His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2) (41 page)

"So you're gonna let that fool husband of yours make you doubt yerself? Even though your remedies cured Collie, Jamie, Amanda, half a dozen coons, and God only knows how many other critters?"

A tear slid down Eden's cheek. Claudia reached over and awkwardly patted her arm.

"There now," she said, her voice growing rough with discomfort. "I don't mean to say nuthin' against Michael. I ain't forgettin' he's fightin' a battle he don't think he can win. But don't you see, child? He's scared. Scared you won't be able to go on. Deep in his soul, he wants to know you've got the gumption to make a life without him. That's why you've got to stand up to him. You've got to prove that while you love him, and you want him, you don't need him by your side."

Eden swallowed a sob, averting her eyes. She'd never stopped to consider that Michael might worry about her future because he thought she lacked backbone. All this time, while he'd been challenging her diagnoses and refusing to heed her medical advice, she'd believed he was contemptuous of her methods, and more importantly, of her. The great irony in this misunderstanding was that while she'd tried never to cross him, thinking she was being a loyal wife, she'd only roused his frustration. Was it any wonder they'd grown so far apart?

A long silence passed while she furtively wiped away tears. Maybe there was still a chance for their marriage, if she dared to be the healer she'd always wanted to be.

"Is there anything else bothering you?" she asked meekly. "Besides my marriage troubles, I mean."

Stazzie jumped up on the table to lick a dribble from the pitcher of cream. Claudia reached absently to pet her.

"Kit McCoy's back."

Eden's heart slammed painfully into her ribs. "Does Sera know?"

"You think she would've spent all night in this house if she did?"

Eden uneasily stirred her coffee. Sera didn't confide secrets the way she used to. Still, Eden liked to think her friend would have told her if she were contemplating... well, a reunion with Kit McCoy. "Michael will be livid when he finds out."

"Who d'ya think told me?"

Eden bit her lip, glancing toward the kitchen window and the Jones house, its chimney tops gilded by streaks of dawn.

"Did Michael... um, say what he might do?"

"I voted on tar and feathers weeks ago, but nobody listened to me."

Something about Claudia's evasiveness made Eden doubly uneasy. "Auntie? What did Michael do?"

"Nothing yet, God willing."

"I'm not sure I follow—"

"Collie took my scattergun. Gone to hunt rats, he said. Who's the only two-legged rat you know worth huntin' on a night like the last one?"

Eden choked.
McCoy.

A board creaked in the hallway.

"Eden?"

Eden and Claudia both jumped. Their stares locked.

"I declare." Sera stumbled into the room, rumpled and yawning. "It's like an icebox in that bedroom. You might have told me you were waking instead of leaving me to freeze to death."

"Serves you right," Claudia rallied, making a furtive sign for Eden to keep quiet. "In my day, young girls were up before dawn, gathering eggs."

Sera rolled her eyes, meandering to the pantry. "We don't have chickens, Auntie."

"You got a horse to feed, don't ya?"

"Brutus is Michael's horse."

Sera cracked open a jar of marmalade. At the sound—or perhaps the smell—Vandy's snout poked out of the kettle and his forepaws hooked over the rim.

"Not that I would mind having a horse of my own," Sera said wistfully.

Vandy dove from the kettle and scampered down the plumbing to tug the hem of Sera's nightgown. She ignored his plea.

"I've never actually had a pet. Goober was supposed to be the family's hound, but he loved Gabriel best. Everyone could see that. And Collie and Jamie have those orphaned animals wrapped around their little fingers. Those puppies, bunnies, and coons don't pay me the slightest mind, unless I'm toting food." Arms now laden with butter, jam, and cornpone, she flopped onto the bench beside Eden.

Vandy, apparently, was determined to prove Sera right. He vaulted onto the bench and clambered over Eden's lap, making her slosh coffee all over the table.

"Vandy!"
Eden's scolding went unheeded.

Tiny black fingers snatched the cornbread that Sera was doctoring. She squealed, dumping a tablespoon of marmalade down her robe as Vandy scampered across her thighs and fled with his prize.

"Ugh!" Her cheeks mottling, Sera fished an orange glob from her décolletage and shook it from her fingers.

"See what I mean? That coon needs to be spanked. After that, he needs to be dunked in a pennyroyal bath. The last time Vandy sat on my lap, I got fleas. And yesterday, after I caught him chewing a hole through my straw boater, I found a tick crawling along the headband!"

"Probably got it from the cat," Claudia grunted.

"Auntie, Stazzie does
not
have..." Eden's voice trailed.

Ticks?

Her flash of insight was followed by an unbidden prickling that crept over her skin and made her heart trip.

Although she herself had never treated such a case, Colorado trappers often complained of headaches, high fever, chills, pains, and growing weakness. Rocky Mountain spotted fever, as it was called, was caused by ticks. It usually disappeared after about two weeks, but recovery could take several months. Even so, the illness was serious. If left untreated, heart or brain damage could result.

She frowned, her mind racing.

Ticks could cause other problems, too. Papa had once described a rare case. A crippled outcast of the Ute tribe, who earned her keep sewing rabbit and squirrel pelts for East Coast curiosity seekers near the reservation, had suffered bouts of headache, muscle ache, cough, sore throat, eye pain, and numbness. There appeared to be no rhyme or reason for the illness; it would manifest every couple of weeks, causing what Papa had termed "relapsing fever." Although Papa had thrown up his hands—the squaw had refused to let a "White Medicine Man" examine her—Talking Raven eventually earned the Ute's trust. Acting on a hunch, the Cherokee prescribed a powerful blood cleanser, Echinacea, St. John's wort, and goldenseal among the ingredients. The Ute's recovery had been practically instantaneous.

Eden grew so excited, she began to shake.

What if Michael weren't suffering from some disorder of his central nervous system, as he believed? What if he were suffering from... tick fever?

"Good heavens, Eden. The whole table's rattling. Did something crawl down your shirt?"

She blushed at Sera's complaint. "Ticks! I mean, no. But it could be! I have to find Michael."

Claudia arched an eyebrow as Eden jumped up, running for the gray woolen coat she'd left hanging on the hall tree. "That ain't so smart, considering."

"Considering what?" Sera demanded.

But Eden didn't hear the rest. She was too busy shoving her arms into her sleeves and running out the door. Somehow, she had to find Michael and convince him to take the blood-cleansing tonic she already had on the window shelf in her kitchen.

But as she threw open the back gate, a desperate pounding shattered the crisp, autumn dawn. "Doc!"

Eden slid to a halt, her heart racing. The voice, pitched high with fright, sounded like Jamie's.

"Open up, Doc!"

She hurried around the corner of the house to find the boy all but hurtling himself against the front door.

"Jamie, what is it? Why aren't you in school?" she asked as he spun around, wild-eyed and tear-streaked.

"He found out! You gotta help me!"

Eden gripped his shoulders, steadying him as best she could. "It's okay, honey. Who found out? About what?"

"Gunther did! About my animals!"

Eden's stomach roiled as Jamie grabbed her hand and began dragging her toward the porch steps. "You gotta help," he panted. "You gotta help me hide them 'fore ol' Gunther gets there!"

"But how—"

"Kit McCoy! He told. And now Gunther's gunning for Collie!"

* * *

Michael jerked awake, his lungs heaving, his pulse pounding.

Jesus.

He sat quickly, shaking enough to make his narrow cot squeak. In the pale streams of morning that filtered through the chinks in the Thunder Valley Orphanage's barn, he stared at his hands. He turned them over twice, just to be certain.

Still flesh. Still bone. Thank God.

He squeezed his eyes closed, gulping breath after shuddering breath. The dream had seemed so real. Too real.

"Where am I?"
he'd demanded of the beautiful young man who'd walked out of the iridescent pink and gold mists veiling the eastern sky.

The young man smiled. Dark-haired and fair-complected, with eyes bright enough to rival the sun, he seemed familiar somehow. And yet his sculpted features were so breathtaking, so hauntingly ethereal, that Michael trembled, hard-pressed not to drop to his knees. Surely only the Son of God could be so beautiful.

The youth laughed, as if knowing his thoughts. "I'm Gabriel," he'd greeted in a rich, liquid tenor. "Your brother," he added wryly, "not the angel."

Michael blinked, dumbfounded. Was this some sort of sick joke? Gabriel was dead. Ten years ago, God had sent a lung plague to rob him of his youth. Murdered at twelve, that's what Gabriel had been. But this youth looked to be—

"Twenty-two. Yes, that would be about right, wouldn't it?" The youth grinned as Michael gaped. "Normally, we don't pay much attention to time here in heaven, but I figured you'd listen to me a whole lot better if I appeared... well, older than twelve."

Incredible.
Michael latched on to anger to snuff out his rising fear. "Are you reading my mind?"

"I've had more pleasant assignments, I assure you. But since I volunteered to be your guardian angel, there's no helping it, I suppose. Hey," Gabriel continued glibly, "now that we're on the subject: Would you mind concentrating a little less on the doom and gloom?"

"This is ridiculous."

"No more ridiculous than you walking around blaming God for all the misery you've heaped on yourself. I assure you, nobody up here determines your future. That's your job. You make all the choices. We just try to steer you clear of the ones you'd have trouble living with."

"So now you're telling me you
communicate
with me?"

"Sure. All the time. You just don't listen. Lucky for you, Sera does. And Eden does too, to an extent."

"What do you mean... to an extent?" he asked suspiciously.

"Well..." Gabriel shoved his hands into the front pockets of his bib overalls. For the first time, Michael noticed his self-professed guardian angel was wearing his kid brother's favorite red neckerchief and blue
gingham
shirt—only several sizes larger than the originals, of course.

"Usually I've got my hands full just trying to hammer truth into your skull," Gabriel said, "but every now and then, while you're sleeping, I can sneak off to chat with Talking Raven. She's the one Eden listens to best, so if I need you to hear something—like, you're a stubborn old billy goat and need to have your head examined—Talking Raven whispers it into her ear, and she tells you."

"Eden has never called me a billy goat."

"She will."

Michael scowled, more hurt than miffed. How dare his guardian angel tell his wife to call him names?

"I suppose you and Talking Raven told her to find a new husband, too?"

Gabriel sighed, shaking his head. "If you only knew how much she loves you, you'd kick yourself right off this cloud."

Michael started, noticing for the first time that Gabriel was buried up to his calves in fluffy white nothingness. "Where the devil am I?"

"I told you. Heaven. See how you don't listen?"

"But..." His voice cracked. "If that's true, then I'm dead!"

"Nah. Well..." Gabriel seemed to change his mind. "If you keep wanting to be dead, we can help you get
really
sick. But the fact is, Eden's in a fix. She needs you to ride out to that animal orphanage before she does. So if you don't put your spirit back inside your body—"

"
My
spirit?"

"Sure. You still don't think you own one? Look at your hands."

Uneasily, Michael spread his palms and nearly bit his tongue in two. His fingers, wrists, and forearms—even his chest and legs—were crackling currents of white.

Pure energy. Like the cloud.

Shuddering again on his cot, Michael clenched his fists. He dug his fingernails into his palms until he felt the good old earthbound pain of flesh.

It was a dream. Just a dream.

Stubborn old billy goat.
The unbidden thought flooded his mind.

He bolted upright, and chills scuttled down his spine. Youthful laughter rang in his ears before it faded into the twitter of sparrows and the jangle of halter rings. Brutus shook his head again, gazing curiously at him from the adjacent stall.