Guardian Bride (8 page)
his injuries, which was true. He'd never known getting shot
was so painful. He'd be more sympathetic to those inflicted
with a bullet next time the need arose.
In the distance, the clop of horse hooves and the creaking
and rattling of wagon wheels mingled with the chirping
crickets. Even though the barn was on the other side of the
house from his room, Snake opened his eyes and gazed at
the window. It would be Kid and Jessie along with their
children Joel and baby Winifred leaving. He blew the heavy air
out of his lungs. Had he even thanked them for thrashing the
wheat? His fuzzy mind couldn't remember. It seemed visions
of the dark haired Summer were the only things filling the
space between his ears.
More sounds filtered into the room, the ones of a
household preparing for bed. The creak of the floorboard
overhead as someone thudded across the upstairs loft. A
swoosh of water—the hightail sign someone had used the
tank toilet he and Kid had installed a few years ago in the
water closet.
The twinge of a smile tugged at his lips. Dang if Ma didn't
like that thing. She'd walked around prouder than a French
hen for months after they'd installed it, as if indoor plumbing
had somehow elevated her status in life. He and Bug had
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promised her they'd install hot and cold water, just like Hog
had in his Dodge City hotel as soon as thrashing season was
over. That would have to wait for a bit longer now, at least
until he could put weight on his injured leg. How long did it
take for bullet wounds to heal? He couldn't fathom lying
around for days on end. He'd become as loco as a cross-eyed
bull—and most assuredly as ornery.
The water sounded again, and this time he wondered if it
was Summer using the water closet. Did she like indoor
plumbing as much as Ma? Most likely all women did. His
sisters-in-law sure gaggled about it while everyone was in
Dodge. They went on about those porcelain bathtubs as
eagerly as they did about a new born babe. Which was
something else he never quite fathomed—a baby was a baby.
Not a whole lot new about anyone of them. Yet, now that he
thought about it, his brothers had all carried on like their
babies had been the first kids ever born. Raved about their
hair, the tiny fingers, their bright eyes...
His gaze went to the door. Summer would have some
pretty babies—especially if they had her striking midnight
eyes and hair. A frown tugged at his brows. Now, why the hell
was he thinking about her babies and getting kind of giddy
about it?
Because she's your wife,
a little voice inside his head
proclaimed.
"No, she's not," he argued out loud.
Yes, she is.
"No, she's not. Not really anyway." Snake squeezed his
eyes shut, as if that could stop the little voice. "Aw, hell," he
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muttered. "What's the matter with me? I'm arguing with
myself."
A soft knock rapped on the door seconds before it opened.
"Are you doing all right in here? Need some medicine?"
The space behind her was dark, lit by nothing more than
the same moon beams filling his room. Unfathomably,
Snake's heart rattled his chest. The faded light caught in the
long tresses of her hair, making each strand sparkle.
Breathless, he grunted, "No."
She took a step into the room. "I thought I heard you
talking, asking for something."
Only the God-given good sense I was born with
, he
thought, but said, "No, I don't need anything."
She didn't move right away, and his wandering mind took
yet another direction. "Where are you sleeping?" he asked.
Her head twisted as she glanced over her shoulder. "On
the divan." She pivoted back his way. "Why? Are you
uncomfortable? Need another pillow or something?"
That would make sense—her sleeping on the divan. There
were two beds upstairs. Ever since Skeeter moved out, Snake
had claimed this room downstairs with a flip of a coin, which
had left Hog and Bug up in the loft. They all had slept up
there at one time—when Kid—and Pa—had lived at home.
A slight pressure settled his shoulder. Assuming it was
from his injury, he rubbed the area.
"Are you sure you're all right?" Summer asked from her
doorway stance.
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The other downstairs room was Ma's. Most likely
September and August were sharing Hog's old bed while Bug
slept in the other, which ultimately left only the divan for her.
"It's not very big," he said.
"What?" She stepped closer, pointing to his shoulder. "Your
wound? It's actually a good sized hole."
He shook his head. "No, the divan. It's not very big. It
can't be too comfortable."
"Oh, it's fine." Walking across the room, stopping near the
bed, she said, "Here, let me check it. Hopefully you didn't
disrupt the healing moving around tonight."
"No, it's fine. Kid checked it. B-but...thanks."
She paused beside the bed, as if she was unsure what to
do next. He didn't know what to do either, but he didn't want
her to leave, not yet anyway. Inching over, into the middle of
the bed, he patted the open space with his good hand. "Want
to sit down for a minute?"
Her head twisted as she glanced over her shoulder toward
the door.
"Just for a minute," he encouraged. "I've slept so much the
past few days, I'm not very tired."
Moonlight basked upon her, making her look almost
dreamlike. With a slight shrug, she lowered onto the edge of
the bed. "You have slept a lot. But that's what the doctor
wanted. He didn't want you waking up and ripping out your
stitches."
"Ma didn't use her stitching machine, did she?"
Her hair flipped and flopped as her face whirled around to
gap at him. "Of course not!"
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He winked. "Just kidding. She loves that machine so much
I wouldn't put it past her."
The giggle that escaped her mouth tinkled like a sleigh
bell. A swell of happiness expanded his chest. It felt good.
He'd always considered life was a whole lot easier when you
carried a good disposition. Therefore, he usually did. He was
a likeable sort of guy, he knew that, and didn't have any real
enemies, not that he could think of anyway.
A buckling of doubt made him ask, "Did I do something
while I was sleeping that made September hate me?"
"No," she said quickly—almost too quickly. "And
September doesn't hate you."
"Yes, she does," he responded. "A person can tell when
someone doesn't like them, and your little sister likes me
about as much as a dog likes a flea."
"September's just scared. We left Dodge in a hurry, and
she feels it's her fault. She probably blames herself for you
being hurt as well."
Snake didn't think so, but he didn't want to dispute
Summer's belief—not yet anyway. "Tell me about it."
"About what?"
"Leaving Dodge."
She took a deep breath and exhaled it out long and slow.
The soft hiss floated on the air until it almost echoed off the
walls. He reached over and wrapped his hand around the one
she had resting on the mattress beside her hip. The soft,
warm skin of the back of her hand filled his palm perfectly,
and he gave it a little squeeze.
"I didn't know what else to do," she said despondently.
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"Tell me what happened."
"I was at the saloon during the card game. In the
backroom. I heard the bet"—she paused, staring at the
doorway—"and how angry you were when you folded. Right
after you stormed out, Wainwright woke up and claimed the
win. July said he could come get September the next day—
after he had a chance to tell her. I left then, out the back
door, and ran into George Hinkle. He asked what was wrong,
and I told him. He told me to go home and not worry about it.
The next day he came by to say you'd left town. He wanted
the kids and me to go stay with him and his wife for a few
days, but I couldn't do that. But after two nights of...." She
paused and then said, "We packed up and traveled out here—
to your place."
"Why?"
"Why? So Wainwright wouldn't take September. Why
else?"
"That was dangerous. Wainwright could have followed."
She shook her head. "George had him arrested. When he
claimed the win, a fight broke out. George broke it up. July
was taken to Doc Jones and Wainwright to jail."
Her hand trembled beneath his. Snake gave it a gentle
squeeze. She glanced down at the mattress, looking at their
hands for a moment before her gaze rose to meet his. There
was strength and honesty in those dark eyes, but Snake saw
more. He saw a scared little girl. On the outside, Summer
Austin may have grown up, but on the inside there was a
frightened little girl who was lost in a big, scary world, with
two siblings to take care of. Something inside him snapped
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then. Whether it was a piece of his heart breaking for what
she'd been through, or a part of his soul disengaging to
merge with hers, he wasn't sure.
As if she felt what went on inside him, her fingers folded
around his, and her grasp tightened. A silent, inner thought
said as sure as the sun would rise and set tomorrow, they
were bound together. Not because Ma had called in some
preacher, but because he had to. There was no way he'd let
someone as low and downright bad as Wainwright hurt her or
her siblings.
"August said your Pa died."
A tiny gasp emitted, and she gave a slight nod.
"What happened?"
She shrugged. "He was shot. The Sheriff thinks it was
Wainwright. Thinks that's who shot you, too."
Snake had no doubt that was who shot him. Though he
hadn't seen anything, it had happened too quickly, but a gut
feeling said it had been Wainwright. That same gut feeling
said the man would be back. A simple marriage wasn't going
to stop the Mexican trader.
"You should try to get some sleep."
She hadn't moved, but Snake squeezed her hand anyway,
as if he could hold her to the spot where she sat. "No, I'm
really not tired." He wasn't, not in the least. Lying here,
holding her hand, did a better job of healing his wounds than
all the doctors and medicine in the world. "Tell me," he said.
"What I can do to help September? She has to know it's not
her fault."
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Summer had to squeeze her eyes closed to keep the tears
at bay. He sounded so sincere, like he really wanted to help
September—and Lord knows her little sister needed all the
help she could get. July had blamed the girl for their mother's
death for as long as September could remember. He claimed
if she hadn't came down with the pox, June wouldn't have
died. Summer tried over the years to convince September it
hadn't been her fault, but every time July found a bottle—
which was every day—he'd start blaming the child all over
again.
"It'll just take some time is all," she said, knowing she'd
been quiet too long. "September just needs time."
"Time is a good healer, but sometimes it's not enough.
Sometimes a person needs more. The truth or reason."
Summer stared into his eyes. They were clear, didn't seem
to be hiding anything, but was he suspicious? Did he know
her father was the cause of Jonas' death? Did he want the
truth?
He squinted at her, which caused a slight frown to pull his
brows together.
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
"All right. We'll just give her time," he said. "But I'll need
your help. She really doesn't like me."
Summer's fingers had tingled to the point they'd had all
but gone numb. Holding his hand caused a sensation not
unlike the invisible comforting blanket that surrounded her
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when Jonas paid a visit, but stronger, more real in some way.
It was strange, for she'd truly never felt a connection like this
before. It was a tiny bit scary to know another person could
silently affect her so. Her thoughts paused, and she waited,
searching to see if it was Jonas making her feel this way and
not Snake.
"You will help me, won't you?"
The sound of Snake's voice was enough to pull her mind
back. Jonas wasn't around. "Yes, I'll help you." It was an
honest, simple answer. She'd known for years there'd be a
time when they'd need each other, and this was it—no doubt.
"Where do we start?" he asked.
Her expression undoubtedly said she had no idea.