Liz Ireland (4 page)

Now that his fever seemed to be under control, Emma definitely wanted to get Mr. Archibald out of sight.

Her suggestion brought a smile to her patient’s face. “I sure wouldn’t mind sleeping in a real bed. I’m afraid I’m about ten sizes too big for this parlor contraption.”

She couldn’t help laughing. Considering how weak he must feel, and
who
he probably was, Mr. Archibald was one of the most pleasant invalids she’d ever met. In fact, it was his affability that made her doubt sometimes who he really was. Outlaws, she imagined, were sinister creatures with bad manners and no humor; despite his rough looks, Mr. Archibald seemed almost refined in his manners.

She was a little dismayed at how much she enjoyed talking to him. She still felt anxious at the way he’d grabbed her the night she’d found him, and sometimes when he looked at her, the kiss would spring to mind, making her cheeks warm and bringing a flurry of unfamiliar sensations. Again and again she had to remind herself she was being a goose. It would be one thing if she were remembering a kiss from a real beau. But her man had been losing consciousness and probably hadn’t even meant to kiss her. It had been an involuntary reaction, like a twitch.

“It’s most neighborly of you to take me in like this, Emma.”

“It’s nothing.” Nothing law-abiding, she feared.

His eyes warmed. “I owe you my life. That’s something—to me, at least.”

She heard a note of desolation in his tone, and a sharp stab of sadness spiked her heart for him. Whoever he was, gambler or outlaw, he’d obviously seen trouble. “I’m sure you must have people somewhere who will be glad to hear that you’re well. When you’re feeling better, I’ll write a letter for you.”

She also wanted to advise him not to give her any more hints that he was alone in the world, a wanted man. She felt better thinking of him simply as Johann Archibald. A ridiculous name—and yet it was pleasantly different than Lang Tupper, the name she was trying to tuck safely into
the back of her mind. “No one would have done any less than I have.”

He chuckled, then pushed himself up with a wince. “Pretty, modest and talented to boot.”

Pretty
. Her gaze flew to his, wondering if he was thinking of their kiss…. But his gaze wasn’t lascivious, just flattering. He seemed to have forgotten all about the liberty he’d taken with her. If only
she
could! She didn’t know what to say. No one had called her pretty in…well, she wasn’t sure how long. Lately she’d become more accustomed to comments like those she’d received from Joe. That she was thin, pale and spinstery. But Johann wasn’t looking at her as if she were a spinster.

“Not many people would have known how to treat a wound like mine, ma’am,” he went on. “Fortune must have been smiling on me to lead me up to your porch. Just how did you learn to care for the sick?”

“My father was a doctor. He died a few months ago.”

Eyes the color of rich chocolate stared at her with piercing understanding. “I’m sorry.”

She wondered whether he, too, had lost someone close to him. That would account for the sadness around his dark eyes. She wondered…

Well, the question that leapt immediately to her mind was if he had lost a wife or sweetheart…or whether he had one still. As if that was any of her business! She was interested only in taking care of him, healing him. The trouble was those eyes of his. They had been bothering her ever since he’d awakened. No one she’d ever known had stared at her so closely; it was unnerving. What was he trying to learn? And how could she become so undone by a simple gaze?

“Lorna, could you come here for a moment?” she called
out. Maybe having a third party in the room would calm her nerves.

In a second, Lorna was there beside them.

“I’m afraid I’ll be too heavy for you two ladies.” Johann looked up at Emma, obviously upset at having to lean on two women, one of whom was eight months pregnant.

“Nonsense!” Emma exclaimed. “You certainly can’t make it upstairs by yourself. You’ve been prone for a day, and you lost a great deal of blood.”

When the two of them pulled Johann upright, his skin turned clammy and his face went green, and he stopped complaining about having to accept help. “Take a moment to gather your breath,” Emma instructed him as she and Lorna positioned themselves on either side of him, like two human crutches.

He obediently did as he was told, but when they finally began to move, she became acutely aware of the strong arm propped over her shoulder. The man was all muscle, and the press of his body against hers made her feel jittery as a cat during a hailstorm.

Emma pitched forward and probably would have fallen flat on her nose if Johann hadn’t grabbed her sleeve and pulled her back. Thank goodness Lorna was holding
him
up or they might have toppled as easily as a line of dominoes.

“Mind the rug,” he instructed her. “Can’t have one of my crutches crumbling on me.”

They made faster progress than Emma had anticipated, yet it was still too slow for her taste. If only she had a magic carpet that would fly Johann Archibald up these stairs, which took so much effort and might prolong their journey…and their bodily contact. A hot flush had come over her skin when she’d felt his hand catch her arm, and
she was intensely aware of it there still. She hoped no one detected how flustered she was.

In bumbling lockstep, they continued the arduous ascent. It took Emma only a few steps to realize how weak Johann must really be. It felt as if he were leaning his full weight against her and Lorna. Then, when they had nearly reached the top of the stairs, a heavy knock sounded at the door. Emma froze, and for a moment it felt as if her very heart had stopped beating. Her gaze flew to Lorna’s.

“Do you think it’s the sheriff again?” Lorna asked, terrified at the idea of having to see William’s brother.

“The sheriff!” Johann’s eyes were wide with shock, and he swallowed in astonishment.
“Again?”
For all the world, he looked ready to forget the pain in his leg and sprint as far and as fast as he could. “When was he here before?”

“Yesterday,” Lorna replied. “Emma didn’t invite him in the house.”

“I suppose I should offer him tea today.” Emma did not want their visitor to get the impression that they were hostile to law and order. “But first we need to get you settled.” She tried not to think about the fact that Johann’s alarmed reaction to offering a lawman tea would have been just what she might have expected from the outlaw Lang Tupper.

The rest of the journey proceeded considerably faster. Johann had composed himself, but the thought of a sheriff being at her door put a spring in his limp. When Emma had deposited Johann inside her father’s bedroom door, she turned to Lorna. “Do you think you can manage from here?”

Lorna nodded. “Of course.” Still believing Mr. Archibald was just a gambler, she had no reason to be afraid that there was about to be a gunfight.

Was
there about to be a gunfight?

The knock sounded at the front door again, more forcefully this time, causing all three of them to jump. “You’d better go, Emma!”

“Yes, Emma,” their patient said, having regained his composure a little. “Don’t keep your guest waiting on my account.” She caught his gaze and was surprised to find a teasing humor in it. Would an outlaw be able to laugh at a time like this?

Realizing she didn’t have time to sit around contemplating the character of desperadoes, Emma shut the door firmly behind her and flew down the stairs. If her visitor was the sheriff, back to ask questions he should have been asking yesterday, what would she say to him? Would he be able to read the lie in her eyes if she told him she hadn’t seen the outlaw?

Taking a deep breath, she pulled the door open—to find not the sheriff but a man in coveralls holding a small boy wrapped in a woolen blanket. Emma recognized the farmer immediately as Cal Winters, an old widower whose large family her father had treated many times over the years. And the child in his arms—that must be his youngest, Davy. She’d attended his birth with her father, who had brought the boy into the world but hadn’t been able to save Mrs. Winters that night.

Emma welcomed him, relieved that he wasn’t the sheriff.

“I brung Davy,” the man said gruffly as he crossed the threshold. “I brung him ’cause I didn’t know where else to turn, Miss Emma.”

“Of course!” She led the two of them into the parlor, whipped the old blanket off the settee and gestured to Cal to lay Davy across it. One in, one out, she thought, astonished
that her nursing services had so suddenly come into vogue.

“I heard what you done for the McCrae girl and I thought it was a good thing.”

Emma looked at the man with surprise, and respect. “You’re about the only one, it seems.”

“Ain’t everybody who understands other people’s misfortunes, I guess,” Cal said sadly. “Anyways, when my boy came down sick with the pox, you were the only one I could think of to turn to. We don’t have any money, you see. And since your pa…well, there ain’t no doctor.”

“I understand,” Emma said, bending to examine Davy. The boy seemed small for his age, though he had a healthy mop of white-blond hair on his head and intelligent blue eyes. A simple touch to his forehead told her he had a fever, and his face and thin arms were covered with bumps she recognized from much experience, including her own. “It’s chicken pox, all right.”

“I ain’t gonna die, am I, Miss Emma?” The boy’s voice was a singular mixture of dread and morbid curiosity.

She looked down into the young boy’s eyes and bit back a laugh. “No, you’re not. You’re just going to stay in bed and try not to scratch.” Davy appeared immensely relieved to hear his young life would be spared. Emma looked up at the boy’s father. “No need to worry, Mr. Winters. Just keep him in bed, watch him and make sure he stays well covered until the fever breaks. Plenty of water to drink, too.”

Cal shuffled his feet. “I, uh, guess there’s no other way….”

Emma frowned. “No other way to what?”

His careworn eyes met hers beseechingly. “See, it’s plowin’ time, and all my children are out in the fields.
That’s why I brung Davy here, Miss Emma. I was hoping…”

Emma understood immediately. “You were hoping I would take him,” she guessed. The Winterses were poor—getting their crops in meant life and death to them, and with no mother, there would be no one to look after Davy at home. The other children couldn’t be spared from work, and even if they could, chances were with Davy near, his siblings would become infected with the chicken pox, too. Which would only multiply Cal’s dilemma.

She didn’t hesitate. “I’d be glad to keep Davy here, if you’ll allow me. I’m sure he’ll be fine in a matter of weeks.”

Davy, his eyes flying open at this news, looked around the parlor in wonder. “I get to stay here?”

Emma laughed. Never had she looked at the parlor as if it were a veritable fairyland.

Davy’s father sent his son a stern gaze. “Mind you behave, and do what Miss Emma tells you.”

“He can stay in…” Emma suddenly remembered her house was filling up quickly. Lorna was in Rose Ellen’s old room, and now there was probably an outlaw living where her father used to reside.

Mr. Archibald! What was she going to do about him? It was one thing putting herself and Lorna in danger. They could take care of themselves. Or in any case, they were adults. But what of Davy? He was just a boy. Could she really have Mr. Winters entrust his son to her care when she was harboring someone who was most likely a fugitive?

Then again, could she bear to turn Davy away? That would be a hardship on his family. Besides, she seriously doubted that Mr. Archibald would harm any of them…especially while he was seriously ill himself. He
didn’t have access to his weapon. The house was relatively safe.

“I’m sure I’ll be bringing him back to you in about two weeks’ time,” she assured Cal. “He won’t be sick for long.”

Cal was pleased. “I’m much obliged, Emma. I don’t know how we’ll repay you.”

“Don’t worry about that.” She waited for the father to give his son parting instructions to behave and mind her, then, after he refused what refreshments she offered, she ushered him to the front door. “I’ll take good care of your son for you, Mr. Winters.”

He tipped his hat and rode off, and Emma returned to Davy. “I need to get you up to your room.”

“My own room?” He shook his full head of white hair in wonderment.

“Yes, indeed. And once you’re settled, and sleep for a little bit, I’ll bring you some soup.”

In a moment, Lorna came down the stairs. “What is it? Can I help?”

Emma looked up, suddenly remembering one drawback to taking in Davy. “Have you had chicken pox?”

Lorna nodded. “When I was little.”

That was good. “That leaves Mr. Archibald. I hope he’s had them already. How is he settling in?”

Davy didn’t give Lorna time to answer. “Mr. Archibald? Who’s he?”

Emma combed back the boy’s thick hair with her hand. “A nice man who’s staying here, too. He’s sick, like you are.”

“Does he itch, too?”

Emma and Lorna chuckled. “No,” Emma replied as she reached down and pulled Davy into her arms to carry him upstairs. “He’s a different kind of sick.”

“He’s lucky,” Davy grumbled. “Does he get soup, too?”

Emma nodded. “If he behaves.”

“Royal flush!” Emma crowed triumphantly.

Lang inspected his paltry two pairs then stared back at Emma’s winning hand. Then he compared the dwindling pile of matchsticks on his side of the coverlet to the virtual mountain of matches next to Emma. “I’ve fallen in with a cardsharp!”

She laughed at him. “I can see how you might have gotten into trouble gambling. You need to change professions.”

Truer words were never spoken. The one he’d been practicing for the past month—bank robbing—hadn’t worked out so well. “How on earth did you learn to play cards like that?”

“My father taught me.” Her eyes shone with memory. “Doc and I used to play every evening about this time, just about sunset. I hadn’t realized how I missed those times! He was never so easy to beat, though.” Her impish glee at winning made Emma seem as girlish as Lorna. “Davy puts up a better fight than you do!”