Hannah Howell (47 page)

“Please, I want to go to my husband,” she protested.

“This'll only take a moment, ma'am,” the sheriff said.

“Perhaps it's just as well if you wait until O'Neill is done,” Patricia said gently as she took Ram into her arms.

“I have seen bullets dug out before,” Antonie informed them.

“But not out of Royal."

“No, not him All right, Sheriff. What do you want to know?"

“Nothing much, ma'am. Just a quick telling of what happened out there.” He shook his head. “I still don't understand how she got away and why I was only told about it today."

“Perhaps it was her method of escape or, well, the way she even got a chance at it."

“You know something about that?"

“She told Royal about it. Sex, Sheriff,” she said flatly, too worried about Royal to be even slightly embarrassed by the subject. “She seduced her way out."

“Oh, hell, I warned them about that."

“Perhaps that is why they didn't tell you right away. I think you may find a few bodies littering her trail here, although she only talked of one. She cut some drifter's throat."

“What happened by the swimming hole, ma'am?"

“I wasn't with Royal when she arrived, but I saw her holding a gun on him. As she talked I crept toward my knife. I was not fast enough. She shot him and creased his head when he tried to move out of the way. While he was helpless, she shot him again. That's when I threw my knife. It was a good throw, but she did not die. She pulled the knife out and tried to shoot me. Then we fought over the weapon. I won. That's it, Sheriff. Now it is really over."

“Yes, ma'am, I reckon it is."

Antonie did not say another word but rushed off to Royal's room. As she hurried in, Jed and Tom were just leaving. They each murmured a few well-meant words of hope and sympathy as they went. Antonie shut the door behind them and turned to look at Royal.

Very slowly, she approached the bed where O'Neill was just finishing bandaging Royal. She thought it a little strange that the clean white bandages should make it look worse. It was chilling to see how pale he was and how still he lay in the bed. She took a deep breath and then another as she felt herself begin to shake.

“Oh, hell,” O'Neill swore as he pushed her into a seat he had placed near the bed, then forced a brandy into her hands. “Drink it all, lass, and while you're drinking, you can tell me all that happened."

Between the talking and the brandy, Antonie felt herself growing a little calmer. “I am sorry,
amigo."

“Don't be. By the sound of it, it was one hell of an experience. You kept your head when it was needed. That's what matters."

“I wanted to empty the gun into her,” Antonie whispered. “She was dead, but I wanted to shoot her again and again."

“Darlin', that's not so strange. You saw her shoot down your man. You were dealing with madness and violence. The important thing is that you didn't do that. Hell, she didn't die when she should have. That might've had something to do with it."

“Perhaps.” She reached out to take Royal's hand. “She was
loco
and she shot him so coldly, almost with pleasure."

“It just might've been a pleasure for her."

“You can tell me about his injuries now. I am ready to hear about them."

“I wish I had more to tell you than I do. It's bad darlin', but I think you know that."

"Sí.
The chest wound,” she whispered.

“Actually that's not what's got me worried the most,” O'Neill confessed. “A clean shot, and the bullet was easy enough to get out. He's strong and you got him here fast, got the bleeding slowed. It is a bad wound, but I think he'll recover from that. It's that head wound that troubles me."

“It's just a graze,” she said fretfully.

“Ye-es, a graze, and I didn't see that it's cracked the bone or anything. Look, honey, I'll be honest with you. They haven't learned too much about head wounds, about the head and its innards at all. He's out cold, darlin'. That made it real easy to take the bullet out of him, but that's the only good in it. It's a graze but a deep one, the bullet gave him a bad knock and it's close to the temple."

“He will wake up,
sí?"

“He might wake up in a few minutes, a few hours, a few days."

She froze as she heard the words he did not say. “Or not at all. Is that what you tell me?"

“What I tell you, sweetheart, is that I don't know. All I know is that he's out, he's sunk deep, if you know what I mean. I can clean the wound, help it heal, but that's it, short of praying that he wakes up soon with nothing more than a hell of a headache. It's wait and see, darlin'.” He briefly clasped her shoulder in a gesture of comfort, then started out of the room. “I'll go talk to Doc Fowler. He might have some information I don't have."

As soon as O'Neill left, Antonie indulged in the release of tears for a while. When she finally stopped crying, she felt weak physically but stronger emotionally. Fear for Royal still ate at her, but she now found the fortitude to handle it, to even reach for hope. He was badly hurt, but he was still alive. O'Neill admitted to little knowledge about head wounds, about those sleeps so deep that nothing seemed to reach the patient. Royal could wake up within hours. Whenever he did come back, she was going to be there.

Antonie found the following days a torture. Her hopes for his recovery were raised when he would reach a semiconscious state, allowing Maria and her to get some nourishment into him, then they would plummet when he would slip back into a deep unresponsive sleep. The others tried to cheer her, to ease her fears, but they found it hard to hide their own worry.

One night as she sat by his bed and kissed the limp hand she held, she briefly faced the fact that he could die, and shuddered. She knew she would go on, but feared that she would never fully recover from the loss. There would be an emptiness within her that nothing could fill.

Suddenly all the words she had held back crowded into her mouth. It did not matter that he might not have the same feelings for her that she did for him. Now that she may have lost the chance to speak what was in her heart, she saw that pride that had kept her silent as a foolish thing. If—she took a deep breath and firmly changed that to when—
when
he came back to her, she would tell him all that she felt. To never have told him of her love was a regret she could not bear.

Royal felt as if he had been buried in thick mud and was just now clawing his way through it to freedom. It took a lot of effort to open his eyes, only to shut them against the brightness in the room. By the time he got them open for the second time, he realized that the room was not really bright at all, but very dimly lit. It was also very quiet, the only sound be could hear being a soft snore and he started to turn toward it.

A tightness around his chest suddenly brought memories to the fore, causing his head to throb with pain and his heart to stop with fear. Marilyn, insane and murderous, had attacked them, shot him. She had been looking for Antonie, too. Seeing that the person by the bed was a dozing O'Neill, Royal's fear started to choke him. Where was Antonie? He refused to believe that she had fallen victim to Marilyn's madness. The very thought of it threatened to make him as deranged as Marilyn.

“Antonie,” he rasped, wondering why his voice felt as if he had not used it in a long time. “Antonie,” he called again and, although his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, the man at his bedside was instantly alert.

“Well, three hail Marys, you've decided to rejoin the living,” said O'Neill as he rubbed a hand over his face.

“Antonie?” He tried to sit up, but O'Neill easily held him still. “Did Marilyn?” he asked weakly, unable to put his fears into words.

“Marilyn is dead."

“But Antonie, Marilyn was looking for her."

“Ah, so that's what's got you in a fever. Antonie is fine. She killed that madwoman. Antonie doesn't have a scratch, Royal. Not a scratch."

“Thank God.” Royal felt weak with relief. “Where is she?"

“Resting. She's got a greedy son to keep fed and can't let herself get too tired. Try moving that arm."

When he did so, he winced, but not only because of the discomfort it caused, the slight pull on the skin on his chest. His arm felt weak. It took a lot of effort to move it, and he could not understand why.

“Pulls my chest. Why is that? I was shot in the head,” he muttered as O'Neill helped him sit up and aided him in the drinking of a glass of water. “Damn. I'm so weak."

“That bitch shot you twice. Once grazing your head, and then in the chest."

He moved his hand to his chest and muttered in confusion, “No bandage."

“Don't need one any longer."

“Another graze?” He grimaced when O'Neill gently prodded his chest, for the result was slightly more than an irritating twinge.

“No,” O'Neill answered quietly. “It was a bad wound. Had to dig the bullet out."

“Then how can it be like this?"

“Because you slept through the healing,” O'Neill said gently.

“Slept through it?” Royal croaked. “How?"

“That graze on your head. You've napped for a little over three weeks."

“My God! Why aren't I dead?"

“Well, a body can last a long time like that. Doc Fowler told me he'd known one that was out six months then woke up, weak but fine, fit as a fiddle after eating regular for a while."

“That's why I feel so weak."

“It is, although I think you're stronger than you might've been. You've been in and out, sometimes deep asleep, sometimes half-conscious. Antonie and Maria kept you well fed. No mere gruel for you. Damned unappetizing, but they made you mashed food and fed you whenever you were able to be fed. Got that stuff so you could drink it really. They also took turns rubbing and moving that arm, which helped, I think."

“How's Antonie?"

“As well as can be expected. She was set to stay right here, but she's got a babe who needs her and needs her strong and healthy with her milk still flowing. I convinced her that she'd be doing you no favors if she let that responsibility slide. She didn't like hearing it, but I reminded her about how that lad was you, a bit of you left behind if you slipped away from us."

“And there was a chance of that?"

“Yup. The longer you stayed out, the greater the chance. There was also that chance that you'd come back not quite right, but I don't see any sign of that."

“No? I'm still tired. Is that all right after three weeks of sleeping?"

“Yup. You're weak."

“I won't slip back?"

“No, I don't really think so. A few more days, some hearty meals and some exercise and you'll be getting back to normal. Don't fight the resting. That'll do you no good."

“I want to see Antonie,” he protested even as O'Neill calmly saw to his personal needs. “Antonie."

“She'll be here when you wake up again,” O'Neill said as he lay Royal back down, then tucked him in.

Despite his efforts to stay awake and the hurried, emotional visits of his family, Royal fell asleep. When he woke up again, he was momentarily afraid that he might have lost another three weeks. His gaze shifted nervously around the room until it met Antonie's wide-eyed one. To his astonishment, she gave a soft cry, fell to her knees by the bed, and started to weep.

“Antonie?” he called.

“Oh,
querido,
I thought you were lost to me,” she whispered. “I thought you were dead or, worse, that you would just slip away, little by little. Sometimes you seemed to come back and I would hope, but you would slip away from us again."

He was touched by this display of emotion for him, but he hated to see her cry and smoothed a hand over the top of her head in a soothing gesture. “Shush, Antonie. I didn't slip away, did I."

It was tempting to just leave it at that, but she had made a promise to herself. God had seen fit to allow Royal to stay within the ranks of the living, but she had seen how easily and suddenly she could lose him. She had seen how deeply she would regret never telling him how much he meant to her. Pride and cowardice wanted her to be silent now, now that he was going to be well and the frightening shadow of death was receding. She could not let them win and tie up her tongue again.

Kissing the palm of the hand she held, she stared at it as she said quietly, “I was so afraid. There was so much I wanted to say, things my pride made me keep inside, things you were beyond hearing and might never hear. Then pride seemed such a small thing. It left me only with regrets, and they were bitter. I promised myself that I would not let that happen again.

“I love you,
mi vida.
My life, that is what you are. If you had left me, I would have lived, but not very well, eh? There would be such an emptiness, a hole even our child could not fill.
Por Dios,
it is hard to tell you,” she whispered shakily, “but I made a promise to myself that I would speak.

“I saw the danger of you from the beginning, but the pull was too strong. Ah,
sí,
I knew when you held me that I would place my heart in your hands. Sometimes, I fear it because it is so strong. That is one reason why I ran when I thought you would marry Marilyn. I feared you could make me stay as your ‘little bit on the side,’ eh?

“Well, there, I said it, said what I must. It need not trouble you,” she said and, quickly releasing his hand, stood up.

“Antonie,” he croaked, stunned by what she had told him.

“I will get you some food,
querido,"
she said as she practically ran out the door, not ready to face him.

Royal stared at the empty doorway for a moment in openmouthed surprise, then sank back against his pillows. A grin started to spread over his face as pure joy filled him. She loved him and, judging from what else she had said, had for a long time. He closed his eyes and savored the knowledge, finding it sweeter than he would have thought possible.

“Which ought to tell you something, fool,” he scolded himself. “Just think on that for a minute."

“Think on what?” Cole asked as he brought a tray of food in and set it down on the table by the bed.