said to the engineer as they left the car.

“I’ll be here.” The engineer pulled his hat lower over his ears and blew on his knobby hands. “Got nowheres else to be.”

Mr. Worth took Sophie’s arm and they crossed the railway tracks. Skirting the horse barns, where a solitary lantern burned, they walked up a gravel path to the side lawn bordering the terrace and the garden.

“We’re in luck,” he said. “Ethan’s still at work. The lamps are burning in his—”

A gunshot cracked the air above their heads. Sophie yelped and threw up one hand. “What’s going on?”

“No idea. Stay here.”

He raced across the lawn, his leather pouch tucked tightly to his chest.

“Mr. Worth, wait!” Sophie clutched at her skirts. Keeping to the shadows, she hurried after him. She rounded the corner, spotted Ethan, and stopped short.

He stood in a circle of yellow light from the terrace lantern, his hands loose at his sides. His shirt was untucked, his cravat askew. In front of him stood Lutrell Crocker, so full of alcoholic spirits she could smell it from where she stood. The barrel of his gun wobbled in the lambent light.

Desperate to help Ethan, she looked toward the heavy doors leading to the ballroom. Surely someone—Mr. O’Brien, Mr. Blakely, or one of his staff—had heard the gunshot and would come to his aid. Where was Mr. Worth? She strained to catch a glimpse of him, but he seemed to have vanished.

Then everything happened at once. Mr. Worth emerged from the shadows, shouting Ethan’s name. Ethan’s head jerked, and he
turned just as Crocker stumbled toward them and fired again. A bullet whined past her head, cracking a small tree branch that crashed into her shoulder as it fell. Sophie screamed and fell to her knees.
Oh, dear God, please save him. Please don’t let him die
.

Then Ethan was beside her, folding her into his warm, strong embrace, his lips in her hair, whispering her name. Over his shoulder she saw Julian Worth lying in a widening pool of blood, the crimson stain seeping into the cold stone terrace.

TWENTY-FOUR

The doors to the ballroom opened. Tim O’Brien and several members of Mr. Blakely’s staff spilled onto the terrace and fanned out into the darkness, searching for Crocker. Griff Rutledge raced along the path from the stables, his hair mussed, his shirttail flapping, and bent over Mr. Worth.

Mr. Blakely pushed through the small knot of onlookers. “Is this man alive?”

Sophie massaged the burning pain in her shoulder and strained to hear Griff’s reply.

Ethan grabbed her by both shoulders, his fingers pressing into her flesh so hard she yelped. Instantly he released her. “What in blue blazes are you doing here?”

“Mr. Worth asked me to come. He wants to talk to you about—”

“I know what it’s about. How did you get here?”

“The supply train. It’s waiting on the siding.”

He nodded. “Go tell the engineer to make a place for a wounded man. Then stay there, Sophie.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll take my saddle horse and alert Dr. Spencer. I want him ready to treat Julian as soon as we can get him off this mountain.”

“But—”

“Go on!”

She raced toward the train and called for the engineer. “Mr. Worth has been shot. They’re bringing him here.”

“Lord amighty. What’s the world coming to?” The driver pushed off from his perch in the chilly train car, shoving boxes and coils of rope out of the way. “Did you see who did it?”

“Lutrell Crocker. He was drunk as a skunk.”

The driver nodded. “He’s a tough customer, all right. Mebbe some jail time will sort him out.”

“If they can catch him. He ran into the trees. They’re looking for him now. Ethan—Mr. Heyward sent me here to alert you.”

She rubbed her shoulder and peered into a pile of gear in the corner. “Do you suppose there are any blankets in there?”

“I don’t think so. It’s mostly stuff I’ve been meaning to throw away.” He blew on his hands and rubbed his arms. “It’s cold as a well-digger’s grave in here, that’s the truth.”

Lantern light flickered in the trees. Griff Rutledge and three other men arrived at the siding, carrying Mr. Worth on a litter. Mr. O’Brien, armed with a pistol and a lantern, followed them. He nodded to Sophie.

“Bring him aboard,” the driver said. “I’ll get the engine to going.”

The men laid the injured man on the floor, and she saw the gaping wound in his thigh where the bullet had shattered bone and lacerated his flesh. Someone had wrapped a belt around his thigh, but blood still oozed onto the leg of his trousers. More blood dripped from a cut on his forehead. She swallowed hard as black spots danced before her eyes.

Griff sent her a sympathetic look. “What an awful thing to have happen. Miss Caldwell, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She took in a deep draft of cold night air and sat on the floor beside Mr. Worth. “Where is his leather pouch?”

“What pouch?”

“He had it when he was shot. It’s important.”

“I’m sure someone picked it up. I wouldn’t worry about it just now.”

The engine hissed, rattling the train car. The men took their litter and jumped off as the train began to move.

“Please. Find that leather pouch and give it to Mr. Heyward.”

“We’ll find it.” Griff Rutledge ran after the train and thrust a towel into her hands. “You just keep pressure on his wound and keep him calm till you get to town.”

“I will.” Sophie removed her cloak and draped it over the injured man.

The train lurched and sped down the mountain. Everything passed in a blur. Sophie sat beside Mr. Worth, one hand pressed to his bleeding thigh, willing him not to die. How cruel it would be if redemption and reconciliation—now so close—were lost forever.

That is, if Julian Worth was telling the truth.

It seemed that hours passed before the train slid into the Hickory Ridge depot. A group of men waited with lanterns and another litter to take Mr. Worth from the train. Sophie waited while they lifted him and placed the litter on a wagon. She stumbled onto the platform in her blood-spattered skirt, light-headed and boneless as a fishing worm.

“Sophie.” Gillie hurried over and embraced her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Is Ethan—”

“Waiting with Dr. Spencer at the infirmary. We figured now is as good a time as any to start seeing patients there.”

They climbed into Gillie’s rig and made the short trip to the infirmary. As they neared the building, Sophie spotted Caleb and Robbie Whiting standing near the entrance. She followed Gillie up the steps.

“Sophie,” Robbie said. “Are you all right?”

“You had me worried sick,” Caleb said. “I came back to the office to get my dictionary and saw you leaving with a stranger. I thought—”

“I’m all right.” She smiled at Caleb and patted Robbie’s sleeve. “Thank you both for your concern. But it’s Mr. Worth who needs our attention.”

“Of course,” Robbie said. “I happened to be at Doc Spencer’s when Mr. Heyward arrived with news of the shooting. I wanted to be here if you needed me.”

Despite her fatigue and her worry, Sophie felt a rush of affection for her old friend. “Thank you.”

Caleb turned to leave. “Don’t even think about coming into the office in the morning. I can get that print order for Blue Smoke done and finish composing the first page. Unless you want to write up a story about the shooting.”

“I don’t think so.”

He and Robbie disappeared into the night.

The wagon carrying Julian Worth arrived. The men lifted him and took him inside. Sophie and Gillie followed them into the room where Ethan and the doctor waited.

Gillie squeezed Sophie’s hand. “I need to wash up and help the doctor. Why don’t you stay and keep Ethan company? This may take awhile.”

Suddenly Sophie found it hard to breathe. Her shoulder was on fire. She drew the sleeve of her shirtwaist tight against her arm and a circle of blood bloomed on the fabric.

Gillie saw it too and grabbed Sophie’s arm. “What happened here?”

“A branch fell when Mr. Crocker’s shot went wild. It hurts. I—” Her stomach fluttered. The room spun. She crumpled to the floor.

A freight wagon rumbled past the infirmary, setting off a chorus of barking dogs. Ethan roused himself from the chair where he’d half dozed, waiting for news. What time was it anyway?

He stood, crossed to the window, and pulled back the curtain to peer out onto the street. Gas lanterns illuminated the shuttered storefronts and cast deep shadows into the alleys. At the far end of the deserted road stood a half-empty freight wagon. Another wagon rattled along the street and drew up at the bakery. Ethan watched as the lamps inside were lit, sending pale streams of light into the cold November darkness.

He rubbed his gritty eyes and rolled his neck to get the kinks out. What was taking the doctor and Miss Gilman so long? Off and on all night he’d heard their voices, low and calm, behind the closed doors of the rooms where Julian and Sophie lay.

Sophie. When she fainted, he’d scooped her up and followed Gillie to one of the rooms on the first floor. He took in the scent of her skin, the sweet, warm weight of her in his arms, and his heart stirred. Not for the first time, he regretted the way he’d treated her that day on the ridge. He’d been more angry with his failures—and with the memories her confession stirred—than with anything she had done. But it had been easier to blame her than to face his own shortcomings. So he had gone silent, let her think the fault was hers. It was a wonder she had ever spoken to him again.

And now she was hurt, and it was his fault. If he’d been willing to listen to Julian in the first place, had the courage to face the past, all of this might have been avoided. He hadn’t wanted to consider that Julian might be telling the truth about what had happened on that hot summer day in Georgia. To hear a new version of events would mean that he had wasted his entire adult life holding on to hate and blame and a smoldering desire for revenge.
Strange, though, because now that Julian might actually be dead, he didn’t feel the satisfaction he’d expected. Instead, he felt empty. Diminished.

He flopped into his chair and glanced down the deserted hallway, tamping down his growing impatience. What was happening back there? Did the long delay mean hope for Julian’s survival?

As the minutes dragged on, Ethan came to a decision. If Julian survived the bullet meant for him, he would hear his brother out.

The prospect brought a kind of peace he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. Where had this feeling come from? Regardless, he was grateful. Maybe it had taken violence to bring him back to reality, to prepare him for his moment of grace.

“What happened?” Sophie blinked against the wavering lamplight and tried to sit up, but Gillie shook her head.

“You fainted. Now, hold still.” With practiced fingers, Gillie unbuttoned Sophie’s shirtwaist and peeled back the sleeve, exposing the wound on her arm. “Holy cats.”

“What is it?”

“You didn’t get this from a falling tree limb. You’ve been shot.”

“But—” Sophie turned her head and peered at the fiery red welt that ran from her shoulder to her elbow.