Mail Order Prairie Bride: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Book 1) (22 page)

The doctor’s grip inched up a little. “How about this?”

Sarah’s whole body wrenched. “Yes!” she replied through clenched teeth.

The doctor felt around a bit more, then glanced up at Briggs. “It’s broken, all right. Judging by the look of her hand, I need to set the bone right now. There’s no circulation.”

“What about something for the pain?” Briggs asked.

“No time to wait for it to take effect. She could lose her hand. Grab her arm, right here.”

Sarah steeled herself while Briggs moved around the bed and took hold.

The doctor gripped her wrist and felt around with his fingers. “This is going to hurt, Mrs. Brigman, but I’ll do it as quickly as I can.”

Suddenly, he yanked. Sarah cried out. Briggs held onto her arm, biting back the urge to shove the doctor away. He was pushing and pulling and twisting her arm with all his might. Sarah writhed in agony on the bed. Briggs had to hold her down.

“Please stop!” Sarah cried. “I can’t take it!”

The doctor let go and stepped back, wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Sarah squirmed on the bed, grimacing in pain.

“Did you do it?” Briggs asked.

The doctor shook his head, his brows drawn together with concern. “I couldn’t set it in place. There’s a lot of swelling. I’ll give her a break, then I’ll have to try again.” The doctor went to the door and called down the stairs. “George! Do you have any whiskey?”

Briggs leaned over Sarah and brushed her hair off her forehead. She was lying still now, a thin film of moisture covering her face.

George hurried into the room with a bottle. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m still setting the bone,” the doctor replied, taking the whiskey from George. He tipped it over Sarah’s mouth and she gulped down as much as she could. “Very good. Let’s try again.” He handed the bottle back to George.

“Please, not yet,” Sarah said.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Brigman. But your hand….” He nodded at Briggs to take her arm again and hold it steady. “Courage, now.”

Briggs’s gut turned over at the sight of her, gritting her teeth and squeezing her eyes shut. Tears spilled onto her cheeks as she prepared herself.

The doctor yanked against Briggs’s hold. Sarah cried out and contorted in pain. Horrified at the degree of physical strength he had to use against the doctor’s twisting and pulling, Briggs prayed for it to be over quickly.

Finally the doctor set the bone in place and Sarah sagged against Briggs in relief.

“George, get me the splints in my bag.”

Doc Green wrapped Sarah’s arm while she rested her cheek on Brigg’s shoulder. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “It’s over now, love.”

She nodded weakly.

“Can you give her something now, Doc?” Briggs asked.

“Yes. I’ll give her some morphine.”

A short while later, Sarah closed her eyes and went to sleep. Briggs buried his face in his hand. God help him, if anything ever happened to her. He couldn’t go through that again.

Briggs and Dr. Green went downstairs to the kitchen where George was boiling water for tea. “Will she be alright?” George asked.

“She’ll be sore for a while,” Doc answered, “but she’ll survive and she’ll keep her hand.”

“That’s a relief. Would you like to stay for tea, Doc?”

“No thank you. I have to get home.”

Briggs showed him to the door. “I guess you heard about the locusts,” he said quietly. Doctor Green nodded and laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “We’re a bit hard up at the moment, but we’ve got butter in the wagon, if that’ll do until I can pay you what I owe.”

The doctor held up his hand. “I know you’re a man of your word, Briggs. Pay me when you can.”

Briggs nodded, appreciating the doctor’s generosity. At least he had the necklace to sell.

After the doctor drove away, Briggs went to the kitchen and sat down, his legs giving out on him suddenly. He’d been strong upstairs for Sarah, but now all he wanted to do was down some of that whiskey himself. He looked up at George. “So, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

George poured two cups of tea and carried them to the table. “I think you’d better sit down, because I had a visitor the other day.”

“Who was it?”

George paused. “Isabelle.”

Briggs said nothing for a moment. He simply raised the tea cup to his lips, trying not to appear shaken or to reveal that the mere mention of her name made him feel angry. “What did she want?”

“Are you ready for this?”

Briggs wasn’t sure he was, but he nodded anyway.

“Her husband ran off with a barmaid from The Comique Theatre.”

Briggs set the china cup down on the saucer and let out a breath. “Is this supposed to matter to me?”

George slumped back in his chair. “I don’t know. I thought it might, but I’m pleased to see that it doesn’t.”

Briggs frowned at him. “What did you expect?”

George shrugged. “A part of me thought you might dash out the door to let her cry on your shoulder.”

Briggs shifted in his chair. “No, because I have a wife upstairs that I care about. Very much. And why are you looking at me like that?”

George rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just surprised.”

Briggs set down his cup with a clatter and stood. “I don’t care about what’s happening to Isabelle, George. I’m sorry for her. But that’s all.”

* * *

Briggs entered the quiet, dimly lit bedroom and climbed into bed next to Sarah. She was flat on her back, sleeping soundly. With that dose of morphine, the doctor said she probably wouldn’t wake until morning.

Briggs reached out and let his hand rest gently upon hers. A swell of deep regret erupted within him. If he could have traded places with her tonight, he would have, without hesitation. He would have done anything to spare her that suffering.

He leaned up on one elbow to look at her lovely face, peaceful at last, then kissed her lightly on the lips. Strange, to think he was married to Sarah because of Isabelle. He had never imagined anything good would come of her breaking their engagement, but looking back on it, it was the very thing that had forced him to place a passionless advertisement in a newspaper, that in the end had brought him Sarah.

Isabelle had been here to see George. Why? What had she said to him? Downstairs, the news had startled Briggs. He had worked hard to appear indifferent and hadn’t permitted himself to ask any questions.

He cupped his forehead with his hand and closed his eyes, dreading the possibility that he might see her again, in town. He would, of course, be polite, but there was no question that it would be awkward. On the other hand, if her visit with George was simply a courtesy, there was nothing to worry about.

He stared through the darkness at the ceiling, listening to Sarah’s steady breathing beside him. If Isabelle held onto some hope that he would take her back again, she would have to learn straightaway that he was married to someone else now, and had no intention of breaking his vows. Isabelle would have to learn that what once existed between them was dead and buried.

* * *

Sarah woke the next morning, her arm throbbing. She groaned and remembered the horrors of the night before—the doctor pulling and twisting. It was like something out of a nightmare. She’d never endured anything so physically painful in all her life. And it seemed the pain intended to stay a while….

She listened to voices downstairs. Briggs and George were talking, but she could not make out what they were saying. Feeling thirsty, she noticed a glass of water on the bedside table, but when she reached for it, she accidentally knocked it over. It fell to the floor and broke.

“Drat.” She tried to rise, but felt sick and dizzy and flopped back down onto the bed.

A knock sounded at the door. When she didn’t answer, it opened and Briggs walked in. “Are you all right?” He shut the door behind him and crossed the room.

“I feel terrible, actually, like I’ve been trampled all over again this morning.”

“No wonder. The doctor gave you quite a dose of whiskey last night. And morphine. How’s your arm?”

“Sore.”

He reached up to sweep a tendril of hair away from her eyes. Despite her rolling stomach, her body calmed at his touch, and she felt her love for him explode in her heart.

“We don’t have to go anywhere until you’re feeling better,” he said. “George says we can stay as long as we need to.”

“What about the plowing?”

“That can wait a few days, and Frank will take care of the milking until we get back. The important thing is that you get well.”

“I feel like such a nuisance. I’ve caused you nothing but trouble.”

Briggs caressed her face tenderly and gave her a reassuring smile. “Hardly.”

Sarah sighed with contentment. “You don’t have to stay here just because of me. You could go back and finish your work, and I’ll come when I’m better. I’ll be fine, really.”

But in all honesty, she didn’t want to be away from him, not even for a single day, because she longed for his touch, constantly. Just to be in the same room with him now was the best medicine she could ask for. He was so handsome, so appealing to her in every way, he distracted her from the pain and whatever other hardships might lay ahead.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” he replied. “The doc said you’ll be feeling better in a couple of days. You’ll just have to take it easy for a while. I’ll look after the milking when we get back, and I’m sure Martha would be more than happy to help out.”

Sarah smiled appreciatively. “Did you run the errands?”

“Not yet. I’ll go after breakfast.” He stood up to leave. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, but you’ll need this.” She reached into her skirt pocket and dug out the wrinkled letter to Garrison.

He moved to take it, but she didn’t let go right away.

“I’ll feel a lot better when I know you’ve sent it.” She finally released it and dropped her hand to her side.

He bent to kiss her again, and walked out.

* * *

Bells jingled when Briggs opened the door to the General Store and postal office, anxious to send the letter to Garrison and put all that behind them. But as he approached the counter, every man, woman and child seemed to stop what they were doing and fix their eyes on him. He had a funny feeling the whole town knew about Isabelle’s latest tragedy.

He walked to the postal wicket with his head down. “Morning, Roger.”

Roger Crosby sniffled and blew his nose. He’d lost some hair since the last time Briggs had seen him. “Morning, Briggs. Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

“I’ve been busy on the claim. You heard about the locusts, I reckon.”

“It’s a darn shame. Folks are having a rough time.” He turned around and began sorting through a pile of letters. “There’s something here for Martha Whitiker. Came in just this morning. You want to take it?”

“Sure.” Briggs dug into his pocket for the letter to Garrison and tapped it on the counter.

“Anything else I can do for you today?” Roger asked.

Briggs handed him the letter. “Yes. You can post this to Boston.”

Cupping one lens of his spectacles between his thumb and forefinger, Roger studied the address. “Boston, you say.”

“Yes.”

“Are you certain? Because there’s a Garrison McPhee right here in town.”

Briggs felt the walls begin to close in around him. “You sure? Maybe it’s a different Garrison McPhee.”

“Possibly, but this one just arrived from Boston a few days ago. In fact, he came in to hand deliver that letter Martha picked up. Is he a relation?”

Briggs turned to walk out, his boots pounding heavily across the floorboards. “No, he’s most definitely not.”

“You don’t want to post that letter?” Roger called after him.

“Nope,” Briggs replied as he pushed through the door and felt his vision turn red. “I’ll hold onto it for now.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Walking back to George’s house, Briggs fought to keep his anger in check. Sarah didn’t know about Garrison’s presence in town—at least he didn’t think so. God only knew what was in that letter she burned.

As he walked, he had to force his suspicions down and try not to assume the worst. He had to trust that she had told him the truth about everything, and that she had no idea Garrison had followed her here.

And Heaven help the man if he tried to see her or talk to her. After what he did to Sarah, it would take every ounce of self-control Briggs possessed not to beat the despicable worm to a bloody pulp.

As Briggs approached George’s house, he considered what he was going to say if Sarah asked if he’d posted the letter. He stopped on the covered veranda for a moment and stared down at the unpainted wood planks under his boots.

Laughter from the kitchen startled him. Sarah was feeling better, it seemed. Briggs pulled the screen door open and walked in to find her sipping tea with her shawl pulled over her arm in the splint, listening to George tell the story of how Briggs had bloodied Little Charlie Tomkins’s nose twenty years ago.