Hummingbird (5 page)

Turning on her heel, she uncharacteristically disregarded it all and returned to her bedroom.

Dear God! He'd turned over… and onto his right leg!

Pushing and grunting, struggling with his limp weight, she managed to get him onto his back again, then fell across his stomach, panting. But she knew even before she looked what she'd find: the wound was bleeding profusely again.

So, sighing heavily, almost stumbling now, she fought the entire battle once more: cleansing the wound, burning the alum, staunching the blood, applying ergot, and praying to see the flow stop. He seemed to be rousing more often as the afternoon wore on. Each time he moved a limb, she poured her strength on him, holding him flat if need be, willing him to lie still, badgering him aloud, sweating with the effort, but wiping the sweat from his fevered body rather than from her own. Toward evening when he still hadn't gained consciousness, she gave up hoping for him to awaken fully enough to drink the beef tea and force-fed him again.

Sometime later she was standing staring trancelike at his exposed white hip, counting the minutes since the bleeding had stopped, when Doc Dougherty's knock brought her from her reverie. "Come in." But she barely had the strength left to call out.

Doc had had a tough day himself, but he took one look at her and demanded, "Miss Abigail, what in tarnation did you do to yourself?" She looked ghastly! Her eyes were red-rimmed and for a moment he thought she might start crying.

"I never knew before how hard it is to save a life," she said hoarsely. Doc led her by the arm into her disastrous kitchen. She laughed a little madly as he forced her into a chair. "And now I know why your house looks the way it does, too."

Rather than feel insulted, he snorted laughingly. She'd been initiated then, he thought, as we all must be at first.

"You need a good dose of coffee, Miss Abigail, and a bigger dose of sleep."

"The coffee I'll accept, but the sleep must wait until after he revives and I know he'll make it."

Doc poured her a cup of coffee and left her to check the patients, but as he walked from the kitchen he saw Miss Abigail's back wilt against her chair and knew he was lucky it was she who'd offered to help.

Yet, entering the room where the robber lay, he wondered again if she wasn't too delicate to handle wounds like this. At first he'd considered only her sense of propriety, but seeing her so whipped, he wondered if the physical strain wasn't too much for her.

But one look at her handiwork and he marveled at her ingenuity and tenacity. What he found when he checked the wound genuinely surprised him. The man doesn't know how lucky he is that he ended up where he did, Doc thought. The wound looked good, the fever was low, no bleeding, no gangrene. She'd done as much as Doc himself could have.

Upstairs, he said, "Mr. Melcher, I think you're in good hands with Miss Abigail dancing attendance on you. However, I thought I'd lend my meager medical assistance just the same."

"Ah, Doctor Dougherty, I'm happy to see you." Melcher looked fit as a fiddle.

"Foot giving you much pain?"

"No more than I can handle. It throbs now and then, but the salve you gave Miss Abigail helps immensely."

"Laudanum salve, my man. Laudanum salve applied by Miss Abigail—a very effective combination, don't you agree?"

Melcher smiled. "She is wonderful, isn't she? I want to thank you for… well, I'm very happy I'm here in her house."

"I didn't have much to do with it, Melcher. She volunteered! And even though she's being paid, I think she puts out more than the money will compensate her for. The two of you are a real handful for her."

At the reminder of the other patient, Melcher's face soured.

"Tell me… how is he?"

"He's alive and not bleeding, and both facts seem to be more than believable. I don't know what Miss Abigail did for him, but whatever it was, it worked." Then, noting the expression on Melcher's face, Doc thumped the man's good leg. "Cheer up, my man! You won't need to be here under the same roof with the scoundrel too much longer. This toe is looking up. Shouldn't hold you up here for long at all."

"Thank you," Melcher offered, but his face remained untouched by warmth as he said it.

"My advice to you is to forget he's down there if it bothers you so much," Doc said, preparing to leave.

"How can I forget it when Miss Abigail has to be down there too… and caring for him!"

Ah, so that's the way the wind blows, thought Doc. "Sounds like Miss Abigail has made quite an impression on you."

"I dare say she has," admitted Melcher.

Doc laughed shortly, then said, "Don't worry about Miss Abigail. She can take care of herself. I'll be around again soon. Meanwhile, move that foot and use it as much as you want, as long as you feel comfortable doing it. It's doing well." But Doc was smiling at this unexpected turn of events as he headed downstairs.

The coffee had revived Miss Abigail somewhat.

"Got a cup for me?" Doc asked, returning to the kitchen. "Naw, don't get up. Cups in here? I'll pour my own." As he did, he continued visiting. "Miss Abigail, I'm sorry I doubted you yesterday, I can see what kind of fool I was to do so. You've not only done a proper job of nursing those two… it seems you've made a devotee of Mr. Melcher."

"A devotee?" She looked up, startled, over her cup.

Doc Dougherty leaned back against the edge of her sideboard as he sipped, his eyes alight.

Flustered, she looked into her cup. "Nonsense, Doctor, he's simply grateful for a clean bed and hot food."

"As you say, Miss Abigail… as you say." But still Doc's eyes were mischievous. Then abruptly he changed the subject. "Word came in by telegraph that the railroad wants us to keep that stranger here till they can send someone up here to question him."

"Ah, if he lives to talk." Once again he could see the weariness in her, could hear the dread in her voice.

"He'll live. I examined the wounds and they look real good, Miss Abigail, real good. What in blazes have you got on those poultices?"

"Powdered ergot. It healed the wounds from Indian arrows. I figured it might heal his."

"Why didn't you call me when he got bad?"

Her eyes looked incredulous. "I didn't think of it, I guess."

He chuckled and shook his head. "You planning to run me a little competition in the healing business, are you?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

"No, Doctor. It's far too hard on a maiden lady. When these men are fit, I shall give up my life in medicine, and gladly."

"Well, don't give it up yet, Miss Abigail, please. You're doing one damn fine job for me."

Too tired to even object to his language, she only answered, "Why, thank you, Doctor." And he could have sworn she beamed, there in her evening kitchen amidst the mess and the smell that was so unlike her usual tidiness. He knew she'd be okay then; she had qualities in her that most women didn't. Also, she was experiencing the first fledgling joy afforded to those who beat the odds against death.

On his way to the door, Doc turned. "Oh, I forgot to mention, the railroad said they'll foot the bill for as long as it takes to get these two healthy. I think they mean to pacify Melcher and keep him from kicking up a fuss about getting shot while on board one of the R.M.R. trains. As for the other one… he must be wanted for more than just one holdup for them to be that interested. I don't mean to scare you, just wanted you to rest easy about the money. Are you afraid, being here alone with him?"

She almost laughed. "No, I'm not afraid. I've never been afraid of anything in my life. Not even when I thought I was running out of money. Things have a way of working out. Yesterday I was facing penury and tonight here I am with a railroad supporting me. Isn't that handy?"

He patted her arm and chuckled. "That's more like it, Miss Abigail. Now see that you get some sleep so you can stay this way."

As he opened the screen door, she stopped him momentarily, asking, "Doctor, did the telegram say what that man's name is? It seems strange always referring to him as 'that man' or 'that… robber.'"

"No, it didn't. Just said they want him kept here and no question about it. They want to get their hands on him pretty bad."

"How can they possibly know if he's wanted for other charges when they haven't seen him?"

"We sent out a description. Somebody along the line must have recognized him by it."

"But suppose the man does die? It wouldn't seem proper for a man to die where not a soul even knew his name."

"It's happened before," Doc stated truthfully.

Her shoulders squared, and a look of pure resolve came over her face. "Yes, but it shan't this time. I will make it my goal, a sort of talisman if you like, to see that he revives sufficiently to state his name. If he can do that, perhaps he can recuperate fully. As you see, Doctor, I intend to be a tenacious healer" She gave Doc a wry grin. "Now hurry along. I have a kitchen to see to and a supper to prepare." Doc was chuckling as she whisked him away. It took more than weariness to defeat Abigail McKenzie!

She hadn't time to worry about her own appearance while she prepared David Melcher's supper tray, yet her heart was light as she pondered Doc's words. A devotee. David Melcher was her devotee. A delicious sense of expectation rippled through Miss Abigail at the thought. She took extra care with his meal and paused to tuck a few stray wisps of hair into place before stepping into his room. He was lying quietly, facing the window with its view of the apricot sky. As she paused in the doorway, he sensed her there and turned with a smile. Her heart flitted gaily, filling her with some new sense of herself.

"I've brought your supper," she said softly.

"Please sit with me while I eat it and keep me company," he invited. She wanted to…oh, how she wanted to, but it simply wasn't proper.

"I'm afraid I have things to do downstairs," was her excuse. His face registered disappointment. But he was afraid to be too insistent; she'd done so much already. The room grew silent, and from outside came the wistful cry of a mourning dove. Miss Abigail set the tray on his lap, then offered brightly, "But I've brought you something to read if you'd care to, after you've finished your supper" From her pocket she pulled a book of sonnets.

"Ah, sonnets! Do you enjoy sonnets too? I might have guessed you would."

At his smile of approval she grew flustered and raised her eyes to the cotton candy clouds beyond the window. Again came the call of the mourning dove, singing its question, "Who? Who? Who?" It suddenly seemed to Miss Abigail that the question was being asked of her It was a question she'd asked herself more times than she cared to remember Who would there ever be to brighten her life? To give her reason for living?

Lost in reverie, Miss Abigail said rather dreamily, "I find the evening a particularly appropriate time of day for sonnets—rather the softest time of day, don't you think?"

"I couldn't agree more," came his gentle reply. "It seems we have something in common."

"Yes, we do." She became suddenly aware of how she looked, and touched her lower lip with the tips of her fingers. She still wore her stained, sweaty dress that she'd worn all day, and her hair was terribly untidy. Yet even as she fled the room, she realized he'd smiled sweetly and spoken almost tenderly. Was it true, what Doc had said? Abigail McKenzie, you're so tired you're getting fanciful!

But tired or not, her day was not over.

Dusk had fallen and in the gloom of her downstairs bedroom its occupant looked darker than ever. She found herself comparing him to Mr. Melcher. The whiskers on his chin had nearly doubled in length, and she decided that tomorrow she would shave him. She had never liked dark-whiskered men anyway. And moustaches! Well, if dark chin whiskers were sinister, black moustaches were positively forbidding! This one—she stepped closer—bordered his upper lip like thick, drooping bat's wings. She shuddered as she studied it and crossed her arms protectively. Vile! she thought. Why would any man want to wear a bristly, unattractive thing like that on his very face?

But suddenly Miss Abigail's grip on her upper arms loosened. She had a dim recollection of—but no, it couldn't have been, could it? She frowned, remembering the feel of that moustache when she'd fed him, and in her memory it was not bristly, but soft.

Surely I'm mistaken, she thought, shaking herself a little. How could it be soft when it looks so prickly?

Yet she was suddenly sure it had been. She glanced warily behind her, but of course nobody was there.

It was simply silly to have looked! But she checked again, stealthily, before reaching out a tentative finger to touch the thick black hair beneath the robber's nose. It came as a near shock to find it almost silky!

She felt his warm breath on her finger, and quickly, guiltily, recrossed her arms. The softness was disconcerting. Suddenly feeling sheepish, she spoke aloud. "Moustache or not, thief or not, I'm going to make you tell me your name, do you understand? You are not going to die on me, sir, because I simply shan't allow it! We shall take it one step at a time, and the first shall be getting your name out of you. It's best if you understand at the onset that I am not accustomed to being crossed up!"

He didn't move a muscle.

"Oh, just look at you, you're a mess. I'd better comb your hair for you. There's little else I can do right now."

She got her own comb from the dresser and ran it through his thick hair, experiencing a queer thrill at the thought that he was a robber of trains yet she was seeing to his intimate needs. "I can't say I've ever combed the hair of an outlaw before," she told him. "The only reason I'm doing so now is that, just in case you can hear me, you'll know you're not allowed to just… just lie there without fighting. This hair is dirty, and if you want it washed, you shall simply have to come around."

Suddenly his arm jerked and a small sound came from him. He tossed his head to one side and would have rolled over, but she prevented it by holding him down with restraining hands. "You've got to lie flat.

I insist! Doctor Dougherty says you must!" He seemed to acquiesce then. She felt his forehead and found it cool. But just in case, she brought a sewing rocker from the living room—an armless, tiny thing offering little comfort—and sat down for only a moment, only until she was sure he wouldn't thrash around anymore and hurt himself.